The Spirit of The Warrior: The Axton Empire book 1 Read online

  The Spirit of The Warrior

  The Axton Empire Book 1

  Ryan Copeland

  Copyright © 2021 Ryan Copeland

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Clayton P. King

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my dad who showed me a love of reading

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  A Special Preview of Book 2 in The Axton Empire

  About The Author

  Prologue

  The air was rich with the taste of copper and salt. Pools of dark crimson dotted the ground, sending thick clouds of steam into the black night air. Scattered all around the large wooded clearing laid the mangled, broken, and lifeless bodies of his Magi brothers and sisters. Their traditional robes of silver and white were stained a deep dark red from sword, spear, and arrow wounds. Their bodies contorted into inhuman ragdoll shapes, horror and pain etched into their faces. No sound pierced the dead of night save for his hard panting and the occasional breaking twig far off in the distance.

  The boy thrust his eyes open with a great shock and began darting them around the night sky above, unsure if he was still asleep or succumbing to death’s awaiting embrace. The cold air was biting at his face and hands, and his breath was ragged and unsteady. He laid in the clearing for what felt like a lifetime trying to recall any detail about their attack, but no image or sound would come to his mind.

  Gathering his wits, and with his muscles screaming in protest, he slowly sat up. But as he did, he let out a shrill cry as pain like no other he had ever felt in his life shot from his belly down to his groin and thighs. The deep dark of night obscured his vision, forcing him to pat around his abdomen slowly until he felt a wet foreign stickiness near his naval.

  Panic took root deep inside him. His already ragged breath now quickened faster than horses in the summer races. A chill ran the length of his spine and sweat began to pour from his body. He knew, without ever having experienced it before, that he was severely wounded, and without immediate help would bleed out on the frozen forest floor.

  He steadied his breathing and quieted his mind of all fear for the present situation. Closing his eyes, he fixed his mind on one goal: healing his wound and getting home. He slowly raised his hand to his chest but was met with more pain from the stretching of his abdomen.

  He pressed on through sheer determination and began reciting in the ancient tongue of the Magi the incantation to summon the healing magic. In his mind, he saw the healing magic’s light burst into his hands. He saw himself healed and, on the move back to the city. But the light never came. Just empty words echoing into the empty black sky.

  Panic set in again. Panic and renewed pain from the struggle of simply holding his hand up. He had said the words correctly, he focused as hard as he ever did, yet the power to heal never came.

  What is happening? he thought.

  Again, he recited the words. And again, nothing came. He had trained these past four years to touch magic, but now it was out his reach. He had mastered the words and summoned the spell before, yet now when the need was most dire, nothing came to him. Perhaps he had been foolish not to believe the rumors concerning magic. He, along with all of his now-dead compatriots, had no desire to believe in such a wild idea. He cursed himself, and felt his heart start to beat faster than a drum during the spring festivals.

  Is this why my brothers died? Am I going to die? I am going to die. And no one will ever know why.

  The boy pressed on, reciting the incantation unceasing for what felt like hours. He visualized the white light leaping to his hands. He envisioned himself going home and him sleeping soundly in his bed. All the thoughts of comfort that he needed to calm his mind and lift his moods. Yet after what felt like hours of trying and failing, his arm fell to the snow-covered ground defeated.

  Streams of hot tears ran down his face only to freeze upon his cheek. He closed his eyes and fought to clear his mind of all frustrations, and fears, and questions that abound. He focused on the stillness of the forest, the quiet that flooded his ears, and visualized what he desired the most.

  He raised his hand slowly back to his chest and continued with his recitation of the words. Just as before, nothing happened. Unbothered, he pressed on and never stopped the words flowing from his mouth. He had to heal himself. He had to look for survivors. He had to make it home to tell the other Magi what had happened. He was determined not to die so far from home and let his brothers’ and sisters’ deaths be in vain. The thought of betraying their memories and trust sent an overwhelming feeling of rage through his body, and with a sudden jolt, the dazzling light erupted from darkness into his hands.

  He held the explosive and beautiful light in his hand for a moment, examining it, ensuring the spell was stable and would not flame out as weak spells are wont to do. He had always found it hard to describe, but the best he could do was to say it looked like the clearest water in the world but bright, and seemingly on fire all at once. The sight of the spell’s light was already raising his morale, and after a minute, he pressed the warm glow to his naval and felt the warm, healing light enter his body.

  In mere seconds, the pain that had been flooding through his body ceased. Blood that had been slowly flowing receded into his body, and that which did not began to freeze against his skin. He closed his eyes, bathing in the warmth and comfort of the spell’s power. He whispered a silent prayer to the gods of his fathers, thanking them for their small mercy. Perhaps their beliefs had not been in vain after all.

  While he held the light to his wound, he opened his eyes and surveyed the massacre about him. The light of the spell was dim but enough to illuminate the darkened woods, allowing him to fully realize the immensity of the carnage that had befallen them. Twenty veteran mages laid broken and dead with their blood melting the snow, their once steaming bodies now beginning to freeze in the frigid night air. If he had struggled so hard to summon a simple healing spell, these mages stood no chance in defending themselves against whatever evil had waylaid them.

  They were not Imperial Battle-Mages after all, who could defend themselves with swords and axes. They were dedicated mages through and through, who dared not ever carry the weapons of the common
man. Such a thing would be blasphemous to such devout practitioners of the power and mystery that was magic. Magic was their weapon and indeed their way of life, though it now appeared to be impossible to reach except with great effort.

  He turned and studied one of the many lifeless bodies next to him. Even in the dim light, he could see their skin was already turning a light blue, and their limbs were stiffening. Crude spears and ancient-looking arrows were all that marked the cause of their deaths. He looked at the blackened sky for any sign of the coming dawn, but the night was thick with snow and shadow. He might as well have been staring into the void of death. Suddenly, he regained his senses, and an overwhelming feeling of urgency overtook him. He needed to be gone from there soon, lest the unknown enemy should return.

  He knew he would not survive long in his current state and needed to be on the move soon if he had any chance of making it to a safe haven. He looked down at the dimming light as it worked its way through his body, branching out from the center. He had placed it there to create small spider webs of light that seemed to shine bright and then quickly disappeared. It would have been beautiful to behold if it were not for the dead that surrounded him. A few seconds later, the light faded out, leaving a gentle tear in his robes but no sign of injury to his body.

  He tried to stand, but his legs started to tremble under the effort, and he plopped down again with a hard thud. Despite the spell having healed his wound, he was sapped of his strength. It had been some time since he had conjured a spell. Even then it had been with one of the practice wands they supplied in the Citadel, let alone from his own hands. He thought for a moment on what to do next, the threat of sleep from sheer exhaustion now threatening his senses. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, welcoming the rest that his body craved.

  Without warning, far off in the dark woods beyond, he heard voices speaking in harsh hurried tones cut through the night. He thrust his eyes open, pulled his head upright again, and began trying to locate where the sound originated. Branches and twigs were being snapped off in the distance, and the sound of rushing feet filled him with renewed dread.

  Again, he tried to stand, and again his legs failed him. He thought he might have the strength to crawl away, but lying upon the snow-covered ground, he now realized his arms also lacked the power to move his body.

  He rolled over, examining the blank night sky, wishing he were back at the Citadel or even in his own home far away in the northwestern edges of their empire. The stars were beautiful there, bright and comforting, always offering light even in the darkest nights. Not like here where the blackness seemed to overtake everything. He fumbled around till he felt the cold iron of an axe. He gripped the rusted iron weapon tight around its wooden handle and brought it to his chest. Whatever was to come, he was prepared to meet it as a man, not as a scared boy.

  The footsteps were closer now, maybe within twenty feet of him if he had to guess. He closed his eyes again, and after another quick prayer of mercy to his gods, resolved to meet his doom head-on. He willed himself to sit up again and stared at the oncoming evil that was sure to cut him down. His arms trembled under the weight of the heavy iron axe, his eyes narrowed, and his heart began to pound faster and faster.

  The figures were now within ten feet of him. His heart began to feel as though it was going to burst from his chest. He raised the weapon above his head and let out a defiant battle cry, so shrill and angry his voice went hoarse. Now was the hour of his death, and he was prepared to meet it.

  Chapter 1

  The Rangers

  The snow was beginning to fall the morning they set out on their expedition. From atop his warhorse, his grey eyes searched the tree line in the distance for any sign of impending attack, old habits he had developed over years of fighting. He adjusted the sword at his side before dismounting, removing his pack, and patting the sturdy beast away. He watched the magnificent black horse make its way off back home without aid. He surveyed the warriors at his back before motioning them to move out and into the rough forests before them.

  They each in turn, dismounted their own steeds, secured whatever gear they would need, and began to jog to the tree line in the distance. Not a sound of complaint nor discomfort broke from their lips. His stern face cracked into a smile from the pride he felt, and after a moment, he jogged to the head of their formation to lead them out into the wilderness beyond. The man was named Tiberius, and he was Commander of the Imperial Rangers.

  He had the look of a man in his thirties, though none amongst the rangers knew or cared for his actual age. He was shorter than most men but was powerfully built, and as fast as a fox on the hunt when pressed by a great need. A short full beard, flecked with grey from the stress of war and turmoil framed his face, yet the most telling feature about him was his closely shaved head. The shaved head had been known as the sign throughout the empire of a warrior from the ancient order of rangers. And every man, and now woman, that entered their ranks carried it for the rest of their days as a mark of their service and skill.

  As they moved through the snow-dusted woods, he would turn now and then to study the rangers who traveled with him. After the five-year war across the sea, the entire Imperial Military had taken a year to rest and retrain. This Imperial decree also held true for the rangers who, though smaller than any other unit, had fought in more battles than all the others. Their modest numbers, fierceness in action, and unique skill set ensured they were needed everywhere at once to fight as many threats as their foes could throw at them. Now, after a year away from the action, they had resumed their regular duties, roaming the empire to bring their Majesty's justice to all people who dwelt within their borders.

  It is better this way, he thought as he slogged his way through the packed snow. Warriors were meant to be in the field, not being pampered, and coddled behind castle walls.

  After the year of respite and recruitment, he had been ordered to send his rangers north, and organized this journey while the rest of the Imperial Army continued their long rest. Even though their comrades in the regular military were down south enjoying the weather and respite, not a single person in his ranks complained about being sent out. A sword left in the ground will rust and wither, but a sword cleaned in blood and sweat will hold its edge, he reminded himself. These rangers will never shirk their duties for an ounce of comfort.

  He had ordered his most senior sergeants to select a handful of his newest recruits and marshal them into a small company to join him on this expedition. Not to say that members of the elite rangers were not experienced at all. It had long been known that all those who wished to serve the rangers had to first come from the Imperial Military. That they all have mastery of a standard soldier's fundamental aptitudes before they learn the skills needed for the rangers’ mission.

  And every man and woman who now called themselves "Ranger," had endured at least half a decade of constant war in the desert kingdom of the Narzeth. Each of them had fought constantly against their country’s eternal foes. And despite all they had endured, each and every one of them had sought a greater challenge to their skills. All for the glory and benefit of the people and country they loved so much.

  They were as silent as the graveyard as they crept through the woods. Each of them scanning the trees for signs of disturbance, though Tiberius reckoned they were still too close to the main roads and villages for any evil deeds to be revealed. The task given to them was to hunt for any signs of rogue wizards or witches who may have fled north following the Imperial banning of necromancy.

  For four hundred years, it was not illegal per se to practice the arcane art of raising the dead. More looked down upon than unlawful. But after the ten kings of the empire and the Magi Brotherhood had petitioned hard to outlaw this form of magic, many practitioners fled to continue their studies away from the Imperial City and the Magi's watchful gaze.

  But when the Great War with the Narzeth began in earnest across the sea everything changed. Almost at once, the e
ntirety of the rangers was drawn into the conflict, and the ten's own knights and soldiers were left to guard the empire, leaving the ban against necromancy almost unenforced.

  But rumors began to swirl in the northern kingdom. Strange lights and green fires had been reported deep in the woods where only the most skilled hunter and tracker dared roam. An impenetrable veil of darkness seemed to engulf the night, and piercing screams could be heard echoing off the mountain chasms in the distance And because of that, and the restlessness of the rangers, His Majesty Emperor Axton had dispatched his rangers to root out whatever evil there was.

  Tiberius had leapt at the chance to finally get back out into the wide-open country. Too long had he been cooped up in Kovaiyemarck, the garrison, and home to the rangers, recruiting and training new members to their order. He needed to be in the dirt and mud. Back on the hunt for whatever villains that may be afoot within his country. And

  They pressed on over the hills and under the trees for many hours without a sign of any human-made disturbance before Tiberius called a halt near Bradford Creek. The creek was almost picturesque with its snow-covered ground and towering pine trees. It could have been a beautiful place to live if not for the dangerous business that brought them all so far from home.

  Not wanting to tire them out lest they were forced into a sudden fight, he decided now would be as good as any time to rest. He motioned for his First Sergeant Trevin to join him at the head of their formation. He was older and almost six inches taller than Tiberius. Dark-skinned, muscular, and clean-shaven, an old habit left over from his years in the Imperial army where any hair on the face was forbidden.

  “Have them bed down and sheltered against the snow,” Tiberius ordered in a low voice. “And remind them to keep on their guard and set a watch.”