by Jason Malone
The Immortal King
Part One of the Godyear Saga
By Jason Malone
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Jason Malone
Map copyright © 2020 by Elizabeth Barlow-Hall
All rights reserved.
This edition first published in 2021
Cover design by Lena Yang
Map illustrated by Elizabeth Barlow-Hall
ISBN 978-0-473-56420-9 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-473-56422-3 (ebook)
ISBN 978-0-473-56421-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-473-56423-0 (Kindle)
ISBN 978-0-473-56424-7 (audiobook)
Published by Jason Malone
www.talesfromardonn.com
[email protected]
This tale is for Sophie,
who showed me dreams can indeed come true.
Contents
Prologue
1 Moth
2 Oldford
3 Home
4 Hazeling
5 Prophecy
6 Blood
7 Dawn
8 Northward
9 March
10 Mara
11 Captive
12 King
13 Messenger
14 War
15 Death
The Eomundson Kings
The Eoredson Kings And Lords Of Oldford
The Usurper Kings
The Lords Of Everlynn
Acknowledgements
Prologue
I will never see a return to the days of light.
I used to believe the darkness that engulfed our world was passing. I was optimistic. I was young. Foolish. Only now have I come to understand that the story of my life takes place during the dusk rather than the dawn. I am merely a character in the closing chapters of Fate’s great tale.
You see, for each of us, our life in this world is like a story. We are the protagonists in our own tales, yet each of our tales constitutes the saga that is time — the Godyear, as some are wont to call it.
And like the characters in every tale, we do not realise we are merely a part of a story. We believe we can choose, that we can change lives and set events in motion, or even save the world. When we yield a successful harvest, we think it was our own labour that grew those bountiful crops; when we find victory in battle, we think it was our skill with a blade and the superiority of our strategy; when we love, we think it is because we allow our hearts to do so.
But like the heroes in those tales we tell by the fire or over a pot of ale, or those we read to our children when we tuck them in at night, we are entirely at the mercy of the storyteller.
It is ludicrous to believe we write our own stories. They are written by the greatest author of all: Fate, that cruel mistress. So powerful is she that even the Gods are subject to her pen.
And like every story, that which is written by Fate has a beginning, and, ultimately, an end. There will eventually be a closing line. A final word. The last drop of ink on the page that leaves the reader wondering, “What next?” On to the next tale, of course.
All mere mortals can do is try to understand our place in that tale. Does our story take place at the beginning of that saga, in the spring of the Godyear, or are we seeing its end? It was not until I was asked by my daughter, my little Edith, to tell her the tale of the Immortal King Emrys that I began to understand the answer to that question.
Emrys was a king cursed by a dwarf many centuries ago; I fought him in my youth. My daughter was about seven years old when she asked about him. I remember it now. I was sitting in a chair by the hearth during a cold winter, much colder than the winter before. The fire was blazing, and Edith was lying on her belly right in front of it, wrapped in furs and playing with some wooden toys an old friend of mine had made for her. She was singing softly to herself, and I was lost deep in thought.
Edith is grown now, but even then, when she was so young, she reminded me so much of her mother. She has her eyes, a deep ocean blue, and the same raven-black hair. Edith sang like her mother too.
“Da?” she asked, still watching her toys. I snapped out of my daze and looked down at her. “Can you tell me about your fight with the king that lived forever?”
“Your mother would not like me telling you that story,” I said.
“Then don’t tell Ma you told me,” she said. She looked up at me and grinned, putting a finger over her mouth. I could not help but smirk.
“All right. But before I tell you about my part in that story, we must go back to where it all began.”
And so I told Edith the legend of Emrys, as far as I understood it. As I told the tale, I began to realise the events that took place nearly a thousand years ago set in motion the beginning of the end of our age. The final chapters of our world’s story. Since that day, Man has wandered deeper and deeper into the dark. I did not tell little Edith that. Not yet.
I told her this: long ago, in the days before our people conquered these lands, there were many small kingdoms. One of those kingdoms was ruled by a king named Emrys. He was part of a long and proud line of monarchs, and feeling outshone by those who came before him, he wanted to live up to his ancestors’ glory by waging war against his neighbours.
As the legend says, while on campaign Emrys came across a dwarven lord, and that dwarf invited Emrys and his horde of horsemen into his hall. Time goes differently in the Otherworld, however. For three nights, Emrys and his horde feasted and drank with the dwarves, indulging in all kinds of pleasures. After the third night, Emrys and his army bade their hosts farewell, and the dwarves gave them gifts aplenty — food, wine, and wealth — to send them on their way.
But the lord of the dwarves had one final gift: a puppy with fur as grey as the sky during a storm. “Now, Lord King,” the dwarf said to Emrys, “that puppy shall sit with you atop your saddle, and so long as it sits with you, you shall sit with it. Should you and your men leave their saddles, time shall catch up to them. But should the grey dog dismount, or should you wear your crown once more, this curse shall be broken.”
Emrys did not know it in that moment, but while he and his army were feasting with the dwarves, three centuries had passed in our world. In that time, Emrys’s descendants ruled his kingdom until our people came from the north. We conquered all the little kingdoms here and made them our own. A king from among our people married the daughter of one of Emrys’s descendants, and born through that marriage was the dynasty that would rule Ardonn for generations, before they were usurped.
Emrys roamed the land seeking aid, but the people spoke a language he did not know. Food and drink turned to dust in his mouth. He forgot what it was to love. He was immortal. You see, for Emrys and his men timed flowed as if they were still with the dwarves, but he felt dead.
He grew angry and bitter and began ravaging the kingdom that once was his. He toppled lords and turned whole countries to ash, but he could never regain his crown, for it was safe behind the tall walls of Ardonn’s capital. He brought chaos to the land but was eventually defeated by Ardonn’s king, and he disappeared. For a century he was gone, and the kingdoms in this land prospered.
But a century later, he returned. He pillaged, he burned, he sought the crown, claiming that it was his by right, that he had never died and so the succession to his son was illegitimate. Many mortals supported him, either out of fear or lust for wealth and power, but they were once again defeated. After
the next century passed he returned, only to be defeated once more.
Then, another century later and three before now, Emrys returned yet again, but this time the king who wore his crown was expecting him. He was ready. A war lasting three years was waged between Emrys and the king of Ardonn, who we now know as Carol the Great. Carol had a close friend and companion named Godwin, who was a Godspeaker, like I am. Godwin specialised in dealing with Otherworldly beings and thus knew how to defeat Emrys for good.
Together, King Carol and Godwin led Emrys into the mountains. They laid a trap, and Emrys rode right into it. Deep within the northern mountain ranges, Carol had found a wide underground passage, which led to an enormous tomb built by ancient men. That tomb would be Emrys’s prison — for if he could not be killed, he could at least be bound. With a sacrifice of Emrys’s blood, which flowed through Carol’s veins and which was cut from Carol with Godwin’s sword, Emrys was entombed within the mountain.
By defeating Emrys, Carol won the favour of many lords and kings among our people, and they swore oaths to him, though they did not know exactly how Emrys was defeated. With his newfound allies, Carol was able to unite the divided, warring petty-kingdoms and create the single, united Kingdom of Ardonn. An age of peace and prosperity came to Ardonn. Carol ruled for sixty-seven years and built his kingdom into something to rival the Heavens!
“If Emrys was trapped in the mountain, why did you fight him?” my daughter asked.
“It was supposed to be forever,” I explained. “And to ensure Emrys could never be freed again, Carol, Godwin, and the few other men present swore an oath of secrecy. They swore never to share what happened beneath that mountain, for fear that someone, someday, may attempt to release him.”
“Why would someone want to do that?” Edith said.
I ignored the question. “One of those men failed to hold true to their oaths, so someone did end up releasing him.”
“Now will you tell me about your fight with Emrys, Da?” Edith sat up, her toys long forgotten. She was smiling, excited to hear about her father’s adventures. She was so innocent. So naïve. She understood nothing of the world, but one day, she would come to know the things a child should never know. So why not now?
I sat back in my seat and groaned. My legs still ached back then, and even now they are not completely healed. “Soon, little one,” I said. “But the beginning of my story does not start with Emrys. It begins with your mother and the night I first met her.”
And so I told Edith my story. The story of my life, and my small part in Fate’s saga. A story that had once been written in the pages of our world was, after many years, finally being told.
1
Moth
Bards and poets have told me that I should never start a story by talking about the weather. “Nobody cares about the weather,” they say. But by the Gods, if there was one thing that defined the night I met Matilda, it was the weather.
In fact, the weather was what drove me to meet her on that bitter midwinter night in the final weeks of the 1,118th year of the Third Age of Man, just over a month before Winterlow. Indeed, the weather that night set in motion the chain of events that would make up my life’s story.
There was a blizzard. I hate blizzards, and this one was particularly vicious. I could hear nothing but the awful howl of wind and the sound of ice tearing across my face. I was travelling back home through the woods of eastern Ardonn, the large forest at the base of the foreboding mountain range that separates our kingdom from our neighbours farther east. I could see the snowstorm coming from the north a few days before it hit, but I thought I could outrun it.
I could not. Each day it crept closer and closer, until finally I was enveloped in a storm of snow, hail, and wind. I probably do not need to mention that it was horribly cold. My poor horse could not bear it, and by late afternoon the frost had taken her.
I had to travel the rest of the way on foot, following a narrow dirt path in the hopes of finding some sort of hospitality. Roads typically lead somewhere. Usually when travelling in the wilds, I would camp out under the stars, because the night air was often warmer than the welcome people like me received from the superstitious folk in the more isolated parts of the kingdom, but in this weather I would freeze to death overnight if I could not find a fire.
It was not until nightfall that I found somewhere. I saw the thin rays of light seeping through the shutters of the village’s little houses first. In fact, that was all I could see. It was so dark, and there was so much snow, that I could see nothing else except those lights. When I was but a few yards away from the village, I could at last make out the shadows of houses. I passed a rundown signpost, but it was too dark to read it. I shouted into the wind, hoping someone would hear me.
“Hello.” I could barely hear myself, for the rushing wind carried my voice away the moment it passed my lips. I hugged myself tighter, wrapping my thick fur cloak around me. My bones were aching from the cold.
I ran, or at least I tried to run, to the nearest house and thumped my fist on the door, shouting for someone to let me in. There was no answer, but candlelight filtered through the cracks in the shoddy wooden door. I tried the next house along and was only answered by the bark of a dog.
I squinted off to the east. I could only just make out the silhouette of a hall, taller than the rest of the homes here and surrounded by a wooden palisade. A dim glow radiated from it, so I headed there, hoping for a kinder welcome.
The palisade’s gate hung open, and no one guarded it. No surprises there. Standing guard in this weather was a death sentence. I walked through the gate, hunched over as hail pelted my back, and finally came to the double door of this modest hall. I knocked — no, hammered — on the hall’s door, calling out.
There was no answer.
I pounded on the door again then stood back and swore. I was just about to try for a third time when the door swung open and a dark figure quickly gestured for me to come in. I did not hesitate and almost flew inside with the wind and snow. The man shouted something at me, and although I could barely hear him over the harsh whistling as wind rushed through the doorway, I knew he wanted me to help him close the door.
We both pushed it shut with all our strength, then he barred it and fell back against the wall with a sigh. It was a lot quieter now, and I could see the man who in that moment was my saviour. He looked to be in his early twenties, a few years older than me, and he had hair as black as night. He was wrapped in a thick fur cloak.
“Who are you, wanderer, and can I trust you?” he asked. I removed a glove from my cold hand and held it out for him. He hesitated and then shook it.
“My name is Edward, from near Oldford. You can trust me,” I said.
The man frowned. “Not the right season to be in the woods this far from home,” he said. “I am Gunn. My father is the earl of this lonely village.” He sniffed and jerked his head, indicating I should follow him, and then walked over to the large fireplace at the other end of the hall.
I followed past the hall’s long feasting table to the dying fire behind the table’s high seat. The low roof was held up by oak columns, which were beautifully carved but had clearly seen better days. Gunn poured himself a horn of ale from a barrel. “You want a drink?” he asked, but he poured another horn before I could answer and handed it to me. It was too sour, but it warmed my belly.
“Thank you, Gunn,” I said. He sat down on the rug right in front of the fireplace and started to revive the flames, then gestured for me to join him. I kicked off my boots, removed my belt, and sat huddled in my furs. We sat in silence for a few moments, sipping our sour ale and watching the fire grow. I could already feel the cold melting from my bones.
“Nice blade,” Gunn said. He nodded to my sword.
“It was my master’s,” I said. “Now it’s mine.”
“Your master’s? What is your trade?”
I stared into the fire for a few seconds. I was — am — one of the Gifted; what t
he nobility call a ‘Godspeaker’ and what the commoners call ‘Elfmen,’ ‘Wightmen,’ or ‘Death-Whisperers,’ among other things. You see, I have a gift that gives me senses most men do not possess. I can hear things, see things, and feel things that others cannot, and I can even communicate with beings from the Otherworld.
In days of old, every lord worth something had a Godspeaker in his court, advising him on matters his priests dare not speak of. We were respected once, but as we grew rarer, the nobles stopped hiring us and the superstitious and fearful grew to hate us. The kings of the old Eomundson dynasty still kept Godspeakers right up until the last one, King Edwin the Fifth, was overthrown nearly a decade ago. Now there are only a few of us left that are trained to use our gift. “I am one of the Gifted,” I said.
Gunn raised his eyebrows and then looked as though something had clicked in his mind. “Ah, you are the Edward of Oldford. I have heard of you,” he said. “Well, welcome to Henton, Edward Godspeaker.” He raised his horn and took a big gulp.
At that, the door at the side of the hall opened, and a tall, bearded man with long black hair entered the room. He looked to be in his forties, but the dark bags under his eyes made him look sixty. He was fully clothed, wearing a rich green tunic belted with thick black leather and a bearskin cloak draped over his shoulders.
Behind him followed a young girl with similar black hair and deep blue eyes, with skin as pale as snow, dressed in her nightgown. She looked a few years younger than me and carried a tray with a bowl and a piece of bread.
The man came over to us and sat in the high seat, facing the fire. I got up onto one knee and bowed my head before him, for I could tell he was the earl. The girl stood beside him, shuffling her feet. “I thought I heard a guest. Welcome to Henton. My name is Harold. I am the lord of this manor,” said the man. “This is my second daughter, Matilda.” He nodded to the girl, who placed the tray at my feet. We made eye contact for a second and then she curtsied before leaving the room.
