Last Magic! By Isobel Melville

Chapter One: A Chance Made Chosen One

Somewhere in the province of Barleycroft the creatures howled, the children whimpered, the trees rustled and a farmer's girl whose fields were barren gazed up at the night sky. And as it stared back at her with its all consuming presence and ten thousand eyes, she wondered to herself 'where's our hero?'

Somewhere in Eastholm 'resurrection' was on the lips of smiling sinners and corpses alike, for that day was the day of the year of the century of the millennia that would see the Dark Queen rise to glory; and a peasant with wooden shoes crept out of his house and away from his hungry family to turn to the night sky and asked 'where is my hero?'

Somewhere in Marden that question was answered. In the heart of Marden there stood the temple of T'gyna; like a night light in the darkness. It was circular; built of white limestone and had long archer windows. The only thing in the main room was a white altar built like a bird bath in which still rose water twinkled in the candle light. T'gyna had answered the question that the people had been asking; 'where's our hero?'

In sombre silence a woman hooded in white gaze stepped down from the altar and faced three men. Around them stood a circle of dark clad priests watching with quiet curiosity. Though the woman in white seemed unaffected the three great warriors inched closer to each other. The priests seemed to move with them.

'Hem.' All turned to the Oracle. The hood was just pretence and both could see her clearly through the light material. She could have been a beautiful woman but for those eyeless sockets kept festering by T'gyna's magic.

The oracle tilted her head from one side to the other as if seeing the three men before her.

One was a tall man, whose father was a barbarian warrior from the Ice Land Alps. He was dark featured and extremely hairy. He was almost seven feet tall and carried a morning star wrapped in a fur scabbard. He didn't look comfortable with his cropped hair and stiff formal clothes, instead clinging to his weapon like a comfort blanket.

The second was the second son of the third daughter of one of the twelve minor kings from Cranebrook. He was not nearly as tall but much more comfortable in formal attire and the first warrior knew this man could move and flex like a cat. But his body seemed much too accustomed to bending forward for a lady's hand and prancing around the dinner table doing verbal gymnastics then anything as physical as fighting.

And the third; the third was only a man in the loosest sense of the word; slight and round shouldered. He held a short sword at his hips. The other two didn't know a lot about him but deduced from his baggy clothes and pale skin that he may have been a monk, or maybe-the half barbarian turned his head slightly and looked at the temple priests in their golem like stillness-he was a priest. A shutter ran through the half barbarian and he dearly wished he were back on his snow covered mountain.

'It is foretold,' the three warriors tilted their heads as the Oracle spoke to them. 'That the man,' at this she smiled at the third warrior. 'Who leaves this temple alive will be the one smiled upon by the Goddess and chosen as protector of her people. -'

'My Lady?!' The second warrior's voice broke. 'You can't mean this; we are of families of influence. We are people of influence and I hold both a large army and a mine. Surely-you-aren't-think-of-offing-us-for-the-sake-of-choosing-the-best.' He said in a rush as his face became increasingly red.

'Are you afraid that you are not up to cut oh Lord of Cranebrook?' One of the priests asked with tangible smugness. The lord swung around but all the priests sunk into their identical hoods as one.

'Who said that?' he yelled but the smugness only grew.

'My Lord there are more serious matters then swab'ling with my priesthood.' He sneered back at her. 'And let it be known that if you fail; yours is not the only sacrifice.'

The room was quiet, not sure of her meaning. The edges of her lips twitched upwards.

The silence was barely felt as each person retreated into themselves. One priest tilted his head under the heavy fabric of his hood.

'And that man who is chosen; he shall be known by this mask.' Every person in the room looked at the thing in the Oracle's hand. It looked like a white enamel theatrical mask with a golden mane. The eye holes were blocked out with white fabric which was presumably see-through.

She lowered her hand and the group's eyes followed it. Then, as quick as greed from money, she threw the mask up into the air. The golden mane flickered in the light before it caught itself in the temple's rafters. The third warrior gasped at the loss.

No one saw the Oracle throw down a candle at the limestone floor. No one would have guessed anyway that limestone would burn. And it did.

The group watched in horror as the green flame spurted up and around the Oracle. It twisted around her and consumed her. It burned her till all the heroes could see was her skeleton but all through the painful, magical ordeal she didn't say a word; she was as silent as the tomb.

The fire spread around them and up the temple walls. One of the priests screamed when a stray flame caught their robe and melted their skin. Another priest ran forward to the altar, pushing past the first warrior.

'Oyi buddy! Where do you think you're going?' The half barbarian bellowed at the priest and reached out one massive hand to wrench him back.

'You should know you're one ugly hunk of meat,' the priest hissed before spitting in the big man's face. 'Because that personality will get you no where!' he yelled over his shoulder; running away from the barbarian who was distracted by a chunk of hot limestone crashing into his temple.

The priest hopped up the step on the altar and tripped over his robe, crashing hard on his knees. Around him pieces of partly melted limestone fell around him. They were so close he could feel their heat as they fell past him.

Shuttering in fear he turned to see the third warrior pull out his broad sword and cut the burning robe off a frantic priest. The warrior turned to him, making a 'come here' gesture. The priest looked up to see a support beam creaking. He tried to get up but his knee stang. It wasn't broken but it was badly scraped. He looked back at the third warrior who was staring in wide eyed horror at the melted stub that once held the broad sword on the floor. The priest bit down on his bottom lip and crawled away.

The second warrior was frantic in his quest to open the grand double doors of the temple. He'd tried burning through the wood with one of the candles but it seemed to be the only thing that wouldn't burn. He'd tried breaking it with a chunk of limestone and as the priest watched he pulled out a thin dagger from his boot and was picking at the hinges. But it was no use; magic was at work.

Screams curdled the air and cut it at the same time. Everything was caving in and even in the places where there was no limestone left the green fire still burned; a night light in the darkness.

But; there was one safe place the priest realised as he crawled to the side. As he sat hunched over himself next to a wall of green flame where there was no limestone left to burn and crumble on him, he stared at the corpse of the Oracle. No limestone fell on it. He looked up; the golden mane of the mask twinkled in the firelight right above her like a beacon of holiness.

He backtracked his crawl with a vengeance till he stared into the eye sockets. Of course he'd never seen them with eyes; it clenched his heart none the less. He squeezed his eyes and crouched over the bones. He let out a breath the he hadn't known he'd been holding; he was between the two strongest magics in the room and was pretty sure he was safe.

There were only a few people unmaimed in the room but it was a dwindling number. Within the next few minutes of raining limestone and green flame three people were still able to stand. The priest noticed with horror what happened to those who couldn't; the flame swooped down on the fallen bodies and engulfed them. Not even bones or ash were left.

His head started to spin. He couldn't take this. Just stop already! He crumpled down onto the bones. They crunched under his weight.

The constant motion didn't cease. He hardly noticed the hand on his shoulder and shook it off reflexively. It took a rough shaking to make him aware that he was face to face with the Lord of Cranebrook who was mouthing something slowly at him. He couldn't comprehend what it was but those dark brown eyes demanded attention so he stumbled along his lexicon until he found something suitable. '…stop, shut up, just stop it. It's too hot… Who? Wh?'

The lord deemed this worthy of another shake before speaking through gritted teeth. 'Look priest; I'm up to cut' he almost laughed but settled for a maniac grin 'so how do I get out of here?'

'Na uh na na ya gotta…' The priest muttered as his brain tried to function. It would have helped if the limestone would stop falling. 'Ya gotta-'

The other one; the warrior with the stub and the arm hauled himself up next to them. He was graceful even when bent over double. He was a she it seemed as she patted the fire out on her shirt which had burned through to reveal a dust coloured breast. It was badly burned.

The priest's mind worked fast; last man alive. 'I need, I need that broad sword.' He pointed at her empty scabbard. The weapon itself wasn't far off but the lord still snorted in frustration as he went to fetch it, smartly dodging two of the last pieces of limestone. All around him it seemed to be one big burning green cage.

The he-woman looked into his eyes. 'What's happening?' she asked as she collapsed into a kneeling position next to him. The lord came back with the broad sword and shoved it at him. The priest held it; it was solid and of good weight. Its blade was reasonably sharp but could be polished. He tested its balance like an alarmist peers over a bubbling experiment. Its steel was tinted green in the magic light. He squeezed his eyes shut so tight they teared, set his jaw and clenched down on the hilt of the sword before they went home with you in any way to go andhe shoved it into the Lord of Cranebrook's stomach.

The man stared back at him in horror and then at his stomach. He staggered and crumpled over but didn't fall. The priest didn't turn to see the woman's reaction. The man drooling blood in front of him was enough. His face went red hot with embarrassment and irrationally he wished he could take it back.

But the lord was not done yet; he reached down into his boot and pulled the dagger out. The priest noticed it had the initials J. W. B. on it.

It was only by reflex that he darted his head back when he did. The dagger went right into his eye and all he could feel was an extreme burning pain that caused him to kick out. His foot caught the lord in the shoulder with enough force to knock him down. He couldn't get up again and so was sacrificed in the green fire.

Slowly the flames stopped licking at walls that were no longer there. The priest could feel the cooling temperature but could not move from his ball of pain.

Next to him the woman looked at her stub. She hadn't felt pain in a long time; part of the disease of living in the province of the Dark Queen for as long as she had, and even this was only pleasantly sharp.

She was the first to notice the mask with the golden mane flutter down, feather light, onto the priest's knees. For her the irony was as tangible as the smugness was half an hour ago.

He was the Chosen One.

I wrote an opening chapter for an adventure story for my English class. Do you think I should pursue it? Anything (spelling, unclear wording) I should change? If I do I'll try to avoid the clichés of the genre and if anyone wants me to go ahead and my next chapter would be Companions of a self confessed opium eater.