Fates Choice

by Tristan Fairfield

  FATES CHOICE

  TRISTAN FAIRFIELD

  Published by Tristan Fairfield, 2019.

  Copyright 2019.All right reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission, in writing, of the publisher.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Tristan Fairfield asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  ISBN Paperback: 9781098912246

  FORWARD BY THE AUTHOR

  Just a couple of notes on content if I may:

  1: Before release, the characters of this book and myself sat down in my favourite pub and had a chat about language. I reminded them of the importance of minding their p’s and q’s. They reminded me that if I am going to put them in life and death situations or positions of stress then naughty words may slip out on occasions. Fair enough I said.

  2: The other thing. There are a few young ladies and gentlemen in this book and sometimes young people like to do what comes naturally to them. Again, they were asked that, if that sort of thing was going to go on, then would they mind shutting the door behind them (where there is a door to shut).

  That’s it really, enjoy the book.

  TF

  This book is dedicated to the dog. Because he insists we walk past the pub every Saturday.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One - The Plan

  Chapter Two - The Hunt

  Chapter Three - The Consequence

  Chapter Four - The Party

  Chapter Five - The Meeting

  Chapter Six - The Castle

  Chapter Seven - The Girl

  Chapter Eight - The Revelation

  Chapter Nine - The Battle

  Chapter Ten - The Finding

  Chapter Eleven - The Return

  Chapter Twelve - The Abbey

  Chapter Thirteen - The Staff

  Chapter Fourteen - The Town

  Chapter Fifteen - The Escape

  I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death, your right to say it.

  Voltaire

  PROLOGUE

  Y et another arrow whisked past the head of Weska, only seconds after two others had thumped into the other side of the ditch behind which he now found himself. They were close enough that he knew his pursuers had seen exactly which part of the verge he had dived behind.

  The number of arrows also confirmed that he hadn’t got nearly as many of his attackers with his last fireball as he presumed. He had enough strength for maybe one more pyrotechnic display he thought, or maybe a couple of smaller conflagrations, before he would slump, too exhausted to defend himself in hand to hand combat with the last of the gaestnip pack that had waylaid them.

  Weska the Red turned his head to look at his assistant, Gavel Parek. Parek looked pasty, even by Alrunian standards. He looked for the entire world like he could still just be asleep. Gavel’s skin tone gave nothing away about his state of animation, the only clue being the axe blade embedded through the back of his former assistant’s head.

  Despite his immediate concerns for his own ability to escape this mess, Weska felt a sudden (and unexpected) pang of guilt for having allowed Gavel to come with him on this ill fated venture.

  Gavel had been prone to bouts of unfounded concern with his master’s schemes. A voice of worried caution in Weska’s ear. He thought through every possibility, every outcome, saving Weska the headache of such mundane detail. This left Weska with more time to plot his rise through his current employer’s ranks to further, well, his own ambitions.

  He never thought of himself as a mercenary, more of an entrepreneur in these times of opportunity that presented themselves to a man of Weska’s talents. True, he was a good conjurer, but magic skills alone were not his defining talent. No, Weska had a knack for sizing people up, people that mattered, people that could help Weska along.

  Certainly his new employers had seen something in Weska. Most warlocks who came out of the Tower of Theat easily found employment throughout the empires of man, and sometimes beyond, but that was mostly on the battlefield. Most of the larger, well financed, mercenary groups and standing armies could count at least one Theatian battle mage amongst their ranks. This meant training was brutal and a lot harsher than the other enchanters’ universities in Pa-Parag, Oaks Keep and Eadreds Tower, whose book ridden spawn could barely go a week outside their warm dormitories without dying of plague.

  Studying the arcane skills at Theat meant using magic to survive a harsh winter’s night in the Dragonsteeth Hills, often destroying another student in the process, (either for fun or necessity as the mood took you) or possessing a wolf pack to find sustenance. Studying the theorem of some long forgotten Elheren artefact purely for academic purposes was of no use to Theatian apprentices.

  Whilst Weska had progressed well through the Theatian tenants, selling himself for mere battle pleasures never interested him. He was capable enough but the mark of a great warrior in any discipline was to exploit your strengths. So, when Weska concluded his lessons at The Tower of Theat, (which basically meant coming out alive), he looked for his commissions outside the usual posting boards known to take battlemages. Instead, he looked to the biggest battleground of them all, commercial enterprise, where wealth and power had to be fought for equally hard, albeit with rhetoric, rather than fireballs. True, the odd charm had been needed to get himself to the attention of his current employers lieutenants’, but wasn’t that all part of the battle for power?

  In any event, four years of running other entrepreneurs errands had given him enough time to talk to the right people here and there, waiting for the right moment and opportunity to suggest a scheme of his own. He knew enough that his employers were aggressive, in every sense of the word, with the expansion of their commercial enterprises. They certainly appeared to be able to operate where they chose, sometimes under the guise of more local concerns and sometimes directly with their banners flying from their own guildhalls. Their operation ran in the very heart of Pa-Parag, east to the borders of Tai-Shen (and into it if what he had heard from others was correct), south through the Dragonsteeth Hills and certainly all the way to the western seaboards.

  Any bright individual who had served their apprenticeship could place a proposal for a new venture with his employer. If the proposal was endorsed, then the resources would be allocated; manpower, wagons, mercenary companies, local officials and even city or church representatives. This was on the strict agreement (on pain of death), that all profits would be returned to the guild in question, with a small cut for the entrepreneur thereafter. A gloriously organised franchise. As far as this particular guild was concerned, this meant minimal work and exposure to local or senate laws if the plan failed, and voluminous profit if it went well.

  Weska’s plan had fitted very well with his employer’s larger ambitions (such as he knew what they were). He understood enough through his cunning and guile to come up with this well conceived plan in the first place. His efforts to contact, and come to agreeable terms, with the best pirate fleet on the western coast had taken him the best part of a year. In fairness, he was aware that his employers had instigated a similar plan through the ports on the eastern coast of Tai Shen before.

  Throughout most of this carefully thought out plan, Gavel found some minor detail to worry about, or express his doubts. Weska did not think Gavel had what it took to come up with his own schemes. He was too willing to do his master’s bidding, too subservient in character and too wrapped up in all the finer details of any plan, to have a thought of his own. Frankly, Weska w
as amazed Gavel hadn’t been killed sooner. He clearly had no idea what he was letting himself in for with Weskas plan although, in fairness, he had not told Gavel what was likely to occur on their trip this far south west of Alrunia, or how long he thought they would be gone. Each time Weska summoned Gavel for updates and progress reports, he half expected the slightly sickly looking younger man to have fled back to Pa-Parag on the first merchant wagon he could find passage on.

  Oh well, too late for the poor sod now and, as far as Weska could tell, with his own nose buried right into the ditch, every mercenary he had hired to protect them. There were certainly no sounds of any continued fighting now.

  In fact, the only sound was the slight crackling from his modest caravan, suggesting it was still alight.

  Hmmm, well, they’re clearly still within arrow range but haven’t charged at me yet, presumably for fear I’ll still be able to toast any of the hairy beasts who try to rush me, thought Weska the Red.

  Weska the Red indeed! That was a joke. Weska the Brown, Weska the Soiled, would be a more accurate description right now.

  His anger returned, not only at finding himself in this predicament, but also by the ease with which the gaestnips appeared to have dispatched the entire mercenary contingent he had hired for protection.

  What had they been called: The Crow Feeders, well their corpses would live up to their own name now!

  He had hired them in Pa Parag, where they were re-supplying and re-arming after a contract they had just completed. Their leader, Koloch, had presented Weska with their credentials which appeared quite genuine, Koloch had told him that they had already been hired for another job in Sha Haram. Fortunately, this meant they would be sharing the same road with Weska’s intended route so they could still accompany him all the way through the south wealds right to the port of Columb where they would part ways, the Crow Feeders on passage to Sha Haram and Weska, by prior arrangement at a specified time and place, to meet the pirate lord and deliver his package. The Crow Feeders had seemed capable enough. They had just completed a contract to rid part of the Dragonsteeth Hills of a brigand camp, which had therefore meant a carefully planned assault. Koloch had spoken with experience and authority and had given Weska no cause to doubt the company’s discipline and resolve.

  So how they had managed to meet their end at a simple bandit raid on a caravan was therefore rather disappointing.

  Weska knew that, by choosing the guise of just a couple of small and simple caravans, he ran the risk of such attacks, but he had figured that would be better than a large, heavily armed, caravan train that would more likely be stopped or searched by overly officious turnpike officers all the way through the wealds. A large or valuable cargo was easy to track through records of travel and he needed to ensure that his trip went very much un-noticed. This meant that he only needed twenty men from the mercenary company, which included a few scouts, who travelled ahead off the road.

  In fact, the scouts had not returned to the caravan before they were attacked. The gaestnips had been very organised and ferocious in their assault. Even Gavel had not thought of such an end, even with his endless scenarios of doom. What such a large group of gaestnips was doing roaming the southern wealds was beyond Weska’s comprehension, particularly an assault on one of the main highways through such a, supposedly, civilised area.

  Well, there was no way he could make a run for it now and, even after some initial fear, the gaestnips would undoubtedly flank him in ones and twos. They would all need to kindly stand in one group if he was to try and vaporise the rest of the pack.

  Even with all his battle training, Weska was starting to realise this was only going to end one way. Shit knows what will happen to the artefact then, he thought.

  Weska had hoped at the back of his mind that the artefact would be kept in a secret vault in the guild’s grand and very visible headquarters in the centre of the merchants quarters in the heart of The Republic of Alrunia’s commercial city; Pa Parag. A country governed as strongly as the wealds but without the tradition to supposedly hold it back. Weska had hoped that the grand ceremony he had in his mind would give him an insight into the guild’s power and their larger plans. That they would make him one of their most visible and brightest young entrepreneurs, who could be counted on and entrusted with larger schemes in due course.

  Instead, the gem had been given to him just before they left Pa Parag. Granted, it had been in the guilds headquarters, but only in a dusty backroom that appeared to have been forgotten about, along with the lone executive charged with meeting Weska, albeit with two dubious looking characters whose potential for violence he certainly wasn’t going to doubt, if he tried backing out or asking too many questions.

  “I do not intend to waste both our times by repeating what we both know” said the fellow, in an extremely uninterested fashion. Clearly this man felt he had better things to do even though, if Weska was right, the artefact was the source of quite some power. Gods, if they treat items like this in such a nonchalant fashion then what else must they have to get them excited.

  “In addition”, the man droned on, “the ritual required to activate the gem has already been passed to you, am I correct?” Weska nodded. “Good, we have assigned you an assistant as well”. The man looked to one of his henchman, who opened the door to the dusty room that the guild had felt befitting for the start of such a grand adventure.

  When Weska first saw Gavel, he assumed it was the lack of light in the room that made him look so pale. When the executive and his two cronies had left, with no words of comfort, congratulation or encouragement, Gavel led Weska out of the building and towards the edge of the city where their caravan was already prepared. It was only then that Weska realised this was Gavel’s natural colour.

  Weska looked at Gavel’s body now. He still seemed to have that same worried expression on his face even in death, as if the Gods had already given him something to fret about!

  Weska had now made up his mind that his only way out of here was to trade the one thing of value to him. It was possible that the gaestnips would just kill Weska anyway and take the gem but, without the ritual, it would be little more than a worthless trinket. However, the beasts were actually known to barter on occasion, when it suited them, and could pick up the rudimentary language skills of whichever area they inhabited. Some of their pack leaders could be quite cunning and organised, mirroring their basic human nature and tribal hierarchy as much as they mirrored humanity physically, which was to say only broadly.

  “Well old boy” Weska said to Gavel’s body, “this’ll be the sales pitch of a lifetime and, if it goes wrong, I’ll see you shortly”.

  CHAPTER ONE

  T he young man lay in the grass unmoving, staring at the tree line. The hot and windy Highsun afternoon may have had the trees in constant motion, but the deer did not appear to have caught Torr’s scent.

  Years of tracking game at this location had led the shipbuilder’s younger son to a patch of grass just below the ridge that was so used to him lying here that it was almost permanently indented with his, or his brother’s, prone body.

  In addition, the lone tree just at this point on the top of the gradient also gave a perfect position for them to get into a shooting stance un noticed by their quarry.

  However, this deer was unusually close to the forest edge. Most animals grazed away from the edge of Drim Forest, to avoid fell wolves or other, un-natural beasts. By the same token, this ensured they stayed within range of Torr’s hunting bow. This one, however, seemed perfectly content to skip right up to the great tree line and neither had Torr seen hide nor hair of the rest of the herd.

  Although the bow was made by the finest woodworkers that Paega’s Bay had to offer, it stopped short of the range of a full military bow and if he tried to get closer, he would have to sneak into the meadow that lay between him and his quarry. Although he had been told how to shoot from a crouched position (with the bow parallel to the ground) the grass was too
long at this part of the Highsun season still for him to see clearly.

  He could stay below the ridge and work his way around the coast path that his working crew had just taken and then scramble up a sandstone incline which would allow him to flank the prize and be close enough for a shot. “So much for a sodding easy kill!” he muttered to himself as he withdrew from his current spot and back down the rough path on his side of the hill that led to the main track around a hundred yards below him.

  Torr had commandeered two men from his detail to act as his carriers in the event that his shot found its mark, one of whom was now leaning on the long carrying pole they had brought with them.

  Both men looked relieved that the ‘young master’ as he was generally referred to by the shipyards workers and other staff, was heading back. They presumed that he had given up or shot the beast, and that they would therefore be back at Home Manor well before the rest of the twelve strong crew with whom they had set out.

  The men that Torr had come with, from the supply store at his father’s shipyard were in the process of ferrying the supplies into the lighthouse by rowing gig now. There was enough crew for that to spare two men for his impromptu hunt.

  As luck would have it, foreman Barak had been rostered to lead the supply gang, one of the Skarsdale’s family’s most able and experienced workers. He was more than capable of conducting his tasks without any supervision at all from anyone and could easily teach Torr a thing or two about boat building, supervision, or running a busy shipyard. The labourers who had come out with Barak seemed happy to conduct their duties without Torr’s intervention and neither did Torr take this as a slight upon his own capabilities.