From the Mountain
From the Mountain
L.L. Crane
Mark of Power Series
Book 1
www.llcrane.com
lisa@llcrane.com
For Natalie and Nicole…who still believe in dragons
From the Mountain is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by L. L. Crane
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Cover Design: Phatpuppy Art
Cover Model Photographer: alenkasm
Table of Contents
The Mountain
At Six
At Sixteen
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
The Mountain
The Mountain
The man-made mountain was situated next to the ocean, waves crashing violently against it as if they knew it didn’t belong there. At the very top of the mountain perched a mansion, formed of smooth purple rock, so rare that it glistened against the occasional sunlight. It was built like a castle, with turrets and windows, even a moat of salty brine water bleeding in from the ocean.
A prison was nestled at the base of the mountain, sections of it actually winding into the packed earth of its lowest parts. Soldiers, dressed in red uniforms stood at attention before its doors, long swords swinging from their belts. Further out from the mountain, was an area they once called Presidio, housing the privileged…in mansions as glorious as the one on top of the mountain…made of stone or rock, precious metal, the highest quality of wood. The government officials lived there, although they were few now. The healer. The Elite Army. Those with Power. And of course, the Destroyers.
Two men sat opposite each other in the amethyst mansion at the top of the mountain, facing each other across a large dining table made of mahogany, so shiny that their reflections could be seen in the wood. The floor was made of the deepest black marble, so dark it almost appeared purple. The walls were painted lavender and the windows overlooking the ocean boasted of brocade curtains, a direct contrast to the lighter color on the walls. Waves could be heard as they lapped against the mountain, reverberating throughout the entire house.
The tallest man, with deep black hair sleeked back over his forehead sat upright in one of the chairs, opposite the other man. He had a long, elegant nose and dark, swarthy skin. The other man was not nearly as handsome, but he carried himself with authority, which the taller man liked. He, too, had dark skin and dark hair, but his face was rounder, his nose almost bulbous. His forehead was broad, as was his body. Both were dressed in black, but the taller man’s clothes gleamed with the slightest hint of purple. Black leather gloves were tightly wrapped around his hands, even as he ate.
“So, Strom has been taken care of?” The tall man calmly questioned as he sipped a deep red wine from an ornate crystal goblet.
“Yes, he is dead.”
“How?”
“We ambushed him. He was headed back home… to Harcourt.”
The next question flew off his thin lips, a tone as elegant as his face and clothing. “Proof?” he queried, obviously in charge, leather gloves still wrapped around the goblet.
Even though they were eating, right as the lord of the mansion set his goblet down, picked up a silver fork, and placed a delicate piece of lobster into his mouth, the shorter man reached into a leather bag on the floor beside him and pulled out a head. A human head that once had thick blonde hair and a rugged face, but was now shriveled and decaying, mangled skin falling off of it with traces of dried up blood. An honest face, one could tell, even though it no longer lived.
Lord Gareth continued to chew slowly, his mouth moving in tiny circuits, peering over at the head as if it were a dead rat. He swallowed before speaking, his voice emotionless. “It’s him alright…nice work.” He took another bite of lobster and reached for the crystal goblet, sipping the dark red wine with pleasure. “And the Timbrels?
“Taken care of, my Lord.”
With that, Lord Gareth placed his fork on the table, never questioning why the other man had not yet touched his food. He tilted his head to one side. “Lanton, my good man, have you proof of that as well?”
Lanton leaned down slowly, almost hesitantly, from his chair in the opposite direction as before and reached into a different bag, revealing another head – this one a woman’s. She, too had blonde hair, at one time long and flowing, but now matted with thick red blood, almost the same color as the wine. Thick globs of dirt plastered against it, mixing with the blood like art work gone awry. Obviously, her face had once been beautiful, small features with large eyes, although the color could not be distinguished at this point.
Lord Gareth stopped chewing and stared at the bleeding head before him, much fresher than the man’s. “Did Jackal get away?”
It took Lanton a few seconds to answer, the slightest hint of remorse resonating in his husky voice. “No. He put up a fight….over the woman.” He gulped and cast his eyes toward the woman’s head. “We had to kill him.”
Lord Gareth shook his head slowly. “Such a shame. I had plans for him.” He sipped more wine and breathed out deeply, then dabbed at his lips with a pure white linen napkin. “Jackal was brilliant, you know.” He leaned forward, then, pushing his lean body against the table toward Lanton’s, and his voice became a lyrical whisper. “He could have helped The Alliance had he not married the Light Skinned woman.” He nodded ever so slightly to the head that Lanton was placing back in the bag, traces of blood staining his rough, rugged hands.
“She was a problem, sir. And Strom, too.”
Lord Gareth’s voice became rough, husky, and just a little bit mean. “They all are.” He made a face then, one like a child being forced to eat a vegetable he doesn’t like. “That is why we had to pass the Purification Law…they are weak as well as problematic. For the future of the Alliance…the blood must stay pure.”
Lanton narrowed his eyes, the slightest hint of uneasiness pervading. “Yes, but the law allows for…” He hesitated for the briefest of moments. “…Light Skins with the Mark of Power to live.”
The room remained silent for several minutes as Lord Gareth stared with burning black eyes across the table at Lanton. He waved his hand in the air, obviously dismissing the subject. “They may prove useful in the future…they have Powers, you know.”
Instantly he changed the subject, “And that brat of theirs…the half breed?”
“Uh humm,” Lanton started, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “He escaped somehow…we went back to the house, but he was gone.”
“Gone?” Leather fists pounded the table and black eyes blazed, the crystal goblet wobbling on the table. “How could you lose a seven year old?”
“We searched everywhere for him…for the rest of the night. He…he…seems to have disappeared.”
Silence lingered, dark pow
er somehow emanating from it, and Lanton dared to take a sip of wine and a bite of food, although the rich lobster and butter sauce clumped in his mouth like mud.
“Very well. He can’t survive on his own for too long.”
Lanton swallowed with exaggeration, as if he were eating a live animal. “Our thinking exactly.” He placed his fork back down on the table, his appetite gone.
“And how is our prisoner faring?” At this, Lord Gareth stopped eating and drinking. For the briefest of moments his ebony eyes actually softened.
“Not well, sir.”
With an explosion, Lord Gareth slammed his fork on the table, bits of food flying through the air. “Explain.”
Lanton paused for a few minutes, fidgeting his fingers under the table. “She continues to scream…night and day…for her husband and her child. And she refuses to eat.”
“It has been three days. I thought she would calm down by now. Have you punished her?
“Yes, of course.” Lanton’s lips curved down and his brow wrinkled. “But she is strong…she…she won’t submit.”
“Very well. I will deal with her myself.”
“I am sorry my Lord. We have tried everything.”
The tall man stood up then, even though the meal wasn’t finished. “You are excused, Lanton. I will be in touch.”
Lanton rose, his long, ruby handled sword bumping the table with a thud. “What do you want me to do with these?” He pointed to the two leather bags.
“Leave them.”
“Yes, sir.” Lanton replied, rapidly scurrying away from the table, as if he were escaping a rabid animal. The thick wooden doors of the mansion closed behind him with a whining bang, and as he bustled down the stairs, he could be heard mumbling under his breath, “Angels help her. Angels help that poor woman.”