Sacred: Eslura's Calling

  Eslura’s Calling

  Sacred: Book 1

  M.C. Beeler

  Eslura’s Calling by M.C. Beeler

  Published by Half Sun Press.

  Copyright © 2021 by M.C. Beeler

  Website: www.margaretcbeeler.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Edited by Mike Myers

  Cover Art by Emir Orucevic

  Cartography by Alex Wiersum

  ISBN: 978-1-7361238-1-2

  Contents

  1. The Rightful King

  2. Camp Tossbridge

  3. The Last Olphin

  4. Eslura's Calling

  5. Little Dragons

  6. Shadows

  7. Tea Gone Cold

  8. The Sacred Head

  9. Beyond the Shop Window

  10. The Eyearke Stone

  11. Bellbour's Strait

  12. What Lies Below

  13. Like Boy, Like Toad

  14. Into the Canyon

  15. The Gully Post

  16. Aero Ellisvat

  17. A Knower of Many Things

  18. The Lesson

  19. The Avonbourn

  20. Shadows Take Form

  21. Albertuous and Company

  22. The Book of Land

  23. The Door

  24. High Moon Festival

  25. Elmryn’s Study

  26. Flames Across the Night

  A Note from the Author

  Pronunciation Guide

  Free Short Story

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  The Rightful King

  Rumor had it the sun never cast its rays down on Morgaedion, Eslura’s prison island. But that day, its warm glow tickled Demise’s back. With the Heart of the Book of Fire, one of the four elemental pillars of the land, burning beneath his robes, he felt like the Rulers of old must have felt when they united Eslura under the Sacred banner. For the first time in his life, Demise was more than a Shadow Reaper, a collector of souls; he was a messenger for the rightful king of Eslura.

  Demise sauntered through Eslura’s most guarded prison gates, cloak whisking behind him. No words were exchanged between him and the prison guard—a ratty-looking man with a beard down to his steel-toed boots. No eyelashes were batted, and no second glances were taken. It was here where a man could disappear from the world forever, never to be bathed in the sun’s rays again. And it was to here his king had been banished.

  Demise glanced around at the tall, stone walls surrounding the wheel-rutted courtyard of the prison complex—the last sight the unfortunate souls trapped inside would ever see, and where he knew his comrades waited listening for his signal. Demise smiled—everything was going according to plan.

  A second set of gates posed even less of a challenge for Demise, who was welcomed with overly courteous bows by a pair of guards cloaked in blue uniforms—the Sacred Guard. I piss on your cowering reverence, he thought, your rightful king waits within these doors.

  The two guards led Demise to the main cell block and down several spiraled flights of stairs deep into the prison labyrinth. Without the Sacred Guard leading the way, Demise might have never escaped the endless maze of dark, musty cells and torture chambers.

  The corridor narrowed, and the cold condensed around him. The flickering lights of a few sparsely arrayed torches cast a pale-yellow light on the damp, roughhewn stone walls.

  The Guard halted at the bottom landing, which felt like the center of the earth to Demise. His ears popped and he felt himself breathing heavily. Another group of Guards stood against the wall, shoulders erect, stances unwavering, and all but one wore masks to match their garbs. The unmasked one stepped forward. He was a white sea otter, about waist-high to the others. Demise had heard of the infamous Remidigon Otsby, Captain of the Guard, countless times and been warned of his power, though those warnings meant nothing to him on this day.

  “Officer Kazke,” Remidigon called to one of the guards. The otter crossed his arms behind his back and puffed his chest out. You seem unbothered, Remidigon, Demise thought to himself, let us count the moments until your act falls flat. At the otter’s call, a guard in a red cloak stepped out from the line, revealing from behind him a cast iron door with a cutout about as tall as a man’s forearm in the shape of an S. Kazke held a large, metal S in his right hand.

  Remidigon nodded and Kazke turned back toward the door. He hoisted the S above his head, which must have been heavy judging by his grunting and wavering and positioned it inside the empty S shape. Several clicks resounded from within, and the door swung open. Remidigon waved Demise forward, and he proceeded alone into the cell block.

  The door fell shut behind him, and a symphony of screams and death cries assaulted Demise’s ears while the scent of human decay condemned his nostrils as he entered the dimly lit corridor. Prisoners begged for food, water, light, attention, anything. Filthy hands stuck out of many of the hundred or so cells that lined the wall, grasping at Demise as he walked past them. One unfortunate soul, a woman with blue scales and pectoral fins where her ears ought to be, made the mistake of reaching out a filthy, skeletal hand and latching onto the ankle of Demise’s boot. He cast a flame down on her hand, and she released his boot and wailed in agony, thrashing her blazing hand against the floor to try to put out the flame. Demise watched as the flames spread to the dirty rags she wore, boiling her alive. The other prisoners gripped the bars of their cells and pressed forward to watch the spectacle, their grimy faces cast in orange by the dancing flames. They shrieked and screamed, with horror or delight, Demise could not tell.

  That was but a small taste of the Heart’s true power, Demise thought as he stared at the howling woman.

  He reached a hand out and extended his long, black claws toward the woman as she tried to tear off her burning rags. She looked up and stared into the deep pits that made up Demise’s eyes, a nothingness of shadows hallowed by suffering.

  Pathetic scum.

  Demise retracted his claws, drawing with them a gust of wind from the woman’s mouth, sucking her soul from within, and dragging the last bit of life from her.

  She collapsed to the floor, a charred corpse. Smoke rolled off her sizzling remains. Had Demise not been used to the putrid stench of death, he would have been retching alongside the prisoners in the cells around him.

  Demise opened his clawed fist and examined the swirling ball of air that hovered above his palm. With his other hand, he unhooked a bottle from his belt, pulled the cork with his teeth and let the ball of air be sucked inside. Then he pushed the cork back into the bottle neck. A rush of energy surged in his chest and spread to his limbs. The woman’s soul would add another thirty-two moons to his life.

  Demise continued toward the last cell on the left. He had been assured no guards would await him there, and as promised, there were none. Demise took a deep breath and straightened his posture.

  The old king lay shivering in the corner of the cell. His once flowing white hair was matted and tangled, and a white beard like a nest of thistles lay on his chest. His cell looked even shabbier than those of the vile peasants and thieves whose cells Demise had passed in the corridor. The walls were wet with slime, the bars slung with spider webs, the floor cracked and covered with filth overflowing from a waste bucket in the other corner.

  Demise snarled at the sight. You’ve disrespected a king. For this, you will pay.

 
The old king opened his beady eyes, glistening with rheum in the flickering torchlight. “My son, is that you?” The words caught in his throat and he spat a blistering cough.

  Had Demise not been told which cell was his master’s, he would not have recognized the man at first glance. He had lost his impressive bulk and his skin was dull and grey.

  “Yes, my lord, it is I, Demise.” Demise felt a quiver in his voice.

  A skimpy cloth covered the old king’s waist, leaving his torso bare. Demise could see his rib cage heave in and out. He watched the old man groan and try to sit up.

  “Have you brought it?” the king asked.

  Of course he had. His king had commanded, and he still served—the deed was done. “Yes, my lord,” he replied. The Heart was burning beneath his robes. Its power was unmistakable. Had he not been a shadow reaper, the Heart would have burned him to ashes like the woman in the cell.

  “Good,” the king said, “show it to me.”

  Demise reached beneath his robe and his hand instantly met the blistering energy that brooded over its surface.

  “Hurry,” the king demanded, chains rattling as he shuffled forward toward the bars. Pus and blood glistened on his wrists, ankles, and neck where heavy shackles chafed against his skin. He winced and crawled toward the bars.

  Demise knelt and drew the orb-shaped Heart from beneath his robe, displaying it before his king on two open palms. He bowed his head below the Heart, eyes trained to the stone floor.

  His king thrust his hands through the bars and tore the Heart from Demise’s hands. He raised it above his head, examining every inch of it with a wide, black-toothed grin that split his dry lower lip. A fiery aura swept across the orb. The king cackled, blood dripping into his matted beard.

  With a mighty twist of his hands, the king split the Heart in two at its center. Energy flowed between the severed halves; waves of heat surged through the room in a blinding explosion of fiery light. The veins in the king’s withered arms glowed red and his eyes sparkled. He laughed mightily, the deep rumble echoing back from the ends of the corridor. Then he jumped up from the floor, stared at Demise with blazing eyes, and flung the charred remains of the once elegant Heart in the air. Its ashes fluttered to the floor like heavy snowflakes.

  “Now, you know what must be done,” the old king said, his voice full of fire. “Find the girl and bring her to me.”

  2

  Camp Tossbridge

  “Beatrice!” If Fran Dildecker knew how to do one thing right, it was startling Bea half to death. Her shrill voice could have woken each and every one of Mountbridge’s one thousand two hundred forty-six residents if she willed it to…except for Joe Dildecker. The old man had custom-designed earplugs for a reason.

  Bea woke to red eyes and moaning bones. The two pills she downed the night before had failed to soothe her aching body. She rolled over and peeled her eyes against the light that poured in through her thin curtains.

  Not wanting to fight her aching body, she spun onto her back and stared up at where the rafters met with the ceiling of her makeshift attic bedroom. Spiderwebs draped across the exposed pipes where the insulation should have been. Fran insisted against installing it, no matter how many freezing nights Bea suffered through.

  After a few minutes, she sighed, stood up, and walked over to where a tower of Christmas decoration boxes stood so high, they cast a shadow over her dresser. She pressed her shoulder against the old dresser and pushed it aside with the scraping of wood against wood to reveal a wall marked up by white chalk.

  Five hundred and twenty-nine. Bea ticked a new mark with the broken piece of chalk she left stowed beneath the dresser and sat cross-legged before the display. Has it really been that long? Her shoulders slouched with defeat. She could not remember the last time her mother spoke. Her voice, her sweet and gentle tone, had succumbed to the passage of time, tucked away in the deepest crevices of her memory. Thankfully, she could remember her mother’s face; a look in the mirror or the few photos she had left helped her with that. She reached beneath the dresser and drew out one of the photos, the rest hidden beneath her mattress without Fran’s knowledge. She wiped the dust off it and stared at the little, brown-haired girl squeezing her mother’s waist.

  She wondered where her dad was, what he looked like, what his voice sounded like. He never once appeared in any of her photos. She had so many questions, so many answers she had never found. Her mother never spoke of him and when Bea asked, she quickly brushed the thought of him away.

  Bea leaned her head against the wall, tucked the photo back under the dresser, and shut her eyes. Neither of you are coming back anytime soon, are you?

  That night, she’d had a dream—the first dream she could remember since her mother disappeared. Although her memories of it were shrouded by golden light, she remembered a cave, black and narrow, and as cold as a December morning.

  “Beatrice Tidal!” Fran tramped up the flight of stairs leading to her room. Bea opened one eye and sighed, giving up any last hopes of falling back into her dream world. She could imagine Fran’s face turning as red as the Santa’s that still sat on the mantel place downstairs as she mumbled what a spoiled little brat Bea was. “Have you forgotten what time it is?” Oh, Fran, Bea thought, I’ve tried.

  Bea had never called upon a higher power for help, but that night, she felt called to the spiritual life. She got down on her hands and knees and prayed for a miracle. Unfortunately for her, no amount of good luck or prayers could save her from the impending doom known as summer camp.

  It had been only a few weeks since Fran and Joe experienced their own, personal miracle, though. On a routine trip to the post office, the couple discovered a colorful pamphlet with the words Camp Tossbridge emblazoned on its cover nuzzled up in their post box amongst the barrage of bills they refused to pay. Though they had missed the application deadline by four days, Fran’s pleading phone call managed to get Bea enrolled in the camp. Bea guessed that the person on the other end of the call had taken pity on Bea for having to live with such a loud and annoying woman.

  “Beatrice!” Fran pounded on her door, shaking the water cup on Bea’s bedside table. Bea watched the ripples glide across its surface and collide with the glass. She imagined the water was a great sea where Fran, the terrible sea monster who lurked in its depths, waited for heedless swimmers to make their way into her jaws.

  “I’m up,” Bea moaned. Fran pounded one last time—as if the twenty others were insufficient—and thumped back down the stairs. Bea wondered what sort of ridiculous powder the sea monster would have caked on her face today. Perhaps green? It seemed to be her favorite color.

  Bea put on her favorite sundress and slogged down the stairs into the kitchen amongst the army of Santas, reindeer, flashing red and green lights, bushels of garland, and hundreds of other decorations that had not been put away since Christmas and perhaps never would. Her eyes never quite got used to the chaotic house. Though the seasons changed, and the holidays passed, the house stayed in a constant state of Christmas. Fran and Joe insisted that keeping the decorations up year-round best represented their family business, Christmas tree farming. Bea disagreed, however, and decided they were totally mental.

  Joe, whose nose was pressed into the columns of the day’s newspaper, was already seated at his table when Bea walked in. Fran stood over the stove scooping something that looked like a hash of scrambled eggs, wet leaves, and roadkill onto three plates.

  Bea glanced outside the window at the countless orderly rows of evergreen trees that marched off in every direction. If only she could run off and never have to come back.

  Fran cleared her throat, interrupting Bea’s reverie. “Sit down, girl.”

  Bea eyed her own table; the yellow one Fran had made Joe lug up from the crawlspace. Fran insisted that Bea needed to be at least six feet away from them at all times—thus, the wobbly old table of her own. Safety was without a doubt Fran’s top priority, and Bea was about the biggest threat
she had encountered inside the house ever since the incident.

  A few months before, Bea, determined to uncover the secrets of the symbol, had searched every musty corner and crumbling niche of the internet. All that she had learned was that it could be a five-fold, but she knew nothing of its significance or why it always seemed to follow her, though no one else seemed to be able to see it. She had made the mistake of pointing it out once to Fran on the bottom of a grocery bag…never again. The next day, the woman dragged her to the Mountbridge Psych Ward.

  Bea pulled out the folding, metal chair and sat down at her table, feeling like some sort of chemical experiment gone wrong.

  “And this symbol calls to you, Beatrice?” she recalled Dr. Lizzar, the thirty-something-year-old woman with a yellow bun as tight as her face, asking with a raised brow. Her frill-topped pen scarred blue streaks across her notebook as she scrambled to jot down every single detail of Bea’s uncomfortable fidgeting.

  Bea did not answer—she could not answer. Dr. Lizzar would not understand; neither would Fran or Joe or any of the doctors the couple would drag her to in the following days and weeks. There was no earthly explanation for such a…thing.

  Bea shook away the thought of Dr. Lizzar in exchange for a look at the plate of food Fran slapped on the table in front of her. Eggs. By now, Bea believed it to be out of pure spite that the woman continued to cook them for her.