CLARION OF DESTINY
HOME LOST
By Franz S. McLaren
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Clarion of Destiny, Home Lost
Copyright 2013 by Franz S. McLaren
Cover art Copyright 2013 by Amber MacDonald
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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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DEDICATION
To George Clayton Johnson
Your words and your wisdom have made this possible
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PROLOGUE
Robart looked at the small exhausted group. These tattered stragglers were the last free humans and they were dying.
Tears of frustration and sorrow clouded his vision. They trusted him, depended on him, and he failed. Of the thousands that once believed in him, less than two dozen remained.
None had strength left to run. Few could walk unsupported by the scarecrow next to him. He counted weapons, three bows, maybe a dozen knives and one sword, his. Most weapons had been discarded to save strength for escape. Escape he knew was impossible.
A man stumbled and fell.
As though this was a signal, the group shuffled to a stop and wilted slowly to the ground. Most were asleep before their heads settled on the soft matting of leaves covering the forest floor. Others sat, forearms resting on bent knees, hands drooping, heads hung in defeat. All knew the end of the chase was near. They could not rise for one more effort. Now was the time to wait for capture and endlessly painful lives of slavery in orc mines.
Robart had no heart left to urge them further. Even if he could, what would it matter? In all directions, he heard orcs and goblins moving to surround them. They had nowhere left to run. They were encircled by an army they could not defeat even if they were fresh and well armed. The army was too large and they were too few.
He had to think, to find some way to escape. They had not struggled so long, been through so much, only to face defeat. Thoughts darted uselessly through his brain. His mind refused to settle on any idea long enough to examine it.
A plan.
He needed a plan and he needed it quickly. There had to be a solution. Before an idea could build, a goblin, then several more, stepped into the clearing. In seconds they were surrounded by a strong, well-armed ring of a hundred orcs and goblins. Hundreds more pressed the back of these, thickening the circle, erasing hope of escape.
A crushing anvil of defeat settled on Robart’s shoulders. His body pressed slowly to his knees by the weight. His head dropped, acknowledging failure.
On the ground before him, an ant scurried across the face of a withered leaf. This small creature, living a life of servitude, would have more freedom and less pain than his group.
The conquering ring was as silent and patient as a circle of rocks. Robart waited like a condemned man anticipating the sharp kiss of the executioner's axe. No, a condemned could look forward to the release of death. Robart and his group could not hope for even that small blessing. Their lives would be prolonged as long as their screams pleased their captors.
The Garlan branch, the talisman that led them to this defeat, dug beneath his ribs. What good had it done? He tried many times to use it and each attempt failed.
He remembered the midwinter night he found it. Everything seemed so simple then. He knew the legend of Skylar, the first wielder of a Garlan branch. When Skylar waved the Garlan branch, orcs and goblins fled in fear. How Robart wished the Garlan branch worked so simply. Something vital was missing. Skylar, gone for five hundred years, had been a farmer’s son. Unschooled, he left no writings. Truth of how the Garlan branch was used had been replaced by fanciful, and useless, legends.
Months ago, Robart had been thrilled when orcs and goblins flooded this land. He knew victory was secure. After all, he had been selected by the Garlan tree. He was a lord’s son and a natural leader. He was a far better choice than Skylar.
Firm in his belief, he rallied the humans using the Garlan branch as a symbol of their cause and the certainty of their victory. Confidently, he massed them into an army and led them to battle.
At first, their resistance surprised and unnerved the orcs and goblins. The early battles went easily to the humans.
It did not last. There seemed an inexhaustible supply of orcs and goblins. As though by magic, the ugly beasts would appear when and where needed. All were armed with weapons that effortlessly cleaved human swords, and armor that deflected the sharpest steel arrowheads.
The tide of war changed while Robart struggled uselessly to discover how the Garlan branch worked. He tried waving it in a sweeping motion hoping to fell the invading armies like stalks of grain. He aimed it at individuals and willed destruction. He invoked the name of the Garlan tree and numerous spirits. Nothing worked. The Garlan branch remained as inert as a broom handle, and humans died.
While armies fought in the field, other battalions of orcs and goblins raided unprotected villages. Entire populations were captured and carried off to slavery.
Through winter and spring, Robart’s army killed thousands of orcs and goblins. However, there were always more. Robart’s losses were minor in comparison, but the never diminishing army of foes began to take its toll. By midsummer, fewer than five hundred human soldiers remained.
Robart was forced to change tactics. Instead of engaging in battle, he led orcs and goblins into traps and ambushes trying to wear down the enemy’s will. The invading army suffered tremendous losses, often greater than ten to one. It did not matter, there were always more to take their place. By the beginning of harvest season, Robart had thirty soldiers left.
Surrender was out of the question and there was no hope of appealing for mercy. Neither orcs nor goblins had compassion.
Robart knew all was lost. He led his remaining band into the forest, hoping to evade capture.
However, the invaders would not permit even these few to escape. Relentlessly they followed. The humans were given no time to rest. Two days ago they consumed the last of their food and water.
The ant disappeared to the underside of the leaf. Robart looked up. None of his men looked at him. Those not asleep looked down, lost in miserable thought. Although no one spoke, he knew they could only blame him. He had promised victory and delivered broken dreams.
Slowly, feeling old beyond years, Robart forced himself to his feet. For the first time in weeks, he eased the Garlan branch from his waistband. Perhaps desperation would release the power of the Garlan branch.
Not for the first time, he regretted not being a wizard. The branch should have gone to one who knew how to use it. If only his ego had not prevented him from asking a wizard for help. Now all wizards, and everyone else in Allivan, were either dead or captured.
He had done so much wrong, had caused so much pain. Perhaps, in these final moments, he could redeem himself.
He raised the branch.
Nothing happened.
He sliced the air before him as though with a sword.
Nothing.
Tears of frustration and sh
ame flowed unnoticed down his cheeks.
He pointed it at a goblin chief and, with every fiber of his being, willed it to fall.
The goblin smiled at him, unharmed.
Robart had lost.
Skylar, why didn’t you leave something to tell me how to use the Garlan branch?
His arm dropped. His chin sank to his chest. He thought of pulling his sword, trying to take at least one enemy with him, but knew they would not permit it. It would be too easy, and completely humiliating, to disarm him.
He looked at the grins of the surrounding horde and knew they were saving him as an example. They would not kill him in combat. They wanted him to die slowly, screaming and crying like a baby, begging for forgiveness. They wanted his death to be so memorable none would ever defy them again.
What were they waiting for?
The silence tore at his stretched nerves. He scanned the ring of conquerors. They stood silent, unmoving, barely breathing. He could stand it no longer.
"Come on! Get it over with!" His shout echoed and faded in the forest. Birds fluttered in panicked flight.
The ring stood unchanged. They were waiting for something, or someone. He was sure of it. He studied them. Their stance told him they had no choice but to prevent the humans’ escape and to wait. They were as frightened as he.
What could it possibly be?
From the rear of the circle, he heard squeaks of saddle leather and the clicking of a horse's bridle. He turned as a rattle of orc and goblin armor alerted him the circle was opening.
Robart had never seen a steed as large as the one slowly approaching. It shone a startling white, but more surprising, a human sat in the saddle. As one, orcs and goblins drew back and knelt, heads bowed, shivering in fear.
Robart’s thoughts reeled. Orcs and goblins hated humans, yet they were controlled by this one.
"Ah, Robart, at last we meet."
The figure made no move to dismount. Robart looked up and realized it was the size of the steed that made the figure imposing. Without this horse, he would be shorter than average. This made the orcs' and goblins' fear even more confusing.
"You have led us a merry chase these past few weeks." The figure leaned forward resting his forearms on the pommel like a friend sharing a confidence. His smile did not reach his eyes.
"I suppose you know your resistance is over. This ragged group is the best you can muster." Robart saw his troops wither before the man’s scornful look.
Frustration knotted Robart’s hands. The useless Garlan branch pressed a deep furrow in his right palm.
"But you are human also." Robart pointed out. "How could you do this to your own race?"
"I did not give you permission to speak!" The man shouted, straightening in his saddle, eyes blazing in anger. He halted, composed himself with effort, and again leaned forward. The lifeless smile returned to his face. Robart suspected he felt this position gave him a look of self-confidence. In a larger man, it might have.
"But we’ll put that aside, for the moment." The tone suggested Robart would pay dearly later. "It is true. I was born human. However, since then I have made myself so much more."
Robart watched the eyes lose focus as the man slipped into the past.
"I was not born Halsey, you know, nor was I born in this land." The rider seemed to be talking to himself, lost in his visions. "However, those facts are for another tale and of no matter here.
"I was born the son of commoners in a nondescript village. It was a place so dull even destiny would not linger.
"As a child, I realized I had a natural talent for magic unlike any before me. Unfortunately, my talent caused others to hate and fear me and eventually plot against me.
"Despite the jealousy and envy of those around me, I rose above my poor birth to find acceptance in an academy where others, more knowledgeable in magical arts, could teach me.
"Do you know what it is like to develop in an environment where everyone wants to control your talent? Where everyone sees you as a stepping stone for their gain? Where all hold you back for fear you will grow too powerful for them to control?
"No, of course you don’t." His eyes, cleared for these questions, instantly faded as he settled again in memory.
"No one could imagine the loneliness of it. I lived in a world where none could understand the power in me, the need to rise. However, I survived and learned. Eventually, they paid a dear price for ignoring me. But that also is another story."
The figure hesitated, lost in his internal world.
"From birth, humans scorned me. Humans refused to acknowledge my superiority and grant me the rights my powers demanded. Humans tried to defeat me. Humans exiled me twice. So humans must suffer.
"I spent hundreds of years learning and planning. Now my time has come. I have won. All humans in this land will serve me. They will suffer and die until I feel avenged and that will be a very long time indeed. In fact, there may be no humans left long before that day comes."
Madness flamed in Halsey’s eyes. Robart shivered in their glare. No appeal could be made to this man’s sense of justice or reason. He lived so long with evil dreams they became his reality and he had the power to inflict them on the world.
"And now," Halsey drew his sword, raising it over his head like a scepter, "the defeat of the human race is achieved. Seize them!"
The back of Robart's neck tightened as he tried to reduce his size to insignificance. Instinctively, he raised his arms in a guarding response to Halsey’s rapid movement.
His right hand still clutched the Garlan branch. At the apex of its arc, as it rested like a protective talisman before his face, the tip of the Garlan branch glowed with a small golden spark.
Halsey cringed as though struck. A look of shocked surprise washed over the evil face.
Orcs and goblins were moving forward, tightening the circle. Robart forced tension from his neck as he tried to relax his mind. He stood straighter and raised the Garlan branch. A line of golden force flashed from the tip, pinning Halsey in a gilded aura, freezing him like a statue. Halsey shrank, aging rapidly. The horse beneath him diminished. In seconds, Robart was looking at a frail old man sitting atop a worn farm pony.
Distantly, Robart heard a gasp from his troops. He pulled his eyes from the old man to the encircling army. Fewer than two dozen orcs and goblins surrounded his group. Those remaining were a pitiful sight. Gone were the fantastic weapons and armor that allowed them easy victory. Now they clutched only sticks and were barely covered in the meanest rags.
Robart turned back. Halsey was moments from death. He lowered the branch before it could complete its work. Death would be too easy for this man.
The figure atop the emaciated pony was ancient beyond measure. His thin stomach lay along the animal’s back. His knuckles strained white, clutching the mane to keep from sliding off. For one so frail, even this short a fall would end his brittle life.
The Garlan branch still glowed as Robart slid it under his belt. He walked to the pony and looked down at the fragile figure.
"You’ve drained my power," Halsey’s voice crackled and grated like a poorly maintained hinge. "How?"
The eyes moved. The neck and shoulder muscles strained to lift the head, but failed. The effort was too great.
"My army."
Tears drained from his lower eyelids.
"My army."
A line of saliva leaked from the corner of his mouth. The lips went slack as the figure faded to silence. The light of intelligence died in his eyes.
Robart turned.
"Who is in charge here?" he called to the remaining orcs and goblins, now shuffling together in a protective group. After a quick whispered conference, a goblin was shoved, stumbling forward. He dropped a shabby stick, once an unbreakable sword, as though a flaming ember.
"I’m yer Lordship." The scrawny beast trembled in fear. "Tho truth isss we no want be here."
Its finger lifted, pointing at the drooping figure on the p
ony, "Him makesss usss Sir. Mercy pleassse?"
It fell to its knees in front of Robart, trembling, head bowed.
Anger and fear drained from Robart, replaced by fatigue and an urge to make things right.
"We will not kill you. There has been enough unnecessary death to last this world an eternity."
The waste caused by one human’s madness drained his voice, loading it with weariness.
"Take him," Robart pointed to the listless figure on the pony, "and take your troops. Leave this land and never return. If I hear even a rumor of you again, I will hunt you down and ensure your threat is ended forever. Do you understand?"
He glared down at the shivering goblin.
"Yesss yer Lordship. Thank you yer Lordship."
It started forward, head lowered, intent on kissing Robart’s feet. Robart jumped back.
"Go!" His shout startled the goblin to its feet.
In short choppy motions, the goblin leader hurried to the pony and gathered its lead while chattering unintelligibly to his troops. Together, they scuttled into the underbrush.
The forest settled quietly after their departure. Robart turned to his exhausted troops.
"Rest men. You’ve earned it. Tomorrow we begin rebuilding."
CHAPTER 1
Midwinter night, the longest night of the year, the night when earth-magic forces align to prepare for the development of spring. This was the night when witches and wizards sought their most potent winter herbs. The night when no one but a witch or wizard, with their most powerful wards set to fend off foul spirits, would dare to be out.
Night plunged into foredawn darkness as Leena approached the Garlan tree. She was nearing the end of a trek that began before sunset last evening. This was the time when freezing winter air was at its coldest. If there were any hope of being selected to receive a Garlan branch on this night, it would be soon.
The forest was quiet, the night air still. Leena’s labored breathing sang loudly through the silence while the swish of red chaffed legs, forcing themselves through knee-deep snow, played accompaniment. Her chattering teeth provided a backbeat.
The frozen moon had long since set. Without its light, Leena was blind to the smoky plumes of breath huffing from her nose. She shivered and pulled her heavy wool shawl tighter, hoping to extract a little more warmth. In the biting cold, her internal heat was decreasing. How long could she resist casting a heat spell?
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