ZELLOHAR
THE CORNERSTONES TRILOGY:
BOOK 1
by
Chris A. Jackson
and
Anne L. McMillen-Jackson
Acknowledgements and Dedications
This book could not have taken form without the imaginations of three people who lived this adventure. To Jan, Kim and Anne: thank you for being my heroes.
This book is dedicated to my mother Shirley, who read to me, and taught me that the pictures in my mind were better than television.
CAJ
This book is also dedicated to my parents, Fran and Margie, who always encouraged me to follow my dreams, even when they led me far from home.
ALMcM-J
Zellohar
The Cornerstones Trilogy
Book 1
by
Chris A. Jackson and Anne L. McMillen-Jackson
ePub edition
ISBN: 978-1939837035
10.25.15
Zellohar Keep is lost...
Once the ancestral home of a glorious dwarven kingdom—a masterpiece of architecture, secure, secretive, impregnable—Zellohar is now prison to a dark evil. The dwarves used the might of the Cornerstones, conduits to the power of the elemental spheres, to forever seal the keep.
But the minions of the Dark Gods are not so easily imprisoned.
The squires of the Nekdukarr Lord Iveron Darkmist, a paladin of the death god, Mortas, have recovered the Cornerstones. The enchantment has been broken. The doors that sealed the chaos of the Nine Hells within the mountain under Zellohar have been opened. The powers of the Nine Hells have, quite literally, broken loose.
Iveron Darkmist has resumed the campaign he began nearly one hundred year ago—to devastate the surface world in a storm of destruction and death. And with Zellohar as his fortress, the Cornerstones to fuel his magic, and the Dark Gods’ favor, he will be invincible.
All that stands in his way are a horse farmer’s daughter, a superstitious tribesman, a defrocked priest, a demented dwarf and an elf cursed with lycanthropy. The unwitting companions stumble into the Nekdukarr’s plot, and are thrown into a conflict that threatens to obliterate all they know and love.
Pursued to the corners of the realms, the companions flee the wrath of Iveron Darkmist. But even death is no refuge from the power of the Dark Gods.
Copyright Notice
Copyright 2009
Chris A. Jackson and Anne L. McMillen-Jackson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, except for brief quotations in printed reviews—without prior permission from the author.
Cover art by Noah Stacy
Cover Image Copyright 2009 Jaxbooks
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Map
Pantheon
deity~domain~area of influence~symbol
The Gods of Light
The Seven Heavens
~The plane of Paradise above all~
Eos All Father (The Maker)~Nimbus~maker of all~circle of gold
Demia (Keeper of the Slain)~Eroe~usher of souls~feather
Oris (The Overseer)~Librum~knowledge~crossed scrolls
Tem (The Balancer)~Ordrin~justice~silver scales
Eloss (The Defender)~Refuge~warriors~a silver shield
Koss Godslayer~Korr~champions, knights~sword-point up
The Heavens are separated from all by Purgatory
The Gods of Earth and Sky
Earth Mother (Lady of the Forest)~life, earth~tree or gem
Thotris~beauty, fertility, vanity~a hand mirror
Puc (The Trickster)~luck, trickery~any coin
Bofuli~wine, meriment~a goblet
Odea~the sea, storms~the scimitar moon
Dorin (The Delver)~greed, wealth, gold, gems~crossed picks
The Hells are separated by Limbo and the River Oblivion
The Gods of Darkness
The Nine Hells
Pergamon (The Punisher)~Agonia~pain, torture~thorned chain
Seth (The Defiler)~Malorea~decay, poison, serpents~Ouroboros
Xakra (The Tangler)~Discord~plotting, deceit, chaos~spider
Mortas (The Deathless One)~Necrol~death~interlocking crescents
Phekkar (The Flaming One)~Hades~fire~a burning sun
The Lower Hells
Grund~Lair~orcs, ogres and trolls~clenched fist
~The Void~
Draco~Pytt~dragons~reptilian eye
~The Abyss~
PRELUDE
It's done!" the dwarven king bellowed as he backed away from the great slabs of rune-etched stone. The piercing light of the runes' magic waned, plunging the alcove back into torchlight and hiding the tears that streaked the king's craggy old face. The triumph and despair in the ancient dwarf's voice were lost amid the din of the battle raging behind them, but the sovereign and his personal guard all felt the gravity of what they had just done. Without another word, they turned and moved out of the deep alcove and back into the clash of steel, wood, stone and sinew.
King DoZikell wiped blood from a gash just below the lip of his helm as he strode into the central corridor of Zellohar Keep, trying not to dwell on the doom he had brought down upon his ancestral home. This was his final chance to make things right, to quell the evil that had boiled up beneath everything he held dear. He formed his troop around him and waved them back toward the Great Hall and safety, shouting a few last instructions to the stalwart troops holding the line across the wide corridor.
"Hold this position as long as—" His words ended in a gasp, for as he spoke, a towering rock troll swept its black, smoldering blade in a wide arc, felling two of the defenders. The front line collapsed, three more dwarven soldiers falling under the rush.
In the span of a heartbeat the king's troop was engulfed in a raging melee. Those in the main line fell frantically back or were cut down by the onslaught. With their backs against the wall of the corridor, they struggled to keep their position. The king fought with his great battle-axe in one hand and a small leather pouch in the other clutched to his armored breast. Of the two items, he held the pouch much more dearly.
"FALL BACK!" he raged over the din, ducking under the wild swing of the troll. Black blood sprayed over the blade of his axe as it slashed through the beast's knee. He scrambled out of its reach as it fell, and yelled again, trying to rally his troops.
"Regroup at the hall! We need reinforcements!"
The king and his comrades fell back, unable to make a stand or reestablish their shattered skirmish line. Every time they tried, they found the passage too wide to block. At each attempt they were forced to break formation and retreat, and each attempt cost lives. Finally a hoarse battle cry reached the king's ear. He joined the cry and rallied his remaining troops as a flight of thirty crossbow bolts whizzed over their heads into the enemy. As the reserves joined his forces, the enemy finally melted back under the blows from hammer and axe.
"King's Guard, attend me!" he called to gather his group, then stared in shock at how few had survived. The group had started out with twenty of his best warriors, including his sixth son; they now numbered seven. His son was not among them.
The king whirled, cursing as he strode up the passage, followed by his equally grim attendants. The battle still raged not a hundred steps down the corridor, but the clanging steel, war cries and screams of pain diminished as they neared a pair of massive bronze doors. Through the doors loomed the cavernous chamber th
at was the main feasting hall; it now served as a base of operations. The doors boomed closed as the ragged party approached an enormous table in the room's center where a larger and less battle-worn troop waited. The king slammed his axe down, spattering congealing blood onto the parchments and maps that littered the tabletop.
"The others?" ventured one of the old dwarves at the table, a look of disbelief on his face.
"Dead," the king said grimly, "but not without sendin' a host o' those scum ta the very fires o' their damned demon-gods' dens!" His eyes glazed over for a moment in rage, but cleared as he continued. "They'll be time enough ta mourn later if we're successful; there won't be anyone left ta mourn, if we're not."
The small leather pouch he clutched so dearly, and three others like it from the hands of his remaining troops, fell onto the table next to his axe. He looked around at his warriors and continued.
"The only thing o' any importance now is that these be taken as far away and made as safe as possible before the scum figure out what's happened, or, gods forbid, the beast returns." The king looked into the eyes of the four youngest warriors at the table. They stood with jaws clenched, hands gripping hilt or haft, certain of their duty but loathe to leave the keep at such a dire hour.
"Each o' ye will take one o' these and depart through a separate exit. Now be careful! The forest is probably full o' the scum by now. Stay low and keep ta the routes as planned, and ye shouldn't run inta more than ye can handle. Go now! If all four o' ye're not killed or captured, the war is won."
Each of them took a parcel and departed with a small group of warriors. Once they had gone, the king let a deep sigh escape his dry, chapped lips; a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. Turning with renewed vigor to his generals, he once again attended the battle at hand.
"I want additional squads deployed on the flanks ta ensure that the passages the messengers'll take are not overrun," the king commanded, hefting his axe. He strode across the Great Hall to rejoin the battle then stopped as yells of alarm rose from the central corridor.
A great crash was followed by a deafening roar. The warning yells in the outer hall dissolved into screams as the great bronze doors began to glow a dull red, then sag on their heavy hinges. King DoZikell raised his axe and lunged forward into the yawning jaws of that which he had most feared.
The beast had returned.
CHAPTER 1
Furtive rays peeked through high clouds as if too timid to intrude upon the winter landscape. Early snow draped the small bowl-shaped valley in a blanket of pristine white, giant drifts lapping at harsh walls of ice-shrouded rock, clinging like frozen waves to a rocky shore. Along one of the cliffs, hewn out of the living rock, a virtually invisible path of smoothly chiseled stone clung to the cliff face. Through some clever design, or perhaps some subtle enchantment, snow and ice did not accumulate on the narrow track, leaving the way clear and relatively safe. Midway along the precarious trail a shrouded figure led its mount in a twisting, dogged ascent.
Curses lashed the air as the traveler's mount balked, jerking the reins. The horse's eyes grew wide, the whites gleaming between the dark pupil and ebony coat. Its master snatched off his cloak and wrapped it loosely over the animal's eyes. The nervous prancing stopped, as though the danger of falling hundreds of feet onto jagged rocks was lessened simply because it could not see the drop.
Divested of the hooded cloak, the man's long, ebony hair whipped across his face in the biting wind. He pulled his collar high to protect his neck, muttering more curses. The dark cloaks and hair met a stark contrast against the deathly pallor of his skin and the icy white irises of his eyes. His color might have passed as an aberration or some odd family trait, but the dark band of iron upon his brow with the stylized interlocking crescents of Mortas, the Deathless One, marked him as something else entirely. This was a Dukarr, the squire of a Nekdukarr, one of the dark paladins of the Demon God himself.
The characteristic coloration of the Dukarr was not a curse, but a sign of the power of Mortas, Lord of the Undead, emanating from the iron band upon the dark squire's brow. The power of Mortas was dreadful, earning the Dukarr a wide berth from strangers and respect from those who might seek to rob or murder, but it had not come without a price. All facade of life and vigor ebbed from those chosen to become Nekdukarr. They seemed ageless, but with every foul action they drew nearer to that which they worshiped. Eventually, if their deity saw fit, they would descend to the depths of Necrol, fourth of the Nine Hells, where the Deathless One himself would place a Demon-Helm upon their heads. That would be the last day the Nekdukarr's face was seen except through the visor of the dreadful helm. That would also be the last day he would be welcomed by any of the peaceful folk of the world, for the Nekdukarr were shunned utterly, and by all. They and theirs dwelled in the deepest, darkest caverns of the earth, among the warrens and caves of the foul and loathsome beasts that lurked only in the dark.
Rounding a bend in the cliff, the trail led into a broad chasm where the Dukarr's destination finally hove into view. Upon a massive abutment of buff stone loomed the walls of a keep. The mumbled profanity halted in an exclamation of disgust.
"Only dwarves would be paranoid enough to build a city half way up a blasted mountain!" Jerking the rein to urge his blind mount forward, he studied the structure in greater detail.
A gate-house sat snugly against the mountainside, flanked to one side by the unscalable cliff and to the other by the keep's outer wall. Grim battlements overhung the wall, bartizans providing an excellent view of the narrow trail. The death that could rain down on him from those walls prickled his pale skin, but he shed the idea as unworthy of his consideration. Now was not the time to begin doubting the word of his master.
As he drew closer, he could see cracks marring the stone of the gatehouse; the portcullis draped from the archway in melted black icicles. The hairs on his neck smoothed; the dwarven stronghold was, as he had been promised, dead. The trespasser picked his way through the rubble to the main gates, huge black iron doors over twenty feet high that lay askew and warped; the heavy hinges had been melted.
The sudden absence of wind in the inner court only made the intruder realize how chilled he was. Removing the cloak from his horse's eyes he donned it again, basking in the warmth. Leading his mount to the relative shelter of one fairly intact building among the ruined outbuildings, he tied the reins to a charred beam and took a small leather pouch from his saddlebag. He then turned and approached the keep proper.
The portal yawned dark and wide in the cliff face, beckoning with the promise of warmth and shadows. Angular letters of dwarven script recapitulating the royal lineage of Zellohar were etched into steps leading up to rune-etched doors, forty feet wide and twice as tall. The pride and love of the dwarven craftsmen who had shaped the metal and lent it their strength shone like the brush strokes of an artist upon his latest masterpiece.
The majesty of the edifice was wasted on the visitor. He entered the timeless hall without a care whether this was the sanctuary of ancient dwarven kings or a brothel.
The Dukarr doffed the hood of his cloak as he entered the comforting shade of the keep. Here in the dark, the gifts of his deity came into play: his eyes relaxed their squint, his pupils dilating as they adjusted to the darkness from which his deity's strength flowed. A sigh escaped his lips as he drew away from the last rays of diffuse light. With each step, he straightened his posture and grew more sure and fluid in his movements. Many years had passed since he had returned to the underground, more years than most of the loathsome surface folk he had been forced to associate with would see in a lifetime.
Attuning his senses to the dimmer surroundings, the Dukarr tensed as he perceived several figures in the corridor ahead. He had been told that there would be others awaiting his arrival, but his hand strayed toward the hilt of his sword anyway. After all, only a fool let trust precede caution. The silhouettes ahead coalesced into three human figures, garbed in heavy travelin
g cloaks. The harsh syllables of his own language, almost foreign after being unheard for so long, were like music to his ears.
"Ware not, Dekhmaal, you are among your own once again."
"Well met, and may the Deathless One smile upon you and your clan," Dekhmaal answered.
The formal greetings were not necessary since all the Dukarr present were previously acquainted, but it had been such a long time, the custom seemed appropriate. As etiquette demanded, they performed the traditional two-handed grasp, ensuring that no weapons were concealed. At last, the four appeared to relax.
"By the Demon God's festering feet, it feels good to have something solid over my head again," Dekhmaal said.
"Yes," answered Vderryl, the one who had called the greeting earlier. "We have all been under the cursed sunlight too long. I thought my eyes would burn to cinders at times."
"Aye, and if I ever have to look at another dung-spawned tree, I think I'll be sick on the spot," said the second, Ghendal.
"All our suffering will be for naught, I fear, once we're in Lord Darkmist's service again," said Drixel, the most reserved of the four, intentionally loud enough for the others to hear.
"You should learn to curb your whining, Drixel," Vderryl cautioned, posturing as the group's leader, "unless you like the prospect of spending the rest of your miserable days as a toadstool, or something far less pleasant. Besides, we're being offered enough to become lords ourselves once all is settled."
"What is wealth to a pile of sun-bleached bones?" Drixel asked; Vderryl had been one of Lord Darkmist's squires longer than he, but that earned no seniority. "But worry not; you need not fear my dissension. Once he's released from this dwarf-cursed mountain, I wouldn't bet a bent copper on anyone who stands against him. And though I don't relish serving under him again, it will be much healthier than opposing him."
"You sound as if you are trying to talk yourself out of this!" Dekhmaal was astonished at his kinsman's apprehension. After all, they had been promised a king's ransom for this, as well as a chance to command a legion of Lord Darkmist's elite troops. "If you fear wealth and power so, I'm sure the rest of us would be more than happy to split your share."
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