The Alchemist: Dark Horizon (The Alchemist Saga Book 2) Read online

  The Alchemist:

  Dark Horizon

  Book Two of the

  Alchemist Trilogy

  L.A. Wasielewski

  Copyright ©2019 by L.A. Wasielewski

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the publisher or author.

  Cover design by Gabriela—BRoseDesignz

  Find me on:

  Twitter: @AuthorBebedora

  Facebook: @LAWasielewski

  Website: lawasielewski.com (Including exclusive color maps, extra web content, and much more!)

  And don’t forget to leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads!

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to everyone who has encouraged and inspired me during this journey. First, to my husband and son, for their support and love even amidst writing tantrums. More thanks to hubby, for being the most incredible and honest editor and sounding board. My test readers, Quinn Fitzpatrick, April Lewis, Philip Milbrath, and Paige Wright. Your feedback was essential and so very appreciated. Thank you for taking so much of your time to help!

  For My Husband

  PROLOGUE

  Raging fire.

  Acrid, particle-laden smoke. Falling ceiling beams. Utter chaos.

  Hiding beneath the heavy oaken workbench, bloodied and bruised, he prayed he wouldn’t be spotted. The beast smashed through cabinets and shelves, scattering the contents to be consumed by the flames. A deafening roar threatened to shatter his eardrums. He didn’t know if it was the monster—or the building crumbling down around him. The heat was intense. It burned his eyes, brought him to the brink of exhaustion.

  Carelessly, the creature destroyed. Everything. The inventory. Their belongings. His confidence.

  A bellowing scream erupted from somewhere behind him. Defiant and taunting. He knew that voice. It was telling him to run. Goading the abomination into attacking elsewhere. Diverting its attention.

  But he was stuck. Paralyzed with fear. Terrified of being burned alive, yet unable to move to save his life.

  Again, the voice pleaded with him to flee.

  He screwed his eyes shut, begging the Goddess to stop this mayhem. Maybe when he opened them again, all would be serene. It would just be a horrible nightmare.

  The next scream was the last. Garbled and stuttered, when he opened his eyes again the source of the noise was dangling several feet in the air, their abdomen pierced clean through by a giant claw. Seconds later, the body torn in half. The beast snarled amid the flames, proud of the destruction.

  A ceiling beam fell, pinning him underneath. The smoldering wood immediately caused his clothing to smoke. A searing pain jolted through his pelvis. His legs tingled, then went completely numb.

  He knew then he would not survive. Closing his eyes, he prayed to die quickly—before the fires consumed him.

  The monster lurked. He sensed the malice close-by. Smelled the putrid stench that lingered in its presence. Hovering over him amidst the inferno, the beast prodded his body with a sharp talon.

  He forced himself not to scream as the claw pierced his upper chest. Perhaps if he played dead, the beast would leave. Holding his breath, even as the flames licked his skin and the feeling of the monster’s intrusion threatened to force a mighty cry from his very soul, he silently waited for reprieve. Or death.

  When he awoke some time later, the beast was gone. Fires extinguished. Someone was digging for him, their voice urgent and desperate. Calling for him to answer.

  The pain in his chest was excruciating. The pain in his hips—nonexistent. A hand broke through the cramped cocoon that had somehow kept him safe, and a rush of cold, fresh air blew in. His blood-matted hair struggled to rustle in the new breeze.

  His vision was foggy as he was carefully pulled from the rubble. Gentle arms laid him on the bed of a wagon. His back pulsed with agonizing energy, his legs hesitantly tingling back to life. He tried to wiggle his toes within his scorched boots. Cool, wet cloths wiped away the ash caked to his face. A blanket was thrown over his battered body. Someone cradled his head and encouraged him to drink from a musty-smelling wooden cup.

  “Great Goddess, how’d you survive?”

  He forced his eyes to focus on a man standing beside the wagon, shaking his head in awed dismay as he stared at the remains of the former business. The young man craned his neck to get a better view.

  Nothing remained. Reduced to a pile of ash and scorched timbers. Gone.

  Just as his eyes started to flutter closed in exhausted defeat, the fire brigade pulled a pair of charred, mangled legs, barely attached to a shattered pelvis, from the ruins.

  It was only then he allowed himself to scream.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Take our sick and wounded into your arms. Bring us your divine blessing and watch over them as they heal. For your love and strength will be what brings them back from the brink. Praise be to you, Oleana, for we are at your mercy.”

  --Excerpt from The Prayer for the Unfortunate

  Grildi cried.

  Holding the hand of his injured friend, not knowing if Ryris would live to see his next day—he cried. He cried because of uncertainty. He cried because he was tired, sore, and hungry. He cried because Ryris hadn’t said anything in days. But most of all, he cried because he was scared.

  Everyone always thought he was brave because he was big. But sitting there with Ryris across his lap, he felt very, very small. A sense of hopelessness washed over him. Grildi wished he had Ryris’ bear to comfort him. Knowing Jaric and Eilith were within earshot, he desperately tried to keep his sadness quiet. He was supposed to be brave. Strong. Manly. And here he was—sobbing like a baby. And so, he hung his head, hoping his sniffles would be drowned out by the clatter of horse hooves and the rumble of wagon wheels.

  When he thought about what Zaiterra would be like, he never imagined he’d experience it sitting in the back of a rickety wagon, cradling Ryris’ head in his lap, watching the young man’s chest hitch with each labored breath. He wanted it to be grand and exciting, to see Everbright Lighthouse shining brilliantly. To hear the wind whip through the trees, smell the sea air, and maybe get a sweet treat. Ryris once told him they made spiced nut pies. He loved spiced nut pies.

  But this wasn’t a happy time. No adventure, no fun. Ryris teetered on the brink of death, and Grildi was terrified.

  Crimson seeped through the bandage secured to Ryris’ head, dried blood flecking off from underneath his nostrils. He hadn’t opened his eyes since they last closed, back at the Vrelin palace. His breathing was weak and raspy, pained moans unconsciously tumbling from his lips. His skin was ashen. The hulking man held Ryris’ hand in his own, rubbing his calloused thumb over the broken skin of his knuckles. His eyes went to the rubbed-raw flesh on the alchemist’s wrists, a startling reminder of the torture he had endured.

  The wagon wheel hit a tree root protruding onto the road, jostling the passengers. Grildi instinctively hissed his displeasure, and immediately made sure Ryris hadn’t been injured by the bump. Not a peep, not even a wince from the young man. He just wanted to hear his friend’s voice again, even if it meant being scolded for eating too much candy. Grildi’s hopes faded with each passing moment. He thought to Maxx, dreading having to break the news that Ryris hadn’t survived. He’d get yelled at for sure.

  He did
n’t know much about medicine—that was for the doctors in Zaiterra to think about—but he did know that his friend was hurt. Badly. He didn’t need anyone to tell him, he could see it with his own eyes. Grildi knew Jaric was protecting him, not telling him everything. After all, Jaric was a soldier, and he had seen the worst on the battlefield. But the look in the warrior’s eyes when he glanced back from the driver’s seat, or the way Eilith frowned with pity—he knew the situation was dire.

  Grildi had sworn to protect Ryris, and now he was dying.

  “Some guard you are…” He pulled Ryris close, re-adjusting the blanket covering his frail, broken body. Tears fell from his eyes, splattering on the alchemist’s face. He gently wiped them away with the edge of the quilt, a pink stain blossoming out where the blood-tinged moisture soaked into the fabric.

  Looking toward the horizon, Grildi could just make out the stone walls encircling Yelden. He leaned over and gently kissed Ryris’ forehead. “Please hold on, Boss…”

  ~~~

  The bitter-cold wind whipped ferociously, blowing dry, piled-up snow around the corners of every building. Even though the air was brisk, the citizens of Yelden went on with their daily lives, bundled up against the weather. The Zaiterran capital was modest; a mere fraction of the bustling metropolis of Keld. Several neighborhoods, with no real distinction between nobility and working-class. A small community college, a smattering of schools for children, and a quiet, yet busy harbor rounded out the township that just over fifteen-hundred people called home.

  Rolling down the main street, it was obvious residential and business neighborhoods were not separate in the capital. A blacksmith hammered on a piece of red-hot metal, well on its way to becoming a sword. Her apprentices watched intently, some taking notes in dingy journals. Next door, the school building sat empty, save for a lone light burning near the back, just visible through the frosted window. No doubt the teacher getting ready for the next days’ lessons. The bakery was closing for the afternoon, people hurrying in to get their last-minute loaves of bread for dinner. Children played ball in the road after school, parting their game to let the wagon bearing strangers pass. They regarded the passengers with cautious curiosity. Eilith forced a weak, friendly smile, and the children waved.

  The palace in Zaiterra was modest and unassuming, a far cry from the grandeur of the Vrelins. No gleaming towers, no sprawling courtyards. Only two stories tall, the masonry building was humble and unwilling to beg for attention. A lone flag, emblazoned with the crest of the royal family, fluttered on a brass pole resting atop the snow-covered roof. A collection of small outbuildings surrounded the citadel, robust and well-fortified.

  As the wagon approached, a man hurried down the staircase of the palace, dressed in multiple layers of plain clothing to combat the chilled air, an elegant-yet-simple forest green cloak billowing behind him. A delicate, plain crown of silver rested atop his head, nestled in his salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a warm-yet-reserved smile. This was obviously no time for exuberant welcomes. Taking the bridle of the lead horse, he helped to slow the wagon to a stop.

  “Empress, thank the Goddess you’re safe!” King Symond eased a small stool underneath the wagon and helped Eilith to descend. She took his hand with a grateful smile and, as soon as she was on the ground, hugged him.

  “Safe, but at what cost?” She ended the embrace and clasped her hands at her waist with a defeated sigh. “My son is no longer my son. He has taken our country and…” She brought her handkerchief to her mouth and used it to muffle her sobs.

  “Eilith…” Symond put his arm around her in comfort. She slumped into his body for support.

  Jaric jumped from the driver’s seat of the wagon and rounded it, throwing open the tailgate. He reached forward and grabbed Ryris’ feet, gently easing him away from Grildi. The massive man helped to guide his friend’s unconscious body across the bed of the cart, where Symond’s doctors were waiting with a litter. The physicians started to whisk him away, only to be stopped by Grildi, a stern expression crossing his face. He jumped down, feet thumping in the snow, and grabbed one of the litter handles away from the attendant. Only when he began to move did the others follow.

  “Your friend will be well taken care of, I assure you.” The king held out a hand to Jaric. “Symond. Welcome to Zaiterra. I only wish it could be on better terms.”

  “Jaric the Bold, Your Majesty.” The warrior bowed before indicating he wanted to follow his friends.

  Symond stared in awe at Jaric for a long moment before motioning to the sword attached to his back. “Welcome,…General. As a child, I read stories and saw your name more than once. While I have dreamt many times I would one day be granted the honor…I hoped the day would never come.” He took note that there was only one Guard member present. “The fact that you’re alone troubles me further.”

  The two men began to walk hurriedly behind the litter. “That Vrelin bastard has our leader. He…” Jaric hesitated, casting a pitied glance at Ryris. “…turned her. She’s under their control, him and Lyrax.”

  “Lyrax. It seems my confidant was correct.” Symond shook his head sadly. “And your friend?”

  “Ryris Bren. Roann beat him within an inch of his life.”

  “My doctors won’t rest until he’s safe.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Jaric grasped Grildi’s arm with reassuring pressure as they walked, the large man focusing his attention on the journey into the palace, careful not to drop his precious cargo.

  The king motioned the companions inside, instructing his marshal to store their wagon and bring in any belongings they required. As the party approached the steps to the palace, Symond darted forward and helped to guide the litter bearing Ryris. He walked backwards, hands protectively planted on the alchemist’s feet. Careful not to jostle him unnecessarily, the physicians made it up the steps and into the castle. Grildi never let go of the litter. Jaric sidled up beside him.

  “C’mon, Grildi. Let the doctors work. He’ll be safe, I promise.”

  “No. I’m goin’ with. He’ll need me when he wakes up.” The determination in Grildi’s voice told the warrior he wasn’t going to back down.

  Jaric patted him on the back. “Take care of him.”

  Grildi replied with a silent nod, tears flecking the corners of his eyes. Jaric took one last look at the deathly-silent alchemist before following the king and Eilith down the opposite corridor.

  The interior of the palace was warm, a welcomed change from the frigid winter air they left behind. Fires crackled on dozens of strategically-placed hearths, ensuring the entire building was inviting. Eilith and Jaric followed the king into a medium-sized sitting room, adorned with a grand portrait of an old monarch. The same silver crown which sat upon the painted man’s head, now rested in Symond’s hair. Several comfortable chairs and a large couch made the parlor seem cozy. A young chamberlain immediately went about gathering glasses from a cabinet and filling them with wine.

  An older gentleman stood at the window, peering out into the courtyard, only turning at the sound of their footfalls. He appeared gruff and battle-worn, but still had an air of excellence about him. He approached the group but did not extend a hand in gesture. His eyes lingered a moment longer on the tired warrior.

  “Jaric, I’d like you to meet Isum Dran. Empress, it must be nice to see a familiar face, no?” Symond clapped his friend on the back. The man nodded curtly at the group. “I believe he will have some insight into the troubles we currently face. He has an extensive history with the Vrelins…and Roann.”

  Jaric eyed Isum with cautious scrutiny, taking more than a moment with furrowed, speculative brows before he finally responded, “Can he be trusted, then?”

  “This man helped raise my son.” Eilith approached the martial arts master and held her hands out for him to take. He squeezed them gently with a soft, sad smile. “I would trust him with my life.”

  “Isum is first and foremost a Zaiterran. He may have spent nearly three
decades in the employ of the Vrelins, but his loyalties lie with me.” Symond’s tone was confident.

  “Good enough for me, then…” Jaric sighed with a tired nod before unclasping his sword halter and setting the blade against the wall.

  Eilith’s voice was now laden with sadness. Pleading for answers. “Isum, what happened to Roann?”

  Isum finally spoke, focusing his attention on the crestfallen former empress. “Something horrible, Your Grace. But nothing we could have prevented.”

  Symond motioned to the furniture. “Please, everyone, sit. You aren’t guests here, you’re family.”

  An attendant served wine and set out a small platter of cheese and a bowl of green grapes. As he sat, Symond sipped at his goblet, smiling in pleasure at the sweet taste. Eilith sat beside him, cradling her wine glass in her dainty hands. Jaric plopped his body into a nearby chair with an exhausted billow. Dran remained standing, leaning against the stone fireplace mantel. A silver ring, adorned with a fleck of shimmering crystal, shined on his finger.

  “I suppose we must discuss what has happened. Isum brought me the terrible news upon his return. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew it to be truth. Deep down.” Symond sighed sadly. “My heart breaks for the Vrelin Empire, and all her citizens.”

  “Melancholy will get us nowhere, Symond.” Isum pushed himself off the mantel with a grunt and made his way to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a healthy amount of brandy. “We can’t dwell on what’s happened. We’ve got to deal with the problem before it gets out of hand.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but it’s already ‘out of hand’.” Jaric drained his wine glass and set it down on the table in front of him.

  “Don’t think I’m downplaying this situation. I know Lyrax is dangerous. And I know full well what Roann is capable of. I trained him. With those twin beauties in his hands and his razor-sharp intellect, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with.” Isum eyed Jaric with a fatherly steel. “He’s an arrogant son-of-a-bitch…pardon me, Empress. No disrespect meant.”