A Beginning

by Kira Morgana

  An .

  A Beginning

  Book One of The Tower and the Eye

  By

  Kira Morgana

  .

  A Blue Hour Publication

  Published by Blue Hour Publishing 2016

  Copyright©Kira Morgana 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the publisher or author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The right of Kira Morgana to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The novel is a work of fiction. The names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Objections to the content of this book should be directed towards the author and owner of the intellectual property rights as registered with their local government.

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  The Blurb

  A mad King rules in Galivor. His sons vie for the right to become his official heir. While the youngest, Korin, chases the bandits plaguing the land, Loric sets out to plunder an abandoned dungeon.

  With his dwarven bodyguard Grimhelm Drakesplitter; the elven mage Lord Silvertree; Cleric of Espilieth, Lady Kalytia and the thief, Thiert of Galindren; Loric enters the ruins of a Dungeon of Doom on the outskirts of Pleasemore Village.

  Little do they know they are being watched…

  Contents

  The Blurb

  A Beginning

  What’s next?

  About the Author

  More from Blue Hour Publishing

  A Beginning

  I’Mor Barad’s rough cut basalt walls rose from the valley at the centre of the Heart Mountains, as forbidding and nightmarish as the wickedness which had once lived within.

  As the clouds above the mountains lightened with the coming dawn, a red glow brightened the black stone from the highest windows. Had anyone from the surrounding countryside cared to look up at the tower, they would have been warned that once more, the evil had returned.

  Inside the room at the top of the tower a figure, dressed in hooded robes of onyx black and dried blood red, sat upon a throne of tarnished gold. To his right, a suit of black armour hung on a stand. The matching helm with a gold crown riveted to the brow sat on a nearby table.

  Opposite the throne, a granite pedestal held a large polished basalt Jar. Carved into the front of the black rock, was a face with a single closed eye.

  The figure clapped his hands and an ancient deformed Goblin, his livery matching the robes of his master, scurried in through a small door and bowed to the figure.

  “We don’t have all day,” a deep voice admonished the Goblin. “The Aracan Katuvana is in the mood to start some chaos and you stand there bowing and scraping?” The eyelid on the Jar opened and a luminous green pupil slid around to stare at the creature.

  The Goblin sighed and bowed, before darting over and picking up the Jar, holding it with the eye forward.

  Aracan Katuvana stood and moved to the southern window; the Goblin followed with the Jar.

  Despite the distance, the window clearly showed each village and town, their inhabitants sleeping soundly on a clear moonlit night. The Aracan pointed towards the central city, a roiling mass of humanity that never quite slept.

  “That is Galindren, Lord,” the Jar told Aracan Katuvana. “Capital city of Galivor, ruled by King Koric. My…your control over him is as sporadic as his sanity. He is, at worst, a mildly disturbed monarch who believes his sons are plotting to overthrow him. At best, he’s a possible candidate for Custodian Training.” The Jar’s eye blinked and the lips moved around fangs longer than the Aracan Katuvana’s gauntleted hand, which made a circling motion, inviting the Jar to continue.

  “Koric had four sons, Lord. He issued a proclamation that the only son who would inherit would be the one who proved himself the bravest. Currently, the eldest son, Loric, and the youngest one, Korin, are the only candidates. The second son, Feran, was eaten by one of milord’s dragons in the Galivorian mountains and the third son was killed by a horde of Goblins from the southern marches.”

  Aracan Katuvana scanned the kingdom and gestured again.

  The Jar seemed to understand and said, “You only have three dungeons remaining in Galivor, Lord. The Custodians who rule them for you are currently following your last orders to remain inconspicuous. Would you like to change this?”

  The Aracan Katuvana nodded and ran a hand across the entire view. The window darkened slightly and three blood red spots pulsed like tiny hearts beating with evil. The Aracan Katuvana looked at each one in turn, considering which to pick.

  Finally, he pointed to where a river exited from a large lake located by the western mountains.

  The Jar replied, “That is Pleasemore. It is a pleasantly situated backwater village. The inhabitants like to laugh and are unfailingly polite to one another, despite the relative poverty in which they live. The perfect place from which to start our… your return. An excellent choice, Lord.”

  The Aracan turned to look at the Jar, the object seemed to shrink backward into the Goblin's tabard. The goblin took a step back and the Aracan shook his head slowly.

  “Of course it is an excellent choice, Lord. Our agent in the village has reported an influx of strangers in the last few weeks due to the Spring Festival, including the current heir to the throne.” The Jar stopped babbling as Aracan Katuvana made a cut-off action with one hand and turned back to the window, zooming the view into the village.

  The Jar sighed with relief.

  * * *

  Loric crept along the dank corridor, wiping sweat out of his eyes with the back of his leather gauntlet and fingering the hilt of his blade nervously.

  In the side passage a door opened. A long eared runt of a creature with huge eyes and yellow skin slipped through the gap and crept to where the passage entered the first corridor, watching for the human intruder. Its green eyes penetrated the gloom easily, following Loric's progress up the corridor and as he passed the side passage, the creature giggled and slipped back down toward the door, allowing it to swing shut noiselessly behind him.

  The torch in his hand flickered as Loric passed a second side passage. A slight breath of air swirled the Prince's red-gold hair as he paused, frowning, and took a firmer grip on his sabre. When nothing appeared out of the opening, he shrugged and continued down the corridor.

  Loric blinked as the giggle reached his ears, but as he had arrived at his goal, he checked the metal braced door in front of him and ignored the noise.

  He tried to open the door. Damn, it’s locked. I’ll have to pry it open.

  Unsheathing his wide, slightly curved blade, he slid it between the door jamb and the door. The sabre slipped and he narrowly missed relieving himself of a few toes.

  I need to be able to use both hands. He grunted, raised the torch a little higher and looked around. To the right of the door a skeletal hand projected from the wall, its palm open; to the left, a grinning skull surmounting a shield of bones.

  “I wonder,” he muttered.

  Loric thrust the shaft of the torch into the palm of the boney hand and didn’t flinch as the fingers closed around it, holding the torch securely. He went back to prying the door open, a smug grin on his handsome face.

  A slight click as the door released was the only warning he had of the tr
ap. The creak of the hinges reverberated through the corridor and the skull glowed red. Its jaw dropped open and it screamed, almost deafening the Hero.

  Spooked, he wrenched his sabre free, jerked the torch from the hand and ran down the corridor the way he had come. As he passed the side passage, he saw a green-eyed creature standing there, watching him.

  “What in Fiörna’s name is that?”

  The creature's black cat-slit pupils widened and it shrieked wordlessly. Then it ran back to the door, shouting at the top of its voice “Gremlin Alert, Gremlin Alert! Intruder in dungeon! An Intruder here!”

  The noise of the gremlin screaming and the slam of the door echoed through the passageways, almost deafening Loric as he ran. Stumbling back up the steps he had crept down not half an hour before, he banged his knee on the topmost step as he tripped over the threshold and fell out of the open doors.

  He slammed them shut behind him and shoved a thick branch through the handles. Then he waited, sabre at the ready, breathing hard. I hope the stories are true. They say all the inhabitants of each dungeon were wiped out in the war. Then something occurred to him. If the inhabitants were wiped out in the war, where did that creature come from?

  He waited for a whole hour before he decided no one had followed. Sheathing his sabre, Loric made his way back to the village.

  * * *

  The village of Pleasemore had awoken in his absence. The square bustled with the villagers as they went about their daily business. On the north side of the square, the Forest Temple’s prayer bells chimed in the breeze and a light smoke carried the scent of incense to Loric's nostrils as he wove his way through the villagers to the Green Man Tavern opposite the Temple.

  Sinking down onto a stool by the crackling fire, he called to one of the barmaids.

  “Mead!”

  Simpering at him, she brought over a tankard, placed it on the table and gave him a good view of her ample bosom. He slipped a silver coin into her cleavage and another into her hand. “The first is for you, and the second for the Mead. Keep refilling until I fall under the table.”

  The barmaid smiled. “I will, and I’ll help you up to your room after ye fall.”

  “Thank you, Darlin’.” Loric grinned and as she swayed past him back to the bar he tapped her rounded rump with one hand.

  The barmaid giggled appreciatively. He buried his nose into the tankard, feeling the heat of the alcohol burn away the fear left from his escapade.

  By the time the noon bell rang at the town hall, he had emptied another two tankards and was engaged in chatting up the barmaid when a dwarf entered the tavern.

  As with all dwarves he had a short, burly frame, but his long red beard, split into two plaits, proclaimed him to be from Laikholm. His dragonscale jerkin was dotted with steel rivets shaped like crowns and he wore a steel helmet with a pair of Wyvern horns rising from the top.

  “Loric! Ye mangy, human idiot! Where in Tyr’s name have ye been?”

  He stamped over to the Prince's table and heaved himself onto a stool. The barmaid’s nose wrinkled as he tugged on her apron. “Wench, get me a horn of Ale. And no slackin’ off just to get into this worthless noble’s bed.”

  The barmaid sniffed and returned to the bar, her nose held high. Another barmaid brought the dwarf’s ale and he paid her three copper coins in exchange.

  “Grimhelm, you’re going to get yourself thrown out if you don’t start treating the barmaids more politely.” Loric sighed and finished his mead.

  “Well Laddie, ye’re father doesn’t pay me to be nice to bar wenches. Where in Lady Hel’s name did ye disappear off to this morning? Ye never get up before dawn, yet when I awoke this mornin’, ye’re bed was empty!”

  Loric sighed and gestured. The barmaid brought him another tankard.

  “Grim, I am never going to prove myself if I go around with you protecting me all the time.”

  “That’s as may be, Lad, but I am oath-sworn to protect ye.” The dwarf’s voice rose. “Ye should never have left without me!”

  I am never going to win this one, am I, Grim? Loric contented himself with a noncommittal grunt and drank some more mead.

  A light, floral fragrance drifted around Loric. He smiled, and without looking pulled out the stool beside him. A black haired, green-eyed female cleric wearing the white robes of Espilieth glided down the stairs and slipped onto the stool.

  “Have you done something wrong, Highness?” she asked in silken tones.

  “Why would you assume that, Lady Kalytia?” he replied, bowing to her from the waist.

  “I could hear Sir Grimhelm as I came down, Highness.” She looked at the tankard on the table in front of him and one eyebrow rose in concern. “You started out early, I did not see you when I went to the temple at dawn and Sir Grimhelm’s censure was loud enough to wake the town drunk.”

  She gestured over toward the fire where a bedraggled man in tattered clothing was staring at them. “Your experience must have been…traumatic for you to have drunk so much already,” she finished, her nose wrinkling.

  “I can handle it. I am a grown man after all; despite what my… bodyguard seems to think.” The prince’s eyes narrowed as he looked across at Grimhelm.

  “Well you are here on the hunt for adventure, Highness. I cannot see the harm in a little solo exploration.” The cleric looked across at the bar. “I believe some food would aid our… discussion.”

  The Innkeeper strode over and bowed. “May I take your order for lunch, Revered One?”

  Kalytia ordered a light lunch of roast duck, bread and fruit. Grimhelm doubled the order and added Honeycake. Loric finished his tankard and ignored them.

  “And his highness?” the innkeeper asked.

  “He’ll hae t’same as me, Master.” The dwarf shook his head. “I’ll stuff it down ’is throat if I hae to.”

  Kalytia smiled.

  “I have an Alethdariel Blue in my cellar, Lady. It would be my honour if you would sample it.” The innkeeper bowed again. “No charge.”

  “I would be delighted to, Master Innkeeper. Thank you,” she replied.

  One of the barmaids brought Kalytia a delicate blown glass carafe of deep blue elven wine and a matching glass goblet. She placed it carefully on the table and curtseyed, before she returned to the bar.

  “See Grim? Even the Lady says you are out of order.” Loric grinned at his bodyguard and the dwarf rolled his eyes to heaven at the return to the interrupted conversation.

  “Where did ye go then, Laddie?” he enquired, sipping his ale.

  “I explored the ruins to the northwest of the village. I spotted something odd about them when we arrived and I wanted to check it out by myself.”

  “So you left your bodyguard here while you risked yourself?” another voice asked from the door.

  “How else is my Father going to see I’m the best candidate?” Loric grumbled into his mead as an elven mage with silver hair slipped easily through the lunchtime patrons to Loric’s table.

  “Lord Silvertree, I did not think you would respond to the Prince’s message.” Kalytia called to the barmaid to bring another goblet over.

  “How could I not respond, Lady Cleric? With the life of the Heir of Galivor in danger?” Silvertree sat gracefully beside Kalytia and accepted the glass of wine she passed him. “I arrived this morning, but felt I should pay my respects at the Forest Temple before I joined your party, your Highness.”

  Loric winced at his tutor’s loud voice. Already, several people on the other side of the room were starting to stare at him.

  “That’s right, elf,” Grimhelm growled across the table. “Advertise the lad’s presence to the whole village!”

  “And were you not doing that by asking question after question of the villagers at the top of your voice this morning?” Silvertree hissed in a cold tone.

  “That is enough, gentlemen!” Loric said as he slapped the table. “I am not the official heir until my father declares me so, and as my revered fat
her is as mad as a frog on a Franieren’s griddle, I suspect I shall never be declared heir.”

  Silvertree and Grimhelm glared at each other until Loric slapped the table again.

  “If you two cannot get along, I shall be forced to make the two of you remain here until you can, no matter where I go.”

  Silvertree looked at Loric and sighed. “I apologise, your Highness. I shall endeavour to keep my race's natural instinct to expunge this mud grubber under lock and key.”

  Grimhelm stood up. “Mud grubber am I? Why you stuck up, pointy-eared—”

  “Grim!” Loric snapped. “Enough.”

  The dwarf subsided, muttering unintelligibly into his ale.

  “So what did you find, Highness?” Kalytia asked.

  “In the centre of the ruins is a pair of black doors carved with the Tower and the Eye,” Loric replied. “All the books I’ve read say those symbols are used on the doors to the Dungeons of Doom.”

  “Those dark, depraved places ruled over by I’Mor Barad?” Grimhelm shook his head. “They don't exist. T’is a child’s tale.”

  “I can't believe that my pupil actually decided to study.” Silvertree put a hand to his heart. “Are you telling me that you actually did read those books I sent you?”

  “I might ha' known ye'd ha' put him up to this, mage,” Grimhelm growled.

  Loric shook his head. “It wasn't him, Grim. I thought there might be something in the local stories of creatures stealing children and animals.”

  “He asked me about it. I did a little research and discovered that Pleasemore was once the site of a Dungeon.” Silvertree shrugged. “I found the books and went back to keeping the King more or less stable.”

  “A lot o'good that was,” Grimhelm snorted into his ale. “T'king sent Loric and Korin out on wild goose chases. I'm surprised tha' young Korin hae no come a cropper yet.”

  “Anyway,” Loric emptied his tankard and took a deep swig from the new one. “I thought it would be a quick kill-the-creatures quest. I mean, who really believes that the Heart Kingdoms were once ruled by an evil Aracan from that ruined tower in the Heart Mountains?”