The Forbidden Library
Read The Forbidden Library Online
Authors: David Alastair Hayden
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Teen & Young Adult, #Myths & Legends, #Asian, #Sword & Sorcery
Contents
Storm Phase: Book Three
The Forbidden Library
David Alastair Hayden
Published by Typing Cat Press
Cover illustration by Leos Ng "Okita"
Graphic Design by Pepper Thorn
Version 1.0 | July 2013
Copyright © 2013 by David Alastair Hayden
All Rights Reserved
No part of this work may be reproduced or distributed through any means without permission from the author.
Prologue
A lone girl knelt on the ice, a white-steel longsword clutched in her hand. Blood dripped from the blade’s tip. Gore stained her tattered, mismatched clothes and dark bruises splotched her pale baojendari skin — evidence of the battle that had left her stranded alone in this frozen waste.
Her panting breaths turned to anguished grunts as her slight frame stretched and expanded. Over the span of mere moments she grew several inches and cords of muscle knotted along her limbs. The lines of a pentagram formed like a bruise on her forehead, matching the ghoulish purple in her once bright-blue eyes. Her fingernails lengthened into wicked claws. Fangs extended down from her gums.
In Awasa’s mind, hatred and love battled, and the object of both was the same: Chonda Turesobei. She was no longer the Awasa who had foolishly set off from Ekaran weeks ago, driven by the desperate hopes of a silly girl afraid of losing the boy she thought she loved. She wasn’t even the same Awasa from a few minutes ago. As her body had changed, so too had her mind.
A crimson sun sank into the horizon, casting shadows across the endless expanse of ice that was the Ancient Cold and Deep. With snow crusting in her unkempt black hair, Awasa stood and snarled at her enemies.
She was surrounded by massive yomon, nightmarish savages, beings of chaos and destruction. Ragged pelts covered their vermillion skin and heavy tusks protruded out from under their white, bristle-broom mustaches. Their onyx weapons, razor-sharp, glittered in the dying light. Less than an hour ago they had numbered one hundred and eight. Now they were but ninety-one.
Their solid black eyes locked onto her as they trudged forward, seething with anger. The Winter Gate, the way to Okoro, the way to freedom and vengeance, was closed to them once again.
Awasa did not fear them.
Howling, a yomon charged her. Awasa ducked under its spear-strike and plunged the white-steel sword into its gut. The yomon screamed and died. She pulled the blade free. Ninety.
From opposite sides, two more ran at her. With blazing reflexes she had never before possessed, she slipped out from between them and spun on her heel, swinging the sword in a wicked arc. Such skill was new to her as well. The blade sliced deep into both yomon who then collided with one another. They dropped their clubs and stumbled, grasping at their wounds, their magical flesh smoking and peeling away.
Awasa slashed deep into the shoulder of one of the wounded yomon. It crumpled and turned to dust. Eighty-nine.
The other collapsed to his knees and Awasa stabbed him in the throat. Eighty-eight.
The rest of the yomon closed on her.
“Enough!” she screamed. “Enough!”
She pulled out a medallion she had tucked into a belt. She held it up. The air shimmered and suddenly eight copies of Awasa appeared, identical to her in every way, except that their faces were blank — no eyes or noses or mouths — and long claws extended from their fingers.
The yomon paused.
Awasa glanced at her copies and grinned devilishly. Proudly she hung the medallion of Barakaros the Warlock from her neck. Despite this magic, the yomon could have overwhelmed her easily, but they hesitated. Though unused to fear, they had suffered greater losses this day than they had experienced in centuries. None wanted to face the white-steel sword, and they had seen this girl transform from a soft child to a killing machine in moments. What more surprises did she hold in store?
Spinning slowly around, Awasa pointed the white-steel sword at them. “You will not attack me. You will
follow
me. I am your mistress now. You will obey me!”
A yomon stepped forward and growled, “Why? We outnumber you. You can’t kill us all.”
“If you wish to try, then go ahead.” The yomon did nothing. “I didn’t think so. You need me. I can get you what you want. I can get you out of here.”
“The gate’s closed again,” the yomon replied. “There’s no way out.”
“Trust me on this, Chonda Turesobei will find a way out.”
“The Storm Dragon? We don’t want to face him again.”
“You can, and you will. I was too weak when he brought us here. Too weak to slay him when he fled with the others. But I’m strong now, and my power’s still growing. He can’t keep that form forever. He will become human again.”
“Who are you?”
Ignoring the question, she held up her hand. It was coated in drying blood. Though cold ravaged most of her bare skin, the places coated in blood were as warm as if bathed in the summer sun. She glanced down. The body of a child lay on the ice before her, a child she had killed. Awasa dipped her hand into the Winter Child’s wound. She took the blood and smeared it onto her bare forearm. The cold vanished from that spot. She knelt and painted her face with the blood. Fangs extended, she bit into the child’s neck and drank until she could stomach no more. The yomon watched silently, unmoving, puzzled perhaps. Warmth spread throughout Awasa’s body. As the Winter Child had been immune to the cold, so now was she.
Awasa smeared her hair back from her face and licked her fangs. “I am Ninefold Awasa. You are my yomon.
Kneel
before me
.”
One yomon fell to his knees, then another, and another. In a wave, the eighty-eight yomon knelt and bowed their heads.
Awasa laughed and shouted into the sky. “I’m coming for you, my love — my betrothed! Wherever you are, I will find you! And after I kill the others, we will return to Okoro!”
Chapter 1
A large crystal embedded in the wall gave off timid, pinkish light, but as dawn approached, the crystal brightened and added a hint of warmth to the cramped underground room. Gravelly voices rumbled through the hallway outside. A curtain of white fur drawn across the doorway muffled the voices, but it couldn’t hold back the smoky scent of roasting meat wafting from the kitchens.
Amidst thick fur blankets piled on the far side of the room writhed a lanky, pale-skinned, fifteen-year-old baojendari boy. Sweat pouring from his brow, he gnashed his teeth and muttered incoherently. Neither scents nor sounds nor light stirred him. Only nightmares penetrated his exhaustion.
The
Mark of the Storm Dragon
, a lightning bolt spiking through a storm cloud in a circle of black, sparkled on Turesobei’s cheek. The sigil had appeared after he shattered the heart of the ancient Storm Dragon, Naruwakiru, and absorbed most of the released energy.
After struggling for weeks not to become like Naruwakiru himself, he had embraced the Storm Dragon to save his companions from the assassins known as the Deadly Twelve who tried to plunge Okoro into eternal winter and release the demonic yomon. Success had come at a price. He and his companions, save for the vampire Aikonshi and the monster hunter Hakamoro, were now trapped in the Ancient Cold and Deep.
Forever.
With the yomon bearing down on them, Turesobei had whisked his friends away and dropped them off near a village he hoped was safe. Unable to shift back into his human form, he had flown leagues away, until his fetch Lu Bei helped him return to himself. Then he crashed into the ice and was rescued by three white-furred, bear-like people known as the goronku.
Turesobei groaned, “Naruwakiru …”
Even now, in his dreams, he fought the urge to become the dragon, because he was certain that if he ever became the storm dragon again, he would lose himself forever.
Nearby, two ancient books lay on top of his folded clothes and battered armor. One was a musty volume adorned with the Chonda Goshawk. The other was a diary with a polished leather cover, bound with silver wire and embossed with strange runes.
The amber kavaru, a wizard’s channeling stone, that hung from Turesobei’s neck began to glow in response to his struggles against the dragon. The diary woke. Pages flipped rapidly and then the book spun into a dazzling cloud that coalesced into the form of a supernatural fetch. The fluttering pages turned to fluttering batwings. As big as a house cat and twice the trouble, Lu Bei was on the loose.
The fetch, whose amber skin matched Turesobei’s kavaru, pounced onto Turesobei’s chest and shook him.
“Master,” he said in a tinny voice. “Master, wake up!” Lu Bei chewed on his lip with his tiny fangs. His large, black eyes swelled with worry. “Master, you must fight it. You can’t become the dragon again.”
Until six months ago, Lu Bei had hibernated in the Shadowland, where he had gone after the death of Chonda Lu, the founder of Turesobei’s clan. Turesobei carried the kavaru that housed Chonda Lu’s dormant soul, but apparently their connection went much deeper because it had called Lu Bei back. The little fetch was always going on about Turesobei’s special destiny.
Turesobei stirred and groaned as he opened his eyes. “Lu Bei?”
The fetch sat back with a sigh of relief. “I’m here, master.”
“Where are we?”
“Underground, master.”
“How … why?”
“Ah, you don’t remember then. Thought you might not. You were fading out when we arrived. The goronku, the ones who rescued you …”
“I remember them.”
“They brought you here, to their village below the ice. They tended your wounds and gave you a sip of drugged soup. You said it tasted like evil and then fell asleep.”
That explained the foul metallic taste in his mouth. “I … I remember some of that now. But not this room.”
