Table of Contents
Title Page
Map
The Epic of Ronyn
Acknowledgments
Glossary
About The Author
Other Randy Ellefson Books
Randy Ellefson Music
THE EPIC OF RONYN
The Tales of Llurien, #2
by Randy Ellefson
Copyright © 2016 Randy Ellefson / Llurien Books, an imprint of Evermore Press
The Epic of Ronyn is the second story from the forthcoming book The Tales of Llurien.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means; electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any semblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Map of the Kingdom of Illiandor
Partial Map of the Kingdom of Illiandor, continent Antaria, on the world of Llurien
http://www.llurien.com/continents/antaria/
The Epic of Ronyn
One must be careful not to pursue life so fully that it leads instead to one’s death. That such misadventure might befall the minstrel Ronyn had never occurred to him. His confidence lay not in the naiveté of youth, but in a passion so strong that it routinely swept up those around him into a heady mix of enchantment, intoxication, and rapture. He considered this appropriate, for he was a master storyteller, living by his tales, his wits, and most importantly, his songs. The latter consumed him now, not because he purred in his rich baritone to an audience hanging on every silken tone, but because the very sort of misfortune he had never considered had now befallen him, the cost being his music.
In a palace’s grand hall, he stalked before a gilded throne, a mane of golden hair tumbling down his broad back. A brocaded, tailored tunic bulged from the powerful arms and chest underneath, his trousers equally straining to cover his might. That he might split the marble floor with his echoing boot steps seemed plausible, so heavy fell his tread, the weight of sorrow crashing them down. And yet in the masculine lines of his face lay a grim determination that added fuel to the blaze in his brown eyes.
Richly dressed servants gave him a wide berth as they scurried along, bejeweled candelabras, glass figurines, and other treasures in their clutches. They bustled about the palace, knocking over crate and barrel, upending chest and chalice, and scattering people and animals without apology. In the chaos, a white robed woman made her way unnoticed from the gates to the throne room, her scowl revealing confusion about the hasty preparations. It seemed that Ronyn intended to leave this place forever, taking every last prize with him.
Off to one side stood a ginger-winged morkais, feathered wings neatly folded behind her back, thin eyebrows arched in an expression of muffled amusement. Her slanted green eyes noted the new arrival with a grin, slightly pointed teeth looking unusually fearsome for such a benevolent race. Not much taller than a man’s waist, this morkais didn’t wear the typical sash with scroll cases tied to its end, as these messengers often did. This suggested her business had concluded and Ronyn had yet to dismiss her. The quiet rustling of her feathers betrayed some impatience.
Addressing Ronyn, the woman asked, “Are you the lord of this palace?”
He stopped, a fierce gaze sweeping over her. “Who are you? How did you get in here?” Then he seemed to notice the commotion that had likely prevented anyone from stopping her. Eyes fell upon hers, where he saw a spark of admiration and sultriness that made him want to crush her ruby lips to his. He drew himself up more fully, if that were possible.
“I am Ronyn of Illiandor, late of Nybor, adoptive son to our god Lierein the Lulling One, and heir-apparent to his kingdom on this earthly realm, for his mighty gifts flow most strongly through my veins, such that I shall surely attain Sorrairyn upon my demise. I am the King of Bards!”
“Surely a man such as you will become a demigod,” she murmured. “Your title is magnificent. How did you come to earn it?”
“Ha!” His eyes flashed, for she’d struck upon the very subject of his torment, from which nothing could restore him. At the thought, he gazed sidelong at her. Perhaps a rousing story would rouse his heart, and that of this vixen, so clearly smitten with him already. In her embrace afterward there might be comfort still. “I’ve a grand and epic tale to tell if you would hear it!”
“Gladly.”
He raised his head regally and spoke so commandingly that all within earshot stopped what they were doing to listen.
* * *
I am the greatest bard of my day, but it was not always this way. Long ago I was a skilled and fair minstrel. Like many who’d come before me, I had mastered the only three chords known to the species, for Lierein, our god of music, had refused to part with more chords for fear that we might attain such purity of expression as his. Despite my mastery, I was unable to distinguish myself from my peers or gain the fame I sought.
Then one day a rumor spread across the land—that a fourth chord existed, Lierein having hidden it upon fair Llurien in a spot so treacherous that only the bravest and most stalwart of men could reach it. At once did foolish men take up the task, dreams of glory spurring them onward. Other, less adventurous men remained mired in mediocrity, unwilling to even try, as if to aspire to greatness brings such hardship that any achievement thus gained is of no consequence. Perhaps some wisdom abides in this, for my own epic journey took bravery the likes of which few possess.
As I journeyed forth from Talendor to find the fourth chord, the summer burned nearly as fierce as my heart. With my only weapon a lute strung across my broad back, I soon strode into querran lands in the Shy Hills of Antaria. Knowing the legendary querran hospitality, I sought to circumnavigate their homes lest I be undone with unending banquets, dances, and merriment. In this my hopes were dashed, for as I passed between two manicured hedges while in the midst of song, an opening salvo in the form of a juna fruit hurtled toward my head. Narrowly did I avoid damage to my pride, but in quick succession did more vegetable matter soar through the air. From every angle did corun, norun, koten, and even a roasted tosk chop assail me. Spattered with dirt and foodstuffs, I leapt into the bushes and hauled forth a kicking perpetrator, who laughed hysterically as he shoved a half-eaten rosun down my breeches, the smooth, oblong spud sliding down to my knee.
The flurry of vegetables stopped as a dozen querra emerged, each humanoid standing as if ready to tumble upon the ground at once. Leaves protruded from braided hair, soiled tunics, and breeches of bright colors, more vegetal ammunition bulging from pockets or rucksacks slung across their backs. Wistful eyes sparkled with mischief and those who weren’t grinning stood chewing on moonflower seeds.
Lifting the mirthful miscreant, who stood no taller than my waist, I demanded, “Why do you do this?”
Still laughing, a charming lass among them came forth and answered me in a high, childlike soprano. “You strode with such purposefulness that surely you require a respite from what troubles you, lest you crack under the strain of your ambitions.”
Indignant, I replied, “Troubles me? The only thing troubling me is a band of mischievous querra!” Only giggles met my outrage and I felt the sting of embarrassment on my cheeks. I let go of my captive, who stood his ground, looking up at me with unruffled innocence.
The girl eyed me with feigned seriousness, proclai
ming, “I am Dorra of the Qi-Enan. For what grand mission do you stomp through these lands?”
Frowning at her, I revealed my quest, describing the fourth chord’s imagined wonders with all my meager talent for the task. I voiced my opinion that with the chord in my repertoire, I would be welcomed in all lands as a bringer of joy and peace. Her disapproval was plain.
Sniffing an un-hurled rosun, she chided me, “And had you possessed such a chord, we might have let you pass unmolested. Why is it so important to you?”
Swelling with passion, I cried, “It is the only one of its kind and none have heard it before! I must know its touch!”
“What do you plan to do with it?”
The question was pure silliness. “Why, admire it, of course, and explore its myriad subtleties.”
Bright eyes intent, she asked more pointedly, “Will you share it or keep it to yourself? Surely Lierein’s gift belongs to no one at all, being free as the wind on which it soars.”
This I had not considered, but with querra notorious for failing to respect claims of property, I sensed her concern. I knew that in their society, all that resides on Llurien is free to one and all. Possessions are nearly unknown save the clothes upon one’s back. They frown upon attempts to hoard wealth in the manner of wicked daekais, with whom all men share at least a passing similarity. Were I to admit I wanted the chord for only myself, I risked a barrage of vegetables the likes of which few had ever seen.
“Of course I would share it!” I replied. “It is the joy of a bard to bring happiness to all through song and tale, and what better manner than to reveal Lierein’s gift to delighted ears everywhere?”
“Very well then,” she began, seeming satisfied. She lifted a blue and white feather as long as my leg from the ground. “If you are in such a rush to spread joy to all, we will impede your seriousness no further. Carry this florin bird feather and no querra will molest you.”
Pleased with this change of heart, I accepted the giant bird’s feather and did as I was bidden, taking my leave at once. Behind me the famous querran whistling now filled the air with cheery song, and perhaps their tune was a harbinger of happier times to come. I soon learned my foolishness and the depths of querran treachery. No sooner had I set upon my journey once more than yet another band of rambunctious miscreants assaulted me, the first of many. Querra of all ages set upon me with all manner of pranks such that I nearly brought one of them to his end before Dorra, trailing along to watch the entertainment, intervened. It was then that I realized I had been duped. It seemed the feather was not a badge of safe passage, but a beacon of hilarity for which I had been unknowingly volunteered. My anguish was quite plain and she offered heartfelt apologies I could not refuse. It seemed she had not believed me and sought to teach me humility, and I must confess that the variety of vegetables adorning my person had taken its toll on my handsomeness. To make amends for my disquiet, she gifted me with rations for my journey and a treasure beyond compare—riven bane.
I soon had need of the latter as I continued on, for, as is their wont, a horde of despicable riven had taken up residence near querran lands, hoping to eradicate the joyful farmers with sickness or strife. In my strolling I had already passed all manner of riven bane planted on the outskirts of querran farmlands, to keep the disease-ridden humanoids out. The hedges are poisonous only to riven, worsening their already ill bodies, and thereby protect the equally short querra year-round.
The goddess of good fortune smiled upon me. Before realizing what lay around me, I had already taken two strides into the midst of riven lying mere feet from the forest path I trod, slumbering on the ground as soundly as the dead. Each lay in a heap of ragged, torn clothing, unkempt hair crawling with lice. Scabs and open sores oozed on the small, malnourished frames, deformities ruining odd legs, arms, and faces. Even their hourly bouts of sleep could not give them peace, for some murmured their discontent in their nightmares, scratching at what ailed them or trembling from some terror in their minds.
Quietly, so as not to disturb them, I carefully picked my way through this maze of murderers, their ever-present daggers held close in each hand and caked in dried blood. Mindful of their copious diseases, I avoided all touch. Just paces from freedom and safety, I heard a stir behind me. To my horror, the riven had begun to wake from the subtle scuff of my foot upon the rocky path. First one and then another opened heavily-lidded eyes, black like the thoughts behind them. With deceptive calm, they began to rise and stretch like felines. As I backed away, the first among them stepped toward me, an evil leer revealing rotting teeth and malfeasance. I stepped clear of the last creature as others began their pursuit, first at a walk, then a jog, and soon a mad, frenzied rampage the likes of which I had never before witnessed. A throng of whirling steel and hoarse cries of hatred hurtled toward me as I fled without shame.
I ran through thickets and grassy fields as I had never done before, the swarm nearly catching me until at last I remembered the riven bane and pulled the pouch containing it from my waist. Not daring to slow, I flung the purse into their midst and heard the most terrible shrieking as it burst, spreading the fine powder of the pulverized lluvien flower all over my pursuers. Burning their lungs and skin like the fires of Sorrin’s flame, as if the God of Magic himself had smote them, the poison sent riven tumbling to the ground, writhing in agony. Whether they’d live or die I knew not, nor did I care. The murderous harbingers of death earned no pity from me. Blessing long lives on Dorra and her friends, I continued on my way, the days passing with greater ease thanks to her rations.
As I left the rolling Shy Hills, the quiet forest of Valley Wood stretched before me toward the Kais Mountains beyond. Long ago did the species clash in the Second Jhaikan Wars there, leaving many a knight, winged rider, jhaikan, and other dead strewn across its moss-covered surface. Here I strode into a landscape hushed with the specter of death. In the shadows and streaming sunlight did I pick my way, stumbling here and there over abandoned shield, forgotten sword, and lost bones, the remnants of discarded heroism underfoot. Such was my concern for my footfalls that I hardly noticed the moonbeams replacing daylight until the night air grew chill around me, an unnatural light appeared before me, and a hollow voice arrested my attention.
“Mercenary scum!” said the speaker, tones echoing as if surrounded by a vast emptiness. “To Lochiare with you!”
I stared at a vision of death before me, a knight in full plate armor standing with gleaming blade leveled at my person. Were it not for the pounding of my heart, I’d have sworn I had already died and stood in that land of eternal torture after death. It seemed the knight dwelled there now, for life had long since abandoned him in this dreadful place. He advanced upon me, looking every bit alive save for the otherworldly glow emanating from him and the ghastly wound where his heart should’ve been. I cast about for an escape and saw a full score of his comrades rising from the earth in a circle to surround me. It seemed my death was nigh.
“Hold, Knight of Antaria!” said a commanding voice behind me, and I turned to see a karelia, those masters of the soul, standing at the ready, imposing in his silver plate armor despite only reaching my chest in height. The lorenia lines sweeping across his cheeks from his eyes glowed green at the supernatural forces in the night. His fine, delicate features suggested force would easily overcome him, but many had underestimated karelian strength, vigor, and skill with a sword. And until one witnessed it, none would believe the power a karelia held over the undead.
“The war is over,” the karelia continued, keen eyes seeing more than mine, for he knew what to say. “And the empire is victorious. Lay down your sword that he may pass.”
Lowering the blade, the undead knight asked, “Why have I not heard news of such?”
The karelia answered, “I know not what news travels to the realms of death from whence you came, but you would do well to hear it now. The arch-wizard Kaniakus has long since perished, as have you. Both armies are scattered, and the Empire of A
ntaria is long gone. By the light of Scrylyn’s Eyes, see the truth!”
Having thus spoken of the goddess of truth, the karelia held forth a silver amulet set with an obsidian stone blacker than night. It caught the twin moons’ light and cast it upon all the undead. As one they gasped, rot withering their bodily images as I watched in awe, their ignorance of their demise now gone and no longer able to stave off decay. Armored skeletons now stood where whole men had appeared before. Howls of despair and anguish filled the air until at last the shrieking quieted. The karelia’s amulet dimmed.
Casting a glance at the haunted wretches, who still stood aghast, the karelia asked me, “What brings you to this haunted place, bard?”
Mindful of the debt I owed him, I replied truthfully, “I merely pass through in search of Lierein’s fourth chord.”
“And this is of such value that you would risk your immortal soul?”
I considered that for the barest of moments. “Indeed it is,” I replied with pride.
Eyeing me closely, he said, “The pleasure this gift will bring to others when you share it might just be worth a soul.”
His words startled me. I feared that the truth of my intentions to keep the chord to myself had been clear to him. I noted with chagrin his look of amusement as he continued.
“You will not reach the forest’s far side this way, for the nights here are not quiet.” He then commanded the undead to escort me to the forest’s edge before they departed for Leisiran, that heavenly afterlife of pleasures, or whichever eternity the “Dread Judge” Solon would assign them. I bade my savior farewell with many thanks and departed.
And thusly did I pass my way through Valley Wood, in daylight having naught to fear while at night, my ghostly retinue did see me safely across the fields of death. Time and again did other specters arise to arrest my path, only to learn their fate from my companions and cry out in despair. Then, one by one, they joined my haunted escort such that nearly a thousand undead at last deposited me beyond the woods. As dawn’s light brightened, they slowly disappeared through the dark boles and shadows for once and ever more, back into that land of horrors.
The Epic of Ronyn (The Tales of Llurien Book 2) Page 1