“Your destination is the Sargan Duchy, yes?”
“We seek the Everpool and the Tomb of the Dark Paladin where I must complete a quest for my commander, a leader of the Spiders. However, without the Marineer we are stranded here in Dalcasia.”
“Ah,” the prince waived his hand dismissively. “Inevitably, you will find your way to the Sargan Duchy. Many of the Houses of Sargan, though not House of Sargan itself, can trace their roots to the House of Harfour, my cousin’s thrice grandson. But, these details are insignificant now as most of those surface humans have forgotten their roots. But the dagger will know! It can smell the blood of Harfour and it will tell you whom to strike.
“Now, drink what is in this chalice, and rub the contents into your wounds. It will heal and rejuvenate you. The dagger will heal your wounds but only when you kill and feed a soul to the blade.”
Zach did as he was told and immediately felt strength return and his weariness fade. He began to feel strong, powerful, like he could take on anyone. After a few moments, his wounds had completely healed; he stood up straight and tall; confident, sure that he would accomplish his task. Then the skeletal figure leaned in close, its fetid breath turning to mist in the cool air. Zach briefly wondered why the dead prince needed to breathe anyway.
“With a special command word, which I shall teach you, the skull on this dagger will release an ear splitting shriek, which all save its wielder must yield to. Additionally, if thrown at a foe, the dagger will either sink its blade into your foe or the maw will bite and chew his flesh leaving behind a skin eating sore. It is a wonderful creation!”
The gleam in Zach’s eyes grew brighter by the moment as he imagined the great things he could accomplish while wielding that magical blade.
“It always hits its target in a vital area and it always returns to its master.”
“The Mighty Umber has seen your potential. You will find your fighting, stalking, and stealth skills have been greatly enhanced thanks to him. You may find his service preferable, and more profitable, to that of those Spiders; even though they too serve Umber. Although Zach, you should know they plan to betray you.”
“I have suspected this, Your Majesty. It was why they sent me on this quest in the first place; they expected me to fail.”
“Indeed. In fact they are planning to ally with Umber’s powerful general on Llars, Shalthazar, to destroy the Everpool before you reach it. The fate of the Everpool and the Dark Paladin concern me little. Yet you should be aware of these dynamics as you continue your quest. Should you ally yourself with Shalthazar, you may find that you have common interests. Forget your quest, forget Eriagabbyn and his Spiders. They have small aims and you are meant to be much, much, greater!”
Zach knew the lich was right. He was destined for greatness and with this new dagger he could attain it. He wanted to please his new master, and show Carym how powerful he was becoming, to make him jealous. He would return to Eriagabbyn as promised, but that reunion would be far different than the elf anticipated.
“Mind your friend Carym,” said the lich, reading Zach’s thoughts. “He will be impressed with your skills, to be sure. He may even wish to abandon his foolish devotion to that weakling, Zuhr, when he sees how powerful you have become!”
Zach liked the thought of that!
“Go now. Rejoin your friends and let them lead you to your victim. Once this is accomplished, my wealth will be your wealth. I will help finance your mission to ensure your success, of course.”
“Thank you, your majesty!” he said eagerly eyeing the blade. He looked at the ghostly prince who nodded ascent. Zach picked up the weapon then and felt its power surging through him.
“And if I fail?”
The lich’s eyes flared momentarily, determining whether the man was being insolent. Satisfied to the contrary he simply replied, “Do not.”
Zach was weary and rubbed his hands over his face and saw something had formed on the palm of his right hand.
“What’s this?” he veritably shrieked, holding his hand up for the lich to see.
“Ahh, curse this old memory!” the lich chuckled, the sound like stones grinding together. “That mark is the price you must pay to me in return for your enhanced powers. In this way I will be able to live through your actions, feel your kills, see the sights you see, and make certain you do not betray me!”
All Zach could do was stare at the horrible cat-like eyeball that was now embedded in the palm of his hand, staring back at him as he balanced a new found bag of gems in his hand.
There is always a price, he thought.
“A warning, young man,” said the lich. “While you are in my employ, you are not safe from the hunters of the Shadowfyr. The Great Lord pursues many ends through many means, for myriad reasons to which I am not privy. Defend yourself as you must, influence your friends as you will. Your companions have made some discoveries of their own and may be aware of your new dagger. Tell them nothing, confirm nothing. Now, Begone.”
“Aye,” Zach nodded and retraced his steps out of the tower.
Enjoy my city! came the thought from the lich, unbidden, into his mind. He grimaced, trying to force the voice out. Be wary of the troks!
Zach didn’t know what troks were, but he was fairly certain he wouldn’t like them.
As the foolish mortal left, the old lich smiled in satisfaction. He was well aware of the dynamics being played out in the heavens and the hells; he hadn’t survived so many centuries without having a network of informants on all of the planes! A pittance to Umber in return for his own freedom from the Lich Curse. What Zach didn’t know was that he truly had no choice in whom his soul would serve. The lich had been called upon by the dark god to help corral this nuisance known as Carym of Hyrum and he would do it through the man’s best friend, Zach. He wondered why Umber preferred conversion and didn’t ask for the dagger to be used on Carym. Zach could simply kill the nuisance now!
But it was best not to question the will of Umber, ever. Already the minions of Umber were at work, hunting and harassing Carym and his companions. If he could not be converted by the temptation of power, he would be captured and soul bound to a demon, thereby keeping the man’s talent for Sigils but forcing his spirit into a dismal prison where he could only watch the destruction caused by his own hand.
Umber could call upon the lich to force Zach to betray his friend if necessary, but Zach would be far more likely to succeed in turning his friend if the dagger had time to do its work. If Zach succeeded, the Mighty Umber himself would break the curse that bound Roeyl to his prison, leaving him free to roam the Underllars while Zach sought to complete the final phase of breaking the Lich Curse. A place of honor among the god’s immortal servants in the Realm of Shadows could be waiting, thought the lich.
That would chap Harfour’s hide! He might even decide to find Harfour’s spirit in the afterlife and “share” his newfound freedom with him.
That dagger would be the key to his success; Soulstealer had never failed to kill anyone in the centuries of its existence. And it always found its way back home, though it had been a very long time since the blade had tasted blood. The dagger would weaken the man’s will, causing him to give in to his vices, and possibly create new vices for him. Gleefully, the lich hoped that the blade would even convince the man to turn on his own friends. Strife, chaos, and betrayal were things that the assassin Ak Rypoor thrived on in life, and in death.
Whether this mortal succeeded or failed, mattered not, for he would grow stronger with every death the dark weapon caused. If one of those deaths happened to free him from his curse, so much the better. The ancient lich laughed and laughed.
He had nothing but time, after all.
This concludes Volume One. The perilous adventure continues with The Black Keep, available for your e-reader now.
If you enjoyed this book, please go to http://amzn.to/epicfantasy and leave a review.
STORMSON
A CHRONICLE OF STORMS<
br />
VOLUME ONE
an excerpt
By Tom Bielawski
CHAPTER ONE
The day was cold and windy, like any other day in the harsh existence of the country known as Blighted Isles, and the sky was the color of steel. There was just a hint of snow in the air, though the Bvar shamans had not come down from their holdings to proclaim summer was over just yet.
The Blighted Islands was a country, a chain of several medium sized islands and dozens of smaller ones, that claimed two very different peoples who shared only the same harshness and fortitude as their namesake lands: Trolls and Men. The Bvar Clan, one of four of the Clans of Men living on the Blight, were descended from a very ancient people who had survived on the glacier of Northfall Isle centuries before the arrival of the Kjavik peoples arrived from the distant south.
The two tribes peacefully coexisted among the Blighted Islands for centuries, each benefiting from the strengths of the other. The Bvar were a nomadic people who herded sheep along the isles and hunted sea mammals quite successfully. Their ingenious use of blubber and oil, and their ability to raise sheep in the despairingly harsh lads, was renowned among the Kjavik. While the Bvar were no strangers to the seas, they did little sailing beyond the rivers and bays of Northfall Isle.
It was summer, and the days in the Blighted Islands so far to the north of the rest of the world were very long and only somewhat less miserable than the long winter nights. The thing Donovan loved most about the summer on the Isle of Blight was that the Lights of the North, which tended to herald disaster in one form or another, were almost non-existent. And, he smiled happily, he could walk around with only his heavy hooded coat for protection.
The wind was calm this day, and only the occasional gust was strong enough to knock an unsteady man off his feet. Everyone, even the Lord of the Dominion, had experienced that at least once!
Donovan was excited. It was Sunday, the day named for the god called Suun, and that meant no work for him. Work for Donovan typically meant a grueling expedition out into the Sea of Storms aboard a local fishing boat, performing any number of menial and filthy tasks that were required by the ship hands, most often cleaning and gutting the day's catch. Every man in the Isles was expected to be a skilled seaman for the life's blood of the Isles, as well as its defenses, rested in the hands of sailors. Donovan had a well earned reputation among all the crews running out of the Port of Blight, he was tough as nails and could hold his own with any sailor out there.
This morning the boy had been up early, nearly Fourth Hour past Midnight, and raced down to the cliffs to play. He shook his head, telling himself he'd soon have to stop using that term. Boys played, men did not. Tomorrow Donovan would be sixteen years old, a man in the eyes of the law and free to go out on his own.
As far as one could go an the Isle of Blight anyway.
Donovan knew that today would be the last day that could afford himself the luxury of play, as it were, and he did indeed indulge in some "rock gliding." The point of rock gliding was to stand near the top of a sheer cliff face and wait for a powerful gust. The glider would then lean out over the edge of the cliff and hope that the gust of wind would be strong enough to support his weight. It was an exhilarating experience to hover over the edge of steep cliff like a bird! But Donovan's fun was short lived and the wind gusts, in typical summer fashion, were intermittent and disappointing. So the boy decided to head back to the monastery for lunch and endure his daily lecture before heading to town to see if there were any newly arrived ships in the bay.
Donovan smiled, imagining the pomp and circumstance of the arrival of an Imperial warship could bring; it was a very unusual occurrence after all. He imagined the streets lined with cheering citizens and women throwing themselves at the Imperial Navy sailors and the rugged Sea Lancers. Then he laughed aloud and hoped that such a reception could be found elsewhere, for the people of the Blighted Isle did not welcome anyone with pomp and circumstance.
A mean old rock-gull swooped down at Donovan and snapped him from his cynical mental wanderings. It squawked angrily at him, furiously beating its wings near his head to emphasize its point; wandering too close to the edge of the road was a grievous offense to the ornery birds. Rock gulls were brazen and nearly as big as the majestic eagles that strayed occasionally from the mainland far to the south. These ugly birds nested in the rocky fields near the roads that ran between towns and the males felt it their given duty to hazard anyone, or anything, that strayed too close to the road's edge. This rocky field was typical in the landscape on the Isle of Blight: flat, boulder strewn, with tall tufts of grass but not a tree in sight. In fact there were few trees anywhere in the Isles, with the exception of massive Northfall Isle which boasted a small forest. A common joke in the rest of the country was that if you ever got lost in a forest in the Isles of Blight, simply stand up.
This gull swooped down at Donovan, trying to scare him with its great size and large talons, but Donovan would not be deterred; the boy was not deterred by much of anything, let alone a stupid bird. He lived in the orphanage below the monastery with two dozen others who shared his surname, Stormson; the name given any bastard child born on the Blighted Islands. And bastards those boys truly were, he thought ruefully.
The angry male gull, already perturbed by the boy's lack of respect for its own prowess, tried to spur Donovan in the head with its formidable talons. But the last thing the bird expected was for the boy to snatch it right out of the air with his bare hands and slam it to the ground in a flurry of feathers. For a moment Donovan thought he may have killed the bird when its head struck one of the smooth rocks, but the ridiculously tough gull just flapped its wings and struggled back to its feet. As the bird staggered about and finally regained its balance it gave Donovan a squawk of disbelief and waddled off the road to find its nest among the rocks and boulders, perhaps looking for something a bit less intimidating to harass.
Donovan hated life in the orphanage and couldn't wait for his chance to escape the tedium. The boys were housed in cells far below the monastery that were once used as a dungeon in the darker days of the Old Church (reference to one of the Old Golds?). It was dark, smelly, and very dirty down the in the dungeons and there was no end to the tricks and mean jokes the older boys would inflict upon the younger ones.
Donovan was very different that the rest of the boys in the orphanage. He was strong, far beyond the measure of the ordinary peasants who walked the Isles. In fact, there were many grown men who fell short of the boy's uncanny fortitude; and he felt little pain. The older boys found that no matter how much they tried to abuse Donovan there was little they could do to hurt him and even less they could do to scare him. How could you scare someone that felt no pain?
Donovan looked forward to going his own way, really. He had no friends among his peers though he had the well earned respect of the older boys in the monastery who still lived in its dungeons and toiled for the monks. Occasionally he had intervened on behalf of a weaker boy in the face of serious odds, and thus had a following of admirers, but he typically tried to stay above such affrays. If there was one boy who Donovan considered a friend it was, perhaps, Navyk. Navyk, the mayor's boy, was the only other boy who did not seem to be intimidated by Donovan's strength or put off by his off-putting lack of personality. Although the two were not of the same class, the Mayor's son was not exempt from serving aboard the fishing vessels of the Isles where the two made their acquaintance.
Donovan was distracted from his thoughts by the approach of a mounted rider from behind. He was surprised to find that he had walked the entire distance from the cliffs to the monastery already, its dismal gates visible on the rocky hilltop that marked the edge of town. A number of others were about on the road now and the roadside was dotted with a number of small, fortified, longhouses. The longhouses were a collection of buildings that formed a perimeter around a building that was bigger, and longer, than the rest. In the Blighted Isles a person's family had a gre
at deal to do with that person's ability to succeed and their standing in the community. Kjavik families were close knit and tended to live together in large numbers. Those families that were large enough, and important enough, had large holdings in key areas of the Isles that were towns in their own right.
"Hae, Donovan!" called Master Gunnar Harvaldsen, head of the Isle Militia, in the Kjavik language. "Hvernig er thu?"
"Hae! Hag er vel!" he called back. "Thanks for asking!"
"Glad to hear it young man," replied Master Gunnar from atop his Isle horse. He was indeed glad, for it was a rare day when anyone witnessed Donovan Stormson smile. "Tomorrow's your birthday, no?"
"Yes, sir!" he answered proudly. Donovan's hope for an existence beyond the baleful glares of the monks and the fish hooks of the sailors rested solely upon his sixteenth birthday.
"Well, now that you're a man I have a job for you. I want you to come work for me in the Blight Militia," said the old man kindly. Gunnar was grizzled veteran of wars from long ago. He was a bear of a man, nearly seven feet tall, with a scar that ran from his right eye to his chin; though much of that scar lay hidden beneath a tangled scruff of red beard. But his gruff appearance belied a gentle demeanor, as Donovan well knew.
"I would be honored, sir," he replied. "But there is word of an Imperial warship scheduled to arrive on the morrow, perhaps sooner!"
"Ahh," growled the older man. "Don't go and sign your life away with that lot, Donovan. Never a more ruthless band of troll-skinned liars than those Imperial Navy recruiters! Don't trust a word from them!"
"Sir-"
"Nae!" shouted Gunnar, a rarely seen anger brimming in his eyes. "You're going to be a man and can do as you please. But never have I thought you were dumb enough to consider throwing your life away at the end of Lancer's point."
The old man's expression softened some, seeing the hard set in the boy's stance. "Stay here with me, lad. I can't pay ya what the Navy will, but you'll get three hot meals and a warm place to sleep. I need a strong man ike you on the watch when them sailors come to port."
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