Curse Breaker: Books 1-4 (Preview) Read online

  CURSE BREAKER: Books 1-4

  MELINDA KUCSERA

  Copyright

  Curse Breaker: Books 1-4 © 2018 Melinda Kucsera

  Cover design © 2018 designed by J Caleb @ jcalebdesign.com

  Curse Breaker: Enchanted [The More Epic Version] © 2017 Melinda Kucsera

  Curse Breaker: Darkens © 2017 Melinda Kucsera

  Curse Breaker: Faceted © 2017 Melinda Kucsera

  Curse Breaker: Falls © 2017 Melinda Kucsera

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN-13: 9780997214185

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Want Free Adventures?

  We’re Boxed In

  CURSE BREAKER: ENCHANTED

  Dedication

  For my sister Carolyn, your last request is fulfilled.

  Rest in peace.

  “O Guardian most dear,

  Hold those loved and lost near,

  Shield those who live from fear,

  Always be with us here,

  O Guardian most dear.”

  —Traditional Shayarin Prayer

  Want Free Adventures?

  So do we! Who are we? We’re the stars of The Curse Breaker Series, and we don’t just star in books. We also invade inboxes, conduct spy missions, rescue our scribe, grapple with mother nature, run from dragons and storm corporate headquarters.

  As a special gift for downloading a preview of our first ever boxed set, you’ll also receive our weekly e-adventures series FREE. All you have to do watch your inbox.

  Our books might end but our adventure continues each week. We hope you’ll scour your inbox for your weekly dose of merriment and mayhem.

  Thank you for joining us!

  We’re Boxed In

  Hi Readers!

  Welcome to our first boxed set. We’re excited and we hope you are too.

  What’s included in this boxed set?

  Curse Breaker: Enchanted [The More Epic Version]

  Curse Breaker: Darkens

  Curse Breaker: Faceted

  Curse Breaker: Falls

  No commercial breaks, no waiting, just magic and mayhem starring Sarn (Papa), me (his adorable son and sidekick, Ran) and various other characters doing what we do best—getting into trouble. Okay, Papa’s the one who gets into the lion’s share of trouble. Though his master stumbled into some pretty epic danger as well.

  Papa can’t help walking into trouble and I enjoy tagging along. I might even encourage him. You’ll have to read on to find out. But the commander? Now that was a surprise. He doesn’t seem like the type. But when duty calls, he unearths himself from his never-ending paperwork to battle the forces of evil. After all, he has to set a good example. I’m always watching.

  So, without further ado, we bring you—drumroll please—Curse Breaker: Boos 1-4!

  We hope you enjoy it!

  —Ran, son of Sarn, “the official greeter”

  CURSE BREAKER: ENCHANTED

  [The More Epic Version]

  ~

  Chapter 1

  Dodging people, statuary, and foliage, Sarn threaded through a crowded tunnel. He had to reach his master before the next bell rang despite the lollygaggers blocking his way.

  Delve down deep, urged the magic sharing his skin. Delve into the roots of the mountain.

  Why? Sarn asked his magic without breaking stride. He checked the map scrolling across the backs of his eyelids seeking a convenient gap, but saw only a thousand—

  Nine hundred and nine—corrected the magic after performing a quick count of the people icons on his map.

  Whatever, Sarn shot back. Why do you want me to go downstairs? Is there a problem? Down there was where his loved ones lived. Were they in trouble? Fear niggled at Sarn as he patted the bodies ahead of him searching for a way through.

  The Litherians—replied the magic in a reverent tone.

  Not that again, Sarn shook his head. They were a race of stone mages who had carved a city inside the cone of a mountain. And their statuary fixation complicated his commute. Sarn cursed at a wall of bodies halting his progress.

  What about the Litherians? Why was his magic so interested in them? They’d been dead for centuries.

  You could find out what happened to them, his magic taunted but failed to offer a reason why he should care.

  They likely lost their way and starved to death in this place. And it would serve them right. Sarn felt a break in the crowd and squeezed into it. Damn capricious magic, he needed to go earn his daily bread, not search the bowels of this mountain for clues about a legendary race. Of course, it would help if the crowd started moving. What was the holdup?

  Unnatural, screamed his magic, but Sarn ignored it.

  Nausea tightened his gut. He slipped through a narrowing gap in the crowd and gained a couple of feet toward his goal. More grumbling accompanied him, likely the same warning again.

  What did the magic expect him to do? Drop everything to find the unnatural thing upsetting it? Then what? He had no training just an overactive magical gift pressing against his closed eyes, begging for release. Showing it who was the boss, Sarn pushed back on the magic and felt for a way through. But his hands encountered more bodies, and none of them were moving—damn it.

  Unnatural, shouted his magic as it threw itself backward and knocked Sarn off balance.

  The ground trembled, and nine hundred people panicked. Shouts of “earthquake” motivated the crowd to move. They shoved past jostling Sarn in their haste to exit this tunnel into the falling night.

  If it was an earthquake, then he had to go back. He had to save—Sarn slammed into one of those damned statues. They were everywhere. One of its marble hands brushed cold fingers over his burning eyes and the magic fighting to escape.

  Let us out! Magic pushed flaming green hands against his closed eyes.

  A slice of white marble slashed across the emerald glow wreathing a sea of heads. No! Sarn squeezed his eyes closed again and tried to slip out of the statue’s grip. He had to save—but his awareness shrank to the stone hand gripping his. Where were his damned gloves? Why wasn’t he wearing them?

  Let us out, begged the magic as Sarn slid away.

  His awareness seeped out of his ungloved hand into the statue. No, into Mount Eredren itself, then beyond it—Sarn was the tip of an arrow speeding toward a wrongness out in the gloaming.

  A dozen voices merged into one voice repeating five unintelligible syllables. They hammered at Sarn, driving him to his knees. His head throbbed with each repetition until the voice faded.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong, shouted the magic as Sarn’s world blackened.

  The ground stilled, calming the crowd. No one saw a statue pivot on its plinth and deposit a thrashing youth behind its base. Nor did anyone see a green glow snake down his scarred cheek when his seizure ebbed.

  Sarn came to slumped in a corner. Magic blanketed him. Maybe it had protected him from discovery, but he doubted it. How long had he been out? Long enough for the earth to calm and the crowd too, by the sound of it. Just in case, he kept his eyes closed to conceal their emerald glow, and his magic didn’t fight him.

  Maybe his loved ones were okay. Fate protect them until he could. Pressing a hand to his aching brow, Sarn winced when his head map expanded from a two-dimensional icon-r
ich line drawing to a three-dimensional wire frame. Like he needed those extra details pointing out how much of the mountain stood between him and his waiting master.

  What had just happened? Sarn felt along a high relief setting of a historical event for a handhold then hauled his six-and-a-half-foot tall body off the floor. Information slammed into him, providing the tonnage, context, and type of stone he touched. Damn magic—couldn’t it wait until he was a bit steadier before deluging him with unnecessary details?

  Gritting his teeth, Sarn sifted through the information seeking what had disturbed his magic until pain forced him to stop. He stuffed his hands into his pockets despite protests from his magic and information quit pummeling him.

  Relieved, Sarn pushed into the throng, letting it sweep him into its flow. He had no idea what had happened before, but he knew someone who might. His master’s icon blinked green on his head map inviting him for a chat.

  Finally, Sarn left the crowd behind and slipped into a side passage hooking off the north-south transept. The sudden turn screwed with his balance, and he wavered until the visuals projected onto the backs of his eyelids stabilized. In his haste, he struck something hard, a sculpture perhaps, judging by the shape of the wire-framed heap.

  The Litherians had folded rock imitating paper’s crisp folds and silk’s graceful drape while sculpting their vertical city. Then they’d wrapped five balconies around said mountain fortress adding extra space for their statuary obsession, and more obstacles to dodge.

  An arrow flashed on his map, directing Sarn to a balustrade and beyond it to the meadow spreading from the mountain’s feet. His master was down there and hopefully, so too were answers.

  Sarn bypassed a column supporting the veranda above and stepped over a raised vegetable patch with care. Its young shoots might become part of his dinner one day. Footsteps, out of sync with his quiet tread accompanied a new icon flaring on his map. Someone headed this way. Had this person followed him?

  Sarn cursed his ill-luck. Since down was where he needed to go, he climbed onto the coping and jumped before anything else went wrong. Thank the Litherians their balconies overlapped each other, widening as they descended.

  Magic sheathed him in cold purpose as it reached for the balcony below turning it malleable. After falling several stories, Sarn landed in a crouch. His magic forced the bench under his boots to flex, absorbing the energy from his fall.

  Sensing no one around, he opened his eyes, and their glow dyed the balcony and its statuary green. Sarn blinked until the flagstones lost their polygonal afterimage and his minimized map parked itself in his peripheral vision.

  The wind whispered five syllables and repeated them until its voice faded out. Sarn struggled to parse the sounds as he hopped off the bench. Beyond the balustrade, a red orb bled onto the serrated horizon, and the metallic stench of blood wrenched his guts. Darkness rippled through the enchanted forest, where a silent army of trees waited for something or someone. Their eyeless stare focused on Sarn, making his skin prickle and his magic circle him, alert for trouble. Were thousands of branches beckoning him onward? Or was it a trick of the wind?

  A warning sounded in his head, startling Sarn right before an arm collided with his throat. Its mate secured itself around his waist then the two limbs yanked backward crashing Sarn into a barrel chest. Where had his attacker come from?

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gregori enunciated each word as if he spoke to an idiot.

  Sarn’s knees jellied as he struggled to regain his footing, and his sight dimmed. Before everything went black, Gregori let go.

  “Stop it. I didn’t squeeze you that hard, and besides, you aren’t fragile.”

  Yeah right, but Sarn bit his lip to keep his acerbic comments to himself. He staggered until a ham-sized fist forced him to sit on a nearby bench. Gregori’s dark eyes zeroed in on a purpling bruise.

  “Who did that to you?”

  Rising, Sarn righted his hood to cover said bruise. Indentured men had no rights. So what if a bunch of fools had jumped him? Complications made it better for all if he kept his mouth shut. The incident had happened fifteen hours ago and had no bearing on the Ranger glaring holes in his back. Not that Gregori cared.

  “Who hit you?” Gregori demanded with more menace. Can’t have the Lord of the Mountain’s property damaged, oh no.

  Sarn swallowed the truth before it could break free. His situation was better than most, and he was managing just fine without interference. Still, he had to say something.

  Gregori snapped his sausage fingers in front of Sarn’s face. “Pay attention boy. I asked you a question. You’re supposed to answer it.”

  Sarn studied the carvings under his boots. Incised mid-writhe, insects patterned the ground, offering neither answers nor solace. The wind tugged on his ankle-length cloak, pulling him toward the balustrade and the distant forest. Its eyeless stare bored into his back. A voice whispered the same five syllables as before. His magic urged him to jump, and he could think of no reason not to.

  Gregori seized his arm and shook Sarn free of the magic and its mad mutterings. The wind died, releasing his cloak.

  “You can tell me, or you can tell Jerlo, but you’re telling someone. Do you hear me, boy?”

  The fortyish bruiser looked ready to plant himself in front of something in need of guarding. Nothing on the balcony required such protection.

  “I turned twenty last November. I’m not a child.”

  “Then don’t act like one.”

  Sarn rolled his eyes. A unicorn statue with a broken horn gave him the stink eye. Even the statuary had an opinion tonight.

  “Bind your eyes, so you don’t cause a panic and let’s go. They’re looking for you.” Gregori fished a blindfold out of his pocket and handed it to Sarn.

  “Who’s looking for me?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. You know who.”

  Gregori took back the blindfold and secured it then caught Sarn by his arm. The burly Ranger’s heavy boots beat a metronome of doom as he towed Sarn toward the trouble his magic had sensed.

  A sullen green star poked at the blindfold. Sarn ignored it and kept hiking. His magic hated confinement, but he couldn’t liberate it. Heat bloomed in his hands and radiated into his fingers, extending them towards a wall. Damn the magic and its meddling. Sarn stuffed his hands into his pockets again. Where were his damned gloves?

  A bell tolled twenty times. Uh-oh, Lateness was a whipping offense. Did being in Gregori’s custody count as ‘on time?’ Would the muscle-bound Ranger vouch for him—doubtful.

  After he yanked his head map into view to steer him around statuary and jabbering people icons, Sarn picked up the pace.

  “—Moving around.”

  “—Letting no one through—”

  “It ain’t natural—”

  The last assertion caught Sarn’s attention. His magic had made a similar claim right before Gregori showed up. What he’d sensed earlier was no fluke. Something was going on, and the Rangers were hip-deep in it. No wonder Gregori was short with him.

  “What are they talking about?”

  “Never you mind,” Gregori said as the ground vanished under Sarn’s foot.

  Thank Fate for his head map. Without it, he’d have tumbled down into the roots of the mountain. Sarn touched the enclosing wall. Information poured into his skull and boiled over onto his map, threatening to overwhelm him. He didn’t care if his magic had found an interesting frieze to investigate. Show me the damned steps so I don’t fall. But alas, his magic ignored his command until his master’s icon appeared below, promising answers. Only then did his map focus on the spiral stairs.

  One hundred steps down, Gregori bumped a section of the curved wall with his heel, and it slid aside, sending a breath of fresh air into the dank stairwell.

  “I found him. The damned fool was trying to fly.” Gregori punctuated his announcement by shoving Sarn forward.
/>   “You were trying to fly?” Nolo asked, taking hold of Sarn’s arm.

  Sarn yanked his arm free. He sensed no one else on this precipice—time for the blindfold to come off. “I wasn’t trying to fly.”

  “Leave it.” Nolo squeezed his captured arm hard enough to make his point.

  “You were trying to defy something,” Gregori said, ignoring the byplay.

  “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, I need you to come with me.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “What makes you think anything is going on?” Gregori poked Sarn in the ribs.

  Sarn slapped the muscular Ranger’s hand away before it could deliver another poke. “Snatches of conversations,” he said distracted by his magic unspooling inside him. Had it sensed something?

  “Let’s go. The—disturbance—is some way ahead.” Nolo pronounced ‘disturbance’ like a curse. His master’s grip firmed forcing Sarn to follow. As if he could do anything else—he was bound by the promises he’d made.

  Beads clicked together on the bracelet Nolo always wore, as they descended the mountain trail. Ten agates, three Jaspers—supplied the magic before Sarn cut it off. His magic liked rocks, even if they were part of someone else’s jewelry.

  I don’t care. But it was too late. The largest bead—a cylinder of green lumir—called to Sarn. Or maybe it was the wind soughing that eerie polysyllabic summons. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. He’d heard that phrase thrice now, and each time it had danced on the edge of understanding. What the hell was it saying?