Prophecy's Child (Broken Throne Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prophecy's Child

  Copyright

  Prophecy's Child

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Want to Know What Happens Next?

  How Did it all Begin?

  About the Author

  Prophecy’s Child

  by Jamie Davis

  Copyright © 2017 by Sterling & Stone, LLC. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help us spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting our work.

  CHAPTER 1

  Merlin watched Artos vanish into the magical vortex.

  He turned to face the tower room door, his home for so long. Crashes beyond the barred door grew louder, the attackers’ axes slowly breaking through from the other side. The blows ceased as a voice rose above the din.

  The old mage wove an invisible barrier before himself, sensing a gathering of magical energy in the hallway outside.

  The door imploded in a blast of heat and force. Splinters of wood flew past Merlin, safely deflected by his magical barrier. Armed Saxon soldiers swarmed into the tower to surround him, blades aimed at his frozen body.

  He remained still, indifferent to the menacing growls of the men around him. The circle of steel parted and a man in a black robe strode forward. “Where is the boy, Father? We were told that you took him up here with you.”

  A broad grin, then Merlin said, “Artos is far from here, Fenris, gone to a place that is mysterious even to me. I am afraid I cannot help you.”

  “Nonsense, old man. You are the most powerful mage of our time. How could you not know where you sent the boy?”

  “I knew you would prevail, my son, and that you would use whatever means necessary to extract the lad’s location. I could not take a chance that you might stop Artos on his quest. So I entrusted him to the Fae. They shepherded him somewhere of their choosing, based on their need.”

  “Bah!” Fenris groaned. “The Fae are weak, Father, and your loyalty to them over man is misplaced.”

  “The Fae offered their magic to us when we needed it most. And that was compassion, not weakness. The gift was a loan until we could set things in motion to return us from the dark after the fall of Rome. The magic was never ours to keep, my son. I taught you that long ago.”

  “They are weak because they surrendered such power, expecting us to return it without wanting to retain some for ourselves. They are stupid, foolish creatures, failing to see their foolish ways.” Fenris pointed to his father. “Man was destined to have magic, and to use it to our benefit. We all see that. Why can’t you?”

  “Why can’t you understand? Magic was a gift, offered to a select few in the most desperate of times. Man was never intended to hold it for more than a few hundred years, only until the once and future king was crowned. My mistake was in trusting you and the others to carry on my legacy should I fall before that time. Now the prophecy may never be fulfilled.”

  “It never will be if I have my say. You and your prophecy are mistaken. You can only count on what you can control. I have seen to the end of your prophecy.”

  “What have you done?” Merlin’s fear showed through his facade. The prophecy was everything, ensuring that the gift of magic could be returned to the Fae, once the right person united the people in light.

  “I have your precious sword in the stone, Father. I control the talisman of the Fae now. Only our chosen one will take up the sword and lead Britain to rule the known lands.”

  Fenris stopped and looked at his father, returning the old man’s steady gaze, two mages standing toe to toe in silent battle.

  “We could control everything together, Father. It is not too late to join me.”

  “You know I can’t do that. If I don’t release the charm on the sword, then only the prophecy’s chosen child can remove it. Godspeed trying to circumvent my magic, Fenris, and I am sorry I won’t be around to see your eventual defeat at the hands of those to whom you promised too much, those whose wishes you could never fulfill.”

  Merlin’s face withered with pity for the son who had betrayed him and all he stood for — a sad smile for what he knew was goodbye.

  Fenris bellowed in rage at his father’s refusal, pulled a long dagger from his belt, and plunged it into his father’s chest, pleased to see the smug smile wiped from his face as it twisted in shock and pain.

  Merlin lay dead at Fenris’s feet, blood pooling on the stone floor. The younger mage stepped backward as the spreading crimson pool worked to lick his boots.

  He looked around the tower room, so familiar and yet so strange to him now. Fenris had grown up here, learning to work the Fae’s magical gift beside his father. Now the room seemed somehow smaller as the man who gave it life lay, expired, on the floor. There were no clues as to where young Artos had been sent. Fenris would have to protect the talisman from the boy’s eventual return.

  Fenris had been the one to discover the boy’s destiny. He remembered telling his father about it and how they could use him to control the kingdom once he claimed the throne. Of course, Father had refused, wrongly insisting that their task was to serve, advise, share, and counsel, so that the coming leader would know how to best unite the kingdom … and, eventually, to return the talisman to the Fae.

  Fenris couldn’t abide by that choice. He had left his father’s side and had taken the tale to the hated Saxons, helping them to unite their tribes and overcome the budding kingdom’s meager resources.

  It had been simple to draw the other mages to his side as well. All had secretly hated Merlin’s plan to return magic to the Fae, and had joined him in overthrowing Uthur Pendragon’s forces and taking the kingdom, one castle and fortress at a time, until all the old king’s knights had either been killed or had been forced to swear allegiance to him.

  Now, Fenris and the other mages would use their combined power to shepherd mankind into a new golden age, an age where magic could be used openly and men would learn to respect those who could wield its power. Fenris and his descendants would be kings among men for centuries to come, no matter what Merlin and his protégé, Artos, had planned fo
r the future.

  CHAPTER 2

  Storm winds battered the office windows.

  Nils Kane stared into the night sky, the moon’s meager light dispersed amid the swirling clouds of orange dust that swallowed the capital and every city along the eastern coast of the United Americas.

  Turning away from the window and the dust storm raging outside the Department of Magical Containment, the Director crossed his large office, past his desk, to the large stone sculpture. He told people it was a cherished piece of artwork belonging to his family. Only a few people in the world knew what it represented.

  Nils stroked the large, hand-carved stone throne until he reached the sword embedded in its back. As he often did when alone, Nils gripped the blade and attempted to pull it free. But, like always, the sword wouldn’t budge.

  When he’d discovered that the sword in the stone still existed, Nils had personally financed the mercenaries who’d traveled to the ruins of old London, in what had once been the United Kingdom. The few surviving savages had made the recovery difficult. Only half of the men returned with their prize.

  Just as well. That made it easier to dispose of those who went on the quest, lest they discover the true meaning of the ancient talisman recovered from Europe’s ruins. He could take no chances. That sword was his family’s birthright. Mother had told him the legends of his family’s origins, warned him to be patient and hide his abilities from jealous middlings who would use him to their own ends. She would be proud of him. He had followed her advice and now stood to reclaim all the world’s remaining magic.

  At least, that had been the plan, until Miss Guinevere Durham had spoiled it all. With that meddling Artos’s assistance, she’d destroyed everything he’d had in place to capture the magic for himself. With the Harvester destroyed by the young chanter woman, Nils was forced to fall back on an alternative plan.

  In the meantime, he needed to find a way to draw the girl to his side, or destroy her if she was unwilling. And he had a plan for that, too.

  Nils turned on the large monitor mounted on the wall beside his desk. It was time for his interview with National News Channel’s Rebecca Funk. He settled into his desk chair, leaning back as the program started.

  “Today on NNC’s Evening Report, we have an exclusive interview with Nilrem Kane. The Director of the Department of Magical Containment shares his thoughts on the causes of this strange weather phenomena affecting much of the East Coast.”

  The woman on-screen turned and the shot changed to a wide view of the Evening Report set, Nils seated across the news desk, his grin the perfect blend of disarming and friendly.

  “Director Kane, thank you for coming. Let’s start with a recent report from the National Weather Service, which is essentially throwing its hands in the air trying to explain these dust storms. But you have a theory. What, in your estimation, is causing these storms?”

  “First of all, thank you for having me back. It’s always a pleasure to stop by and share what is happening at the Department with your viewers, especially at a time like this.” Nils watched as his TV-self took control of the interview, turning to the camera. “My colleagues and I, both at the Assembly and inside the DMC, are convinced the storms are magical in nature and relate back to some localized magical influence gone terribly wrong somewhere here on the East Coast. Our courageous Red Legs are investigating possible causes and specific individuals inside the chanter community.”

  “I see. So you think that chanters’ misuse of magic is at fault?”

  “I do. As you know, I have long been a voice of caution against the widespread use of magic by the public. As a result of several recent actions by the Assembly, we are addressing the reduction in use, creation of magic, and the registration of chanters so we may safely monitor their efforts.”

  “And the chanters claims of Red Legs rounding up chanters last week and the list of missing chanters that some are calling the Baltimore Fifty? What about them?”

  “We are cooperating with Baltimore law enforcement to locate the missing individuals. But we suspect that this is the result of a local Sable trade gang war, with abductions and deaths occurring on both sides of the conflict. I have it on good authority that my officers are close to cracking the case once and for all.”

  “So, none of these people were part of an official mass arrest and detention of chanters in the Enclave?”

  “Correct. I think these erroneous claims are an attempt to shift blame for the strange and dangerous weather from the chanters at fault. The storms are clearly magical. Who else could be controlling or misusing the magical forces but the chanters themselves?”

  “Well, thank you, Director Kane, for taking your valuable time to chat. I know our audience appreciates your efforts to solve—”

  Nils killed the TV, then reached over and tapped the intercom to summon his assistant. The door opened and Miss Errand entered. He watched her approach his desk, admiring her dark skirt and tight, black blazer before giving her instructions.

  He had two things to accomplish; provoking public unrest against the chanters was the perfect stone to fell both of his birds. Young Winnie Durham had evaded his efforts to eliminate her at the steel mill. Artos believed her to be the answer to an ancient magical prophecy. In the beginning, Nils had imagined that it was the old man’s wishful thinking. But now he had second thoughts. If there were concerted attacks against the city’s chanters, he might get lucky and she would succumb to one.

  Nils wasn’t one to leave things to luck. He had other plans that were much more likely to bring young miss Durham down. Those plans were progressing nicely, but they were time-consuming and required finesse. Nils preferred more immediate solutions. He wanted to get his ultimate project back in place, but would be unable to while Miss Durham stood in his way.

  The girl was dangerous, and not just because she had the power to stop him. Durham also had the ability to unify chanters against his efforts. He could not let her become that beacon for hope and unity among those who would stand in his way.

  Nils must stop Winnie at all costs.

  CHAPTER 3

  Winnie rolled over in bed and stared at the curtains of her bedroom window. Streetlights outside offered a dim light, barely piercing her room’s gray and black shadows. Like every other night in the last two weeks since her confrontation with Kane at the mill, sleep was elusive, short snippets broken by the hints of voices whispering at the edges of her darkest dreams.

  Her hand rested on her stomach — another dream about her baby, and Joey. She remembered that much, before the whispers had forced her to wake. It was always the same: a little girl, about three years old, walking through a gorgeous forest, somewhere far away. “Why are you crying, Mommy?” she always asked.

  But Winnie could never answer. When the voices came, Winnie always looked away, searching for their source. And when she turned back, the girl was always gone.

  Winnie got out of bed, then made her way toward the kitchen, peeking into her mother’s bedroom on the way. Elaine was sleeping, recovered from her recent hospitalization — the only bright light in her life’s recent gloom. Mother’s brush with death was now behind them, and she was recovering well. They no longer needed a nurse, and she was able to stand and move around on her own.

  In the kitchen, Winnie set the battered old tea kettle on the stove and lit the burner so the blue flame heated the water for tea. She sat and waited while staring at nothing in particular. A buzzing fly circled the sugar bowl. Winnie reached out with her mind, directing thin threads of magic towards the insect. Winnie sharply inhaled, then exhaled with a satisfied sigh as the surge of Sable magic coursed through her.

  The fly buzzed in complicated patterns above the table with Winnie directing the flight. She reveled in the euphoria that always came with working the forbidden magic on a living creature. It fed her addiction, and though Winnie knew it was wrong, she didn’t stop, directing the insect as if it were a remote-controlled toy.

 
The teapot’s thin whistle distracted Winnie from her casting and she released the fly. She immediately felt the hole, a bottomless emptiness deep inside her. She searched for the fly, wanting to reclaim the euphoria, but it had disappeared, leaving the room and the dangerous creature controlling it.

  Winnie stood, picked up the teapot, poured it over a teabag in her mug, then sat at the table and spooned a few teaspoons of sugar into her hot tea. Sable magic was a problem, and had been before the night at the steel mill. Now she felt like she needed to touch it all the time. It was the only thing that made Winnie feel better since losing her baby, since all the captured chanters had died, since Danny had been taken away just hours after his return….

  Winnie wondered where her boyfriend was. He’d been taken away during her battle with the machine. She’d been vaguely aware of him getting dragged off when Director Kane left her battling the Harvester. No one had heard from him since. She had even called his parents. The woman who answered must have been Danny’s mother. She was frantic, asking who was calling, begging to know anything about his disappearance.

  Winnie wondered if he was dead like all the others at the mill. The news had called the event “a terrible industrial accident,” with a hundred workers’ bodies discovered in the building’s charred remains. Those bodies had been the discarded remains of chanters who’d had their magic harvested along with their life force. Middling news outlets knew nothing about that and accepted the official reports about an industrial accident.

  That story was soon replaced by the dust storms descending like a hammer upon the city, starting in Baltimore and now a regular occurrence with people going about their days in scarves or surgical masks to protect their lungs from the swirling dust. After a few days, storms were raging up and down the East Coast of the United Americas, leaving experts scratching their heads.

  That hadn’t stopped pundits on the nightly news from positing a list of possible sources for the strange phenomena. A dangerous suggestion from one of the more conservative guests one night had led to a new populist movement from the more militant middling groups. The storms were proof of magic’s danger, surely triggered by chanters from segregated enclaves.