by L. L. McNeil
He left Feoras Sol for the path to Taban Yul, where he could find a ship to charter back to Ranski. His red robes billowed out behind him, in stark contrast to the barren, white landscape, ancient words in his mind. ‘From dragon-flame begun, from dragon-flame undone. In the end, everything burns.’
End
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Thank you so much for reading Moroda, I hope you enjoyed it! It would mean the world and more if you would be kind enough to leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads.
Reviews help readers find new books, and they help indie authors like me find new fans. They also let me know what I’m doing right and what could be improved for subsequent books.
Book two in the World of Linaria series, Palom, is due to be published on 31st July 2018. You can pre-order the eBook on Amazon now!
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Moroda is also available as an audiobook on Audible and Amazon. Buy your copy now and hear the World of Linaria brought to life by Georgie Leonard!
Ready to continue the story in Linaria…?
Pre-order book two, Palom, on Amazon now!
Release date: 31st July 2018
Here’s a sneak peek of Palom, Chapter One, to whet your appetite!
Sneak Peek: Palom – Chapter One
The dual bladed great-sword glowed blue in the firelight. Flames jumped from the roaring hearth opposite, sucked in by the enchanted metal.
Palom’s bulk dwarfed the low stool he sat on. He rested his chin in his hands and leant on his thighs as he watched the flickering fire mix with the sword’s light. His mug of black ale sat untouched on the table beside him, already forgotten.
Though he had forged the new Valta Forinja, he still didn’t fully understand the weapon’s power. Not this sword, not the twin dirks he’d crafted for his business partner, not the scythe for the sky pirate, nor the short-sword for the officer of the Guard. It had been a boyhood dream he’d fulfilled with the threat of imminent death spurring him on, and he’d ploughed through to forge the weapons without thought of consequence.
The original Valta Forinja had been used only once before, in the Great War some two thousand years ago. Those were little more than relics, locked in a University half a world away for study by the scholars of Berel. And now, Palom, hero of the Ittallan, had recreated them to devastating effect.
Around him, the tavern heaved with throngs of revellers dancing and singing in celebration of their victory over Aciel. The Arillian conqueror would have taken Linaria for himself, had it not been for the Valta Forinja. Palom had turned the tide of battle and stopped the Arillians in their tracks.
But he hadn’t stopped Aciel—at least, not by himself. He was not the sole hero half the city claimed him to be. There’d been others with him, allies who’d stood firm together. In the end, Moroda had been the true victor, and she was gone.
Despite the elation that had coursed through the city for days, Palom couldn’t bring himself to enjoy their hollow victory.
Sickness flared in his stomach as a woman smiled at him as she passed, her heady perfume lingering long after she’d moved out of sight. How could they be so happy when they’d suffered such losses? The palace had only just set up a guard around the crystal pillar on the edge of the battlefield beyond the city’s walls, and all the violence of war had been forgotten.
Something crashed to his right, and Palom glanced up in time to see a trio of drunken Ittallan youths collapse on the floor, arms entwined. Their glass tankards smashed on the flagstones, and beer seeped into the rug in front of the hearth.
Palom growled at their lack of respect, but the three of them laughed as though they’d enjoyed a good joke. A handful of others stumbled to their aid, but with so much intoxication in the air, they all fell to the floor in a heap.
One managed to grab onto the mantle and pull himself to his feet. He had a freckled nose above a small chin coloured with day-old stubble, dark hair, and blue eyes that couldn’t quite focus when Palom looked at him. He recognised him as a young soldier in the Imperial Guard, but wasn’t sure of his name or rank.
‘A toast to the hero of the battle!’ The youth roared, picking up his cracked, empty tankard and lifting it to Palom. ‘The great tiger who saved Linaria!’ Cheers erupted around him as other Ittallan took up the cry, their voices bright with glee.
Already, tales of the battle had exploded out of control, as was so often the way with heroic stories. Palom had allegedly saved Taban Yul alongside a group of dedicated fighters with Valta Forinja at their control. Then it had escalated to saving all of Val Sharis. Now, it seemed, he’d saved the world alone.
Snow settled over Taban Yul as winter took the city in its grip, the tavern’s windows half-obscured by thick snow drifts.
He sighed, trying to peer through the frosted glass.
Lathri was late.
In all the years he’d known her, she’d never been late.
He chewed the inside of his cheek, checking around him in case he’d missed her, though he knew full well she wasn’t there.
His sword absorbed another tongue of flame, and he exhaled through his nose in irritation.
The main door to the tavern creaked open, snow blasting through the gap, and Palom spun round on his stool to see a new figure arrive. He was a lean man, bundled up in thick travelling furs and black leather boots. Men and women had been arriving and leaving all night, but this one drew Palom’s attention more than most. Something about the smoothness in the way he moved, a calculated confidence that made every motion a little too perfect.
Palom narrowed his eyes, his attention away from his Valta Forinja for the first time in days.
The stranger closed the door behind him and shrugged out of his furs, revealing pale grey skin on a fine featured, youthful-looking face. Underneath, he wore a well-tailored coat, which he cleared of melted snow, wiping away the moisture with the back of his hands. His dark, reddish-brown hair had been slicked back with oil, and he took his time in removing gloves from his hands, displaying a number of jewelled rings in silver and onyx.
Another Varkain. They’d been slipping into the city with increasing regularity since their new king came to power.
The Varkain rarely left their tunnels in Sereth, but it seemed Sapora’s ascension from prince to king had kick-started a mass exodus. What Sapora had said to undo millennia of cultural preference, Palom couldn’t say. Seeing so many snakes in his city unnerved him as it would any Ittallan, but with his new weapon to worry about, a funeral of his friends and allies on the coming dawn, and Lathri due any moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care why.
The new Varkain peered around, golden eyes darting from face to face as he took stock of his surroundings. His gaze lingered on Palom, who clamped down on his instinctive urge to flinch, and then he was gone—disappearing into the crowd.
Palom turned away from the rabble, his gaze drawn once again to his weapon as it flickered in the firelight. A pang of longing rippled through him, and he frowned.
As though listening to his thoughts, his sword flashed white and blue. The Valta Forinja mocked him. It didn’t have a single nick or scratch, and it pulsed with power as though eager to fight again.
Palom had not escaped the battle unscathed—a number of new scars littered his body—but he wanted peace. That was supposedly what they had won, so why wasn’t he allowed any of it? They’d lost too much to call it a victory.
He’d lost too much.
More than that, he’d sworn to protect his allies, and he’d failed. They’d fallen.
It was his fault.
It was always his fault.
He’d drank heavily the first night, losing himself in the numbness at the bottom of a barrel. When he’d regained consciousness
, the pain of failure bit sharper than any of his healing wounds. Guilt smothered him, crushing his chest, while the Ittallan called him a hero.
He’d saved the palace. Saved the city.
But what did it matter if he’d been unable to save those most important to him?
Eryn.
Moroda.
Anahrik.
Imagining their faces brought overwhelming sorrow, and he’d moved from tavern to tavern, drinking them dry of ale, cider, even wine—though the headache and sickness it caused hardly seemed worth it—while around him the city celebrated.
No-one seemed to realise he drank deeper than anyone else not in celebration, but to drown his guilt.
The city’s feasting and drinking had gone on for almost a week, but now the last of the battlefield had been cleared and the mass funeral loomed, things were reaching fever pitch. The palace was worse, with Princess Isa doing little to stem those wishing to honour him and his comrades. Though she meant well, he couldn’t stomach her blanket acceptance of gratitude.
Amarah had basked in it, of course, and even Morgen had enjoyed the swooning before he and the scholar Topeko had flown back to Corhaven to sort out the damage caused by Aciel. At least Kohl had respect enough to avoid the crowds; but where Arillians had once been tolerated, they were now despised.
Kohl. Betrayer.
If it hadn’t been for him, they’d not have lost so many allies to the Arillian army.
Palom left the palace in the end, driven away by the sickening, undeserving praise. But he couldn’t return to the forge where he’d lived and worked before everything had started.
Anahrik wasn’t there anymore.
That was a step too painful to take just yet, so he’d asked to meet with the only person he had left in the city. The only one who could help him, who wouldn’t judge…who would understand.
Now, waiting in the heaving tavern, desperate and hopeful, Palom couldn’t bring himself to even sip his drink. His thoughts and worries threatened to overwhelm him so completely, he didn’t notice anyone approach until a hand rested on his shoulder.
‘I thought you’d join the celebrations. You always enjoyed your ale.’ The voice was soft, yet somehow cut through the noise of the crowd as if she’d spoken directly in his ear.
‘Lathri.’ Palom choked. ‘You…have not seen me for past few days. I have had too much.’ His face darkened. ‘I did not think you would come.’
He stood up to greet her, even though he towered over her by a good two feet. Palom bowed his head to shorten the distance and raised a hand to her cheek, cupping it with his palm.
She was covered in snow, already melting in the heat of the tavern, her face flushed from the walk, and she looked as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her. His stomach knotted at his mistake, masking the sadness for a few moments.
‘I’m not in the business of letting people down. I thought you’d know that by now. Isn’t that why you wanted to meet? A messenger from the palace, indeed. How curious!’ Lathri pressed her cheek into his hand with a coy grin and took her seat opposite him. ‘I’ve ordered food. You look like you’ve not eaten in months.’
Palom shook his head and sat down, reaching across the table to clasp her hands in his. ‘I have not eaten as I should,’ he admitted stiffly. ‘It is hard to eat when grieving.’
Lathri’s eyes dropped, and Palom studied her face. She was much as he remembered her: long, blonde, almost translucent hair, high cheekbones on a smooth face, and stunningly vibrant orange-brown eyes. Her eyes hinted at her true form, and they glittered in the reflected firelight. She wore a brown woollen cloak with white fur and feathers lining the neckline and sleeves, and she’d removed her moleskin gloves to reveal thin, supple fingers. He’d always thought they were musician’s hands.
‘We’ve all been touched by Aciel’s war,’ she said after a respectable silence. Energy pulsed gently around her, warming his hands where they held hers, and his sadness eased, somehow softening around the edges.
He’d forever be grateful for her education at Berel University.
‘Will you go to the funeral?’ Lathri asked.
Palom nodded, grateful at the respite the healer brought him. ‘I am part of parade.’
Her eyes widened, but she quickly masked her surprise. ‘I thought the Imperial Guard—’
‘Are under control of princess,’ Palom interrupted. ‘She has permitted me to carry…’ He shuddered, fighting back the sobs that threatened now his emotions had been loosened by her touch.
Lathri rubbed her thumb along his. ‘I know how much this means to you. You don’t need to explain yourself.’
Palom dropped his eyes. He knew his skin sagged, that he was a shadow of his former strength, and hated himself for showing such weakness in front of her. But Lathri had never been one to judge, and she’d seen him worse off. That was a comforting thought.
A serving boy approached the table with a large platter. ‘For the hero of Linaria and his beautiful companion,’ he announced with a grin. Palom scowled at him and held a growl back, but Lathri smiled politely and passed him a few coins.
The smell of food overcame Palom’s irritation, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, his stomach grumbled. Thick slabs of bacon cooked in butter and sugar lay across bread inlaid with wedges of cheese. Lathri had also ordered them a large pot of tea, its heavily-scented liquid steaming from the spout.
Palom winced. Moroda and Eryn’s father had been a merchant of tea and coffee before he’d died. It had been why he’d offered to look after them in the first place. He tried to ignore the stabbing guilt picking at the back of his mind as he poured the tea.
‘You were instrumental in stopping the war,’ Lathri said, taking the knife to cut herself a piece of bread and meat. ‘Many people have sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, who were part of that battle. If they weren’t on the airships, they were on foot, or in the palace, or producing the weapons and armour.’ She gave him a look.
‘They don’t speak like that to Imperial Guard.’ Palom shoved bacon into his mouth. ‘Why am I special?’
Lathri sipped her tea, it’s heat reddening her cheeks where she held the mug close. ‘You must know. The main reason is resting against the wall.’ She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.
Palom looked over his shoulder at the glowing sword and the few sober Ittallan who hung around it, eager for a peek at the famed weapon. He looked back at her with a huff.
‘I can feel its power, even sat here. It’s far too strong. It has just one purpose: to destroy, and that’s what it’s done. That’s what it’s doing now—to you. Surely you can see that? Feel that?’
He chewed his lip. Lathri was clearly upset, but the sword was the reason he’d survived the battle against Aciel’s troops. The reason Aciel had lost. It had been a simple blade, a test weapon, and it had absorbed the power of the dragon-ore and transformed into something miraculous.
The sword hummed as though it were alive, sending shivers up his arms, his meraki piqued. ‘It…is…special…’
‘You’ve made the stuff of legend, Palom. You are the stuff of legend, whether you want to accept it or not.’ Lathri put her mug down and ate.
He felt her withdraw. He understood her hatred of the sword, fear, even, and somewhere deep down, he agreed with what she said. But he couldn’t get rid of it. Not after everything he’d gone through to forge it in the first place. He didn’t even know if it could be destroyed, even if he’d wanted to. He picked at his plate in silence, hunger squashed as quickly as it had surfaced, and he longed for her touch again.
‘People have seen what you’ve made, seen you in battle. You know tigers are rare enough.’ Lathri said after she’d eaten several mouthfuls.
Palom let her words hang in the air, remembering his first visit to the city when he’d been barely sixteen. The Imperial Guard had requested he joined them as soon as they’d learned what he was—not that he’d been in the right frame
of mind to join, anyway.
Of all hunter Ittallan, tigers were one of the strongest. Aside from Mateli, of course—but he was an exception. Palom shuddered as the painful memory of Mateli’s frenzied bloodlust floated, unbidden, in his mind, and he glanced to the Valta Forinja.
Palom had come to Taban Yul full of sadness, and Lathri had helped him. Now he was back in the same city under the same circumstances, and once more, he’d turned to her for help.
He took her fingers in his own and squeezed them, exhaling slowly as her magic dissipated the memories. A small weight in his jerkin pocket pressed against his side, and the faintest smile touched his lips.
A gift for her. A promise.
He thought of the best way to explain how he felt, preferably in a way that didn’t seem selfish, but Lathri spoke before he had the chance to say anything.
‘It is emonos, Palom. I don’t care what you did to create it. I don’t care what you’ve achieved with it.’ Her warmth vanished in a heartbeat, her eyes cold and clear. ‘You can’t run forever. I’ve some friends I’d like you to meet tonight. We might be able to help each other.’
Palom withdrew his hand, all thoughts of his desires forgotten. ‘What friends?’
‘Eat, first. You need your strength.’ Her smile was back.
Palom stared at the food and ignored its inviting smell.
Emonos.
That’s what she’d called it.
Unclean.
Evil.
A word in the old tongue to describe the death of a traitor. It was a hammer blow to his gut.
Whether it was the word’s meaning or the fact it came from Lathri, Palom suddenly wanted nothing more than to rid himself of his sword. But his fear of being too weak without it kept him from moving.
‘Palom?’