by CJ Brightley
Wind howled past, whipping her hair and numbing her ears. Larine opened her eyes and stared into the turbulent grey clouds ahead. No change was apparent to her vision, but she knew their work was achieving its goal. The storm was accelerating the tiny amount that would carry it clear of city and river. Only a little more, and they could rest.
Shiar’s anguished cry reached her over the roar of the wind. “No!” Running footsteps sent vibrations through the deck into her knees.
Fear clutched her heart. Don’t let him stop us!
Falcon spared a tendril of golden light to knock away the hands reaching for her. The Mother will allow me to kill him if necessary to prevent him from interfering.
Furious as she was at Shiar, he didn’t deserve to die for trying to protect their son. It’s not. She showed Falcon the nerve in Shiar’s neck where applying pressure would cause a brief loss of consciousness. The thud of his body hitting the deck told her the fish’s effort had succeeded. Larine hoped he would stay down long enough for them to finish.
She sagged across Falcon and wrapped her arms around him. Exhaustion and pain blurred her thoughts. Let’s get this over with.
Yes. Even half burned out, his thoughts remained steady and confident. Be strong. This last part will be the worst, but it won’t last long.
I’ll try. Help me.
His mind opened to hers, and she sank into his serene confidence. It helped a great deal, but even so, as the pain moved through her torso and into her head, she didn’t know if she could bear it long enough.
More and more, deeper and deeper, beyond anything she could have imagined possible, her familiar drew the life from their bodies. The agony grew until it was the whole universe, a shrieking void of flame. Larine fought to last as long as possible so Falcon could pull the final dregs of their energy and throw them into the storm, but at last there was nothing left in her body or his. The pain faded, and the world with it, softening into gentle blackness. Larine sank into the blessed relief of oblivion.
They’d done it. Elathir would survive. Ozor would live, and Hanion, and Dabiel. Nothing else mattered.
A spark of gold kindled in the darkness. An eager tongue licked one cheek, and soft feathers pressed against the other. Sleek scales slid beneath her fingers. Her fellow wizards, their familiars beside them, beamed in welcome.
The Mother stood in their midst, her hands outstretched. Her voice, familiar and beloved, echoed in Larine’s ears and heart. “Well done.”
Radiant joy lit Larine’s face as she stepped forward and took the Mother’s hands.
Afterword
Thanks for reading! Into the Storm is a prequel to my series The Chronicles of Tevenar. Get the first book in the series here: The Fuller's Apprentice. To join my mailing list and receive another Tevenar prequel story, Broken Bonds, go here: http://angelaholder.com/subscribe/. Follow me on Facebook at http://angelaholder.com/facebook.
On the Shores of Irradan
The Everring Tree, Book 1
Ronald Long
Ealrin Belouve, a man with no memory of his past, seeks the peace of a new land. After the ravages of war in Ruyn, he and his companions search for a legend in the mythical realm of the elves.
But their respite is short lived. The ever present dark comet heralds a new threat. The Empire of Enoth, an ancient elven kingdom, travels uninvited to the human lands of Darrion. As they extend a hand of friendship, a sinister plot begins to unfold.
Once again, Ealrin and his friends are catapulted into determining the fate of a continent. But can the Everring Tree restore their lost magic and heal the land before war consumes them all?
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. ON THE SHORES OF IRRADAN First edition. December 29, 2015. Copyright © 2015 Ronald Long. Written by Ronald Long.
* * *
Ronald Long. On the Shores of Irradan (The Everring Tree, #1). Retrovert Books.
Prologue: The Journey to Irradan
Spring, Imperial Year 1002
It's been a year since I washed up on the shore of Good Harbor in Ruyn without a memory to call my own and no possessions save the gray coat I still wear when the weather gets cold.
At first, I thought the only thing I needed to do was to find out who I was, why I was shipwrecked, and what I had left behind in my previous life.
How much a year can change one's mind!
I met my friend and mentor, Holve Bravestead and was taken on an adventure I'll not soon forget.
The continent of Ruyn may not be better off than when I found it one year ago, but I doubt it could get much worse. The lunatic Androlion Fellgate no longer controls the Southern Republic. He met his end at the hands of the man, if that's what he really was, Rayg.
The war to cleanse all races from the continent is over. What few elves and dwarves of Ruyn we could protect now seek to rebuild. Men commit to live in peace. The Dark Comet, which still hovers in the night sky, burns dimmer than it had just a moon ago. Demons that had leapt from the surface of the rock were beaten or returned to the infernal thing.
I did my part as well as I could, I suppose.
It was Holve who took me under his wing and it was with him that I stumbled upon the friends I now have and can claim as the closest thing to a family.
The most interesting of them being a girl named Blume Dearcrest.
When we met her, she had just witnessed the death of her brother and parents. The ruins of her city surrounded her.
Though most children might have succumbed to grief, she proved to be resilient beyond any of our expectations.
More curious still, was the fact that she was an accomplished Speaker, one who can control the elements through Rimstone and perform magic.
All this she did with an heirloom, a rather beaten up necklace that was her family's most prized possession.
After the war ended and her part, which turned out to be of more significance than my own, she found herself without her ability to speak to the elements as she had done so previously.
Holve believes that her necklace holds more mysteries than we yet know.
The demons, rimstone, and Blume's own necklace are linked in some way.
He hasn't shared all of this with her and I feel like he hasn't shared with me all that he knows.
The only clue we have is the mention of an ancient and magical plant on Irradan: The Everring Tree.
So now we sail to another continent in search of a clue to a mystery we don't rightly know yet.
Holve is determined to find out the meaning of these events.
We, who are now called "The Swords," follow him as our leader and guide.
I find myself glad to have friends who surround me and call me friend in return.
Perhaps someday I'll find out who I was before I was found bloody and near dead on the shores of Good Harbor.
But that adventure will be another time.
For now, we sail for Irradan.
* * *
Ealrin Belouve.
1
The Elf and the Bear
Panto grunted with every beat of his enormous front paws. The giant bear ran as quickly as his strong body and the armor that weighed him down allowed. It had been many moons since his master had urged him to such haste.
Then again, the bear had perceived that many things were changing.
Amrolan tried his best to quiet the beast. Even though they were traveling with all the speed Panto could muster, the elf who rode him knew that they would have to save some strength for the task ahead.
War was coming.
The trees here were new. Mere saplings compared to the ancient sentinels Amrolan had grown up in. Oaks that sprang out of the ground every few paces only reached the height of two, maybe three elven lengths. The flowers and new grasses of spring filled in the empty spaces between the trees. Had they the time to explore, there would be so much new life to encounter.
&nbs
p; But this was not the time for exploring. Now was the time for speed.
Panto took the path they had worn into the new forest by traveling back and forth between the coast and the forest of their birth. Though both called the trees of the distant and old paths home, neither were welcome. Behind them, the twin suns of Gilia were sinking into the horizon. Night would soon be upon them. The darkness would not hinder their travels. Both of them were gifted with exceptional eyesight, even in near complete darkness. Both moon and comet would also light the night for them.
The comet that had recently burned a violent purple was now orange again in the night sky and had helped the pair travel at night with ease.
Traveling was what they did. They were nomads: doomed to wander and never to settle. Scorned by both lands that they might naturally call home and feared by those who were of lesser descent. They lived off of what the earth provided. Fortunately, they were both expert foragers and hunters. Only in the chilled south during the winter months were they ever in want for food. But in times of plenty or in great want, they were to serve their ordained purpose.
Every metallic clink of his armor was a painful reminder of the path he had chosen. The metal interlocking plates glimmered in the failing sun. Wrought not by elves or by men, his armor had saved his life many times from those whom he desperately wanted to call friends and family.
Amrolan pushed such thoughts from his mind. There was urgent business at hand.
He was a tall and proud elf, broader than most of his race. His hair was as black as the night and cut short to better accommodate the helmet he wore atop his head. Dark eyes surveyed the path before him without concern. These trails were theirs. Speed would not hinder their travel through the woods.
"Tired," Panto said.
Amrolan patted his bear companion with one hand, while keeping a tight hold of the harness attached to the beast with the other.
"Rest soon," Amrolan replied, though he did so without moving his lips.
The link that they shared went beyond a sharing of minds. Bear and elf shared a common bond that went to the very depths of the other's soul. When he wanted, Amrolan could see through Panto's eyes, could hear what the beast heard, could smell what the black nose smelt.
They shared an existence.
Through the snout of his friend and only companion, Amrolan could sense that they were nearing their destination. Soon, both of them would see what they had feared would come. As they crested a hill, the twin suns of Gilia sank behind them and night fell in earnest. Amrolan gazed at the sight before him and his eyes widened in shock.
Amrolan would not need the moon or the orange comet to light his way tonight. The soldiers carrying torches who marched in columns down the old road would provide more than ample supply.
Never had he seen the noble elves outside of their cities before, and certainly not in full guard. A thousand glittering and fully armed elves passed underneath his watchful gaze. They were elegant and terrifying, beautiful and repulsive.
Lest he be seen, Amrolan urged Panto to back off of the path they had made and into the woods. They hid themselves among the trees as they both continued to look in awe at the sight before them.
The elves marched down an old road that followed the cliffs from the human lands beyond. That part seemed strange to him. Why were the elves marching away from the human lands? Wasn't that their goal? To overcome and be the dominant race on Irradan? Not that the elves needed ever really fear the humans. Their lives were so short and their skill so diminished in comparison to the elves.
Columns of soldiers were passing underneath him. The ranks stretched from one visible bend in the road to the next. Standard bearers carried alongside the lines the white and purple banners Amrolan had both longed to see again and loathed to be reminded of his pain. He was so close to those whom he once called friends.
Yet, so far.
From this point, Amrolan would be safe from their surveying eyes. Or so he thought.
"Danger," Panto said the great bear, taking in a breath and turning around as quickly as his bulk would allow.
Amrolan dared not move. The blade that rested on his throat had already begun to draw a small trickle of blood.
“Breathe and I'll make you pay dearly,” a whisper said into his ear.
He wasn't sure which surprised him more: that he had been snuck up on even with his keen senses or that the voice that spoke into his ear was not that of a gruff elven warrior.
It was a woman.
2
The City Guard
Bernard was a good man. He may have been physically fit and slightly more handsome than the average citizen of Lone Peak. He may have gone on more adventures than most of the city guard combined and bragged twice as much as the rest of them. One thing he couldn't get over, though, was his height. His friends and companions were a normal to average height. But he, Bernard Sturdyshield, was one of the shortest in the city defense force.
Lincoln, however, his closest friend, was at least two heads taller than any of the other guardsmen and three times as wide. Rumor was that the seamstress who made his uniform quit as soon as she had completed it, swearing her hands would never be the same.
They were as polar opposites as any pair could be. Bernard had dark long hair, while Lincoln's was blonde and cut almost to his scalp. Bernard's eyes were brown and enticing, while Lincoln's were blue and airy. They had become friends by the sheer fact that few of the other guards desired to spend any more time with either of them than necessary.
Bernard often found himself boasting of his previous exploits, and perhaps exaggerating on some of the finer details. Lincoln, however, instead of living up to be the hulking brute that most assumed him to be on first glance, spent his time composing poetry.
Unfortunately, he wasn't very good at it. Bernard had told him so many times, but it had never dampened the large man's attempts at verse.
"What rhymes with bird?" Lincoln asked Bernard one day while they were on guard duty atop the noble's wall.
"Come again?" Bernard asked. He had been in the middle of retelling the story where he had single-highhandedly defeated thirty fox beasts on the plains north of Lone Peak after his entire company had been cut down by the monsters.
Wrents, as was their proper name, were foxes who walked like men but were shorter in stature. They lived to the north of Lone Peak and would sometimes venture south and give trouble to the men who lived in the Kingdom of Darrion.
Bernard and Lincoln were a part of the city guard, the capital's armed forces. Darrion was the sole human kingdom on the great continent of Irradan. At one time, the ships of Darrion would sail from Ruyn to Redact and then on to the Holy Empire itself. Even the banner of Darrion bore on it a mighty sailing vessel, with the three ruling houses of nobles all emblazoned underneath.
Those days were distant memories.
Calamity, fate, and a lack of natural resources had left Darrion a shell of its former glory. Even the guard's equipment was getting old and rusted. Many elders talked of the glory days of old, but even they were only small children when the kingdom began its decline.
Bernard returned his sword to its sheath after demonstrating how he had beheaded three creatures in one blow and returned to the wall next to Lincoln.
The large man had his spear resting on his shoulder while he wrote on a minuscule piece of paper with a charcoal pen.
"What rhymes with bird?" He repeated.
"How about absurd?" Bernard offered. "Kind of like your attempts at writing lines."
Lincoln pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in concentration, not hearing Bernard's insult.
"No, absurd doesn't really work."
He folded the tiny paper and returned it to his pocket along with the pen.
"Oh," he added as he scanned the city below, as was their job. "The last time you told that story there were only twenty foxes and three of your company had survived."
Lincoln also had a fantastic memory for de
tails.
The Lone Keep guard was tasked with policing the city and ensuring its safety. Bernard had joined for the promise of more adventures and exciting assignments. So far he hadn't had either. The life of travel and adventure was also an expensive one. Bernard had many debtors collecting a fair portion of his pay.
Lincoln had told Bernard he joined for the promise of a good meal at the end of a day's work. It wasn't hard to see why someone so large would be so motivated. Neither man had any family to call their own. Bernard had left his father and mother in the distant Darrion city of Bestone. Lincoln's mother had been his only family in Lone Peak and had passed away the week after he had joined the guard. Out of loneliness or desperation, they had found each other's company tolerable and clung to one another for friendship.
Albeit a shaky one at times.
Bernard shrugged at Lincoln's recollection of his story.
"It was a very dramatic experience,” he said with an air of pride. “Maybe I've forgotten some of the details."
"I think you mean traumatic," Lincoln corrected him. "What's that?"
"Which?" Bernard asked, confused now and scratching his head under his helmet. The air was warm and he was hoping for a cool breeze to make standing out in the suns a little more bearable. "Dramatic or traumatic?"
"That," Lincoln said, this time pointing his finger towards a group walking towards the gate of the Noble House. Bernard turned his attention to the street, following his friend's finger.