BOOK ONE
DAWN OF THE PHOENIX
A.J. STRICKLER
Copyright © 2014 by Panda Books Press LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For permission requests, email the publisher at: [email protected]
For my family who put up with the long hours spent on this project. A very big thank you to my wife Stephanie, without her unwavering support and understanding, this book would not be possible.
Special thanks to Panda Books Press for their invaluable work, assistance, and support in fixing up version 1.0 of my book. A big thanks to Robert Kauffman for his fantastic work on the inside of this book, his exceptional artwork, and his patience with my many questions. Can’t thank these two enough for making this a positive experience for a new author.
Thanks to Brian Lynn and Sarah Scharfe for reading my work more times than I can count and their critical ideas and welcomed opinions. And to my gaming crew Mike, Amy, Kevin, and Brian and all the other people that have shared a love of fantasy with me over the years.
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
“Give us the coin or die,” his uncle commanded the man in the black cloak.
Julian looked at the man closely from where he hid in the stand of trees. There was something dangerous about him that made Julian uneasy. They had stealthily followed the stranger for a few miles before they made their move. Uncle Raul had insisted that he was a small man and would be easy to overpower.
Julian felt wary about the man. He had tried to tell his uncle he thought robbing this traveler was a bad idea, and had received a busted lip for his effort.
Uncle Raul was right: the man was not tall and Julian was unable to see the outline of his body due to the long black cloak wrapped around him. He thought their intended victim seemed slender, but was uncertain.
The traveler had black hair that fell just past his shoulders, but it was those green eyes that made Julian nervous—they seemed too calm for a man who was about to be robbed and murdered.
“Are you a simpleton? Did you hear what I told you? The coin, hand it over now. I won’t ask again,” his uncle threatened.
“Give us that cloak too,” Julian’s cousin Vlad added.
Julian watched as the traveler’s feet shifted ever so slightly. The boy noticed that his palms had begun to sweat and he was holding his breath.
The man reached into his cloak and threw a small pouch on the ground. “Take it,” the stranger said. “The few coppers I have are not worth your lives.”
His uncle smiled, bent down without taking his eyes off the stranger, and picked up the pouch. He shook it and put it into his pocket.
“You’re a cocky bastard for a man outnumbered three to one. My son said he wanted the cloak, too. Now hand it over.”
The dark-haired man looked at the sky for a moment, as if checking the weather, then slowly returned his gaze to Uncle Raul. “Winter is just passing. I will need this cloak, the nights are still cold.”
Julian watched as his two cousins spread out to the right and left of their victim, both with smug looks on their faces.
“I think he’s just a coward, Father. Let’s just kill him and take it.”
Julian’s uncle nodded.
“Good idea, Stephan. Why waste our time talking to this son of a gutter rat? Try not to get too much blood on the cloak.”
The man threw back his cloak. He was dressed in black leather leggings and a long-sleeve black jerkin, but that’s not what caught Julian’s eye. It was the hilt of the sword hanging from his waist. It appeared to Julian to be inlayed with gold and silver.
The traveler’s hand slowly moved down until it came to rest on the sword’s pommel. “I have given you what I have to give. I wish no trouble from you, just let me pass.”
Julian could see that his uncle was not even listening. His eyes, bloodshot from the drinking of the night before, were staring at the hilt of the stranger’s sword. It was worth enough to keep them fed and his uncle in ale for months.
“Vlad, Stephan, kill him,” his uncle shouted. Julian had trouble following what happened after that; it was too fast.
The stranger’s blade whispered from its sheath and blocked Vlad’s ax attack. Then the stranger spun away toward Stephan with the grace of a dancer. His cousin raised his mace, but the man’s sword slid through his chest before he could deliver the blow. Stephan fell as Vlad swung his ax at the traveler’s head. The man ducked, rolling away to come up behind Julian’s enraged cousin. The swordsman moved like water flowing through a stream, making Vlad’s attack seem awkward and clumsy. Before his cousin could turn around, the traveler’s sword sang through the air. Vlad’s head jumped from his shoulders and rolled across the dusty road. His uncle screamed with rage, his sword coming up to strike the traveler down. The dark-haired man spun on his heel, his cloak spreading out in the cool evening breeze. The beautiful sword severed his Uncle Raul’s head from his neck. The body fell to its knees and then toppled into the road. The traveler stood over the bodies, his blood-stained sword still in his hand. In a matter of seconds, all the family Julian had left in the world was dead.
Blood dripped from the tip of Kian’s sword. He had never killed before. Now three men lay dead at his feet. Their blood soaked into the dust of the dry road, making a gruesome muck. Kian looked down at his grim work. Two of the brigands lay headless, the third had been pierced through the heart. He hadn’t wanted to kill them, but they had given him little choice; they had tried to waylay him for the few copper coins in his pouch. Even after he had given them the little coin he carried, they still wanted his cloak. He knew deep down that any choice he made would have ended the same.
He had dealt with thieves and cutpurses many times in his childhood—robbery and murder were a way of life for many of the residents of Thieves Port. He was no child now cowering before the ruffians of a crime-ridden city. He had trained his mind and body for forty years in the Blue Dagger Mountains with his master, Gildor. So many years, it was almost half a human lifetime, but then he wasn’t human.
This was the first time he had drawn his sword to truly defend himself. It had been fast. His body just seemed to move on its own. Gildor had told him when the fighting started, he would become his blade, and
he had. Kian had walked the path of steel for forty years and honed his skills until they were second nature to him. The sword would forever be part of his life. Part of who he was. Gildor had taught him well. The lost techniques of the ancient elven warriors were his now, but his master had never taught him how to feel after killing a man.
Kian cleaned the blood from his sword on one of the dead men’s shirts and sheathed it in its scabbard. He would oil the blade later. The elven sword he carried was the most precious thing he owned. The blade had been polished to a high sheen. The hilt and pommel were both inlayed with silver and gold. Forged when the elven race still ruled the world, he would be hard pressed to ever find its equal. It had been a gift from Gildor, so he always took time to care for it properly.
Kian wanted to bury the bodies. But having nothing to dig with, he decided to drag them off of the road instead. The high grass would hide the gory scene from anyone that passed by. He retrieved his pouch from the dead man’s pocket and concealed the bodies as best he could. Then the half-elf headed down the dirt road, trying to digest what had just happened.
He remembered what his old master had told him: “You are the blade, boy—strong, flexible, and sharp. When you kill to defend yourself or another, the blade has no regret nor should you.”
He felt little remorse for the dead brigands. He knew if he hadn’t killed them, he would be lying dead in the dusty road. If he was going to live the life of a warrior, he would have to temper his heart for the barbarity of combat.
Gildor’s words echoed in his mind again, “You have too much empathy for your opponents, Kian, and a trusting nature—two things a warrior does not need.”
He had spent many years trying to harden his heart, but it was one lesson he had failed to master.
He walked quickly from the scene of the fight, wanting to cover as much ground as possible before nightfall. Kian spent nearly forty years in the mountains and he was very curious to find out what the world was truly like. He also longed to return home to his family.
He hadn’t gone far down the road when he heard a horse whinny and the sound snapped his head around. A boy stood in a small stand of trees, holding the reins of three horses; he couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. A wave of guilt hit the swordsman. The boy had to belong to the men he had just killed. He walked toward the boy with his hands up, trying to show he meant no harm. Kian could see the boy was unkempt, his brown hair was a tangled mess and he was dressed in homespun clothing that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a very long time.
Tears began to well up in the boy’s eyes and his lip quivered as Kian approached. He could tell the boy was scared, but to the young man’s credit, he did not run away.
“They won’t be back for the horses.”
The lad said nothing.
“They tried to kill me even after I gave them the coin.”
Again the boy didn’t respond.
Kian reached out and took the reins out of his shaking hand; the boy offered him no resistance.
“What is your name?” Kian said.
“Julian,” the boy answered quietly.
“Did you know the men well, Julian?”
Tears rolled down his red-chapped cheeks. “They were my family, my uncle and cousins.” Julian wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand. “Are you going to kill me now?”
Kian felt disheartened. The boy thought he was nothing more than a common criminal or brigand. “No, Julian, I would never harm a defenseless boy. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Kian left the boy standing there, chest heaving, his tears coming now like a hard spring rain. The swordsman couldn’t tell if they were tears of relief because he hadn’t been killed, or tears for his slain family.
He walked the three horses away and tied their reins to one of the trees in the tiny grove where the boy was hiding. After gathering some loose tinder, Kian started a small campfire. This would be as good a place to camp as any, since the trees and cover were meager in this part of Trimenia. The winter snows had only melted a few weeks ago and the night would be cold.
He watched Julian out of his peripherals as he made camp. The boy had sat down with his back to a tree. He rested his head on his knees with his arms wrapped around his legs. He would give the boy time. He knew that the child would come around when night fell or he grew hungry and cold. Kian would offer him a seat by the fire, and food and water.
He had no intention of leaving the boy out in the middle of nowhere to freeze or starve to death; he would try to see him safely to the nearest town or village, if the child would allow him.
The warrior sat down and leaned back against a small oak tree, putting his hands behind his head and waiting patiently.
As night crept closer, Julian began to get cold. He had started crying when he realized the swordsman was not going to kill him. Most of his tears had been because he was scared, while very few were for his dead relatives. He remembered all the times his uncle and cousins had been cruel to him. Nonetheless, the fact was, bad or not, they were all he had and now he didn’t know what he would do. Trimenia was a grim land and a boy his age wouldn’t survive more than a few days all alone.
Julian looked at the stranger.
The man sat with the longsword he carried across his knees, rubbing it with an oily rag. The traveler must be a great warrior, the young man thought. He had easily killed his uncle and cousins, and they were the toughest men Julian knew.
His father and uncle had been farmers once, until their land was taken by Baron Serban, the nobleman that governed the land where his family had once lived. He had killed Julian’s father and taken his mother away. After she was taken to the baron’s castle, Julian never saw her again. That’s when he had moved in with his uncle.
The baron had taken his uncle’s lands a few months later, and his uncle had blamed Julian for it. That’s when they all had become bandits. Julian didn’t want to be a bandit, but his uncle said there was no choice if he wanted to eat. His uncle had grown mean and bitter after that. When he was drunk, he beat Julian and treated him little better than a dog. His cousins were no better. They too took their frustrations out on Julian. The boy realized that he wasn’t really sad his cousins and uncle were dead; he was sad because now he was alone.
The sun was going down. Julian knew there were many wolves in the Kingdom of Trimenia and the warrior’s fire looked very inviting. He got up and slowly walked over to get warm. Julian thought if the man was going to hurt him, he already would have. Besides, Kian had said he meant him no harm. And he had spoken with such certainty that Julian knew it was the truth.
Kian watched the boy come towards the fire. He stopped and stood just inside the ring of light the flame cast. “Come sit down, Julian. I have a little food you can have.” The boy sat down. He was starving because he hadn’t eaten at all today. He held his hands out to the small blaze the swordsman had built. The evening air was so cold, Julian could see his breath.
The fire felt good, its heat making his face almost hot. Without its warmth, the night would have been miserable for him.
Kian leaned over for the small pack and waterskin he carried. His long black hair swung forward and parted, exposing an elongated ear.
He heard Julian gasp.
“Your ear, it’s pointed,” the boy stammered.
Kian sighed. “Yes, I guess they are slightly pointed.”
“Are you an elf?” the boy asked, wide-eyed.
The swordsman shook his head. “No, I’m not an elf.”
The boy seemed almost disappointed. “I have never seen an elf before. The priest in our village said they are nasty creatures and God has no place for them in his heart.”
Kian threw an apple from his pack to the boy. “I’m not an elf, but my mother was.”
Julian pointed his finger at Kian. “You’re a half-breed, the priest of our church talked about them too. He said that’s even worse than being an elf. He said it was an abomination
before God for a human to breed with an elf.”
Kian looked at the boy and saw the wonder in his eyes. Kian was a rarity, something not meant to exist, according to the Holy Tome of the human Church; he knew all too well what the world thought of his kind. What the boy had said didn’t anger him; he had heard it all before. Besides, Julian seemed not to be malicious but genuinely curious.
“Your priest is wrong. I’m just like any other man. No better, no worse.”
“I heard all the elves were gone from the world, except the ones that lived in Sylonia. What are you doing here in Trimenia? What is your name?”
The half-breed.
“My name is Kian, and what I’m doing here is a very long story.”
“I love stories,” Julian said. “My father would tell us stories every night when I was little.”
He marveled at the boy’s resilience. A few hours ago, Kian had killed his uncle and two cousins, now he wanted him to tell him a story. Maybe he hadn’t been that close to them, Kian thought, or maybe he was just amazed to see something as unique as a half-elf. There were very few of his kind, still alive, even Kian only knew of one other and that was his twin brother Tavantis.
“What happened to all the elves, Kian? My father told me once that your race once flourished over the land and they had their own kingdoms, is that true?” Julian asked, scooting a little closer to the half-breed.
Kian took a drink from his waterskin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can only tell you what my mother and my master Gildor told me. It was the God of Death, the Reaper, that destroyed the elven race. No one ever knew why he despised the elven nation. Some said it was a grudge he carried from the dawn of time, while others said it was because the elves would not worship at his altar. Whatever the cause, he wanted to destroy my mother’s people. The Reaper caused the humans of the world to hate the elves, and he taught mankind the ways of battle. The Death God organized them into a mighty army, the Army of Desolation. He and the humans waged war against the elven nations for millennia. The Reaper was not content to just defeat the elves; he wanted to eliminate the entire race.
DAWN OF THE PHOENIX Page 1