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  A SPELL OF SWORDS

  Robert Ryan

  Copyright © 2013 Robert J. Ryan

  All Rights Reserved. The right of Robert J. Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted. All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover Design by www.bookcoverartistry.com

  Trotting Fox Press

  Contents

  1. Betrayal in Cardoroth

  2. King’s Reward

  3. The Helm of the Duthenor

  4. The Forgotten Queen

  5. The Choice

  6. I Choose Death

  7. Sample: Chapter 1 of Raging Swords

  1. Betrayal in Cardoroth

  Brand, descendant of chieftains, inched his way through the tall grass on his belly, and the peasant garb he wore became damp and filthy. He knew it would be easy to die. To live, if he could manage it, would be the hard part.

  Sliding low to the muddy ground was no easy task for a big man, but regardless of the discomfort and growing risk he kept at it with all the skill and patience necessity had forced him to acquire over the last few years.

  Fog, drifting from the waters of Lake Alithorin, eddied around him like ranks of slow marching phantoms. It was not daylight yet, but night was giving way to pre-dawn gray. The ghostly air dulled everything, and he used it to hide himself while he got closer to his enemies in order to hear what they said.

  He was now only twenty feet away and knew that the elugs would kill him without hesitation if they saw him. Four of them squatted on the ground and whispered in guttural tones. The fifth remained apart, standing poised and alert. All wore scimitars, and Brand feared how swiftly the curved blades would flash toward his throat if he was observed.

  He was as near as he could get and waited to see what would happen. These soldiers had walked away from their camp for a reason. What was it? Surely they must be meeting somebody, but who? And the camp was no mere band of raiders: it was an army. What was it doing here? Most of all, who in the northern lands of Alithoras would meet with elugs? They were everybody’s enemy and servants of a great evil.

  He studied them as he waited and felt a rising urge to destroy the adversaries of his people. Dawn lit the fog with the first traces of silver, and he saw droplets of water on the elugs’ armor and the gray-green tinge to their dark skin. Their limbs seemed long and ungainly, but he knew they were strong and fast and had proven so during murderous raids on his homeland. He was a warrior of the Duthenor and did not back down to anything that walked on two legs. Yet it was prudent to avoid unnecessary risk, and five elugs within call of an army was sufficient reason to suppress his natural impulse.

  He did not have to wait long to find out what was happening. He heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves before the elugs did, but within moments the four squatting on the ground surged upright and spread to either side of their leader.

  It was hard to tell distance in the fog, but Brand was surprised at how quickly the rider appeared. He emerged out of the shifting gray landscape on a massive black stallion, a long crimson cape trailing down his back and spilling over his mount’s glossy flanks.

  The rider was a man, and as he came up to the elugs he jerked viciously at the bit. The horse squealed in pain, but the cruel motion seemed more one of habit than surprise at seeing them. Nor, as Brand would have expected, did the elugs attack. They stood their ground, making no move, but tension quickened to life like flame in wind-stirred embers.

  The newcomer was large and well matched to the massive proportions of his horse. When he spoke, his deep voice was muffled by the scarf warding his neck and face from the cold, but its tone of authority was apparent.

  “I’ve come as arranged,” he said without preamble, his voice coming down as though from a great height. “Now, before we go any further in this business, you will give me the gold.”

  The elug leader’s hatred of the man was obvious. He stiffened, clearly repressing his natural instincts.

  “It will be provided.” As he spoke, he gestured brusquely to one of his companions who took a coarse cloth bag from beneath his tunic and shook it. By the sound, Brand guessed it contained coins, and if they were gold, it was a great deal of money.

  “Is everything arranged?” asked the elug leader.

  “Of course!” spat the man, seeming to take the question to mean there was some doubt about his ability. He sniffed loudly and then laughed. The authority in his voice receded and was replaced by spite. Here, thought Brand, was a man who commanded by the higher rule of another, and not by the respect of those whom he led.

  “They won’t know what hit them!” His eyes momentarily shone with anticipation, then grew hard and focused covetously on the bag. “Now, give me the gold.”

  “When will you do it?” asked the elug leader.

  The newcomer dragged his gaze from the bag. “Midnight on the second night. The gate will be open, but I can only do it once.”

  The leader nodded to his companion, and the eyes of the elug holding the bag flared with suppressed hatred before he flung it toward the rider. Quick as a flash the man’s hand swept out and caught it. Brand was astonished at his speed.

  “Once is all we need,” the leader said.

  The rider suddenly nudged his mount forward in a menacing motion toward the elugs, and they leapt back and drew their scimitars. The massive horse then wheeled sideways and trod near to where Brand lay hidden in the grass. Just as he thought he was discovered, the rider turned back down the path he had come from. Staring back over his shoulder he sniffed loudly once more and yelled.

  “Fools! All of them. But they’ll soon be dead, and I have the gold I deserve. There are other cities to spend it in!” He kicked the horse into a gallop, and the massive stallion was swallowed by the fog.

  Lake Alithorin

  The elugs cursed viciously in their own tongue, and though Brand could not understand what they were saying, he sensed their meaning. How they wanted to kill the rider! But he served a purpose. They continued cursing as they returned to the camp, and he was soon alone. He had been witness to black treachery, and though someone trusted the rider, it showed that loyalty was only proven by actions.

  His first priority must be to get away from the elug camp. Daylight was fast approaching, and he did not want to be anywhere near it when the army marched. And surely they were heading for the city of Cardoroth where he too had intended to go. The city was not only at risk from enemies without, but just as surely from foul treason within. Should he go elsewhere and avoid the danger?

  His instincts always prompted his actions, and he had learned to trust them for they had saved his life many times. His decision was made even as the harsh voices of the elugs faded away. The unsuspecting people of Cardoroth were doomed unless they were warned, and he was the only one who could do so. It felt right to help them, and he sensed that his own fate was somehow linked to theirs.

  He slipped along the path the rider had taken. The stallion’s tracks were the deep impressions of a massive horse, shod with iron, and the shoe on the rear left leg was worn more than the others. Though no great tracker, he would know the prints if he ever saw them again.

  Moving silently he set a fast pace toward Cardoroth. He was drawn into trouble he had not looked for, and it was now added to his own. Were those who had been pursuing him since he was a child nearby? Were they still hunting him down like an animal for who he was? Was it not enough that all that he loved and all that should have been his had been taken away? They wanted his life as well: but if they remained on his trail they would not find it easy to kill him. He would fight them every inch of the way.

  He moved toward Cardorot
h at a relentless pace. At times he jogged. At other times he walked, but always he moved forward through the long hours. It was now afternoon, and the fog was long gone.

  A breeze blew from the north, and it had grown chill as the day waned. Brand looked back over his shoulder. He could not see any sign of the elugs, but he knew they were there. What he could see, and had done all day since the fog lifted, was Lake Alithorin. It shimmered like a silver basin in the wintry light. It seemed peaceful and impossibly vast. Its other side, he knew, stretched many leagues beyond his vision.

  He looked ahead and studied the city of Cardoroth. For many hours it had attracted his curious glance. It was infinitely larger than any of the villages of the Duthenor. Strangely, the sun failed to light it. Its massive encircling wall, the buildings, even the cobbles of the streets were made of some dark stone that soaked up sunlight rather than reflect it. Whereas Lake Alithorin sparkled with the essence of life, Cardoroth, for all its size and the multitude of its people, looked barren.

  As he neared he saw that the stone was dull red granite splashed profusely with darker flecks. The sun was lowering in the west, and the clouds were shot with a crimson glow. In the fading light the city took on the appearance of some ancient horror, a dark maw in the middle of the green fields of Alithoras, waiting to swallow a man whole. Or was he merely seeing things with the simple eyes of a villager?

  Brand walked on, and in the dying light of the afternoon reached one of the gates. There were four that he knew of, one for each of the primary directions. He now faced the South Gate, open for the moment, but no doubt soon to be closed. He was about to step through when he noticed the old man.

  Aranloth

  The man sat in the deep shadows of the wall and leaned back against its solid bulk. An oaken staff rested idly in his weathered hands, and his flowing robes were white, as was the unruly hair on his head. His face showed wrinkles, but the skin was bright and flushed with a healthy pink. A silver diadem, almost entirely hidden by his hair, circled his brow, and it was engraved with a symbol that Brand had seen before but could not place. The old man’s eyes were sea-gray, and his glance was the knowing look of a man who has seen both great joy and tragedy. They were eyes that searched the hearts of men and uncovered their secrets.

  “Good afternoon, old father,” Brand said politely.

  “So it is,” the stranger said. His deep voice was easy-going and smooth. “And what brings a traveler to the city of Cardoroth at this hour?”

  Brand was wary. Who was this old man? Something about his voice inspired trust, but he was used to keeping his own counsel, and news of the elugs and rider must first be brought to whatever authorities he could reach.

  “I’m just a wayfarer,” he replied carefully, “seeking a hot meal and a warm bed for the night.”

  The old man smiled. “Good for you, young man. No need to tell strangers your business – even if it’s important. But don’t forget there are strangers who will seek to help you as well as those who will seek to hinder.”

  Brand shrugged his shoulders. “That’s the way of the world, but I have nothing of importance to do, and no one has any reason to help or hinder me.”

  “Ah,” the old man said, “but that’s not true. You have something of great importance to do, and I intend to help.”

  The old man stood. He showed none of the discomfort of the elderly and straightened like a lithe warrior. When he stepped closer, Brand’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Old the stranger may be, but power and danger were all about him like a cloak.

  “It’s wise to be wary, but in this case more hangs on the outcome than you guess. There’s much to do and little time, so I’ll tell you exactly why you’ve come to Cardoroth. Then I think you’ll trust me, for you’ll know that if I meant harm I could have already achieved it.”

  Brand studied the old man. He had no doubt that he could prove dangerous, but in precisely what way he was less certain. He nodded reluctantly and the stranger spoke.

  “Your name is Brand, and you have fled across the great river, the Careth Nien, escaping warriors of the Duthenor who hunt you.”

  Brand showed no reaction. How the old man could possibly have known this he could not guess, but he was getting an inkling of an idea. Could he be a wizard, what the Duthenor called a lòhren? Was it not said that they had the sight?

  “What else then, old father. Have I committed some heinous crime against my people and then fled?”

  “Not unless it’s a crime to be born the son of a chieftain. But your parents were murdered, and the chieftainship usurped by a rival. Those who hunt you do not serve justice but only a killer who wishes to remove a threat to his position.”

  Brand paled, and his blood ran like ice. He remembered as though it were only yesterday the night his parents were killed. They were kind-hearted people, deserving more from life than they got. Longing to see them once again rose within him like a wave.

  The old man continued. “You’re a fugitive, but your people would have you as their leader if they could. Having escaped the massacre, you were hidden by brave folk as you grew, often shifted from family to family and farm to farm because assassins searched for you ceaselessly.

  You realized as you grew older that one day your luck would run out, and you would be found and killed, and those helping you murdered also. Not yet full grown but coming into manhood, you decided to leave the lands of the Duthenor to protect those who protected you. Before doing so you conceived a bold plan.

  In the deep of night you stole into the hall-yard that was your home of old. Why would the guard dogs bark at someone who had played with them in better days?

  You knew the ways of the old hall and picked your path among the sleeping men with slow but certain steps until you came to the usurper’s chamber.

  There, ever so carefully, you opened an old chest and retrieved the sword of your forefathers. With the naked blade in your hand, you were tempted to kill the usurper. Instead, you reached down and boldly slipped the ring of your father, an heirloom of chieftainship, from his finger.

  He woke and gave a startled cry, but you had already fled. Men groped for their weapons all about you. ‘Awake! The hall is afire!’ you cried, and in the confusion slipped away.

  The ruse didn’t last long, and you were soon pursued. On a ridge above the village, the sickle moon riding low in the midnight sky, you gave vent to your feelings. ‘I am Brand! I will return one day, and death will come with me. I am the true chieftain, and when next I see the usurper my sword will slake its thirst for justice!’

  You disappeared in the wilderness, but the story of your daring grew into legend. Summer waned to autumn, and autumn turned to winter, and your enemies, ever pressing closer, forced you at last to cross the frozen river at peril of your life.

  You sought to lose them by traveling the many lonely miles toward Cardoroth, of which the Duthenor have heard rumors, little guessing that you would come across an army of elugs and a treacherous meeting thereby ensnaring you in the intrigues of the city. However, involved you are, and you must decide now whether or not to accept my aid. That’s how you came to Cardoroth and began talking to an old man, a lòhren entrusted with protecting a great city, who knows more than he should, but sees visions of less than he desires – including the face of the traitor.”

  Brand studied the old man in silence. The lòhren was impassive. It would be easier to guess what lost treasures lay hid on the deep bed of Lake Alithorin than penetrate the thoughts behind the old man’s eyes. There was no way of knowing his intentions, and he was certain that to tell the wrong people his news was to court death, but his instincts prompted his actions as usual.

  “As you say,” he said at last, “there are those who would seek to hinder me, and I have no way of knowing if the person to whom I tell my news will be the right one, so I’ll be guided by you. It’s plain enough that you have some standing in the city, which I don’t, so I’ll see whoever in authority you think best.”


  The lòhren suddenly grinned. “Then we must act straightaway. I’m Aranloth, and by your trust in me you will see much in life that otherwise you would not have done.”

  A Wolfish Gaze

  Aranloth turned briskly and walked through the gates and beneath the shadow of the great walls. Brand followed, wondering what the lòhren meant, but was soon lost in another world.

  He saw green parks with statues and fountains, stone cobbled streets and many-storied buildings towering above. They made him feel as though the Duthenor were only children. What craftsmanship had his people to compare with this? Here was a civilization that was old near a thousand years before the Duthenor’s wanderings brought them to the edge of the great river.

  He soon tired of the spectacle though. They seemed to walk through endless streets, people milling about them, rushing like a swollen river flowing with the debris of flood.

  At length the lòhren led him to an area where the gardens and buildings were even grander. There was a massive paved square, open to the sky, and the stars glittered above. Night had long since fallen on the city.

  Soon they came to the palace, and though Brand had never seen one before, he recognized it for what it was. It was the tallest and most impressive building. It too was fashioned from the same red stone as the rest of the city, but it was polished and surrounded by a tall wall. They slipped through an outer gate, and the guards saluted Aranloth as he passed.

  After negotiating a maze of corridors, the lòhren led him to a set of enormous doors which were carved with symbols that Brand did not recognize.

  “We’re here,” Aranloth said. “Beyond is the one who must hear your news, the king himself, but there will be others with him. Some may be your friends, some your enemies, but watch them all closely. One of them is likely the traitor we seek.”