Aegis Rising

  S.S.Segran

  Table of Contents

  Begin Reading

  FREE eBooks by the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  List of Characters

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Bonus Material

  "THRILLING! Grips onto the reader and never lets go!"

  ~ Feathered Quill Book Reviews ~

  "FIVE STARS. Unique and compelling. Delivers on every level..."

  ~ Readers' Favorite Reviews ~

  "Astonishingly imaginative and thoughtful...”

  ~ Samuel F. Pickering - Inspiration for the Academy Award-winning movie Dead Poets Society ~

  “I have read all of the Percy Jackson, Hunger Games and Divergent series and this series is as good if not better than all of them.”

  ~ Charlotte Sepulvado – Amazon Reviews ~

  "As a fantasy fiction writer I have to admit that I am a harsher critic when it comes to novels in this genre. Books in this class I feel should be able to captivate the imagination and place you in a different realm. AEGIS RISING accomplishes that and a whole lot more. It is truly a classic in the making!"

  ~ Michael Beas - Bestselling Author of ‘Strump – A World of Shadows' ~

  "In her impressive debut novel, S.S. Segran wields a skillful pen that transcends her youth by crafting haunting prose, vivid imagery, and a well thought out plot to cast herself into a mix of young authors to watch."

  ~ Christopher Gill - Amazon Reviews ~

  “Wow! An absolutely stunning and intense adventure! I believe this series is some of the best books I have ever read!”

  ~ Maia Silverdagger – Blogger at The Silver Dagger Scriptorium ~

  https://www.sssegran.com/insider

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  AEGIS RISING by S.S. Segran

  Copyright © 2013. S.S. Segran. All rights reserved.

  First Published by INKmagination November 2013. Second Edition February 2018.

  Printed in the Unites States of America

  Cover Design and Illustrations © 2013, 2018 by S.K.S

  ‘CERACCO’ designed by Eric Newport.

  Book Teaser & Trailer by: INKmagination.

  S.S. Segran asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

  ISBN: 978-0-9910813-1-8

  eISBN: 978-0-9910813-2-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

  Subscribe at www.sssegran.com for behind the scenes extras, free short stories and opportunities to become advance readers for upcoming books by the author.

  To Mom and Dad,

  for your love and guidance.

  “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”

  ~Plato 428-348 B.C.~

  ““The battle between the bearers of light and the forces of darkness will intensify, and your role is to raise the torch and radiate your light . . . and remember, it is essential that you strive do the right thing as prompted by your spirit—though doing the right thing may not always be the easiest.”

  ~Elder Nageau~

  Somewhere off the coast of the Pacific Northwest,

  circa 500 B.C.

  The imposing, storm-scarred vessel traversed the night, making hardly a sound as it sliced through the dark waters. The curved lines of its magnificent hull attested to the legendary workmanship of its builders. Its elongated prow, shaped like the talon of an eagle, reached ahead in the chilly air as if warding off shadows of misfortune. A soft glow spilled into the night from the living quarters above deck and cascaded over the weathered railings, illuminating the ship with a ghostly sheen.

  The exhausted commander on board the ancient vessel slouched against a mast, taking a sip of his elýrnì, a fermented beverage known only to his people. Grimly, he reflected that he would soon have to help his companions at the oars again.

  He glanced up at the sky, noting the faint light the moon cast on the deck as it darted between large, shapeless clouds. The journey had been long, very long. Never again would the captain want to go through that. They’d endured four moon cycles through rough seas and vicious storms. He shook his head and took another swig from his mug. At least it will be coming to an end soon, he thought in relief. We will find tranquility and start anew in this vast land—that much I know.

  High up on the ship’s mast, a man appearing to be in his late thirties scratched his close-trimmed beard and rested his elbows against the railing. A cousin of the captain, he wore a knee-length black coat with a golden hood pulled up, throwing his face into shadows. The captain had come up earlier, offering him a drink. He’d politely declined and sank into his own world. The horrific images came back to haunt him, as they had so many times throughout the voyage. He remembered everything as though the horrors from four months back happened just yesterday.

  It had been a calm, bright day with azure skies. The sun was warm on the islanders’ skin. Children played on beaches that hugged the island’s coast while parents sat down nearby or drowsed. In an older part of the city, women browsed the marketplace that was speckled with a myriad of colorful and aromatic stores. Located at the foot of a volcano in the middle of the island, the city boasted over fifteen thousand residents. It seemed like a perfect day.

  Without warning, the ground started to rumble and shake violently. Jets of steam shot out from random spots around the city. The women in the marketplace screamed, dropped their purchases, and scattered. Moments into the earthquake, the long-dormant volcano erupted ferociously. Lava flowed down its steep slopes and gathered momentum as it slid toward the city like a giant serpent.

  “Mokun!” someone cried. The lookout had spun around from where he stood gaping at the volcano. An older man with graying hair and a flowing white beard limped toward him. “Mokun, help me retrieve the crystals from the temple!”

  Mokun balked. “We cannot, Pèrzun! The temple is too close to the volcano!” He turned away and began to rush toward his home. “I need to get to my family!”

  “The crystals, Mokun!” Pèrzun’s tone rang with authority. “We need them! You know I cannot get to the temple as quickly as you!”

  Mokun halted and shut his eyes, fighting with himself, then reluctantly gave in. As both men hurried toward the grand temple, the searing steam shot out around them, and Mokun cursed when he nearly slipped into a sinkhole. Beside him, the custodian of the temple was wide-eyed. He muttered to himself for a time and then, lifting his eyes to the sky with reverence, he murmured, “I will not let you down.”

  As the pair rounded the city gates, they spotted the golden dome of the treasured sanctuary. The gigantic crown of the five-sided temple loomed, casting its shadow upon them. Columns carved with extreme dexterity and inlaid with gemstones spiraled toward elegant marble statues of slender human figures that held up the dome.

  Mokun hastened into the temple with Pèrzun following as fast as his lame leg would allow him. Inside, grand carvings of celestial constellations and beautiful paintings of the night sky decorated both sides of the massive entranceway. Around the two men, the temple was already crumbling from the force of the earthquake and the rumbling of the volcano. The polished stone floor that ran the entire length of the hall still shone in places where the dust had not yet settled. At the far end of the temple hall, a large silver goblet sat on an intricately carved, f
our-foot tall marble post.

  The tremors worsened and the whole temple shook. The goblet teetered precariously on its stand. Mokun rushed forward, grabbing it just before it toppled to the ground. A single crystal fell out—a massive black quartz. He scooped it up and returned it to the goblet with its more colorful counterparts. With the crystals safely in his hands, he shoved the older man back toward the entrance. Outside, they could see the lava rolling down the volcano’s slopes, frighteningly quick.

  “You must find the Elders,” Pèrzun ordered. “If at least three survive, our culture may yet live on.”

  Mokun stared at Pèrzun, then his gaze drifted past the older man. A woman and her daughter were rushing away from a house engulfed in flames. He shook his head, thrust the container to Pèrzun and ran toward his home, feeling guilty for choosing his family above the safety of the Elders.

  Sprinting like a madman, he soon reached his house. Smoke and flames shot out from the roof as he barged through the main entry. Fumes and ashes choked his lungs. He coughed and called out to his family.

  No answer.

  Terrified, Mokun tore through his abode. His eyes teared up from the smoke and he could hardly see where he was going as the unbearable heat weighed down on him. His heart pounded as he struggled to breathe. He couldn’t find his family anywhere. Then a thought struck him: the cellar! In their panic they may have sought safety below ground.

  He ripped off the hem of his tunic and tied it around his nose and mouth. The smoke was so thick he was forced to feel rather than see his way to the cellar. He found the door to the cellar opened and tripped over the steps in his haste, falling to the ground. He pulled himself up and called out again to his loved ones. He got no response and stepped forward. His foot bumped against something and he jumped back. With growing dread, he knelt down in the darkness, squinting to make out three huddled shapes. He froze in horror, oblivious to the danger around him. His five-year-old daughters were huddled against their mother, and his wife had her arms wrapped around the twins. They didn’t move.

  Mokun snarled, rejecting the thought that his family was gone. He lifted his wife and balanced her over his shoulders, then hoisted his two daughters into his arms with inhuman strength and trudged out of the cellar. He laid their motionless bodies on the grass in the courtyard amidst the ash, and tried frantically to revive them. After a few minutes that seemed like a lifetime, he sat back and wept as the realization that he had lost them pierced him like a blade through the heart.

  Tears streamed down his dirt-stained face. He wrapped his arms around their cold bodies, cuddling them like a child as he sobbed.

  A hand touched his shoulder. He started and looked up to find his youngest sister beside him. She was small but feisty and looked squarely into his reddened eyes, then reached out and helped him up. In what felt like a gripping nightmare, Mokun looked back at his loved ones. Letting out a pained moan, he allowed her to lead him away.

  The volcano erupted again, this time with a force so tremendous it hurled the two of them to the ground. A fissure split the earth between the siblings, separating them. Mokun’s sister pulled herself up and leapt over the growing rift but missed the ledge. Mokun let out a cry and threw himself toward the fissure. He managed to grab her hand just in time. Huffing in effort, he pulled her up beside him. Without waiting for him to catch his breath, Mokun’s sister tugged at his arm and hurriedly guided him to the docks on the island’s western shore where a ship waited. It had been all set to leave the island the very next day for trading, and had been stocked with crates of food and casks of fresh water, along with goods produced by the islanders.

  That was the vessel that Mokun and fifty others journeyed in. Standing on the deck of the large trading ship as it sailed farther into sea, the shocked survivors stared in disbelief at the fury and power of nature as the volcano erupted for the last time. The earth-shattering explosion obliterated what remained of the island they called home. In its place was a forest of floating debris and hissing steam rising to the sky from the ocean.

  A crashing wave yanked Mokun from his memories. He gasped, then realized his eyes were wet. Wiping them with the fold of his sleeve, he tilted his head back to look at the stars. The sky was calm, but the storm in his heart raged on. Since leaving the island, he’d battled his grief-induced madness. His guilt for choosing to save the crystals instead of his family had started to morph into something darker He tried to shake the thoughts away but they clung like malevolent clouds over his head.

  He took a deep breath to steady himself. Moments later, he was back on his job, narrowing his eyes and scanning for signs of land through the mist. At first, he didn’t see it. When he ran his eyes just below the horizon again, he had to strain to make sure he wasn’t just seeing things.

  He shouted as he flipped himself over the railing of the crow’s nest, grabbed onto the ladder attached to the mast and leapt down the last thirty feet onto the deck. The skipper, who had been leaning against the mast, whirled around, surprised. “What is it?”

  “Land!” Mokun shouted.

  The skipper just stared, his mind clouded with fatigue.

  “Land, Captain!”

  “Are you sure?” the other man finally asked, exhilaration beginning to show on his face.

  “Yes, sir! Straight ahead through the mist, sir! Not more than three hundred strokes of the oars!”

  “Land ahead!” the skipper bellowed to the rowers below deck, slapping Mokun on the back. The rowers cheered and redoubled their efforts.

  Two tribal youths patrolling their village on the coast had no idea what was coming. As they rounded a large boulder, they heard a strange sound. It was a series of muted, rhythmic splashes, like a pod of whales surfacing in unison. Frowning, they turned and peered in the direction of the splashes. As their eyes adjusted, they stopped dead.

  A drifting phantom appeared from the mist, heading directly toward them. Lit by the eerie dimness of the moonlight, the strange beast appeared to have slender wings on either side of a flared body. A long spike materialized from its tapered head.

  The youths, brothers in their mid-teens, moved closer to each other. They whispered hastily, never taking their eyes off the thing. As it drew nearer, they caught a peculiar glow emanating from the beast, like an aura. And that was the last straw. The older boy hoisted his hunting spear and darted from shelter to shelter, hissing warnings as his brother dropped to one knee and peeked from behind the boulder, his own spear readied. The hushed alarm rippled through the tribe. All around the camp, men rushed about quietly with weapons while the women stayed inside with the frightened children.

  Soon, every man was crouched beside the brothers. Bracing themselves, they observed the beast through dark, flashing eyes.

  At last the thing came to a stop, having beached itself on the rich, white sands of the shore. To the tribe’s astonishment, men and women alike leapt off the creature with cat-like grace. The people were tall, slim, and though they appeared weary, held themselves with certain poise. Their skins were the shade of fine straw. And the hair! Ranging from black to brown, and all the colors of autumn leaves.

  Suspicious of the strangers, the men decided to hold their positions. The outsiders began to laugh and dart about. As a man in a black cloak with a golden hood covering his face poked curiously at the firepits banked for the next day’s meal, a few of the tribesmen let out annoyed growls. Then their lips curled back angrily when the man spotted the shelters at the edge of the tree line, called out to his companions, and started walking toward them.

  The younger of the brothers yelled and charged at the man, letting his spear fly. The weapon sank into the man’s arm, forcing a cry from his lips. Blood trickled from the wound. He dropped down, clutching his arm. His comrades spun around to face their attackers. Both the men and the women drew steel daggers with leather hilts from their clothing. A few of them had darts which they pitched at the tribesmen. Some of the natives fell to the ground with howls as the
y were struck. The darts had a mysterious effect; the men who fell did not die, but they could not get back on their feet.

  The tribesmen flung their spears at the strangers, loosing throaty barks. To the natives’ bewilderment, the strangers neatly dodged their weapons, brows furrowed in concentration. Instead of launching a counter-attack, the outsiders stood ready, sharp eyes flitting from one tribesman to another.

  Furious, the tribesmen regrouped and dove forward as one, thrusting their weapons at the strangers. A seven-foot dart whistled through the air toward the outsiders, launched from an atlatl.

  A lone figure that had stood silently on the top of the beast as the conflict raged suddenly somersaulted into the night, grabbing the dart mid-flight. The tribesmen stopped and stared at the figure, perplexed, but the darkness covered the stranger’s face as he backed into the shadows.

  Undaunted, one of the natives hurled his last spear with full force at the cluster of strangers. Instead of striking home, the spear slowed in midflight and came to a stop at the height of its arc. It hung in the air for a fleeting moment before flipping in the opposite direction and accelerating back at the native. The man yelped and just barely managed to jump out of the way in time. The spear struck the ground and buried itself deeply in the dirt. The tribesmen shrank back. What kind of sorcery was this?

  A tall woman garbed in blue leggings and a black tunic torn off at the shoulders emerged from the group of strangers. She looked around forty summers old. Her hair was a glossy jet black, her eyes bright green. She spoke to the tribesmen in a peculiar language. When she completed her short speech she waited for a response, calmly surveying them.

  The native brothers glanced at each other and made a move toward her, only to be pulled back by the others. A burly man with thick black hair—the tribe’s chief—stepped forward. He spoke suspiciously to the woman. She cocked her head, appearing to not understand what the chief was saying.