THE HALFBLOOD KING
“I believe we are over nine hundred feet above the level of the sea. As to your second question, we are about a day from Freemarket, the last settlement of men before we reach the Southern Kingdom.” Just then, an arrow flew from the dark forest, straight at Aleron. He barely raised his buckler in time to block and the bodkin neatly pierced the shield, vambrace and forearm together. He froze, momentarily, at the sight of the bloody arrowhead sticking two inches out his inner forearm. “Goblins!” Hadaras shouted. His sword was already out and he chopped the black-fletched shaft from the boy’s buckler. “Draw your blade, lad and be at the ready!” He gestured and raised a dome of shimmering blue around them. More arrows rained down upon them, but were incinerated upon contact with the dome of magical energy, as was the first goblin warrior to charge the pair. The momentum of his charge carried him headlong into the blue light and they witnessed his body dissolve into gray ash, from front to back. This stopped the others from charging and they surrounded the pair instead, shooting the occasional arrow and hurling the odd spear, only watch them flare against the dome. “Leave the arrow in for now, boy; it plugs the hole. Are you well enough to shoot your bow?”
“I think so, Grandfather,” Aleron answered. “It really doesn’t hurt.” He moved to retrieve his bow from his saddle, the quiver already on his hip. The goblins had them completely encircled now. There were nineteen in all, along with a half dozen of their half-tame wolf dogs.
“They know I can only maintain this for a little while and they will wait until I tire and falter. Take out as many as you can before then.”
“I’ll do my best,” Aleron replied, as he dismounted with bow in hand. He winced as the bow forced his forearm to twist against the shaft piercing it. I’ll have to remember not to do that again. Luckily, he was wearing a Chebek forearm buckler, with an arrow pass cutout, so he did not need to remove it to shoot.
The goblins jeered at him, one yelling, “What you gonna do, man-child, kill us all with your little bow.” That one died with an arrow up one apelike nostril and a second one went down with a shaft through the eye.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied…
THE HALFBLOOD KING
Book 1 of the Chronicles of Aertu
By Julian E Benoit
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters in this work to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and is likely the product of an overactive imagination. But hey, if there were no overactive imaginations, nothing much would be created, would it?
Copyright © 2014 by Julian E. Benoit
All Rights Reserved
The Bardiche Press
To Dawnna, Lucas, Tristan and Ethan
Your love and support mean everything to me.
And, to the wiener dogs,
who love us unconditionally
and protect us from all intruders
Prologue
Gurlachday, Day 7, Harvest Moon, 8747, Sudean Calendar
Valgier couldn’t imagine being more content than he was at this time of his life. His occupation as a woodsman and primarily, his charcoal making business, were providing well for his young family. He built them a modest home in the foothills of the Southwestern Blue Mountains, managing to finish it shortly before the birth of their son Aleron. His customers included not only the men of the local villages, but also the dwarvish smiths of the mountains, who preferred charcoal to the rock coal they mined, for the forging of their finest blades. They claimed rock coal would make the steel brittle, but charcoal was cleaner. It made for a booming business and Valgier put aside most of his other activities to devote enough time to keep up with the orders. He was happy that he could provide a good living for his wife and son.
The boy was growing well and at two years was handsome and tall for his age. In a few years, he would be able to help his father in the forest. The boy’s mother, Audina, insisted on the name Aleron for their son. Valgier, at first, thought it a bit pretentious to name their son after the ancient King of Sudea, but the name grew on him and it seemed to fit the boy well. His wife had a very persuasive way about her, as well as being the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He could never tell her “no”, but in return, she never asked for anything unreasonable. The name was a common enough one and had been for the millennia since the King gave his life in the final battle against the Nameless One. He was greatest of all the rulers of Sudea, bringing the kingdom to its pinnacle of power and influence. The trend may have continued indefinitely, if not for the decimation of the noble households from that brutal war. His thoughts wandered back to Audina, as his footsteps followed the familiar path to their home. He remembered how they had met:
He just returned to the village from a fortnight working in the forest, filthy from the baker’s dozen charcoal heaps he left smoldering behind him. He brought his mule to the stables and carried his bag to the room he maintained above the tavern, requesting a couple pails of hot water from the publicans prior to climbing the stairs. Two years before, he sold his family’s homestead to the south after they, along with his betrothed, died of plague. At twenty years of age, he had nothing but the money from the farm and headed north to begin anew.
About a half bell after entering his room, he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to the sight of the most stunningly beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon, her lustrous golden-brown hair framing features almost too perfect to be real. In her hands were two steaming pails of water. He stammered a thank you, as he quickly moved to relieve her of her burden. She smiled at that and it seemed as if the heavens opened up before him, so beautiful she was. In the days to follow, he learned that she also lost her family in the plague and moved here from the northwest coast, bordering the Elvish Colony. He sometimes suspected that she had some elvish blood in her veins, not unheard of in the border country, though she always denied it. They had been together nearly three years now and she was still as lovely as the day they met.
As he entered the house, he set his broadax by the door and called out to his wife; there was no answer. “Aleron!” he called to his son next, with still no answer. He could smell supper cooking and wondered if they might be out behind the house. The assassin’s blade slashed through his throat as he made his way past the kitchen, to the back door. His last vision was of oddly slanted eyes, so dark no pupils were visible, staring at him from a darkly tanned face. The straight black hair was tied back, out of the assailant’s face. He slumped to the floor, vision dimming as his life’s blood flowed across the front of his jerkin and realized in despair, that his family was most likely dead as well. Just like last time, he was powerless to save the ones he loved. It was with profound sadness that he slipped into unconsciousness and the life left his body.
The foreign killer left the man in the center hall, along with the dead woman in the kitchen and made his way to the bedroom, where the young boy lay drugged and unconscious. He picked the toddler up and slung him over his shoulder. His Master had been very clear in his instructions, that this boy would come to no harm, physically, or emotionally. The assassin made sure to render the lad unconscious before the killing of the parents. He had a good idea why this boy was important; his mother’s elvish features became apparent as whatever sorcery she used to conceal them died along with her. This child was likely one of the few half-elves alive and potentially of great value to the Master.
***
Hadaras rode hard down the wooded trail, the high peaks of the Blue Mountains occasionally visible through the trees over his left shoulder. The non-descript brown mare he rode was capable of
impressive speed, as befitted its lineage of elvish warhorses. He rode since late morning, as soon as he sensed the malevolent presence closing upon his daughter’s family. He rarely strayed far from the family he secretly watched over. He sensed too, that he was too late to save her, or her human husband, but the boy still lived. He was close now. He slowed the mare to a trot and cast out with his senses.
***
The assassin rode northwest, a packhorse trailing behind with a small limp bundle secured across its back. The boy shouldn’t come around until well after he set camp for the night. Then he would tell the boy of the fire (since he had actually set the house ablaze upon departing) and how he was too late to save the boy’s parents. He would explain to the child how he would take him to a place where he would be cared for, just like his real parents would have. Some trauma was inevitable, but the boy was young enough that it wouldn’t cause any lasting damage. He was mulling over these thoughts when he came upon the lone horseman on the trail ahead. It was a damn elf, with no business in this territory other than with the assassin himself. Warded against elvish sorcery, he was confident in his ability in any one-on-one fight with conventional weapons.
“Give up the child and I may let you live Kolixtlani”, the old elf called out.
“Let me pass unhindered old man and I may allow you to live. I do not fear your elf magic.” The assassin replied, concealing his consternation at the elf’s knowledge of his nationality.
“Very well, have it your way.” The rider answered back. With a lazy wave of his fingers, a sliver of blue light projected from the elf’s hand and neatly sliced through the other’s neck. There was a look of shocked disbelief in the assassin’s eyes, right before his head toppled from his shoulders. The hands still gripped the reins tightly, as the body slowly slumped from the saddle, no blood flowing from the cauterized stump of the man’s neck.
Hadaras dismounted and made his way to the pair of horses. He recognized the pack animal as the horse belonging to his daughter’s mate. He laid a hand on the bundle that contained his grandson and sensed that the boy was unharmed. He then turned his attention to the other horse and its rider, prying the dead fingers from the reins and laying the body on its back. He picked up the head by its hair and looked into the still open eyes, saying, “Whoever you are, that sent this man, you have failed again.” He then threw the head to the side of the path. Examining the body revealed the warded sigils the killer assumed would fend off Hadaras’ sorcery. The sigils still glowed faintly red with the unsavory magic of the Adversary, activated by the touch of elvish magic. There was powerful magic invested in these, but a simple bend of his will dispelled it back to the source. That will make someone flinch, he thought to himself. Those wards must have been the reason the assassin was able to catch Audina at unawares. She had had some mastery of sorcery, but not on par with her father’s.
He led the horses to his own and tied the reins together and then returned to the corpse on the path. Grabbing one wrist and one ankle, he lightly flung the body to the side, to join its head. The blue flame he conjured burned with such intensity that all was consumed, including the teeth. All he left behind was a dusting of fine gray ash. Returning to the horses, he hooked the reins of the assassin’s horse to his mare’s saddle and untied Aleron, removing the bag covering him. The little boy’s face held a placid expression, as Hadaras carried him back to the lead horse. Resting the child on his shoulder, he remounted and then coaxed the animals forward, past the patch of ash, toward the house of his own child.
As they rounded a bend in the trail, Hadaras could see the still burning wreckage of the house and knew that the child’s parents were both within. He dismounted and found a patch of soft grass, away from the wreckage, to lay his grandson. He made his way closer to the house and it’s attached stable. The heat was intense, but the blue nimbus enveloping the elf protected him from the brunt of it. There would be nothing salvageable now, he determined. He stepped back and raising his arms, he added his own blue fire to that of the blazing home. There would be no charred remains for the villagers to find, no bodies to count. It was in keeping with the funerary practices of his people as well and he voiced a prayer to speed their souls’ return to the Allfather.
Hadaras collected his grandson and remounted the mare. Turning the train back up the path, they made their way towards the border with elvish territory. The thoughts going through his head were much similar to those of the assassin as he made his way up the same path. How would he explain the loss of the child’s parents and everything he ever knew, without traumatizing the boy? He could feel Aleron stirring against his shoulder and knew he would awaken from his stupor before long.
A bell or more passed before they came upon the glade where he intended them to camp. Hadaras wrapped the small child in a blanket and laid him down near the well-used fire ring. Picketing the horses nearby, he went through the assassin’s bags and found, surprisingly, a collection of Aleron’s toys and some extra bedding, indicative of an intention to keep the boy comfortable. He chose a well-worn stuffed doll and brought it to where the little boy lay. Then he proceeded to build a fire. He would hide the lad in elvish territory for a time, safe there, even as he himself hid from his own people. He needed time to prepare this boy for a future that would be anything but uneventful. As well, he needed to figure out how the assassin made his way through elvish, or dwarvish lands, in order to attack this family. It was highly unlikely for the Kolixtlani to choose the southern route, through the heavily populated lands of men. He heard Aleron whimper and looked over to see him clutching the toy tightly to himself. Hadaras felt for the boy’s mind and sensed that it was troubled. The boy knew something was amiss, though he could not comprehend what.
Chapter 1
Carpathday, Day 4, Sowing Moon, 8757, Sudean Calendar
Aleron sat with legs dangling over the side of the wooden bridge. His friends Barathol and Geldun were there beside him. All three had their fishing poles in hand, lines dangling into the languid flow of the river below them. Cork bobbers tugged at the ends of the lines, attempting to follow the current out to sea. Steel hooks lurked inside balls of dough, infused with bacon grease, several inches below the surface, as the boys attempted to lure the local river carp to their demise. If they caught anything, the boys’ mothers would complement them upon their triumphant return. The other two, that is, Aleron barely remembered his parents. He lived with his grandfather and cousin and they were the only family he had in the world. His cousin Jessamine, was much older, in her twenties in fact and had lost her parents during the plague, before Aleron was born. His grandfather Hadaras, was old, maybe sixty or so, but had an ageless quality that was difficult to define.
Of the three boys, Aleron was the youngest, not quite past his twelfth year, but he was the tallest, as well as the brightest, of the three. He was usually cast as the ringleader for their endeavors, both legitimate or not. The exception being when they fell into trouble with the older boys in the village, then Barathol took over. Though not as tall as Aleron, he was much stouter and quite adept with his fists.
Aleron had not always lived in the village, only moving there about three years prior. They lived alone in the forest, far to the north, until one day Grandfather stated that they should move to a town, so Aleron could learn about other people. He didn’t always like the things he learned about other people. Geldun and Barathol were the only boys his age in town and he quickly joined their alliance against the cruel older boys of the village.
One day, somewhere near his ninth birthday, he wandered home with a bloody nose and a bruised cheekbone; they were unable to outrun the older boys that time. Jessamine set immediately to cleaning up the bloodied, teary-eyed youth, attempting to comfort his bruised ego, as well as his physical injuries. Grandfather looked at him and, with kind amusement in his eyes, said “It looks like it’s time for you to learn how to fight.” From that day forward, Grandfather spent one or two bells each day teaching Aleron fi
ghting techniques. He claimed to have been a soldier once, long ago and to have lived many years among the elves, learning from them as well. The training started with simple punches, kicks and grapples, progressing over the years to more advanced techniques for subduing an opponent, as well as various weapon forms.
Though Grandfather warned him not to reveal too much of what he learned to those outside the family, he felt the need to practice with boys more his own size and he showed what he learned to his two close friends. As it turned out, Barathol was a natural talent, taking to the techniques like a fish to water and quickly surpassing Aleron in skill, while Geldun proved to be of middling talent, though solid in his tenacity.
The boys often dreamed of leaving their small village of farmers and woodsmen, to become sailors or soldiers for the Kingdom of Sudea; still a kingdom though it had no king for over a thousand years. Their town was only a few miles from the coast, so all three of them had seen the navy ships moored at the bay and the sailors swaggering through the streets of the port city, dropping coin like it was their last day with the living.
Though Grandfather didn’t appear to have any particular line of work to apprentice Aleron to, he encouraged Aleron to help the neighbors whenever possible. Aleron especially liked helping the woodsmen, because that had been his father’s trade and it gave him a sense of connection to the man for whom he had but fleeting memories. When townsfolk became curious about Hadaras’ apparently comfortable retirement, they were told he was a retired soldier who had been generously rewarded during his time of service, who decided to move to the countryside in order to better raise his orphaned grandchildren.
The Halfblood King: Book 1 of the Chronicles of Aertu Page 1
