by T P Sheehan
BOOK I
T.P. SHEEHAN
For Nie. You are my sunshine.
Published by Querencia Books
Copyright © T.P. Sheehan 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any person, entity or in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recoding, scanning or stored in a retrieval system without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-0-6480928-1-0 (eBook)
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This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
MAGNUS
BONSTAPH
CATANYA
XAVIER
PRIESTHOOD
RUN
SARAH
CHASE
HEALERS
THE ROMGHOLD
FROUGHTON FOREST
CREATURE OF THE VALLEY
EAMON
CLEANSING
SIX THIEVES
THE HUGMDAEL INN
GUAME
AUTHORITARIUM
TRAINING
DECEPTIONS
THE YOUNGLING
RUBEA
CONFRONTATION
ELECTUS
INAUGURATION
AWAKENINGS
JAEL
SOUTHERN PLAINS
BA’RRAT
FERUSTIR
THE ARENA
BAD TIDINGS
ONE HUNDRED
WAITING
CARLO
REPERCUSSIONS
BREAK IN
BREAK OUT
ESCAPE
DELVION
DAWN
SORCERER
FÄRGD
SEPARATE WAYS
STEYNE
THE EASTERN WALL
A GATHERING
BRUE
JOFFREN
FAREWELL
BEYOND BA’RRAT
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
“Will the chosen one turn the tide on the war with the Quag?”
“Yes, Semsarian, I believe they will.”
“Then who, Semsdi, is worthy to receive the blood of the fire dragon?”
“In time we will know. The Electus will present themselves to us when the time is right.”
“How will we recognise them? How will we know for sure they are the chosen one?”
“We will know Semsarian. They will not be able to hide from who they are…”
MAGNUS
“Magnus. You’re up.”
Magnus took the sword from Ganister.
“No holding back,” Ganister instructed. Magnus gave a small nod and blew through pursed lips. He looked back to the other students—five pairs of eyes on him. They had already sparred for rank. None had beaten Lucas. Magnus twirled the sword in his left hand.
“You ready?” Lucas snarled.
“We’ve been through this before, Lucas,” Magnus smiled.
“Only this time you’re going to lose.”
“Is that so?” Magnus appraised the training sword. It was a little heavier than he preferred. Ganister had been trying to improve his strength with heavier, larger swords for the past few months leading up to the trials. He need not have bothered—Magnus never lost a bout, no matter which sword he used.
“Begin!” Ganister shouted.
Lucas lunged toward Magnus, bringing his sword down hard. Magnus caught the blow and pushed back, their swords locking at the cross-guards. Magnus grimaced, pushing harder to keep from losing his footing.
“Break!” Ganister demanded.
Magnus pulled back. Lucas came again, shouting and swinging furiously. He used every move he knew—every move Ganister had taught him. Magnus dodged each and every one of them, expelling no energy at all to avoid Lucas’s attack. Lucas soon tired and lowered his blade. He took a moment to catch his breath, pointing his sword at Magnus. “Quit playing with me.”
Magnus skipped about and stumbled into Ganister. He felt the large man’s powerful hands grasp his lean shoulders, steadying him. He pulled Magnus closer and whispered to him, “I said, no holding back.”
“He’s your son,” Magnus whispered.
“And he can take care of himself. No holding back. Show us what you’ve learned.”
Magnus circled his shoulders and cracked his neck to one side. He raised his sword and let the leather grip slip beneath his fingers until the cross-guard touched his hand. With a firm grasp, he whispered a spell in Fireisgh tongue—“Fara gin parshin-ar.” A delicate shaft of flame danced up the blade of his sword and vanished. A cheer came from the small audience of students. Magnus was pleased—his father had taught him the spell just days before and it was only the second time it had worked. He was certain, however, his father would not approve of its use at this time.
Magnus pointed the blade at Lucas, who crouched into a battle stance. They both charged at once and their swords clashed. Blow after blow, Magnus drove Lucas back, never allowing him the chance to counter. Lucas soon shifted his weight onto his back foot. This is what Magnus was waiting for. He swept Lucas's leg away with his own and Lucas fell onto his back. Magnus’s blade was at his friend’s throat as his head hit the ground.
“Do you yield?” Magnus demanded.
Lucas grimaced. “Aye… I yield.”
Another cheer rose as Magnus helped Lucas to his feet. They bowed to one another and Lucas rubbed the back of his head.
“Are you alright?” Magnus placed a hand on his friend’s back. He hated injuring people in a sparring contest.
“I’ll live,” Lucas grimaced. “I almost bested you.” He feigned a smile.
“Yes, and I almost bested his father once too.” Ganister shook his head, joining them. “Magnus has proven to us that showmanship and skill can be mutually beneficial.” The students laughed. Magnus looked to Lucas and shrugged.
When the students were silent Ganister spoke again. “You’ve done well. All of you have. As far as I’m concerned, you are all worthy of selection into the knighthood of the Authoritarium.” Magnus gave a wry smile. Ganister was always so diplomatic. The truth was, only he and Lucas netted the results needed to gain favour with the selection panel.
“But as you know, in all the lands of Allumbreve, only forty candidates are chosen each year,” Ganister clarified. “Ten from the Air Realm of the Northeast, ten from the Ice Realm of the North, another ten from the Earth Realm in the forest region and of course ten for us of the Fire Realm. Each realm has its own means of selection. A fortnight ago, we of the Fire Realm completed our trials.” The students cheered. “Ten will have their fates chosen and every second year one more will have the honour of selection into the order of the Irucantî.”
It had been two weeks since the trials and the students waited eagerly for the selection results. Magnus knew the results were predictable. He and Lucas performed better than anyone else.
“We at the western margins usually gain two candidates at best, but we have an advantage. Not in selection, but in alternatives.” There was a collective moan from the students. Magnus caught Ganister’s eye, who flashed him a sympathetic glance. Ganister continued, “Those of you not fortunate enough to be accepted into knighthood or who, for other reasons, are not able to join the knighthood, can rest easy because all of you com
e from good families, good farmland or good trades.”
The alternatives gave Magnus no inspiration. I need to become a knight, Magnus thought to himself. How can I be with Catanya and remain a farm hand? At my father’s property no less. He shook his head. He thought it no life to offer the woman he wanted to marry. The other students voiced concerns of their own among themselves.
“I know all your fathers. They are each noble men. Each of you should feel worthy to follow them.”
“Yeah sure,” a voice mumbled. Magnus looked and saw it was Ruben. He was a heavy-set lad from the coast who lost most of his bouts at the trials. Magnus felt almost as sorry for him as he did for himself. It was one thing to fail selection, quite another to win a candidacy and turn your position down. That was unheard of, but Magnus knew... My father will never let me become a knight.
“If I should not be a knight, why then should I train?” Magnus asked of his father long ago.
“There is no harm in mastering the sword, nor to prove yourself as capable as any other,” his father had replied. His words sounded wise enough at the time but did little to appease Magnus now. His father was not forthcoming with the reason he despised the Authoritarium.
A messenger entered the tall, wooden building in which they were training. He walked across the cobbled floor toward Ganister. “Sire, I have delivery from the Authoritarium. I bring documents of importance and…”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Ganister interrupted. “Importance and urgency for my attention. I’ve heard it all before. Does old Trager send his greetings?” Ganister took a large scroll and a selection of envelopes from the messenger.
“Sire?” the young messenger cleared his throat.
“Never mind. Send the old bugger my regards. He is still alive isn’t he?” The students stifled their laughs.
“Yes sir. The honourable elder of the Authoritarium is alive… just…” His eyes trailed away. Ganister gave him a firm slap on the back.
“Good lad. Head over to the house and my wife will fix you a hot meal. But eat sparingly—I’m famished after a long day of training this lot. To that effect, be sure to tell old Trager that his new recruits from the West are the best he’s ever had.”
“I will sire, thank you sire.” The messenger bowed, turned and hurried off toward Ganister’s home across the field.
Lucas nudged Magnus. “Who do you think has been chosen?”
“Most certainly you two,” observed one student—eavesdropping to Magnus’s left. “And with any luck a couple more of us.”
Magnus chewed the inside of his cheek. He had both dreamed of and dreaded this moment for as long as he could remember. He wanted more than anything to become a knight. He and Lucas had grown together, trained together and imagined the moment when they, together, would be chosen.
“So here we are then.” Ganister broke the seal on the scroll and pulled it swiftly open. The students stood to attention with their hands behind their backs. Ganister read in silence, his face set in a concentrated frown. “Ahah…”
“Well, come on Father, the suspense is killing us!” Lucas complained.
Ganister’s eyebrows rose and he looked up from the scroll. “Hmm? Sorry, yes. The results are in… This year two of you have been selected. The primary candidate is Magnus of J’esmagd.”
The students approached Magnus and congratulated him. Magnus thanked them, feeling shallow and dishonest at the achievement. He smiled, but found it painful to make eye contact with any but Lucas. At least he’ll be chosen with me. Lucas had lost only a single bout in the trials. He was the only other candidate from the western margins to lose so few. He was the logical choice for secondary candidate.
“The secondary candidate is Alfret of Benstart.” Ganister brought the scroll slowly down. The room fell to silence.
Alfret? Magnus was dumbfounded. Alfret had lost three bouts at the games and had never beaten Lucas in years of training. A good chance at third perhaps but… Alfret? Magnus’s heart sank. Lucas was as still as a statue and almost as grey as one too. He looked to his father, as did Magnus. Ganister appeared to fare no better. He had never seen shock like that carved on this great warrior’s face.
Ganister cleared his throat. “There is more.” The large room fell to silence again. “A tertiary candidate has been chosen in reserve. That candidate is Lucas of Bowthwait.”
Things were going from bad to worse. Reserve? What in all the realms does that mean? Magnus had never heard of such a thing. Candidates were chosen and that was it.
“Reserve?” Lucas exclaimed. “Reserve for what?”
“If one of the chosen candidates from our region declines their offer of knightship, you may take their place.”
Lucas threw his sword to the ground, sending a sharp sound ricocheting off the hardwood beams overhead. He strode out of the building toward the house. Magnus turned to follow but Ganister called to him.
“Magnus, wait.” Ganister approached and together they saw Lucas crouching in the field. “Leave him be. I will talk to him directly. Take this.” Ganister handed Magnus a sealed envelope. “Congratulations, Magnus. You more than any deserve it.”
“No more than Lucas. It is not fair, Ganister. He wants this more than anyone.”
Ganister looked at Lucas before he spoke. “There is more than just swordsmanship that makes a good knight. I’m sure Xavier and his affiliates have fit reason for their choice.”
Magnus gave a nod but did not agree with Ganister’s words any more than he believed Ganister did. Ganister tapped the envelope in his hand. “I know the conflict you face with this Magnus. Would you like me to speak to your father about it?”
“Thank you, but I think I can handle it.” Magnus appreciated the offer. Ganister and his father were the best of friends, yet their views on knighthood differed greatly.
“I can clear things up here and accompany you home, speak to your father, see if a few mugs of ale might make him more malleable.”
Magnus smiled and then winced as Lucas disappeared into the house. “I think Lucas needs you more than I, and besides, my father made his decision long ago.”
Ganister looked sympathetically at Magnus, making him feel even more uncomfortable. “I fear you’re right. Be off home then, Magnus. But know this—there was never a more accomplished knight than your father under the old regime, before the days of the Authoritarium. Had things been different, he would be an elder of this realm, seated in the Great Hall of Guame among his peers.”
“Aye, but he is not. He is a farmer of the western margins. And I am the farmer’s son,” Magnus mumbled.
“Your father sees things my naive eyes do not, so heed his words.” Magnus sighed and Ganister continued. “Give my regards to your mother. I must go now and wish Alfret all the best.” He winked and Magnus felt the heaviness of Ganister’s slap on his back.
BONSTAPH
A mile south, Magnus entered the Crescent Woods that marked the end of the lands of Bowthwait. The woods got their name for their semicircular shape that curved from east to west with the central, thickest portion of pine and oak a mile deep. Magnus rode his chestnut stallion, Esmder, through the woods and beyond the gate at the low stone wall that marked the northern boundary of his own lands—the J’esmagdlands.
Magnus’s stomach twisted thinking of the conversation he was about to have with his father. He looked at the envelope clutched in the palm of his hand. He had no wish to open it for he knew he would give it to Lucas. It made perfect sense. Lucas would be happy and get what he wanted and Ganister would be proud of his son—a knight of the Authoritarium. There was no such pride to be got from my father. He despises the Authoritarium. Regardless of what I say, Father will not give me his blessing.
Magnus’s father, Bonstaph, spoke little of his time as a knight. What Magnus knew was gleaned from stories told by Ganister, or others who remembered Bonstaph’s time as Knight Commander. His father led the knights of the realms to the last great battle against the Quag—th
e Battle of Fire. They fought alongside the dragons and the elite Irucantî, or Ferustirs, as the priests were called when they went into battle. The Quag were driven back to the wastelands, but not before Delvion, their leader, slew the greatest dragon of all—Balgur. And with a priest’s own fire-sword no less… Magnus sighed. He always believed the stories to be fanciful.
Magnus’s thoughts strayed for a moment to the one thing this whole debacle would seriously affect. It was the one reason he would consider disobeying his father and accepting the offer of knighthood for himself—Catanya.
Catanya’s father was due home on leave from the Authoritarium in a month and Magnus planned to ask his blessing to marry his daughter. He was sure that being a primary candidate would sway him to bless their engagement. After all, he was the one who had chosen Magnus for the candidature, for her father, Xavier, was Knight Commander.
Magnus rode over the rise and looked down at his family home. Smoke rose from the stone chimney that poked through the thatched roof. In the fields, two draft horses pulled a plough steered by Bonstaph. Magnus took a deep breath and rode down the embankment to the right of the house and over to the stables, where he took the saddle and bridle from Esmder and led him to feed and water. Magnus stood at the door of the stables and examined his envelope, running his thumb over the Authoritarium’s purple seal before stuffing it in a pocket beneath his tunic.
Walking toward his father, Magnus shouted across the half ploughed field. “Good evening!”
His father turned and looked across at him. Bonstaph was tall and powerful. He had a less bulky frame than Ganister but was not lean like Magnus, who was more his mother’s build. He was a strong man who carried himself with pride.
Bonstaph turned back to the horses as he replied, “Good evening to you.”
Magnus rolled his eyes. His father knew what this day meant to him. It was the most important and talked about day for all young men of Allumbreve. It had been for generations. Now Magnus had in his possession the one thing each seventeen year old craved. None had worked so hard as he to receive it.