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

him, Liam sheathed his right sword and produced a glass vial from his belt. Shela recognized the potion as Liam chugged the fluid down in a single gulp. Aggravated to no end, the havtrol rushed forward, hammer reaching to pummel him, but the potion had worked its magic quickly, returning the feeling to Liam’s deadened arm. Now the two struggled in their most intense exchange of blows yet, clashing weapons and smashing armor in a whirlwind of movement. Liam felt no pain now, but if he lived through the next few minutes, that shoulder would scream with the fury of a thousand banshees.

And the Thorn would gladly accept that agony if the sweet taste of victory followed close on its heels. Men like Liam lusted after the recognition and fame of a battle won, something Shela could only envy in vain.

The fiery hammer flew down from high above the havtrol’s head, intent on smashing Liam’s, but he raised both blades in a cross to catch the blow. The force of the collision dropped Liam to one knee, but with a twist of his wrists, the havtrol’s weapon flew free and dashed against the tiled floor. With a great roar, the havtrol smashed forward with its shield and knocked Liam onto his back. While Liam regained his footing, the berserker produced its two-handed hammer once more.

Barely on his feet, Liam had no way to block the incoming blow. Eilidh screamed in warning, but her cry only distracted Liam more. The fiery hammer struck him square in the chest and sent him flying down the hallway. He careened into the wall and lay in a crumpled pile at the far end of the tunnel, away from his allies.

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

Those words were still true. Shela thought about them as the havtrol slowly, methodically approached Liam. Even with victory so close, the havtrol showed its extreme level of discipline, not rushing into any potential traps.

Well, if it wins, the nuathreen will have to kill it, because the rest of us can’t.

Shela and Fionn, both lacking in combat skills, would never have come all the way to the caverns by themselves, but other matters had complicated their rescue effort. Their father was dying. Gower, once an honored soldier of Andua, was now succumbing to an incurable illness that had ravaged his once perfect body. He had insisted that his daughters seek out the fate of his only son, because he couldn’t rest in death without knowing whether King Darren’s mysterious errand had killed Gavin.

As the havtrol pulled up next to the battered and unconscious Thorn, Shela feared the worst. Time crawled by as the Bergsbor towered over Liam, hammer held high.

But then it lowered its weapon and looked to its left, ignoring Liam. As Shela still assumed the worst for the Thorn, Eilidh broke the solemn silence.

“What’s it doing?”

Shela had no idea, but didn’t respond to the girl’s stupid question. It annoyed Shela to no end that even a novice like Eilidh could still do something that she never had: Kill an enemy of Andua.

With a great yell, the havtrol sprinted into a side passage leading from the main hallway. The Anduains all charged after it together, not sure whether to expect friend or foe approaching. When they reached the small passage, the sight shocked them.

The havtrol lay dead at the feet of a young female elf, dressed in the flashy robes of a wealthy mage. Shela had a hard time believing that such a young spell-caster could be so powerful, but then again, elves rarely showed their true age in their appearance. Before she could inquire about how the elf had managed to fell a mighty havtrol, the nuathreen stomped up to the elf in a tizzy, waving his tall staff in her face.

“What is wrong with you, Aelfraed? You just interrupted a duel!” he cried in a high-pitched voice.

“I saved that injured human, Bob, which is more than I can say that you did,” replied the elf evenly.

“He told us not to help. That’s the whole point of a duel,” the nuathreen pointed out.

“That havtrol would have killed the human, and then what? Who would have killed the havtrol as retribution?” The elf paused before looking down her nose at Shela. “The bard, perhaps? Ha. I think not.”

Bard?

Now Shela was not amused.

“Who do you think you are? Keep your opinions to yourself, elf.”

The elf regarded Shela with the patronizing disdain that elves commanded so well.

“Hush, human.”

Seething now, Shela stepped forward, but the nuathreen called Bob motioned her back.

“If he’d lost, I would’ve killed the havtrol, Aelfraed, and you know it,” he said.

“I think not. You would have killed him already if you thought that you could,” the elf responded.

Apparently the two spell-casters knew one another. Bob wielded the staff of a wraith, a mage loyal to the High Priestess, trained in Arbreldin to rein in wayward dominators who’d taken to abusing their immense powers for personal gain. Shela regarded Aelfraed more warily, suddenly suspecting she may in fact be a dominator, a mage who could literally destroy an enemy’s mind. But if the elf had indeed embraced the darker side of her arts and given in to mind-lust, Bob would’ve already executed her, or at the very least taken her soul hostage with his staff. In any case, Shela tired of watching the pointless argument. She looked around, instinctively scanning her surroundings for any potential threats. That was when she saw it. Or at least, she thought she saw it.

Yes! She definitely saw the tell-tale shimmery form of a magically concealed tracker creeping through the shadows of a dark recess of the tunnel. Another shape caught her eye and when she glanced towards it, she could’ve sworn that she saw the large head of a firbolg disappear around the far corner. Now she couldn’t find the shadowy movements of the tracker, but she suspected that this elf hadn’t slain the havtrol alone. Still ignoring the pair of bickering mages, Shela crouched down next to the dead havtrol to investigate.

And sure enough, Anduain arrows peppered the corpse.

Apparently a friendly tracker or two had helped kill the havtrol, sticking to the shadows to avoid detection. Shela had greatly doubted that even the greatest dominator could defeat a havtrol berserker like this so quickly one-on-one, but the broken arrows protruding from under the fallen havtrol confirmed that the elf had received some welcome assistance. Perhaps if the nuathreen could get over his pride for a few moments, he too would notice the evidence and cease the fruitless debate.

But why would our hidden allies not reveal themselves after the fight?

The question hung in her mind restlessly, seeking an answer that she couldn’t yet provide. Shela stood, turned her back on the embattled mages, and instead headed back to where Liam now sat up against the far wall, eyes open, but without an arrogant smile plastered across his face. He actually looked concerned.

“Thank you for restoring me, Fionn,” he said evenly. “But I had that havtrol exactly where I wanted him. That elf had no right to steal my kill.”

Shela and Fionn exchanged a wry look of doubt, but Eilidh marveled at the man’s confidence.

Oh good, now Eilidh is impressed with a guy who just got belted a field’s length through the air.

Eilidh’s naivety made Shela laugh. The girl had surprised Shela by calling up an earth-shield for Liam, but her control over her power was simply terrible. Hopefully Fionn could teach the poor girl a few things, because all Shela knew was that she wouldn’t be teaching her a damned thing. She had enough to deal with.

“Okay, Liam. That’s enough time on your arse. Up you get,” Shela said as she grabbed him by the wrists and yanked him up.

“Thank you, bard, but I could’ve done that myself,” he said, dusting himself off, his expensive black armor now coated in dust.

Shela slammed Liam bodily against the wall, her forearm pressed against his throat.

“What is the meaning of this—” he stammered.

“Shut up,” Shela snapped. “I’m not a pathetic loser who strolls into taverns looking for a-drink-for-a-song. By the Tree, I’m a druid, and you best remember that.”

Liam smiled, and in a flash rolled around to her back and let her fall face-first into the wall. Kearney growled as Shela twisted to face Liam.

“Easy, boy,” Liam said playfully as he backed away from Shela. “We’re all Anduains here. Isn’t that right, druid?”

Shela felt her cheeks redden, but said nothing. Liam took that as an indication to keep talking.

“As you can see, I’m a perfectly capable fighter and was in no danger of dying to that berserker,” he said. “And did anyone see how brilliantly fantastic my cloak looked when I burst out with my swords? I’ve been working on that for weeks.”

Shela stroked her bruised cheek and rolled her eyes at the man as he ran off to retrieve said cloak. In truth, even if Liam had died, Fionn or Shela, or even Eilidh probably, could’ve rescued his soul from death and repaired his broken body. Of course, that arduous process took time and concentration, two things that the havtrol would not have afforded them. Either way, she was glad to have the impetuous Thorn with them, because all things considered, Liam had bravery and some skill with his showy red swords. They would need that if they were to find Gavin. Also, hadn’t Eilidh mentioned something earlier about looking for her lost love down deeper in the caverns?

Mulling these thoughts over and thinking about how to combine their quests, Shela wandered back over to the elf and nuathreen who were still going at it tooth and nail.

Maybe they would stop pestering each other long enough to help the humans complete their quests. Shela certainly hoped so.

 

 

 

 

The Dwarf

Chapter 26

 

Pjodarr spread a thick blanket over the girl, not knowing if she slept or not. Her eyes remained closed. She was a very beautiful young woman. She had the fine features of the Bergsbor, but blonde hair like most of the Grunlanders. She was probably enslaved with her family when the men of Freemark invaded. The dwarves and freemen took many slaves. Freemen. The shaman held back a chuckle at the thought. The lords of Freemark were far more likely to take slaves than the Great Houses. And they were more barbarous than any dwarf ever thought to be. A pretty girl like Erliga? He could only imagine how she was treated. He hoped she felt well enough to talk in the morning. There were many things he needed to ask her.

If the Honorless had any compassion in their hearts, it was that they didn’t leave survivors. They did not give Erliga even that little charity.

He turned around and regarded Gruesome and the boy. They sat quietly on opposite sides of the fire. Pjodarr’s master stood just within the fire’s warmth, and would for the entire night. The old slave had grown used to Blade standing silent guard. Folik was behind Tarac’s right shoulder, as if in mock exaggeration of the dwarf’s condition. But Pjodarr knew his master was not dead. He sighed to himself and willed sad thoughts away. He walked towards the var and waved the havtrol and necromancer to join him. Gruesome rose without issue. Tarac looked at both of them then followed with some hesitation. The shaman took them out of earshot of the girl, but still kept his voice low.

“Well, I never planned on this.”

Gruesome nodded.

“Planned on what?” Tarac was confused.

“The girl. Why they kept her alive is beyond me, but they did.” He set his gaze on the big warrior. “And now we have to make sure she’s taken care of.”

“We cannot leave the other two, shaman.”

Pjodarr bowed to Gruesome. “I know, friend, but we have a duty to get her back to her family.”

“And if her master died with the others? Will the boy claim her?” They both looked at Tarac. The necromancer’s eyes were wide with fear.

“Claim her? But no High Priest has ever taken a wife! And who knows if she would even have me?”

The old shaman stared at him. “Wife? What in Drogu’s name are you talking about, son?”

“But