by Cody Loewen
The Fallen Prophet
Book One of
The Dark Prophecy
Cody Loewen
©2021 Cody Loewen
Digital Book Edition
All rights reserved
For my wife Becka,
Without your wonderful support and imagination,
this would have never been possible
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my wonderful wife. This journey needed you as much, if not more than it needed me. From your cover design, to our conversations about characters, settings and twists, you deserve all the credit in the world.
Thank you to my mom, for all your hard work editing my rough drafts, bouncing new ideas off me, and turning this into something that other people can actually understand and enjoy.
Thank you to my sister and dad, for being such helpful beta readers. The ideas and feedback I received from you helped shape this book into what it has become.
And finally, thank you to my littler sister, for being my model, and the basis for the hero of this crazy adventure.
Chapter 1
I feel my boot slide on the wet grass beneath my feet as our blades collide above our heads. I adjust my feet as I desperately work my blade to keep up with the incoming strikes, narrowly avoiding a diagonal chop aimed at my neck. As we disengage, I stare into my opponent’s eyes, my lungs burning from the exertion. He stands easily, leaning on the hilt of his sword, smiling at me, his plain white shirt stained and wet from sweat.
“You are getting better every day, Lykara,” my father says as he steps toward me. He isn’t even breathing hard and holds his longsword as if it weighs no more than a dagger. “One of these days you’re going to beat me.”
I stand there and take in his encouraging words as I stare at him, trying to catch my breath. While signs of age are beginning to show in the color of his hair, and the faint lines that are beginning to show on his face, he stands with the posture, and moves with the grace and strength of a much younger man. The exertion of our combat has brought forth the muscles in his arms and chest, blood pumping through them, the lean muscles stretched tight over tanned skin.
“Yeah, right,” I sigh, “You’ve been teaching me to fight since I was 10 years old, and I still feel like that same little girl when I hold this sword.”
He chuckles at me as we walk toward our house. “Oh, cheer up, little one. I’ve been watching you grow with the sword for many years now, and all your hard work is paying off. You are now anticipating my movements like I have been teaching you.”
I think about all of the time he has spent training me and teaching me how to wield a sword, and wonder how many more years it will take before I truly feel like his equal in our sparring matches. In just two short years I will be eighteen, and an adult, but when I will always feel like a child when we are fighting.
“Well, my years of learning to fight don’t compare to all the time you spent actually fighting in the war. I could train for the rest of my life and still wouldn’t be able to keep up with you in our sparring matches.”
He slides his sword into its scabbard and props it up against the table. I do the same with my practice sword and sit down while he moves to the hearth to start a fire for dinner. I watch him as he coaxes the sparks from his tinder into small flames in the kindling he has carefully placed. He is of an average height with the other men in our village, but because of my lack of height, he stands several inches taller than I am. I watch his hands, dark and leathery from years spent in the sun, add small logs to the flames, bringing forth a suitable blaze for cooking. I reach for his sword while he begins to add the vegetables to our stew.
Unlike the practice sword I use during our sparring sessions, my father’s sword is stunning. The blade, masterfully crafted from layers of hand-folded steel, sports two razor sharp edges. Even though the blade has weathered many battles, both real and in practice, not a blemish can be found. Where the blade meets the handle, the sword transitions from practical and deadly, to intricate and beautiful. The gold of the beautiful handle has been carved and crafted, depicting images of battle and victory. The carvings continue down to the pommel of the weapon, which sports a hollow opening, and the handle molds perfectly into the hands of the wielder. The balance of the sword is flawless, creating the illusion of holding a much smaller weapon.
“Have I ever told you about that sword?” My father asks, seeing me examining it in my hands. He runs a hand over the short hair that covers the lower half of his face. It is cleanly cut, a carpet of greys and blacks that evenly covers his cheeks, mouth and chin.
“I know that it is the sword you wore during your time in the army,” I reply, sliding the blade back into its scabbard.
“That is true, but its history goes far beyond me.” He stirs the stew over the fire and stares into the flames as distant memories come to the surface. “That sword has been in our family for generations. It was forged by our ancestors and has been wielded by the eldest warrior of our bloodline throughout our family’s history. It is rumored to have been heavily enchanted at the time of its creation—a magical weapon.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. “All ancient weapons are said to have been magical. So, what exactly is this sword supposed to do that is magical?”
“I’m not sure what the exact magic of this sword is. Those details have been forgotten as the legend has been passed through the generations. I do, however, believe that some magic must be present in the sword because no blow, no matter how strong, has damaged or dulled the blade.”
“Enchantments to strengthen and protect weapons are common even now, though,” I say. “I doubt there is any more truth to the magic of this sword than a simple enchantment placed on it long ago.”
He smiles at me. “You are probably right. Most of the weapons I saw during the war had such enchantments placed upon them to prevent the need for new weapons after every battle. In all the time I carried this weapon, I never experienced anything more magical than that.”
He turns back to examine the stew and then announces that it is time to eat. I quickly set the table for us and dig in as soon as he scoops the steaming liquid into my bowl. The sun starts to drift toward the horizon as we eat. Once we finish, I take our bowls and silverware and wash them before putting them back in the kitchen cabinet. The sun has gone down completely by the time I am finished cleaning the pot my father made the stew in, and the flames have died down to angry embers in the fireplace.
Exhausted from the day of working and an evening of sparring with my father, I lay down on my bed and snuggle into the soft animal hides that serve as blankets. As I drift off to sleep, I once again picture the intricate carvings running the length of my father’s sword.
I awake early in the morning to the sound of my father cooking breakfast. The sun hasn’t even peeked over the horizon yet, but he has already prepared the table. He scoops eggs, beans and vegetables onto our plates while I take my seat.
&nb
sp; “Good morning,” he says to me as he returns the pan to its tray over the fire. He sits down next to me and picks up his fork. “The wind has a chill in it this morning. I expect the leaves will begin to fall this week. We will need to begin harvesting before the frost.”
My father oversees the growth of the vegetables outside the village, and I usually spend most of my days helping him with this task. We have a good crop this year, but if we don’t get everything harvested before the first frost, we won’t have enough food to get us through the cold season. Most of the villagers assist in working the fields throughout the growing season, but during harvest, the majority of them are busy elsewhere, preparing for the snows.
“If we work hard today, we just may have time to get some sparring in after harvesting tonight,” My father says, with a mischievous look in his eye. He grabs his knife off the table and hops back into an exaggerated fighting stance. I laugh at him and reach for my own knife, sitting unused next to my plate. I hesitate, thinking better of it, and grab my now empty cup instead. I spin around, hurling the cup at him, simultaneously throwing myself at him in a flying tackle as he reaches out to deflect the missile. The cup and knife slide across the floor as we land with a thud on the ground.
“Now that was cheating!” My father complains with a smile, shaking his finger back and forth as we dust ourselves off.
“I was only doing what you taught me, using the items around me to my advantage,” I argue back, still laughing from the fall. “It’s not my fault you were only prepared for a counter-attack with my knife.”
He puts his hands up in surrender, shaking his head, and moves to put on his boots. “We better get to work if we are going to get those crops harvested by dinner.”
I slide my own boots on and pull a jacket over my head before following him out the door of our modest home. The fields are located on the opposite side of the village from our house. We walk toward the small open circle in the middle of the village where children play, and gatherings for celebrations and important decisions are held. While spread out, our houses are all arranged in a loose circle around this epicenter of village activity. The sun has barely risen above the horizon, so no children are out playing among the grass and wildflowers, but soon the area will be filled with chaotic shouting, running, and the occasional cry as a game becomes too rough for some of the younger participants.
As we cross the circle, the expanse of vegetable fields come into view between the houses. Smoke is already rising at the back of the blacksmith’s house as Sergio’s hammer strikes send sounds of ringing metal through the quiet morning air. Bacchus’ bow, usually unstrung and propped against the window at the front of his house, is gone. Most mornings, Bacchus, our best hunter, is far from the village tracking some animal long before we are in the fields, and it looks like today is no different.
We pass between the two houses and reach the first row of plants, heavy with red, juicy tomatoes that will begin to rot if left many more days. A small wooden structure stands alone next to the first few rows, home to all the tools and equipment meant for use in the fields.
“Grab a couple of buckets,” my father instructs me, as he collects a pair of gardening shears and his work gloves from a shelf against the wall. Once I have a bucket in each hand, he closes the wooden door, latching it with the metal pin that holds the door tight against the shack.
We move back to the row of tomato plants closest to the tool shed, and my father begins cutting the tomatoes off the vines and placing them in my bucket. Halfway through the first row, my bucket is filled to the brim, and my father takes the second bucket from my hands and begins to fill that one too.
“I’ll keep filling this bucket while you take that one around the village.” He nods at the bucket overflowing with ripe tomatoes. He carefully cuts another tomato form its plant, leaving a small green stem on the top. I grasp the full bucket, now heavy enough to make me grunt, in both of my hands and trudge back toward Sergio’s house. He sees me coming from above his anvil and waves me over.
“What do you have for me there?” he asks cheerfully, removing his thick gloves and tucking them into a pocket on the front of his heavy apron. He rinses his hands in the barrel of water next to him and dries them on the front of his pants.
“Today is harvest day and here is the first batch of tomatoes,” I explain with a smile, offering the bucket to him. With muscles swollen from years of swinging a hammer, he easily lifts the bucket with one arm, taking it inside. A few minutes later he returns and hands the bucket back to me. About a third of the tomatoes are gone.
“How’s your father?” He asks as he pulls his gloves out of his apron and slips his hands back into them.
“He’s doing great. The frost is coming early this year, so we are trying to get all the crops harvested by the end of the day. Oh, and thank you again for fixing that scythe for us, it’s going to be a life saver today!” I exclaim, remembering my father telling me last night to thank him this morning during my deliveries.
“It was my pleasure. I had plenty of time to do it, and you know how I love vegetables in my stew through the winter. Good luck with your harvest and your deliveries today, Lykara. Now scoot. I’ve got to get back to work. These horseshoes aren’t going to fix themselves.” He waves cheerfully as he returns to his place between his forge and anvil, pulling a piece of red-hot iron from the flames. I take my bucket and move on to Bacchus’ house. Knowing he won’t be home for most of the day, I leave his tomatoes in the basket by his front door.
I deliver the last batch of tomatoes out of my bucket to Lena, a master with a needle and thread. She invites me in for a drink of water while she unloads her share of tomatoes onto her kitchen table, the only clear spot in her house. Every other surface is covered with clothes that need to be repaired, freshly tanned animal hides, jars full of colorful dyes and scraps of material that she magically turns into beautiful creations. When I leave with the empty bucket, I’m also holding my father’s other pair of boots, newly repaired with a patch of hide from the buck Bacchus skinned last week. She waves goodbye to me happily as I take my now empty bucket back to where my father is still working in the fields. By this point, the silence in the town circle has turned into a cacophony of children and animals playing.
I spend most of the day delivering buckets of fruits and vegetables to the people in the village. Each household receives their share of the potatoes, beans, corn and the variety of fruits that we can grow. Because the plants won’t survive the first frost, this will be the last of the produce this season, and the villagers will spend the next several days preserving them to last through the winter. My father and I work through lunch, but with a seemingly unending supply of fruits and vegetables to snack on, I don’t even notice.
Once the last bucket of berries has been emptied, I replace the buckets in the shed and grab the scythe, its brand-new blade shiny and razor sharp. We have a few hours before dinner, and it’s easier to plant in the spring if we have cleared the plants out after harvest in the fall.
“Now, remember how I showed you to swing that?” My father asks me, another scythe in his hands. “You want to stay as horizontal as possible to clear the old plants.” I am actually excited to begin cutting. This is the first year he has allowed me to stay and help clear the field instead of going home after harvesting. He begins to clear a section, smooth and effortless from years of practice. The scythe feels awkward in my hands, the blade too heavy. I take a swing at a row of corn and bury the blade into the dirt, barely cutting through two plants. I sigh in frustration.
“Hey, now,” my father says encouragingly, looking over at me from his row, almost completely cleared. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time. Take it slow at first and try to stay flat.” I turn back to my corn stalks and manage a slow, sweeping swing. This time, I’m more successful and manage to take out a few plants.
Encouraged, I line up to swing again. Thunder rolls in the distance, but the sky is clear, with only wisp
y white clouds floating overhead. My father must hear it too because his scythe blade stops in mid strike as he raises his head, listening. Over the distant rumble, a horn suddenly sounds, unmistakable with its mournful call.
My father drops his scythe, hands shaking as he grabs my hand. “We have to go right now!” His hand becomes clammy as he pulls me back toward the village circle, breaking into a run. “We need to get back inside our house. That was a Troll war horn.”
My chest tightens, making it hard to breathe. This couldn’t be happening! Trolls were nightmares of an earlier age. The evil creatures had been beaten back years ago in the war my father fought in. Yes, people still talk of trolls, but they are just nightmares parents warn their children about to get them to behave. They can’t be real. Can they?
The look on my father’s face is all the answer I need. His terror is real. I have never seen a troll before, and the thought of doing so now sends shivers down my spine. The creatures, huge and violent, hate the civilized races. Anywhere they go, death and destruction follow.
As we reach the front door of our house, I turn to catch my breath and gasp as my worst nightmare comes to life before my eyes. I see a massive creature, riding a huge wild boar, appear on the rise overlooking our village. Strapped diagonally across its back, is a long sword that looks taller than I am. He is still far away, but because of his sheer size, I can see his muscled arms, covered in swirling patterns of black ink. To my horror, another rider rises into view, and another. I stumble into the house and slam the door behind us.
My father runs to the middle of the room and lifts the heavy wooden hatch that leads to our storage cellar. Our share of the harvested crops is still sitting in buckets in the field, so the cellar is currently empty, save for a few items around the room.
