by Greg Ricker
The Ambersham
Book One of: The Lords Of Lynnwood
By: Greg Ricker
Prologue
Since the beginning of time, before the measure of time itself, at the source of all existence, there was magic. Whether grand, or trivial, it is the core of all that has been, and ever will be created. It is the energy that powers the cycle of life. What was, what is, and will what will be, all stem from its roots. Magic is unstoppable, unchangeable, and all-powerful. It is without substance or form. Beginning, or end.
To possess magic, even if trivial, is a precious gift. Blessed were the Elves, for they were given such a gift. They were the wisest and fairest of all beings, and used magic for good, as it was meant to be. They used it to keep the lands around them both prosperous and peaceful, and the kingdoms of the world swore friendship and loyalty to the Elves. Magic had joined the beings of the world. Its goal had been acquired.
So it was, for thousands of years . . .
Mistakes, however, can be made by beings of free will.
The Elves, with their long lives and great wisdom, discovered many of the secrets that magic held. Once perfected, charming objects became the greatest, and most addictive, practice. Almost anything could absorb spells, if the proper procedures were followed correctly. The Elves gave magic freely to the world in the form of jewelry, tools, and weapons, and the races were forever grateful. Without knowledge of doing so, they had broken one of the laws of magic. It was a forbidden practice, for such devices could fall into the wrong hands. The Elves, in time, considered that possibility, and when it was discovered how, they began to make their devices usable only by those who possessed magic. It seemed logical, for they were the only beings that possessed it. Every item made with magic in the earlier fashion was destroyed, with the help of everyone who received one.
It was too late. Some items had already been lost, from both carelessness and battle. The Elves were wise to put an end to it, but the law had been broken, and did not allow such precarious insurances.
For the first time, magic would have to deliver punishment. It would show the Elves the path they were taking, and make them fear it. It would show them that it also had the power to destroy, and they would learn its laws. Magic was given to the enemies of the Elves. To the beasts that roamed the mountains and forests surrounding their land, so to serve as a reminder what its power could do in the wrong hands. Acting out of rage, however, was new to magic, and in doing so, it had failed to prevent the greatest crime of all. The perfectly balanced world it had created would no longer know such stability. Magic would no longer be welcomed, but feared.
That was a sacrifice it was all too willing to make.
Through the dense white clouds that smothered the snow-capped peaks of the Dorol Mountains, a large eagle soared swiftly on. Its path was straightforward, its height was easy to maintain, and it remained so, until it broke free of the clouds, and the colors of the land and sky exploded into its sight. Even from a bird's eye view, Lynnwood forest, and the mountains within it, seemed to stretch out for endless leagues. Dense growth and long shadows had claimed the land many ages ago, and it continued to extend its reach. The villages and kingdoms within its few clearings were almost invisible to the eagle. The Asmynd River could not be hidden by the overlapping tree limbs that swallowed up the smaller creeks and channels. Both wide, and long, it cut Lynnwood in half on its journey to the sea.
It was just as well.
North of the Asmynd was a land of vast despair. The Blasky Mountains. A land that beasts had made their domain, and let death and evil rule them. The forest did not grow there, upon the brown and cracked ground, and the mountains were constructed of jagged rock. Their cliffs were tall, and sheer.
The air was thick with foulness, and the eagle felt an uneasiness just crossing over into the northland. There were creatures there that could fly up from the mountains and swallow the bird whole, but it did not seem to fear. It continued on, determined to reach its destination.
From far ahead, smoke rose up into the clouds from the land below. The eagle headed straight for it.
It was at that moment that two more eagles joined his flight. One came from the east, and one approached from the west. The eagles flew together so swiftly and so well timed that they seemed to become one large bird in flight.
When they reached the village of the Orcs, they spread out once more.
One saw the beasts working, and going about their day. Some were dressed in the metal worn by soldiers, and others were dressed in furs. Their numbers were great, and many of their children ran about playing. Hundreds of caves had been built into the surrounding mountainsides.
One saw a large clearing just outside of the village where the Orcs sheltered nearly a hundred Dragynn. It was odd, indeed, to see the Orcs standing around the halfling dragons, and not in bloodied pieces on the ground. Some of the Dragynn that roamed the clearing even had Orcs mounted on their backs.
One saw a sheer faced mountain; its peak was tall and pointed. The eagle circled the mountain, slowly climbing up the rock wall. It was odd shaped, but did not appear to be anything beyond that, until the bird reached a window near the top. TOrchlight emitted from it, flickering like a dozen candles, and a shadow suddenly moved within, and….
Flash!
With a gasp, and a violent thrashing of his legs, King Elssamon Drennidell sat up in his bed, so quickly that his blanket dropped to his knees. He was sweating profusely, and his chest was heaving, but it was not a nightmare that woke him. The visions the eagles had shown him were very real. The Orc village, the Dragynn, and the mountain tower, were as real as his own existence. The eagles saw them with their own eyes, and passed their sight on to him. Yet, even that, was not what had snatched him from his pillow. He had detected Dy'Shan. He did not want to believe it, but it was there, so strong at the peak of the tower, in fact, that it had been the cause of his awakening.
The Queen did not do more than open her eyes when Elssamon woke her. She knew that her husband's visions could do that to him, but she dared not ask him about them right after. He liked to think on them for a moment, and then enjoy some uninterrupted sleep.
Elssamon frightened her, however, when he slid his legs off of their bed and stood. Her eyes were wide open then. Something was wrong, she could feel it, and she turned to look at him.
"Tell me what is wrong, my love." She asked him, soft and gentle, wanting to comfort him.
‘Everything.’ He only thought the reply. In truth, everything since the loss of the Ambersham. The Elves’ most magnificent creation, and it was lost deep in the earth beneath Dragdath Mountain. A weapon without equal, even now.
He did not know the words to say, but he knew what was to come of the visions. He would be going off to war, and taking their eldest son with him. The same as before, when it was the Gnolls who threatened Lynnwood forest. How could he tell her that again? The truth was a harsh telling, but it was the only one he could think of.
Elssamon’s face was most grim. "It is happening again."
It was all he said, but instantly, the Queen’s eyes filled with tears.
I
Gerhihn
Thunk! The feather shafted arrow struck hard and deep into the center of the wooden target. The small, red, circle of rabbit’s blood had been hit three times with three tries.
“You win.” Admitted the defeated young man, and was obviously not pleased. He had coal black hair that hung to his shoulders in the back, and just over his eyes in the front. He stood from a crouched position, and leaned on a longbow he held in his left hand.
“Looks like I’m s
kinning the rabbits again!” He kicked a pine cone lying close to his feet, and sent it skipping into the thicket.
Another young man shouldered his bow and laughed.
“Cheer up, Dalt. There’s only six!” He combed through his short, sweaty, blonde hair with his fingers, and started for the target to retrieve his arrows.
“And I claimed all but two!” Dalt snatched up his quiver and rabbit sack. “Perhaps your luck changes when you’re aiming at a helpless target. Eh, Taron?”
Taron pulled the last arrow from the old piece of wagon flooring and inspected the tip. Satisfied, he slipped it into his quiver over his shoulder and walked back to Dalt’s side, ignoring his remark.
Besides their hair and facial features, the two southlanders looked like twins in their dark green hunting garb. Two tunics with brown belts, and short, oiled, leather boots. Both were lean, stood an even six feet, and were twenty years of age.
Taron snatched up his own rabbit sack, and doubled the loose end over his hand so it wouldn’t slip. Then the two started for Gerhihn, their home.
The sun was setting and the forest began to darken. Birds settled in the trees and hid well within the tightest of knotted branches. All were singing their final songs for the day, attempting to drown out the voices of the two hunters walking below.
“I think we stayed too long.” Said Dalt, as he quickened his pace a bit.
Taron realized he was beginning to fall behind, and rushed to catch up. “We’ll be on the main road in no time.”
Dalt continued the pace, nonetheless.
The narrow path was a beaten down buck trail, widened by hunters over the years. Nearly every path in the forest around Gerhihn started or ended on the main road that stretched from the village to the outer edge of the Channeron Plains, just west of Daylen. It was used mostly by merchants and travelers, but plenty came and left to keep the road clean of growth.
The paths were a different matter, and Taron stumbled on roots and twigs as he jogged two strides behind Dalt, who managed to jump and dodge every obstacle. Reaching the main road by nightfall had become a game to Dalt, and he laughed as he confidently gained speed.
Low hanging branches slid off of Taron’s shoulders and cheeks. Once, he was knocked off balance when a heavier limb caught the string of his bow. Annoyed by both his many missteps and Dalt’s arrogant giggling, he ran at his fullest.
The path began to widen as the two raced closer to the main road. Taron nearly stepped on Dalt’s heels as he worked his way around to his side. There was no more laughing, only the heavy breathing of aching lungs and their racing footfalls could be heard. Rubbing elbows, the race came to a halt as the two young men emptied out onto the main road, and both bent over, hands on knees, exhausted.
The hard dirt path was nearly three wagons wide, and was roofed by overhanging limbs that joined at their ends. The dim light of the fading sunset had vanished, and only the light of the ascending full moon crept through the branches overhead.
“We could have broken our necks!” Laughed Taron, but his smile soon vanished when he found a rip in the right shoulder of his tunic.
“You mean you could have!” Dalt corrected. He pulled a piece of broken twig from his ankle-high boot and chuckled when he stood. Sure that he, himself, had won the race. He glanced over Taron’s shoulder, and suddenly his smile also disappeared, but for an entirely different reason.
Taron saw Dalt’s frozen stance and strange expression, and turned to look. They could see the lights of Gerhihn in the distance, but instead of lamps, it appeared to be lit by flames! They exchanged puzzled looks, and then they were running, leaving their rabbit sacks on the road.
“It must be the Old Oak!” Taron guessed as they ran with their heads up, never once taking their eyes off of the slowly nearing fire. The Old Oak Inn was located just at the entrance to town. It was the only logical choice as to what could be burning ahead. Then he thought of the people inside when it began, laughing and drinking. Taron saw his father, Jarl, and uncle, Gaden, sitting at a table talking about their day. Odds were high that they were there. When the vision winked away, he found he had picked up speed unnoticed.
The smell of fire hit their noses, and confirmed what they had feared to be true. Then they heard screaming, and crying, and they ran as fast as their feet could carry them.
Something appeared on the road ahead, and if not for the flickering firelight, they would have missed it during their flight. The black silhouette of a man took form before their eyes, crawling, and falling repeatedly, until he fell nearly off the road, and stayed down. Taron and Dalt skidded to a halt beside the man, who tried desperately to continue his own flight on all fours, but fell flat on his face when his arms gave up and slid out from under him. Taron grabbed the man’s shoulders and rolled him over onto his back. Blood and dirt masked the man’s face, but Taron could not mistake the bald head, bushy beard, and large belly.
“Uncle Gaden!” Taron dropped to his knees. Tears swelled up under his eyes as he placed an arm under his uncle’s head.
Gaden could only see blurry red shapes while fading in and out of consciousness. He put a hand on his chest, which bled through his wool shirt. He tried to look at the wound, but he suddenly jolted back in pain, teeth clenched, his body straight and stiff as an iron rod.
“Uncle!” Taron felt helpless. He looked up at Dalt, who looked back and forth with great concern at both the fire ahead, and the injured man at his feet.
Gaden relaxed and began to give in to the reassuring feeling of his nephews arms around him.
“What’s happened?” Asked Taron. He studied Gaden’s bleeding chest, but the actual wound itself was hidden from sight.
“Run!” Gaden was shouting, but it came out as a shaking whisper. “Don’t go home....Taron....run!” Suddenly he grabbed his heart and screamed in agony.
Taron could only watch as his uncle sank into a motionless state in his lap. Tears spilled over and down his cheeks. He slowly slipped his arm out from under Gaden’s back, and set him softly down on the road. Wiping the tears away, he stood and turned toward Dalt, but he wasn’t there. Taron turned in the direction of the fire, and saw his friend’s dark shape bolting for the village. He looked at his uncle one more time before quickly following after, knowing that Gaden must have meant for them to run the other way.
When Taron finally emerged from the forest and into the clearing of the village, he found Dalt looking on in awe at the terror before them. The Old Oak Inn was truly ablaze. Every window of the two-story building spit flames and rolling black smoke as glowing embers spun high up into the night sky. It was not alone, other buildings were on fire, as well. Some homes too fell victim to the spreading flames, and though everyone was in the street running about and screaming in panic, not one soul was busy trying to put out the fires. Instead, the villagers fought for their lives against an army of hideous beasts with crude, metal armor.
“Orcs!” Taron shouted what Dalt already knew, but not just Orcs, an army of small dragons fought on their side. Some on the ground, and some in the air, swooping down into the crowd frequently to take off with a struggling villager in its vice-grip claws, only to bite at their helpless prey, and drop the dying remains onto the street below.
The villagers did their best to fight back against the swords, daggers, spears, and maces of the Orcs, with what few steel weapons they had, while the others fought with bows and farming tools. Whatever was available. Until now, there had been no need to heavily arm the citizens of Gerhihn. It was becoming obvious that they would pay dearly for taking their peaceful life for granted. The Orcs and Dragynn were overwhelmingly winning the fight. Gerhihn, for some reason unknown to its dwellers, was to fall that cruel night.
“They’re killing the women and children!” Taron shouted, both anger and fear boiling inside him. A strong hand suddenly grabbed him by the arm and pulled him until he was running. He followed Dalt to the temporary safety of a dark shadow beside a small house across f
rom the Old Oak. Once there, Dalt quickly slipped off his bow, and in a flash snatched an arrow, then held it nocked and ready. He peeked around the corner of the house, and steadily sought out his first target.
An Orc forty yards away managed to find time to rummage through the belongings of a villager lying dead in the street. He searched pockets and pouches, finding only notes, and a piece of hard bread. All which he simply tossed aside, but with his arm still in mid flight, his eyes widened, rolled back into his head, and he fell on top of the man at his feet. Dead. An arrow stood straight up from the Orc’s spine.
Taron had readied his bow and held the string at full against his cheek, one eye carefully studying the figures that scrambled out of the battle and smoke. He spotted an Orc pulling his bloody sword free of a fallen man, and his fingers released. The creature dropped his weapon to the ground and collapsed, grabbing at the arrow buried deep in his right lung, until his strength to fight off death expired.
For a while, their secret sniper post remained a successful idea. One by one the two young men slew the Orcs that wandered near. Once, Taron bravely stuck an arrow into the thick neck of one of the Dragynn, causing it to shriek horribly and fly off, but the outcome of the wound remained unknown.
Then a problem emitted from a seemingly flawless plan. Taron had only two arrows left, and Dalt held his last in his hand. They looked at each other flatly, hoping one of them had a good idea what to do next.
“Have you seen anyone?” Asked Taron, his voice shaking with fear.
Dalt knew who he meant, and he had not seen his grandfather or Taron’s father out on the street. “We have to get closer.” He said, as he peeked back around the corner of the small house. With a sudden jerk, he reached back, grabbed Taron by the arm, and pinned him against the wall in one motion. Both hidden in deep shadow.
Confused, Taron started to speak, but in the darkness he could still see Dalt’s hands gripping his bow until his knuckles turned white, holding it as if he intended to throw it across the street.
