Green Rising

by AZ Kelvin

  Green Rising

  www.azkelvin.com

  The bookshelf of

  AZ Kelvin

  The Altered Moon Series

  Rise of the Altered Moon

  Curse of the Altered Moon

  Apogee of the Altered Moon

  The Druids of Arden

  Green Rising

  Projects in the works:

  The Druids of Arden

  Southern Winds

  Here We Ghost

  For more information on The Druids of Arden and other projects AZ is working on be sure to visit:

  www.azkelvin.com

  The Druids of Arden: Book One

  Green Rising

  Written by

  AZ Kelvin

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, vessels, events, incidents, and every other scrap of this story are the products of the author’s vivid imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events and locations is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved.

  Written and published in the USA.

  Green Rising

  Published by Lee Companies, LLC. Copyright 2017

  Edited by Nikki Busch/nikkibuschediting.com

  Original cover design: CJ Lee * Story Wrangler: Sunny Lee

  First edition 2017 eBook ISBN: 978-0-9913050-3-2

  Lee Companies, LLC. Kalamazoo, Michigan

  For Pat,

  A childhood friend,

  Who fought to the end.

  Foreword

  Greetings reader,

  Welcome to the first book of the Druids of Arden Series and thank you for reading. Green Rising is a fantasy fiction story about a multicultural group of people banding together to form the Druidic Order of Arden and rise in defense against the Disciples of Nemilos who would see the ancient watersheds and old growth forests of their world poisoned and destroyed.

  Green Rising has a cast of characters with speech patterns and dialects originating from the different geographical locations across the northern and southern continents of their fictional world, Arden.

  Five locations and six dialects are involved with Green Rising: Vakere to the southeast of the northern continent, Shaan along the south and southwest, Raskan to the northwest and north, and Kalnu to the north, with Onomala River Basin the sole location from the southern continent.

  Human speech patterns can range from crisp and precise to sloppy and clipped, but usually one can be geographically identified by inherent accents and dialects. When I began writing Green Rising, I used very heavy phonetic accents and felt it hindered the story flow, so I backed off until I found a good mix of accent and readability.

  Below you will find the same conversation written out in all dialects used in the story to serve as an example of the differences. As for the characters in the story, I will leave the flavoring of the vocal tones and the depth of the timbres up to your imagination.

  I hope you like the story as much as I do. Cheers! - AZK

  Sample dialog:

  “Yes, I heard you, but I will not be going to the festival tomorrow.”

  “You have to go. It is the last festival before the end of the season.”

  “No, I tell you, I cannot. I do not have the time if I am to finish my lesson.”

  “Ugh, you do not have to do that now, do you? You know there is nothing better than wandering around a festival.”

  Vakerian:

  “Yes, I heard you, but I will not be attending tomorrow’s festival.”

  “You have to go. This festival offers the chance to bid farewell to the season.”

  “No, I must say again, I cannot. I have not the time if I am to finish my lesson.”

  “Ugh, the need for that is secondary, yes? You know nothing beats wandering around a festival.”

  Shaanlander:

  “Yi, I heard ya, but I won’t be goin’ ta the festival tomorrow.”

  “Ya have ta go. It’s the last festival before the season’s end.”

  “Ni, I tell ya, I can’t. I don’t have the time if I’m ta finish me lesson.”

  “Ugh, ya don’t have ta do that now, do ya? Ya know there’s nothin’ better than wanderin’ around a festival.”

  Raskanish:

  “Aye, I heard ye, but I’ll nae be goin’ ta the festival on the morrow.”

  “Ye have ta go, ’tis the last festival afore season’s end.”

  “Nae, I say, I cannae. I dinnae have the time if I am ta finish ma lesson.”

  “Eck, ye dinnae have ta do that now, do ye? Ye know there’s naught better than wanderin’ around a festival.”

  Kalnuvian:

  “Yah, I hear you, but I’ll not be a’going to the festival tomorrow.”

  “You have to be a’going, love. It be the last festival afore the end of the season.”

  “Nah, I told you once already, I can’t be. I don’t be having the time if I am to finish my lesson.”

  “Och, you don’t be having to do such at this very moment, do you? You know there be nothing better than wandering around a festival.”

  Gwylari:

  “Yay, I hear thee, alas the morrow’s festival must suffer mine absence.”

  “Thee must go. ’Tis the festival which endeth the season.”

  “Nay, I tell thee, I cannot. Mine lesson must reach completion ’ere the opportunity to do so expireth.”

  “Ugh, thou dost not need to complete such at present, dost thee? Thy knowest nothing is better than wandering around a festival.”

  Onomali:

  “Yes, I did hear you, but I will not be going to de festival tomorrow.”

  “You have to go. It will be de last festival before de end of de season.”

  “No, I have said, I cannot. I do not have de time if I am to finish my lesson.”

  “Ugh, you do not have to finish dat today, do you? You know dere is nodding better dan wandering around a festival.”

  Well, now, I hope your imagination is fully engaged and you are settled in a nice comfortable spot. You are about to embark upon a journey with the druids as they travel across the Arden countryside fighting foes to save the environment from destruction while making new friends, forgiving old ones, and even finding love.

  Now, for your reading enjoyment – Green Rising.

  *~*~*

  Chapter One

  Quinlan tried not to be short-tempered. His six-year-old legs barely reached the stirrups cinched to the shortest length. The horse was too big for him. Every stride the horse took meant another collision between tailbone and saddle leather. His backside hurt because he had been on the too-big horse all day, but he would not complain, not one bit, nor would he ride sidesaddle to ease the discomfort.

  He wanted to live down Tenderfoot, his older brother’s nickname for him. Once Quinlan tried to outrace his older brother, Lanry, but had to stop because his feet hurt. Lanry had called him Tenderfoot ever since. He didn’t want to think about what Lanry would call him if he ever found out what was sore after this trip.

  Most of his horsemanship training had been on much smaller breeds and limited to around his village of Calamere. He was surprised and excited when his papa announced Quinlan could come along to a Gwylari market more than three days’ ride away. He had never been farther than the village limits before and he was determined to enjoy every minute of it no matter how much his backside hurt.

  Riklan slowed his horse and brought him to a halt. He turned slightly in his saddle to look at him. His father had the typical olive-hued skin and dark features of the Vakerian people. Dark reddish-brown hair swept down past the collar of his tunic. Streaks of grey crept out from the temples. Black eyebrows shrouded deep brown eyes and fine black hair sprouted from cheek, lip, and chin.

  �
�How are you, Quin?”

  “I’m fine, Papa.” He tried not to squirm in the saddle, but he was sore everywhere.

  Riklan smiled at his son. “It’s been a long day. There’s a Gwylari inn amidst the farms right over the next rise. We can get a meal and a bed. Get an early start tomorrow.”

  Quinlan cleared his throat. “Well, if you need to, Papa…”

  “Ha! Ha, ha! Then we ride through the night.” Riklan turned his horse away from the road to the inn.

  “We, um,” Quinlan spoke quicker than he could think, “should consider the horses, Papa. They might like a bag of oats after such a long day.”

  Riklan slowly turned his horse back around. “Think so, do you? All right then, lead on.”

  The sun was low on the horizon as they crested the final ridge of the day’s journey. Pockets of shifting soft colors stood out here and there across the fields below. The glow became brighter throughout the glade surrounding the inn.

  “Papa, why does it glow?”

  “Magic of the Gwylari.”

  “Uh-uh!”

  Riklan put his hand over his chest. “Truth be told.”

  “Magic?” Quinlan looked out over the fields.

  “And the inn is built from living trees bent and woven together by magic. Look there, where the glow is brightest.”

  Quinlan looked to the west end of the large valley. A structure in the distance gave off the same soft glow as the plants and trees surrounding it.

  The form of the inn became clearer as they approached. Twenty-two hardwood trees stood around the exterior of the inn. Dozens of large branches reached out from each tree twisting and interlocking with the branches of the other trees to make the walls of the building. Oblong window openings that had grown into the branch infrastructure allowed sunlight and fresh air inside. Braced from underneath by intermediate limbs, layers of an over-lapping large-leafed canopy kept out the weather better than any thatch or clay roofing ever could. Plant-based oil torches burning with a smokeless flame illuminated the exterior of the building and the corral beside it.

  A Gwylari man met them at the corral gate as they rode up. “Greetings, friends, hath thee traveled far?”

  Quinlan thought the man talked more to their horses than he did to them.

  Riklan answered, “We have come from the southern coast. They’ve done well today, so double the oats and throw in an apple or two if you would, please.”

  “’Twill be so,” the man replied and swayed forward into a slight bow.

  Quinlan watched a group of younger Gwylari greet their horses and lead them into the corral. He could not believe how fast they removed the saddle and reins. They spoke softly to the horses as they brushed them down and put feedbags on. Their mounts seemed quite content with the Gwylari’s attention, but he felt they should not talk so strangely to his horse.

  Riklan put his arm around Quinlan’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “Nothing to worry about. With the Gwylari, our horses will most likely get a better room than we do.”

  His papa always seemed to know what he was thinking. “They talked strange to her.”

  “The Gwylari are friends of all animals, Quin. They’ll be fine. Come on.”

  The inn’s interior was even more awesome to Quinlan. He expected the inside of a tree house to be dirty and crawling with bugs. The Wayhouse of Rou Vale was far from the dirty hovel he had imagined.

  Beautifully woven tapestries hung about the walls. The hallways were made of ivy vines grown together until the weave was too tight to see through. Smaller versions of the smokeless oil lamps lit the rooms and an area of tables in front of the reception desk. Eight patrons in two groups and one solo sat among the tables in quiet conversation while they ate.

  A Gwylari woman greeted them as they entered the inn. Her long blond hair hung straight past the sides of her head like twin waterfalls of liquid gold. She had tan, weathered skin; calloused hands; and the greenest eyes Quinlan had ever seen. He gazed into those deep emerald eyes and completely forgot his soreness from the day’s long ride.

  “Pleasant night, travelers, thou art welcome at the Wayhouse of Rou Vale. I am Mare.”

  Riklan nodded in response. “Gratitude, Mare. I am Riklan and this is my son, Quinlan.”

  “Shin Lahqui,” Quinlan blurted out the Gwylari formal greeting for good day, which was the only one he knew.

  Mare and Riklan shared a smile.

  She kindly corrected him. “Shin Lahquen, young one, for the sun hast fallen below the world.”

  “Oh…” Quin replied and whispered the new phrase a few times over.

  “We seek a meal and a room for the night,” Riklan said.

  “Of course. This way to thy room.”

  Quin thought back to when he sat around the cooking fire listening to his mother, Quella, and her sister, Cheari, talk about the Gwylari.

  He heard his mama’s voice in his mind. “The Gwylari are more akin to the land in many ways than they are to the other folk of Arden. They’re the last of all folk to follow the teachings of Na’veyja and the living energy of the deep woods. They’re masterful weavers of a magic they call the flaura. The Gwylari are taller and slimmer than most of Arden’s folk, but they’re bodies are strong and wiry, made so by their way of life.”

  His auntie was a great storyteller and loved to play to the crowd, which included Quinlan and the other children of his town. “Their slim graceful bodies and large deep-colored eyes weave a magic and take hold of your mind. Peer at them and they stand perfectly still, yet out of the corner of the eye, they gently weave back and forth as if they bend to a slight breeze or drift in the waters.”

  “Cheari, don’t frighten the children,” his mama said with a touch of scolding to her voice. “The Gwylari way is to be peaceful and quiet, patient and watchful. They are Arden’s perfect shepherds and farmers.”

  “Oh, just a bit of fun, Quella.” Cheari smiled a scoundrel’s smile. “She’s right, children, the Gwylari are a wondrous people. Do you know, from a young age, they weave and braid living plants in their hair and clothing?” She stopped to place her hand on her chest. “Truth be told! The clothing sustains the plants woven into them and the plants give off a soft glow. They can add or change plants whenever they wish when they want different colors or smells. And they can blend in with the plant life around them when they desire, too.”

  “The strange look of their clothing does have a practical aspect as well, children,” Quella said. “Specific woven designs and colors indicate status, such as the individual’s trade and skill level within Gwylari society. The tribes of the Gwylari live in complete harmony with the land they tend and in turn, they are nurtured by it. Once, long ago before the wars, it’s said, all folks of Arden could blend with the flaura, but now only the Gwylari still follow the ancient beliefs. They are a peaceful folk and do not partake in the eating of animals. The Gwylari are farmers, weavers, and craft masters of unique skill and renown. Pay them respect should you ever meet any.”

  Quella’s words echoed in Quinlan’s mind as they followed Mare down a hallway. Small yellow, blue, and white flowers lined the stitching of Mare’s earth-toned robes. The same blossom train circled her head with blossom streamers flowing down throughout her golden hair.

  “Papa, how does she put the flowers on her clothes?”

  “She wove them in with magic, I expect.”

  Quinlan’s mind raced with images of powerful wizards fighting monsters and shooting beams of power from their fingers. “Does she fight monsters?”

  “Ha ha, no, Quin, we’re far from any danger here.”

  Mare led them to a room upstairs and slid open a thick curtain of ivy vines. She whispered to an oil lamp, which began to burn and light the room. An oblong window gave view to the woods beyond. Two cots lined one wall and a larger bed sat in a far corner opposite a washbasin.

  “My papa says you made this with your magic,” Quinlan said to Mare.

  “With the grace of Na’ve
yja, Master Quinlan, the Gwylari serve and Na’veyja provides.”

  Quinlan turned to Riklan. “Is that who we’re going to see?”

  “No, Quin, Na’veyja is, ah—a goddess, of sorts.” He turned to Mare. “We travel to the druid gathering to meet an old friend and to hear of the Order of Arden.”

  “A worthy cause. Time hath clouded keen eyes and shadows doth grow.”

  “What d—” Riklan began to ask.

  “You mean like Seathia, Goddess of the Waters?”

  “Not really, Quin,” Riklan answered. “Mare, what did you mean?”

  “All Gwylari hath seen how Na’veyja weakens. Rou Vale once shone bright with her flaura. Now, it doth glimmer much less.”

  Quinlan tried to think of other gods and goddesses his mother told him about. “There’s Penle, Goddess of the Storm Winds.”

  “We’ll talk about it later, Quin.”

  A Gwylari man showed up carrying a tray with a pitcher, glasses, sprigs of mint, and hand towels. Mare gestured to the washbasin in the corner of the room. He bowed slightly, put down the tray, and left.

  “Here is water and mint to refresh thee. Dine at thy leisure. The hearth is warm ’til midnight. The privies set right outside the back entry. Rest thee well.”

  “Gratitude, Mare. May I give you this?” He reached into his travel bundle.

  “Payment is not required, Master Riklan,” Mare said.

  “Oh, I know. Not my first night in a Gwylari Wayhouse.” He produced a walnut-sized seed and gave it to Mare.

  “A palerin seed? A most generous gift, Master Riklan, thee hath mine gratitude. We shalt all share of its fruit with our morning meal.” She placed her hand on her chest and leaned forward slightly. “Shin lahquen.”

  Quinlan watched everything she did and repeated it back to her. She smiled and the ivy curtain closed leaving him alone with his papa.

  “Papa, she’s…”

  “Oddly beautiful, yes?”