by R J Hanson
Bloom of Blood and Bone
Book II of the Lords of Order and Chaos Series
R. J. Hanson
Hanson Publishing
Copyright © 2020 R. J. Hanson
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9798632630801
Cover design by: MiblArt
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Lords of Order and Chaos
A Novel by R.J.Hanson
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Epilogue
About The Author
Books By This Author
Lords of Order and Chaos
Part II: Bloom of Blood and Bone
A Novel by R.J.Hanson
This work would not have been possible without the support and advice from my wife, Michelle, and input from my son, Alex, my daughter, Kaity, and son-in-law, Riker. I would also like to extend my thanks to Una, our friend from across the Atlantic, for her distinguished contributions to the refinement of this tale. As always, I would have none of what I have if it weren’t for the Lord. I am richly blessed. -RJ
The Bloodlines Reforged Saga:
Heirs of Vanity Series;
Roland’s Path (March 2019)
Roland’s Vow (July 2019)
Roland’s Triumph (November 2019)
Lords of Order and Chaos Series;
Fires that Forge (April 2020)
Bloom of Blood and Bone (April 2020)
Whetstones of the Will (May 2020)
Orphan’s Blade Series;
To be Announced
Templar’s Rebellion Series;
To be Announced
You can find maps and other information about the fantasy world of Stratvs here; www.bloodlinesreforged.com
Members of our newsletter also get exclusive access to short stories from the world of Stratvs.
Prologue
Visions of Sand
Pale skin, pulled tightly over the tendons of bare feet, shone in the moonlight on the coast of northern Tarborat. It was no sin to murder in these lands, and he would need his strength. The Warlock of the Marshes dug his sharp toenails through the thin layers of ice and into the cold sands of this cursed shore. His eyes were pointed toward the furious ocean before him, but his mind viewed thousands of outcomes and possibilities.
His lean yet powerfully muscled form stood like a marble pillar as the north wind slapped his black silk robe against his frame. His sword, a Shrou-Hayn of old, lay on the frozen stone behind him next to his boots and hooded cloak. His bald head also shined with the monochromatic, cold light of a cloudless winter night.
Lynneare had gorged himself on the blood of more than a dozen Tarborat warriors. He had subsisted on a diet of creatures and livestock for centuries in an effort to begin his atonement. However, a test of greater penance was before him, and he did not view the slaughter of soldiers serving the Stone Throne a sin, and apparently, neither did Father Time. Ingshburn sought to destroy the world of man, elf, and dwarf. Ingshburn sought to bring about a darkness so monstrous it would even threaten the gods. Lynneare thought the murder of soldiers who would submit to the command of Ingshburn the opposite of a transgression. It was an act worthy of the Shyeld or Templars of old.
Now he would be pushed physically and mentally farther than he had in an eon.
Now the Sands of Time were once more his to manipulate. Now he had the Hourglass of the Father.
The two boys, Roland and Eldryn, had been bound and flayed by the Sands of Time and the powerful enchantments within. Even Lynneare did not fully understand how they’d survived. They had no knowledge of the powers they’d engaged; powers before which they had exposed their wills and vulnerable souls. When Lynneare learned the boys had held the Hourglass and survived, although, at the cost of several decades of life, he was amazed. He was astonished at the force of discipline the two must possess to have survived such an encounter. Of course, he was not surprised to discover that one of them, Roland, had been able to wield the sword of Lord Ivant, his former friend and King.
His daughter, Clairenese, had informed him that both boys had been gifted with a sort of intuition. A sight akin to one of the many powers the Sands possessed. Before the Battles of Rending, Lynneare had been the Supreme Pontiff of Time. Thus, he’d been trained for decades in the proper art of navigating the Hourglass and Sands of Time. One could not control the artifact, per se. However, one could guide it.
One could pursue avenues of actions, or omissions, and the possible outcomes they might cause. One could see into the distant past and watch as it flowed into the future. This was much in the same way one could stand on a hill and pour out a pitcher of water and predict its path to the lower reaches of the soil.
The universe was vast, and the temptation to explore it all through the scrying might of the Sands was soul-wrenching. However, Lynneare’s discipline had been honed through centuries of self-denial and meditative prayer. His will was as sharp as Bolvii’s greatsword, OathKeeper, and as hard as Roarke’s anvil, Stratvs.
Lynneare, the mighty Warlock of the Marshes, the Terror of Lawrec, grasped the Hourglass in both hands and held it thrust out before him, and he wept.
He watched as his son, Kyhnneare, and the sorcerer, Daeriv, released his former mount and friend, the mighty Elvvleth. In life, Elvvleth had been a great Drake possessed of Father Time’s lightning and an intellect that rivaled that of any wizard or priest. Once cursed by the gods for betrayal, a betrayal initiated by Lynneare, Elvvleth was plunged into a state of unlife. Elvvleth had been twisted, as had his master, into a dark, unnatural thing. During the Battles of Rending, so many centuries ago, Lynneare, with the help of his Lord High Paladin, Maloch, and his Master Templar, known then as Truthorne, imprisoned Elvvleth in a tomb of stone and magical power. Lynneare saw that prison would be broken. Lynneare saw that prison must be broken.
Lynneare, the Vampire Prime, the former Lord High Cleric to the King, wrung his powerful hands on the sectot wood pillars of the Hourglass, and he wept.
Lynneare saw many outcomes of destruction and the deaths of loved ones. He saw the death of his daughters. He saw very few outcomes in which his bloodline would survive. He saw a dark creature, it wore the black armor of a man, but he knew it was no man within, standing against the corrupted Paladin of Silvor and defeating him. Lynneare recognized the creation as a Dark Guardian, an enchanted suite of blackest armor imbued with the soul of a champion, or fallen champion as the case may be. He saw the birth of a girl, a girl that might someday discover the hidden phylactery and destroy the Urn that bound the exhausted soul of the great beast.
Lynneare, the only one to master Elvvleth in life, widower of two wives, the father of three ladies and one lord of Stratvs, grappled the forces of the universe with sheer force of will and unmitigated love; and he wept.
It had been centu
ries since Maloch, once Lord High Paladin of Time, no more Maloch of the Black Lance, had stood watch while Lynneare struggled against the forces of the Sands of Time and the pull of the suns and stars.
Now he stood on the rocky banks of Tarborat with his black drow skin gleaming as ebony in the stark light of the cold moon; his long white hair bound in a tight braid and coiled within the hood of his dark wool cloak. Two longswords, Shrou-Shelds of fine steel and keen edge, rested in scabbards on his narrow hips. His right gauntleted hand hung loose and ready before him while his left, he kept slung behind his back. This stance was a mark of his unusual style of fighting. He was positioned so that he could draw either weapon with either hand in an overhand or underhand grip.
He had freshly come from the northern marches of Lawrec and had witnessed the fall of Daeriv’s forces firsthand. He had been hesitant to enter that fight. He was not worried about his own life; in fact, he’d not worried about his own life in decades. He was worried that those he hoped to help might turn their weapons on him upon seeing the color of his skin. The drow had a reputation for thievery and slyness, betrayal and torture—a reputation for the murdering of children and attempted genocide. A reputation well earned. It was a reputation that found its genesis in his own heart and in his own actions.
Maloch had spent the first decades after the Battles of Rending hardening his heart against any that were not his own. After all, the Great Men had brought about the apocalypse while the dwarves hid from it, and the other elves ignored it. Those decades of hate became centuries of re-enforced bigotry that blinded him to the truth of his own transgressions, his own sins. He had lived in a delusion of his own making, a delusion that was absolute in his mind and as hard as the stone that he called home. His hate had blossomed into a complete sense of self-righteousness as hard as his black heart that perjured his soul. His conviction of persecution had been shattered in one simple act. A boy trusting in Bolvii, a boy offering him quarter that was unasked and unwelcomed. A Great Man showing mercy.
“How…” Dactlynese off to his left began but was immediately halted by the slight jerk of Maloch’s head from side to side.
It had been Dactlynese for some months now. She had let go of the alias Dawn when she had let go of her desire to oppose her father and support the evil wizard, Daeriv. Although, her pride pestered her about facing the boy, Roland, again. She was learning, slowly, to let that go as well.
He knew what she would ask. She would want to know how long this would take. Lynneare had warned him about her impatience. Lynneare had also warned him about her skills with blade and spell.
Maloch, whose emotions had been a tool of only hate and lust for so many lifetimes, felt the sunshine of her smile on the dark, hidden places of his heart. He loved her the first moment he saw her and knew that she loved him in return. However, he was not so foolish as to believe her love for him would prevent, or even slow, her from driving a dagger into his back if she took the notion. She was the daughter of the Great Betrayer, after all.
Dactlynese, second born to Lynneare from his second wife, was as beautiful as she was deadly. Her face and figure had halted many a man in mid-stride. Many a man had spent his life as the price for that moment to admire her. She was pale and strong, quick and confident. Her black hair, cut short in the style of the Silver Helms, seemed to ever dance just at the upper edge of her dangerous blue eyes and perilously tuck behind her perfect ears.
She carried a brace of daggers in her boots and another concealed in her bracers. She wore a mercshyeld falchion at her waist and carried a mace of sectot wood and Roarkor studs on a lanyard that ever swung from her left hand. The plate armor that covered her torso, which usually muted the figure of a woman, accentuated her curves and supple figure.
Maloch, with one sharp look, also halted the tapping of her boot against the stone. She smiled at him again, and he was certain the UnMaker himself danced behind her eyes and within that smile.
Dactlynese was impatient, but there were many aspects of her he admired beyond the obvious physical appeal. She managed an air of irreverence without crossing into disrespect. She was capable and intelligent, and she knew it. She found enjoyment in every part of life. Perhaps most of important of all, she had managed to let go of her anger. The same type of anger that had shackled Maloch’s heart and cost him so many centuries of his life.
“It’s close now,” Maloch whispered into the crisp air. “I don’t think he will collapse but be ready to catch him if he does. However, make sure not to touch the Hourglass.”
Dactlynese nodded and, with a quick flip, hung her mace on her belt and stepped with grace over the icy rocks toward her father. Maloch, with a duelist’s grace of his own, stepped to the opposite side of the Warlock. Lynneare’s arms sagged, and his shoulders slumped, yet he maintained his hold on the Hourglass.
Maloch reached down and took up the warded box at Lynneare’s feet and held it out to him. Lynneare, struggling to handle the Hourglass with reverence, placed it inside. Maloch closed the box quickly and engaged the Roarke’s Ore lock on the clasp.
“Well…” Maloch and Dactlynese said in unison.
Lynneare responded by holding up his hand as he eased himself down to sit on a rocky outcropping.
“I have seen much,” Lynneare finally managed after a few moments’ rest. “Slythorne must be dealt with, but I do not think we can do it alone.”
“Ingshburn? Daeriv? Kyhn?” Maloch asked.
“They will keep, for now,” Lynneare said. “Verkial will provide what we need in that quarter.”
“Verkial!” Maloch said although it sounded more an accusation. “How will Ingshburn’s general help us? Why would he help us?”
“All in good time,” Lynneare said, and then smiled to himself at the pun.
“Just because Ralston and Roland were able to push Daeriv out of Lawrec does not mean they are weak,” Maloch said.
“In fact, they grow much stronger,” Lynneare said. “However, there is nothing to be done about that. What we must prevent, for the sake of the world as we know it, is an alliance between Ingshburn, or any of those under his command, with Slythorne. Many will die. I suspect we will each lose someone we cherish. It must come to pass.”
Maloch was distracted by that statement. He was indeed on the road of atonement, but he cherished no one.
Chapter I
The Hidden Hand
Spring had not yet come to Moras. It was the year 1649, and the prominent northern trade city was in political turmoil. In the past months, the Reeve, the Lord High Inquisitor, the Lord High Cleric, and four Stewards had been assassinated. Another Steward, Ruble of House De’Char, had disappeared from the city, leaving only basic instruction as to the handling of House business. A hero of Moras was now a wanted man, hunted by his former brothers.
That turmoil might as well have been raging on the distant shores of Janis for all Silas, no longer of House Morosse, was concerned. Although he was only a little more than half a day’s travel from the city gates, he stood in a different world. A world of black-skinned elves, sharp blades, and unknown conspiracies.
He had never seen anything to match the splendor that he now beheld in this underground city of the drow. There existed a wealth of magic in this vast cavern that he had never dreamed possible. Much of which he only saw thanks to the abilities seized from Shezmu, the demon he had mastered to complete the ritual of becoming a Lord of Chaos.
The young physician, former Steward of House Morosse, looked every bit the young promising noble of a great city. His short cut, curly black hair draped over his forehead and just concealed the eyebrows above his deep green eyes, his mother’s eyes. His lean six-foot frame belied the power that was caged within him, for he had trapped and possessed the mighty fallen champion, Shezmu. He wore his family’s shrou-sheld of black steel and silver inlay at his side and finely crafted breastplate, bracers, and greaves. The gifts of Shezmu made the armor superfluous, but he did have a first impression
to make.
The streets were lined with an entire populace of the ebony-skinned race. Craftsmen, warriors, wizards, and clerics lined the street. Creatures of all varieties had been brought here to serve the drow and wore the chains of slavery. They were pinned thus to their posts of labor here and there.
“That is far enough,” a drow he recognized said.
“A’Ilys,” Silas said. “It is wonderful to see you.”
“You should be silent now,” A’Ilys said. “You will not speak unless spoken to. I understand in your world you had a name of power. Here the color of your skin makes you abhorrent. Here if you are not drow, you are only property. Despite myself, I like you, Silas no more of House Morosse. You have proven yourself quite devious and capable. I would hate to have to take your head for an infraction of etiquette.”
“And my mistress, here?” Silas asked.
Dru’s lips curled in a delightful and deadly smile. Her exotic features, for she was from the Disputed Isles, had a power all their own. Her smile could tempt the soul of any man, and her eyes could rend his heart.
“Here, as in all the world, I am uniquely powerful,” she said.
Silas, in a rare moment of feigned humility, bowed his head.
“You will take a knee,” A’Ilys said. “You will not look up unless told to do so. If you are asked a question, you will not take your eyes from the ground.”
Silas took a knee as did his mistress, Lady Dru. Silas did not mind averting his eyes for the abilities of Shezmu allowed him to take in everything around him regardless of the direction the orbs in his head pointed.
Moments later, a drow who could only be the Queen was carried down the street on the backs of four enchanted and animated suits of armor. Silas had read of such creations, although none were known to exist in the whole world. Virtually indestructible, these constructs obeyed their master’s, or mistress’s, mental commands without question. They did not sleep; they did not eat, and, according to the texts Silas had read, they were worth any two knights in combat.
