Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Back Matter
Acknowledgments
Characters
Races
Land & Cities
Glossary
About the Author
The Crimson Claymore
Claymore of Calthoria
Book 1
By Craig A. Price Jr.
Copyright © 2015 by Craig A. Price Jr.
First edition
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except for “fair use” as attributed quotations in reviews of the book.
All characters in this work are fictional. Any likenesses to persons or situations are entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Treasure Scarbrough
Map inspired by Craig A. Price Jr. & Designed by Treasure Scarbrough
Dedicated to Mary Quimbey,
Thank you, Mom, for always believing in me.
Prologue
Searon ambled through the alleyways of crowded Augealia, completely ignoring the merchants who hounded him with their entreaties. He knew that they had seen him giving a small bag of coins to a poor beggar woman and her children and no doubt figured he had plenty to spare. He dared not meet their gaze, but kept his steady pace as he walked past them. Suddenly, something walloped into him from behind that made him stagger and nearly tumble to the ground.
It was a young girl, grown barely higher than his waist, with a loaf of fresh bread in her arms. The smell taunted his stomach as she looked up at him with her watery blue eyes. He understood her fear—he was probably the most intimidating man in the crowd in his plate mail and scabbard, except, of course, for the two guards with short scimitars in pursuit of the girl. He glanced back down at her. She cowered in fear. He reached down to grab her arm, but she was too quick, and she dashed away through the crowd, stopping only long enough to stick her tongue out at him.
Searon gaped at the girl as she receded into the distance. She had some nerve, although it was hard for him to judge: Was she was merely a thief, or a true survivor? She didn’t look as if she had any money, with her torn cotton and leather dress, and her dirt-stained hair, about which he could only wonder—had it once been blonde? Her smudged face looked as if it hadn’t been washed in months. He tried to catch up to her, sprinting now, but she was far too quick for him.
The guards had reached him and bumped into him, but ignored him and sprinted on, intent only on catching the girl. In their loose chain mail, they made entirely too much racket and seemed mere footmen compared to Searon, with his finely honed tracking skills, and it was amusing to watch them fall behind the clever girl. Searon knew by the way they chased the girl from behind, with little regard for tranquility, that their intellect wasn’t very high; he knew well that was never the best way to catch someone.
Searon cut through a few shops and into an alley. He figured if the young girl had been stealing food to feed herself, she’d have made a roundabout back through the shops to lose the guards. Instead of foolishly joining the chase, he decided to intercept her when she headed back.
Every stone wall in the nearly deserted alleys was spiderwebbed with cracks. The village did not appear to have spent money to fix them for a long time. It had just stopped raining, and water draining down was even now eroding the cracks ever deeper. A few crows looked down at him from the rooftops. Searon followed a small gravelly path through the still puddles. When ripples began to form on the surface of the puddles, Searon looked up to see what could be making them. Fast footsteps echoed in the water in a chill whisper.
The young girl splashed into plain sight from a side alley. Searon swiftly turned and dashed into the next alley. His ears were keen, and he was able to discern her position with more certainty than most other humans. He rushed out from his hiding spot and grabbed her. She kicked and bit but did not scream. Her mouth was glued shut so she would not divulge her location to the guards, who were most likely lost in another alley. But Searon couldn’t hold her for long. Her tiny foot connected with his groin, hard, and she wriggled away.
The excruciating pain sent shivers down his spine, and he dropped to his knees, his vision blurring. This tiny girl had grounded him worse than anyone ever had. The games were over, and he unsheathed his claymore. The silver blade glowed crimson in the shadows. Tears like sparkling sapphires welled up in the girl’s soft blue eyes.
“What is your name?” Searon said in a tone as gentle as he could muster, hoping to not startle her.
She stared up at him, quivering, holding herself in a firm hug.
“Charlotte.”
Searon sighed and sheathed his claymore. He wished no harm to come to the little girl, but she seemed too frightened to give him any helpful information, especially with the guards still on her trail.
“Where are your mother and father?” His voice was soft as a warm autumn rain. But somehow he knew that no parents in their right minds would be letting their daughter run aimlessly through the markets to steal food.
“They are no more,” she whispered. There was no sorrow in her voice, only irritation—a true sign of her having been on her own for far too long.
Searon nodded. He knew if they were still alive they’d be risking their own lives for food rather than their daughter’s. At least that was how it would have been if he were her father. He felt sorry for the little girl. She didn’t need to be living like that from day to day, each day draining a little more of the innocence from her youth.
“Come, you must pay for this food. It is not right to steal,” he declared, holding out his hand to her. She dared not budge. He didn’t really expect her to; he only wanted to guide her along her way.
“But I have no money,” she spat out, almost crying. He looked at her rags. If she’d even had a pocket to keep money, once upon a time, anything that might have resembled one had been torn away.
“Do you know where the captain of this village’s army is?” Searon asked politely. He held his chest high, as if to impress her.
“Yes,” she muttered, and backed up a few steps. She appeared conf
used. She was frowning, and he could tell that she wanted to show him that she wasn’t afraid, no matter what he did or said.
“I must meet with him. If you lead me to him, I will pay you,” Searon said. He lay down his claymore to show her he meant no harm.
“Why?”
“There are some very bad creatures out there. The captain may know where I can find them. Can you take me to him?”
He unclipped a bag from his sash and handed it to her. Heavier than the one he had just given away, it was all gold coins, his emergency fund. It should be plenty for her to buy food for some while. Besides, he didn’t need it half as badly as she.
He observed her closely. The bag was so heavy that she staggered and had to grasp it with both hands. She gazed up at him in blissful wonder, her eyes still full of tears, but also gratitude. Her face glowed. She had the biggest, brightest smile now, and her teeth were perfectly white. Despite everything else she had been through, she knew how to take care of her teeth.
“Follow me,” she said with a giggle. She dashed away through the alleyways as gleefully as though she were skipping through a meadow of beautiful flowers. Searon followed her only a few paces behind. Even though he was clad in silver and crimson plate armor, he barely made a sound. Finally, Charlotte turned from the dirt pathways into a main road, completely empty of traffic. Searon stopped and stared. Ravens glared down from the rooftops at a pearly, octagonal building at the road’s end. Charlotte nodded at the building and made a tiny gesture with her hand.
A few men talked among themselves. They barely paid heed to either Charlotte or Searon standing there. Blacksmiths’ hammers pounding steel echoed up and down the road, which was made of colorful stone rather than dirt, in tans, blacks, grays, and reds, all laid out in a very precise pattern.
She stood behind him. Her voice shivered. “Sir Knight…please do not make me go any farther.”
Searon turned around and smiled at the young child kneeling in front of him. “Thank you for your help, child. You may go now, but promise me you will get yourself a fine meal and a good night’s sleep.”
“I promise!” The little girl beamed up at him.
“May the stars shine over you and light up your path for the future,” he whispered.
“Thank you, sir!” She bowed, dashed back into the alleys, and disappeared.
Chapter 1
Searon’s claymore was in his hands, glowing red, sparkling as he twirled it about to deflect blows from axes all around him. And yet, even as he defended himself against the black-scaled reptilian draeyks, the blazing orange eyes he saw in his dreams the night before were still the only thing on his mind. He felt as if those eyes were watching him still, and he could almost swear to have seen them through the thick forest enveloping him. Three draeyks lay dead on the ground. The stench of distilled vinegar and rotten eggs brought an awful taste in his mouth, taking away the scent of pine that he treasured so much.
Only two of the creatures remained, both cunning warriors but frightened at his skill with a blade. He didn’t understand why he was having such a hard time killing the savage creatures. For the past three years, Searon had been slaughtering a few each and every day, yet it never seemed like it would be enough. There was only one of him, and there seemed to be thousands of the wretched creatures. Sometimes, it felt as if they would never be destroyed but would keep coming back to haunt him in his nightmares.
He charged the two draeyks in front of him, focusing all of his rage for the creatures. Anger bled from Searon’s veins to his clenched fists, passing through them and into his claymore as it grew brighter and brighter, with such ferocity that it cast a crimson gleam to his weapon that was nearly blinding, even to himself. Searon’s blade only glowed while being used, almost appearing as if it was on fire. The crimson claymore was cool to the touch, but its steel was harder than any other sword, and if Searon pushed it a certain way it could fracture any other metal it came to contact with. Each of the creatures blocked his incoming strikes with so much precision that it baffled him. He tried changing the degree at which he slashed the blade, but the attempt seemed even more useless than what he was doing before. A flash of orange stole his attention as he looked into the oak trees beyond. Before he even heard the click of the crossbow, he felt the searing heat of a bolt puncturing his left shoulder. Gritting his teeth over a shout of pain, Searon tried to shake off the tingling burn that was running through his veins. He stepped forward, ready to finish off the bloodthirsty beasts.
Now three stood in front of him, two with axes held high, and another, farther back, with a crossbow in its grasp. He stood calm, teeth bared, soaked by raindrops under a blanket of storm clouds while thunder rattled the ground around him. His boots felt slick against the wet leaves and mud, yet he held his ground. He took a step back and sheathed his claymore in its scabbard. The two creatures in front rushed at him now that he was weaponless. He quickly ducked and leaped away from them as the third, with a crossbow, locked a bolt into place.
One draeyk brought its axe down toward Searon’s head. He reached up and grabbed the weapon as another bolt pierced his forearm. His teeth clenched as a great moan of anguish escaped his mouth, but he did not let go. Despite the agony, he continued forward, allowing his rage to turn his pain into numbness. He kicked the draeyk in the gut, causing it to drop its weapon, which he was able to snatch before it hit the ground. Searon twirled the axe in his hands and chopped the overgrown lizard’s scaly skull in two. Closing his eyes, Searon heard the crunch of scales and bone. Grimacing, the warrior wiped from his face the black ooze that filled his nostrils with the scent of spoiled milk and vinegar.
The other draeyk charged at Searon, delivering swift blows, which struck in such an odd pattern that made it difficult for Searon to deflect. He let the handle of the axe slide down his hands as he blocked another attack. Searon spun the axe around, feeling the imbalance of the weapon, and used the blunt side to slam into the creature’s knee. A loud ding in his left ear echoed from where an arrow struck his crimson-and-gold helm. The draeyk in front of him collapsed to his injured knee in the mud, clearly defeated at the hand of Searon. Before Searon finished the creature, the warrior stared deep into its soulless red eyes with such hatred that the wretched reptile nearly flinched. Searon nodded approval at the defeated creature’s distress before slashing its throat, causing thick ebony blood to pour down the creature’s body before it collapsed onto the ground.
Searon turned to the remaining draeyk still holding a crossbow, and heaved the axe at its throat with inhuman speed. The reptile stepped aside with only millimeters to spare, and the axe pierced into the side of an oak tree, its handle wobbling from sheer velocity. Without a moment to spare, Searon ran forward, tackling the creature before it had a chance to reload its crossbow. They wrestled for a moment, the lizard’s sharp yellow teeth unable to puncture Searon’s armor. Drawing upon his superhuman strength and speed, Searon grappled with the draeyk a minute longer before growing bored with the struggle and rolling away while unsheathing his claymore. The creature, timid, attempted launching one last bolt toward Searon’s face. Swiftly and without much effort, Searon curved his blade to intercept the bolt’s tip, causing it to ricochet away, but the shaft still found its way to Searon’s face, smacking against his jaw. His chin throbbed, and a deep red welt began to form. He sliced the creature’s crossbow in half with annoyance and took another step forward where, with a sneer, he sliced its reptilian head from its shoulders.
He groaned heavily, sheathed his claymore, fell to his knees in the mud, and thanked the creator. When he opened his eyes, he noticed those same orange eyes that were so unsettling in his dreams the night before. No longer was he dreaming of them, but they floated in front of him, growing closer.
The thundering ceased with the rain; chirping birds and squeaking crickets were the only sounds that breached the silence surrounding him. An elderly man appeared from the shadows between trees, startling Searon. Despite his keen h
earing and sight, he never saw nor heard the old man approaching. Long, wispy salt-and-pepper hair graced the stranger’s shoulders, falling down in thick curly strands. A raggedy brown robe draped down past his shoulders to his feet where he wore thick brown leather boots. He walked with the aid of a tall, thick wooden staff that masked the color of bark and seemed to be made of hardened wood that nearly resembled glass. The tip of the weapon (as Searon saw it) was five curled limbs that reminded him of fingers clawing for an unknown object. Searon clenched the hilt of his claymore and watched wearily as the old man approached him, radiant orange eyes glowing brighter with each step.
“Put that blade away, you fool,” the old man said with a serene voice.
“Who are you?” Searon asked, staring deep into the man’s demonic orange eyes.
“Someone who is much more attractive, and much smarter, than you are,” the old man said with a gravelly voice.
“You’re asking for it, old man.” Searon’s eyes narrowed in frustration.
“No, if I were asking for it, I would simply ask. However, you may call me Karceoles,” he said, folding his arms over his staff and grinning with lowered eyebrows.
“You must be wandering in the wrong forest. There are draeyks all through here,” Searon said in an attempt to frighten him off.
Karceoles kept his smile. “You underestimate me, boy. Besides being more attractive and smarter than you, I’m also exceedingly stronger.”
Searon grew tired of the old man now, and the way he talked without the slightest hint of respect in his voice. He studied the man’s face: full of hard lines, a strong, rounded jaw, swirling flames of orange for eyes, and, although he seemed aged, his wrinkles made him appear more wise than old.
“What do you want?” Searon asked, growing weary of the old man and ready to be on his way.
“Some help. I’m looking for someone to start a war, and I’ve found you. That is a lovely horse,” he said.
Searon turned to see his black-and-white striped stallion approaching, saddle and bags secured tightly; the mighty steed apparently oblivious to the old man. It nuzzled its cheek against Searon’s palm, which the warrior stroked before climbing atop the magnificent beast.
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