Wrath of the Fury Blade

by Geoff Habiger

  Wrath of the Fury Blade

  ISBN: 978-1-932926-63-7 (eBook edition)

  Copyright © 2018 by Geoff Habiger & Coy Kissee

  Cover Art: Mike Wagner

  Cover Design: Angella Cormier

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review

  Shadow Dragon Press

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  Tijeras, New Mexico 87059

  www.shadowdragonpress.com

  info@shadowdragonpress.com

  Wrath of the Fury Blade

  A Constable Inspector Lunaria Adventure

  Geoff Habiger and Coy Kissee

  Shadow Dragon Press

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  About the Authors

  Geoff and Coy dedicate this book to our wives, Beverly and Dorris. Thank you for understanding (even if it doesn’t make sense to you) about our love and passion for games and fantasy. We couldn’t do this without your support.

  Prologue

  First Magistrate Lavalé fey Avecath sat at the desk in his spacious study. The room was hot on this High Summer night, even with the windows open. He should have had one of his servants here to fan him while he worked, he thought, but his wife had insisted that she needed them to prepare for tomorrow’s party, to clean the grand ballroom and the dining room, and to polish the silver.

  The oil lamp over his desk flickered from a small breeze blowing through the window. Lavalé paused from his writing, the sweet scent of honeydrop blossoms and night roses filling the study. He glanced up from the document, his mind drifting momentarily. The lamplight cast a warm, golden glow across his study, shadows flickering across the many scrolls, bound books, and heavy tomes that made up his collection of legal books, histories, and genealogies.

  The mansion stood on a small hill near the castle grounds with a spectacular view of the Tenz estuary and Black Elf Bay. It was built in the Na Pfeta style that seemed to be so popular among the newer lords. The King had expressed an appreciation for the aesthetic, which helped sow the seeds of the New Elf architectural style. Lavalé personally detested the Na Pfeta design. He’d let his wife design and decorate the rest of the house, but he’d insisted upon decorating his study himself.

  The study had originally been an ugly rectangular room, but the First Magistrate had overseen the remodeling in the classical Wood Elf style of his ancestors. The flat, rectangular walls had been shaped by skilled crafts-elves and magic to resemble the hollow of a tree, with gently curved walls and a domed ceiling. The windows had been skillfully framed into flowing teardrop shapes and flame-like patterns that matched the grain of the wood. They had cost a fortune to craft.

  Branches had been coaxed from the walls to create hollows and shelves around the room, providing ample space for the books that made up Lavalé’s personal library. The natural shelves held all manner of baubles, knickknacks, and treasures that he’d collected in his youth while on campaign with the King. Beautiful minerals glittered in the lamplight, along with small marble busts, carved totems, and a small collection of war-fans.

  The First Magistrate turned his head to the right to look at his painting of Aeolin, the mystical glade said to be the birthplace of all elvenkind. His wife had given him the painting as a gift for their wedding anniversary. It was done in the classic style of Ramil, the famed painter who’d lived a millennium ago. Despite their wealth and station, his wife could never have owned an original Ramil—only the King was allowed to own the originals. But this painting was an excellent substitute, perfectly mimicking the master’s stroke and subtle play of light and color. It was too bad the painter of this copy was halpbloeden—a half breed; he might have been able to make a decent living at his craft otherwise.

  The First Magistrate tore his gaze from the painting back to the document on his desk. This letter had required more of his concentration than his other correspondence, but the Grand Inquisitor had made it clear how important it was. The gentle breeze that had distracted him was gone and the room became stifling again. He dipped his quill and resumed writing, adding another line to the letter. Lavalé heard what sounded like a creak of wood coming from outside his study. He looked up briefly at the noise, then returned to the letter when he heard nothing else.

  Another quiet creak of wood.

  Lavalé looked up again in annoyance. Someone was out in the hall but was trying to be quiet about it. “Gods damn you,” Lavalé said. His voice carried an edge of annoyance. It could only be one of the dim-witted halpbloed servants. He’d sent his butler to get his clothes cleaned and pressed for tomorrow’s party, and his wife had only ever once been to his study, years ago, right after the remodel had been completed. She’d sniffed, stuck her nose in the air, and told him to have fun in his “hovel” but to never ask her to visit him there again.

  The wood creaked once again, this time the sound coming from right in front of the door. “Whoever is out there had better leave or I’ll give you ten lashes for disturbing me!” The only way to get these halpbloeden to do anything was through the application of the lash.

  There was no answer, but there was another subtle creak of wood from the hall.

  Lavalé jabbed the quill into the inkwell and exploded from his chair. “By the gods, I will give you twenty lashes for this interruption!”

  The First Magistrate strode across the study in four quick strides, his long legs carrying his slender frame to the door. He unlatched th
e bolt and, with a jerk, he pulled the door open and looked into the hall, ready to deliver a blow to any servant who was foolish enough to be standing there.

  The hallway was empty.

  Confused, Lavalé stepped aside to let more light spill into the hall. He looked to the right toward the stairs, but nobody was there.

  With a scowl, Lavalé closed the door and turned back to the room. Another gentle breeze blew a strand of his fine, silver-white hair across his face. He stopped suddenly. A stranger sat in his chair, with his elbows propped on the desk. His long, slender fingers steepled in front of his face, partially obscuring it from view.

  “Who sent you?” demanded Lavalé. He reached for the dagger he wore at his hip. “What do you want from me?”

  The stranger tapped his fingers together slowly, staring at Lavalé from behind a curtain of light gold-blond hair, the color of ripe wheat. “Does it sicken you, First Magistrate?” The voice was silky, inquiring.

  “What?”

  “This pitiful charade you are performing for those who don’t see your true face. Does it sicken you to live a life of lies? To cause the deaths of innocent elves?”

  Lavalé pulled the dagger from its sheath and held it ready before him. He was a decent enough knife fighter and he wasn’t going to let this stranger intimidate him in his own home. In his own study!

  “What are you talking about? What charade?” Lavalé’s voice was strong. “Who do you think you are, invading my home?” He didn’t bother to ask how the stranger had gotten into his study. There was all manner of magic that an elf could learn or buy that could manage that.

  The stranger made a “tsk, tsk” sound and slowly shook his head. “End your charade! Confess your lies to me! Confess your involvement in the deaths of so many, and of your own horrible secrets before the King himself!”

  “What lies? What deaths? I am the King’s First Magistrate and advisor. I will confess no such thing to the King or to you.” Lavalé stuck his chin forward, defiantly glaring at the stranger with steel-grey eyes.

  The stranger stood up and Lavalé saw that he wore brown leather armor that was painted green and black in a pattern of leaves and vines. His golden hair was long and loose, falling past his elbows. Under the armor he wore a shirt of green silk. As the stranger looked up, his fingers rested lightly on the desk. Lavalé saw the stranger’s face and a gasp escaped his mouth.

  “No!” Lavalé yelled. The dagger began to waver in his trembling hand. “You have no right to wear that mask! You have no right to accuse me!”

  “Your life is nothing but a collection of lies built upon a foundation of falsehoods.” The stranger’s right hand reached down to grasp the hilt of a sword; a red leather grip and a red-black gem set in the pommel. “I am here to unburden you from your lies!” Lavalé thought he recognized the weapon, but it didn’t make sense.

  The stranger drew the night-black blade and with inelven quickness leapt over the desk, swinging the blade in a high overhand arc. Lavalé had no time to move. He could only watch, helpless, as the blade, bright red lines twisting through it, like a breathing forge, swept down upon his head. Lavalé’s last thought was that he did know that blade.

  The blade struck the First Magistrate in the center of his forehead. Momentum, strength, and powerful magic propelled the blade down, cutting the First Magistrate in twain, the black blade exited from Lavalé’s groin. The body stood motionless for a split-second, a stunned expression on the First Magistrate’s face, before the two halves of the body slid to the floor, blood and organs spilling out.

  The stranger paused over the body, breathing hard and collecting his emotions. The little blood on the blade was absorbed by the weapon. Avecath was just the first—the most personal to be sure—but only the first. There were others that needed to pay, to have their lies exposed. With focus and determination, the stranger sheathed the blade. He was about to leave, but he paused as he caught sight of the Ramil on the wall. He knelt and reached out with his right hand, touching his index finger into the First Magistrate’s blood.

  He then began to write.

  One

  The bell over the door jingled and the smell of fresh-baked sweet rolls and roasted cacao greeted Reva as she walked into the House of Theobroma. The smell brought a smile to her face, invoking a pleasant memory of sharing similar mornings with her father.

  Reva walked across the small shop, the morning sun shining through the large glass windows. Outside, the morning fog was starting to burn off. It had been unseasonably hot for the past several days. Although it was High Summer, Tenyl was far enough north that its residents usually enjoyed moderate summer temperatures. The heat was starting to get on people’s nerves, but there was a cool breeze blowing in from Black Elf Bay that morning, helping to dissipate the fog and cool the air.

  Reva wore a simple white blouse of fine linen trimmed in green. Over this she wore a dark green vest of silk and linen. On her left collar was a small enamel pin of the Tenyl flag—a field of black with a red diagonal stripe running from upper right to lower left. A pair of silver, leaf-shaped earrings dangled from her ears.

  Her trousers were baggy and loose, the color of fresh grass, and were more comfortable than her usual attire as a Constable Inspector. Despite her rank, all Constables were required to wear woolen trousers and puttee, which were constricting and a pain in the ass to put on.

  Her left hand rested lightly on the hilt of a fine dagger in a black and red scabbard, a gift from her father when she’d joined the Constabulary. At her right hip was a thin-bladed sword. It was about a hand shorter than the regulation longsword, which made it nimble and quick in her hands at the expense of reach. The sword and scabbard clashed with her outfit, but other regulations required that Constables be armed even when off duty.

  The front room of the House of Theobroma faced to the east to catch the morning light. It was filled with all manner of small tables: some were square, some round, some made of wood, and some of forged iron or polished brass with colorful ceramic tiles set in patterns on their surfaces. The chairs were a similar hodgepodge of tall straight-backed chairs, squat stools, and military camp chairs. Reva thought that the chaos of the furnishings gave the small shop a quaint charm that was lacking in other establishments.

  Baubles and prisms hung in the window, reflecting rainbows of light across Reva’s light brown skin and tapered ears. She moved through the crowded room, waving greetings and saying “Reis se” to wish the customers that she knew good morning, which was nearly everyone. She selected a small wooden table carved into the shape of petals and painted a gaudy pink and white. The table was ideally suited to catch the morning light and it was always available when she came in. Reva suspected that this was not by chance, figuring that the other patrons always made sure that “her” table was ready for her.

  Reva caught the eye of the owner as she sat down in a metal-frame chair with a heart-shaped back. Iliam Theobroma gave her a polite smile and wave. Within a few seconds a small plate with a sweet roll and a large cup of hot cacao topped with fresh whipped cream appeared before her. Reva reached for her belt purse but Iliam stayed her hand.

  “Keep your hard-earned Skips, Constable,” said Iliam, referring to the silver coins in her purse. The Royal Treasury called them Marks, but legend said that Tenyl was founded on the spot it was when King Arona, the first great elven King, had skipped a silver coin across the River Tenz and proclaimed to build a great city wherever the coin landed. So everybody called them Skippers or just Skips. “You do us honor with your patronage.” He gave Reva a knowing smile and returned to the counter.

  Reva reached for her fork. It was a morning ritual that she and Iliam had been performing for many years, ever since Reva had been a new Constable walking her rounds through this grove. She had made sure to visit each of the shop owners on her rounds. “Showing the green”, the Constables called it. Many of the shop
owners would bestow small gifts upon the Constables, and not a few Constables demanded the gifts as their due. Regulations officially banned all forms of bribery in the force, but since every elf in the Constabulary from the Lord Constable Inspector on down to the newest recruit started their career by walking rounds in a grove, a blind eye was usually turned to the practice.

  Reva had not been a Constable or walked a round through a grove for five years, but she still received a few gifts as she always had. Her fork cut into the sweet roll. Honey, currants, and almonds clung in a sticky mass to the fresh-baked roll. Reva savored the bite.

  Mornings were a chance for her to relax before the start of what was usually a very hectic day in the Constabulary. Today was a rare day off, well deserved after closing her latest case, so instead it meant planning how to get all of her errands done. Mother had asked her to pick up some new glaze for her pottery. Reva also needed to post a letter she’d written to her brother. And most importantly—for her own, as well as her mother’s, sanity—she needed to get Gabii to learn a new phrase.

  Gabii was a brilliant, blue and green parrot that Reva’s boyfriend, Aavril, had brought back from Cantull as a gift. Aavril always brought her something from the places his cargo ship visited, but Gabii was the first pet he’d brought her. Aavril had taught the bird to say “Reva is sexy!” and Reva had thought it cute, at first. Gabii spoke using Aavril’s voice, so it reminded her of him while he was away. Unfortunately the bird wouldn’t shut up and now it was getting annoying. Mother was complaining that Gabii was starting to drive away customers. Reva had to get Gabii to say something new before Mother decided to pluck her for dinner.