The Secrets of Brymar (The Elitherian Fragments Book 1)

by James Coy-Dibley

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  The Elitherian Fragments

  The Secrets of Brymar

  A Chicago House Press Book / November 2017

  Published by

  Chicago House Press, Inc.

  Chicago, Illinois

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2017 by James Coy-Dibley

  Book cover designed by JD&J Design with

  stock imagery provided by timurd © 123RF.com

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63552-002-6

  ISBN 10: 1635520029

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published in the United States of America

  www.chicagohousepress.com

  Prologue

  The curved, silver blade glistened in the blue firelight.

  With long strides, the woman ran down the brightly torch-lit passage, her long black robe grazing the smooth floor beneath her. Golden trimmings lined the sides and shoulders of her robe, covering her slim light blue dress beneath and proudly attesting to her vanquished kingdom of old. The booming voices behind her reverberated along the walls with deafening force; though she couldn’t recognise the language, she understood their message, the threats of war and retribution they conveyed. She knew what would happen if they caught her, what would happen if they retrieved what she stole.

  Torches with brilliant flames lined the tall stone walls, illuminating unfamiliar symbols and inscriptions depicting the oldest of the universe’s tales along its surface. Such knowledge dwelled within these terrible walls, such a power never known to the world, sealed until now. Only seeing it made it believable and made the danger a cold reality – a sad justification for this journey and for the sacrifice made by those held dear to her. With each stride, she instinctively touched the side of her robe, ensuring that the small bump of the stolen artefact still barely protruded from within the folds.

  She carried her long silver blade, gleaming until the tip, where thick dark blood dripped with each stride. Another similar blade hung on her other side, the handle ornately trimmed in gold. It stared back at her, a constant reminder of the pain she now felt, and haunted her thoughts. She couldn’t leave the sword behind, couldn’t bear to lose that too. The handle matched that of her own sword but bore another mark, that of a higher order from her people, a golden crest identical to the one adorning the shoulder of her cloak.

  She forced herself to look away from it.

  A putrid stench hung in the air, lingering all around her, but she paid little attention to it. She noticed the blood falling from her sword and struggled to breath. She never wanted to come here, never wanted to do what had to be done, but destiny forced her hand. There was no other option; she had to commit, but it cost her dearly, an unthinkable sacrifice. As her heart ached and chest tightened, tears continued to trickle down her soft cheeks. She couldn’t go back, couldn’t stop running.

  She passed several small rooms, each with a different array of colours pouring out of their entrances. How many rooms existed in this place, this fortress between the realms? She knew which room to find though, knew how to return to her realm, and navigated through the maze of blue torch-lit hallways until she finally spotted the bloodied bodies lying on the floor ahead. Further down the corridor, she saw a rich light green light emanating from one of the doorways. Her stride quickened as she caught sight of this, the hope returning to her advances, even though the voices loudened from behind her; they approached too quickly.

  As she entered the room, several bodies lay in pools of black blood, their dead yellow eyes staring at her as she passed over them and frantically charged into the room with the bright green light. The smooth walls of the room extended high above her, inscribed with the same oldest texts of time as the outer hallways, hidden from the human world and forgotten by most, unreadable and menacing. This room represented her realm’s history, the stories of its creation forever inscribed in this dark palace of knowledge, its location outside of the natural constrictions of the conventional world.

  In the centre of the room stood a single structure, an ovular black-stoned edifice vertically extending almost as high as the ceiling above. A viscous green material gently circulated at the centre with differently accentuated nuances along the periphery. A pair of curved, black stone columns twisted around the edges of the liquid material, extending deep into the ground and covered in crystals. Along either side lay more corpses dressed in ragged cloths and black armour, the portal’s guards who had fallen by the justice of her sword.

  She jumped over the bodies and lunged towards the structure. To the side was a small opening, a perfectly hollowed oval, with a thin sliver of white light at the back. She halted in front of the structure and reached into her robes, quickly pulling out a small, black silk bag with an ornate, golden string tied around the top. Flakes of blood lined half of the bag, a red stain. A rush of pain flooded her eyes, the loss all too vivid, as she clung tightly to the bag.

  The voices continued to louden. She untied the string and opened the bag, gazing down at the smooth ovular black stone glistening in the portal’s green light. It stared back at her, like an eye into her soul. This was why she had come here, why so many people had died. Such power within one small object, the ability for such cruelty; it couldn’t stay here, not in the hands of the enemy, those who would see the death of her realm. Without directly touching it, she carefully dropped the stone into the ovular opening at the side of the structure. Upon impact, the stone violently vibrated and the material aligned, uniformly circulating around the edges of the structure. An image of a sickly forest with running orange sap along the ground and trees appeared at the centre.

  She took one last glance around her, mesmerised by this terrifying new dark fortress, before grabbing the artefact again with the bag and dropping it back inside. The sounds of clattering armour and frenzied marching echoed down the hallway, the comrades of the same foul creatures she had slain while sneaking into this dark palace. She returned the bag to the folds within her robes and shuddered, the impact of her actions crashing into reality all at once. She stepped into the image of the sick forest, feeling the power of the circulating material embracing her. As her figure moved through the portal, she tried to remain calm with an icy stare as her light green eyes filled with tears.

  They would never stop hunting her for the stone.

  Chapter I

  William relished the opportunity to visit Orwell.

  The superlative architecture, impeccably maintained streets, and clean, running water would draw any distant traveller to within the city’s glorious outer white walls; and the wealth pouring through the streets tempted the most practiced of merchants to the bustling markets. In fact, Orwell’s wealth even matched entire kingdoms, most of which had all tried countless times to conquer the city but inevitably crashed against the impregnable ancient walls. William’s excitement quickly built when he’d learned that his father was preparing for another trip to the city; he’d never miss a chance to walk through the magnificent streets of Orwell.

  William clung tightly to his thin, white shirt that covered his strong upper body and shivered. Even the fire in the inn hadn’t successfully fended off last night’s brutally chilly air; only the several layers of covers had managed that. But the sun finally rose to the North, its rays barely peaking above the distant, orange horizon bringing the vast surrounding lands into view. He strained to try and see the massive walls of Orwell in the distance – on the clearest of days, the ci
ty’s imposing walls could be seen for many miles around. But a murky haze hovered in the air this morning, hiding the imposing city from view. William knew that he and his family would all be within the city by the break of midday.

  He looked at the small sleepy village around him. Skee, a quiet farming village on the far outskirts of Orwell, always marked the end of the long journey to the city, a place for them to rest before finishing the final leg of the trip. At the centre of the small village ran a long dirt road – the only road in Skee – lined with quaint, little wooden houses on either side with thin streams of black smoke rising above most of them. Towards the end of the road stood the village’s governing house, a house only slightly grander than the rest, with a small, Brutean flag proudly waving in front of it; this place had remained loyal to the Brutean Kingdom for centuries, and Skee took pride in this. A few other Brutean banners lined other buildings in the village, most notably the only two other buildings bigger than the homes and governing house.

  Both buildings were made of fine masonry and likely represented a fair share of the small village’s little wealth. Behind William stood the inn, which contained six fully accommodated guest rooms and a cosy greeting hall. They’d been coming here for years, now, and always admired how the proud innkeepers kept it so clean. The other building in Skee, the grandest of all the buildings by far, attested to the people who lived there. Directly next to the inn across the dirt road stood a large, stone-bricked building with a red-tiled roof and several closed windows along the walls.

  It was the village pub.

  Even at this time in the morning, William could hear a few voices booming from within those stone walls. It seemed those doors never closed and never would. But he looked past the village and into the distance again in the hopes of seeing Orwell. The distant, short grasslands and arid-stricken landscape around Skee reminded him of home, the great hidden fortress of Brymar, though it would be some time before he could return. The air dried his mouth and eyes; it seemed not to matter how much water he drank, as he was always thirsty on the journey to Orwell.

  Little vegetation grew in these parts of the world; only a few species of dry trees and the most durable of grasses dared to grow in the hard, dry soils. He could see a couple of patches of trees ahead, all of them vying for the small supplies of water. Most of the water went to the village’s crops; the people here lived a hard but humble life, aware of their vulnerability and dependence on the natural spring beneath the town. If the well at the village’s centre dried up, Skee would certainly die.

  William awoke before the others to see the sun rise. He liked to witness it, to see the new day begin and prepare to seize its potential. It’s what his mother taught him from a young age, and he never forgot it. His two brothers and father always liked to sleep through the sunrise; it’s why William had so many precious memories alone with his mother in the mornings, as the two of them watched the world wake up.

  The two moons fell to the South behind him. William noticed the smell of the nearby stable attached to the inn lingering in the air; at least their horses had been able to briefly rest over the short night. Another rainless day would pass. No doubt it would be brutally hot, not a glimpse of white clouds above to block out the impending sun’s scorching heat. But the trip to Orwell would be short from here, and the cold, clean, running water through the city would be well-worth the final stretch.

  He breathed in the crisp, morning air and stretched his arms, watching the mist from each breath dissipate around him. At least the lingering cold air helped keep him awake. They’d made this trip with greater urgency than usual, taking fewer breaks along the way with much less sleep and food as a result. He slowly rubbed his eyes before running a hand through his thick, short brown hair.

  “I still don’t understand how you rise so early,” Max called out from behind as he walked out of the inn’s large door. “The sun has yet to even break the horizon.”

  “It’s a good time to reflect, to clear my mind before the day starts,” William defended as he turned to see Max, his adopted brother. “There’s no other time in the day like this, where the sleeping world is peaceful and quiet.”

  “It’s because our youngest brother isn’t talking all the time,” Max laughed to himself, but his laughter quieted. “Nonetheless, you’ve woken up earlier than usual.”

  William shook his head. “I didn’t sleep much.”

  “Does something trouble you?”

  He shrugged. “I’m just anxious to be in the city walls. This trip has been very tiring.”

  “I know you better than that,” Max said as he stood next to William, giving him a comforting nudge. He looked towards the horizon to the North. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Does father seem more agitated on this trip to you?” William could see his brother thinking and qualified his question. “I mean more than he usually is.”

  Max nodded. “He does seem determined to reach Orwell with haste this time. This will be the fastest we’ve completed the trip to the city from Brymar.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No, I don’t. He said this trip was to run an important errand in the city, but he hasn’t discussed it with me.”

  “I tried to ask,” William started, “but our conversation was interrupted. We’ve been traveling so hastily that I haven’t had the chance to bring it up again.”

  Max shrugged. “I’m sure father has a good reason. He always does.” A smiled crossed his face. “And he’s kept us alive this far.”

  William conceded a nod.

  “Usually when he doesn’t say, it’s because he wants to find out if it’s worth telling us about,” Max added. “You know how he is at times.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  Max yawned and closed his eyes, brushing off his brother’s comment. “I honestly can’t recall the last time I was this tired.”

  “We almost didn’t even stop in Skee, you know,” William pointed out, involuntarily yawning too.

  Max rubbed his hands to warm them up. “I’m glad we did stop here though. I know that Richard definitely needed the rest; our little brother doesn’t exactly cope too well on little sleep.” He chuckled to himself. “I was afraid that he’d fall off his horse.”

  William grinned, starting to laugh. “He doesn’t really need to be tired to fall off his horse.”

  “Very true,” Max said while laughing.

  But William’s smile slowly faded. “I suppose mother never had the chance to teach him how to ride though,” he solemnly muttered. “We can’t blame Richard for that.”

  “No,” Max said as he patted his brother’s shoulder, “no, we can’t.”

  William looked out into the open lands. “Its mornings like these that I miss her the most,” he said.

  He patted William’s shoulder once more. “I never spent the mornings with her like you did, but I know how much they meant to you.”

  William nodded.

  “Come on, brother,” Max said as he started to turn, “we should probably wake up the others. I want to find out why father wants to leave so soon.”

  “I’ll be right in, then,” William sombrely replied while Max walked back inside.

  He continued to look at the horizon. He thought of his mother again and gave a grave smile as his gaze dropped to the ground. Quiet contemplation, that’s what the mornings could bring. But this peace would be short lived. While he loved Orwell, the city was always deafening with its bustling crowns. Only in the early mornings could William enjoy the serenity of the sleeping world, which is why he cherished those memories with his mother so dearly.

  He took one last deep breath, treasuring the final moments of quiet, before following his brother’s lead into the inn.

  He passed through the inn’s dark, heavy wooden door and closed it behind him. A small, burning fire at the centre of the old, timber-planked floor with several chairs around it sent wafts of black smoke above to the hole in the beamed ceiling. The only
sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and the quiet snoring of a couple of village drunks laying around it, all accompanied by the subtle light smell of smoke and bright accents of yellow light fluttering around the room. Grey rocks securely lined the circular fire pit; one small ember and the whole place would erupt in flames, which is why several metal buckets full of water sat idly by the rocks for safety.

  It was a quaint interior, a humble and welcoming one. Red bricked walls lined the outer perimeter, and several thick rugs were strewn across the wooden floor with mild colours of dark browns or greens; all of the rugs were likely weaved within the Brutean Kingdom, evident by their characteristic practical durability and kingdom colour of greens. The innkeepers even managed to put a few paintings on the walls, though nothing particularly noteworthy. Most of them were undoubtedly crafted by traveling painters or tradesmen as no one in this village would have the time or resources to paint; after all, painting didn’t help with survival, and the people of Skee fought only to survive the unforgiving climate around them.

  At the far side of the long room stood a large wooden counter, where the innkeepers would stand during the business day, and a few stools scattered along the front for village patrons or visitors to sit while drinks and food were served. Behind the counter was a small door, which led to the innkeepers’ private quarters in the back, with a sign reading no entrance in bold black writing. No doubt the innkeeper would emerge after hearing movement in the front room from the guest rooms. At the back of the room, opposite to the front door, were all of the guest rooms where they’d stayed for the night, sectioned off from the main hall by a thin wooden wall and a single door.

  Aside from the couple of recovering village drunks, who’d stumbled in late last night from the pub and laid next to the hot fire, William stood alone in the room and watched Max pass into the guest quarters at the back. They hadn’t had much time for sleep as they’d arrived in the early hours of the morning, just as the two moons passed directly overhead. His youngest brother, Richard, had immediately stumbled inside to sleep while the rest of them had to tether their horses to the small stables outside and greet the innkeeper. Their horses would probably complain about leaving so soon, though all of them had endured more rigorous journeys than this. Aroden, their father, must’ve had a good reason for such haste.