“You’re right,” his son said, nodding. “It’s a good thing Uncle Fali wasn’t here. We’d have to build a new house for us here.”
“Either that or we’d need your mother along. She always knew what to say to shut him up.”
Both nodded and pressed sighs from their lips. Their gazes sank to their boots on the wooden floor.
“Guess it’s time then,” Bolt conceded.
“At least we could get started,” his father agreed.
Together, they walked out of the inn, into the darkness.
* * * * *
There was a quiet breeze that swept over the plains far to the northeast of Lacrimore. The campfire crackled louder as it feasted on that passing air. Surrounding the burning kindling, a quartet of dwarves and a young man drank from ceramic mugs and quietly shared tales of their own. Others in their troupe were curled up in bedrolls beyond that warm light.
The breeze had carried clouds with it, and they left the moon obscured. Beyond their circle and the warm light of the fire, the dwarves could barely see their wagon or the mule burdened by it.
“And then he fell into the wheelbarrow, mortar and all!” one of the dwarves shouted, bursting into raucous laughter. “We was going to start calling him King Cementface!”
Those around him shared in his mirth, abuzz with good-natured amusement. Some wiped tears from their eyes, while others instantly dove back into their bitter drinks.
Bolt stared off to the north, where the clouds had not reached. He saw the few stray stars there and couldn’t keep the grin upon his face.
“You always hate going home these days,” his father said.
The young man blew out a quiet sigh. “It’s not the same without Ma or Eli there. It doesn’t feel like home anymore.”
“Some folk are better off to be sitting on a throne, not building one!” another dwarf called out.
Dorn focused elsewhere, his eyebrows rising at the sight of his depressed son. “You know that no matter how far they’ve gone, they still love you, right?”
Bolt nodded. “When we’re back among the cliffs, I’m not family the way you or Uncle Fali are. I grew up with all of them, but it’s still like I’m just visiting. And you have to have your time with our king, and I understand, but—”
“It’s time then, lad,” Dorn interrupted. “We’ll head to Daltain.”
“You know we can’t do that,” Bolt challenged. “The same problems I had growing up here we’ll have there. I don’t want to put you through that again.”
“No matter what, you’re my son,” the dwarf insisted. “I’d stand beside you until my bones were too old to let me.”
“The king won’t let you go.”
“Varek knows how important family is to me. He’ll let us off the hook, I promise you.” Dorn held out his mug, nodding to his child.
Swallowing hard, Bolt brought his mug up to meet his father’s.
As soon as the ceramic cups knocked together, a groan on the opposite side of the fire caught their attention. One of the dwarves had fallen back, an arrow quivering in his chest.
“Bart’s been shot!” someone cried.
The group of smallfolk stood, trying to surmise the situation. To the east, a dozen distant lights could be seen. One at a time, they took to the sky and landed upon the dwarves’ camp.
“Bandits,” a laborer beside Dorn spat. “They must have been camped out in the Pass of Gideon.”
“That’s a big group for bandits,” their foreman said. “They can have the damn campfire for all I care. Get Bart to his feet and head north. I’ll not have them take money from Thunderfury coffers.” As Dorn finished giving orders, he felt his son’s firm grasp on his wrist.
“You know this isn’t just bandits,” Bolt said. “They would have had a clean go at the wagon. Half the boys are drunk.”
“It won’t matter,” his father said. “We’ll be halfway to the Goldenscales before they realize we’re gone.”
“You know that’s not true,” the human protested. “Elmer had a hard enough time moving the wagon at a steady pace to here. The way north is bumpy and dark. The mule will move like a snail.
“Let me swing around and make them regret their attack,” he continued. When he saw his father’s furrowing brow, he stepped forward, curling his fingers into tightly clenched fists. “Come on. We’ve done this a thousand times.”
Stifling a growl, the dwarf bobbed his head. “Don’t you be stupid. The second there’s trouble, you get the hell out of there.”
A grin returned to the young man’s face. “There was a ridge I saw up north before it became dark. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
Dorn nodded, watching his son disappear into the darkness.
* * * * *
“They’re on the move,” one of the men said.
“How can you tell? It’s too black to see a thing.”
“The wheel of their wagon is squealing like a pig. You really don’t hear that?”
His companion shrugged, disinterested. “Who cares about the wagon? Come on, we can catch up with them before Gelner even realizes we’re not so much scouting as stalking.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
Upon the hill, both men unsheathed their swords, the scrape against their scabbards anything but subtle. They leapt off the small overhang, landing in the muddy grass there.
Huddled against the earthen wall, the man in the shadows was pleased to hear the struggling suction against their boots. He stepped forward, laying his hands against their backs. A bright light flashed before they even felt the stranger’s presence.
They were zapped forward and landed facedown on the ground. A wry grin crept to Bolt’s face as he slinked back into his hiding spot.
It didn’t take long for more of the men to take their place up above.
“Rolf? Egan?” another voice pressed.
“Where the hell are those idiots?”
A light illuminated the area ahead of Bolt, and he was affronted by the sound of crackling flames. That light progressed forward until it landed on the unconscious men sprawled out on the grass.
“Overzealous bastards,” the second fellow said.
“Dwarves must have got ‘em.”
“Dwarves would have finished the job. They’re moving.”
That pair also landed below, and if they had been facing east, their torchlight would have certainly illuminated the mischievous countenance of their companions’ aggressor.
Once again, Bolt stepped forward.
“Watch out,” one of the men on the ground groaned.
It was too late for one of them. His body had already been touched, and electrical current ran through his body before he could turn. As his body rocked, the torch flew from his hand.
His ally fared better, awkwardly spinning in time to see Bolt’s power in action. He swung ahead, but his fist went wide of his mark, grazing past the stranger’s cheek. Bolt retaliated immediately, driving his fist into the man’s stomach. While his foe was bent over, the young man placed his open palm upon the back of his opponent’s head. Another bright flash shone out before the fellow’s face smashed into the mud.
Bolt grinned and stepped forward again.
He was surprised to feel pressure around his neck. His hands went up reflexively, and he felt the leather loop around his neck. Before he realized it, he was tugged backward into the earthen wall.
As the noose grew tighter, he could see the whip rising from his neck. He looked up, seeing the bald man looking down upon him. He pulled tighter, and Bolt could feel his breath leaving his body.
His fingernails dug into his throat, but he realized it was too late. The injured man he had first put down charged at him. A fist collided into his nose, and then all was black.
* * * * *
The sensation of his feet dragging through the dirt was foreign to him. So, too, was the awkward angle he faced the ground.
When Bolt’s eyes fluttered open, h
e immediately recalled his final moments before being swept away to unconsciousness. He wriggled and grunted, but his arms were bound behind him. A wooden pole had been fashioned to keep him trapped, and his wrists were latched to it. A sash was pulled taut across his mouth as well.
“Stand him up,” he heard.
As his perspective changed, he realized he had severely underestimated the number of his enemies. Further, their attire suggested more organization than he expected.
The bald man who had apprehended him stood before him, a sneer upon his face.
“Do you know who we are, boy?” he asked. Bolt said nothing, simply staring at his captor. “We’re Tarsonians. You might have been put down, but it seems you were a little forward with that… gift of yours. Back home, we’ve got people who are extremely interested in that sort of thing.”
He wriggled and growled, and the Tarsonians couldn’t help but laugh. Silence was earned, though, when several series of large sparks flashed just beyond the man’s entrapped hands.
“That’s the one,” the bald man hissed. He turned to his side and snapped his fingers. “Grayson,” he called out.
“Yes, Gelner?”
The bald man stepped aside and held out his hand. “Give it here,” he demanded. A moment later he arrived before the prisoner again and threw an object at his feet.
Bolt looked down. Before him was the battered helmet of one of the dwarves in his group.
“Wouldn’t want you to have false hope,” Gelner said.
The captive spoke, but the sash kept his words muffled.
“What are we doing with you?” Gelner deciphered. “You’re coming home with us.” He whistled and pivoted on his heel. “Bring him along, boys. The Pass of Gideon gets one more tenant tonight.”
Despite his protests, Bolt was lowered once more. The dragging continued, and he was pulled along to whatever fate the Tarsonians had in store for him.
Afterword
I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you, the reader, for taking this journey with me. Tellest is a magnificent world, but it wouldn’t be so without you. As you can likely guess, this isn’t the end of the story.
Believe it or not, a review on an eBook goes a very long way. If you enjoyed this story, I’d be eternally grateful if you left some kind words for other readers to find this growing literary universe. If you enjoyed the words I scrawled on these pages, consider this: your words are priceless.
To find more information about the world of Tellest, please visit www.tellest.com for sneak peeks, our newsletter and supplementary information.
May your life always be an adventure,
Michael DeAngelo
***Don’t forget, you can get a free copy of the novella, Awake, by signing up for the Tellest newsletter. You’ll receive a reader copy within 24 hours—my way of thanking you for being awesome!***
Tellest Stories
Tales of Tellest
Mageborn (Book 1)
Son of the Storm (Book 2)
The Tinker’s Tale (Book 3)
Awake (Book 4)
The Fall (Book 5)
The Child of the Stars Trilogy
The Bindings of Fate (Book 1)
As Darkness Falls (Book 2)
The Enemy Within (Book 3)
About the Author
Michael DeAngelo is a spinner of fantasy tales for those that love the genre. With a vast fantasy series under his belt, he creates worlds. He conveys the stories that the denizens of the realm are unable to, turning heroes into legends and villains into horrors unlike anything you can imagine.
He crafts epics about extraordinary folks who are thrust into a world of danger and intrigue, and designs plots that make you contemplate if such a world could truly exist, placed atop a setting of majesty and wonder. He is the author of the Tellest series of fantasy novels and novellas, where imagination goes to play, and the world is in your hands.
Michael resides in Levittown, Pennsylvania with his incredible family: a beautiful wife and two fuzzy babies. To learn more about him, go to www.tellest.com
Connect with him at:
Facebook – Tellestbooks
Twitter – Michael DeAngelo
[email protected]
***BONUS MATERIAL BELOW***
Excerpt from The Tinker’s Tale (Tales of Tellest: Book 3)
A series of footsteps made their way to the exit, polished boots tapping against the shining floor. One pair abruptly stopped and turned. “Thank you all ever so much for coming,” Maximus said. “I hope you enjoyed yourself, and I look forward to seeing you—each of you—again.”
His guests, wealthy and well-dressed, contentedly thanked him and began down the steps. The man was left alone in the museum, waving farewells to the donors who had visited during the first open day that year. When Maximus was certain the attendees were out of sight, he let go of a deep sigh, as if he had a belly full of tainted air.
After he filled his lungs back up, he stood straighter, his gaze pointed at the building across the street. The place was odd, but it belonged to a dear friend. Chortling to himself, he shook his head before turning and heading deeper into the Museum of Wonders.
He couldn’t have known about the child lurking just beside the building. As the older man’s footsteps withdrew into the museum, the unexpected visitor slowly tiptoed from the shadows.
The boy was twelve, covered from head to toe in cracked, torn linens. On his feet, he wore rags tied into makeshift shoes with heavy twine. He made an almost imperceptibly quiet sound as he walked.
He, too, disappeared within the museum.
The dragon in front of him caught his attention but didn’t startle him. He knew of the statue of Batrura and understood its fearsome eyes judged all those who passed into the main hall of the building. Clinging to the shadows where he could, the street rat moved along the perimeter of the room. No matter how close or how far he was from that statue, he always felt as if those eyes were upon him.
Finally, he crept beneath it, entering the darkened hall.
A pungent aroma wafted through the museum like too many oils mixed together. The waif held his hand to his face, covering his nose, but that scent was overpowering. Before long, he had forgotten all about that odor, though, fixated instead on the repeated clangs and thuds that resonated from deeper within the place.
He soon found his steps keeping the beat, only inching forward whenever he heard the metallic thrum. Almost like a dance, the child pressed forward, until he reached another large room.
The evening sky pierced through a single tall window. Several stars and the moon lent their light, splashing down upon the tiled floor. Stopping just short of entering the place, the waif looked inside. At least a dozen objects of interest lined the walls. Relics of wars long passed, antiquities of man’s earliest emergence from the earth, and even a weapon or two were on display, kept secure underneath thick glass.
Two busts sat on squared marble pedestals, just at the entrance to the room. It was that faint starlight that assisted the child, for as he bent low, he could see the nearly invisible wire that passed between the stands. Taking care to lift his feet high, he crossed over.
The banging stopped, and the street rat wondered if perhaps there was some other way he had been discovered. He sped ahead, dipping into the far corner of the room, away from the light’s embrace.
A loud hiss resounded from within the museum, and fantasies of the dragon in the hall coming to life ran rampant throughout the youth’s mind. It was that thought that coerced him deeper into the darkness of the building.
More items were on display as the waif proceeded on. Odd wands were stored behind heavy glass, an old painting hung high on the wall between two oddly colored torches, and a large axe sat firmly upon the wall, a length of chain affixed to its head. The street rat took some time at the displays, fixated on all the curiosities. Even as the banging resumed, he remained focused on the unique items.
Several of the antiquities ha
d bronzed plaques situated beneath them. In the shadows, it was a struggle to see the engraved words. The youth approached each display and gently ran his fingers against the letters.
A strong scent emanated from within the museum then, like too much sewer crept up from beneath the streets outside. An uncomfortable burp escaped the child, who forcefully covered his lips with the palm of his hand.
With a stifled grunt, he continued on.
Far at the end of the hall, a light cast out through the shadows. A dark silhouette played through that light, raising its arm high and striking it against the ground as if in vengeance. Each one of those was followed by the metallic clang. The boy understood then the curator struck diligently and forcefully with a hammer.
That determined work ethic would provide just the distraction the street rat needed.
He continued along the hall where more highly valued items were placed. So close to the owner’s sanctuary, they had to be worth a great deal. One by one, he placed his hands on display cases, trying to lift them. None of the protective sheaths budged, however, defying his craft.
A silent harrumph shook the boy’s chest. His eyes fell upon a glimmering object to his side, just beyond where the curator’s light poured into the hall. A ceremonial dagger rested upon the wall, seemingly floating there. There was no pedestal, no wire, just the plaque beneath it.
He found himself drawn to its inscription.
The letters explained its former owner, Jasmine Byrne, had used it to return Roark, the Mad King, to the underworld.
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