by Thomas Adams
The Chronicles of Ellorhim
TO FORGE A KING
Thomas Adams
Text, drawings and pictures copyright © 2019 Thomas Adams
All Rights Reserved
This book is dedicated to all those wonderful authors and their books that I have read over the years. Their stories have entertained me for hours and inspired me to write a story of my own. I hope this story is enjoyable and brings you a few hours of joy and pleasure. I also want to thank my wife for her support. She always motivated me to continue writing. She has been both muse and critic and that only makes the telling of the story better.
Table of Contents
The Chronicles of Ellorhim
TO FORGE A KING
Table of Contents
Map of Central Western Ellorhim
Prologue
A Secret Task
PART 1
Reave Hall
Chapter 1
Tanic
Chapter 2
Castle Reave
Chapter 3
A Dream
Chapter 4
The New Girl
Chapter 5
A Theft
Chapter 6
The Discovery
Chapter 7
The Third Year
Chapter 8
Sneaking Around
Chapter 9
The First Attempt
Chapter 10
The Huntress
Chapter 11
A Collaboration
Chapter 12
The Decision
Chapter 13
A Visit
Chapter 14
Yfiria
Chapter 15
The Garden
Chapter 16
The Chancellor
PART 2
The Lost Prince
Chapter 17
Goodbyes
Chapter 18
A Visit to Fortress Cinder
Chapter 19
Titan’s Folly
Chapter 20
SwordBreaker
Chapter 21
Assassins
Chapter 22
The Vision
Chapter 23
The Gathering
Chapter 24
The Trials
Chapter 25
New Oaths
Chapter 26
Fight or Flight
Chapter 27
So It Begins
Chapter 28
Fridya Speaks Her Mind
Chapter 29
Ambush
Chapter 30
The Haugar
Chapter 31
Itra
The End of Book I
Map of Central Western Ellorhim
Prologue
A Secret Task
The Widow’s Lament
Hill and dale are alive with life
But field and barn are still
Empty, cold remain heart’n arms of wife
Sorrow and grief is her fill
No husband will dark’n door
Wold and home are empty e’more
Erik the Colder
***
Chancellor Rumborg looked worn and tired but he motioned to his daughter to take a seat. Fridya sat down and smiled at her father. He gave her a warm encouraging look and asked her to wait a minute. He then continued reading the paper in front of him while she patiently sat and looked around her father’s office. It was as neat and orderly as ever. She respected and worshipped her father. He was a great man she knew and he worked hard to make sure Vesfalruk was safe and secure from the Erhand, the invaders that constantly threatened them all.
She thought back over the times her father and she had discussed the future of their kingdom, Vesfalruk. Fridya had many memories of her father since she didn’t benefit from an upbringing with a mother. Her mother died shortly after her birth and her father had taken a special interest in raising her. That was strange for the acting leader of the kingdom but she was grateful to her father for the attention and their ensuing closeness.
Fridya had two older brothers and two older sisters but her father spent more time with her than the others. That caused some resentment and friction with her siblings. She was not a threat to them politically being the youngest. She knew they did not like their father spending so much time with her but they had given her some leeway since she had to cope during those early years without their mother.
“I am almost done with this report daughter, another minute or two and we can begin.” Rumborg said. She nodded. Her father was a forceful and driven man and her time spent with him shaped her in every regard. He was a student of history, loved the kingdom and its people with a frightening passion and he respected the traditions, values and lore of their ancestors. He was a committed steward of the kingdom. He was also a graduate of Kầrz Guild Hall and a kriger himself. Graduates of the Guild Halls were called krigers. Krigers were warriors of incredible skill and were typically a Master of at least the sword or axe.
She learned much from him and spent more time with him in the practice yards, barracks and council halls than with her siblings or with other girls her own age. As such she knew her future would not be one of sparkling silk dresses, petticoats, dances and jewels. She had no desire for such a life. She knew she was beautiful and that men and boys alike looked at her differently. But, unlike her sisters and her peers, she would eschew marriage while she sought to be a true servant to her kingdom and a Sword Master and shield maiden. Eventually she hoped to lead the kingdom’s army, the first girl to ever do so. Her father struggled with her choices but he had given up trying to change her mind years ago.
Her one concession to him was to learn the basics of being a high born lady but other than that she avoided that part of her life like the proverbial husband avoided a shrewish mean spirited wife. She did possess a few dresses and would actually don one for the occasional celebratory ball or foreign state visit. However, as soon as possible she was back in her leathers and light armor training, riding, hunting or inspecting the kingdoms military emplacements with her father.
Her father even occasionally rotated in different trainers to teach her and her brothers in the sword, axe, hunting, tracking and the bow. She also received occasional instruction from one of the Masters from Kầrz Hall. The Kầrz Hall Guild focused on military tactics, strategy and history. It was considered the kingdom’s war college and all its best leaders spent several years there studying. She had requested to study there full time but her father had not yet made up his mind. She hoped that was why she was sitting in his office now.
Rumborg laid the papers down and looked at her. She thought he needed a much deserved rest but he would never take one. He said, “I am not sending you to Kầrz Hall Fridya. Instead you will go to the more humble but rigorous Reave Hall. After all, Reave Hall’s reputation as the best is well known.”
She was surprised. She knew it was a more simplistic, rough and tumble environment. There were many more commoners at Reave Hall and the training was the most grueling of all the Halls. Reave Hall also consistently produced the best sword and axe fighters. She did not begrudge her father this demand though.
He went on, “I also need you there for another reason. I have a special task for you. You will be my eyes and ears and will spy out any young men of exceptional skill or ability with the sword and with a talent for archania.
“Archania!” she exclaimed. She was shocked. Many thought archania a myth but her father had confirmed to her a year ago that it was real. Users of archania were not banned by any decree or law but its use was highly discouraged. Its practitioners, called mages, w
itches or shamans were usually shunned by normal decent people. Only the most backwards hill clans still engaged a tribal shaman or mage.
Rumborg added, “As you know, the most famous of past archania wielders were the ancient Druids. They were known in Vesfal lore as servants of the gods. Frequently, during ancient times, they were allies and advisors of the Kings of Vesfalruk and Princes of Radnja. Their main purpose was to combat the darkness and preserve the balance and order across all of Ellorhim.”
Over the last few years her father had told her that many of his concerns for the future were related to the empty throne in Vesfalruk. He had made her read the Prophecy and explained how it predicted the rise of a hero to combat the Erhand. The Prophecy also foretold the return of the Illr-hrae, the dead and how the hero would triumph over them as well. Her father had tutored her on this subject and how he thought it related to several recent events. He also discussed certain intelligences he was aware of, current affairs in the nations on their borders and certain points of the Prophecy in an attempt to help her see what was going on around them.
She asked, “Father, I will go to Reave Hall and train for Master of the Sword but why am I looking for these types of young men?”
“You remember what I told you about the hero of the Prophecy?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well I have recently figured out a key clue, the ancient translation of the House of Rodull means ‘The Rising Sun”.
“I canna understand how that matters father. That is fairly common knowledge.” she replied with a shrug.
“Well, specifically the line from the Prophecy that I am basing this on goes, ‘A rising sun in the west is thus foretold’ and I think that means we are looking for a Rodull. So you need to be at Reave Hall.”
“But why? What does the old Clan Rodull have to do with Reave Hall or anything for that matter? They are all gone now.”
Rumborg sighed and said, “They are the key to the throne and a unified and strong Vesfalruk. And, King Brandt I established Reave Hall. He was a Rodull of course. So, my belief is the hero will be of his line and will be a student of Brandt’s first Hall, Reave Hall.
“Oh, I see now.” She said.
“I am just going on instinct Fridya. All the clues seem to point in that direction. So, you will go and keep your eyes and ears open for me. Be a diligent student but send me periodic reports on what you find.”
Truthfully, she struggled to understand her father’s concerns and his fascination with the Prophecy but she would do as he asked. She felt certain she had a basic grasp of what was happening. She knew the snooping she was to perform for her father was important.
“When do I leave?” she asked.
“Not for a while yet, I have to make arrangements. In the meantime your studies will proceed as planned for now. I will send a note to the Grand Master of Reve Hall and he will decide the timetable.”
She nodded and went to his side and kissed his cheek. He smiled at her and then went back to his papers. She was worried but she knew he would not change. He was an honorable man and would put Vesfalruk first. She left his office for the practice yard. If she hurried she could catch Master Orluff and get in another lesson.
PART 1
Reave Hall
Chapter 1
Tanic
The Warrior Song, verse 1
In the dawn as light blooms and darkness retreats
Spear tips glitter like a quick river flashing in the sunlight
The crash rolls like thunder across the field
Warriors raise the shield wall and march towards the Erhand
Brother beside brother and father beside son
Death comes for all
Erik the Colder
***
The picture faded from his mind. The images of the girl and their interaction were lost. The memory retreated in disorderly confusion. How often had he experienced this? He could not recall. The boy looked around in surprise and realized he didn’t have any recollection of where he was. He also could not recall travelling to this place. He just was. Something was dreadfully wrong. But what was it?
He did a slow turnabout. He marveled at the grand vista around him. It was majestic and awe inspiring. He was in a large bowl shaped valley surrounded by tall jagged peaks. The highest were still crowned with ice and snow. In the valley below, there was no snow. Apparently, based on how soggy everything seemed, only recently melted away. It felt and smelled like early spring. It was still cool but a warm breeze from the south battled the cool mountain air. The trees and hills were just greening and the rich smell of the earth and resurgent plant life was strong.
He stood just off a muddy rutted dirt road. The road was bracketed by low stone walls and led down a gentle slope of land to a small town below. Farm houses and outbuildings dotted the mid-valley slopes and the land was a haphazard patchwork of orchards, pastures and fields divided by hedgerows and fences. Herds of sheep or goats, on a few of the lower hills, could be seen around the valley.
It was quiet and beautiful but what immediately captured his attention was an impressive large fortress looming over the town below. The huge castle was built on a series of sheer rocky hillocks that rose hundreds of feet above the town. Even now, with his higher elevation on the upper outer slopes of the valley, the upper rooftops of the fortress were just slightly below his vantage point. The castle was actually an elaborate series of interconnected forts on several different rocky spires. The boy stared in wonder at the castle. The fortifications, each with its own towers and ramparts, were precariously perched atop the steep rocky projections jutting up from the floor of the bowl shaped valley. The entire thing was seemingly planted on the tops of the dark blue granite splines by the hands of a god.
He wondered how it had been built. It must have taken forever. The effort and engineering was no small thing. He looked closer at the castle. The main gate of the first and lowest fort could only be reached by a narrow steep switchback road carved into an almost vertical cliff face. The road rose almost two-hundred feet up from the valley floor to the gatehouse. A large round tower flanked the gate. The boy could see guards, tiny at this distance, walking the crenelated walls and towers above the gate. Sun light periodically glinted off mail, spear tip or helm.
Each successive spline of rock rose ever higher and was capped by a group of towers and walls and buildings. The five hillocks rose and bent in series like the steps in a flight of curved stairs. The hill forts from lowest to highest, were linked by slender arched stone causeways pierced with drawbridges that, when raised, denied access to the next higher fort. The largest and tallest hill also boasted the tallest towers, the main keep and the highest walls.
He knew any attacker would have to attack up the narrow road from the town under missile fire from at least two of the forts above. There was no way to scale the sheer cliffs with a sizable force of attackers. If one fort was taken, successive attacks across the causeways and drawbridges would have to be mounted to gain the next fort in the series.
The castle appeared impregnable. The cost in lives to storm the fortress would be in the tens of thousands at the very least. The only other possible way to take it would be to try and topple it from the hillocks with massive war engines or starve the defenders out with a protracted siege.
After several moments he disengaged his attention from the incredible fortress and continued looking over the valley. The road he stood next to wound down to the town and veered around the side of the cliffs that the fortress sat on. Once past the castle the road gradually rose to a pass through a cleft in the mountains beyond. A large lake pushed up against the road and blocked any traffic from circumventing it. The castle controlled the road, access to the valley and the pass beyond. The lake and castle squeezed the road close between them and created a choke point. He knew it was a strategic location and likely of great importance.
He lowered his gaze to the small walled town situated below the lowest forts of the cas
tle. It was nestled under the brooding protection of the fortress above and it looked sleepy in the early morning light. The sheer hills and castle looming over the town left most of the building below in shadow. The population of the town couldn’t be more than a couple thousand. The boy wondered what this place was. He didn’t know its name. Increasingly, he realized he did not know much of anything.
His mind seemed to be blocked by something that prevented past memories. He felt something in his hand and looked at the object he was holding. It was a battered old sword and it was almost as tall as he was. Where did it come from? He had no idea. He thought for a minute and realized he didn’t even know how old he was and couldn’t remember his name either. It was there in his mind. Seemingly he almost recalled it but it was always just out of reach. It was like trying to catch a big fat slimy bullfrog. As soon as you sneaked up close and grabbed it, it would wiggle free and hop away. Then you would do it again and again the frog would escape. You never quite caught it. And, he could never quite remember his name. He would get close and it would slip away again and again.
He looked around for someone to help him. He was alone. There was no mother or father or brother or sister beside him. The road was totally empty. The fields nearest him were untilled still and weedy from the new life springing from the rich wet soil ready for the plow.
He searched his mind but it was all a blank. He couldn’t recall anything other than this day, this moment. There was no memory of history, of his childhood, parents or family. No past recollections of anything. He looked at the sword and studied it closely. It was old he saw, very old. The scabbard was battered, worn and covered with mud, grime and old stains. The metal fittings, chape and locket, were scratched and dented. The scabbard’s outer materials, leather and wire looked to be much older than he was.
He pulled it partially from the sheath. It was difficult since it was so long. The metal of the sword was dull and unadorned. There were no precious metals or jewels set in the hilt or cross guard or pommel. It was made simply of a dull gray and purplish blotchy metal. He assumed it was steel. The grip was old and consisted simply of a hollow wooden handle wrapped with stained leather and wound tightly with steel wire. It was worn but the grip felt comfortable in his small hand. It felt like it belonged there.
