by TP Keane
The Paladins of Naretia
Book one in the Naretia series.
Copyright ?2016 by TP Keane
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any manner whatsoever without the written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Inquirers may be sent via:
www.tpkeane.com
Massachusetts, USA
First Edition
Printed in the United States of America
Cover Design by www.ebooklaunch.com
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data Available
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016900714
ISBN: 978-0-9971793-1-6
10-ISBN: 0-9971793-0-7
To my wonderful husband, Peter, who stood by my ambitions, and selflessly gave up A LOT of his time to be my sounding board.
To Mark and Ryan, the bringers of joy, inspiration, cups of tea, and cuddles.
Chapter 1
A stiff, snow-laden wind pushed against Ol?rin as he walked out into the night. It was bitter and persuaded him to wrap his cloak around him more tightly. The tidy mountain village of Valeskeep hunkered down against the icy winter squall; its hunched, thatched backs oblivious to the journey he must take. 'Just three ingredients,' he thought. 'Three treasures hidden for eons in the ancientness of Naretia. Two I can find easy enough, but pry less easily from the hands that covet them.'
Ol?rin shivered, his gaze following the path the gusts took up the steep mountains. Somewhere within the jagged claws scoring the thick clouds above, lay the first ingredient. To obtain it he must meet his beloved Goddess, Edwina. He must face her, and his weaknesses. She will judge him, know him, and Ol?rin so desperately wanted to be seen as worthy.
He cast his gaze back to the window, through which the warming glow of a fire fought against the darkness outside. He burned the memory of the jovial tavern into his mind, for fear he would never see it again, before digging his walking stick into the drifting snow ahead of him. If there had been a road, it was lost now to the knee-high white powder crunching beneath his feet.
A few tankards of courage had staved off the ice from his innards, but the feeling was fading fast. Shutters latched and all noise of life muted by the gale, the homes of Valeskeep appeared abandoned. But, of course, Ol?rin knew they weren't.
A biting wind whipped at his long beard and stung his wrinkled cheeks until they were numb. He pulled himself along the narrow streets, breathing harder with every step, one hand keeping a firm grip on his battered old hat. Where the brim used to be wide and stiff, it dangled now, drooping over his face like a soggy biscuit. The proud point which had once stood to attention on the top of his head was deflated, battered and hung behind him like a cape. As decrepit as his hat was, he would not part with it for all the gold in Naretia. It had been with him since his days of apprenticeship and contained all of his supplies. It was also the only thing keeping his bald head warm.
The frozen homes of Valeskeep, shut tight against the storm, billowed sideways smoke from their chimneys and belied their desolate exterior with the signs of life from within. In the brief moments when the wind died down, he could make out the aroma of burnt wood and hearty evening meals wafting down from the stacks. 'How nice it must be to live a life of obliviousness,' he thought.
The truth was that he was bitterly jealous of the happy ignorance he saw with each passing town. It seemed to him that, for the past six years, his life had consisted of nothing more than passing by all the things that made it worth living: Huddling around a warm fire with loved ones, drinking a robust wine with good friends, and the ordinary comforts he only dipped his toe into now and again, so he didn't forget. These were the sacrifices he had no choice but to make. The whim of his Goddess, Edwina, commanding his full attention. His mood grew sombre as he continued on and left the village in the dead of night, no more existing in its memory than a fallen leaf swept away by dry autumn winds.
It wasn't long before the rows of thatched cottages melted away behind Ol?rin. Beyond the outskirts of the town, deep in a lonely mountain pass, he heard a familiar sound which drew his eyes toward the sky. As the winter winds began to howl, the sound of the rhythmic beating of enormous wings defied its doggedness and came closer.
Ol?rin stopped and waited. From within the clouds above, he saw the silhouette of man with black wings descend toward him. Snow swished and swirled in every direction, disturbed by the slow, powerful beating of his wings, until the man's boots landed with a muffled crunch. Ol?rin could only make out the man's two slatted, amber eyes as they came toward him. It was a sight that normally filled the hearts of men with fear, but Ol?rin did not fear this man.
"Good evening, Aramus," he said, the frosty winds almost taking away his words.
"Ol?rin Talfan. Have you had your fill of pleasantries for today?" a cool and deep voice said, having no trouble with the thiefly gale.
"I could do with a damn sight more," he answered, heaving a heavy-booted foot from the snow and restarting his laborious march up the mountain.
The winged man clasped his uncovered hands behind his back, as though it might have been a summer's day. It irked Ol?rin. While he worked hard to keep his thin frame upright against the winds, Aramus seemed none-too-bothered about the turbulent weather: His powerful strides even and sure. Ol?rin struggled to find his grip on a path that seemed to want to reach the clouds in a terrible hurry.
The only part of Aramus which relented to the storm was his dark, shoulder-length hair tussling in the gusts. A slightly hooked nose accentuated Aramus's hawkish features, but his broad jaw eased this appearance somewhat. He had the look of his father about him, the dark God Dantet, and was what many had come to fear. 'So they rightly should.'
A thin, brown satchel nestled along his spine between his wings and was tied firmly with a leather strap across his broad chest. In all the time that Ol?rin had known Aramus he had never once seen it leave his person, not even for a moment. But having survived the terrible life he was dealt, Ol?rin wasn't surprised about the young man's possessiveness over his only property.
A memory of him as an eleven-year-old boy came flooding back to Ol?rin then; one of how he had been surrounded by twelve fully grown men maddened by superstition. Their only intention, to kill the cursed child they knew nothing about. It was the first time Ol?rin and he had met, and it was not a pretty scene to happen upon. Three of the young man's assailants lay gutted on the ground still writhing in pain, and if Ol?rin hadn't interjected, he was sure the others would have soon followed.
In the six years he had known the young man, his emotions and features were as though they were made of stone. He never outwardly showed that his life, the acts he had committed, or the hateful prejudices of man, weighed on his mind for even a second. It never rested well with Ol?rin, or the prophecy infused in his mind, that the young man appeared incapable of feeling anything.
"Why not take more time?" Aramus asked. "We can scale the mountains tomorrow. The weather might be more favourable then, and I'm worried a journey like this would be too much for you, old man."
Ol?rin stopped and faced Aramus, only a little annoyed at his condescension. Although, he thought of him as a man, he knew this boy to be only seventeen-years-old, a baby really compared to his nearly two hundred and ninety-eight years of existence. His youthfulness, however, was evident in his ability to be patronising without realising.
He studied the young man's features for a moment longer, searching for any hint that his concern was genuine. But as always, despite his words, Aramus's expression was indifferent. His concern gave him hope, however, that Aramus wasn
't so much like his dark father. More importantly, it gave him hope that the small shred of humanity he had inherited from his mother was proof the prophecy could be avoided. If not, then every living creature in Naretia would surely perish.
"We are in troubled times, Aramus," Ol?rin began. "Dantet is gathering his army, and now his soldiers hide in the shadows of Naretia. Only the mountains of the east and the elven woods to the west have been untouched by it." Ol?rin continued walking, his expression darkening with every step. "Even the capital, Lothangard, has had its veins muddied by his blood, and the infection is spreading death throughout the land. I fear it won't be long until these vile forces reveal themselves.
"When that happens, the last refuges of mortals will be plunged into the midst of a war they knew nothing about. We have no time to dwell in places meant for families and old friends. Our path takes us far away from such pleasantries."
"And what path would that be, old man?"
Ol?rin was quiet for a time. He had never told Aramus the particulars of the vision he had had over two hundred years ago, long before the young man was born. He had never wanted to tell him he was destined to be the catalyst that would see Dantet rise again and end all life in Naretia. It was a burden Ol?rin did not wish Aramus to carry. It was enough that he was feared and hated by anyone who clapped eyes on his large black wings and amber eyes, the same physical traits his father bore.
Ol?rin had only ever told Aramus that his father had cursed him when he was born, causing him to not feel the way a mortal should. What he didn't tell Aramus was his affliction gave the young man the ability to become as remorseless and as cruel as Dantet himself. Not only that, but it would also imbue him with powers no mortal should ever have. He had hinted that this curse might be an unfavourable trait for a happy life, but had never told him of the scarred landscape and the burnt corpses he saw every time his eyes grew heavy at night.
"We go east, deep into the Saraethian Mountains, wherein we will search for the meeting place of the Gods."
"Why would the Gods need a meeting place on mortal soil?" Aramus asked.
"Because sometimes mortals behave like petulant children and need to be sat down and talked to directly."
Aramus laughed. His voice echoed loudly in the mountain pass and the sound of it was strange to Ol?rin's ears as it so very rarely happened. Much of the young man's emotions were hidden, but Ol?rin was convinced that they were there? somewhere. They had to be because he was half-human, after all.
The road had long since disintegrated into a snow shoot lined on either side with sheer faces of sparkling grey stone. Acid winds raced down the trail, whistling the lonely song of a blizzard. Ol?rin's foot slipped and if it weren't for Aramus's steady hand catching him by the arm, he was positive that he would have slid all the way back to Valeskeep.
"Come on, you old goat," Aramus said, shifting the strap of his satchel across his chest and stepping behind Ol?rin. "If we stay walking you'll be three hundred before we get to our destination."
Before Ol?rin had a chance to object, he found himself soaring through the frigid air, like a mouse caught in a hawk's claws. Such was the power and the speed Aramus took off with, that his hat blew right off his bald head. He only barely managed to grab onto it with his free hand before the bitterness of the night struck it numb.
As Ol?rin looked down at the disappearing glow of Valeskeep, he felt the overwhelming need to vomit. The rapid take-off turned into a graceful glide at dizzying heights, and Ol?rin could breathe more easily again.
"Aramus," he shouted, trying not to look down, "how many times do I have to tell you? You can't just pick up someone and fly off with them. It's considered rude, you know?"
Aramus didn't say anything, and Ol?rin hit him with his twisted walking stick, giving a snort of indignation. Ol?rin's discomfort wasn't just because he disliked flying. He was all too aware that he was getting old, and he didn't like to be reminded of it. Especially not by the likes of a strong, young man such as Aramus.
"Old man," Aramus said calmly from above him, "hit me again and I'll drop you."
Ol?rin was the one not to reply this time. 'Indeed and you would,' he thought. It was for that very reason that Ol?rin had sacrificed so much of his life. He had no choice, because under the rule of the Goddess Edwina wizards weren't permitted to murder. Ol?rin had to find another way to save them all. But there were others who didn't want him to succeed. He could feel the ever-nearing reach of a young girl who was not under the same constraint as the wizards. And Ol?rin feared her resolve to remove their heads would soon see her victorious.