Wilmurin: Land of the Druids

by H. J. Cronin

  The Druid Chronicles

  Book one

  Wilmurin

  Land of the Druids

  By HJ Cronin

  Wilmurin

  Land of the Druids

  Copyright © 2014 Hamish Cronin

  All Rights Reserved

  All characters in this book are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United Kingdom. Reproduction or unauthorised use of material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without express written permission of Hamish Cronin

  www.hjcronin.com

  Acknowledgments

  A big thank you for the great job done by my editor, Lesley Jones. Thanks to my artist, Elif Siebenpfeiffer, for the great job on the cover and map. Also thank you to Sue Lawrence, who proofread the first few chapters for me in her own time.

  Thanks to my mum and dad who have inspired me in different ways to write this book, especially my dad who introduced me to fantasy many many years ago and for reading the very first draft as well as help along the way.

  Lastly, to my wife Clare who has supported me whilst writing this book and has put up with my constant need for opinions.

  Contents

  A Brief History of Wilmurin

  Map of North Wilmurin

  Prologue

  1. Land of the Druids

  2. Bemon

  3. Island of Evil

  4. Road to Weydon

  5. The Council of the Druids

  6. The Eagle’s Nest

  7. Deep Dark Tunnels

  8. Sworcadia

  9. Unpleasant Reunion

  10. Darkool’s Prize

  11. A Secret Revealed

  12. Fields of Blood

  13. Throne of Bones

  14. Almost There

  15. Northern Demise

  16. Unlikely Saviours

  Epilogue

  THE END

  Coming Soon:

  A Brief History of Wilmurin

  2,796. That is how many years have been part of its written history so far. There are no known recordings of history prior to these years. It is believed that 2,796 years ago, the elves began to record their history; whoever they inherited Wilmurin from either lost their histories or did not document them.

  Wilmurin is a vast country in the centre of an even bigger world. It is covered in the main by huge, open fields of verdant grass. Various large woodland areas break up these green planes, from the dense pine wood known as the Dark Wood in the north to the enchanting Whispering Forest in the north west, all the way down to the Fowling Jungle in the south. Enormous lakes are also dotted around Wilmurin, with their crystal clear azure water, and one long, snaking river known as the River Flord, running through the northern half of Wilmurin, in addition to smaller rivers meandering throughout, which are too small to be worth documenting.

  On a sparkling summery day it is possible for Wilmurin to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Even in the winter, when much of it is covered in a white frosty blanket, its beauty is unmatched. Wilmurin’s only mountain range, located in the north, is a spectacle which can be viewed from many miles.

  The only piece of land that is close to Wilmurin is Blood Island, appropriately named because of its resident clan. It is a dark, arid environment coated in volcanic rock. Life never visits Blood Island, because it will instantly suck any joy out of a traveller. Blood Island is a far cry from the neighbouring mainland.

  Of its Violent Past

  Before the humans were the dominant race, Wilmurin was ruled by the ruthless elf race. These tall, green skinned creatures enslaved the human race who had arrived in Wilmurin almost 550 years after the recorded history had started. They were instantly dominated by the elves and were forced to work under their brutal regime.

  The humans worshipped a god named Drugar and their leading families soon became known as the druids. These peoples worshipped the land and its inhabitants; they were a peaceful race that did everything their elvish overseers ordered them to do, without question.

  The elves soon became suspicious of their druid slaves; they feared a plot that would result in the humans overthrowing them. The elves' brutality soon gave way to vicious cruelty and they began randomly slaughtering whole families. They forced the druids to worship the elven gods, killing all who refused.

  It wasn’t until 2196 that a young druid, known as Darkool Vandalore, killed one of his masters, because apparently the elf had murdered a loved one of Darkool’s. Immediately, the other druids began to rise up and follow in Darkool’s footsteps and soon the First War of Wilmurin broke out. Very quickly all the druid families declared themselves to be separate clans, taking on animals such as the bear, the wolf, the black panther, the black widow spider, the lion, the lizard, the light tigers and the dark tigers as their symbols. The Vandalore Clan did not follow suit for they believed they were superior to the other clans.

  However, these clans united under one banner and after the deaths of many on both sides, the elves were eventually defeated by the druids in 2200. Peace finally came to Wilmurin, and as a prize for their victory, the druid god Drugar granted each clan family the ability to become shape shifters. The clans’ ruling families would be able to take on the form of the animal that their clan represented. Darkool was not pleased, he wanted more and demanded immortality from Drugar. Drugar granted his wish and cursed Darkool and his clan with the curse of the vampire. The leading council called themselves counts, and retreated to the desolate island known now as Blood Island to live their days in endless darkness. Drugar realised that Darkool would be dangerous and he created the Night Hunters, a clan with a special ability to hunt vampires.

  For years Count Darkool built his army up in order to one day unleash it against the mainland. In the year 2205 Count Darkool launched an assault upon Wilmurin. The Second War of Wilmurin began. After 91 years of war Count Darkool and his vampire horde was eventually defeated by a united army of clans. Eventually, in 2296, Count Darkool was stopped by the Night Hunters and sent to the abyss. His body was never recovered.

  For nearly five hundred years Wilmurin knew peace and prosperity. The Vandalore Clan was almost all destroyed. On Blood Island they waited.

  Then finally, in 2777, after a long awaited revenge, the Vandalore Clan launched a hideous surprise attack on the Night Hunters. No one anticipated it and although their force was small, they wiped out the Night Hunters. They then marched on to the capital of Wilmurin, Flordonium. The clans once more came together and fought the Vandalore Clan back to Blood Island. Only a few counts and a mere handful of vampires survived, and there they would stay.

  Of the Clans

  The clans of Wilmurin each dwell in their own cities. The Clan of the Bear in Bemon, the Black Panther Clan in Perthyon, the Clan of the Wolf in Weydon, the Black Widow Clan in Shartak and so forth.

  The other towns and villages throughout Wilmurin are home to those humans who govern themselves and are not under the rule of the druid families, the largest being Selarmus, also the largest port in Wilmurin. The druids rarely bothered the large towns for most of them became criminal. The only contact was whenever the druids passed through. The townsfolk have a respect for the druids and keep their distance. Although there has never been an all-out war with the clans, there is always been distrust and uneasy alliances.

  It is said that the peacekeeper of the clans is Flordonium, where the High King lives. The High King is not a druid, but a human elected to take the High Throne. Flordonium is an enormous city built after the destruction of the elves, with three tiers and the largest population on Wilmurin. Also, having the largest a
rmy, it naturally falls to Flordonium to keep the peace.

  Of the Future

  History is a forever growing element of Wilmurin and it will continue to be recorded for as long as that place is inhabited. Do not be fooled by its beauty. It is a dangerous and deadly place. Danger is always skulking around the corner.

  Map of North Wilmurin

  Prologue

  6 June 1944

  John stood aboard the landing craft clutching his rifle; he felt icy droplets of water hitting his face from the sea-spray. He was with an elite group of soldiers as part of a much larger operation invading Europe, and their target was ‘Sword beach’. He looked around, gazing at his comrades; some wore blank expressions, thoughts towards the coming conflict, others vomited and some even cried. The waves of the channel made John feel nauseous, but he gritted his teeth and held his rifle tighter. He kept his head down and gazed at the floor of the boat. His newly shaved hair meant that his helmet irritated his scalp, but he couldn’t take it off to scratch because all it takes is one bullet. Just one.

  John had a hard and stern look on his face which masked a much nicer personality and piercing blue eyes. Before he had shaven it off, his hair was brown and grew quickly, it would be a couple months before it grew back.

  ‘Prepare to land! Thirty seconds!’ shouted the captain. They must be close.

  ‘Right gents, get your shit together. When we land, find the best cover possible,’ ordered Lieutenant Marks. ‘Then give the Jerries hell!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ chorused the men.

  John’s stomach filled with rattling nerves and he felt vomit in his throat. There were explosions in the water from German shells all around the British landing craft, one even found its mark on a boat just behind them, instantly killing everybody aboard. He picked up his equipment, making sure his rifle was loaded. It was awful not seeing where they were. All he could see were the clouds above.

  ‘Twenty seconds!’

  His breathing rate increased. He suddenly threw up on the floor of the craft. John looked up – he could only just make out the beach closing in on them. He could see impact craters from shells; he could make out the German lines with their pillboxes and sandbagged walls.

  ‘Ten seconds!’

  He looked at the man next to him, his friend Ian, trying to give a brief nod of encouragement to the tall, thin framed man who looked as pale as the clouds overhead. Ian responded with a wink and John could just make out a smile under Ian’s moustache. Ian was a little taller than John and had short cropped hair, he was always elegant with everything he done. He could be walking behind you and you'd never know it, apart from in times of desperation. He was older than John who always looked up to him.

  They felt the craft lurch forward as it hit the beach, coming to a halt when the sand prevented it from moving any further. The ramp lowered slowly, so slowly that it felt as if an age had passed. The first bullet John heard stormed over his head. Then suddenly bullets landed among the soldiers, instantaneously tearing through flesh and bone, creating a shower of gore and blood over their comrades. The soldiers surged forward with a roar into the freezing, shallow water, struggling to get the beach. Dozens from John’s craft had already fallen. He looked around at the devastation caused within only seconds. The men of the neighbouring vessel were mown down instantly. Men charged onto the beach from every landing craft, and some were lucky to survive the ordeal, while others were not. He saw that Ian was still alive and they both moved for cover.

  ‘Ian! Let’s move to that tank obstacle!’ John called over; he was hard to hear over the sound of battle but Ian acknowledged him. They both ran to the nearest obstacle for cover.

  ‘We’ll wait here for the sergeant. Provide covering fire for our soldiers, that’s all we can do,’ Ian suggested in his thick northern accent. He opened fire with his rifle aiming his rounds towards the German line.

  As John was firing his rifle an enemy bullet landed just inches away from his foot, kicking up a small shower of sand. ‘Shit! That was too close. Look! There’s Sergeant Davis coming towards us.’

  The sergeant raced over to Ian and John, flanked by some reinforcements. He was only metres away when he took four shots to the chest and one to the neck, immediately taking him out of the fight. The men on either side of him were also taken down by German machine-gun fire and were ripped to shreds.

  ‘This is a really bad situation, John. The second wave is coming in. Let’s wait for them to arrive and then start to push forward,’ Ian tentatively suggested, while closely scrutinising the surrounding area.

  Then the second wave came in, pouring more troops onto the beach. British soldiers pressed forward, gaining more ground. German fire seemed relentless. Soldiers were falling like flies. However, training and determination pushed the British forward. One by one, German firing positions were taken out of the action. Within a couple of hours, the soldiers had taken Sword beach and pushed on into the coastal area of France.

  The casualty rate of John and Ian’s platoon was at two-thirds of the morning's roll call. The two friends lived through it and sat down for a moments to reflect on the battle. They had both lost friends but knew that they still had each other.

  ‘Those Germans sure gave us a good hiding,’ Ian remarked. ‘It’s a miracle that we made it through this whole shit heap alive.’

  ‘I make you right there mate, but this war is far from over. We still have to push forward onto Caen,’ John replied with no hint of optimism. ‘If we make it through that we still have Germany to invade. I just hope this war is over by Christmas.’

  Over by Christmas, John reflected. Now that would be special.

  Belgium, December 1945

  The snow had been falling all morning. It covered the ground in a beautiful white blanket, filling the leafless trees with sparkling branches. However, that pristine blanket was soon splattered with blood and bodies caused by German artillery. The war had gone in the favour of the allies and now they fought in the decisive battle known as the Battle of the Bulge.

  John and Ian lay in their foxhole looking out onto the German lines. Both had physically been untouched by the war. The air was freezing cold. They had not had a warm bed or proper food for almost three months. Life was hard. They heard the snow crunching behind them, signalling someone approaching, and both swung around with their rifles at the ready. It was only a runner from headquarters.

  ‘Private John Bean and Corporal Ian Fleming?’ the runner asked, and the pair nodded in response. ‘Lieutenant Marks needs a word at the command post. ASAP.’

  ‘Great! And there was me thinking you’ve come to tell us that Hitler has decided we’re too hard to beat and has given up,’ Ian said in his usual light-hearted way.

  ‘Just get a move on gents, he doesn’t like to wait,’ the runner said before racing off back towards headquarters.

  The pair left their foxholes and crouched low while they ran towards the command post. They passed their comrades, receiving the odd taunt of, ‘You two finally leaving us?’ or ‘Bring us back some grub’. They also ran past too many empty foxholes, once occupied by fellow soldiers.

  They arrived at the command post, noticing straight away the superior conditions the officers lived in; although not five star, it was still an improvement on their foxholes.

  They saw the lieutenant standing with a major and stood to attention. ‘Corporal Fleming and Private Bean ready for your command, Sir!’ Ian said, with a salute.

  ‘At ease gentlemen. I have called you here because you, Fleming, will lead a patrol into the woods and Bean will be your second-in-command. You can choose six other men. There are rumours of an injured soldier about one mile from this position to the north. You will make your way there and investigate. Try not to engage with the enemy, we do not want any unnecessary losses,’ the major instructed.

  ‘Yes sir, I have a few men in mind,’ Ian replied.

  ‘Good, because you leave within the next thirty minutes,’ the lieutenant
replied. ‘Gentlemen, remember, no unnecessary losses,’ he added.

  The two made their way back to the line to select the six men, knowing that every one of them could handle just about anything.

  The eight men walked in a column formation through the forest, each armed with a rifle. This was a change from eating, shitting and sleeping in a foxhole. They were well within their lines, so the chance of engaging the enemy was extremely slim.

  John and Ian had been friends for as long as John could remember. Ian was ten years his senior and was always like an older brother; John had no recollection of his own family. He had been raised by the Bean family who were very cruel to him, so he took the chance as soon as he could to leave for the war, both swiftly and happily. Despite the way his adopted family had cared for him, he knew that he always had Ian looking after him and protecting him.

  After about a mile into their patrol they had not seen any sign of an injured soldier. They continued to walk through the forest for almost another two hours. The air had become colder and the sky darker, casting looming shadows among the trees. Shadows that looked as though they were following the patrol.

  ‘We’ve come all this way and there’s nobody here! Let’s keep on walking for another half mile to see if we can see anything,’ Ian commanded.

  ‘Corporal, we mustn’t get too far from our line, in case we’re attacked,’ John implored.

  ‘No, John. We must press on. If one of our lads is out there, then he’d like to be rescued – if he’s still alive, that is,’ Ian said, with a hint of doubt that was not lost on John.

  ‘Fall out men!’ Ian commanded the rest of his troop.

  ‘Yes, corporal,’ the men responded.

  ‘This forest is quiet, too quiet. I feel as though we are being watched,’ John said.