Secrets of Arkana Fortress Read online

  THE LUPUS BLOOD SERIES

  SECRETS OF ARKANA FORTRESS

  ANDY. P. WOOD

  Prologue

  Kasten dived through a narrow gap before the stable ceiling collapsed under a fiery plague, scrabbling like a startled animal for his weapon. He was the leader of a small village on the eastern island of Xenoc and protector of the ancient Lupian sword – regarded as a treasure worth dying for. He had to seal it away… forever.

  He was one of the last in a line of casters – the people who were infused with magical powers and who had the ability to render the items they protected unusable by anyone other than themselves, but they only did this if they had to. Trusted by the ancient mystics, these people had been hunted and killed; many of them failing to cast the magic into the items they carried.

  Thatched homes burned with a raging intensity as if the flames themselves were possessed by demons. The night air was filled with a thick, acrid haze that was choking both villagers and attackers alike.

  Blood soaked the ground.

  All was lost.

  Kasten swung the endangered sword around and caught a pursuer, slicing the long silver and green blade across his gut and spilling his entrails onto the ashen floor. Kasten’s leg was a mess from an arrow hit, slowly festering from the noxious poison that had been on the projectile’s tip. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest as he gripped a beam of wood to hoist himself over a flaming corpse; so many had died in this slaughterhouse.

  Screams echoed from the heat, the souls of many villagers already trapped in the middle realms between life and death. A single tear parted the dirt on Kasten’s face as he ran, the sword held firmly in his burnt hand. More attackers, dressed in heavy leather armour, charged at him emitting deep howls that wrenched his stomach with a sense of despair. He felled them all with clumsy slices and stabs before falling forward, his mind flickering with searing pain. The people of the village were lost – sealing the sword was his only concern now. No evil-minded force was allowed to lay their hands on any mystic object, especially one with immense destructive powers.

  Towering sheets of flame crept in upon him. His eyes were fuzzy and oozing from the fast-acting poison of the arrow. He breathed heavily; his legs were like stone. The stench of death was ever near as Kasten staggered forward still, the casting shrine within reach.

  He carelessly toppled over the small slate wall surrounding the sacred grounds in the western part of the village – a place of much history and magical wonder. The shrine itself was a sturdy, cylindrical granite structure rising to six feet. Silver lines were wrapped around its body like vines on a tree trunk, emitting an ethereal glow that was almost hypnotic.

  Blood splattered onto the flattened grass as he vomited, saliva trickling down his chin as thick rouge. He hacked up violently, the sword falling from his grip. His mind raced from side to side, the voices creeping closer upon him, calling his soul. The ashes that had blackened his light brown hair tumbled onto the floor as he coughed.

  The sword – he had to cast the seal quickly.

  His lips trembled as he stood up, the relic within his grasp once again and held to his side. The words jumbled through his mouth haphazardly. He swore. The attackers were closing in fast.

  ‘Come on, Kasten,’ he mumbled to himself gruffly. He could hear nothing but the chaotic screams in the distance.

  A sudden surge went through his spine as ancient words spilled out into the murky atmosphere.

  The shrine glowed.

  Kasten lifted the sword above his head and his eyes went pale, filming over. The silver veins ebbed mystically, vibrating the air around the stone column. Infusions of lost magic whirled around in elegant, mist-like forms, but remained intangible to mortal fingers. It was a sight to behold.

  An arrow split the harmonic ambience, causing time to stand still.

  The sword fell and clattered onto the ground, sending ripples through the night as Kasten’s chest crumpled from the impact. He flopped to the ground, his lungs wheezing out gargles of terror. The casting was incomplete.

  A heavily armoured figure shadowed slowly into focus outside of the shrine, two archers poised behind him. He let his crossbow fall to his side before he sniffed the air from underneath his dark green helmet, the subtle sound of purring perforating the thick metal. His yellow eyes squinted through the visor.

  ‘Stop him,’ the figure roared to his archers as he saw Kasten’s outstretched arm glowing with magic.

  ‘Malkieu… Delkhat…’

  An arrow quickly pierced the caster’s forehead, delivering the fatal blow with god-like precision. The armoured figure swore continuously before he turned to the archers.

  ‘If you two morons hadn’t missed the first time then we would have that sword in our possession… unsealed.’ His howling, raspy voice grated the inside of his helmet as he scathed them.

  They both apologised profusely.

  He removed his helmet to reveal a mound of short, tabby-black fur. His ears twitched on the top of his head as he smoothed out his whiskers. He purred harshly as he walked over to the dead caster, his paw-like fingers slipping around the hilt of the sword.

  The mists cleared swiftly with a soft whoosh, the disturbance of the feline’s presence bringing the airs of evil to the shrine. The silver glow dissipated from the column, wilting as if it were an elderly flower.

  Regardless of the casting he smiled, his small fangs sliding out over his bottom lip menacingly. He rested the cast blade on his shoulder, the gentle clang of metal on metal resonating against the silence. The air was clearing slowly.

  One of the archers stood to one side as the warrior walked away without a look towards either of them. The other one slung his reflex bow over his shoulder and stepped after him.

  ‘Sir? What do we do now?’ he asked nervously. He was obviously scared of him.

  The tabby-coloured figure stopped and held his head up. ‘We are withdrawing,’ his voice boomed. ‘This casting is incomplete – at most it will last a few decades. For now… we will add it to the collection.’

  Chapter 1

  Viscous clouds streaked across the dark blue morning sky, caught up in an eager wind that swirled about high above the lands of Salarias. Birds of prey circled above the city of Donnol like a hanging cloud of doubt, forever on the lookout for sources of food to desperately fight over. The people down below were bound to drop something sooner or later.

  Mikos rubbed his smooth chin, his deep hazel eyes examining a piece of small golden jewellery encrusted with what he took to be diamonds. He had a fancy for rare and beautiful antiquities to add to his collection back home in Hocknis.

  For now, though, he was on a mid-year trading mission in the northern territories. He had shipped out from the Cryldis Island port of Hocklino in his father’s rickety old ship, his father having passed on some years ago, and docked a few days later in the massive northern city of Donnol. He had been here once before when he was 17-years-old. His father, also a well known trader of many years, introduced him to the largest city in Salarias when the market was celebrating its centennial – an impressive festival that was still talked about years afterwards. ‘Remember the centennial?’, and, ‘The centennial was such a glorious day for Donnol; so much celebration.’ You still heard these things from the mouths of people whilst roaming around the city.

  This place never failed to amaze him with its friendly atmosphere and congenial residents, many of whom lived full and active lives. Although disillusioned by money, the richer people, living mainly in the east and north-east areas, kept themselves busy with the simple things in life like food, drink, the air of local taverns, and activities such as riding, archery and education. This was t
he Donnol that his father had once told him about.

  Thirteen years on, and it was but a shadow of what it once was.

  The foundations had been rocked by an earthquake of paranoia and reckless decision making by government officials. It had been such a dire downturn of events that men and women of all ages had hastily left the city, wearing nothing more than the clothes on their backs and carrying with them a few meagre possessions that they considered precious, even if no-one else did. They had either moved to another part of the immense city, or escaped the gang-based terror in the low-town areas and gone to one of the many nearby villages that were dotted about the northern plains.

  Donnol market, however, had remained the same; still having everything anyone could ever ask for. There was a thriving trade centre in the east side, much like an indoor courtyard with its large canopied roofs, which opened once a month. Numerous humans, felines, and reptilians hounded to the city like migrating birds to hotter climes before winter’s first frost.

  Finely made weapons; heavy and light armours of various materials; exotic clothes and fabrics from far away, delicately crafted jewellery, and day-to-day food supplies were just some of the sights found under the welcoming cheers of traders. As soon as Mikos had entered the market, the array of concocting smells was overpowering to his nose – a mixture of charred coke; earthy fabrics; fresh loaves of bread, exotic spices, and potent perfumes hung in the air like a rain cloud ready to burst. This was, however, a kind of Donnol trademark – a complex variety of smells emanating from all around. Many people deemed it to be a good way of attracting people to the city – the allure of the odours being an enticing tourist attraction.

  To the north of this was the parliamentary building – a large, multi-floor structure that consumed the sunlight with its dark brown walls. It housed the local government officials, many of whom were more corrupt than the convicted murderers, rapists, and illegal magic wielders.

  There seemed to be a thriving criminal hub in Donnol and it was getting harder and harder to contain. In recent years drug trafficking, slavery, gang-related murders, and use of illegal magic had increased nearly tenfold. The local law enforcers were growing more and more desperate for new recruits, but most of the citizens did not fancy a quick death by the tip of an ice-cold knife being thrust into their backs at night.

  The common jails were not far from the port side of the city to the south. Mikos had heard a good many rumours that long-term residents were being disposed of in the already infested waters to free up cells for the newer residents. How true these rumours were was unknown, but the fear-stricken people of Donnol were not quick to dismiss the possibilities. All this was public knowledge compared with the Donnol Watch jails in the central part of the city just north-west of the market – that place was reserved for criminals on the watch commander’s most wanted list. The talk of how these people were treated was more guesswork as the knowledge of what went on was on a more need-to-know basis. Rumours or not, Mikos had his own business and concerns to deal with at the moment.

  He looked at the old reptilian trader and noticed how his two sets of eyelids were blinking rather fervently. He kept his thinking face on. He knew many forms of body language and was also aware of the tainted reputation southern-bearing reptilian traders had. He hummed as he turned the gold necklace around. The owner, known as ‘Hashni’ according to his tacky wooden stall sign, leaned over, his slender tongue tasting the air as it darted in and out of his long, crusty mouth.

  ‘So?’ he hissed. ‘What will it be?’

  Mikos thought about the 200 rubos coin price tag on it; he did not trust this scaled dealer very much. Hashni continued to peer at him, his blinking now getting tedious to watch. Like most stall sellers in Donnol he wore a long brown tunic that covered him from neck to foot, a black sash loosely tied around the waist, and his trading licence badge on his chest. Being a trader himself, he was wearing a similar outfit, but in black and only three quarter length, revealing his dark grey trousers and black leather travelling boots.

  All of the sellers that arrived for the mid-monthly Donnol market were required to register themselves with the authorities, paying them a nominal fee of 1000 rubos coins. This commercial red tape was the government’s way of keeping the market free of cheap traders and riff-raff that would seemingly ‘lower the tone’ as they put it. Mikos had always laughed at this. Most of the richer, well dressed traders were dishonest and underhanded, charging way too much for way too little; so the presence of small-time sellers might have given the market a sense of foundation and integrity he always reckoned. He put his thoughts back to the piece in his hand.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said as he placed the delicate necklace back on the stall.

  The reptilian let out a low, guttural sound of disapproval and cursed him in his own language.

  ‘And the same to you,’ Mikos replied with a slight snarl as he walked away. He wasn’t about to be ripped off for gold plated goods – he wanted pure gold as he always did.

  The next few stands were of the same variety.

  The market area was divided into different sections called wards, with each one housing certain types of goods for sale. He had had his fill of the jewellery and trinkets ward for now. His purchases were not exactly numerous – a platinum ring with emerald studs; a gold and bronze brooch; a small silver toe ring; and a bracelet that was made from interlacing wood, stone, and metal. This was his most interesting purchase – the craftsmanship that had gone into making it was undoubtedly magical, and at the same time awe-inspiring.

  The heavy smell of metalwork greeted his senses with wild appeal. The armour and weapons ward was just a few metres away from the jewellery stalls, and was set out in a more logical way – a large courtyard enclosure with smiths and traders lining the walls. The more well known makers were set up in an oval shape in the middle so that they would be the centre of attention. While the number of famous smiths was small, they nonetheless attracted a greater horde of eager buyers.

  There were very few human smiths, many of them actually being Bullwarks – a race of tall, tough-skinned creatures with brown body hair that were naturally half-breed by appearance; looking like a cross between a human and some sort of orc-like bull, with a pair of flat-tipped horns on their foreheads. Mikos, like many other people, respected their upper body strength; their naturally rounded muscles were advantageous when it came to forging and fighting. However, the Bullwarks tended to keep to themselves; rarely engaging in any battles or combat situations.

  As Mikos meandered his way under a pristine-looking granite archway and into the dusty courtyard, he was greeted by a heat that was not from the smithing forges. An outraged reptilian, who was wearing a set of shabby leather armour and a rusty broadsword on his back, was announcing his distaste with one of the Bullwark workers to everybody nearby… not that anyone was taking much notice. The vile insults shot around the courtyard with an angered resonance, and it wasn’t long before two men intervened wearing the standard dark red tunic and grey chainmail of Donnol officers. The hissing lizard was hoisted away amidst a very defiant protest.

  After a few moments of death-like silence the bustle started up once again as if nothing had happened – this was the way of it. The Bullwark smith, however, hadn’t resumed his toils and instead stood next to his equipment rack with his head held low. It was unusual to see a creature of this race to appear downtrodden so easily.

  ‘Don’t let that bakka get you down,’ Mikos said supportively to the smith after approaching his small forge-and-stand stall.

  The rough haired figure looked up, a fatigued look in his black, deep-set eyes. His elongated mouth parted making the long brown whiskers on his chin rustle when he spoke. ‘If these market laws weren’t so extensive then I would’ve been able to make him a happy customer,’ he stated in his low, gravelly voice.

  Mikos picked up one of the swords from the stall and held it upright, allowing the glow of the embers to reflect off it.
r />   ‘A fine blade,’ he said without exaggeration. He was a sucker for a well made sword, but it had to be an exceptional piece, and he had sincerely found one. ‘I’ll take it.’

  If there was one thing he hated above all it was the snobby put-downs that many wealthy people threw at the unknown, small-time market sellers. Mikos was much keener to deal with them rather than the pricier con-merchants that plagued the markets across Salarias. Being a trader himself he prided on delivering good quality to boost his reputation; piling money into things alone was a recipe for disaster in his opinion. In recent years something had been lost in the business – merchants had gone mad with the sense of power that came from having lots of money; the sight of precious metals and gems was sometimes deemed more brain twisting than Psyloss.

  The Psyloss plague, a malignant disease that had spread across Salarias out of nowhere and without warning, was ravaging the land like an errant beast lusting for food. Magical and medical experts alike had spent many sleepless nights researching every aspect of it that they could, some of them even succumbing to it themselves. Psyloss affected the weak minded; causing them to dive into realms of despair, madness, depression, and many other forms of mental illnesses. It had delivered devastating damage in a short space of time. Many people did not dare to venture outside, and the ones that did were obviously either fearless, stupid, or sailing into the early stages of Psyloss themselves. Mikos was always aware of the signs, as were a lot of people, and his lack of aversion to the smallest hint of psychosis was obvious – his background knowledge of the plague gave him the comforting knowledge that his mind was immune to its degrading nature… so far.

  He had neglected to bring his own sword with him to the market; leaving it back in his cosy little room at the Wattle & Wood Inn – a popular bed and breakfast pub used all year round by sailors, mercenaries, traders, locals and the like. It had a sterling reputation in the Donnol area, so it was no surprise it was almost full throughout the year.