The Legacy of Skur: Volume One

by L. F. Falconer

  It stood waiting. Reaching out. Reaching out to take me into its grip and strangle the live-giving breaths away.

  I held my head up, preparing to meet it, staring it in the eye that disguised itself as a noose. The steps to the platform beckoned like open arms and a sweeping dark flame inside me beseeched me to use your power! Stop this trek! Do not deny your right to victory!

  And I could feel the power arise. In my mind, I gripped onto a bright, silver sword as I turned round to look upon the face of my papa. And the gallows backed off, shrinking away as Papa prodded me past it, beyond the hungry gallows and to the castle gate.

  He stared at me in silence as he sheathed his sword and slipped a glittering black band from his upper arm. “Take this,” he told me. “You have as much right to it as I do.”

  With shaking hands, I took the gem-studded brassard and inside my heart, the dragon hissed.

  “It is made with the scales and treasure of Ragg,” Papa said. “You have earned it, and I will not fail you and your father again. Hurry. Leave now, and keep off the road. It’s not within my power to protect you if you are caught.”

  The dragon roared.

  Cupping my chin in his hands, Papa’s eyes and voice were touched with tears. “Farewell, my rum kinchin. Remember me as you knew me.”

  Through misty eyes, I watched as he mounted his horse and retreated through the courtyard. I turned and raced through the castle gate, clutching his brassard to my breast.

  A golden ember of hope sparked in the dark empty void of my soul, and in that glow I watched as my power plunged that silver sword of light it held deep into the heart of the dark demon inside me, rendering it forever powerless.

  I had slain the dragon at last.

  I would remember Papa. I would remember riding across the valley upon his horse, the wind blowing through my hair. I would remember his stories. But most of all, I would remember how his love had set me free.

  I fled into the gray night, my boots carrying me north for Lorane.

  Thank you, from the author:

  But wait! There’s more…

  Thank you for taking this journey with me so far. I am pleased to say that Elva’s story has just begun. If you have not done so already, now would be the perfect time to acquaint yourself with the characters in The Vagabond’s Son, Prelude to a Legacy, who make their appearance in Part Four.

  In an effort to further entice your interest, I have provided a short excerpt from the first chapter of Part Four of The Legacy of Skur, Volume Two.

  Enjoy!

  The Phantoms of the Moor

  Rudne was dead, his sword plunged through his neck by his own hand but not of his own will. The hideous vision played over and again through Elva’s mind as her soft-booted footsteps carried her along the rutted, grass-tufted banks of North River. Paying no heed to the silvery moonlight casting its night shadows about her, all she could see was Rudne—his severed left hand bleeding, jerking upon the dark stone floor, his right hand still clutching the bloody sword, pushing it ever closer to his own neck.

  She didn’t regret killing him. Not after what he’d done, but she wished she had waited, wished she’d had the chance to speak with Papa before being forced to flee. Ten years was a long time, and it would be a long time, too, before she dared return to the castle again.

  Across the river, the distant drum of horses upon the road brought her feet to a halt and she crouched into the shadow of a boulder on the riverbank to watch the moonlit road. The riders advanced, four of them in all. The two in the lead sped past, continuing their hurried journey while the two that followed slowed their mounts to a walk, stealthily scanning the landscape, swords and armor shimmering in the light of the full moon.

  Elva held her breath. As she slowly and silently removed the stark white cap from her head, then shoved it beneath the cover of her emerald green cape, her heart thudded as fiercely as the first two horsemen’s hooves upon the road. It was doubtful she had enough strength left to overpower these warriors. Rudne had seen to that. This power of hers was not unlimited, and it had taken nearly everything she had to force Rudne to cut off his own hand and then end his own life, and that less than one hour ago. It took time to recuperate from such expenditure. Time she hadn’t had.

  The two warriors continued their vigilant trek and she prayed their night sight wasn’t as keen as her own, and she damned the foul brightness of the moon. She couldn’t shake the impending feeling that they could see her—that their eyes were upon her at this very moment and the feeling caused her a shudder. Though no longer disguised as a boy, like when she’d last been seen with Rudne, when she’d last been seen with blood upon her hands (even though that blood had been her own), still she would certainly be recognized if she were captured and returned to the castle, and Papa had warned her that he could not save her if she were caught. She would die at the hands of the angry warriors for having killed one of their own.

  The soft murmurs of the dark, rolling waters that separated Elva from the warriors on the road were interrupted by a sudden splash upriver, accompanied by a small yelp. It caught the attention of the warriors and they hastened toward the sound.

  Elva held her place, daring not move. That splash was no fish. Most likely it was a night feeder of some sort, which put a new fear into her heart. Wolves were not unknown to roam the moor, and all the night feeders, both the hunted and the hunters, would be drawn to the fresh waters of the river. But she feared to abandon the riverbank, for it alone offered any secluded cover, and only it and the road led the way back to Lorane. It would be better to take her chances with these warriors that sought her than to venture out into that boggy moor known as Fadir’s Fen, an undulating marshland pitted with sinkholes. A fair defense of the castle’s north side, the muck had claimed more than one unsuspecting life.

  Daring to bring herself to her knees, she freed her hands of the gift Papa had given her. Lifting the skirt of the smicket she’d stolen from her sister’s dresser to silently unbuckle the sword belt from beneath it, the golden hilt of the weapon shone in the moonlight as she carefully buckled it over the top of her dress. Concealing its shine beneath her cape, she was somewhat relieved that now, at least, the weapon was within easy reach.

  As she crouched back down into the shadow of the boulder, light mists gathered upon the moor behind her while the river before her rippled a lullaby. Across the shimmering waters not far up the road, the two warriors had come to a halt, nearly obscured by a cluster of yews.

  Peering across the river where the sound of the splash had drawn them, one of the warriors called, “Come out, boy!” and Elva recognized the voice at once. It was the red-haired captain, the one she had unfairly defeated in the challenge when she’d used the power of her mind to force the sword from his hand, thus enabling her to be accepted as a warrior despite her tiny stature. He had compared her to the size of his pego, however she was most certain he’d been exaggerating on that point.

  “Come out,” the captain called again. “We are not here to kill you. You will get a fair trial before the Council.”

  Save for the soft chirrups of crickets and the whispers of the river and the breeze, the night was silent.

  “He is not here, sir,” the captain’s companion said. “Surely it was just a fox we heard.”

  “He came from Lorane,” the captain said. “He will return to Lorane. We will continue to patrol this bloody road, Lund, and whether we pursue foxes or mice along the way, we will eventually find him so that justice can be done.”

  Elva’s heart sank. They would be watching and waiting for her in Lorane. But she had to return there, somehow, for she had promised Gwin. He was waiting for her. She couldn’t betray that promise.

  Let those warriors pursue foxes. Or mice. Anything but her. The captain spoke of justice, but she knew what justice would be done. She couldn’t trust the council to give her a fair trial, for she had gulled them all into believing she was a boy. They had bestowed the title of warrio
r upon her. To discover her now, to discover her secret, would jeopardize not only her life but Papa’s as well.

  She inched back noiselessly. Since they were watching the river and the road, she would take her chances upon the moor. If the mist didn’t thicken by drastic proportions, hopefully she’d not lose her direction or stumble into a bog.

  Continuing to crawl her way back away from the riverbank, she stopped, silently cursing herself. Gleaming in the moonlight beside the stone that had sheltered her lay the black brassard Papa had given her. After she’d repositioned her sword, she’d neglected to pick it back up.

  She crept back to the stone and kept her eyes peeled upon the warriors on the road. Though the two men slowly faded from sight, working their way up the road, still Elva could distinctly feel their eyes upon her. “It is only your anxiety,” she quietly scolded herself, picking up the bejeweled armband. Oh, how it sparkled in the silvery light, the glittering dark scales of the dragon setting off the rainbow radiance of the gems embedded within.

  She recalled Skile once telling her how the warriors of old would often claim a trophy from a defeated foe—a hand, or the hair, or an ear—and wear the stolen token as an adornment. Tillaman warriors had long since abandoned this gruesome custom when it came to battle with other men, but apparently no so with dragons. Papa wore the brassards as proof of his valor for having slain the beast, and tears crept into her eyes as she realized the respect Papa had granted her by bestowing this precious gift laden with tiny bits of the treasure that had lured her true father to his death. She dared not lose it.

  She tried to wrap it about the sleeve of her dress but it was much too big for her own arm. Giving it a study, her fingers worked at loosening the knot of the leather thong that bound the ends together. Once unbound, she slipped it about her head like a narrow black crown, and retied the thong. It would stay put now.

  Cautiously, she peered back out at the road, making sure the way was clear before easing her way from the boulder once more. Rising back to her feet, she turned around and gasped. Her heart lodged itself in her throat. The red-haired man stood directly before her, left hand resting upon his hip while the other held onto a gleaming, silver blade. A faint, yellow astonishment colored his face.

  How had he gotten across the river so fast, she wondered in a shocked instant before it dawned on her that, in spite of the red hair, the figure before her was not the warrior captain at all. He was quite yellow, not green, and but a child. No, not a child either, even though he was small, even smaller than she by slight degrees. His hairless face held a boyish edge, but he was obviously no boy. Slender, yet far from frail, he was dressed in a long green tunic and tall brown boots. His affable, liquid green eyes shone in the night like a malkin’s, and below his loose-fitting brown cap were two sharply pointed ears. Clothed all in green and brown, had it not been for the coppery hair, the silver sword, and the sunny aura, she might have passed him by in the surrounding shrubbery.

  This was no boy and this was no Man, Elva’s mind registered. Nor was it a blastie or a troll, despite his dwarfed size, but the thought was fleeting for the figure moved then and on instinct, Elva reached for her sword the same instant that the power of her mind flipped the intruder’s weapon up and away from his grasp.

  His mouth dropped open and he gasped, gaping at his empty hand. At that moment, as if stepping out of the very air, two more boyish sprites now flanked the redhead’s sides. Both were slightly taller and the tallest of the three, a dripping wet brunet, purple with the most beautiful blue eyes Elva had ever beheld, brandished his curved sword defensively. The one on the left, a blue archer with shocking white hair, trained his drawn bow upon her with due gravity.

  Elva froze in place….

  Praise for The Vagabond’s Son, Prelude to a Legacy

  “L.F. Falconer does a superb job of captivating the reader with this unique fairy tale with a dark interior. As is forewarned, this is not a book for the meek…This unique tale is imaginative, captivating, and worthy to be in the company of the likes of Quentin Tarantino and Tim Burton. Brava, Ms. Falconer!”-----Steven Fisher, Readers’ Favorite

  “L.F. Falconer took me by storm. I was so engrossed in this book that I literally could not put it down…I was captured by the heart of Adalanto even in the circumstances that haunted him throughout his story…I could easily see this book on the big screen. It is just that exciting and heartbreaking at the same time. Five stars.”-----Jennifer Hass, Reader Views

  “The novel has a well-developed background with beautifully imagined articles such as meals, clothing and deeply-described scenery.”-----Cate Baum, Self-Publishing Review

  “This novel was beautifully written with amazing details and character development. The style of writing had me on the edge of my seat.”-----Paula Tran, Readers’ Favorite

  Also By L.F. Falconer

  The Vagabond’s Son

  Prelude to a Legacy

  The ogres call them pixies, and who in their right mind is going to argue with an ogre? Certainly not Laramato when he sells them his wife. This is the story of the child left behind. Born to an outlaw, he rises to power only to betray his kingdom in the end. Six months shy of the age of two when his mother disappears, Adalanto is left in the insular care of a drunken brute. But his most difficult battle for survival doesn’t begin until he leaves home. Suddenly thrust into society, the emerging demons he carries within threaten every aspect of his young life—from his stormy temperament, his view of women, the moral choices he makes, to the all-consuming thirst for the love he never knew. Join Adalanto on a challenging adventure through the Black Wood as he seeks the key that will finally free his spirit in this fresh, dramatic prequel.

  Learn more at: www.outskirtspress.com/vagabond