Inheritor of Strength (Book one of Alfireán age)

Epic Battle

As Alfonso reached the top of the hill, he activated the voice amplifying enchantment in his summoned helmet and shouted forth his challenge, "Vackzilian, your day of judgment has come!" The earth shook as his voice boomed.

His challenge echoed across the valley, bounced off the tower walls, and blended with the lonely moaning of the wind. For a brief moment, nothing happened. Then everything stilled: the wind stopped; the lightning ceased. The cloudless sky darkened. Goose bumps formed on Alfonso's arms as he held his breath and waited in nervous anticipation.

Then, with a resounding boom of thunder, the wizard appeared out of thin air. Alfonso's stallion reared in fright, and he lurched forward to grab hold of his horse's mane.

As the wizard stepped forward, a wave of dark power flowed over Alfonso. The man's steely cold eyes pierced him, and the air caught in Alfonso's lungs.

Vackzilian's skin shone pale and gaunt, as if it hadn't seen the sun in decades. His long, narrow features crafted pools of shadows under his eyes, while his robes, rippling like liquid metal on his lean frame, glowed a deep midnight blue.

The wind tore at Vackzilian's long grey hair, and his thin lips curled in an unearthly smile. "At long last you appear, mightiest hero of the land. Decades have I awaited you. Countless nights have I spent preparing to defeat you. And now, the future is at hand, for this day shall mark the beginning of my glorious reign."

His yellow eyes flashed and his stance widened as he prepared to strike. "And once you are gone, nothing will stand in my way."

Regaining his breath, Alfonso stared at him in bewilderment. Waited for him? Prepared for him? The mightiest hero of the land? What in Eldrin's name was Vazkzillian going on about?

He wasn't strong, nor was he a hero. In fact, he could barely stay on his horse underneath the weight of his rented armor, much less fight in physical combat.

Alfonso grinned—Vackzilian's words were nonsense—but somehow, the first part of his plan had succeeded.

On with phase two.

Lowering his sword, Alfonso pointed his blade at the wizard, and in the loudest, most confident voice he could muster, shouted:

"Vackzilian, I have come to put an end to you and your wicked deeds! Today, you will die here by this sword of mine. No dark magic or twisted spell can stop that!"

Vackzilian cackled, his evil-sounding laughter twisting its way through the air and falling like jagged shards of ice against Alfonso's ears. Curling his fingers, he brought his bony hands up to chest level. The air crackled with static electricity. The temperature dropped. And his hands started to glow blue, then yellow, then orange.

This was it. This was Alfonso's only chance to win. Calming his mind, he prepared to cast a spell of his own, a spell Alfonso's family had used for generations. This was the key to his victory, the only way he could win. If he didn't get this right, everything would be finished.

The world exploded as Vackzilian flung out his arms, and the sky blossomed a dark red as a flaming orange lightning bolt burst from his fingertips.

Arcs of flashing thunder shook the hill beneath their feet as Vackzilian's spell careened into Alfonso and slammed into his chest with the fiery brightness of a thousand suns.

Indescribable pain wracked every inch of Alfonso. His body crumpled over; his lungs seized, and he desperately gasped for air as he leaned over his horse's withers, trying to maintain his balance.