144: Wrath

by Dallas E. Caldwell

  144: Wrath

  Iron Blood: Book 1 (of 2)

  a novel

  by

  Dallas E. Caldwell

  144 Creations

  Kindle Edition

  Published by 144 Creations

  All material contained within copyright 2011 by Dallas E. Caldwell. All rights reserved.

  http://144publishing.blogspot.com

  Cover by Dallas E. Caldwell

  Edited by Jenny Lee Canham

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, redistributed, or given away to other readers. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting and supporting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To my wife. Thanks for the patience and support.

  Acknowledgments

  To Anna Clyburn, Clinton Hays, Corrie Lillie, Jaci Greggs, and Jefferson Caruthers for suffering through the previous drafts.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The desert was endless. Monotonous pools of acidic water dotted the landscape lulling him into a deadly sleep. By will alone, Polas pushed on into the suns. Like three great judges, they stared down upon him, burning his exposed flesh and robbing his body of all moisture. The hot sand scorched his hands each time he fell, and seeping blisters covered his feet. He found that his right ankle was stiff and ungainly as he limped over low mounds of glassy rock without any clear direction. He kept walking, stumbling, just to keep from stopping; for then he would certainly die, and the buzzards would have him. He pressed on through the pain, but the physical torment was little to the anguish within his soul.

  Why were there three suns? Which hell birthed this horrific desert? His mind filled with questions, and that was all that kept him alive. His spirit flared hotter than his seared skin, and he stumbled over great gaps in his memory. He knew his name and remembered his family and home near Flarcant, but everything else was a haze. Somewhere within the mist, a trumpet blared with a call to war. He had been a General of the Army of Light. He and two others had roused the world to war against the God of Fear. But there was nothing else. He had to know. What had become of his men? What had become of his friends? What had become of his family?

  Somewhere within him, he knew who had to be behind this. Exandercrast. Polas swore the name and tried to spit, but his mouth was dry and allowed him no small insult to the dark god. The former general trudged on, away from his forgotten past.

  The pools scattered across the barren expanse were shallow pits filled with a greenish stew of nasty liquid. They consumed the remains of small lizards and fallen birds and offered no chance of rejuvenation. Polas’s heat-addled mind needed constant reminding that they held no redemption for his thirst. This entire desert proffered no glimmer of possible survival, and his body was beginning to shut down. He collapsed near one of the blistering puddles and tumbled forward, his face resting at the water’s edge. The boiling froth popped and splashed against his skin. He felt nothing as the flesh melted away from his nose and mouth. Blood poured from a hole in his cheek, and the vile pool devoured it.

  As consciousness left him, his comatose mind was met with images of pain and feelings of terrible sorrow. Somewhere locked away within him, he heard Finadel scream. Then shadows took hold of his mind; shadows filled with grasping claws, iron bars, and endless years.

  ~ 1000 Years Ago ~

  Polas Kas Dorian stood with his back to the northern sky where white rays of fading sunlight swirled with violet streams of dusk. He removed a saucer shaped hat and wiped his brow on his sleeve as he counted the rows of plowed and seeded land. His short, dark hair was damp with sweat, and his hazel eyes stung with beaded perspiration. Dirt clung to his boots in clumps, and he had the hands of a man who knew the feel of earth and stone and an honest day’s work. He was not overly tall for a Peltin man, but something in his stance, or maybe the way he held his shoulders back, commanded respect. Though he was in his late forties, his body had the strength and form of one much younger. His coiled muscles, his wide stance, and his ever-alert eyes hinted at a life beyond or behind the fields of a simple farmer.

  "Good job today, Kurth," Polas said, patting his horse’s neck. "We’ll get started on the south range tomorrow."

  A crisp, clean breeze rolled across the open farmland, carrying with it the scent of coming rain. Quiet hills capped with shushing willows guarded the field’s eastern edge, and a whispering brook trickled around smooth stones and over dozing pebbles at the southern bend. A low fence-line of tangle wire strung between wooden posts circled the Kas Dorian farm and separated it from the natural pastures that stretched for many kallows. The closest town was half a day’s ride away, and the remoteness allowed for a simplicity that was lost to those caught up in the city life. It also kept the ever-extending cloud of darkness from hanging over their daily lives.

  In the distance, a small house stood nestled into the side of a low hill. A few starblossom trees ran along a path that wound its way down to a tidy barn, a cluster of chickens pecked at scraps outside a tiny coop, and a few pigs dug for truffles near an old droka tree. A beaten wagon trail cut across the countryside a stone’s throw from the humble home. Patches of grass and briars attempted to reclaim the sparsely traveled road and hide it away from wayward wanderers.

  Polas closed his eyes and said a short blessing over his crops, praying that his family would find provision for another year and that Leindul would keep the hordes of the dark god Exandercrast at bay for a few more days. Long enough for him to have a moment's peace with his wife and children before he must lead the Army of Light into war.

  He had moved his family out of Flarcant a few years earlier, choosing to ply his trade as a farmer. Once, he had been a caravan guard, but that was before he had a family, and the life of travel no longer suited him. However, he would be forced to travel once again to keep safe the very family that helped him drive down stakes. His eyes were always on the road because he knew that any day war might come calling, and he would have to leave again. Times were dark, and the hand of death was finally showing itself in Maduria. Polas would never let its bony, blood-drenched fingers reach his land.

  The hearty smell of beef stew wafted from the house, drawing Polas’s mind back from distant shores and lifting his tired muscles. He led the horse back to the barn and unbridled it. He dragged the plow shears into a dusty corner and threw a heavy blanket over them. Once the barn doors were closed, he turned to finish the last of his chores. After throwing a pail of slop into the pig troughs and locking the chickens in their coop, he was ready to go in for the night.

  Leyryl, his daughter, was waiting for him next to the path leading up to the house, playing on a knotted rope swing and humming a Kennik lullaby. When she saw her father, she dropped to the ground and ran to him with her dark brown hair trailing behind her. She was seven years old with freckled cheeks and glittering hazel eyes. Her clothes were simple, but she wore them with such joy that they looked much brighter than brown cloth.

  "Daddy!" she said as she jumped into his arms. "Momma says you’re to stop working, otherwise you’ll be no good to her tonight."

  Polas laughed. "She said that, did she? Well, it’s a good thing I’ve finished, then."

  He lifted his daughter up into the air and spun. She squealed with delight.

  "Daddy, look," she said as he spun once more.

  On the far side of the fence, an old man stooped with a small pouch in hand. His hair was bushy and white, his clothes were grimy and threadbare, and
his knees were knobby and poked out beneath a frayed pair of cut-off trousers. He carried a long stick in one hand, and he pressed a tiny seed into the roadside with the other.

  "Ho there, traveler," Polas called out to the man. He set Leyryl on his shoulders and walked over toward the stranger.

  The old man stood and tied the small pouch onto his belt. He inclined his ear toward Polas. "Ah, well met, good sir."

  "Where do you travel to at this hour?" Polas asked.

  "Wherever the road might lead me," the old man replied. He tapped his stick on a stone beside him.

  It was then that Polas noticed the man’s eyes. They were clouded with foggy white cataracts and lolled toward the sky as the man spoke.

  "Daddy, what’s wrong with his eyes?" Leyryl whispered.

  Polas shushed the girl and set her down. "Run inside and tell Momma to put some more water in the stew."

  Leyryl nodded and skipped off toward the house.

  "It’s nearing nightfall, and the next town is still hours away by horse," Polas said. "Won’t you join us for dinner? I’m sure you’re hungry, and we have a warm barn if you need a place to rest."

  "Well, that’s very kind of you, good sir," the old man said.

  "There’s a gate just twenty paces farther, then a narrow path up to our home."

  The old man followed Polas’s directions, tapping along with his stick as he went. "Ooh, smells wonderful. If I’m on my mark, and I usually am, I’d say beef stew with carrots, potates, and Madurian bread. My belly is rumbling just thinking of it."

  Polas laughed and followed the old man inside.

  The dining room was small and cluttered; it also acted as the family room and bedroom for both of Polas’s children. The kitchen area was a simple wash bin and cutting shelf stuffed into one corner behind the wooden table, and the fireplace doubled as a stove. The only other room in the house sat behind the wash barrel. It held only a modest bed with a locked chest at its foot.

  The family and their guest sat on rickety old chairs, enjoying their meal, and the old man slurped his stew directly from his bowl, perhaps ignorant of the wooden spoon placed before him. This gave Leyryl a fit of giggles, which earned her an admonishing glance from her mother.

  Finadel Kas Dorian was younger than Polas, but only by a few years. She wore an old, brown dress and a black apron. Her hair was long and golden, and her eyes were like cut sapphires. She smiled across the table at her husband. To Polas, she was starlight and a summer rain.

  Calec, Polas’s son, ate a few peckish bites of his stew but focused more on the potates and bread. His foppish hair was blonde like his mother’s, and he had her blue eyes. He was five years old and filled with dreams of slaying drakkens and taming vicious mastacorns. He carried a small wooden sword at his hip, knocked by a yearlong battle against the fence posts, and his knees and elbows were scraped with battle wounds earned fighting off imaginary raiders from stealing the family pigs.

  "Do you have family in Flarcant?" Finadel asked.

  The old man set his bowl down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No, ma’am. At least, none that would claim to know me."

  Polas stood and began clearing emptied dishes from the table. He took the old man’s bowl and turned toward the stew pot, "Care for any more? We have plenty."

  "Yes, please," the man said with a grin. "You are really too kind."

  Polas refilled the bowl and brought it back to the table. "So what brings you to the area?" Polas asked.

  Between slurps, the old man said, "Actually, I came to see you."

  Polas exchanged wary looks with Finadel as he sat back down at the table.

  "I just wanted to thank you for what you and the others are doing. I knew you’d be leaving soon, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity." He turned a broad smile to Leyryl and Calec. "Your daddy’s a hero. I hope you know that."

  "Of course, he is," Leyryl said.

  Finadel beamed at her husband, her eyes gleaming with pride. Polas blinked, scratched his cheek, and took another slow drink of his kofa tea.

  The next morning, Polas arose early and went out to the barn to offer the old man breakfast. The man, however, was already gone, leaving Kurth alone with a few mice that nibbled on spilled grains.

  Polas walked out to the road and looked for the stranger, but he could see no sign that the old man had passed nor which direction he may have gone. As he turned to go back into the house, Polas noticed a small white flower growing on the other side of his fence. He took one last look up the road, shook his head, and decided to get an early start on the day’s plowing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Someone was whistling.

  Polas’s mind crept toward reality using the sound as an anchor. The room was poorly lit and stiflingly warm, and the right side of his face screamed at him. He struggled to work his hands up, only to feel it bandaged tightly. His mouth and the remnant of his nose were wrapped with a rough cloth.

  As his sight regained focus, he took in the details of the room around him. A lantern hung above him, accosting his eyes for a moment. He was in a barn. A few horses and a small pony stood at the rear in small stables, and he lay upon a makeshift table covered with strewn hay.

  What little clothing he wore lay in rags, and his skin was burned pink and blistered all over. A strange, sticky salve coated his exposed flesh and smelled of soil and mint leaves. He touched it with testing fingertips. It looked and felt like raw egg white that had begun to dry.

  The whistling came again. This time it was approaching the main door.

  Polas jerked upright and banged his head on the lantern. He threw himself behind the table and reached for the nearest weapon he could fashion. His body cried out against him, begging him to be still. He knew he did not have the energy to fight, but perhaps his captor would overestimate him. His hand found a small hammer. A very small hammer; like a child’s toy.

  Before Polas could puzzle over its size, the barn door slid open and in walked a very small man. A Cairtol, who stood, maybe, two and a half feet tall and had a greying beard of equal length, entered the barn carrying a teacup and dragging a stack of books on a makeshift travois. His eyes were a brilliant blue like the waters of the Mela Islands, his nose was boxy and squat, his ears stuck out like loosely attached saucers, and atop his head was a round leather cap that did little to hold down his wiry grey hair.

  When he saw Polas standing, his whistling lips turned to a wide smile that prickled the deep crow's feet beneath his bushy brows.

  "Oh, good, good, good! You’re awake," the little man said.

  Polas relaxed his legs and shoulders, and in doing so realized how weak he truly was. He tumbled forward, upsetting the table and knocking the lantern down completely.

  The diminutive Cairtol sprang into action, setting the teacup down and grabbing a nearby blanket to cover the spreading flames. He ran about the barn grabbing buckets, filling them with water from the horses’ trough, and splashing them around the room. The fire consumed much of the loose straw on the barn’s floor and produced a choking black smoke, but died out before it could engulf the ceiling or the walls.

  By the time he had finished putting out the last of the flames, the Cairtol was sweating profusely, and it took him a moment to notice Polas lying in the dirt.

  With some effort, he rolled Polas over onto his back and did his best to pick the straws of hay out of the oozing blisters and soggy bandages.

  "Be careful, good sir," the old Cairtol said. "Do be careful."

  He retrieved the saucer from its place on the ground and returned to Polas’s side. The last tufts of smoke floated out of the door behind him, and besides the lingering odor of burnt hay, it looked like the barn itself had escaped the fire unscathed.

  Polas sat up, his breath catching in his ribs. "Who the Nalunis are you?" His voice was muffled by the bandages but still held its strength.

  "Nalunis? I'm not a Nalunis. Very few of them can or ever do take mortal shape, and I don'
t know why one would bother with becoming an old Cairtol."

  "No," Polas's jaw ached as he tried to talk. "Just who in the hells are you, old man?"

  "Well, that’s not very polite," replied the little being. "But since you did ask, it would be impolite of me not to answer, and as is my habit, I shall try to avoid being rude or impolite in the manner in which I reply. I am Matthew the Blue, traveler and scholar, and – most recently – the one who saved you from burning to death by carrying you out of the Desert of Olagon. Well, that is to say, my pack mule and I, since I haven’t the strength to carry you on my own. And perhaps fate should be thanked as well --"

  Polas cleared his throat. "Where am I?"

  "Ah, yes, you are a guest in my home, or rather one of my homes. As I said, I am a traveler so there are many places that I call home but this being my current one as it is where I am. Or rather, where we are."

  Polas’s head hurt along with his body.

  "What happened to my men? Did we… did we lose?"

  Matthew scampered back over to his books and organized them in a crescent on the ground. He sat cross-legged in the middle of his arrangement and took a sip of his tea.

  Polas was puzzled. "Is that not for me?

  Matthew stopped, sputtered a bit, and had to wipe his beard. "This? Oh, no. I would love to offer you something to drink now that you’re awake, but what with all the bandages, it might be better for you to wait. Besides, the ointment should keep you hydrated enough. As far as your original question goes, I might better be able to answer it if I knew exactly who you were, or are."

  The Cairtol leaned forward over his books with his eyes squinted in anticipation. One hand scratched idly at his beard, and the other drummed a nervous rhythm on the leather cover of the largest book.

  "Kas Dorian. General Polas Kas Dorian."