Alfirean Age Book 1 - Inheritor of Strength

And So It Begins

Alf stared out the window as the last of the sun sank beneath the horizon. He sighed, then turned to Harold, who sat in the waiting room’s plush couch. “Do you really think a school uniform is necessary?”

Olivia pushed the door open and slipped into the room. “They’re almost ready. Mister Weaver is just adding a few final touches.”

“Excellent,” Harold replied. “And to answer your question Alfonso, yes, I do. Much of what our students are wearing is not only impractical, it is also causing undue tension.”

“I guess,” Alf answered. He couldn’t argue the impractical part. The puff-sleeved, flowing blue gown one of his female students had worn to combat practice that afternoon was proof of that. But to be honest, Alf looked forward to seeing what crazy things his students were going to wear next. Watching someone try to mimic the Emperor's royal attire often served as the highlight of his day. If they mandated a school uniform, that would all be gone.

“I think this uniform idea is wonderful,” Olivia said. “It’ll stop a lot of the ridiculous posturing the teachers have to deal with during classes. It will also cultivate a more orderly feeling in the entire school.”

“But what about individuality?” Alf asked.

Olivia frowned at him. “They’re here to learn, Alf. Right now, they’re just lording over each other whose family has the most money or political power. We have to stop that, and this will help us take a step in that direction.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Harold stood up, folded the paper he was reading, and set it on the couch. “Come in.”

Mister Weaver, the tailor that had designed the clothes Alf currently wore, strolled into the room. Round spectacles perched on the edge of Mister Weaver's long nose and a silver goatee graced his narrow chin. “I’m pleased to announce," he said, "that my new masterpiece is a tour de force of style and practicality.” He clapped his hands. “Come in lad.”

Edging through the open door, the young dark-haired boy, who had been admitted into the school three days earlier, trudged in wearing the school’s newly proposed uniform. Nose scrunched in distaste, his expression looked as if he'd bitten a lemon. Larth—as Alf recalled his name—was clearly displeased about being chosen for this task.

Despite its reluctant wearer, the uniform immediately drew Alf's eyes, and to his surprise, he quite liked it. Far from the cookie-cutter clothes he'd expected, the shorts, combined with the vest and short-sleeved shirt, had character.

Harold circled Larth, examining the garment with a thoughtful eye. “Impressive, though I’m not sure about the height of the coat's collar or the hanging sash. Are there any spells weaved into it?”

“Yes,” the tailor said. “For starters, there are five gems shaped like buttons. The gems on the cuffs of the short sleeves are fire and lightning since I know how much teenagers adore them. They should help absorb any magical backlash from failed spells. Hopefully, it’ll lessen the students' burns or wounds. The three buttons on the chest are water, earth, and wind. They’re not highly refined, so they aren’t too expensive, but they will also help absorb damage if the children get carried away.”

Harold rubbed his chin with his right hand, “Admirable forethought.” He reached down and brushed his thumb along the fire gem disguised as a button on the lad’s shoulder. “I sense other frequencies in the cloth itself?”

“There are, although they aren’t self-sustaining, so the students will need to charge them every morning."

"You see," face glowing with pride, Mr. Weaver launched into a lengthy explanation, "the outer coat uses faint sound frequencies to vibrate the threads, making it stain-resistant and self-cleaning. The undershirt-”

“Harold, Olivia!” Heralda’s frantic voice sounded throughout the manner as she barged into the room. Her expression radiated panic, and her blonde tresses lay in disarray. “Come quick! There's a man at the bottom of the lane covered in blood and it looks like he's about to die.”

Alf sprung from his seat, pushed past Heralda, and darted out the door and into the foyer, Olivia and Harold hard on his heels.

He bounded out the front door and into the dusk of night. As he rushed down the lane, he noticed the jungle seemed unusually quiet; the many insects and night prowlers were silent as if they sensed something was amiss. A faint breeze carried a coppery scent to his nose, a scent Alf couldn't help but recognize. Reaching the end of the lane, he skidded to a halt. There, illuminated by the light of the half-moon, lay a man covered in blood at the foot of Brockovich hill.

Rushing to his side, Alf dropped to his knees beside the injured man. The fellow's clothes were torn and his face unrecognizable under the smear of blood and dirt. His limbs lay unnaturally, jutting out at weird angles, and a massive, b****y gash split open his forehead. The stranger groaned as he tried to roll onto his back, but as he moved, blood started gushing from his side at an alarming rate. 

Alf frantically scanned his chest, looking for the point of injury. Then he saw it: a splintered rib had pierced through the man's blistered skin, and now thick blood poured from the angry red wound. It appeared as if someone had tried to cauterize the injury with fire, only to have it rip open again.

The sight of the bone protruding through a mixture of raw and burnt skin proved too much for Alf to handle.

His stomach rebelled.

Rushing to the side of the road, he emptied his stomach's contents into the bushes, then wiping his lips with his sleeve, he looked back up the lane and shouted, “Harold come quick!”

Despite his age, the master healer flew down the hill with Olivia right beside him.

“Alf," he said, skidding to a halt in front of the wounded man, "carefully straighten him out. Olivia, tend to the bone. I’ll stanch the bleeding.”

As Alf knelt and gently straightened the man, Olivia rearranged the skin around his broken rib, and Harold used a spell to turn the flowing blood into a gel-like substance.

I've never seen that spell before, Alf thought in the recesses of his mind.

“Good. Now Alf, feed us a steady stream of your energy. We are going to tear apart the molecules of his skin and bone, then knit them back together.”

Alf nodded, and blue streams of energy flowed from his hands into the spell Olivia and Harold crafted. As their spell unfolded, the damaged skin broke into tiny particles and floated into the air, revealing the rest of the shattered bone.

“More, please,” Harold requested.

The blue light pulsated, and the soft hum of energy increased as Alf fed more into their spell.

Like an orchestrated sand storm, the pieces of bone dissolved into dust then slowly came back together, forming a perfect rib.

With the bone now repaired, the suspended particles of skin floated down and knitted themselves together, completely healing the wound. Only a few faint scars denoted where the skin had once been horribly burned.

Alf watched in amazement. He had seen this done before by Olivia and Harold, but never to such an extent. He’d always known their ability to do this was what set them above the rest of the healers, but he had never realized just how amazing it was.

He knew Harold had tried to teach numerous people this spell, but from what he understood, it was much like Vilick's Reversal in that it used the caster’s brain to calculate the needed frequencies and math formulas. To this date, Olivia was the only one besides Harold who had the medical knowledge and understanding to utilize it.

 “Alright," Harold said, "now to the gash on his forehead.”

Olivia nodded and scooted back. Hovering her hand above the wounded fellow’s head, she glanced up at Alf. “How are you holding up?”

The light of the moon illuminated her oval-shaped face, and her brown eyes glowed with concern.

“I, I’m fine,” he stuttered and pulled his eyes away from hers.

“Steady stream please,” Harold corrected without looking up.

Alf refocused on feeding them energy, and once again, skin hovered in the air as they repaired the man's fractured skull. The stranger's eyes shifted beneath his eyelids, and a moan escaped his lips.

Alf prayed for their success as the seconds ticked by, for even the most experienced healers could make mistakes, especially this close to the brain.

Several minutes later, Harold wiped his brow and breathed a sigh of relief. “He is stable. Alfonso, do you mind-” Harold stopped as he realized another person stood among them.

Larth stood there in the school’s new uniform, staring in horror at the blood-covered man. “What in the world happened to you, Dylan?” the child murmured. His knees crumpled, and his feet kicked up dust as he kneeled at the injured man's side.

“You know him?” Olivia asked.

The boy didn’t answer; instead, he looked up, his dark blue eyes full of worry, and said, “Will he live?”

Harold placed his hand on the child's shoulder. “He has multiple broken bones and severe internal damage, but I believe we have stabilized him for now.”

Larth dipped his fingers into the blood pooled on the ground and clenched his fist, his eyes flashing in anger and pain.

“How do you know him? Alf asked. He'd only known the boy for a short period of time, but Larth had never looked so distraught. Usually, he was bright and cheerful, confident in his own abilities.

The last bit of light faded from the skies, and a tear trickled down the child's face. “He’s been my bodyguard since the day I was born.”

Alf frowned, “But I thought you were a-”

“I see,” Harold said. He rubbed his mustache and looked at Larth with new eyes.

“What do you mean, you see?” Olivia asked in confusion.

Harold pointed at the man’s chest. “Do you see the insignia on this man's uniform?”

“Yes, I think I've seen it somewhere before, but I don't remember where.”

Realization struck Alf. “It's the insignia of the Emperor's elite personal bodyguard. I've seen it many times in court. But why is he here? And what could do this to him?”

“That, I don’t know yet, but I believe he’s here because this boy is actually Drakovian Rylarth Docdovinun the third, the Emperor's forty-year-old son and heir to the throne.”

A pin drop could have been heard in the ensuing silence.

Then...

“Heir to the throne?” Olivia exclaimed.

“Forty years old?” Alf blurted, glancing from the boy to Harold then back again.

A flock of birds exploded from the trees, disturbed by Olivia and Alf's outburst, and a family of coatis scrambled across the lane and dashed into the tree line. 

Larth, or whatever his real name was, stared at Harold for a moment then looked over at the two of them. “What the headmaster says is true. I am Drakovian Rylarth Docdovinun the third, sole heir to Alfireá.”

“But you’re not forty years old, are you?” Alf asked. “I mean, you don’t look any older than nine or ten.”

“I am half human and half dragon. As such, the dragon blood in my veins makes my body mature four times slower than other humans. This will only continue until puberty, which should be in four years, at which point my body will rapidly mature.”

Alf stared at the forty-year-old man stuck in a ten-year-old's body. “Wow, you have my condolences.”

Drakovian didn’t respond; instead, he pointed up the lane at Heralda leading a trio of healers down the road.

“Ah, good,” Harold said, standing up. “We need to move the patient to a sterile location. Alf, would you retrieve a stretcher, please?”

Alf wanted to ask the child, ah, the man, more but decided it would have to wait till later.  Nodding his head, he jumped to his feet and jogged back up the lane.

***

Once Alf retrieved the stretcher, they carried Dylan to the main operation room in the hospital. They placed him on the single bed in the sterile room, and for the next hour and a half, Alf silently fed energy to Olivia, Harold, and two other doctors while they worked without rest, mending the man's numerous wounds.

Once Dylan's broken bones and other injuries had been healed, they moved him into a private guest room in the manor.

There, he and Drakovian sat patiently waiting for Dylan to come to as Harold and Olivia took turns checking on the patient.

As the shadows lengthened and time crept by, four anxious, tired faces looked on, waiting for the man to awake. The room glowed with a soft yellow light from the fire gems placed on the walls, and the scent of healing magic, sweet and spicy, lingered in the air. Alf nodded off until the sound of a small gasp woke him from his slumber. Glancing at the ancient grandfather clock, he noted four hours had passed.

Olivia rested in a chair at the foot of the bed, and Harold leaned next to the door, his eyes closed as if in prayer. The little boy, Drakovian, still sat, his feet placed solidly against the floor, and his elbows perched on his knees as he leaned forward. Then, without warning, he sprang forward and raced to Dylan's side.

The bodyguard had finally awoken.

“Sire,” Dylan breathed, turning his head to greet the young boy. His face looked haggard and worn looking, and deep shadows hung under his eyes, but he was alive and cognizant despite his recent trauma.

Drakovian sighed in relief and moved closer, his small, child-like features full of anxiety. “What happened?” he asked.

“He," Dylan's voice choked, and Alf strained to listen as the man's voice came out in a barely audible rasp. "Vackzilian attacked the palace.”

Olivia gasped in alarm, and Drakovian’s face paled as he pulled away.

 Harold stepped out of the shadows. “How is this possible? No one should be able to get through the palace's defenses. Especially not Vackzilian.”

Dylan drew in a shaky breath, “I don’t know, but he appeared out of nowhere as if the magic barrier had no effect on him.”

“Where is Varlin?” Drokovian asked, a hint of alarm lacing his voice. 

The bodyguard tried to meet the crown prince’s eyes, but he turned away at the last second. His fists clenched the blankets, and he gazed at the ceiling, his expression one of pain and guilt. Swallowing hard, Dylan trembled, and his voice broke as he said, "Dead. They're all... dead."

"Dead?" Alf jumped to his feet. He couldn't believe his ears. There was no way Vackzilian had taken on the entire palace guard. He just couldn't.

"And my father?" Drakovian asked anxiously.

Dylan stiffened as if fortifying himself for what he must say next. “Vackzilian appeared right behind him when he was talking to the nobles.” Tears pooled in the bodyguard’s hazel green eyes. “As he...as he appeared, he laid his hand on your father's shoulder, and...turned him into stone.”

“No…," Drakovian’s eyes widened, and his body started to shake violently. "No. It’s not possible.”

Olivia moved to wrap her arms around the boy, but he pushed her away and demanded. “Are you saying that my father didn't have a chance to fight at all?”

Dylan stared once again at the ceiling, and closing his eyes, nodded.

Silence filled the room.

Eventually, the bodyguard said, “No one even knew that Vackzilian was in the palace. He just appeared and turned your father into stone like it was nothing. The general tried to stop him, but…,” Dylan choked and drew in an agonized breath.

“He was killed as easily as one would kill a fly,” he spat bitterly.

Dylan forced himself to meet his charge's eyes. “His death shocked us so much we couldn't move. But despite being encased in stone, the Emperor used all of his strength to try to avenge him, but to no avail.

"Afterwards, Varlin rallied us, and as one, we assaulted Vackzilian and tried to destroy him. But he…,” Dylan closed his eyes as if remembering a gruesome visage. “He somehow disrupted our teleportation, and Varlin was ripped in half as he tried to reach your father.”

His angry tone faded to shame, and the man turned his head to gaze out the window listlessly. “After Varlin’s death, we were helpless against him. In less than a matter of moments, he slaughtered all of us. I'm still not sure how I survived."

Dylan started to cough, and Olivia knelt at the side of his bed. She placed her hand on his forehead, but he pushed her hand away and continued, “I came to sometime later and watched helplessly as he demanded the nobles bow to him.

“Algerian, being the fool that he was, said something stupid, and Vackzilian pinned him to the wall with an ice spike. He then made him watch as he destroyed his entire estate and family with a meteor.

“After that, all the nobles that were left bowed to him.”

As the last words left his mouth, Dylan broke into a coughing fit. Olivia and Harold moved to examine him once again, but he raised his hand. “No, let me finish,” he said between coughs.

He continued to hack for several seconds, spewing up blood into his hand.

When the coughing fit finally subsided, he wiped the blood off of his chin and said, “He...he has declared himself emperor and is having people swear blood oaths to him for high positions in his new empire.”

Olivia and Harold froze, and both of them turned pale.

Puzzled, Alf asked, “What is a blood oath?”

Drakovian’s face burned red with unbridled rage, and tears shone on his cheeks as he said through clenched teeth, “It's a f*******n dark magic that makes the oath-taker a slave to the one they swear the oath to. In exchange, they and their master's energy are tied together, thus enabling them to use a portion of their master's magic and knowledge.”

Understanding flooded Alf. No wonder Olivia and Harold seemed so distressed over the news. Every time someone swore a blood oath to Vaczilian, he received their strength, and the one who swore the oath essentially became a miniature Vackzilian as well...

Which meant Vackzilian was getting stronger by the moment.

Silence descended in the room once more as Dylan leaned back, and Olivia and Harold moved to heal whatever still ailed him.

Drakovian stood in the middle of the room, staring at the floor, as the lights from Olivia and Harold’s healing magic flickered across the guard's abdomen. After some time, the boy asked, “Did you notice any weakness, any flaw in Vackzilian that we may capitalize on?”

The elite bodyguard shook his head. “No, he was flawless. Everything we threw at him had no effect. Even your father's dragon language did nothing.”

Olivia and Harold finished the minor healing and moved out of the way.

Drakovian bowed his head and brought his fist to his lips. “He has no weakness, and with the support of the remaining High Lords, he can assume full control of the Imperial Army as well,” Drakovian muttered underneath his breath. Looking up, he asked, “Did my father’s advisers bow their knee to Vackzilian?”

“I don’t know,” Dylan replied. “After I watched three people swear blood oaths to him, I used the last of my strength to crawl out one of the servant's exits and teleported here.”

The imperial prince nodded and leaned down beside his guard's bed. “You did good, Dylan,” he said. “You have served my father and I far beyond the call of duty. Rest now.”

The guard closed his eyes, and with an almost audible sigh of relief, fell asleep.

As the elite guard lapsed back into unconsciousness, an unearthly darkness seemed to creep into the room, and all sounds slipped away, leaving only the ominous tick-tock of the grandfather clock.

Drakovian lowered himself into the chair next to his lifelong friend, his young face full of turmoil, his hands slowly clenching and unclenching.

Alf’s heart went out to him. The boy had not only lost his father, he had also lost his entire kingdom in one night. Many of his friends and guardians were now dead. His life would never again be the same. Alf wished there was something he could say, but he knew from his own personal experience that words were an empty tonic. There was nothing he could do or suggest that would offer sufficient comfort to the bereaved prince, so instead, he waited there helplessly watching as the child grieved.

After a brief period of time, something in Drakovian's eyes flashed. He launched himself to his feet, strode over to Alf, and knelt down. “Alfonso Vivyander Brockovich, you are the last of my High Lords, and while I don't know how much you can help, I ask you now in my time of need, will you assist me in taking back my Empire from Vackzilian?”

Alf drew back in surprise and glanced over at Olivia and Harold. Their stunned expressions told him they were just as surprised as he was.

He looked back at the boy—the crown prince of Alfireá—kneeling at his feet.

“S,s, sure,” he stammered. “I'll give any help I can.”

“Vackzilian has killed my father and seized my Empire. We have no army and no political support. I am essentially asking you to take on the impossible, are you certain?”

Alf closed his eyes. The choice he made would affect not only him but everyone around him. It was not a decision to be made in haste. Father, he prayed, is this the path I am meant to take? Is this your will? Rising in his spirit, a scripture flowed into his heart. Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the LORD thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.

He had his answer.

Alfonso Vivyander Brockovich opened his eyes, drew himself to his full height, and stood to his feet. “I have faced this evil before, and I will do it again, and this time with God at my side I will prevail," he declared.

“Thank you,” Drakovian said, bowing his head. He then rose to his feet.

As the crown prince stood, Alf returned his bow. Wait a moment! he thought. How did he know that I'm Alfonso?

Alf cleared his throat and asked, his tone brimming with curiosity, "How did you know who I am?”

The corners of Drakovian’s mouth rose ever so slightly. “A few things gave you away. First, my father told me that when he examined your corpse with Dragon Ra’avah, a skill only dragon-kin have, and very few know about, he saw a mass of magic swirling throughout your body, the like of which he had never seen before.

“He told me he didn't know if it meant anything but to keep my eyes, ears, and mind open.

“The second is, even though you're supposed to be only a hired hand, all of the staff and teachers defer to you.

“Last of all, I have eavesdropped on every conversation I could around the house. Playing the part of a young child doing chores for his keep has allowed me to overhear many things I otherwise would not have.

“And to be honest with you, I am my father's spymaster.”