by Ember Lane
Barakdor
Book 1
The Legacy Builder -The Chronicles Of Lincoln Hart
Featuring Lincoln Hart
Book 2
Alexa Drey - The Veils Of Lamerell
Featuring Alexa Drey
Book 3
Alexa Drey - Hero Hunting
Featuring Alexa Drey. Guest Star Lincoln Hart
Book 4
The Secrets Of Starellion - The Court Of Lincoln Hart
Featuring Lincoln Hart
Book 5
Alexa Grey - The Prince Of A Cheated House
Featuring Alexa Trey. Cameo by Lincoln Hart
Book 6
Random - The Chaos Of Lincoln Hart
Featuring Lincoln Hart
Book 7
The Gates of Striker Bay
Featuring Alexa Drey
Due End of Oct 2019
The Secrets Of Starellion
The Court Of Lincoln Hart. Barakdor Book 4
Ember Lane
Copyright © 2018 by Ember Lane
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 9781695667815
Created with Vellum
Contents
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
About Barakdor
LitRPG in the real world?
New to LitRPG?
1
The Court of Lincoln Hart
The petitioner’s court had three thrones, and they all sat on a raised stone dais at the head of a large, vaulted chamber. The chamber was situated in a level-8 town hall that looked a little like a cross between a temple and a keep. Being in the shadow of the vast and still unexplored castle of Starellion had appeared to confuse the builders of Sanctuary’s supposedly most important building, though many would argue that was in fact the tavern.
Lincoln sat in the center of the dais, and his was the biggest of the three thrones. Ornately carved from the trunk of a vast sequoia, the throne was a lavish affair. Forgarth’s elves had taken a great deal of care over it and had fashioned it so it molded to Lincoln’s sturdy frame. Though no matter how much care and love the elves had put into the throne, Lincoln was never going to be comfortable in it.
“I feel ridiculous,” he muttered, and shifted again, crossing his left leg over his right, then trying the other way. “Do we have to do this?”
A second throne, on a slightly lower tier of the dais, had been fashioned from the dropped wood of Sanctuary’s One Tree—a tree that flourished in its own little park surrounded by the twelve cottages that had been Sanctuary’s founding buildings. Each of those cottages housed the elders and their extended families that headed a now thriving elven tribe, and each of those families had labored long and hard to fashion a throne the likes of which had never been seen in any of the lands of Barakdor. Lincoln still thought it looked a bit…wicker…but hadn’t mentioned it.
This throne hadn’t been carved. It had been crafted with closely guarded lore, lore that was usually only passed down from elfin parent to elfin child. Lore that far too often became forgotten and lost to time. Each dropped branch or twig had been diligently gathered, and its leaves and bark set to one side, and then fashioned, formed and twisted into the grand design that now made up their leader’s throne. The throne had been polished, and fallen leaves stuffed into a cushion made from its crafted bark and brushed goat wool, and then it had been blessed within the shade of the One Tree. Now Forgarth sat on it, considering Lincoln’s question.
“It’s the most efficient way. You can’t keep using the tavern. Lately, every time you turn someone down it erupts into a drunken brawl.”
“But I usually win,” Lincoln pointed out.
“You have the dwarves on your side—the whole world knows they’re the best brawlers in the land. This little village we've started has grown. It’s nearly a city.”
Lincoln grunted. He knew Forgarth was right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Reaching down, he picked up his ale and took a swig. It was his best yet, without a doubt. The specialist fields were helping. His hops, for instance, had been given pride of place close to the waterfall where the river pooled before its long plunge away from Joan’s Creek. They liked the rich soil, and the irrigation channels were always full. The barley fields, however, could be found on top of Starellion, Lincoln knew they liked its cooler temperature. Yes, the ale was getting there now, just a few more tweaks.
“As I keep saying, I need a steward.” Lincoln stared at the hall’s closed doors. Any moment now they would open. He needed his politic attribute more than ever, and made a mental note to bump it up a bit, though technically it only helped with building speed. It couldn’t hurt though, could it?
A vile noise, like a drain being suddenly emptied, erupted from the third throne. This one could not be considered a work of art and hadn’t been lovingly crafted nor carved by the elves, mostly because of who it was for. The noise was followed by a burst of expulsion and then a p-ting sound.
“Do you have to?” Lincoln asked.
“What’s the point in having a spit bucket, if you don’t use it?” Cronis replied, shifting around on his throne. “And I’m on your side; I think this is ridiculous.”
“Well, you’re head of magic, so suck it up,” Lincoln told him.
“Should’ve gone with Alexa Drey. I’ll bet she’s having fun,” Cronis growled.
Lincoln sighed. “You stayed because you wanted to unravel the secrets of Starellion.”
He knew he should bite his tongue, just as he knew he wished he had gone with Alexa Drey. There was no question about it; she was bound to be having a much better time. He missed her terribly. She’d only stopped in Joan’s Creek for a few nights, but in that time she’d fought a demon, rescued an imprisoned shaman, harvested a hundred and twenty odd balls of precious scarletite ore, learned crafting, healing, and god only knows what else, and then like a passing storm, she’d moved on. She’d taken Glenwyth too, and Aezal, two of Lincoln’s closest friends in this land. Yep, Lincoln would swap the throne for a saddle by her side tomorrow, today, and yesterday, if it weren’t for his promise to Joan, that was. Builder, Lincoln grumbled in his mind, not for the first time.
It was Cronis’s turn to grunt. “And how’s that going for me?” He drummed his fingers on his lips. “Oh yes, that’s it, we haven’t started yet because you claim not to be ready.”
“I’m waiting for Jack to finish my rings, and…the dwarf to come.”
Cronis chuckled. “Griselda Irongrip, yes…”
Lincoln shifted uneasily on his throne. “Don’t suppose you’ve met her?”
Lincoln’s heart stopped. He sat up. “And you’re only just telling me this?”
Cronis waved his inquiry away. “Once and only once have I had cause to go that deep underground. Trust me; to fight down there takes a lot of courage.”
Pursing his lips, Lincoln tried to fathom just how deep that might be. It struck him that the difference between a few dozen feet and a few hundred wouldn’t be all that—wasn’t rock just rock and a cave just a cave? “Why don’t the male dwarves fight?”
“Apart from the obvious?”
“Obvious?”
“Strength,” Cronis muttered. “Dwarven women are a lot stronger. Rock that deep is a lot harder—more weighing it down. So it makes sense that the males get the easier life, while the women, well, keep the cities safe. Anyway, the males fight fine, make great soldiers, just not that deep.”
“So where is she?”
“Takes a while to emerge from the bowels of the earth, then there’ll be the celebrations—they’ll take a week. Dwarves don’t need too much of an excuse to party. I’m guessing a couple of days, maybe a week. Something like that.”
Lincoln was dreading it—at least, that’s what he told himself. Secretly, he was intrigued. Forgarth started snoring. A side door creaked open, and an old mantilee called Pritchard poked his head around its frame. “Time, sir,” he called. His deep voice resonated around the empty hall. “Shall I let them all in.”
“All?”
“There’s quite the line,” Pritchard told him, and he began his slow walk to the front door.
Pritchard had been one if the first mantilees to arrive at the city, and one of the first to have come via Thickwick. Most of the thanks for that route was attributed to Elleren and Crags and their pioneering trip south via the river. Lincoln scoffed as he thought of that little story.
Much to Shylan’s outrage, both Crags and Elleren had shadowed the wizard’s party as they’d left Sanctuary for Brokenford and Beggle. Crags and Elleren had tested the feasibility of river travel all the way to the Silver Road, and it all had proved navigable, barring two places. With Aezal’s help, though, they’d ported the boat around both spots—a stretch of rapids a few hundred yards long, and a wide, shallow course where they kept running aground.
Shylan’s outrage was mostly due to his realization that he could have sat in the boat instead of having to battle his way through the thick forest. His initial ridiculing of Crags and Elleren’s venture had petered out fairly early on, especially when Aezal had lifted Krakus into their boat. His rage and their venture had provided a long-term solution to Sanctuary and Joan’s Creek’s main issue, namely how to populate it.
A river ran from Merrivale to Brokenford via Thickwick, and the river from Sanctuary joined it north of Brokenford. The wizard hypothesized that if a shorter route were to be taken, roughly southwest, from Thickwick then the settlers would come across Sanctuary’s river and could be picked up by boat and taken to the secret settlement using the cover of the thick forest while minimizing the time trekking in it. Pritchard had been on one of the first boats. So far, so good, and the rapids and shallow courses meant that the journey couldn’t happen by accident, and so no strays had ventured up. Yet.
The chamber’s vast entrance door creaked open, and the first of the petitioners ambled in. Pritchard was right; there were a few of them. Lincoln took another slurp of his ale. He was surprised to see the dwarf, Dunaric —head of the stonecutters union—first in line. The huge dwarf approached the dais, clearly feeling awkward and a little aggrieved.
“Lincoln?” he barked.
“Dunaric?”
Dunaric fiddled with his long, red beard. “Lincoln.” He cleared his throat. “Can I have a word in the tavern tonight?”
“No, no, no, no, no!” Forgarth spluttered, waking up. “That’s not how it’s supposed to happen. Petition man, petition!”
The big dwarf shuffled on his huge feet. “Silly idea,” he muttered, looked at the flagged floor, and eventually glanced up. “Lincoln, I am delighted to inform you that Griselda Irongrip, tosser of logs, crusher of stone, roller of boulders, and wielder of the Great Hammer as bestowed on her as the thrice-crowned champion of the Ten-Year Stalagmite Joust, has begun her ascent from the deep. We should plan the celebrations.”
“Or?” Cronis suddenly barked.
“Or she’ll be angry.”
Cronis sniffed in the air, and then leaned over toward Lincoln. “Wouldn’t risk it,” he advised.
Lincoln had no intention of risking Griselda Irongrip’s ire. “Agreed,” he said.
Dunaric looked around, clearly unsure of what to do next. Pritchard made his way toward the dwarf.
“See you in the tavern later?” Dunaric asked.
“Why not?” said Lincoln.
“A thank you, would have been more appropriate,” Pritchard pointed out, and escorted Dunaric away.
Lincoln yawned, it was going to be a long morning. He rolled his eyes and shut them, hoping for a swift end. An almost familiar coughing sound brought him out of his reverie. Lincoln looked down from the dais.
“Finequill?”
Finequill was standing at the head of the line, looking up, whiskers twitching. He’d swapped his brown coat for a heavy, leather-like one, and he had a large-brimmed hat on, but Lincoln instantly recognized him nonetheless.
“Indeed it is, Lincoln, and may I present Mrs. Finequill?”
Mrs. Finequill shuffled forward, though was not quite what Lincoln had expected of a wife of Finequills. She was tall for a ceratog, and imposing; it was clear which ceratog wore the trousers in that relationship. He thought she was strangely alluring, and immediately tried to slap that unwanted thought away.
“Caused us a lot of trouble, you did,” Mrs. Finequill said, her tone more than a little confrontational.
“I did?” Lincoln replied, more than a little scared.
“That business with the ale,” she barked, a little like a machine gun, Lincoln mused. “That business with the ale ruined a lot of folks' livelihoods. Poor Allaise and Pete had to move out—the tavern went to pot after that. Then there was that business with Fawkes, and no one knew whom to trust; everyone was telling on everyone else; no one knew where you’d gone. Turned the city upside down, did Muscat. Caused a lot of trouble, you did,” Mrs. Finequill said, nodding and looking around for support.
“I’m sorry?” Lincoln ventured, wondering if it was enough.
“Sorry don’t pay the bills,” she snapped. “So, what are we going to do about it? Arthur needs to work, and work you’re going to give him, something befitting his station as ex-arbiter to the court of King Muscat.” She nudged Finequill.
“Arthur?” For some reason Lincoln was saying as little as possible. Well, mostly so as not to aggravate a clearly agitated Mrs. Finequill who had probably rehearsed this exact meeting many, many times over.
“Him.” She pointed at Finequill, who cowered as though he was expecting to get a slap.
“Well, I’m sure we can offer…Arthur…a position…if only we needed an arbiter.”
“I’m more than just an arbiter,” Finequill offered, seemingly desperate to stop being the focus of attention. “Any ledgers, crop reports, rosters, stock checks, population surveys… Surely you must have something?”
“Something befitting his past station—with pay and board to match, mind,” Mrs. Finequill said, looking around again.
Ledgers, crop reports, stock checks, population surveys…Lincoln’s mind went into overdrive. All the boring stuff.
“How do you feel about hearing daily petitions as well, Steward Finequill?” Lincoln asked.
Mrs. Finequill beamed.
Pritchard ushered the Finequills away and escorted them to an antechamber set to one side between the dais and the, as yet unfinished, statue of the God with No Name. Lincoln watched them go, breathing a sigh of relief, his proclamation appearing to have calmed Mrs. Finequill, at least for the moment.
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br /> “Coward,” Cronis hissed.
“He’s an arbiter, and he likes doing this sort of stuff,” Lincoln said, defensively.
“He’s a ceratog and ceratogs only look out for their own interests, or in this case, their wife’s.”
The door to the antechamber slammed shut, another small cough rang out, and Pritchard ran back to the head of the petitioner’s line, standing next to yet another ceratog.
“Spillwhistle?” Lincoln inquired.
“Yes,” she replied, sternly. “I’m here until I can get independent verification that you cheated.” She leaned forward, her whiskers twitching. “I can smell deceit a hundred miles away.”
Lincoln was fairly sure it wasn’t actually deceit, more likely Cronis—the old wizard didn’t have the highest personal standards—but Lincoln didn’t bother pointing it out. “And how would a simple builder like me, cheat?”
“You must have tricked the wizards into building the tavern up.”
Cronis perked, as if he too was interested in Lincoln’s next words.
Tapping his chin with his index finger, Lincoln considered his answer. “So, are you saying that I’m supremely intelligent, much brighter than two of the greatest wizards in the land, or are you saying that they are stupider than I, a simple—”
“Builder,” Spillwhistle snapped.
“Well?” Cronis said, rearing partly out of his uncomfortable throne.