The Travelers' Song

by Brendan O'Gara

  The Travelers’ Song

  Necromancer’s Song

  Book One

  by

  Brendan O’Gara

  &

  Lori O’Gara

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Travelers' Song (Necromancer’s Song, #1)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  About the Authors

  Other works by The O’Gara Clan

  Copyright © 2019 Brendan & Lori O’Gara

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  either are the products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published in The United States of America

  ISBN: 9781087457215

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form unless written permission is granted from the author or publisher. No electronic reproductions, information storage, or retrieval systems may be used or applied to any part of this book without written permission. Due to the variable conditions, materials, and individual skills, the publisher, author, and editor, disclaim any liability for loss or injury resulting from the use or interpretation of any information presented in this publication. No liability is assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  Brendan & Lori O’Gara

  PO Box 4718

  Pensacola, FL 32507

  www.the-ogaras.com

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED to

  Buck (Wandalor), Tim (Johan), Alan (Thalin),

  and, may he rest in peace, Mike (Darr).

  We grant to you our greatest respect and admiration.

  “As if you were on fire from within.

  The moon lives in the lining of your skin.”

  Pablo Neruda

  Chapter One

  The landscape had deteriorated significantly over time. Nature has a way of reclaiming that which is her own. The lush green canopy and the crystal blue water were like the beginning of time. Unpolluted, pure, and innocent. However, the world was anything but innocent. Life, unforgiving and beautifully dangerous, was not the same as it was thousands of years ago. Creation had persevered, recreating itself, from the tiniest organism to the largest. Everything was new. In the young age of the rejuvenated planet, a small hope of the old existence remained. In this new environment, courage and honor were the cornerstones. The values that did not die were still in the communities that flourished. The light of humanity had dimmed, but did not fade out completely. It shone through the darkness that attempted to devour all love and light.

  A few inhabitants passed on the history. As to be expected, the telling was twisted. Dismembered. Lost. Time is a scattered caretaker of history. She often would fiddle with facts to suit the storyteller. Some who heard the tales thought them the thing of dreams and children’s rhymes.

  The truth was that the universe and everything in it was old. It was more ancient than the longest memory. Humans were, in ages of old, the dominant race. They were the elite of all living things, so they thought. They also thought they were the smartest. They controlled all of creation, until they successfully and artistically destroyed it.

  The good of self became more important and sacred than the good of the whole. Society crumbled from the inside out. Famine and war killed innocents. Humanity failed despite the good intentions of the wise and brave few. All that remained were the rotting skeletons of the past greatness of the creative ones: the decaying cities—silent and motionless inventions. Corpses of the ashen art.

  Life in all its forms is the most powerful force in the universe. It will survive any disaster or obliteration. Life is the reason for all things. Life will come forth from complete emptiness, more beautiful and with more strength than in the past.

  Time is another inalienable trait of nature. Time is the perpetual maestro of change. Time waits for no lifeform, regardless of race, man, or beast, in its passage into death. Time allows hope and perseverance to continue. Eventually the viable and strong emerge.

  As a child of the Third Age Man, Charlotte despised the old stories. She escaped to her secret place to avoid the past and the stale traditions that came with what was expected. Her favorite place was where she went to forget about time and to find peace in nature.

  The soft green grass was cool and crisp under her feet. The gentle breeze that tickled her face and whispered in her ear was all it took to make her smile. The meadow was blooming with flowers of gold, pink, lavender, orange, and yellow. The sun was high in the sky over the lush, rolling hills. She kept walking until she heard the water on the lake lapping at the shore. Usually her place of solitude was only filled with the soft sounds of water, birds, and wind.

  This afternoon felt different. Further off in the distance she heard a galloping horse. A sound that she had never heard in this part of the estate before. She decided to investigate, so she walked through the brush to get a closer look.

  The field leisurely sloped down to the lake as she made her way to the grove of cedar trees that lined the lake side. She prostrated herself on the ground in the tall grass, lying as flat as she could as she crawled closer.

  On the sandy shore of the lake, she saw a huge black horse with red silk and gold cording around its neck. On the back of the grand beast, a pristine, dark leather saddle was occupied by a man. He was seated with the posture of a nobleman; Charlotte did not recognize him. She instantly thought he might be a knight, but he had no armor, not even a breast plate. She saw only a shield tied to the side of the horse.

  Charlotte was too far away to see his face clearly. She slid on her stomach in the dirt and grass to get a better look. On the west side of the lake, where the forest started, there were large oaks as tall as a bell tower. She quietly slipped behind one. The Brobdingnagian trunk concealed her slight form. She was mere feet from where the steed was standing. He stomped his hoof and looked at her. She placed her finger on her lips in a silent hush. The equine blinked his large brown eye, as if in silent communication of his understanding.

  The man dismounted with a graceful fluidity of movement. His muscular legs planted his feet in a barely audible thud. He reached into a saddle bag and pulled out a large book that was worn from years of handling and use. The leather binding was tattered and frayed. The stranger took several long strides until he reached the edge of the lake. The clear water rolled over the toes of his boots. He stoo
d straight and tall and turned his eyes to the sky as if in prayer. When he lowered his chin, Charlotte could see his eyes were closed. His ungloved hands grasped the book.

  A sudden burst of light like a moment of starlight caused Charlotte to gasp as he opened the book. “A spell book,” Charlotte whispered. The outsider looked in her direction and she quickly tucked a bit further behind the tree. After a pause he flipped through the pages of the tome, stopped, and read some ancient verse from the book.

  As he spoke, a rumble-like growl came from the center of the brilliant blue water of the lake. The liquid surface rippled and moved. Something parted the water and glistened just under the waves. The object began to rise from the lake. It was bejeweled with colored stones that twinkled like the stars in the heavens. It was a magnificent sword. The weapon defied gravity, hovering above the water. The air suddenly stilled. The water instantaneously became motionless. There was no sound. No birds singing. No water lapping. All Charlotte could hear was the thudding of her heart pounding in her ears as she held her breath. The stillness felt as if the very planet had stopped rotating. The stranger lifted his hand and made a slight motion with his fingers. The sword floated to the hand of he who had called it forth from the depth of the lake. In a voice strong and deep, the nobleman said, “It is mine at last.”

  Suddenly, he turned. Charlotte could see his face. His skin was like alabaster and porcelain-smooth. Yes, he is of a noble house, she thought. The man was not a laborer or farmer. She wished that she was closer to see if his eyes were blue. From where she was hiding his eyes looked blue-violet, but maybe that was a ricochet of light from the lake. Violet eyes were a rarity, and an indicator of high-born lineage.

  The man returned the spell book to the saddle bag and took a small piece of cloth from a pocket. He wiped the blade of the sword, stroking it as one does a cat that they have just met. Then he placed the treasure in his scabbard. He mounted the ebony steed and turned toward the sun. She could see the crest on his shield as the sun glittered off the engravings. She sank to her knees against the tree trunk, in recognition. She knew that crest with the aspect of a dragon. It was the emblem of the land to the north. Her father was in treaty negotiations with the ruler. Charlotte had been to court there many times. She had seen numerous noblemen at court, but never this man. This stranger.

  Suddenly, the lord tapped the side of his horse with his heels and jerked the reins. The beautiful animal responded with a snort. Its powerful muscles rippled as it moved and lurched to a full-out run in a flurry of black and a burst of white, red, and gold undulating of reins, rump covering, and fly mask.

  Chapter Two

  “Wolf? No. Werewolf? Maybe a dog? No...no, it’s a wolf.” Darr scratched his head. He moved his hands so that his head rested in his palms. “You know, he was a fine horse. I had a fine horse. I had a good-looking saddle, too. It was made from the best leather, by a master craftsman.” Darr sighed. “My family gave me to the church. Me, their second-born son, they gave me to...to them, to learn the ways of a paladin. I was trained in all the ancient skills, and yet I’m riding in the back” Darr paused. “—of a wagon.” He indeed sprawled in the back of an uncovered farmer’s wagon, on rough burlap.

  Next to Darr, Thalin sat on the back edge. His feet swung with the motion of the wagon. He hummed a tune only he knew. His hand rested on a crossbow in his lap. He thought, What wolf? I don’t see any wolf. Thalin scanned the tree line before he looked up at the clouds above their heads. One big puffy cloud did look like a wolf.

  Wandalor turned the page of his book. “Darr, must you always be so melodramatic?” Darr ignored him. On the seat of the wagon, hands on the reins, Gadlin snickered as he looked over at Johan, who mocked every word Darr said. With mouth and hands moving, Johan caused Gadlin to stifle another laugh.

  “My horse, he was so white. He shone in the sun. Beautiful he was,” Darr continued, as did Johan—silently mouthing every word. The wagon jerked and shuddered over the uneven, rutted road. Darr said, “Are we going to hit every divot in the road?”

  “Yes. Yes we are. I point them out and he drives toward them.” Johan felt a thud on the back of his head as Darr threw a small sack of grain at him.

  “Ow! Darr, it’s not like we haven’t all heard your story three times already since we acquired this wagon,” Johan said. “And mind my lute, will you? That armor of yours has sharp edges and will cut one of my strings. You, you unobservant schmuck, wouldn’t even notice.”

  “I will cut you with my armor,” Darr said as he shifted himself once more to be certain he wasn’t anywhere near his friend’s instrument.

  Gadlin pulled the cart to a halt and turned his head to one side. He focused to listen to the sounds of the woods. The cart rested on a small slope. Gadlin heard the faint, growing sound of cicadas.

  “Do you hear that? The cicada’s claim to fame is its singing. That high-pitched song is actually a mating call belted out by males. Each species has its own distinctive song that only attracts females of its own kind. This allows several different species to coexist. Cicadas are the only insects capable of producing such a unique and loud sound. Oh, and tasty! They’re a delicacy, like that creature from the waters called a lobster.” Gadlin shifted in his seat and stared at Thalin. “Thalin, cast a summoning spell for cicadas. Specifically, so we can catch enough to make a stew.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Thalin said as he looked at Gadlin, annoyed.

  Darr shifted onto his shoulder and propped himself up to look at Gadlin. “It sure was nice of the farmer to leave all these little bags of food and spices in this wagon when we bought it from him.”

  “Those are mine.” Gadlin pointed to the small round bags of dried grains, oats, spices, and other rations.

  “Gadlin, are you now giving nature lessons to us? I thought Thalin was the druid,” Darr remarked.

  Gadlin motioned with his hand. “Well, yes, I’m sorry. I forget my place. Thalin is the nature expert, healer, druid. I’m the wild warrior raised in the backwoods. Rangers, as we’re called.” Gadlin smirked as he continued to move his hand and motioned to each person, making sure that Darr remained in his center of attention. “Wandalor here, with his books and bag-o-book thingy, is a wizard or sorcerer. Or is it warlock? Wandalor, what do you prefer we call you?” Wandalor didn’t look up from his book. He didn’t want to engage in yet another useless conversation.

  “Eh, no matter; he’s always there with a spell when we need him.” Gadlin turned to Johan. “Here we have Johan: our musician, tinkerer, quick with a knife, and as quick to pick a lock as sing you a song.” Gadlin then turned to face Darr. “You, my friend, know who you are. Paladin of the light, destroyer of evil, a force of good.” Gadlin raised an eyebrow. “I am correct in my assessment of our group, am I not?”

  “Just drive the damn wagon.” Darr flung his hand forward, exasperated. With a laugh Gadlin turned, clicked his tongue, and tapped the reins.

  “It’s not a good idea to poke the bear, Gad...” Johan’s voice trailed off. Something caught his eye as the wagon began to crest the small hill. Up ahead Johan was certain he saw a female ambling in the same direction on the side of road. Her hips swayed with every step. The wagon moved closer. Gadlin saw her, too. “Johan, no. Do not jump off the wagon and scare her.”

  The woman, barely old enough to be called a woman, her dark blue cloak hem muddy from her long trek on the road, walked defiantly and with purpose. She ignored the wagon as Gadlin maneuvered it on the road behind her. She stepped a bit further off the road to give the strangers room to pass. Gadlin pulled the horse directly to walk alongside her. Johan looked down at the woman’s partially covered face. He saw a flash of white skin, pink lips muttering. A wisp of coppery brown hair wiggled free of the hood and blew about her shoulders.

  “Hello, Miss! Can we be of service to you?” Johan inquired. She glanced his way and turned her face back to the road. Her stride never broke as she ignored him. Johan, not accustomed to b
eing ignored by pretty girls, huffed and took a closer look. She was pretty, that he saw plainly. “Really, Miss, this road isn’t safe for you, roaming alone. As it appears, we’re traveling the same direction, we could give you a ride in this humble wagon.”

  The young woman spoke, her face still looking toward her destination. Both Johan and Gadlin heard her words clearly: “Help the dragon, it will be the dignified, right thing to do. Humph, look what that got me. Traveling this dank road being followed by a wagon of...” She stopped abruptly, lifted her head, and looked at the wagon’s passengers. “—of rogues.” She resumed her trudging. The wagon stopped moving.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss,” said Darr, who had slid over to the side of the wagon to get a better look at her for himself. “I am a known hero, killer of rogues.”

  “Did she say dragon?” Gadlin asked. “Did she really just say dragon?” The men were now staring at the woman’s back as she walked away.

  “Yes, she did,” Johan said as he leapt from the bench, landing in front of her, toe to toe, stopping her trek. He, a solid head taller, reached for her chin and lifted her shocked face to his. “I, Miss, am no rogue. I am sometimes called a thief, but I can promise you the only thievery I commit is what is necessary for our survival and the acquisition of the hearts belonging to beautiful women.”

  The female snatched herself away from him. “My heart is mine alone and you will not be stealing it. As for my coin pouch, I will slice your hand before you reach it.” She drew a small sword from a sheath at her hip and placed the blade under Johan’s chin. At her movement Darr, Gadlin, and Thalin surrounded her, weapons drawn. Thalin leaned over to Gadlin and whispered, “I like this girl.”

  Wandalor meandered his way off the wagon and to the group, chuckling. “Now, now; no need for that display. She is just frightened. Leave her be, let me talk to her.” He patted Johan on the shoulder and moved him back from the girl. “Seems you might have met your match with this one.” The men got back on the wagon.