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The Phoenix Ring

By:Alexander Brockman
The Phoenix Ring
Alexander Brockman

       (The Thunderheart Chronicles Book 1)



For Mom and Shortstop.





Prologue





Marcus Thunderheart, the most powerful warlock to ever live, stood on  the small island, staring at the expanse of water before him. Normally,  it was calm, the ocean lapping the shore in small waves, an occasional  jellyfish in the water.

Not today though.

Marcus's best friend in the world stood next to him, a beautiful red  bird taller than him, with white streaks going down its sides, starting  at the eyes. Normally they would enjoy a day on the beach like this,  feel the magic around them, revel in it.

Not today though.

Today, they stood staring at death, unavoidable, terrifying death. It  was in the form of a long dark line on the horizon, the black sails of  countless armies. If you looked closely, you could see that the line  edged above the water further than sails could. There were more ways for  death to travel than in boats.

Marcus felt blood run from a gash in in his forehead into his eye, but  he didn't care anymore. The only thing that mattered was the enemy on  the horizon, drawing closer even as he watched.

What do we do? Marcus asked his phoenix telepathically, he had no strength left for words.

You know, young one. You have always known. Answered the phoenix.

I'm scared, old friend.

You don't have to be, you know there is another way for you.

And leave you alone to your fate?

You have much left to give to the world, my time is drawing short. You knew this day would come. Escape now, while you can

Marcus took off his ring and stared at it. It was a good ring, one of  the best a sorcerer could hope for. It had been given to him by the  phoenix, and it was his most prized possession.

Go little one. I will one day see you in paradise.

Goodbye, old friend.

Marcus clutched the ring and pushed his power into it. His life, his  thoughts, his very soul, they all went into the ring. He looked up just  in time to see the phoenix, his phoenix, glowing with power. On the  horizon, the black line faltered, then broke, jagged peaks rose,  breaking through it. The deaths in the army hit Marcus like a physical  blow. Then the tops of the mountains exploded, and a great glowing  orange column rose into the air, blocking out everything.

There was heat, and then there was nothing.



A young wizard with a wand tucked in his belt ran through the smoldering  ashes of the island, his griffin pawing the ground nervously behind  him. Everything was covered in dried lava, the entire island was dead.  Except for one spot.

It was a small hole, too perfect to be natural, a handbreadth wide, on  the edge of the shore. The young man desperately thrust his arm into the  hole, reaching down as far as he could. He found something and pulled  it up into the light to see.

It was a warlock's ring, the image of a phoenix emblazoned on the front.





1





Sixty Three Years Later





Aidan trudged along the dusty path, a bow on his back and a knife at his  side. It had been three days since the boy left the only home he had  ever known. He had run out of food on the second day, and was feeling  the familiar ache of hunger in his stomach. He had no idea how far  Allenna was from his village, too small to have a name, but he knew that  he would reach it if he kept following the road.

Allenna was the huge city that served as the meeting place for the  council, who ruled all three continents of Sortiledge. Aidan knew very  little about the council or city, as few travelers passed through his  village and fewer still stayed long enough to share stories. There was  no tavern, no hall, and no governor, just a group of farmers, a horse  breeder, and a small blacksmith.

Allenna, however, was said to boast several taverns, a group of dwarven  smithies, and even a palace. Most importantly of all for the young  traveler, the city held a consignment office for the king's border  patrol, who were more commonly called the king's Rangers. It had been  over sixty years since the three races of Sortiledge had gone to war  with the nations of the Nefarious Lands, but the council still hadn't  removed the Rangers from the southern edge of their enemy's territory.  It was an extremely dangerous job, as the peoples of the Nefarious Lands  had no love for any inhabitant of Sortiledge, and the Rangers were  isolated from their homeland by the northern ocean.

Yet Aidan was determined to join the Rangers, no matter how dangerous  his path might be. As he had grown up, he had thrived on stories of his  father, the greatest Ranger of all. Aidan's father had slain ogres,  trolls, goblins, even dragons, before he was slain himself by a  treacherous spy. At least, that is what the boy's mother had told him.

Aidan angrily kicked a rock out of his way. Six months ago, she had  shattered his world. All he cared about was his future as a Ranger, how a  spot would surely be reserved for him considering who his father was.  Finally, about a month before his sixteenth birthday, his mother had  brought him inside and sent the other boys outside. Aidan seethed as  remembered how she had cried and begged for forgiveness.                       
       
           



       

Aidan knew his mother had been a barmaid. She had always told him that  his father had slowly won her heart through many visits to the tavern,  but the real man did no such thing.

"It had been a long day," she had said, "and I was tired. He was  different from all of the others, young, strong, and absolutely  brilliant. We were just talking, but somehow I ended up in his room, and  then … " she stopped to wipe away a tear, "when I woke he was gone. He  left a bag of gold coins, which is how I bought the farm. He also left a  note saying I would have a son, how he knew, I'll-"

Aidan had left the room then, slamming the door so hard he cracked it  near one of the hinges. It had taken six months for Aidan to leave the  farm where he had spent his entire life. It was one of the most  well-built structures in the village, which would have been impressive  if the rest of the village wasn't falling apart. The farm rested atop a  little hill, with several miles of land behind it.

It wasn't long after Aidan had been born that his mother realized she  could never work the farm alone, and so she took in the first boy. Since  then, more than fifty boys from all over Gurvinite had stayed at the  farm for various lengths of time, but none as long as Aidan. Every  single one of the boys had been orphans, and were given a safe place in  return for their labor. Some had been kind, others cruel, but it was  from the cruel that Aidan had learned the most. He had learned how to  fight, how to court a girl, though there were none in his village, and,  most importantly, how to shoot a bow because of those boys.

Aidan had also learned from his mother. One of the requirements for  staying at the farm was that a boy learn to read and write, as well as  simple numbers and reckoning. She reasoned that the skill might be the  difference a boy needed to make a name for himself. Furthermore, all  Rangers had to possess this ability, so Aidan jumped at the chance to  learn the letters and numbers of the language of Sortiledge. She had  also taught him how to control the rage that he constantly had to fight.  Maybe it was from the lack of a father, or maybe his heart had known  that he was being lied to, but Aidan had always felt a hot anger burn  somewhere deep in his chest. Since his mother told him the secrets that  she had kept for the first sixteen years of his life, Aidan's rage had  become uncontrollable. It became so heavy every time he saw her, or the  farm, or anything in his village, that eventually he decided he would  travel to Allenna and try to forge his own path. Of course, first he had  to survive the trek.

Eventually the boy was passed by an old bearded farmer sitting in an oxen-drawn cart.

"Lad, where are you headed?" The man called down.

"Allenna," Aidan replied. "Why?"

"You can ride with me if you help me unload once we get there."

Aidan gratefully jumped onto the back of the cart, which was covered in a  strange sort of material that seemed far too expensive to be owned by a  farmer. The boy took a closer look at the man. He was dressed in long,  gray robes that, again, seemed far too expensive for any farmer to buy.  But what truly startled Aidan was what sat at the man's side. It was  about two inches thick at its widest, and tapered off to a point after  two feet of intricately carved wood. It was a wand.

"What's the matter lad? Never seen a sorcerer before? Classic village folk wouldn't know magic if it smacked them in the face."

Aidan became very still. Magic was something that was spoken of only in  whispers at his village. Even sixty years after the Great Wars, the  scars had still never healed. Some of the older people had once been  soldiers, and they still vividly remembered the power with which the  sorcerers had waged war against each other, decimating entire platoons  with a flick of their wrists. Magic was something that a person was born  with, beyond that Aidan knew little. Most of the sorcerers had confined  themselves to a secret fort sometime after the war, and had not yet  emerged.