The Cursed Soul (Waves of Sorcery Book 1), page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2023 by K.C. Smith
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except for use of quotations in a book review.
Published by K.C. Smith
Cover Design by Saint Jupiter
Map by K.C. Smith
Editing by Alexis Aumagamanaia
ISBN (Paperback) 9798986459059
Contents
Dedication
Map
Map
Pronunciation Guide
Title
1. Doraan
2. Kamira
3. Doraan
4. Kamira
5. Doraan
6. Kamira
7. Doraan
8. Kamira
9. Doraan
10. Kamira
11. Kamira
12. Doraan
13. Doraan
14. Kamira
15. Doraan
16. Kamira
17. Doraan
18. Kamira
19. Doraan
20. Kamira
21. Doraan
22. Kamira
23. Kamira
24. Kamira
25. Doraan
26. Doraan
27. Kamira
28. Doraan
29. Kamira
30. Doraan
31. Kamira
32. Doraan
33. Kamira
34. Doraan
Acknowledgements
About the Author
A Lust for Blood
To those who seek adventure in the great wide somewhere.
Pronunciation Guide
CHARACTERS
Doraan – door-en
Kamira – kah-meer-uh
Cormac – core-mac
Forcina – for-see-na
Adonis – a-don-ess
Jaario – y-are-io
Tarkiin – tar-kin
PLACES
Emmoria – ee-more-ia
Aksahri – awe-k-sorry
Sumaaria – sue-mar-ia
Torheim – tore-high-m
Neilmaar – kneel-mar
Gorria – gore-ia
OCEANS
Awndar – on-dar
Ostdar – o-st-dar
Uskdar – us-k-dar
Estdar – est-dar
OTHER
Zjarnok – z-are-knock
Koruum – core-um
1
Doraan
Doraan gazed at the lights sparkling along the shoreline, illuminating his home city in a glow of amber and gold. He longed to be there, to bathe in its desert warmth beneath the setting sun. To breathe in the scent of cinnamon and lily that hung in the air, wrapping its way through the town like the vines of a massive dragon-flower, encasing the city of Aksahri in a comforting hug. He inhaled deeply and swore he could smell a faint hint of that soothing scent even this far out at sea.
It had been nearly ten years since he last set foot upon any expanse of land. He ached to feel the soft white sand of the Aksahri beaches glide between his toes, to climb the rough, slender trunk of a palm looking out over the sprawling city streets, and to swim through the crystal-clear waters of the Awndar Sea on a scorching day.
He missed home.
He missed the mouth-watering aroma of baking pastries that would waft up through his bedroom window every morning. He missed the bustling sounds of the market as merchants haggled with the townspeople selling their wares. He missed the sound of children playing in the cobbled streets, giggling as they chased one another through the maze of vendor carts and people. He even missed those early mornings when his mother would make him go with her in secret to pray to the old gods. But, most of all, he missed his parents.
Doraan often wondered what had happened in their lives since the day their only child was ripped from their home. Did they think of him often? Were they trying to get him back? Did they have another child?
That last question always brought with it a sadness that hovered over him relentlessly, like a dark cloud, setting him on edge. It only caused far darker thoughts to form in his mind. Had they forgotten him completely? Were they happy to live their lives without him? Did they even care about him anymore?
His chest constricted, yearning to feel his mother's warm embrace and longing for her lilac and lemon perfume to fill his nose, like it had as a child. He even wished to hear his father's bellowing, jovial laugh again.
“We’re all ready to go, Cap’n,” Doraan’s quartermaster, Cormac, said in his usual gruff baritone.
After ten years of living on a ship full of pirates, Doraan had realized that what you see or hear on the outside wasn’t always what it seemed. A pirate wasn’t always a treasure-seeking, bloodthirsty marauder—a pirate was just a person like any other trying to survive the only way they could. Cormac was more of a father to Doraan than his own self-absorbed, power-hungry father ever was. His quartermaster had come to be someone that Doraan didn’t think he could ever live without. Pirate or not, he was certainly a better man than his father. A better man than himself, even.
Not that Doraan didn’t care for his biological father. It was hard not to have some feeling of adoration for one's own family, but the man had never truly treated Doraan as a son. He had always been more of a legacy to his father, just a way to further the family line.
“Who’s staying aboard the Cursed Soul?” Doraan asked.
Tonight he and his crew would step foot onto his home soil for the first time in ten long years. One of the crew members, forfeiting the chance to see his loved ones, had volunteered to stay on board the ship in case any unsuspecting souls came lurking. Not that anyone could or ever had, but that wasn’t a risk Doraan was willing to take.
“Jorne will stay on board, Cap.” Cormac came up beside him and leaned his thick forearms on the starboard railing of the Cursed Soul. “It has been a long time.”
Doraan didn’t miss the sorrow that laced Cormac’s words and the hard line of his bushy, graying brows.
“Yes, it has been,” was all he could think to say in response.
“A lot will have changed, no doubt. Prepare yourself, lad.” When they were alone, Cormac tended to move back into the casual conversation they shared when Doraan was still only a boy of fourteen, thrust into this life of piracy.
His shoulders rose, tension stiffening his neck. “I know. I’m prepared for it.”
Cormac’s mouth formed a thin line, his brows furrowing in concern. Doraan turned away, not wanting the look on his quartermaster’s face to further twist the cords of stress tightening along his shoulders.
“It’s time we head to Crescent Rock to weigh anchor and ready the boats.” Doraan huffed, pushing away from the railing with a wince as he shifted his full weight onto his left leg. Shooting pain radiated up his spine and all the way down to the toes that were no longer there. Cormac missed nothing as he gripped Doraan’s arm to steady him.
“You need more rest. You’re not used to walking on it yet. You’re only going to cause further injury to other areas of your body if you don’t take the time to learn how to walk properly.”
“It’s been months.” Doraan yanked his arm from Cormac’s grasp and limped his way toward the steps leading to the ship’s helm.
He knew that the spasms and pain that scorched through his back at random moments throughout the day were caused by his new odd way of walking, but he didn’t care. He needed to move around on his own. He needed to feel normal again.
“Your leg is still healing, Doraan.” Cormac only used his name when he was serious or cross with him.
“I said I’m fine,” Doraan repeated, a hint of a growl in his tone.
Seven months ago, he had been cocky and sailed his crew head long into a snare they barely escaped from. Doraan had severely overestimated their ability to overtake a larger ship. Cormac told him it wasn’t his fault, that there was no way of knowing what was waiting for them, but he had seen the doubt in the eyes of his crew even before they went after the vessel. They had followed him, their captain, and he had failed them all.
It was greed that encouraged him that day. The idea of scoring a loot large enough to last them several months and effectively restore their depleted food stores and other necessities had been too great. But it was a grave mistake, one that he would live with for the rest of his life, because not only had it cost him his left leg, but also the lives of two crew members.
The ironic thing was that he remembered thinking in the moment how lucky they were to have stumbled upon a large Sumaarian cargo ship.
Besides Neilmaar, which was on the eastern coast of Emmoria, Sumaaria was one of the richest cities in the Empire. They were completely landlocked, surrounded by the treacherous line of mountains known as the Emerald Peaks. They encircled the city like a coiled snake creating a protective shield. The peaks were filled with the only mineral deposits in all of Emmoria, making the Sumaarian’s a monopoly in the production of ore and all precious metals. It was said that you could catch glimpses of the city’s golden towers and silver spires from between the peaks, glittering in the sun. They often boasted about their streets of gold, their expansiv
However, due to the fact they didn’t have an easily accessible port, it wasn’t often one of their large, expensive vessels was found roaming the open seas. It was always easy to catch sight of their ships from a far distance because of their sheer size and the pure gold figurehead of a serpent at the front.
Doraan had assumed the vessel was heading to Aksahri with a shipment of goods, and he wanted that loot for him and his men.
Night had long fallen when the Cursed Soul began its assault on the Sumaarian ship. For such a massive vessel, they needed the element of surprise to ensure their success, and with sails as black as the evening sky, nightfall would provide them with just that. What the darkened sky also hid were the three decks of gun ports with cannons pointed directly at them and the full battalion of soldiers on the main deck, pistols cocked and loaded.
The entire encounter was still a blur in Doraan’s muddled mind. He remembered very little after the first cannon fired. It had been a mess of smoke and debris. The Cursed Soul was exceedingly lighter, making them much faster than the hulking Sumaarian warship, which was the only reason they had made it out alive without too much damage to the ship. The only thing Doraan could remember with absolute certainty from that day was the excruciating pain that had raked through his body, coursing through him like a bolt of lightning.
As soon as they had gotten out of range of the gun and cannon fire of the Sumaarians, Cormac’s booming voice had barked out orders across the deck, and his face emerged blurrily above him. “Stay still! Don’t get up!” Cormac kept yelling at him, and that was when Doraan knew something was very wrong. He needed to see. Pushing against Cormac’s hold, he forced the old man off his shoulders. As soon as he sat up fully and caught a glimpse of his mangled limb, he vomited and lost consciousness.
Pain burned through him like wildfire, all emanating from a piece of him that was no longer there. His left leg from just below the knee was gone.
“We had no choice,” Cormac’s words echoed in his mind, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “The bones were shattered beyond repair. It was the only option.”
Even though Doraan knew it was the only possible outcome, a small part of him resented Cormac for cutting off his leg, for not finding an impossible solution that could have saved it.
They never did find out what that Sumaarian ship was or where it went. Doraan was convinced it was heading for Aksahri, but it wasn’t there when they sailed after it. It was as if it disappeared into thin air. They should have been able to catch up to a large ship like that. The soldiers hadn’t been members of the emperor's army. They were definitely something else—a mystery Doraan hoped to solve. The idea of an unknown army sailing around Emmoria disguised as a Sumaarian cargo vessel was unsettling.
Life since that day had been hard. Doraan was forced to relearn how to walk and somehow function without a piece of himself. The crew built him a set of crutches to use, but that required the use of his arms and leg, otherwise leaving him bitterly useless.
That was when Cormac created a false wooden limb Doraan could strap around his thigh. The old man even carved out a foot that he could fit into his boot for a small sense of normalcy. Although nothing would ever feel normal about having a wooden limb.
Bruises lined his palms, elbows, hips and backside from attempting to relearn how to walk with a stiff, awkward piece of wood strapped to his leg. It was almost impossible to bend his knee. The muscles had grown weak from disuse, and the fake appendage was heavy. A soreness had settled into his hip, traveling all the way up his side from using the new apparatus. But he knew the more he used it, the stronger he would become, and eventually, he might not look like a toddler learning how to walk.
Doraan sighed, closing his eyes and swearing under his breath as the phantom pain of his missing appendage throbbed relentlessly, momentarily taking his mind off the fact that he could no longer walk as he used to, false limb or not. One awkward step and Doraan was tumbling to the splintered floorboards of the ship’s helm.
The men knew not to help him. He didn’t want their help, and he especially did not want their pity. He needed to be able to do things on his own and be treated as if nothing about him had ever been abnormal at all.
He glanced around at his men scattered across the ship, none of them paying him even a small fleeting glance. Good.
Doraan grabbed onto the ship’s wheel, hoisting himself back up to a standing position. Cormac stood next to him, staring off at Crescent Rock as if nothing happened.
“Make ready for anchor!” Doraan bellowed down to his men, pulling down the pant leg that had ridden up to reveal the smooth wood beneath.
He held the wheel steady as his men went to work, preparing for their journey. Including Doraan and Cormac, only eighteen men remained of their already ghostly crew. Both men who lost their lives the day of the attack were given the customary water burial of warriors lost in battle, sending them off with honor into the sea.
Doraan wished he had been there to pay them tribute and thank them for all they had unwillingly sacrificed over the years. Never once had they complained about the awful situation they were forced into because of him and his family.
In fact, none of the crew ever complained about their circumstance. Doraan didn’t understand it, but he was thankful to them.
“Furl the sails!” Doraan’s voice rang out, pulled by the wind to each member of the crew.
As the ship slowed, his heart raced in his chest. In just a few short minutes, they would get into the tender and row their way home. Doraan looked up at the moon. It was just a small silvery crescent tonight, the surrounding stars twinkling brighter than he had ever seen them on this clear night. They only had one hour to spend. One single hour to see their families before being forced to return to this prison of a ship. He rubbed sweaty palms against his vest before clenching them at his sides.
He had no idea what to expect once they reached Aksahri. Once per year they were given this opportunity, but over the past ten years, Doraan had never had the courage to go. But tonight was his twenty-fifth birthday, and when the clock struck midnight, it would mark eleven years on the sea. Doraan had decided it was time—time to stop running from fate and return home to see what had become of Aksahri. And he couldn’t deprive his crew of the opportunity any longer, either.
“Drop anchor!” Cormac ordered the men. The Cursed Soul bobbed up and down as the gentle waves of the Awndar Sea kissed the ship’s port side as if wishing him luck on his voyage back home.
Doraan watched as his crew lowered the tender down into the whispering sea, calling him onward. “Are you ready?” A quiet voice came from behind him.
“I’m ready, Cormac,” Doraan said with a heavy breath that caused his chest to rise and fall in one drawn out motion of acceptance. “Let’s go home.”
2
Kamira
Kamira’s arms burned as she rowed herself out to sea, a salty mist spraying across her face with each pull through the inky waves. She shivered against the night air, wishing she had thought to bring a shawl or blanket before fleeing in the dead of night with no destination or plan in mind apart from getting far, far away.
Fear had taken over her wits, spurring her limbs into motion before she could even form a coherent thought. She had bolted like a spooked hare from Asharr Manor, dressed only in her silken evening gown and slippers, running straight for the dock.
Her heart thudded loudly in her ears, the strong smell of salt and fish filling her nose with each stride. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat from the overwhelming stench. Her stomach lurched as the faintest feeling of being followed sent chills racing down her spine. Kamira glanced over her shoulder, looking to the top of the hill she had just barreled down, and gasped. She blinked, confident her eyes were playing tricks on her because she could have sworn the silhouette of a man had just been there. His image still lingered in her mind, a ghostly streak of moonlight revealing a flash of white hair. Kamira shook her head, convinced the adrenaline of fleeing was causing her eyes to play tricks on her.
