The Chosen by Kris Kramer (read the beginning after the end novel TXT) 📕

him, for the absurdity was too comical for him to hold it in.

The havtrol growled. “What is wrong with you, shaman?”

The slave patted himself on the chest and tried to regain his composure. “Nothing, mighty Gruesome.” He pointed at Folik. “I just don’t know if we should build him a pyre, or give him a medal!” None of the others shared his mirth.

“A pyre would not be appropriate. We bury our dead; we do not burn them.” Tarac’s tone was almost chiding. Pjodarr feared he had upset the nice boy.

“I’m sorry, friend Tarac. I meant no disrespect. It is simply that you have no idea how odd you are to us.” The necromancer looked hurt, and shied from the shaman’s gaze. “I do not mean that as an insult, son, but none of us have ever met anyone like you. Or Folik, for that matter. And that is saying a lot. Master Blade is over three hundred years old and has never met one of your folk. The only things the other Bergsbor know of Durum Tai is that you trade salt cheaply, brew the bitterest wine in all the lands to the delight of dwarves everywhere, and no army that marched against you has ever returned.”

Tarac’s eyes went wider than the full moon above. “That is true. We shut ourselves off to keep the dwarves from attacking us. The prophet Mephraim decided that they would not bother us if we did not bother them. And so it was. We were not threatened again until Freemark attacked us.” The fire danced in his bright green eyes. “By then, we’d learned the power of the blood.”

There it was again. Power of the blood? Pjodarr had heard rumors. Among the undead that walked Durum Tai, were creatures that drank the blood of their victims. Could they be the Bloodguard that Tarac mentioned? He could talk to the boy for a fortnight and not exhaust his own curiosity, but Gruesome had business to attend. The great warrior was bound by oath to kill the Honorless, only their blood would cleanse his. Pjodarr knew the havtrol was anxious to be on the hunt.

“You are fascinating, Tarac.” The shaman stretched his back and legs. “But dawn comes soon, and we’ve more immediate things to discuss.”

The young man nodded.

“First, how did you come to Willowbrook at this time?”

“Willowbrook, good shaman?”

Pjodarr gestured at the huts around them. “This village. How is it you are here? And all these people are dead?”

“Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with this!” Pjodarr saw the hurt in the boy’s eyes, and felt a pang of guilt. “I would never harm a child. I have only committed violence in defense of myself.” He pointed at Blade. “Or others.”

“I did not say that. But these are odd circumstances, aren’t they?”

“Indeed.” Gruesome’s deep voice dripped with menace.

The necromancer looked from one to the other; his eyes settled on the fire. “I am on a pilgrimage, of sorts. My birth was deemed a sign. Then the Great City fell, and the world was plunged into war. It was decided that I would be trained and sent here, to the southern continent. With only Folik to accompany me, I was my own guide.” He blushed and gave a weak smile. “Once I arrived at Blackgate to the north, I kept to the river.”

“Why did you choose Blackgate? Why not the human cities? It must have been a treacherous journey east to the dwarf ports.”

“It was,” Tarac nodded. “But I wanted to see it.”

Pjodarr smiled bitterly. “It was beautiful. The greatest city the world has ever known, all carved stone and worked gold. A monument to the gods that slept beneath it.” He shook his head. “Now it is nothing but ash and the smoldered wreckage of nobility.”

“Yes,” Tarac agreed. “The Great Mountain still belches black smoke into the air. Words cannot describe it.” They all sat silent for a moment before he continued. “Besides, I was told that dwarves are less troublesome to deal with than the free cities. ‘Be nice, and pay with gold,’ they told me.”

“My master’s people do like to keep things simple. But why are you here? In all of Caldera, why Willowbrook?”

The young man wrung his hands and bit his lower lip. “I-I do not know exactly. I was drawn here.” He finally looked up at the old man. “And not just here. There was another village to the west.”

“What do you mean?”

“I found it, just like this one. Everyone that died was killed in their sleep.”

Pjodarr leaned forward. He thought he knew the little village Tarac talked about, just on the edge of Brinnoch. “Everyone that died?”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. You have seen very little of what happened here.” He clasped his hands against his chest and bowed his head. “Only the very old and very young were killed. The rest are simply… gone. Men, women, older children, all gone, and the livestock taken too. Only the dead and the kriotes remained.” He frowned. “And the smell of dark magic.”

“You think these people killed their own and left with their animals?” Villages in the forest didn’t keep more than a few chickens and goats for eggs and milk. They relied on hunting and foraging to survive. But why would they kill their elders, their own children? The little girl’s angelic face filled the shaman’s thoughts and he swallowed hard.

“No, good shaman, that doesn’t seem reasonable at all. I have nothing but suspicions right now. And remorse.”

“Remorse for what, necromancer?”

Tarac sighed and seemed to take no notice of Gruesome’s accusation. “For the souls of these dear people. I fear what happens when the kriote have their way with them. I walked at the other village, and saw them as they fed.” He shuddered. “It was horrifying.” He grabbed a water skin from his belt and took a long draught. “I followed them here. I arrived a while before you all. I did not need to watch while they fed. Then I destroyed them all when they attacked your master.” He looked at Pjodarr with sad eyes. “I’m not sure what to do now.”

The old slave felt sympathy for the odd boy. “This is your destiny, Tarac? You think you were sent here to avenge these good people?”

“Avenge? I do not know about that. I would not know how to begin to avenge them. But I believe I was sent to discover what happened to them.” He pursed his lips. “I have had dreams in this land. They have guided me here. They have led me to this place, at this time. Perhaps I am meant to meet you.”

Gruesome grunted and Pjodarr chuckled. “I cannot imagine what answers you hope to find from three old warriors. We know less about what happened here than you.” He looked over at the havtrol. “And we have matters of our own.”

“What could be more important than discovering the fate of the ones that left here?”

“We are hunters,” Gruesome rumbled.

“Yes, I saw the wyverns on your var.”

“No, necromancer, we hunt a much more dangerous prey. The Honorless have come here from the mountains. They will kill everything in their path.”

“Honorless?” Tarac cocked his head at the big warrior.

Pjodarr cleared his throat. “Havtrols who have forsaken their oaths. Gruesome is sworn to spill their blood. Master Blade and I have promised to help him. We tracked them here, then they went north. We are within a day or so of them. If we do not catch them, who knows what carnage they will unleash. There are other settlements, more innocents.”

“And they are in danger of this as well!” Tarac motioned around them. “Would these Honorless destroy an entire village?”

Gruesome jumped to his feet. Folik raised his sword in defense. “Nine havtrol warriors that did not hold themselves to honorable combat would lay waste to this village. They would commit horrors you cannot imagine!”

“Yet the three of you would face them? Where three hundred souls would die, you would not?” The young man looked from the havtrol to the shaman.

Pjodarr smiled and winked at Tarac. The fire flashed and a man of flame stood before the boy. Tarac fumbled backwards, grasping for his staff. Folik took one quick step and slashed through the fiery figure. His sword passed through the flames harmlessly. The old shaman waved his hand and the fire crackled and popped as if it had never changed. The necromancer held his hand up and the dead man relaxed his stance.

“You’re not the only one with tricks, boy.”

 

 

 

 

 

Andua

Chapter 9

 

The wide stone corridor rumbled underfoot, causing a trickle of small rocks from the ceiling in some places, a burst of cloudy dust in others. Ancient walls displayed what were once expertly crafted symbols from floor to ceiling. The worn markings had cracked and split over the years, the meanings now indecipherable to all but the most dedicated archeologists. In these dark days, most travelers at these depths underground paid the carvings little heed.

A young woman sat on what she discerned to be a useful pile of rubble: the remains of a fallen statue older than her ancestors. Her recently acquired armor still felt weighty and ungainly on her slight frame. A bright sword hung sheathed on her belt and a wooden shield lay at her feet as she rested her weary head against the artfully engraved wall.

Eilidh closed her eyes and tried to relax her shoulders, overly tense from supporting the heft of her new protective wear. The scale hauberk had only a few scratches and dents from the previous owner, but the chest piece was far from appealing to the eye. Her companion had given it to her the previous week, gleeful to provide such a fancy gift to his beloved.

She had smiled and accepted the token graciously, as well as any upstanding lady, at least one in the first couple of months of a courtship. Inwardly she still balked at the grotesque display of a raging bull’s head etched in crude relief in the center of the hauberk. Where Ruaidhri had salvaged such a hideous thing, Eilidh couldn’t guess.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” her mother had said, glad to finally have her daughter out of the family’s small cottage in Bristaen. Eilidh had thought the old woman had only meant the ugly armor, but perhaps not.

Behind her resting head, the sound of Ruaidhri’s mace resonated along the wall. A cry of delight indicated another conquest. Eilidh loved this young soldier that she’d met only months ago. They were destined for each other: the unstoppable warrior and his lovely companion. She smiled and stood up stiffly, anxious to see the result of Ruaidhri’s latest battle.

A look at her chest reminded her of just how bulky and unattractive her armor was, but functionally it was far superior to the leather jerkin it replaced. Her father had told her not to worry about the armor sagging on her slight frame; he’d promised if she filled out anything like her mother, finding any clothing too large would be a difficult task. A matriarchal slap to the back of the head had promptly silenced him and elicited raucous laughter from her older brothers.

Her brothers still hadn’t met Ruaidhri, mostly because they spent so much time out on patrol, but they were not too happy that she spent her time with a man who seemed to spend too little time in active duty. In fact, the last time she’d seen her brothers, the conversation hadn’t ended well.

“He’s teaching me how to fight. That’s something neither of you ever took the time to do,” she’d retorted angrily before stomping off outside. Spending time in nature always soothed her soul.

Unfortunately, she’d spent much of her time recently in the damp caverns under Teekwood, the immense forest that covered most of northeast Andua and formed part of the natural border with Caldera. She’d absorbed Ghrian’s