by Meg Cowley
Chronicles of Pelenor Trilogy Collection
Table of Contents
Title Page
Get a free copy of The Thief of Pelenor (A Chronicles of Pelenor Tale)
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Thirty Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty Six
Thirty Seven
Thirty Eight
Thirty Nine
Forty
Forty One
Forty Two
Forty Three
Forty Four
Forty Five
Forty Six
Forty Seven
Forty Eight
Forty Nine
Fifty
Author Notes
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Books of Caledan: a World of Altarea Completed Series
Books by Meg Cowley
About the Author
Get a free copy of The Thief of Pelenor (A Chronicles of Pelenor Tale)
ENJOYING THE Chronicles of Pelenor? Dive into this fast-paced companion short story as the daring Thief of Pelenor, Aedon Lindhir Riel, and his companions take on the might of the House of Ellarian for a daring mission.
Available to read FREE.
Your download link is at the back of this book!
Heart of Dragons: Chronicles of Pelenor One
Copyright
Published in 2019 by
Eldarkin Publishing Limited
United Kingdom
First Edition
© 2019 Meg Cowley
www.megcowley.com
Cover design © Epic Fantasy Covers 2019
All characters, places and events are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, places or events is purely coincidental.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored or distributed in any form, without prior written permission of the publisher.
Dedication
For my parents
Thank you.
This all began at the making table
– I still remember it fondly
Pelenor Map
One
The gigantic trees of the living forest rustled and contorted, but there was no wind to move them. It was as if the very trees themselves were angry. Aedon knew it to be true. The forest was furious.
He dashed across the rope bridge walkways that soared above the forest floor, clinging on for dear life. The living trees, the dhiran, buckled their limbs around him, sending the walkways swinging like ribbons in the wind.
Aedon was lucky he had always been a nimble elf. Even so, he struggled to keep his footing. He ducked and wove as branches tore at him, their leaves razor sharp. Every knobby arm of wood stabbed at him like a sword, leaving his skin peppered with nicks and grazes.
Still, it was better than descending to the forest floor. If he did, Aedon had no doubt he would be eaten by the forest itself — or at least strangled in the writhing roots of the trees that strained to rip themselves free from the earth in their determination to grasp and punish him.
Tir-na-Alathea was a special place. No one left if the forest did not wish it. Luckily, Aedon had a better plan.
I hope.
He chanced a glance over his shoulder and redoubled his efforts. The two elves pursuing him had murder in their eyes. He could not blame them, he supposed. The elves of Tir-na-Alathea were not the forgiving type, even though he had asked nicely. It wasn't his fault they had refused the trade. They’d left him no choice but to take it. This was all on them. Their howls of rage told him they felt otherwise.
He strained for breath, every muscle screaming in pain as he pushed himself harder. He was a fast elf, but this was their home. He could not just assume he would escape. El’hari and Ta’hiir would pursue him to the death on their Queen
’s orders, if that was what it took.
One hand returned to his breast, checking and rechecking that the lump was still there. That it nestled safely within the protection of his leather jerkin. He could not afford for that to tumble to the forest floor and be forever lost.
Faces stared from within the trees, as though the forest itself had eyes, agony carved in the flowing whorls of their rippling bark. That gave him renewed cause to flee.
If he were caught, that...or worse...would be his fate, for those were not the trees, but the eternal prisoners of the living forest. Those who had wronged it and never saw the light of day again, thanks to the magic of the wood.
It was a magic so strong, Aedon had to blink back the crushing headache that threatened to engulf him. Every pulse of anger from the forest had the very fabric of the magic of this place trying to crush him until even the air seemed to squeeze him from all sides.
There was a break in the swirling leaves ahead. Beyond it, a chink of sky, a flash of tumbling water – the falls. His escape.
His eyes flicked skyward as a shadow engulfed him. Giant, eagle-like wings soared over the canopy. They were utterly silent, like a hunter at night. Relief overwhelmed Aedon. He had never been so relieved to see an Aerian, particularly this legendary winged warrior, in his life.
Aedon swallowed, hoping his plan would work, but there was no time for doubt. The edge of the trees approached. It was now or never.
The forest continued for many miles at the bottom of the cliff. The rumble of the water was indistinguishable from the roar of blood pounding through his ears. At the trees’ edge, the walkway ended in a balcony open to the skies.
Without slowing, Aedon vaulted the slim rail and threw himself into the abyss. His heart rose into his mouth as he fell with a soundless scream, the wind tearing at him just like the trees had done seconds before.
He forced his watering eyes open. The trees below raced up to meet him. The cliff face was close. Too close. Just one snag of his body on the stone and he would meet an even more grisly fate. His heart jerked in a frenzy of panic.
Suddenly, he was tackled from the sky, the impact knocking all the breath from his body. Stars flashed before his eyes as he gasped for air. Two bare, muscled arms, riddled with scars, locked around his chest in a protective cage. Aedon clutched onto the familiar, worn leather bracers, but neither relief nor safety was his yet. They still plummeted.
His savior slowed their descent, his giant wings outstretched as they glided over the forest, then he pumped them powerfully. With each wingbeat, they rose into the sky.
Aedon wriggled in Brand's grasp. The Aerian’s grip was a vice around him, crushing Aedon to his solid, leather chestplate. It dug painfully into his back, yet Aedon relished the metal studs and hard, ridged edges cutting into his flesh. They were safety. He breathed in a shaky breath to steady himself, inhaling the scent of leather and sweat. Never had he been so grateful for that stench.
"I was scared for a moment you weren't going to catch me," Aedon spluttered with his first draw of breath. He tried to sound nonchalant, but he was unable to keep the tremor from his voice. The pounding of his heart continued to deafen him. He looked up. Brand’s expression was impassive, his attention on the horizon.
"I nearly didn't," Brand growled in his gravelly voice. "The peace and quiet I'd have without you was tempting...but Erika would kill me if I dropped what you carry. I thought I'd better not."
Aedon ceased moving, suppressing a squeak of fear. The forest was far below them now. His head swam, nausea threatening to overwhelm him as his stomach roiled. Elves are not meant to fly. Not without a dragon. He turned his head as far as he could as Brand banked higher.
Now he could see them. The elves of Tir-na-Alathea. They crowded the balcony he had jumped from. From such a distance, they were too small for him to see their features in detail, but their raised fists were unmistakable.
It’ll be about three hundred years before I can set foot there again, Aedon thought with a moment of ruefulness. It was a shame. The Tir-na-Alathea elves were some of the most talented spellmakers in all of the elven Kingdom of Auraria. Their wares and services were definitely closed to him now.
"You do have it, right?" Brand asked. His grip tightened a little. A warning not to joke.
Aedon's hand squeezed around Brand's iron grip, slipping under the neckline of his top. The tips of his fingers brushed against the cold, hard, crystal vial digging into his chest. It was there. Safely stoppered. A grin of triumph broke over his face.
"Oh, I got it all right! Right from under their noses! They said it could not be done. Stealing from the elves of Tir-na-Alathea, escaping the living forest, all without paying the price," he crowed. "The legendary Thief of Pelenor strikes again!"
Brand's arms loosened slightly. "There's that annoying noise I was so keen to get rid of," he threatened.
Aedon silenced at once, and his belly somersaulted until Brand's arms tightened around him again, but he could not stop the grin that split his face until it ached.
This was the best part.
Forget the thrill of the chase. What Aedon loved most was the smug enjoyment of a successful mission.
Two
The rabbit’s lifeless eyes reflected the glistening wet of the autumn woods.
Harper loosened the snare from its leg before resetting the trap, then fastened the animal to her belt next to two of its dangling kin. She muttered a small thank you to it, as she always did, and stroked its silken ear. Her slim fingers pressed the cord back into the pile of sodden leaves, concealing it from view on the game trail once again.
She stepped back to appraise it. Invisible. Betta had taught her well. She still missed the old woman as she had been – strong, capable, independent. The only one who had shown her care. Now the aged, infirm woman was a shadow of her former self and relied on Harper to keep her safe, warm, and fed. Harper did not begrudge it as, but for Betta rescuing her from the streets of Glymouth as a young waif, she would have had an even more miserable life.
Harper’s stomach growled, as if in appreciation, and she stirred into action. That day, it would not be empty. For a change, she had both surplus meat and hides to sell, though they would only fetch a pittance. Her willowy figure might have been praised as elegant and attractive in some circles, but it was a testament to a slow starvation more than anything else.
Harper wiped her wet palms on her breeches. It did little good. The steady drizzle, which had persisted since that morning, had soaked through every layer of clothing she wore. The sun, wreathed in mist and fog, soared far above. Down in the bowels of the forest, there was no light or warmth to comfort her. She suppressed a groan at the stiffness of her limbs.
It was time to return to the village. Soon, dusk would come, and with it, creatures she was not armed against. Her feet squelched through the wet loam and layers of fallen leaves. The trees were half bare, the forest floor a kaleidoscope of oranges and browns.
It made tracking both a blessing and curse. The mud made every print stand out in sharp relief, yet following the game trails was a difficult wade through muddy thickets. It was lucky she knew the woods like the back of her hand. Where the rabbits lived, deer grazed, denizens prowled.
Over the rhythmic sucking of the mud against her leather boots, Harper’s heightened senses scanned her surroundings. The sigh of leaves falling. The sound as they rustled from pile to pile in the stray breeze. The flicker as they caught her line of sight, the only movement other than her own. The distant crashing of a big animal through the woods – moving away, to her relief, for it sounded big enough to be a bear. The overwhelming scent of damp, natural decay. Her own heart thudding in her chest, strong and alert, ready to thunder into action at a second’s notice to spirit her away should danger approach.
She skidded down the last embankment, the mud sliding under her boots, as the village came into view. Dislike rose in her. It always did. The village meant people, and she had no need for
them, though she would be glad of the inn’s hot fire that night.
The streets were half empty. Those who weren’t huddled inside from the weather were out on the bay fishing for their own suppers. Harper made her way straight to the lone inn, letting herself in.
Tam, the landlord, clattered downstairs and raised a brow as he appraised her. His gaze caught the bounty strapped to her waist.
“Very nice,” he said with an appreciative nod. “They’ll do for tonight’s stew.” Cook would whip up a batch of hot, filling, meaty stew. Harper usually managed to slip a bowl for herself from the fresh pot before all the patrons, though Tam always charged her for it.
“Half a copper apiece, and I keep the hides,” she said as a starting negotiation. She’d get more for them from the tanner.
Tam sucked the inside of his cheek for a second. “Half a copper, but I want a hide – a tanned one. Need to patch up.”
“Done.”
Tam jerked his thumb toward the kitchen, a silent invitation for her to take them by way of the cook, and ambled upstairs. Harper skinned and left them on the counter, then sat by the fire, almost grasping the flames in her desperation for warmth.
Her cloak was heavy and sodden as she peeled it off and hung it by the fire. Soon, steam rose from it as it started to dry. She turned this way and that until she had mostly dried, her attention on the flickering flames, daydreaming of nothing.
The first of that night’s patrons ambled in. One of the fishermen from the bay, no doubt wanting his own warmth and a place to dry off. Harper stirred with a sigh. Time to work.
HARPER WIPED THE GLOBULE of spittle from her cheek with her sleeve as she twisted away from the man, his cold and clammy hand wrapped around her wrist. She suppressed a shudder of distaste and schooled her expression into bland boredom as she backed away, her hands full of empty tankards.
“What do yeh say, lass?” Old Robson roared with laughter as he raised a paddle-sized palm to try and slap her on the bottom, but he was far too drunk and she far too nimble. All the same, she thrust the tankards before her as a barrier and tried not to gag on the stench of his hot breath fanning across her face – stale beer, tobacco, and something she couldn’t identify.
Her eyes slid over his toothless grin, his grizzled, unkempt stubble, and the stains on his tattered tunic. I wouldn’t take you to bed in a thousand years, she thought. Not even if you were the last man in Caledan.
