The Crafter's Son: Book One of the Exciting New Coming of Age Epic Fantasy Series, The Crafter Chronicles

by Matthew Berg

  “The more I think about it, Breeden, the better a question I think it is. And the more I begin to see what strange fate must have guided my hand in suggesting your parents to raise you. Magical powers and boatbuilding aside, your fathers have many things in common. Both believe in family and sacrifice. Both were travelers in their youth, and became crafters as they grew older. And both possess a rare sense of honor. I suspect they would get along well should they ever meet.”

  “So they’ve never met each other, then?” The thought had not even occurred to Breeden.

  Aegir shook his head. “No. Your true father has visited, as I said, and he has seen Holt from a distance, perhaps even exchanged a word or two, but they have never met in recognition of who the other truly is.”

  Breeden pondered the matter. He wondered what his blood father was like. He wondered if he would agree with Aegir and find the men to have as much in common as the giant believed. His mind cast away from him, and he realized he was staring at the passing river water, brown now, but smooth as they passed below the gurgling section of rapids. He had an image flash before his mind then, of an old man with white hair and a close-cropped white beard. Then the image was gone, lost in a swirl of brown water.

  “Ho!” It was Aegir. “There’s a sandbar ahead. Hold on to something.” And just like that, Aegir threw the tiller hard to the other side of the boat, away from his body. The boat careened to the left, and despite the warning, Breeden lost his grip and fumbled for a moment before he grabbed hold of something—one of the ropes that ran alongside the mast and held the boom suspended parallel to the deck. Just as he was settling himself onto the bench seat, the boom came swinging around with the change in wind and threatened to take off his head. Instinctively he ducked and brought his left forearm up to protect his head. The boom connected with his wrist and nearly pulled him with it over the starboard side of the boat.

  Breeden landed poorly against the gunwale, his ribs taking the brunt of the fall’s force. Pain coursed through him in a wave, as if a fire had been lit upon his side. He crumpled onto the bench, struggling with the decision to protect and cradle his aching wrist or to nurse the pain that raged through his torso, and failing to effectively do either.

  Breeden was hardly aware of anything but daggers and fire in his wrist and side. But Aegir acted quickly and moved to release and lower the mainsail so he could attend to his young charge. But as he was doing so, the boat had continued to drift downstream, and Aegir had to leap back to guide the boat onto another sandbar, grabbing the tiller and causing the boat’s bow to drive straight into the sand.

  The pain and the sudden cessation of movement disoriented Breeden, and it was moments later before he reclaimed his wits and was able to focus his thoughts again on his wrist. Almost without effort he probed the injury with his mind. The bone was not broken, though it certainly felt as though it were. His ribs, too, had escaped serious injury, but when he lifted his shirt, he could see they had already begun to bruise. Breeden told the giant that he had no broken bones and would be fine with some rest.

  Aegir was relieved. “I am sorry, Breeden.”

  But by the tone the giant used and by his expression, Breeden couldn’t be sure what the giant was sorry for exactly: the accident at hand or his greater involvement in taking Breeden away from his parents.

  “It’s not a terribly long journey, young master. But if you’re truly okay, we’d best be moving along again.”

  He got out of the boat then and surveyed the situation. The sandbar extended nearly the entire width of the river. The giant walked it back and forth to look for a likely spot for the boat to pass and ultimately had to use a shovel to dig a shallow trench at its narrowest point. He then pulled and pushed the boat through the small channel he’d dug.

  But he made short work of it, and less than an hour had passed before Aegir was climbing back aboard the boat, another obstacle behind them. Once again they were on their way. From there they made good progress, and their trip went more smoothly as the water became deeper and they were carried closer and closer to the ocean. The hours passed quickly.

  They traveled in silence for a long while after the encounter with the sandbar. Aegir was tired, and Breeden was focused on nursing his wounds. But Breeden snapped out of his reverie when Aegir made a familiar chest-rattling “Mmm.” Breeden looked up and saw that the giant had raised his head to the breeze. “We can’t be far. I can smell the tide’s offal.”

  As if the river itself begrudged their progress and their having overcome its obstacles, it threw one more in their path. A massive pine tree had fallen across the river at a narrow point. The tree required the attention, once again, of Aegir’s eyebrow-raising axe work. The giant dispatched the huge tree with renewed energy, and in moments, they were under sail again.

  Once past the fallen tree, their pace increased yet again. A steady cross breeze had sprung up, and Aegir was using its force to good effect. Not long thereafter, Breeden caught sight of gulls circling in the distance. The trees and bushes of the previous day and a half were gradually being replaced by more gnarled and sparser shrubs, and finally by nothing more than different types of grasses. Rolling dunes replaced the woods. And then the land dropped away.

  They had reached the river’s mouth. He could see only water on the horizon ahead.

  Breeden couldn’t believe the trip had been made in only three days, or even that it had been possible to make it at all. The determination of the giant had seen them past the logjam, a barrier that had been an insurmountable fact to Breeden, as well as his father and the entire village of Woodfall, for the whole of his life. And the sandbar and downed tree, though insignificant by comparison, would surely have been enough to stop him were he taking this voyage alone.

  Only three days had passed, and yet so much had changed. It was at that moment that Breeden first felt he might have some idea of what the princess meant when she called Woodfall and Ridderzaal “backwater” towns. If this giant saw the logjam as nothing more than something to move around, and Breeden’s entire village had almost forgotten there was even a river beyond it, then maybe the princess was right. And maybe it would be a good thing for Breeden to see what existed of the world beyond.

  The boat entered the chop where the ocean current met the Woodfall’s outflow, and a spray of water caught Breeden in the face. It stung his eyes, and he could taste salt on his lips. They had reached the ocean.

  Epilogue

  Mirren didn’t know where he was.

  He had been standing with the dwarven king and his army at the head of the northern valley leading into Dvargheim. An unprecedented assemblage of trolls was pouring south out of the Jetningen Mountains toward the dwarves’ homeland, and he was preparing to assist them in holding back the snarling horde. And then his brother had appeared beside him. Mirgul? How? He was so stunned he forgot all about the trolls. And before he could act, almost before he could think, his vision had narrowed to a pinpoint of light, and he lost consciousness. His last memory was of his brother’s febrile eyes and gleaming white teeth. Then everything had gone black.

  When his thoughts returned, he tried to feel around him, but his hands wouldn’t respond to his will. Nor his feet. Nor any part of him. He felt paralyzed. And blind. And he realized he couldn’t hear or feel or smell anything either. Where was he? And what had his brother done to him? Was he . . . wherever Birghid had gone? Was this void what he could expect of his existence from now on?

  Time passed. Or at least he felt that time must be passing. But without the aid of his senses, he wasn’t sure.

  He tried to calm himself down. But a sense of guilt was growing within him, at the reminder that he had done as much to Mirgul first. Locking him in that cave for decades. Centuries. As time passed, presumably, and Mirren remained alone with his thoughts, part of him acknowledged that he deserved this. If he’d shown his brother mercy, he would never have come to this fate himself. He tried to speak. But he couldn’t even feel his
mouth. Was he asleep? He didn’t feel asleep. He felt far too lucid. Was he somehow trapped in his own mind?

  None of this made sense. He couldn’t begin to sort it out.

  He reached out with his thoughts, cast his mind’s voice into the darkness that enveloped him. “Mirgul!”

  There was no reply. He hadn’t really expected one. But he didn’t know what else to do, what else to try. And then, more softly: “Birghid? . . . Birghid, are you there?”

  He waited. For a few seconds, he thought. But he realized that his ability to track time depended on his ability to see, or touch, or hear. Without that feedback, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to maintain his sense of time. Or perhaps even his sense of identity.

  What had he done to Mirgul for all of those years? And how had his brother survived this, never mind survived long enough to escape his cage?

  What had he done?

  Book two, The Queen and the Soldier, will continue the tale of Breeden and his friends. In the meantime . . .

  Join the Crafter’s Guild!

  This book may have ended. But your journey begins now.

  Join the guild and become part of the story.

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  Finally, some lucky guild members will have the opportunity to become beta readers for book two (and beyond!).

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  Reviews needed!

  Like the book? If so, it would mean a lot to me if you would leave a review on Amazon.

  Many people won’t take a chance on a new writer putting out a first book. So the more positive reviews I can accumulate, the more likely it is for other readers to give my work a chance.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Matthew Berg is a Director of IT by day, a dad and husband by night and weekend, and a writer by commute. He loves to travel—though mostly for the food. He’s been playing D&D (on and off) since he and his brothers picked up the Basic Set at Lauriat’s Books in 1977. He is known to attend renaissance fairs in period garb. And he has far, far too many hobbies.

  Since this is the initial release of his first book, he doesn’t have compelling quotes about his work to share from authors like Terry Brooks and Brandon Sanderson. Yet. But when he does, you can be sure he’ll include them here in his author’s biography.