The moon was crimson and the pegasi’s hooves were hitting the ground hard. Jeremy was leaning on one of these beauties and holding tight to the strap. He was in front of his father, who stood behind him on the pegasus, gritting his teeth against the bloody carnage.
“Next time, can we go to the carnival instead?” Jeremy asked, his eyes closed, his hands clenched. He was shivering because of the windy night, and his nose was runny.
“The carnival will not help us bring down the evil wizard, son,” his father, Maurice said.
“Well, neither will pneumonia,” Jeremy muttered. His long, brown hair fluttered in the wind as he rolled his blue eyes.
Maurice was a wizard fighter, or as they were called, a sorcerer’s bane. His son was next in line, wanting to inherit as much as he wanted the black plague.
As it was known, every fifty years a new wizard’s bane will rise, to keep in check the maleficent forces of evil. Jeremy would rather keep in check his dog, Bubblegum, and feed him delicious biscuits. But it wasn’t like it mattered to his dad what he wanted.
To say that his dad loved him was an understatement. The sentiment practically bled itself, when he covered him in warm furs at night after a nightmare and sang him old lullabies learned from his late mother, another wizard’s bane.
To say that his opinion mattered much, well that was an entirely different thing. Jeremy didn’t blame him, they had an entire world to protect, but just once he would like to go to the movies, instead of fighting armies made of bones.
Amidst the chaos, Maurice gritted his teeth, and yelled, “Show yourself, wizard! You cowardly lot know no honor!”
So enraged he was, that he started almost frothing at the mouth.
“Um, dad. Remember what we discussed? Take deep, calming breaths,” Jeremy encouraged. He did not want his father to have a stroke in the middle of the battle, especially since he was always going on and on about dying an honorary death, impaled by someone’s sword. Not at all the sort of death his grandfather had while fighting a wizard, slipping on his cape, and getting a serious head injury.
The situation was quite bleak. No one in their army could muster enough strength or cunning to defeat the wizard. Red blood pooled from a decapitated soldier’s head, and his beautiful hazel eyes were open. They were the eyes of a man without hope.
Jeremy gulped and tried not to stare at the corpse too much.
It should have been me, he thought and groaned miserably. What was I doing while the man took his last breaths?
But he knew what he had been doing. He had been complaining about the cold, the lack of amusement, and safety. He saw a shard of mirror on the ground. It was from a pendant, a good luck charm belonging to a soldier. He refused to look himself in the eye.
He was just twelve, he hated fighting and wouldn’t stand a chance, but he felt guilty nonetheless.
“You monster,” his father said, looking at the infamous wizard, Callahan. He was not infamous for what most wizards would be like, turning people into frogs, nor did he like chanting bippity-boppity-boo everywhere. He specialized in mind control and loved turning soldiers against each other in the middle of the battle.
That way father and son, mother and daughter, brothers and every other relation will have no choice but to obey him, and rip each other to shreds. Jeremy wondered why the dude went through such extremes. He could have tried to take over an ice cream shop instead of the world, much more productive in his book.
He was slim, unfathomably so, but Jeremy saw him lift several men with his hands alone, so appearances were deceiving.
“Monster am I, wizard’s bane? When you and your line had split the blood of my ancestors so ruthlessly.”
“Your miserable ancestors were hellspawn like you are!” Jerfemy’s father gritted out.
Callahan laughed, his laughter was strangely comforting because it was warm but also a touch spiteful.
“Hellspawn you say? Oh, how very droll. Of course, we are the monsters for trying to survive, and you have nothing to do with it, even when you could have simply thrown us into an oubliette instead of killing us.”
“No mercy for tyrants like you,” Maurice spat out and readied his sword for the kill. The blade was hungry for blood.
“Very well then, allow me to send you to hell,” Callahan said as he suddenly smirked and looked me in the eye.
A powerful voice said in my head, first softly and then more harshly, until it became a command, “Kill your dear father, little bane.”