The Silverwing Prophecies

Chapter One

            A glinting crimson river of marching armor twisted across the landscape, an early morning fog obscuring almost everything across the city of Eris except the Clock Tower, which stood clear in the bright morning sunlight. Across the bay, the only other structure visible was the Temple of Voltimand the Crafter.

Beneath the fog, the ground shook and echoed the clanging of armor as the endless stream of soldiers of Gandal continued to march against the capital city of Lysand.

An explosion rocked the Clock Tower as Kiowa Silverwing sprinted down the winding staircase from the greenhouse, sword drawn. Attack sirens ricocheted their shrill warning through the tower. A Gandalian soldier struggled upward, but his heavy armor was no match for Kiowa’s Lysandium blade. With one swift swing, Kiowa cleaved the soldier’s breastplate in two, sinking the point of his blade into his enemy’s heart. The mercenary grimaces as he wiped his blade clean, never slowing his downward descent.

Determination burned in his gray eyes as he barreled into yet another Gandalian soldier. He would never let his city fall to these fiends! Kiowa knew that his fellow mercenaries were fighting just as hard far below him. He did not so much as stumble as another explosion ripped through the tower.

Kiowa burst through to the main floor, his determination and the smirk across his face dissipating immediately at the sight awaiting him. Smoke from the most recent explosion still shrouded most of the entry hall and common room at the base of the staircase, though it could not mask the bodies of Kiowa’s fellow Zeveradico strewn like rag dolls across the floor. His sword fell from his eyes locked with a young woman clawing her way up the staircase towards him.

“Maria,” he whispered, sprinting towards her. The young woman’s dress was saturated with blood that seeped from a deep gash in her side. Kiowa gathered her into his arms as her emerald eyes locked with his in pain and horror.

“Ki…kio,” she gasped, raising a finger too late.

He felt the pressure of the axe slam into the base of his neck before the pain hit, and as he toppled over onto his side on top of Maria, his eyes locked on the form of his Master, slumped against the main door. A Gandalian soldier stood over him, hands still clasped around the javelin through the Master’s heart.

 

“No!” Kiowa woke screaming as he sat straight up in bed, drenched in cold sweat. He slammed his fist down onto his blaring alarm clock to silence the infernal ringing that had penetrated through to his dreams. Struggling to calm his heart, Kiowa staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face.

“Just a dream,” he murmured, staring at his gaunt expression in the looking glass. “Calm down, Kio. It was just a dream. Nothing more.”

But he knew it was, in fact, more than just a dream.

The mercenary shook his head, water flying from his dark bangs. “Get a hold of yourself, damn it,” he seethed to his reflection, turning angrily back into his main bed chamber and rummaging through his wardrobe. He flung a pair of black pants and his usual white button down onto his bed and began to undress as a knock sounded at his door.

Kiowa took a deep breath, his face suddenly draining of all emotion as he said in a smooth, composed voice, “Come in.”

Jenner Portsmith poked his sixteen-year-old head around the door, ginger brows knotted. “You all right, Silverwing?” he asked as he stepped in. “Thought I heard you shout a bit ago.”

“Perhaps you imagined it,” responded Kiowa, blinking placidly at the boy. “I’m fine.”

Jenner did not look convinced as he rubbed the back of his head. “Eh…maybe.” He looked curiously back up at the older mercenary. “A-anyway, the Master sent me to give you this.”