The Redemption, Volume 1

by Clyde B Northrup

  “I noticed your use of the past tense,” Thal said.

  Blakstar nodded. “The hilltop is covered with their dead bodies. Look at this,” he held out an arrow.

  “The vedem?” Thal and Klaybear spoke together.

  “Yes,” Blakstar replied, “the vedem.”

  “That makes no sense,” Klaybear protested. “Why would they rescue us, tell us not to use the staff, but then clear our path to the place where we must go to use the staff?”

  “I am equally baffled by their behavior,” Thal noted, “unless, of course, the clearing of our path was part of the instructions given to their seers.”

  Klaybear shrugged.

  “We must go,” Blakstar said, “I glimpsed the battle below and things are going badly for the defenders.”

  Klaybear looked a question at him.

  “The gates are about to be breached,” Blakstar replied.

  Klaybear rushed forward, leading his and Klare’s horses up the hill. As he neared the brow of the hill, he released the reins; the two horses were content to begin cropping the grass on the hilltop, having been forced to plod along behind the wagon for most of the day. Thal and Blakstar followed, stopping to untie Klare’s horse from Klaybear’s, and Rokwolf’s from Blakstar’s. The kailu had sunk to the ground at the top of the hill, clinging to his staff. Below, they could see krugle and megatrem carrying a very large, iron-forged battering ram up to the gates; the hail of arrows coming from the walls above bounced off the thick chain mail each of the huge creatures wore. On one side of the gate, purem and ghelem waited, shields held over their heads; on the other side, tall, blue-skinned wedaterem waited to rush forward when the gate was breeched. A red and an orange aperu flew toward the gate, crossing in midair, one flying west, one east, above the walls, each opening their jaws to let fire and acid rain down upon the defenders, but the defenders were waiting for this move; first the red, then the orange, was struck in the chest by one of the ballista on the towers. Two howls of pain, one sounding like roaring flames, the other rumbling like a bubbling cauldron, and the two aperum veered away from the walls, crashing to the ground. A cheer went up from the walls, but the cheer was cut-off suddenly the moment the battering ram, swung by huge hands, crashed into the gates, then a second time, then a third, and on the fourth, the gates crumpled, then crashed open, and the hordes waiting in the wings surged into the city.

  “NO!” Klaybear shouted, rising to his feet and holding up breath-giver, glowing brightly in his hand. Thal took out the parchment upon which he had written the words of the orthek, but there was no need, Klaybear had already begun singing them, in his strong, clear, bass voice: eli-ghende-gwehram-sisogheto-kustho-staurore-aiwamdwo.

  Silence fell on the battlefield below, as all eyes turned to see who had sung those words in a voice that penetrated the noise of battle. The staff glowed more brightly; the air around Klaybear went suddenly cold; the colors around them faded in the painful brightness of the light surrounding breath-giver, then all light winked out. Klaybear felt his horse nuzzling his arm, and he noticed the all their horses had drawn up next to them. When the light flashed on, Klaybear caught a glimpse of shimmering gray, somewhere below and to their right, that winked out as light returned. He felt a concussion, emanating from the staff, that created a circle of total blackness, darker than the darkest night, about twenty yards from the staff, that grew slowly, devouring everything in its path: the grass, the trees, and any living creature it touched, leaving in its wake only dust and bleached bones. From the black wave pieces of wispy white light began to rise, slowly moving into the air, then curving back and picking up speed as the wispy white streams were sucked into the staff. As the wave stole the life from the forces fighting in the battle below, their faces, twisted with pain and anger, sailed past the three key holders on the hilltop, but Klaybear saw more than faces. For him, time slowed until every moment, every slow thudding beat of his heart pounding in his chest, felt like an age, and he beheld every face, and saw every dream, every desire, every sorrow, every wish of every person, both friend and foe, killed by the power of his staff, and he wanted to close his eyes, his ears, all his senses, he wanted to die, but that was not possible with so much life energy stored in the staff clutched in his hands. The faces and forms continued to fly past his senses, his mind, and into the staff; he cried out in pain, in anguish, but the wave continued to grow, consuming his enemies, and his friends, and their accusations, their lost dreams, became more painful to him than the horrors experienced, the unchecked appetites for flesh and blood, the anger and violence of his foes. The wave of destruction continued to expand, passing the walls of the city, and the faces became more familiar, the merchants from the marketplace where he and Klare purchased food and other supplies, their closest neighbors, his fellow students, the staff of the school, and his kailu masters, more purem, even a few seklesem. Then the wave reached its limit; it flickered, then went out, and the last of the faces dropped their burdens upon him, then the blessed emptiness of darkness took him, wiping away all pain.

  Tevvy looked up, sensing something. Rokwolf was in the other room, sleeping. Everything was suddenly quiet, too quiet, Tevvy thought, and he stood up and walked toward the entry into their sanctuary. He stopped in the doorway, looking out at the ramp descending from the sewers above and the waterfall. Through his bare feet he felt a vibration, then he heard the rumble, barely audible to him, but growing louder as it got nearer. The vibration and sound reached a point that Tevvy thought for sure would loose stones from the ceiling, so he looked up warily. Then the sound and vibration stopped at once, and, if it were possible, it was more quiet than before, especially when the water stopped falling from the ceiling of the antechamber. After a few moments of this eerie silence, Tevvy turned to go and wake Rokwolf, when a trickle of water started to fall from the ceiling; the trickle grew until the water fell at the same rate as before. Tevvy took a step forward, and stopped, feeling the pressure in the room change. He stepped back, intending to close the door, when he heard the sound of stone from above, followed by soft footfalls. He started to close the door, then paused; his mind, although sluggish at the moment, reminding him that there were only a few people who could open the door above, so he waited to see who was coming down. He saw the boots, stained from dirt and battle, followed by the forms of Marilee and Delgart, faces dirty, both looking stunned.

  “Delgart! Marilee!” Tevvy exclaimed, waving to them. “Are you all right? What are you doing here?”

  Both stopped, looking down at him. It took a moment for them to recognize him, then they started down the ramp again, but their faces were blank and hollow.

  “What’s happened?” Tevvy asked, voice hushed.

  “My squad,” Marilee stammered, “and our company . . . we found scaling ladders in place before us and the sewers filled with purem and ghelem. Somehow, they got here before us and managed to enter.” She pushed past Tevvy; Delgart followed mechanically.

  Tevvy looked at them for a moment before following. He saw Marilee stagger toward the room where Rokwolf slept, but when she saw him lying there, sleeping peacefully, she turned and went to the other room, where she fell onto the bed next to Klare, sobbing into the pillow. Tevvy looked to Delgart who stood watching her. He lifted one arm feebly, as if he were reaching out to her, then he turned and went to his chair at the head of the table. He sat down, putting his head into his hands.

  “Delgart,” Tevvy said, standing next to him and putting a hand on his arm, “what are you doing here? I thought you were at Holvar, with the seklesem?”

  “I was,” Delgart replied without looking up, “and we came to help the kailum, but when we climbed up to the sewer gate, we found it open, and the sewers filled with purem and ghelem. They were so intent on entering the city that they never looked behind them. We were able to climb up the scaling ladders they brought, and enter the sewers after them. We fought our way forward and took the first bridge, then companies of the Third Legion we
nt right and left; we were with those who came toward our sanctuary. We started to fight our way forward, when we heard a shout from behind. We looked up and saw a wave of total blackness coming toward us over the river; we saw purem and ghelem turned to bones when the wave touched them. So we fled this way, trying to get to our sanctuary before the wave hit us, but just before it reached us, it winked out, taking those squads, including our company captain, who were near the front. She was a good captain: Marilee served under her when she was a squad leader, when Marilee went out on her first squad assignment.” His voice trailed off, his head sinking onto the table.

  “Where is the rest of your squad?” Tevvy asked.

  Delgart’s voice was muffled as he did not raise his head. “Rellik took them to help the others; some of them must have escaped the wave.”

  Tevvy let his hand fall from Delgart’s arm. Before he could decide whether or not he should wake Rokwolf, he heard a hum and saw a gray shimmering doorway open next to the table near the door; Thal came through, leading the rest of their horses, all strung together in a line, and on the last horse, the kortexi’s warhorse, lay the limp form of Klaybear. Tevvy stepped forward and pointed.

  “Over there, Thal,” Tevvy said, “there is a new room, a stable, where you can lead the horses.”

  Blakstar stepped through the archway, lifting his sword and sliding it back into its sheath; the doorway winked out.

  “What happened to Klaybear?” Tevvy asked.

  Delgart looked up, hearing the name of his brother.

  “He used the staff to save the city,” Thal noted dully, “but we cannot determine if he lives, or if he is dead.”

  “My lord,” a harsh voice stammered.

  “I saw,” Gar replied, and he laughed. “Well done, chosen!” he spat. “You’ve done my work for me, and now the kailum of Shigmar have been destroyed!”

  “But my lord,” the voice begged, “our losses have crippled us.”

  “Yes,” Gar replied, “between those lost by Xythrax to the seklesem, and those lost by Motodu, this victory has been costly, but well worth the price.” He thought for a minute, and the servant waited nervously. “We will recoup our losses, much more quickly than our enemies, and our enemies will help us.” He looked down at his servant. “Take word to the breeding pits; tell the puram to take the breeders into the world above; have them find the strongest, the smartest, and the most cunning, and force them to copulate with our breeders. Return them to the breeding pits, and as soon as they spawn, take them back into the world above for more. We will rebuild our armies, from the kortexi’s offspring, and the offspring of the discredited seklesi, and they will be led by the kortexi’s son.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the servant bowed and left.

  Gar sat on his throne, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, hands together in front of his face, fingers tapping. “But you, Motodu, you I no longer trust,” he whispered to himself. “But then, neither can I trust Xythrax with such power; I must place it somewhere out of their reach, baiting a trap to catch those would-be heroes.” He laughed again, the cruel sound echoing off the walls around him; the servants in the room cowered.

  THE END of The Staff of Shigmar. The story continues in The Morgle Unmasked.

  The Morgle Unmasked

  Book 3 of The Redemption

  2nd Edition

  By Clyde B. Northrup

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2013 Clyde B. Northrup.

  To my mother, who always believed in me and my gifts.

  Author’s Preface

  The chosen have recovered the Staff of Shigmar, second of three keys, but the cost has been high: Shigmar was destroyed and the life-force of all inhabitants taken and stored in this second key, breath-giver; Klare has been violated, Klaybear unconscious under the weight of the many lives lost when he enacted breath-giver’s most terrible power; the seklesem won the battle against the morgle’s forces, fleeing the battlefield and taking the third key with him, but the seklesem lost their Fereghen, and return to Holvar with many fewer than when they set out. Delgart finally realized his dream of becoming a seklesi, proved himself a hero during the battle, but also revealed to the entire host the mark of Gar on his and Marilee’s faces, and this is where The Morgle Unmasked begins. Delgart, Marilee, and Tevvy travel south to Holvar, Tevvy continuing south to Rykelle to find information on Motodu’s (the morgle) whereabouts. Blakstar, with Thal, heads west to return and report his experiences to his order; Rokwolf, left to tend his unconscious brother & sister-in-law, haunts the ruins of Shigmar, wondering why he has been kicked-out of his order.

  We remind our readers that more information is available on our website, http://clydebnorthrup.webs.com where we have posted maps, images, a dictionary, and a sample of Book 4, The Rod of Melbarth. We direct our readers there to find the latest information on our indie publishing life. We express our thanks to our initial readers for their valuable input, to our cover artist Sarah Cosico for the exquisite cover, and to all those who are willing to read our books; the greatest compliment you can give us is to share us with all of your friends–thank you and keep reading!

  Clyde B. Northrup

  April 2013

  Prophecy of the Chosen

  At the center of the ages come those chosen of the One, they who will end Gar’s dominion; two from my own order: one more powerful than all others, doubled of another; one who opens the forbidden way, sprung from my home; one from Karble, myth reborn, dear to the people, bearing the living waters; one from Melbarth, fire of logic burning in his mind; three from the new order, one king, one queen, mirroring each other, one aperu slayer, sacrifice for another; and the cunning mouse, who penetrates all secrets; all maimed and marked by the burden of their choosing.

  Darkness and evil go with them, light guides them, rumor precedes them, destruction and disturbance follow them; choose to aid them to suffer, choose to oppose them to die. . . .

  Prophecy of Shigmar

  Prologue

  Atno 3524, The Great Year, Early Spring

  The Wesento tossed the sheaf of parchment onto his desk and rubbed his temples; he was tired of looking at reports that told him the same thing as every other report he had ever read since becoming the senior kortexi and taking up the mantle of Wesento. He looked hopefully toward the door and the immanent news of the arrival of the heads of the other orders for the Spring Council. He waited for several slow moments, staring at the door, before finally getting wearily to his feet to begin pacing the floor in front of his desk. Although ancient in years, by kortexi standards, the Wesento still stood straight, and still wore his shirt of golden rings, falling past his knees to the top of his shining white boots. He paced with a limp, his left hip stiff and sore from an old injury, but his tread was still firm and sure. Each time he turned, he paused and looked at the door, expecting the knock of his messenger at any moment, pushing his long, gray hair back from his hawk-like face. When after several turns about the office it did not come, he went to the window and looked out, thinking that perhaps his sense of time was off, that his boyish sense of anticipation was making the minutes drag. He held his hands clasped behind his back, fingers twitching as he looked out of the window, reminiscing on the many times he waited on his father’s farm for his grandparents’ immanent arrival, and how the waiting had driven him crazy, and he in turn had driven his mother crazy with his constant inquiries into where they were, and why they hadn’t arrived, to which his mother always gave the same answer: she didn’t know. He sighed and tried to calm himself; time dragged by, each second longer than the last.

  Finally, the door to his office banged open, and the senior apprentice assigned as his messenger stumbled and fell into the room, his face flushed. The Wesento smiled to himself and shook his head before turning to his messenger, thinking he was not the only one upset by waiting.

  “You forgot to knock,” the Wesento noted dryly, keeping his expression stern.

  “M-master!” the
messenger stuttered, trying to catch his breath, unable to speak his message.

  “You’ve come to tell me that our guests have finally arrived?” the Wesento asked in his calmest voice.

  “N-no, m-master,” the apprentice replied, “s-someone else–a k-kortexi none of the m-masters recognize!”

  The Wesento frowned. “Did he arrive on the telepad?”

  “N-no m-master,” he replied, “h-he just appeared in the c-courtyard.”

  “Kortexem do not simply appear in the courtyard . . . ,” the Wesento began and stopped when he saw the gatekeeper, Sir Wolsonto, leading the newcomer toward his open office door; the newcomer had immaculate golden armor and carried a white-plumed helmet under one arm; his hair was golden, shoulder length and wavy, and he was shorter and of lighter build than the bulkier gatekeeper. The newcomer looked too small and too young to be one of their order.

  Sir Wolsonto inclined his head. “Master,” he began, “this is Sir Opnimon; he has satisfied me and requests a private audience with our Wesento.”

  The Wesento drew a sharp breath when he heard the name; it was the very last thing he expected to hear–the last thing his predecessor had told him right before he died: he told him the name and to defer to him as if he were Sir Karble reborn. The Wesento managed to control the quaver in his voice. “Welcome, Sir Opnimon,” he said, jerking his head as a signal to his gatekeeper, who grabbed the messenger by the arm and dragged him out of the office, closing the door as they left.