The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection

by Harrison Davies

King Haldìr joined Coinin. ‘At least you can rest easier this evening in the knowledge that your missing have returned.’

  Coinin turned to face the king and bowed gracefully. ‘Thank you, King Haldìr, you honour me.’

  Haldìr closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly. ‘We will discuss logistics later. Take this moment to reunite. Should you have need of me, my valet will be at your service.’ The king pointed to an unremarkable elf wearing a cream shirt, red velvet doublet and burgundy leggings over black boots. ‘The room will be cleared of all but your company.’

  When Coinin turned back, Haldìr had already left, and the room began to clear of palace staff. He blew out a deep breath and focused his energies on his next task, but did not envy himself. With a confident stride, he approached the remaining men, women and orc.

  Stepping onto a long bench opposite the troop, he looked at each and every expectant face, studying them. They looked tired and weather worn, but stronger and resilient.

  ‘Brothers and Sisters, what took you so long?’ he quipped, and that caused laughter to fill the room. ‘My grandmother could have made the journey in half the time in a coracle.’

  More laughter. He’d keep them on a high before bringing pressing matters to bare. ‘In all honesty, I have missed each one of you, and I marvel at your return. You set off as amateur sailors and have returned not only as seasoned sailors but heroes to the cause.’

  Cheers rang out, and Coinin saluted each of them with a fist to the chest and a slight bow, never leaving sight of the gathered. ‘However, I have news you will find upsetting. Before I relay this story, you must know that your families are safe and well, they have been relocated to a camp nearby and await your return. You will be free to visit them soon, but I must deliver my news.’

  Coinin took a deep breath and wiped his brow where nervous sweat had formed. ‘It is with a heavy heart that I must report the death … no, the murder of Archmage Laliala Menin.’

  Gasps and cries filled the room. ‘How?’ said one. ‘Who murdered her?’ another asked.

  Amongst tears and crying by some, Coinin explained as clearly and concisely about Lordich taking Castle Rostha, the battle with him at the temple, the destruction of the once great Golden Sanctuary, leading to the death of the archmage. He stopped for a moment and gazed at the gathered with sorrow. ‘It breaks my heart to not provide Archmage Menin with a proper funeral until all this is over. I think only when Lordich is defeated can we safely offer her that comfort. Even now she rests peacefully and awaits that time.’

  Once he was complete he sat down on the bench, deflated, and closed his eyes. Over time he had come to terms with the grief, but this was raw to the many gathered. He sat patiently and waited for questions, and to hug or console anyone who needed it.

  A large figure crossed the space and stood before Coinin. The curator looked up and saw a familiar face, Len’i. The huge orc looked down at him with his head tilted to one side.

  ‘Is there something I can do for you, Len’i?’

  ‘I wonder, does that make you our new archmage?’ Len’i boomed, a little too loud for Coinin’s liking. He would have preferred not to have to answer that question right now.

  He stood and patted the muscular arm of the orc and clambered onto the bench once more. ‘Many of you will have questions regarding the future of The Brotherhood, and I am here to reassure you that despite the fall of the Golden Temple, The Brotherhood of The Wulf is very much active. With a little reorganisation and restructuring, we shall rebuild and reform. We shall combine religion and military under one banner, and henceforth we shall be named Order of The Wulf in honour of all races, colours, creeds and gender that died for the cause. I feel it necessary to not distinguish one gender from another when both female and male fought bravely to protect our way of life. Additionally, I feel it prudent to distance ourselves from the other Brotherhood we call our enemy.’ He took a breath and let that sink in. ‘While you were absent, King Haldìr assisted me in gathering the troops from outposts throughout Rosthagaar, and they, too, are camped in secret, awaiting orders. Haldìr has offered his army in support of our own, and we will take back control of Rostha and bring Lordich to justice. There are a few matters to attend to, some loose ends if you will. As to the question of who is to be archmage … this issue will be decided once our common enemy is defeated. For now, as curator, I hold the highest rank and therefore control our armies. I will speak to each of you individually over the next few days, but for now, take some time to recover and grieve for our lost. I will have Haldìr’s officers guide you to your families.’ Coinin paused. ‘Are there any further questions?’

  ‘Yes,’ Len’i announced, ‘I seek permission to gather a band of orc I can trust, so that we may assist in this fight. If, as you say, we have no choice but to fight or die, then I know many who will join the cause. May I do so, Curator?’

  Coinin looked to Jericho for help. The older man stepped through the crowd and approached. ‘I should go with you, Len’i, the company of one is better than none.’

  Len’i frowned and his large eyes studied Jericho keenly. ‘You do not trust this orc, I sense.’

  ‘I trust you Len’i, implicitly. There may be bargaining to be made to persuade others to join us. I fully understand that orc will fight for the battle, though some I fear battle for the coin. I can provide this as persuasion,’ Jericho finished.

  ‘You will slow me down, human.’

  ‘How quickly you forget the form I can take. Does not the colour of my eyes remind you of that fact?’

  Len’i smiled as best he could, though, with his disfigurement, his great lower tusks consistently made it appear to the others that he was snarling. ‘You make a good point, human. It would be good to have company, even if it is an animal.’

  ‘Then Len’i, General Jericho, I entrust you both to gather as many orcs as is possible. I will instruct Haldìr’s officers to give you a map to the location of our armies. We will go to war in just three months’ time.’

  ‘So soon?’ Jericho muttered.

  ‘The hour draws ever closer. We must act with all haste. I will send someone to provide you with rations and horses. Elven horses will even suit Len’i.’

  Len’i looked puzzled. ‘I would crush a horse. Besides, I have never ridden one.’

  ‘The elven horses are a match for even you, Len’i. Jericho will show you the ropes. Dismissed.’

  Jericho and Len’i saluted and wheeled around to rejoin the group.

  Coinin crossed quickly to the main doors and felt a new shadow behind him. One quick glance and Aniol was on his toes.

  ‘You won’t escape me this time,’ she whispered.

  Coinin rolled his eyes and pulled the melon sized door knob to open the left-hand door. On the far side waiting patiently, the king’s valet bowed politely.

  ‘Is there something I can assist you with, Sir?’

  Coinin smiled and nodded. ‘I need a few things, actually. Is there a private place we can talk?’

  SEEKING HELP

  Draken and Marrok rode steadily through the forest, keeping to themselves as much as was possible. It had grown dark, and they sought somewhere to camp.

  They had ridden for weeks, and they and their steeds were weary now. The end was in sight, at least that was a comfort. They had been ordered to seek out Marisa Wulf, aunt to the brothers Coinin and Marrok, and sister to Draken. They had been provided with the location of Castle Han, within the borders of Westeroe, where she now resided.

  The last time Draken had seen Marisa she had been four years old with flaming red hair, and that was on the morning before he had been banished from Wulf Manor along with his brother, Ædelmær, by their father, Lord Wulf. That fateful day, the two young men were ordered to follow Jericho to join up for military service for The Brotherhood, alongside Lordich Secracar.

  He was confident that his father and mother would have passed to the next life. He pondered his sister’s new title, Lady Marisa Bothw
ick, taken to afford her protection.

  ‘We’ll camp here, I think,’ Marrok said, and halted his horse.

  They had ridden into a natural clearing in the forest. Surrounded by thick underbrush, they’d have plenty of warning of any dangerous animals approaching, thanks to the noise they would make, though a good fire would help also.

  Draken looked up and through the canopy. ‘It is a clear night, little chance of rain, though, it will likely be cold. I will collect some firewood.’

  He dismounted his horse and handed the reigns to Marrok and then sloped away. He disappeared the way they had come, hoping to gather wood for a fire before it became too dark to see.

  Marrok set about tending to the horses. He led them towards a stream that bisected the clearing and permitted them to drink their fill. Once happily watered, he tied the pair to a tree, and the horses did what was natural and began to tear at the luscious green grass of Westeroe.

  Removing two bedrolls from his horse, Marrok unfurled them upon a dry patch of ground and prepared an area with rocks he found down beside the stream to make a fire pit.

  From a pack upon Draken’s horse, he removed a kettle and two food parcels. He filled the kettle with water from the stream and set it beside the pit and waited for Draken’s return.

  He did not need to wait long. The ageing gentleman puffed his way through the trees, disturbing the underbrush as he went. He carried in his arms enough firewood and kindling to last through the night.

  Minutes later, thanks to a flint and striker, a reasonably sized fire warmed the weary travellers.

  Marrok lay on his bedroll and watched his uncle begin to prepare tea, while the kettle boiled in the fire. The younger man munched quietly upon a palm-sized crust of bread never once taking his eyes from his elder.

  Marrok coughed, eliciting a look from his uncle. ‘I could kill you right now and bury your corpse face down, and no-one would be the wiser.’ Face down was the ultimate insult, and Marrok knew this would garner the response he was looking for. He was sure Draken received numerous threats per day, he was just that kind of person.

  Draken stopped what he was doing and placed the kettle on the ground. He gave Marrok a steely look. ‘So, you have waited for this moment to confront me? I wondered how long before the headstrong of my nephews would. I had half expected it before now. Say what you have to say, boy.’

  ‘You are a murderer, and you expect people to forgive because you say that you are sorry?’

  ‘That must have been some conversation you had with Coinin. I expect you raged and wanted to kill me right there and then.’

  ‘I overheard the two of you talking in secret and I lied to my brother. I said to him that I forgave you. That, I most assuredly, do not.’

  Draken eyed the hot kettle as if a weapon. ‘So, then, you plan to murder me in revenge for their deaths?’

  Marrok fingered the hilt of his sword beside him. ‘Coinin can forgive and forget so easily, that is his weakness. I, on the other hand, see through your game, Draken. This relationship you have with Meone, how long will it last before you return to your old ways?’

  ‘I assure you what I feel for Meone is very real,’ Draken snarled. ‘If not for her, I may very well be lost to greed, ambition and still lust for the dark arts.’

  ‘A leopard cannot change its spots so quickly, old man,’ Marrok thundered.

  Draken threw his hands in the air and roared. ‘Kill me then, get on with it, instead of dragging it out.’ He crossed to and kneeled before Marrok, who had also stood. ‘Do it, kill me, ease your pain, end your suffering. Just know this, you will be killing two people today.’

  Marrok swooped up his sword and roared in anger at the man who betrayed his brother and him. Seconds later he brought the sword down upon Draken, only to stop short.

  Draken had cowered at the last second and clenched his eyes tight shut. The stench of urine wafted in the air.

  Marrok lowered his sword and looked at Draken with deep disgust. ‘Clean yourself up.’

  Draken whimpered and moved swiftly for the stream before his nephew changed his mind.

  Marrok sheathed his sword and massaged his temples. Draken was correct, two lives would be ruined, his own and Meone’s. Draken would have suffered a physical death, but Marrok and Meone would have endured an altogether different kind of death that only occurs with loss or murder. Soul sucking emptiness. He had experienced it, years before, the moment his mother had died and then when he’d had to leave his father to die alone to take his brother to stay with their uncle.

  Marrok sat on his bedroll and pondered why he had, at the last moment, stopped short of killing his uncle. Had Coinin’s unfailing belief that everyone had the potential to be good rubbed off on him? Or, did so little of their family remain, that to remove that bond, howsoever slight, would cause more harm than good. No, he simply did not desire the emptiness that comes with the loss of a relative or friend.

  He shuddered at the thought. ‘Know this, old man, I may have spared your life today. But one day you will answer to Lord Rindor for your crime.’

  ‘You fail to understand what it took to change my spots, Marrok,’ a meek Draken uttered.

  Marrok continued to massage his temples, ignoring the man.

  Draken dropped to all fours and wept openly. ‘I had to repent of my sins before Rindor, bow down so low that my face touched the temple floor and beg forgiveness. He, God, spoke to me in my heart like a warm glow. “Return to me,” he said, “and I will forgive all”. I was powerless to ignore the request. Rindor showed me a vision of what could be, and I yearned so much for that life, that I broke, Marrok. My will was broken. For too many years to count I had denied Rindor my worship. I lied, cheated, killed and betrayed, for what? Nothing. I was a lonely old man, with no future, and then I met, her, Meone. She showed me the way, with kindness and understanding. Not once did she judge or condemn me. The result, this leopard changed his spots and fell in love. With my God and Meone.’

  That struck a chord with Marrok. He, too, had undergone a similar scenario during Coinin’s last trial in his induction as Curator. Coinin had brought him before a statue of Rindor, and there he, too, had broken. There, also, he had repented and accepted Rindor back into his life. Was it possible that Draken was telling the truth?

  Marrok lay down on his bedroll and faced away from his uncle. He lay there unthinking and listening to Draken settle down. Eventually, tiredness overtook him and he fell into a fitful sleep until Draken awoke him the following morning.

  The fire had been doused and Draken looked terrible, as if he had not slept. In silence, the pair packed up the camp and clambered aboard their steeds. Breakfast would be eaten on route to Castle Han, their final destination.

  ‘This way.’ Draken led.

  At a graceful trot, the pair of horses tracked through the forest, which had come to life. Birdsong filled their ears, and the skittering of small animals drew attention, though none was seen. Mist rolled through the trees close to the floor, and a chill wind picked up.

  The morning was Marrok’s favourite time of the day, and he took in lungfuls of clean, fresh air. ‘Draken? About last night –’

  ‘Marrok, you and I both know that I should disappear once we have located Marisa. I will remove myself from your life.’ Meone and I will live out our lives elsewhere.’

  Marrok said nothing, in the knowledge such a thing would upset Coinin. He looked ahead. ‘I think we’ve come to the edge of the forest.’

  Sure enough, they had, several miles outside of the City of Re’um. They had travelled by horse, boat and through the Madorine territories without incident and just over the brow of the next hill lay the small castle.

  After a short climb over the greenest of hills, the travellers pulled up short and surveyed the lay of the land. Below them to the right, Castle Han nestled between fields set out in rows for farming and a steadily flowing river. Smoke emanated from the keep, a tall, rectangular structure. Surrounding th
is, high stone walls with a gated entrance prevented intrusion at night. By day, the gates were open, permitting entry.

  Marrok urged his horse forward and trotted down the hillside, followed closely by Draken. The smell of cow faeces dominated the land. Spread by hand across the fields to nourish the crops, it wasn’t the most pleasant of welcomes.

  They soon joined a road, or rather a mud-rutted path that led through the fields and up to the castle. Either side were small dwellings, built to house farmers and common folk, each paying taxes to the lord of the castle. Simple affairs, nothing more than daub and wattle structures with a single room, they were not the most inviting of dwellings.

  Several women, busy with one task or another, looked up at the newcomers with interest, anything to brighten their ordinary dull day.

  Further along the pathway a mill churned wheat, the large vanes turning with the breeze, and opposite a tannery smelled horridly of bull’s urine. A quick look inside the wooden structure and the visitors could see children sloshing around in huge vats of leather and urine, massaging the concoction with their bare feet.

  Marrok shuddered and looked forward, trying not to let the queasy feeling in his stomach show itself in a more physical form. To his left, a small temple to Rindor, barely big enough to house several people in worship, sat empty and tumbledown.

  ‘It would seem either The Brotherhood is unwelcome in these parts, or no-one desires to worship,’ Draken thought aloud.

  ‘The Order,’ Marrok corrected. ‘I’m sure we will find out which in a few minutes. Keep your wits about you. We do not know what to expect inside,’ he added.

  There was a steady stream of common folk, tradesmen and women coming and going from the castle gateway. Outside, a stablehand waited for any persons travelling by horse to hand over the reigns, whereupon he would escort the animals to a compound close by.

  The gate lacked guards of any that Marrok considered a threat, believing them to be nothing more than commoners who had had thrust upon them the defence of the castle. A Little training and next to no pay, the untrained would run rather than face the edge of a sword.