THE SERAPHINIUM
BOOK I
THE MERCHANT AND THE MENACE
BY DANIEL FRANCIS MCHUGH
Copyright Ó 2011
Daniel Francis McHugh
http://www.seraphinium.net
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be
used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
written permission from the author.
McHugh, Daniel F. (2011).
The Merchant and the Menace
(The Seraphinium Series, Book 1)
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the person who
collaborates in the fulfillment of my dreams,
Jennifer Jo.
AND
To the three Fates who have filled my life with
unbridled joy,
resonant laughter
and
uncontrollable glee.
Lilywynn
Liza Bean
And
Pryor Maeve
Many thanks to those who spent days editing this jumble of thoughts: Jennifer McHugh, Judy Pryor, Daniel Woolsey, Sue Elworth, Michael McNamara and the beautiful Lillian McHugh.
Additional thanks to those early readers for their gracious support and insight: Timothy Feeney, Daniel Quinn, Bill Mazurowski, Emily Douville, Kurt Steib, Ron Forresta, Timothy O’Reilly and Joseph Felicicchia.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1: THE TOUCH
CHAPTER 2: PARTING
CHAPTER 3 THE RACE
CHAPTER 4: THE ALMAR THRONE
CHAPTER 5: UP THE WINDING STAIRCASE
CHAPTER 6: FLAME OF THE MALVEEL
CHAPTER 7: MYTHS AND LEGENDS
CHAPTER 8: THE STONE CHAMBER
CHAPTER 9: STEPPING FROM THE SHADOWS
CHAPTER 10: BIRTH OF THE SERAPHIM
CHAPTER 11: DOWN THE WINDING STAIRCASE
CHAPTER 12: THE COMFORT OF SLEEP
CHAPTER 13: THE KING’S SERVICE
CHAPTER 14: THE ORPHAN’S WIDOW
CHAPTER 15: RECRUIT
CHAPTER 16: WAVES IN THE POOL
CHAPTER 17: THE BLACKSMITH’S APPRENTICE
CHAPTER 18: THE MERCHANT AND THE MENACE
CHAPTER 19: LED THROUGH DARKNESS
CHAPTER 20: THE LESSONS OF PREJUDICE
CHAPTER 21: TO EACH HIS OWN
CHAPTER 22: BRIDGE TENDER, GATEKEEPER
CHAPTER 23: THE SINGING MERMAID
CHAPTER 24: SUMMONS
CHAPTER 25: REVELATIONS ONE
CHAPTER 26: THE BLACK OBELISK
CHAPTER 27: TAPESTRY
CHAPTER 28: KNOWLEDGE IS POWER
CHAPTER 29: THE FOX AND THE HAMMER
CHAPTER 30: THE GATES OF ZODRA
GLOSSARY OF CHARACTERS AND LOCATIONS
GLOSSARY BY LAND OR RACE
GLOSSARY OF MAPS
PROLOGUE
Steff froze and his eyes widened. He stared at Lord Giar as a breeze dodged past the thick trunks of the deep wood and rustled the leaves above. Giar crouched beside a dying fire and stoked the blaze with a stick. Flames grew but darkness swallowed their light only a few feet from the pair. Giar’s conversation remained casual, but the elder Elf’s free hand caused Steff’s alarm and fixed his attention.
Giar held the hand close to his body, just visible inside the folds of his cloak. He manipulated it rapidly, creating complex signals. Signals used by the spies of his country to communicate silently.
“We made excellent time today, son,” spoke Giar calmly as his fingers danced. He leveled a penetrating gaze at Steff. “The real test will come on the plains to the north. We have many leagues ahead of us.”
Steff ignored his father’s words. He squinted through the darkness at the hand as it twitched within the cloak. Steff struggled to decipher the code. Giar only recently passed its secrets to the young man.
“...something ... in wood. Remain calm ... “
“The horses could use a rub down and some water. Do you have any oats in your pack?” continued Lord Giar as he dropped the stick into the flames and motioned to the tethered horses.
The fire greedily consumed the fresh fuel, flaring for a moment more. Steff glanced to a few small bundles stacked beside the horses at the edge of the forest clearing. The young Elf’s longbow and quiver lay beside the packs. Steff turned back as his father continued.
“Our mounts earned a few sweet oats and some water before we turn in,” stated Giar.
His hand continued to flicker.
“.... retrieve your bow ...”
“Yes, father,” replied Steff nervously. The boy grimaced and fought to remain composed. “I’ll see what we have.”
He rose from the fireside and calmly walked to the bundles. Steff rummaged through the first pack, well aware it contained no oats. He discarded the bundle directly atop his bow and quiver then checked the second.
“I can’t find them. The light is too low,” said Steff. “I’ll bring them closer to the fire.”
Steff dropped the second atop the first then scooped the bundles, bow and quiver from the ground. He slowly walked back toward the fire. The horses whinnied and grew restless.
“I may have forgotten to include the oats in our provisions,” stated Lord Giar. “The horses can feast on grasses once we reach the plains in the morning. What do we have for a meal?”
Steff knelt and laid the bundles beside the fire. One hand locked on the bow beneath the burlap, the other wrapped around the shaft of an arrow within the quiver. One of the horses stamped and threw its head. The other strained on its tether. Steff stared at his father’s gesticulating hand.
“... in the wood ... behind me. Malveel ...”
Steff sucked in a deep breath. His eyes darted upward. His father smiled pleasantly at the young man, but Steff noted tension in Giar’s stance. The Elf lord’s hand inched toward the dagger sheathed at his side.
“The horses,” blurted Steff. Panic edged into his voice. “We could ... I could try again. Perhaps we could find something ....”
“No,” frowned Giar as he spoke in a firm voice. “There is no going back. The horses are exhausted. I must deal with our problem. Remember this lesson when you return to Luxlor. We must properly prepare for all contingencies. Our people must learn from our mistake. The Grey Elves need to prepare the next time they journey from Luxlor.”
Steff struggled to keep his concealed hands steady. The burlap trembled as he slowly drew an arrow from the hidden quiver and notched it upon his bowstring. The horses grew more agitated. Steff gazed wide-eyed at his father. Giar leaned toward his son.
“I love you, lad,” whispered Giar. “Will you do as I say?”
Steff nodded in agreement. A loving smile crossed Lord Giar’s face. His hand wrapped about the hilt of his dagger. The Elf lord drew in a deep breath. His eyes pierced Steff with their intensity.
“RUN!” cried Giar.
The Elf lord spun toward the tree line. A long, pointed dagger whipped from beneath his cloak and hurtled into the night. Something monstrous and black burst from the darkness. Tree limbs snapped. Red eyes, filled with molten flame, bore down on them.
Steff leapt to his feet, drew the arrow back and hastily took aim. A terrifying roar drowned out the high pitched twang of his bowstring. The shaft whistled past his father. It ricocheted off the beast with a loud CRACK! The creature’s eyes flared and crimson fire poured forth.
Giar danced to his left, avoiding the deluge of liquid flame. The Elf lord’s head snapped back toward his son. His wild eyes locked on those of Steff as he ripped a short sword from its scabbard.
“RUN!” he bellowed again.
Steff obeyed. He wheeled and das
hed into the darkness of the Nagur Wood. He vaulted fallen timber and plunged through thickets. Branches slapped his face and thorns tore his flesh. The Elf lad was uncertain of his direction or the location of the path. His lungs burned as he ran on and on. The screams of Lord Giar carried through the wood. Tears welled in Steff’s eyes. How could he abandon his father?
He slowed.
His duty was to the kingdom. Giar’s orders were clear. Steff must return and warn his people of the Malveel threat. Luxlor was in danger.
A faint cry pierced the stillness of the wood then abruptly silenced. Surely there was no hope for one man against a Malveel lord.
Steff stopped, dropped to his knees and sobbed.
“Not much of a chase,” growled the darkness around him.
Steff’s head snapped up and he frantically searched the wood. He flung the bow to the ground and snatched his own dagger from its sheath, holding it awkwardly before him.
“Sh- show yourself,” stammered the Elf.
A pair of red orbs flared to life a dozen yards in front of him. They hovered before Steff then slowly circled through the wood.
“My brother, Methra, leaves me the tiny one,” croaked the voice. “I hoped for a bit of sport from our chase, but you disappoint me, Elf.”
The orbs vanished into the darkness and silence enveloped the wood. Steff’s eyes darted about, snapping toward any movement, perceived or imagined. He lifted his blade higher.
“What ... what do you want?” stuttered Steff.
“We seek the Seraphim!” snarled the voice from directly behind the Elf boy.
Steff whirled on the sound. The orbs were closer. The boy staggered backward, trying to put distance between himself and the hate filled eyes. He could hear the Malveel’s hoarse breath rasping between jagged fangs.
“The power of the new Seraph draws us. It is close,” continued the Malveel. Contempt filled its voice. “You are not the Seraph.”
The orbs disappeared once more. Steff spun this way and that, slashing the darkness with his dagger. Panic overwhelmed him.
“Do not .... do not test me, Malveel!” cried the Elf in desperation. “My powers are .... you cannot stand against the New Seraph!”
Silence hung in the wood. Steff slowly turned, trying in vain to penetrate the gloom. Seconds dragged on. He saw nothing and heard only the light breeze as it buffeted the leaves in the canopy above. His heart slowed and his despair grew. Steff’s shoulders drooped and gradually his blade dipped toward the forest floor.
“You ... you dare not taste my power,” called the boy feebly into the void. Perhaps the Malveel feared this being they hunted. “The new Seraph ... I ... I hold your doom.”
“Hardly,” sneered the creature in Steff’s right ear.
The boy spun. Blazing eyes and glistening fangs hovered inches from his face.
CHAPTER 1: THE TOUCH
Kael scowled at the ceiling inches above his bunk. He was so close to finally convincing his father to let him journey to Luxlor when rumors of trouble in the Nagur Wood reached the village. Would Brelg call the trip off and spoil Kael’s first chance for a bit of adventure?
The boy rolled onto his stomach with a dejected sigh and glanced below at his sleeping brother, Aemmon. The absurdity of the sight that greeted him, made it difficult to continue his brooding.
Aemmon, nearly a man now, lay in the lower bunk. Half of Aemmon’s lower legs dangled over the end of the small bed their father, Brelg, had fashioned for the boys when they were young. Aemmon’s right arm stuck out from beneath a woolen blanket, knuckles lying on the wooden floorboards.
In the early morning light, Kael could just make out Aemmon’s dirty blond hair jutting out from under a goose down pillow. The snore that rumbled from under the pillow kept rhythm with the bulk heaving beneath the dark blanket.
Aemmon looked so content, Kael found it difficult to disturb his brother’s slumber. Instead, he grinned and dug beneath the blankets of his own bed. He and Aemmon had a bit more time before they needed to start the day’s chores and Kael’s bunk still fit him so comfortably.
Contentment filled the boy. Many a night he crawled into this bunk for sleep and many a morn he reveled in its warmth. Memories flooded him now. Memories of wondrous stories told to him and Aemmon by their father as the pair of small boys yawned and drifted to sleep. Memories of their mother always at a bedside when one of them woke from a nightmare.
Other memories crowded his reverie. Memories of worry and sleepless nights. Memories of the sound of his father’s boots as Brelg paced the hallway outside his mother’s room. Memories of a healer shaking his head in confusion. And finally, memories of tears soaking the blankets on this very bed.
Kael’s smile disappeared and he quickly sat up and threw his legs over the edge of his bunk. He noiselessly dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch beside Aemmon. A twinkle danced in his eye.
“Aemmon, get up,” he whispered just inches from the lumpy pillow.
The deep snoring sputtered then stopped.
“Huh?” came a confused reply from beneath the pillow.
“Get up,” said Kael softly. “Father hasn’t cancelled our trip yet. Maybe if we ignore the news, he will too?”
Aemmon moaned and the big hand lying on the floorboards slowly rose and dragged the pillow from atop his face. His chiseled features remained placid and his eyes closed.
“When I open my eyes I’m going to see sunshine, right?” mumbled Aemmon.
“Not exactly,” chuckled Kael as he glanced out the tiny window of the room atop their father’s inn. The sky was awash in the rosy hue of dawn. “You may see a bit of ‘shine’, but you certainly won’t see any ‘sun’ yet.”
Aemmon grumbled once more and plopped the pillow back over his face.
“C’mon Aemmon,” pleaded Kael. “I won’t be able to go without you.”
The pillow didn’t move. Kael frowned and softened his tone.
“I can understand if you don’t want to go to Luxlor,” he murmured sheepishly. “I wouldn’t want to force you into anything. I suppose I could always try again next year ...”
Aemmon dragged the pillow from his face once more, but this time his eyes were wide open and his smile was etched with accusation.
“You’re not fooling anyone with that sad tale,” announced the big lad. He broke into an imitation of a simpering Kael. “I could always try again next year.”
Kael grinned and the pair chuckled. Aemmon sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes while Kael dressed. In a moment, Aemmon stood, producing a loud groan from the floorboards in their room. He dressed and the boys made their way to the main stairway of the inn.
They moved quietly in order not to wake any of the lodgers. Kael dashed down the old wooden staircase without making a sound. He turned and suppressed a laugh. Aemmon took each step slowly, wincing as the knotted wood creaked and popped under his impressive weight. After quite some time, and considerable frustration, Aemmon reached the bottom of the staircase.
“How do you do that?” he whispered.
“You looked as if the whole staircase was about to collapse,” chuckled Kael as he clapped his younger brother on the back.
Aemmon smiled, gave his brother a poke to the ribs, and the pair walked out the rear door of the inn toward the stables. In the early morning sun, the differences between the brothers were quite evident. Aemmon was a classic example of a young man from the Southlands of Zodra. He was tall, with his bulk comprised mostly of muscle. His blond hair and blue eyes mirrored many Southlanders’ traits.
Kael, on the other hand, stood out. He was smaller than most and his wiry body held a darker complexion. The single most striking characteristic of Kael was his hair. It was jet black. Dark hair was unusual for a Southlander, and Kael’s hair was darker than a raven’s wings.
The pair strolled along and Kael noted heaviness in his brother’s step.
“What’s wrong?” asked Kael.
Aemmon stopped and
the sadness in his eyes disturbed Kael. They stared at one another for a long moment.
“Everything will be fine,” Kael blurted cheerily. “These recent stories about the Nagur are nothing. The ale starts talking when the loggers stay in the common room too long. There’s nothing to any of it. You know that, right?”
Aemmon frowned deeply.
“Do you think Old Sarge would allow us to go on this trip if he didn’t think we’d be fine?” sighed Kael.
“No, course not,” his brother replied.
“The only way to get to Luxlor is through the Nagur Wood. You’re not afraid of the Elves are you?”
“No,” returned Aemmon with a shake of his head. “Father’s been trading with them for years.”
“Well, as for the Nagur, the stories we heard are just that, stories, made up by lonely men who spend far too much time out on the open road,” Kael shook his head and smiled broadly. “Besides, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“My sense of adventure is still sleeping in our room, as I should be,” yawned Aemmon with a smile. “And neither the Elves nor the Nagur concern me.”
“Then what?” prodded Kael.
Aemmon frowned once more and his eyes focused on the ground at his feet.
“Oh ... nothing,” murmured the lad. “I ... I just wish things didn’t need to change. I like them the way they are.”
Kael looked quizzically at his brother and chuckled.
“You and I going on our first trading journey isn’t going to turn the world upside down, Aemmon!”
Aemmon paused and searched Kael’s face. He flashed his brother a light grin and arched an eyebrow.
“Maybe ... maybe not.”
The larger boy grabbed an ax from the stable wall and went to split logs for the woodpile. Kael watched him go and doubt entered his mind. Why was Aemmon so reluctant to go on this trip? In the past, his brother always brimmed with confidence. Nothing bothered him. No challenge was too great.
The loud thunk of the ax lodging deeply into a log drew Kael from these thoughts. He hustled to the shed, retrieved a bucket and entered the inn. He filled the oaken bucket from the kitchen pump and stepped into the dining area. His father, Brelg, was eating breakfast. Kael hefted the heavy bucket toward a dark corner of the common room, hoping to avoid any notice.
The Merchant and the Menace Page 1