The Order of the Trident (Eldarlands Book 1)

by Samuel Rikard

The next morning, he untied the mule and set for the final stretch, haunted by his thoughts. Not even sleep seemed to help get his mind off it. Every time he closed his eyes, the images crept into his head. It seemed even his dreams had to torment him. He recalled the few details he could remember. I was tracking someone through the woods. I found him held up in some little shack. The supplies were lying around, some of them already used. I hit and tied him up. When he awoke, I cut off his fingers and toes. He begged me to stop but I didn't. I laughed at him. Even when he begged me to kill him, I refused. Not because I didn't want to. Because I wasn't finished with him. I don't want to remember this part. Bring himself back to the present, he caught a whiff of smoke in the air, forcing him to remember the final details. I woke him up, his bloody form, minus his arms and legs, tied off to keep him from bleeding out. He screamed when I smashed the lamp and lit his house on fire. He felt fear and remorse billow inside him. How could I think such things? Sure I want justice, but I would never torture or murder a man for stealing from me. Even without Mortimus's tutelage, that's wrong. He couldn't get the smell of smoke out of his mind. He froze, realizing the smell was real. Searching the sky, he found a thick cloud of gray billowing up from over the hill. His heart sank. That's home!

  Abandoning the cart, he broke into a sprint. Reaching the top of the hill, he looked down at the flames ravaging his home. The house was nearly gone, collapsed in on itself. The flame was quickly spreading. It'd already burnt half of one field and was starting the spread to another. He ran as fast as his feet would carry him. He got as close as the heat would allow. “Mortimus, are you here?” A low grumble caught his attention amidst the roar of the fire. He ran to the barn, finding his friend beaten and bloodied. He laid on his back, buried in the grass. “Mortimus, what happened?” He felt the tears swell in his eyes. Pulling his friend close, he noticed the blood-stained shirt. He had several deep cuts across his stomach and chest. The realization hit him. It wouldn’t be long before his only friend would leave him forever.

  Mortimus reached up, weakly running his fingers over the boy’s face. His lower jaw quivered. With a trembling finger, he pointed to the barn. He sighed deeply and fell limp.

  Chapter IX

  Forging Bonds

  The wind slapped against the sails, clapping the loose edges together. Birds chirped, collected along the top of the mast, looking down at the crew below.

  "Land ho!" the watch yelled from the crow's nest, his sight glass extended to peer through the low hanging clouds.

  Gareth glanced up, noting the man's signal. Spinning to mimic his direction, he pulled his own sight glass from its leather pouch and extended it to get a closer look. The darkening sky made it difficult to see. "Drop the sails and bring 'er in slowly, boys. Looks like we got rocks ahead."

  The thick canvas fell with a thud, crumbled to the deck. The crew went to work, collecting them for their next raise. The ship rocked gently, gliding across the sea in the rocky harbor.

  Gareth stood beside the navigator, watching him spin the wheel. The ship slipped between the jagged boulders breaching the surface. Their size was remarkable, most of them twice as wide as the hull. There was no telling how large they actually were. The young captain glanced at the black liquid beneath them. It shimmered from the passing ship. He couldn't tell how deep it was, but there were rocks. It couldn't be that deep.

  A resounding crash echoed below deck, shaking the ship violently.

  Gareth caught himself, unprepared for the sudden jolt. "Cabin boy, report the lower levels!"

  A young boy, barely old enough to be called a man, took off below deck.

  Gareth looked over his beloved ship, he didn't need a report to know she was going down. The rails bowed already. It wouldn't be long before she'd disappear beneath the black. He calmly walked to the overlook and peered down at his men.

  The boy rushed to the deck, looking up at the captain. He shook his head, sealing the already known fate.

  “Men, it's been my honor to be your captain but those days are done. I doubt any of us can swim the distance to shore, and gods know what lurks in the depths. It's up to you lads. You can stay here and drown, or make a swim for it and hope to reach shore before The Dutchman finds you.” Gareth finished his speech and turned to enter his room. It was customary to go down with your ship and he intended to join his wife and son.

  The deck was chaos, many of the men ran, jumping overboard. Some met their end upon the jagged rocks just below the surface of the dark waters. Others hit with a splash and swam for the faint outline on the horizon, disappearing long before they should have.

  Gareth dressed in his finest garb. He secured his armor and cutlass. Running a wooden comb through his thick, red beard, he gave a final glance into the mirror, ensuring his appearance. He was destined to meet his wife, there was no sense in being under dressed for the occasion. Solemn, he opened the door and stepped out onto the helm. Only a handful of men remained on board, preparing to meet their fate with their captain.

  They stood erect, offering salute.

  “May it be quick and painless.” He returned the gesture, allowing his men to stand down. Marching to the wheel, he took hold, feeling it his rightful place at the end.

  Water crept over the deck, covering the tar sealed planks. The men cried silently, refusing to let their fear dampen the mood. Clenched to their various religious relics. they stood defiantly, disappearing from sight.

  Gareth watched the sea swallow his men. It rapidly approaching the helm, spilling over the top of his boots. He felt the icy chill of death on his legs, rising up to consume him. He was numb by the time the water reached his face. Time was lost. He needed to go quickly. He thought of his wife, wearing her light blue dress and holding their infant son. A smile on his lips, he exhaled, forcing the air from his lungs. The dark water covered his face, blocking out the fading light above. He looked around at the darkness surrounding him, letting the memories of his family calm his mind.

  ***

  Pipe smoke lingered in the air around the crowded tavern room. The collected noise echoed against the wooden walls, making more of a dull roar, than a cohesive choir of voices.

  Ravion sat in the corner of the pub, his dark blue pants and tunic stood in great contrast to his tan vest. His red tinged hair hung loosely around his shoulders, swept back to display his forehead. He wore his father's longsword on his left hip with a dagger sheathed beside it, tucked nearly beneath the table but ready for use if required. He was still fairly new in these lands but nobody questioned him. It seemed travelers were in steady supply in these parts.

  A bar maid approached, carrying a bowl of stew and a wooden tankard of cider. She set the objects down and waited patiently for him to retrieve his purse.

  “Where might one procure lodging for the night?” Ravion handed her a few copper coins and took a long drawl from the tankard. The cider burned its way down, but felt good against his throat. The frozen mountain winds hadn't helped him any.

  “We have a few rooms available, though we're more suited for a brief stay. If you're looking for a week or more, you'd be coin ahead to talk to Melvin. He's the keep at the Inn of Aldridge. They average one to two silver less over a longer span.”

  Ravion nodded his understanding. “Thank you for the information.” Waiting for her to leave, he spooned the hot, steaming bowl, watching the strands of mist float away from him. He was hungry, but fairly certain it'd burn his mouth if got to eager. Looking into the mixture of sauce, meat, and vegetables, he scooped out a rather large turnip. His nose wrinkled of its own volition. He scooped the plump mass out and laid it to rest in the saucer. I hate turnips. Ensuring no more of the dense vegetables remained, he reached across the table and grabbed a handful of the dried bread the wench had set out earlier. Crushing the bread, he sprinkled the crumbs over his bowl and mixed the two into a semi-thick paste.

  The patrons moved in and out, filling the room with gossip. None seemed to care who might have been
listening. Many different stories echoed, each one having some slight bit of truth, as pub tales always seemed to.

  Ravion spooned in the paste, listening intently to the rumors. Having his fill, on both counts, he stood and made way for the door. The planked barrier swung open, allowing the cool, fall breeze to barrage him. It was curious how such a simple device could have such a drastic effect. The chilling wind tore through his light fabrics. Shaking the shock away, he wrapped his cloak around him and stepped out. He needed to procure a room and perhaps find some thicker clothes. These new lands were harsher than he'd grown accustomed. Survival would come from planning, rather than simple intuition.

  Reaching the Inn, he couldn't help but study the architecture. It was similar to the other structures of the area, but seemed more elegant in its design. The clay shingles were trimmed in wood and curved to deflect the wind and rain in a manner which he hadn't noticed on the other buildings. It was as if this one building was the foundation for the others, yet the quality dropped with each one.

  Passing through the single wooden door, he stood in awe at the interior design. Not so much as a chair was out of place in the common room. The walls were decorated with trophies of hunts long pasts. The fireplace was blazen with a chainmail curtain draped to prevent the embers from flying out. A middle aged man stood over the polished counter along the left wall. A thick book laid open in front of him, occupying his attention.

  Ravion approached the man. “Excuse me. Assuming this is the Inn. What are you rates?”

  The man glanced up from his book, surveying the young-looking scout. Returning his attention to the book, he spoke. “Three silver a week, one gold a month.”

  “Here's three gold. Can you tell me where the tailor is?”

  Refusing to look up from the pages, he reached under the counter and pulled out an iron key with a thin chain linked around the back side. Laying it on the counter, he continued, “You'll be in the second door on the right. Tailor's shop is two building north.

  “Thank you.” Ravion snatched up the key and headed out the door.

  He looked down at his new garments. They were much heavier than he was used to, but once they were properly broken in, they'd function just the same. Throwing his thick black cloak over his shoulders, he secured the ties and stepped into the cool, autumn air. Well, I'll be here a while. I suppose it's time to learn the lay of the land.

  Traveling with unnatural speed, he made his way north, following the occasional signs posted along the road. Heroes' Gate, he read silently. He hadn't heard much about the ancient passageway but it's name intrigued him. From what he'd learned about the landmark, it was the only known gateway in the ancient wall that split the country in half. Nobody seemed to know when it was constructed, but some claimed it was used to limit the number of forces able to pass through during some unknown civil war thousands of years ago.

  He could see the outline of the massive wall long before the details came to him. Considering the stone structure towered over the trees lining the east side of the road, the term massive was putting it mildly.

  The iron portcullis took shape before his eyes. He couldn't tell how far away he was, but if such a structure was made to limit troops, it must have been one hell of a force to begin with. He slowed, hearing a commotion in the trees just ahead. Placing his hand on his father's sword, he stepped off the trail and into the forest. Carefully making his way forward, he froze, lost in the sight before him.

  ***

  A thick mist spanned in all directions, glowing white from the sun above. Dark columns stood alone in the enveloping fog, taking the form of massive trees. The lone warrior wandered aimlessly through the unending mist, lost as much in thought as in his solitude. Weeks had passed since he’d last sat in civilized company. His pack was light and his stomach rumbled from hunger.

  Come on Kane, it can't last forever. Forcing the doubts from his mind he continued on, unsure where he was headed but instinct told him he was facing the right direction.

  The sun beamed brilliantly through the fog, reflecting against his chrome breastplate. The bright glare shot into the shadows of the misty undergrowth. It blinded him as much as it helped to see anything in the thick blanket. A thin black cape was attached firmly at the shoulders, serving more as decoration than actual function. The name of his mentor was carved into the collar of the freshly tempered metal and a coiled dragon was inlaid across the belly, giving the smooth armor a textured feel.

  A sudden snap demanded his attention. He spun around, gripping his sword, searching for the source of the unnatural commotion. He listened intently to the breaking twigs and crumbling leaves all around him. Testing his sanity with the volume alone, it sounded as if it was right on top of him. But where? Unable to wait a moment longer, he drew his greatsword and readied himself for battle. Standing defiantly, ready to strike down the first opponent to present itself, Kane searched.

  A huge shadow formed in the fog, three times larger than an average human, and growing larger.

  He tightened his grip, stretching his fingers around the leather bound handle, popping in protest to the pressure.

  The figure loomed, making its way closer to the defensive boy, towering overhead.

  Kane felt his stomach tighten, watching it move closer with deadly purpose. The sound of the leaves filling his head. He found himself wondering how big the creature's footsteps must be to make such a commotion. His heart raced, thundering inside his chest. His skin was sticky, pockets of sweat forming on his brow. Fear on edge, tempting him to flee, he trembled in uncertainty against the over-sized shadow. Feeling he could take no more, his target sliced through the fog, presenting itself.

  A white rabbit with tan spots hopped into view, revealing its menacing presence to the embattled warrior.

  Lowering his sword with a chuckle, he let out a sigh of relief, watching the startled rabbit hop away, leaving him to his foolishness. Shaking his head, he continued through the fog, hoping to find a town soon.

  Hours passed and the mist began to thin, revealing an old dirt road with a weather worn post stuck firmly in the ground. A tattered sign with carved words hung loosely from a single, bent and rusted nail. He read the words aloud, listening to them as he spoke. "Aldridge two miles ahead". He glanced around, searching for the roads edge. Keeping them in sight, he set his path and made for town.

  ***

  The chirp of seagulls and crashing waves echoed along the coast between the forest to the east and the mountains to the west.

  Gareth awoke feeling the water rush up his body, threatening to cover him before receding back into the ocean. Opening his eyes, he was nearly blinded by the sun. Shielding himself, he rolled over, pushing to his hands and knees to see how many had survived the shipwreck.

  Rocky canyons towered on either side of the sandy beach, with the ocean on one side and a thick forest, not far, on the other. A large road ran the length of the forest, and a slightly smaller but equally traveled road cut into the dense woodland.

  Gareth surveyed the terrain, none of his crew in sight. He felt a sorrow for their loss, most-likely swallowed by the sea. Yet, he remained, as if the gods cursed him. He got to his knees, looking out to where his ship had been. He searched for the top of the mast but couldn't see it. The water must be deeper than he'd initially thought, despite the large rocks jutting out as far as the eye could see.

  Watching over the watery grave, he silently said his goodbyes. By Corin's grace, sail the eternal seas, my men. May your longing be at an end and your hearth always warm, for the life of a sailor, while wet and cold, was one of exuberance and adventure. Many go their lives without really living. You, my men, did something many never will. You truly lived. Standing, he gave salute and turned toward the forest road.

  Reaching the top of the sand bank, he spotted a group of horsemen riding along the small road. They shifted, heading straight toward him.

  Gareth assessed the approaching men, unsure if they were friend or foe
.

  They slowed, signifying their desire to talk.

  Close enough to make out details, Gareth looked them over. The first and largest of the group was adorned with a silver helm covering his face. It had a long tuft of blue fur flowing from the top. His tabard was blue and silver with a design across the chest. He wore a silver rapier on his left side, with a beautiful dagger on the other. The man riding to his right was helmless and wearing similar garments, but instead carried a short blades on each hip. He was built for finesse, opposed to brute strength, like the other three behind them. The man on the left stood out from the first two, wearing heavy armor, with a thick shield slung across his back, a war hammer dangling from a leather strap on his left hip. He didn't display the tabard as the others, but held a commanding presence nonetheless. Two others followed, dressed in silver and blue, but less commanding than the first three.

  The group slowly approached, urging their horses forward. The first removed his helm, revealing a mass of flowing golden hair. "Greetings, friend." He said, displaying a friendly smile for the stranded captain.

  Gareth waited a moment, studying the man's choice of word. "As I've never met you, I believe the title of friend has yet to be earned." he stated coldly.

  The lead man looked the shipwrecked man up and down, allowing a smirk to form. "I cannot dispute your logic, however as I do not yet know your name, it seems as fitting a title as I can muster to show that we mean no harm. We only wish to assess your situation and offer aid." He paused a moment before continuing, "My name is Master Remle De Leon, Commander of the Heroes and Lord of Shadgull. This is my second, Sir Erik De Leon," he said, gesturing to his right, "-- and my Lieutenants, Sir Victicious Hovay, Sir Jem Asray, and Sir Kald Eirwan." gesturing to each of the men. "And you are?"

  Gareth glanced over each one, measuring them in his own way. Returning his attention to the large man with blond hair, he replied. "My name is Gareth D'Averon, Captain of the Merratin, sadly resting at the bottom of the sea. We were a fishing vessel from the port city of Everik, off the northern coast of Negield. My ship was lost among the rocks, my crew along with it."