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

reeling from extending her power across such a distance. She hadn’t even consciously thought to do it. It just happened.

Beyond the melee in front of her, Kearney pounced on a short, stout dwarf. The dwarf crashed to the ground and struggled feverishly with the much larger wolf.

Behind the raging wolf, a man appeared from the shadows and cast a spell that froze Kearney like a stone, jaws held agape in ferocity. The same man then chanted a spell that appeared to help the dwarf recover, because the next thing Eilidh knew, the sneering dwarf had broken free and called up a huge pile of rocks to unceremoniously dump on top of the helpless wolf. After being stunned, Kearney struggled frantically, but he couldn’t budge the rocks with his broken body.

Shela rushed past in front of Eilidh with an enemy in tow. The long spear in the man’s grip slashed endlessly at Shela’s feet as she deftly leapt through the fallen flames and bounced off piles of rubble. The druid jumped high and landed with a great downward outtake of breath that burst a gust of wind in all directions, pushing her pursuer back a few paces as she started running again.

“Do something!” Shela yelped while dodging yet another attack from her assailant.

Shame cast a dark shadow over Eilidh. She’d been watching her companions fight on her behalf while she just looked on in confusion. Doing anything surely outweighed doing nothing at all. Her failure to act could’ve doomed them all.

Eilidh bodily tackled the man, who’d been totally oblivious to her presence. He went down hard with a grunt, and before he could recover, Eilidh drove the bottom edge of her shield solidly into the back of his head, cracking his face down onto the dirty tiles. Fueled by soaring adrenaline, she jumped up and rushed to Liam’s aid, but her short sword couldn’t even penetrate the exposed flanks of her enemies. Their armor rejected her blade as if it was a long piece of grass.

Liam poked his head out of the fray while still parrying the rain of blows effortlessly. “Go and get after that Calderan priest in the back. He’s keeping these ruffians alive, and believe it or not, I cannot do this all day.”

His smile worried Eilidh a little. Who could smile at a time like this?

She pressed on through the fight and found what she could only assume was a Calderan, based on his emblazoned jerkin. Despite the long war between Andua and Caldera, she’d never seen a Calderan in person, but she’d heard they put symbols on their armor and shields to represent their home region within Caldera.

This one stood perfectly still, with his eyes closed. Seeing her opportunity to prove herself, she charged and drew back her sword. Before she could strike the desired blow, a strong hand grabbed her wrist from behind. Eilidh twisted around and drove a knee into the gut of her attacker.

Shela gasped and let go of Eilidh’s arm.

“I am so sorry, Shela,” Eilidh called out, extending a hand to the woman.

Through wheezes, Shela slapped her hand away and replied, “Not now. Don’t hit that priest. I put him to sleep. Go help Liam.”

Thoroughly confused at being tossed from one end of the fight to the other, Eilidh sprinted back to Liam’s side. With the Calderan’s healing powers subdued, Liam had slain two of his opponents, leaving only the great havtrol standing, his fiery hammer casting wicked shadows as it sliced through the air in deadly arcs. Not taking his eyes from his most dangerous foe, Liam yelled for Eilidh to go take care of the nuathreen.

“What nuathreen?” she yelled back, feeling more useless than ever. Why wouldn’t her own allies let her fight?

Shela materialized next to them both and called out, “I think he’s on our side. He killed that dwarf, and he’s chasing down that Movrisian.”

These words flooded into the growing discombobulated mess within Eilidh’s head. What nuathreen? What Movrisian? What was a Movrisian?

She scanned around and indeed saw the dwarf lying motionless, its skin charred black. Movement out of the corner of her eye attracted her attention, and she turned in time to see a dark-skinned man appear from behind a pillar and eye her intensely as he started drawing on unholy power, his hands glowing pink and red.

Eilidh ran towards the man, but knew that she could never reach her foe in time to stop his magic. She braced herself as his hands completed their motion. Eilidh squeezed her eyes shut, expecting the next few moments to hurt. A lot.

But she felt nothing.

She opened her eyes and saw the man sprawled before her, his staff strewn in smoking pieces around the lifeless body. Now disconcerted, Eilidh looked around, swiveling her head, trying to establish what had just happened. Why was she still alive?

Then she saw the small nuathreen appear from the shadows behind the dead man. The nuathreen’s staff stood much taller than he did, and he radiated authority as he strode past her without even a glance. Eilidh watched in awe as the diminutive spell-caster created spheres of destructive light in his small hand and then launched the crackling spheres towards his enemies.

In short order, the powerful nuathreen dispatched the sleeping priest and the tangled firbolg. He then loomed over the man that Eilidh had failed to finish off in her hurry to help Liam. The man was on his hands and knees now, slowly getting to his feet. As the man’s hand reached out for his spear, the nuathreen drew back his grey cloak over his shoulders, revealing a black robe underneath.

Bright white traces of light suddenly radiated all over the black robe, startling Eilidh in their intensity. The traces strobed and flashed chaotically, and in the uneven light, Eilidh caught glimpses of the spearman’s face growing more and more enraged. He grabbed up his spear and leapt towards the nuathreen, but then explosive lightning burst out between them. The nuathreen channeled the lightning into the screaming human for a number of seconds before relenting. The entire tunnel faded to silent black in the aftermath of the dazzling display of Ghrian’s raw power.

Eilidh’s eyes adjusted slowly, and as horrified as she was at the spearman’s death, she ignored his burned corpse and followed everyone’s gaze towards the only living enemy remaining: the havtrol who still circled Liam in a terrible fury.

The Anduains closed in around the havtrol, who started to back up, taking a defensive stance. In a move displaying uncanny quickness for such a large being, the havtrol sheathed its enormous hammer and produced a shield the size of a cottage door. In its other hand glowed a smaller version of the larger hammer. It beat on the shield and roared furiously at the approaching Anduains.

A sharp whistle caught everyone’s attention. Eilidh watched as Liam motioned with his hand for them to back off, to stay put. She hesitated, watching the others for a reaction. They all nodded and stopped, including their new companion, the nuathreen lightning mage. Kearney continued to growl from his master’s side, but remained glued in place, unable to strike without Fionn’s approval.

Eilidh edged closer to Fionn and drew a snap from the wolf. After emitting an awkward cough, trying to hide her overt flinch at the animal’s aggression, Eilidh whispered to Fionn, “Why aren’t we helping him?”

Fionn didn’t break her gaze from the battle waiting to start, but she responded, “We don’t interrupt duels, Eilidh. Just watch.”

Aghast, Eilidh whispered back, “Just watch? But what if the havtrol wins?”

Now Shela joined the conversation and looked at Eilidh gravely.

“If the havtrol wins, we will reward it with a slow, painful death.”

Chapter 25

 

Shela watched the duelers strafe each other, both searching for a solid opportunity to strike. The havtrol, despite being short for its kind, stood over a head taller than Liam, who was actually quite tall for a human. The armor of both combatants was dyed a deep black, and neither wore a helm of any kind. A ring of hair circled around the flat, bald area on top of the havtrol’s head, while Liam possessed a light brown mane that drifted gracefully with each movement of his head. Shela observed the two shadowy forms shifting back and forth in the dim light, watching them edge closer and then away, immersed in the tide of battle. The deadly beauty of their seemingly choreographed movements captivated her.

Regarding the well-matched fighters vying for position disturbed an old and well-known disappointment for Shela. The Tree of Rebirth chose the path for druids following Ghrian’s teachings, and rarely did the Tree bestow the exact same path to two individuals. As such, Shela was greatly skilled in the magical arts of voice and song, whereas Fionn commanded more traditional healing skills. Some called Shela a music druid, or worse, a bard, but music was far too vague of a description. Her true power resonated in her voice. With a sharp word, she could energize all allies around her, at least for a short time. When not running for her life, she could force even large numbers of the enemy into deep sleep with a gentle, yet powerful lullaby.

These support functions were all well and good, but where was the glory in them? She spent most of her time in fights just trying not to get killed.

The havtrol of Bergmark darted forward, its shield blocking a cross cut from Liam. The Bergsbor’s great hammer swung from out wide, barely missing Liam’s exposed thigh. The havtrol’s reach advantage required the lithe Thorn to evade perfectly in order to draw in close enough to attack. Liam moved easily and swiftly, but had a hard time getting either of his blades past the berserker’s great shield.

Shela continued to watch, but her thoughts drifted. What could she do to kill those who deserved her vengeance? Yell at them melodically?

All she’d ever wanted was to swing a weapon as Liam did so effortlessly. Her songs inspired others to fight, but did little to help her own awkwardness with a blade. In battle, Shela’s job consisted of suppressing and distracting the enemy while her allies did all of the real work, the rewarding work.

Shela looked at her sister, deep in hushed conversation with the completely helpless redhead they’d picked up. How could Fionn stand it, being in the backlines of every fight, keeping others alive, but never dealing out her own wrath? In truth, Shela’s twin sister had never been quick to anger. The Tree had dealt that card to Shela, her short fuse well-known in their hometown of Rubha. Perhaps helping others gave Fionn all the reward that she needed, but Shela wanted more. She had always wanted more, wanted to not be so vulnerable by herself. Relying on others was a sign of great weakness.

After a quick feint to the havtrol’s left, Liam drove forward with both swords flashing straight ahead, but the Bergsbor countered brilliantly, not biting on the fake. The enormous shield thrust straight down, pinning one of Liam’s red blades to the ground. Shela heard Eilidh gasp. The havtrol’s other hand brought the hammer down onto the top of Liam’s left shoulder with a sickening thump, flattening him.

With a deft lunge, the Bergsbor’s foot shot out towards Liam’s injured shoulder, but the Thorn had sensed the move and rolled away to his right. The havtrol’s stomp echoed in the quiet hallway and left a deep imprint in the stone floor. Now on his feet, Liam stood with his left arm hanging limp, yet still his left hand gripped his sword. The havtrol grunted and squared up against Liam again.

Now Shela saw, as she had done many times in the past, her reason for being. She could easily help Liam defeat the berserker, if she so desired. Or in this case, if Liam so desired, but the Thorns were a stubborn crew who were far too proud to back out of a losing battle. With a few words and a wave of her hand, she could heal his broken shoulder. Not as efficiently as Fionn, but she could do it. She wouldn’t, though. She had to respect the rules of the duel.

Looking to her sister, Shela saw Fionn fidgeting listlessly with Kearney’s fur, grinding her fingers into the animal’s tough hide. The wolf growled deeply and continuously at an incredibly low note, the sound reverberating in Shela’s bones. Both Fionn and the wolf desperately wanted to intercede. Druids typically couldn’t stand the sight of a brother or sister dying in combat, and Fionn was no exception.

The havtrol circled Liam, sensing the end to be near, but maintaining a safe distance to let the pain seep into the Anduain’s core, to destabilize the still dangerous Thorn. Before the havtrol could maneuver to stop