The seekers wrath, p.1
The Seeker's Wrath, page 1
The Seeker’s Wrath
P.S. Davis
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Author
Copyright ©
Dedication
Aurenvia Tollitch
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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19
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About the Author
P.S. Davis is a physics teacher by day and a world-builder by night. The Seeker’s Wrath is his debut fantasy novel—the first in a sweeping series set in the world of Teloshka, a land of two continents and scattered isles teetering on the edge of fire and fracture. With a background in science and a lifelong love of storytelling, Davis brings realism, grit, and a slow-burning grandeur to his fantasy worlds.
He is currently working on The Essence Wars, a follow-up series set in the same world, alongside a science fiction satire titled The Frog Paradox. When he’s not teaching or writing, he’s probably somewhere with too many tabs open, a neglected cup of rooibos cooling beside a half-exploded kitchen experiment.
Copyright ©
The Seeker’s Wrath
Copyright © 2025 by P. S. Davis
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical reviews or as permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Self-Published Digital Edition, 2025
First Edition
For inquiries, visit:
www.psdavisbooks.com
Print ISBN: Printed On Demand
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my beautiful Inga, who patiently endures my excitement over characters that aren’t real, at least not here, on Earth. And to my mother, who gave me the gift I carry in my head. You never stopped me from wandering through wild and imaginative places. Thank you.
“A man does not claim faith with his words, nor does he command loyalty with his name. Trust is earned in the silence between orders—where men follow not out of fear, but because they have seen and judged him worthy.”
Scifarmor Skilpis
Aurenvia Tollitch
The Eastern Union
1
The rain hadn’t relented in hours. It came in thick sheets over the Shinlet Range, drenching forty-one men, four women, and a single boar trudging through the jungle. Boots sank deep in the mud, roots clawing at every step. Tangled undergrowth made each movement a fight against the land itself. Water streamed from the canopy above, dripping down their armor. The storm pressed against their backs like a weight, sinking into their bones.
The night had drowned beneath the summer storm. There was no moon to be seen, nor any stars above. The sky was sealed in shadow and rain, and the slow, relentless churn of boots through the mud dragged on without pause.
Captain Marcius Saylong adjusted his grip on his sword hilt, the rain trailing off his sharp, angular features. He was lean, built for endurance rather than brute force, his graying hair plastered to his forehead. At thirty-nine, he felt the weight of every campaign in his bones, but his mind remained sharper than ever. He had spent enough years navigating the Order’s politics to know what that really meant.
On paper, eleven regions stood united as the Order, yet peace was fragile. War still simmered unseen, bleeding along the coasts, thriving in shadows and gold. Yet, piracy endured.
They moved silently along the prominent ridge, the jungle shielding them from view. Below, the bay stretched out; the beach glistening beneath the storm, and beyond it stood the fortress, its wooden walls barely visible through the squall, its watchfires burning low in their sheltered braziers. Saylong steadied his breath, his eyes locked on the stronghold as he crouched at the ridgeline.
The Order had pressured regions to dismantle pirate enclaves, but whether by denial or neglect. This one still stood: entrenched, defiant.
The waters beneath it remained lawless, ruled by those who took what they pleased, feeding on the complacency of both East and West.
Rysna Rawno crouched beside Saylong, rain sluicing from the thick pelt draped over his shoulders. The chieftain of Scharr said nothing. Not yet. His axe rested across one knee, the blade scarred, the haft worn smooth by war. He had come farther south than any of his kin in a hundred years, but the cold hadn’t left him. It clung to more than his cloak; it sank into his blood. His village had burned in silence. Thirty gone. His daughter among them. Kalltor had left their bones in the ash and vanished into the sea. Now he hid behind a wall of sharpened stakes. Rysna flexed his fingers once around the axe. He didn’t blink or flinch. Where others bent to the jungle and heat, he remained as he always had. He stood unshaken, shaped by the strength of the North.
The first reports had come months ago, brought by southern traders who passed near the coast and spoke of tents, timber huts, and a scattering of raiders. Saylong had gone alone to see for himself. It had looked containable then, just a nest of thieves, a spark waiting to die in the wind, not a fire poised to spread.
He’d returned north to rally the response. Rysna had answered first. The blood price still hung over him.
Now, crouched above the bay, Saylong saw nothing of what he’d once scouted. The palisade stood high and reinforced, its outer stakes angled like teeth, glistening wet beneath the stormlight. Watchfires burned behind the walls, their glow casting long, flickering shadows across the timber. Two towers flanked the gate, each platform manned, each movement precise. The guards didn’t rush, nor did they shout. Their rhythm was cold and measured, disciplined in a way that unsettled him. This wasn’t a den, at least not anymore. It was a fortress now, and it hadn’t been there long.
Saylong clenched his jaw and rolled his shoulders, though the tension sat deeper than muscle. Months ago, it had been a scavenger den of crude timber, loose patrols, nothing the forty-five of them couldn’t break and burn. Not now. What had risen in its place was something else entirely. Fortified. Organized. Fast. The sheer speed of it gnawed at him, stirring questions that hadn’t yet formed answers.
‘They weren’t this dug in last time,’ he said, voice low, steady.
Rysna rose beside him, arms folded tight across his chest. Rain sluiced from his cloak in heavy streams, soaking the worn leather beneath, but he made no move to shield from it. He stood like a carved stone, immovable, grim, as though the downpour itself would yield before he did. His gaze remained fixed on the fortress, not with caution or fear, but with something colder: contempt.
‘They built themselves a cage,’ Rysna said, voice thick with disdain. ‘Hiding behind barricades, sharpening their little blades, thinking that makes them warriors.’ He exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. ‘I smell piss in their blood. If we crack that gate, they’ll scatter like snow hares.’
Saylong didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the movements inside, watching the rhythm of the patrols, the way the guards changed without word or signal. No shouting. No confusion. Just silence and order.
This wasn’t some wild gang thrown together by desperation. It was a force, measured, controlled, and trained. Someone had built this discipline into them and shaped it with purpose.
Hunters had chased him along the coast, but he always slipped the net. Kalltor Dalke never raided like the others. He occupied. He didn’t burn what he took; he cut it apart, piece by piece.
‘How many do you see?’ Rysna asked.
‘Five,’ Saylong murmured. ‘Gifted.’
‘We’ve five of our own.’
Saylong didn’t nod. ‘I can’t see their footmen. Could be twenty more. Could be two hundred. We’re not facing a gang—we’re facing something dug in.’
He was a Seeker, one of the few born with the gift to sense the power that stirred in others. It was like a second pulse at the back of his mind, faint and persistent. The presence of the gifted revealed itself like an icy fire: first a flicker, then a growing flare as he moved nearer. Tonight, he counted five. None of them burned with the sharp intensity he associated with someone as seasoned as Kalltor.
Still, the danger was there. Those inside the keep weren’t seasoned or fully trained. The colors he sensed were raw, the kind of power that had yet to be shaped. They were flickers in the dark, faint but unpredictable. And even flickers could still kill.
Among their own force, he felt four. The fifth stood just behind, low to the ground, thick with muscle and fury: Gurrlan.
The boar moved with a hunter’s tread, his shoulders broad, his tusks dulled by blood. He was more than beast—he was bonded. A Lumineer. Gifted by Tvaris in the same breath as men. With a single exhale, he could drown a line of soldiers in a choking fog, then charge in through the blindness to finish what the smoke h
Jarlstow, his handler, stood beside him. Hairless from fire, not age. His gift burned on the surface; he is a living torch. His skin was blackened, seared, and tough as bark. He wore no sigil or mark of rank. The fire that danced on his skin was all the emblem he needed. When lit, he could tear through enemy lines like a falling star, brief in appearance and devastating in effect.
Saylong didn’t like fire-gifted individuals because they were too unpredictable and too self-sacrificing. However, Jarlstow had control, and tonight that control would become fire on their blade.
He shifted behind the ridge and exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling deep. There were five gifted below, a garrison he couldn’t count, four ships anchored in the bay, and sharpened stakes lining every stretch of wall. The storm brewing in his bones had nothing to do with rain; it waited beneath them, coiled and certain, a warning drawn clear in every instinct he had.
They weren’t ready for this. They knew nothing of the fort’s numbers, and worse, they weren’t even certain that Kalltor Dalke, the Death Marcher, was inside. Killing him in open battle would cement Saylong’s command, proving his worth in a way no political favor ever could. It would be his victory to claim, his mark to leave upon the Order. But there were too many uncertainties, and Saylong did not gamble with his men’s lives.
Kalltor was highly gifted, and Saylong’s abilities as a Seeker allowed him to sense others like him, their presence shining through the dark in vivid streaks of violet, like an aurora he could both feel and see.
The stronger the gift, the brighter the glow, the most powerful leaving behind deep, lingering traces in his vision. But as he studied the fortification, he saw no such light. There were five gifted individuals among the ranks, their presence faint, wavering. None of them carried the weight of Kalltor Dalke.
Another way had to be found. Charging the walls now meant death. That fortress was built for one purpose alone: defense. From their watchtowers, archers and crossbowmen would rain death on any force foolish enough to storm the gates. Even if they breached the gate, the defenders would draw them into confined kill zones. Those narrow spaces had been shaped to trap intruders and cut them down before they ever reached the inner yard. And if Kalltor wasn’t inside, the cost would mean nothing. Too many would die to justify the risk.
The only sign of Kalltor’s presence was Mor ò Thail; his ship, the March of Death. Three other vessels lay moored beside it in the bay, their hulls dark against the stormlit water. The flagship alone marked his proximity. If they could seize Mor ò Thail, it would cripple his movement, forcing him into a defensive position. The others could be torched as they escaped, weakening his force and leaving him exposed to a future assault.
Rysna had no patience for strategy.
The chieftain wanted blood, and he wanted it tonight. He cared nothing for stealing ships or diminishing Kalltor’s power. He wanted the pirate’s head, and his warriors were ready to die for that cause. Saylong knew that if Rysna gave the order, his men would follow. And they would die. Rysna was fearless, relentless, and filled with the rage that made him a legend among his people, but it was also the kind of rage that could bring ruin. Saylong understood vengeance and the need to see justice done with steel. But he knew the cost of losing men to a battle not yet ready to be fought.
Without knowing what awaited inside, Saylong wouldn’t risk their lives. He needed these Northmen alive, not only as warriors, but as the future rulers of Teloshka’s North. This was to be the foundation of that alliance, the moment where the North could rise to power and claim what it rightfully deserved.
Rysna shifted beside him, impatient. His fingers flexed around the haft of his axe. ‘Then why wait? If we force them onto the beach and out of their fort, we can take them.’
Saylong didn’t look away from the stronghold. ‘If we storm the walls now, we lose everything. If we draw them out, they’ll outnumber us three to one at least. Those aren’t the odds I can play with.’
Rysna exhaled sharply, his breath audible even through the storm. ‘So we let them sit there?’
‘No,’ Saylong murmured. ‘We cut their legs out from under them first.’
His gaze shifted to the bay. The Mor ò Thail sat heavy in the water, anchored beside three other vessels. Those ships would be ablaze before the pirates could react if they moved silently. If Kalltor was inside the fort, he would have no escape. If he wasn’t, they would have taken everything from him before he even knew a fight had begun.
‘We take the ships,’ Saylong said. ‘Lucarion will send a larger force to take the fort itself. We isolate Kalltor, and we cripple him before he can recover.’
Rysna’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once. Saylong saw the frustration in his stance and knew Rysna wanted to crush the enemy tonight. Yet the longer he stood at Saylong’s side, the more he understood there was more to war than fire and steel.
‘They won’t recover from this,’ Saylong said.
Rysna’s smirk was grim. ‘Then let’s begin.’
As the forty-five warriors moved down the steep slopes, they regrouped behind boulders and thick trees, staying out of sight from the watchmen above. Saylong had ensured their approach remained unseen, with every step precise and every movement carefully measured. Even with their numbers, they had used stealth to the fullest.
He studied the shoreline. Rowboats lay scattered along the water’s edge. One, half-hidden in shadow, would be easiest to steal unnoticed.
Jagged cliffs hid the bay from the Sea of Thewthyri, shielding it from passing ships. Only those who strayed too close, such as the traders who had spotted it, would have seen what lay beyond the rocks. No fleet would see this place, not from a distance. If they waited until tomorrow, Kalltor and his men might already be gone, their ships pushing out into the open waters, beyond reach.
This was their only chance. And under Saylong’s command, the ships would burn tonight.
Before giving the order, he turned, checking every face in the darkness. Every warrior watching, every soldier ready, every position known. Only moments remained before the plan commenced. Within the hour, they would set Kalltor Dalke’s ships ablaze, and they would kill or ruin Kalltor himself.
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself before giving the order. There was no turning back.
The gate shuddered, just enough to be noticed. A muted thump followed, barely rising above the patter of rain. The wooden doors cracked open just slightly, and a wave of drunken laughter rolled through the storm. It came from deep within the fort, layered voices slurring together, sharp and jeering. Then, from the narrow gap in the gate, three figures were shoved onto the sand.
They stumbled forward, slipping as they tried to regain their footing. Naked. Barefoot. Their bodies were slick from the downpour.
Saylong watched as three women, already battered and bruised, were cast out from the fort. At first, they hesitated, clinging to some false hope of reprieve, but the men behind the gate shut it on them. There was nowhere to go except toward the beach. Their heads turned wildly, searching for any escape. In the darkness and rain, it was no simple task. For these women, it was impossible.
Then a crossbow bolt struck the sand between them.
They screamed, their voices barely cutting through the deluge and the echo of jeering from the walls above.
The wet sand swallowed their feet deeply; each step was slower than it should have been, and each movement dragged them toward their preordained fate.
Above them, on the wall walk, the other pirates had taken aim.
Rysna shifted forward, weight low, axe drawn close. His stance was taut, shoulders set to strike.
Saylong caught his arm, his grip unyielding. ‘Not now.’
The first bolt snapped past one of the women’s heads; a deliberate miss, the kind that came from practiced hands, not hesitation. It wasn’t an attempt to kill, only toying with them.
The three women broke apart, scattering in different directions, desperate to avoid becoming easy targets. Fear was heavier than adrenaline, and the sand fought every step.
Another bolt sliced the air. One woman dropped, a cry tearing through the storm as she collapsed onto one knee. The shaft had buried deep in her calf, a shot both deliberate and precise. It wasn’t meant to kill; it was meant to wound, to ignite fear and send it rippling through the others.
