The Ghost of Eslenda
Jim Greenfield
COPYRIGHT
First published in USA
Copyright © James R. Greenfield
2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Prologue
The morning mists rose dreamily over the water and silent shapes glided into view from the south. Their highest points rose above the trees lining the edges of the bay. They passed like shades through the surf, coming closer to the rocky shore. The pale shapes became giant swans, once gloriously wrought with gold and silver, now tarnished and their carved features battered and ruined.
The tall Daerlan ships limped to the southern shore. Battered by war and the storms of the crossing they could not sail farther. Sails fell ragged from the masts, no longer able to capture the wind as it passed. Their passengers rowed to shore without jubilation. They were a beaten people; their spirits would not rise again for many years.
They burned the white ships and watched their past life turn to ash. They stood silent, tears streaking their grey faces. As the ships crumbled, one by one the watchers turned away to an uncertain future. The Daerlan claimed the vacant land as far as the mountains for their new home.
"We shall dwell here to the end of days," said Navir, their king. "Arda is our home no longer; only shadows of Daerlan now walk there amidst the evil of the Menaloch. We have sailed many hundred miles to this new land. This land is now our home. We cannot go back to the way we once were, we all know that. We were killing ourselves, killing each other, poisoned by the words of the Menaloch. We look to a new life, new memories, and we shall not return to old ways.
'We will call this land 'Liannest' in honor of my mother, Lianne, Queen of Arda, and dwell here in peace. We shall forge a new life and bring new glories to our race."
There were great cheers of salvation and relief, but some hearts still carried darkness within. The taint of the Menaloch did not easily fall away. An ageless creature of evil, some legends named it a god, but it subverted many Daerlan to its darkness. The distrust of their brethren lingered for generations among the Daerlan. A new beginning was their answer.
"Navir! How can the Menaloch be forgotten?" cried Tol Makk, an elder on the Daerlan Council. "It tore families apart. Its shadow has followed us here. You cannot merely wave your hand and say it never happened."
"Tol Makk, we shall move forward together, with the knowledge of our past turmoil. But we shall rise above it. We shall raise ourselves up again. We will achieve our past glories."
"Words, only words, Navir," said Tol Makk. "You nearly led us to ruin in Arda. Now what shall be different in this land? Your meditations did not prepare us to defend ourselves against the Menaloch's evil. Your grandfather Avarane fought alongside the Men of Nantitet to defeat Agnaran's armies. The Daerlan were strong then and feared. Our swords defended us. We need those swords to be strong. Poetry and song cannot defend us."
"This is a new place, a new beginning. We will not look for the killing fields."
"The killing fields may find us unvigilant and east prey once again."
"Your fear blinds you. Feel the peace around us. This is a worthy place."
"We shall see what the future brings," said Tol Makk.
A great city, Aleiander, they built on the shore of the new land and dwelt there years uncounted. They watched the race of Men grow from bands of hunters to farmers and multiply but the mountains kept Men in the East. Only nomadic tribes of Men ever contacted the Daerlan and that was seldom. The Daerlan loved the solitude of their new home and concentrated their efforts wholly on it. They ignored the rest of the world. Their city combined nature and the Daerlan gifts for creating and became a wonder for all to behold. It was a jewel and its fame spread across the world from the stories of the few outsiders who saw it. Trees wove themselves into the very structures of the Daerlan' buildings. Great flowing courtyards spouted in every city block. Clear blue streams flowed under golden footbridges and music caressed the ears.
For a great span of years Aleiander flourished and with it, the Daerlan people. Navir's people were content yet their king was watchful. There had been truth in Tol Makk's words. Navir still felt the malice of the Menaloch, like foul breath on the back of his neck, and was not confident of its destruction. He feared its influence had followed them to Liannest. He sailed back to Arda to confirm the destruction of the Menaloch. When he returned he was grim and he would not speak of the journey.
As the seasons changed a voice rose in discord, hailing the new land as a Daerlan home solely and Men should be exterminated before they crossed the mountains. Men had dwelled south of their old home of Arda and ever expanded their territory.
"Did not Men drive the Menaloch into Arda?" asked Tol Makk. "Did not the Menaloch say it fled Men? What will Men infect the Daerlan with this time? This new land should be cleansed of Men."
"No!" cried Navir. "Peace begets peace. Blood begets blood."
"Then blood it is!"
The heated debates rose into fights, first with fists, then daggers and finally swords. Assassins found their workloads heavy and their purses bulging. The Daerlan found their peace forever broken and their city destroyed. Armed groups roamed the streets looking for their opponents until finally, the King rose in anger. Soldiers filled the street led by the flaming sword of Navir. He called upon his magic and Navir beat down the rebellion he thought, but it was only delayed. One morning the news came to him: Tol Makk was abandoning Liannest. A large portion of the Daerlan population followed Tol Makk leaderships and had built new ships. They sailed south across the sea to the desert land of Koberi east of their old home Arda on Anavar. After Tol Makk's time, the memories of the reasons their people fled Arda centuries earlier faded and they distrusted Navir's pleas to return to Liannest. In time they forgot many Daerlan ways.
The rest of the Daerlan remained in Liannest but abandoned the blood-blackened shore and fled their sorrow to find a new home in the forests at the foot of the mountains. They became a woodland people and did not build great cities again. Finally, a thousand years after leading his people to the new land, Navir forsook his kingship, left his people forever and wandered homeless and alone.
Across the sea in the desert land east of the Daerlan' former home of Arda dwelt the Menaloch, an ancient creature of darkness, the malice remaining of a Jungegud. When the Altenguds pulled back from the life of Landermass to contemplate their place in the cosmos, the jealous Junge
guds emerged from the dark places to try their hand at ruling the world. But their pettiness and lust kept their desires separate so the rise of the lesser races commenced. Daerlan, Men, Zidar and Celaeri were the main peoples who carved a niche in Landermass for themselves and the Jungeguds would try throughout the ages to corrupt the children of Landermass. For a time the Jungeguds would gain the upper hand but then the suppressed people would rise up and throw off their shackles. The Altenguds had all but vanished; those that were seen behaved as mad children with no skill to interact with the beings of the world. It was said the Eldest God, Cothos, still watched the doings of Landermass and intervened when it proved prudent. But such events were rare and the races of Landermass dealt with the Jungeguds as best they could.
The Menaloch courted the newcomers to his desert, aided them, spoke fine words of praise and in time, they worshipped the Menaloch. They called themselves Turucks and put away all their Daerlan ways. Years passed while the Menaloch savored its revenge for the Menaloch long remembered why the Daerlan were exiles even if they did not. Its ancient hatred of the Daerlan swelled and the Menaloch was content with the corruption of the Turucks.
Then one day the Menaloch learned most of the Daerlan remained across the narrow sea and its hunger returned. The Menaloch whispered to Tol Makk of the Daerlan and what they deserved for casting out his people. The Turucks began to wage war on the peoples near the desert. They would build an elite fighting force and conquer all who resisted their advance. With each battle the desire of Menaloch's revenge grew stronger and nearer. The Turucks moved relentlessly through the independent cities of the desert and the Menaloch envisioned the day the last of the Daerlan would be destroyed.
Time passes as it always does, relentless, unforgiving, yet often offering new beginning to those who endure. The Turucks endured the harsh desert climate and while they did not flourish, neither did they diminish. They avoided the hot sun, living under the cooler night skies. They lived as nomadic tribes following their warlords, but as a people, they knew little joy. Tol Makk died with an arrow in his eye. His people did not grieve.
Tag Makk was Overlord of all the tribes but he had played his hand to secure his power and felt the sharp sting of failure in his attempts to advance his people. They did not want change. His authority was questioned and he could do nothing to quell the criticisms of his enemies. They called for a new Overlord, a new voice to lead them. He left his people and walked alone into the desert seeking clarity of thought. He wandered without direction for days his awareness changed as he passed a desolate canyon. He felt drawn to this place: a narrow canyon of red rock, blasted by the winds through the centuries. He was beaten, weary and doubts assailed him. The other Warlords cornered him and his people in this desolate place. They wanted his head and the ring he wore. The ring was the last artifact from their Daerlan past and only the Overlord of the Turucks wore it. He had been Overlord for two hundred years but the Warlords had turned on him, betrayed him and he knew they had him trapped.
He had tired of their petty conspiracies and tried to lead them to greater heights but the Warlords could see only their greed. They had no passion for his dreams. They called him a fool and set soldiers against him.
He had never been at this canyon before, but a sense of familiarity hung heavy in the still air. The canyon called strongly. At the far end of the canyon was a large stone of many layered shades of red. He stood over it and heard voices in his head. He could not make out the words but it soothed him briefly. The tone changed. First softly, then more urgently and taking his dagger he cut his arm and blood dropped onto the stone.
After several minutes, he sighed and turned to face his people for the last time. Then he would fight the Warlords until he was dead. He had never feared death in battle, but now he found difficulty in facing his end. He felt powerless and trembled from the uncertainty.
The wind picked up suddenly throwing the biting sand into his fear. He heard a voice welling up from beneath the sand. It throbbed within his skull and pain shot into his eyes. He tasted blood in his mouth. He fell to his knees, compelled to dig in the sand, faster and faster until his fingernails bled. He dug down below the sand to find the black figure carved of a hard stone. Even as he touched it, he heard the voice clearly.
"Tag Makk. What would ye ask of Menaloch?"
It seemed to fill his head with joy, he smiled, blood at the edges of his mouth. He saw visions of victories, spoils of war and the homage of thousands for him. He even saw so far as the defeat of the Daerlan and the death of Navir by Tag Makk's own hammer. The taste in his mouth was sweet.
"Menaloch, help me defeat my enemies. I will do whatever is necessary for the strength to crush those who oppose me."
A pain pierced his head. His blood pumped hard in his breast. He fell prostrate in front of the black carving.
He lay there when the Warlords found him. They dressed similar to their Overlord; robes and head dress to protect against the sand and heat, bracelets and necklaces of gold, their hammers in their sashes. Their belts weighted with the finger bones of their enemies.
"Overlord? Are you ill?" asked one. "Should we call for a peptic?" They all laughed.
They nudged him with their feet. He rolled over, looking up with shaded eyes. He did not seem to recognize them.
"Shall we stake him out for the dawn to claim?"
"Nay, a dagger from one of us."
"Who shall have the honor?" asked a Warlord.
"Hardly an honor," said another.
"Let's all strike together," said the first speaker.
Tag Makk rose to his feet, his eyes glowed afire. The Warlords stood mute. He raised his war hammer and killed the nearest and then another before any of them moved. He paused and realized none of them were moving. Why? Are they frozen in place? He touched one shoulder but the Warlord did not respond. He waved his hand in front of the Warlord's eyes. Then it became clear to him. He glanced back at the Menaloch carving and grinned. He took his time killing each of the remaining Warlords. He cut off their hands with their rings and tattoos of rank. These he bound together and with the black carving, he returned to his tribes.
In the years that followed Tag Makk's war hammer cut down his enemies, strengthening his control on the tribes and lifted the Turuck people to new heights. Their culture flourished as they assimilated the people they conquered. The Turucks never doubted their Overlord again. Tag Makk ruled hard but well. The Menaloch whispered to Tag Makk continuously and one day it spoke to him of Daerlan.
The taste of blood and sand filled their mouths and true Turuck warriors reveled in it. It gave volume to their voices and speed to their limbs. The blood lust pushed them onward. The great war hammers smashed into the helmets of the Penarol soldiers like so many eggs, killing each instantly. Each blow thundered, muting the dying cries of the Penarols. The next wave of defenders came to take their places, shouting and swinging their curved blades, but they too, died. The black robed Turuck army moved swiftly over its foes routing them as easy as picking flowers. The remaining defenders turned and raced to the walls of the city. Their sandals kicked up waves of sand as they fled like the whitecaps in the surf. But the desert men did not dream of the surf. The white flag appeared on the city wall deep in the night and a great cheer rose up from the Turuck soldiers. Their leader, Tag Makk, grinned and waved his bloody hammer in the air.
The Turuck Overlord stood a head taller than most Turucks and the strength in his arms knew no equal. The last thirty years he spent conquering the desert cities. His army now reached but fifty miles to the sea. He had never seen the sea. Sometimes when he dreamed he heard the crash of waves, but he told no one. Desert men do not dream of the sea.
Slowly the host rode forward to the walls of the last free city. The great stone walls crumbled and failed before the onslaught of the Turucks who raced like shadows through their opponents. The Penarol army was crushed and the survivors were hunted down and executed. There were few remaining who co
uld attempt to raise a sword to defend their city, but it was too late. The Turucks' night attacks had unnerved the Penarols and the enemy seemed to appear out of the very shadows around them.
The broken gates welcomed the Turucks into the Penarol capital. Tag Makk rode in at the head of his great army, savoring the moment. His huge figure towered over his warriors. His clothes, loose fitted breeches and a sleeveless shirt were covered with a travel stained cloak. His hair was pulled tightly back and tied in a long dark ponytail. His Daerlan features flickered in the light; the slender tipped ears and the narrow cheekbones. However, his skin burned black in the centuries the Turucks dwelt in the desert darkness. He raised his mighty hammer, his hand adorned by a single ring, and all bowed to him. The torches burned low in the town square and most of the Turucks stayed to the shadows. But the power of Tag Makk withstood the torchlight. He looked at the dark windows of the buildings seeing empty souls waiting his command. His generals were already urging him to continue northward into Masina and Eslenda, but he would make them wait. Only he would decide when to strike again. He wanted to enjoy the sack of the city and the leaders of the Penarols begging for his mercy. He would enjoy that. Crowds of people huddled around their doorways to glimpse the conqueror as he took their city. Tag Makk was known throughout the southern lands as a night beast, a creature without mercy, but the people had nowhere to go. They would see if Tag Makk had any mercy in his body. His soldiers lined up a group of Men then pushed them to their knees. One remained standing and a sword lopped off his head. There was no sound in the square.
The huge man dismounted where the Penarol leaders waited on their knees. Tag Makk grinned at the six Men in the dirt before him. He shouted to the people of the city. He shouted to his men. Then he raised his war hammer and brought it down, and one by one he crushed the life out of each man. He waved his bloody hammer to the night sky and the Penarol people fell to their knees. His servant, Machel, shouted and the Turuck soldiers ran forward to despoil the wealthy city.
The Ghost Of Eslenda (Book 1) Page 1