Rise of the immunes the.., p.1
Rise of the Immunes: The Terrathian Chronicles Book 2, page 1
THE TERRATHIAN CHRONICLES BOOK 2
Rise of the Immunes
B. E. Flynn
Amazon Kindle Publishing
Copyright © 2023 B. E. FLYNN
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. For permission contact: B.E.Flynn - Author via Facebook or Instagram.
Cover design and map by: Etheric Designs
Printed and distributed through Amazon KDP and Kindle Unlimited
ISBN: 9798864635261
Dedication
For my boys, Joshua and Jacob, who keep me young. You'll never understand how proud I am of you both. Keep reaching for the stars and ignore everyone who tells you it can't be done.
As always, for my loving wife. If I were to write everything you mean to me, the dedication would be longer than the book. So, I will simply write- I love you.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Seven Kingdoms Of terrathia
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter TwentY
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Books By This Author
The Seven Kingdoms Of terrathia
Chapter One
A dark cloud approaches
During the early years following the conclusion of the Mage Wars, many stories relating to sightings of strange creatures circulated across Terrathia. Rock Ogres, Sand Devils and even Dragons were purported to inhabit regions that had experienced the worst of the fighting. Crops being ruined, cattle vanishing and villagers disappearing were often foreshadowed by unexplained noises, unusual shapes in the dark or, in some cases, mysterious markings in the vicinity. Could these tales of mythical beasts simply be the imaginings of desolate souls looking for a reason to explain their misfortune, or could there be some truth in the curious chronicles?
Introduction to ‘Terrifying Tales of Terrathia: A Compendium of Mysteries Unsolved’ by Cassandra Cleethorpe.
The smooth stone skimmed across the frozen surface of the small pond coming to rest no more than six strides from the twisted silver trunk of the old Harrund tree.
“See, I told you that I could get closer than Caster.” The smaller boy smirked at his two friends as he sat back down in the shallow drift of snow.
“Get over yourself Sten, you picked a lighter stone, it’s no wonder you could throw it further than me.” Caster flopped down next to his friend and looked over at Xander who was carefully choosing his own missile.
“Come on Xander, show the little runt how it’s done.”
Pleased with his choice of stone, Xander walked up to the throwing line that had been carved from the fresh snow blanketing the east of Yrythia. He took a while to get his balance, being slightly older but much larger than his companions. The distance to the remnants of the ancient tree was a little over sixty strides. He tossed the stone into the air and caught it.
“So, we agree that the closest to the stump doesn’t have to do any homework for the rest of the cycle?”
Neither Caster nor Sten were happy with Xander’s display of confidence. The new teacher at the village school believed that children should have minimal time for frivolity. He ensured that homework was regular and plentiful, much to the disgust of the students. The idea of doing Xander’s work, on top of their own, was not a pleasant thought. Although Caster was happier doing Xander’s as he never received top grades anyway, unlike Sten.
Sten stood up slowly, staring towards the falling sun. “What’s that in the sky over the Inland Sea?”
Xander laughed out loud. “No you don’t Sten, I’m not going to be distracted by one of your clever tricks. Like that time you convinced me to take one of the freel cakes from Widow Strawbaker’s tea shop and whilst she was beating me you and Caster took half a dozen glazed buns. I couldn’t sit down all afternoon.”
Caster snorted, remembering the look on his friend’s face as they helped themselves to the delicious, freshly baked buns. “Come on Sten, he’s not interested in what you’ve got to trade, let him have his throw.”
But Sten didn’t move. He continued to look out towards the horizon, his hands shielding his eyes from the low, afternoon sun. “I’m not kidding around. There’s something moving in the sky, and it’s heading this way.”
The other boys looked at where Sten was pointing. Caster was brushing wet snow from his waxed trousers, leaving watery trails across the brown material. “It’s like a big black cloud. Do you think we’ll get more snow?” He was hopeful. The recent deluge had closed the village school and if more fell, maybe they wouldn’t have to complete Xander’s homework at all.
Xander, being slightly older, had a better understanding of the world, or so he told everyone. “Can’t be a cloud, it’s moving too fast and it looks like it’s…wobbling.”
The three boys stood in the clearing watching with fascination as the black cloud quickly covered the distance between the Inland Sea and their village.
“What’s that noise? I’ve never heard anything like it.” Sten had his hands over his ears in an attempt to block out the growing cacophony of grating coos, clicks, rattles and caws that was emanating from the cloud. The medley of unusual sounds intermingled to create a painful tapestry of noise unlike anything the boys had experienced.
“It’s not a cloud, it’s an enormous flock of black birds. There must be thousands of them.” Xander pulled back his arm and threw his competition winning stone into the mass of crows. As one, they moved to create a hole through which the stone sailed harmlessly.
A gigantic bird that seemed to be leading the pack flew towards the three boys, forcing them to dive into the freezing snow. They gathered handfuls of dirt and rocks as they rose to pelt the invading avian threat.
A high pitch whistling cut through the awful chorus of bird calls, followed by a heavy thump. Sten coughed loudly, a red mist spraying from his mouth, as the air was driven from his lungs. He looked down in panic, struggling to breath, to see the glint of a sharp metallic point protruding from his chest. He fell forwards, a pink pool spreading around his upper body.
Xander and Caster moved towards their friend, unsure what had happened, but neither boy reached him. Instead, they joined Sten on the ground, black shafts sticking out of their backs, their blood flowing freely towards the frozen pond as an army of black clad warriors rode over their cooling corpses.
◆◆◆
The journey around the Inland Sea had been uneventful. Most villagers had stayed inside on account of the heavy snowfall, and those that hadn’t were either children or lone adults sensible enough to avoid a platoon of heavily armed riders.
“Praetor, we’re a few hundred strides from the village of Herwall but there’s a group of children in front of us. How do you wish us to proceed?”
The Praetor reined in her horse and turned to face the Lieutenant. “We cannot allow sentiment to interfere with our mission, have the archers dispatch them so that they cannot raise the alarm.” She turned back, straightening her long black cloak.
“Oh, and Lieutenant… kill them cleanly, we’re not monsters after all.”
The Lieutenant saluted, watching his own reflection in the mirrored surface of the golden mask that covered the Praetor’s face as he circled back to relay his orders.
He watched with satisfaction as the three boys fell soundlessly into the soft snow before giving the order to advance towards the doomed village.
◆◆◆
Virisma grinned as he watched his forces move towards Herwall. His lasting memory of the insignificant village was clouded in blood and pain as he had fled the carnage of the defeat on the plains of Celestia all those years ago. The Northern Coven had been overthrown by Saragar and his army of Immunes, putting an end to their ambition to take control of Terrathia.
He spoke aloud to the prisoner who hung inverted from chains in the corner of the chamber. “Do you know how frustrating it is to be so close to victory only to have it snatched away by a pompous, self-glorified fool?”
The prisoner gave no response. The deep slice through his neck stretched wide in a terrifying smile.
“Of course, you don’t. The people of Terrathia have no ambition. They lack the intellect and the i
“My powers were limitless. The Illidrium had turned me into a god. If it hadn’t been for those cursed Immunes, I would have reshaped Terrathia. Instead, I’ve become a pitiful shadow of my former self. Relying upon blood magic to manipulate my pawns whilst using the last crumbs of the Illidrium ore to create frail, feeble Reapers.” He picked up the knife that lay in a sticky puddle and thrust it into the exposed side of the prisoner. The blade sank up to the hilt but no more blood flowed, the heart no longer pumped.
Virisma withdrew the knife and ran his fingers across the wound. “This is what that coward Saragar did to me. I was defenceless. My powers used up against the Immunes. He drove his blade deep into my side and left me there to die. But only the weak die, my friend, like you. When the fates came to take your soul, you had no urge to fight, you simply went like a frightened child. I held on. I escaped the battle and found refuge on a river barge across the Inland Sea.” He rubbed his left side, feeling the jagged scar that ran from his lower rib to his pelvis.
Movement attracted Virisma’s attention. Red smoke swirled above a deep stone trough filled with the blood of the unfortunate prisoner. Within the mist, pictures danced as the lead crow flew over the village of Herwall and Virisma used the blood magic to watch through its eyes. Virisma had applauded the emotionless actions of his new Praetor in the slaying of the three children, and now his platoon of warriors was about to descend on the unaware villagers.
“Not only did that idiot, Dr Stanhope, revive me from stasis but he brought me the one piece of the puzzle that I thought was lost forever. With Saragar’s map, I can finally retrieve the Ghostblades and weaken the shield spell that seals the Illidrium mines. And it all starts at Herwall.”
◆◆◆
Silence. Nothing moved in the village as the mounted warriors rode along the Besker River and through the wooden palisade that was unguarded. The snow outside the two dozen cottages was pristine, it was too cold to venture out. “Set fire to the outer circle of houses, we need to draw out the villagers.” The Praetor threw a firebrand onto the roof of the nearest building as she spoke. It quickly melted away the covering of crisp snow, igniting the compacted thatch below. Smoke bubbled upwards and the crackle and snap of burning freel subsumed the silence.
Around her, the warriors followed suit. Within minutes, half the village was ablaze and villagers started to flood into the market square with different containers to collect water from the well. All of them too busy fighting the fires to notice the mounted warriors.
The Praetor drew her sword slowly, the flames reflecting from her golden mask giving her the appearance of a daemon. “Kill the old and contain the young, it would be a shame to return to Virisma without gifts. And bring me the village councillors, I need to speak with them.”
As she rode towards the long communal hut in the centre of the village square, the screaming began.
Several elders, most likely retired city Watch soldiers, attempted to form a shield wall using buckets and pitch forks. With no time to retrieve their weapons or armour, it was a hopeless gesture that was met with slaughter. The Lieutenant led a small group of lancers who charged through the makeshift defence, spearing the would-be heroes and quickly ending the resistance.
By the time they had finished, the warriors had dismounted and were rounding up the surviving villagers. A large, bearded soldier moved towards the terrified crowd, his sword dripping with viscera.
“Tell me who amongst you are members of the village council and you will be spared any further loss.” His manner was calm and his face radiated kindness.
A small, balding man stepped forward. His shoulders hunched as if he were trying to hide within his own body. “You’ve murdered all of the council, there’s nobody left.” His confident voice did not mirror his cowardly stance.
The burly warrior strode towards him. “You are sure of this? We have killed maybe a third of you but in doing so have killed all of the council members. Does that seem likely to you?” Before the man could answer, the warrior pulled him forward and drove his sword deep into the diminutive frame. His blade exploded out of the man’s back. With a sharp twist, he freed the weapon, dragging it sideways and eviscerating his victim who lay twitching at his feet.
“I will ask once more,” the kind expression had returned, his tone reasoning, “please tell me the truth, I am tired of death.”
After that display, the villagers were quick to point out the council members, who were banded together and marched to the village hall. The Praetor waited inside, listening as the surviving villagers were bound and loaded onto the prison carts.
The inside of the village hall was dimly lit by a series of candles that had been placed to prevent ice forming within the chamber. Long wooden benches lined the walls, smoothed by the numerous bodies that had used them over the decades since construction. Along the narrow wall, at the end of the hall, stood a wooden pedestal where speakers could stand and share their opinions. A large, ornately carved lectern had been placed in front of the pedestal should the speaker require notes to aid them.
The Praetor removed her cloak and hung it over the lectern, ensuring that the white emblem sewn into the material was clearly displayed. Her matt black armour carried the same insignia. She didn’t have to wait long before the council members were escorted through the heavy wooden door and into the dimly lit room.
First to enter the hall was a middle-aged woman, her short black hair revealing slight flecks of silver and her pale blue eyes framed by shallow wrinkles. The Praetor could see a fury burning behind those eyes and knew, without doubt, that this was the village leader. The woman spoke before the Praetor could say anything, confirming her suspicions.
“How dare you attack our village. You have murdered many innocent souls this night and I’m certain that the Fates will answer your evil with their Daemons.”
The Praetor laughed, a gentle sound that was both beautiful and terrifying. “Don’t talk to me of the Fates, woman. I have experienced things that would burn any notion of the Fates from your mind. Where were they when we attacked your village? Or, when we murdered your men, women and children. Your faith in such absent gods sickens me.”
“You know that the Fates do not intervene in mortal affairs. Our stories are already written. The Tomes of the Fates teaches us to trust in our destiny if we are to find true ascension in the end and…”
A thunderous crash echoed around the hall as the Praetor slapped the wooden lectern. “I will not debate theology with you. If our futures are already decided, then there is no point in resisting. Tell me where the Ghostblade is hidden.”
“I know nothing of any blade. We are simple farmers, hunters and merchants. Why would we need a weapon of any sorts?” The village leader fell silent as she noticed the emblem on the Praetor’s cloak. A large goat’s head with heavy, curved horns stared back at her, its forehead marked with a gruttass tree.
The Praetor smiled. “You recognise this symbol woman?”
The village leader nodded gently but said nothing.
“Then you know who we are and why we are here.” The Praetor signalled to her Lieutenant to bring her one of the other council members. He chose an elderly woman who did not resist.
The Praetor stepped down from the lectern and gently brushed the old woman’s curly, grey hair from her face. “What is your name grandmother?”
“I am Sarah Oggwood, and I also recognise that evil emblem. I will give you no help, the Fates have already decided what is best for me. But know this… my granddaughter is a Peacekeeper Guard and she will revenge what you have done here today.” The old woman spat at the Praetor’s feet.
“Peacekeeper Guards are a joke. They are snivelling cowards who hide behind castle walls. Now tell me where the Ghostblade is hidden so that we can leave this wretched place.” As she spoke, she drew a dagger from her hip, placing the point against the side of the old woman’s head. “I will not ask again. Someone tell me what I need to know, or grandmother here will start losing pieces of herself.”
