The Shattered Orb
Vagrant Souls Book 1
Samuel E. Green
Valor Forge Press
Contents
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Western Map
Eastern Map
1. Hiroc
2. Fryda
3. Edoma
4. Idmaer
5. Edoma
6. Idmaer
7. Edoma
8. Fryda
9. Edoma
10. Fryda
11. Hiroc
12. Edoma
13. Alfric
14. Alfric
15. Fryda
16. Alfric
17. Fryda
18. Hiroc
19. Idmaer
20. Hiroc
21. Edoma
22. Fryda
23. Hiroc
24. Fryda
25. Hiroc
26. Edoma
27. Fryda
28. Edoma
29. Hiroc
30. Fryda
31. Hiroc
32. Edoma
33. Idmaer
34. Edoma
35. Hiroc
36. Fryda
37. Edoma
38. Idmaer
39. Fryda
40. Hiroc
41. Edoma
42. Hiroc
43. Idmaer
44. Edoma
45. Idmaer
46. Hiroc
47. Edoma
48. Fryda
49. Hiroc
50. Idmaer
51. Fryda
52. Hiroc
53. Edoma
54. Fryda
55. Saega
About the Author
Free Epic Fantasy Novel
The Destroyer
Chapter 1- Kaiyer
Copyright © 2017 by Samuel E. Green
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art by Alberto Besi
Cover design by www.designbookcover.pt
Content edit by Byron Quertermous
Line edit by Lorelei Logsdon
Proofread by Courtney Umphress
Created with Vellum
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Western Map
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Eastern Map
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1
Hiroc
Hiroc knelt behind a boulder, wishing he'd brought a weapon to Tyme's Hill. Acolytes of the Holy Order of Aern don't fight with weapons, he could hear Ealstan say. Poor advice now.
Six dead warriors, their own spears protruding from their bodies like tent poles, lay outside the gate at the bottom of the hill.
Thunder boomed. Rain fell from the dark clouds.
Swallowing his fear, Hiroc bounded over to the gate. The warriors were certainly dead, all lifeless eyes and gaping wounds. Whoever had murdered them had done so swiftly and with little effort. Taking a sword from a dead warrior's scabbard, he turned away and climbed the steps.
At the peak of Tyme's Hill, stone pillars twenty feet high encircled the holy ground. Blue wards marked the sandstone of the outer circle. Normally they ebbed with power, but now they were dull. The altar was within the inner circle, along with the golden hands that housed the Guardian Aern's orb. The hands were empty.
Hiroc gasped as he rushed over to the altar.
Shards of broken crystal lay in a pool of bloody smears on the altar's capstone. An intermingling of blood and water ran down the dark stone and pooled at Hiroc's feet.
The rain intensified.
The sound of crunching gravel made Hiroc look up. A lumbering figure, wider than an ox and taller than two men, lurched toward him. It wore black robes that seemed to swallow the little light coming through the storm clouds.
Hiroc rolled sideways as a giant foot crunched stone. Leaping upright, Hiroc gripped his sword in both hands. The thing charged, splashing mud with each tremendous step. Hiroc jumped aside at the last moment, and the thing crashed into a stone pillar, producing a sound like splitting earth. The pillar toppled sideways onto the next. Hiroc could only watch as the entire circle of pillars plummeted.
When the dust faded, the creature turned again to Hiroc. In desperation, Hiroc hacked at its feet. The sword glanced off its skin. A backhand sent Hiroc sprawling. Losing the sword, he tumbled, wrapped in his acolyte robes. He staggered to his feet and freed himself of the tangled cloth. Just a foot away was the edge of Tyme's Hill and a drop that would have surely killed him.
A deafening roar set his teeth on edge.
The monster stomped the ground like a bull, dropped its shoulder, and charged.
Hiroc had no weapon. Behind him, a deadly drop. Quaking, he gripped his ring so hard, the sharp edges of the sigil drew blood. He rattled off a litany of Guardians and old gods, starting with Aern and ending with Wodan, hoping that one might save him.
He wasn't sure what particular god's name had spilled from his lips when lightning forked across the sky. The air boomed. A lightning bolt hammered into the giant, throwing it from its feet. Another boom sounded as the creature slammed into the ground.
Astonished, Hiroc breathed a sigh of relief as blue fire enveloped the creature.
For a moment it was still.
Hiroc kissed the ring. If he only knew which god had saved him, he'd be forever in their debt.
A grunting noise drew his attention back to where the giant had been. It was no longer lying on the ground. It now stood, a tempest of writhing flames. With a snarl, it cast aside its burning robes. The creature's hardened muscle was etched with scars. Its pale skin bore no burns from the heavenly fire.
Hiroc's heart skipped a beat as the creature moved two steps forward. A deadly grin formed on a head knotted and wrinkled like an ancient tree. Hiroc inched backward until his right foot almost slipped from the edge. There was nowhere to go.
He cried again to a dozen different gods.
Nothing.
Had he forgotten one?
"Taste of my vengeance," it said. Before Hiroc could begin another litany, the giant gripped his neck with a hand the size of a buckler, lifting him from his feet. "Indham and all its people will suffer for their slight against the gods."
Hiroc kicked, thrashing his legs. The kicks glanced off the creature's hardened stomach. He wretched, breath evading him like a thief.
His vision blackened.
Then, suddenly he was on his knees, gasping for air.
Something roared. A blinding light burst above him, showering him in golden sparks. When the light faded, someone stood next to him.
It was not the giant, but Saega the augur in his faded habit. His wrinkled left hand grasped a fox-head staff, its tip smoking from recent use.
"Acolyte Hiroc," Saega said, helping Hiroc to his feet. "Are you hardmed?"
Quivering, Hiroc shook his head. All courage had faded. All he could see was the empty hands where Aern's orb should have been. "The orb is shattered."
"Indeed," Saega said, his wispy white hair plastered to his scalp from the rain. "But the creature fled. It could not remain when I summoned the forces of holy magic."
Hiroc thought to question how an augur had co
me upon holy magic, but his mind went elsewhere as he traced the line of blood to the ancient altar. Upon its surface lay the broken shards of the orb. It was the one thing that protected Indham, and it had been shattered.
2
Fryda
Fryda straightened, not wanting to miss what was likely to be the best match of Summertide. She was squished between two women. Fat chins pressed against fat necks as they sneered down at her. But Fryda didn't care. She wasn't going to miss this for anything.
The crowd around her was made up mostly of Fatherless, warriors, and a smattering of priests and acolytes. They sat on wooden trestles surrounding a circular patch of dirt that was outlined in white paint. The stadium seated two hundred, and most of the seats were filled. Fryda was—as far as she could tell—the only Daughter of Enlil in the audience. If Mother Edoma learned of Fryda's presence at the tournament, it would be dishwashing for at least a month.
Oswin and Alfric were the remaining pair of contestants after months of grueling matches. They were Fatherless, a polite term for the children of the caravans of people who had come from north of Babon's Pass eighteen years ago with little more than the clothes on their backs. Because they were born outside of Aernheim, they normally would have been forbidden from becoming warriors. But not today. The winner of the duel would be able to enter the barracks.
Alfric bowed to a chorus of cheers. He was handsome, as attested to by the women beside her—although they did whisper about his scars and how they marred an otherwise striking face. Fryda had long grown used to the three slashes extending from Alfric's forehead to his chin. She thought they added character.
Oswin somersaulted into the arena. He pranced about like a dancer as women swooned. Fryda had to stifle a chuckle. He cartwheeled before parrying an imaginary attacker with his practice sword. When the crowd had finished applauding, he bowed.
Fryda knew that Oswin wanted to become a warrior because he needed the money to treat his ailing daughter, Whitney, who was sick with devil's fire. Few employers wanted a Fatherless, and those who did paid meager sums. The luckiest of the Fatherless were able to work within Idmaer's Spire, but that had its shortcomings, too—Idmaer was a short-tempered man who expected perfect obedience.
Alfric came over to Fryda and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Mere months ago, she had started dreaming of what it might be like to marry him. She was twenty now, four years past the age of marriage, and he was eighteen. She still had time to marry Alfric. He just had to ask and she would happily be his wife.
Mother Edoma would allow Fryda to leave before she took her vows. If Alfric became a warrior, he would be able to live and work in the town. So there was more than just Alfric's future on the line today, but their shared future, too.
The women sitting beside Fryda snickered. They whispered, "cursed" loudly enough for her to hear. Despite her yellow robes that showed her for a Daughter of Enlil, most everyone knew she was a Fatherless. Feeling her face flush, she drew her hood closer over her head.
"You don't have to hide," Alfric said, his hands meeting her own. Gently, he pulled her hood back.
Fryda tried to keep frowning, but it was impossible with the way he looked at her. Not wanting Alfric to see, she looked down and adjusted her hair pin.
He shot a deadly look at the two women beside Fryda before lifting her chin and meeting her eyes. "You have no reason to be ashamed."
"That's easy for you to say," she said, turning away again. "Look at all your supporters." Most of the people in the audience wanted him to win. Although he was a Fatherless, he was unusual in that most people liked him.
Alfric gave her a smile, as he always did before a duel, as though he might die. She had called it an attempt to manipulate her, but deep down, she feared that it just might happen. Injuries were infrequent, and deaths even more so. But even practice weapons could kill if someone was hit hard enough.
Fryda had thought the concept of a tournament to become a warrior ridiculous. But she wasn't a man, and men possessed an irrational desire to prove themselves.
The bell sounded. The stadium silenced as Alfric and Oswin met, bowed, and then stepped back four paces.
"Keep yourself grounded," Fryda whispered, even though she knew he couldn't hear her. "He'll try to attack you from the side." She had said those very things during their training session that morning. He could be hardheaded at the best of times, so she offered a small prayer. Four points were all he needed in order to win.
In just a few short minutes, it seemed like the gods had answered her prayers. Alfric had scored three points, all of them direct blows to Oswin's chest. Oswin had two points. Gone was his previous joyfulness. He scowled as he wiped sweat from his forehead.
Alfric's face was scrunched in determination. Fryda could just imagine what might be going through his head. He would be trying to justify winning. He and Fryda had argued earlier that week about fighting in the tournament. Oswin, after all, needed the employment more.
When Alfric stood for the next round, Fryda knew he was ready to win.
Alfric and Oswin met in the center and bowed before the bell rang. Oswin leaped backward as Alfric lunged. With his longer arms, Oswin used his free hand to grab Alfric's shirt. Eyes wide with desperation, Oswin pulled his sword over his head and drove its pommel onto Alfric's head. Alfric crumpled.
The bell rang.
Oswin had won the point.
Fryda jumped to her feet. "That was dirty!"
Alfric rose groggily, clutching his head. There was blood coming from the wound.
The warriors whispered among themselves. One stepped forward, a warrior by the name of Sigebert. "The point stands. But any more of that and we'll have to disqualify someone."
A healer attended to Alfric, dressing the wound and then wrapping his head with bandages. Fryda wanted to go over to him but couldn't. Alfric needed to stay focused.
The match started again. Alfric's moves were more aggressive, as though Oswin's foul play had infuriated him. It made him vulnerable. His swings held too much power and were wider than normal. He was overcompensating because of the wound.
Oswin slipped inside Alfric's reach and brought his sword down. In a flash, Alfric blocked the attack. The two swords met each other again and again. They pivoted sideways, dancing in circles. Neither gained the upper hand. Both men heaved, their shoulders rising and falling with exertion. A guttural roar exploded from Alfric's mouth as he charged Oswin. Ducking below a wide swing, Alfric dropped his back foot and rammed his shoulder into the other man's stomach.
The force of the blow floored Oswin. Before he could stand, the match was over. Alfric slapped Oswin lightly on the cheek with the flat of his sword. It was a move that made the crowd uneasy, but not for long. They soon erupted into a fit of applause and cheering.
"Winner!" Sigebert yelled, barely audible above the din. He stepped out from the table and walked to the playing field.
Tears wet Fryda's cheeks. Alfric had done it. He had won the match.
Sigebert grabbed Alfric's arm and raised it into the air in celebration. But Alfric was frowning. He stared at Oswin still kneeling where he had lost.
The crowd dissipated, likely displeased with the victor's poor attitude.
Fryda ran out from the stands and hugged him.
"You did it," she said. "You're going to be a warrior."
Alfric forced a smile and nodded. Looking again at Oswin, he started walking toward him.
Fryda wondered what Alfric might do to the other man for fighting dirty.
The warriors weren't likely to intervene. Their corrections were typically violent anyway. They'd probably be pleased to see a fight that drew more blood than the sword match.
Alfric grabbed Oswin's arm and dragged him to his feet. Oswin's eyes were red-rimmed.
"No hard feelings," Alfric said as he clapped the other man's hand.
"You were the better man."
"You can take my job as porter at Idmaer's Spire once I'
m admitted into the warriors," Alfric said. "The High Priest pays well, but you'll have to work hard."
Oswin's mouth dropped. When he'd recovered from his shock, he clapped Alfric's hand again. "I only fought dirty because I couldn't let Whitney waste away without her tonics." He sighed. "As much as I like sparring, I didn't want to become a warrior. I've never been comfortable with killing things."
Alfric smiled. "Then I'm glad we both got what we want."
Thunder rumbled and the clouds opened with rain.
Alfric and Oswin walked over to Fryda.
"You heard all that?" Alfric said to her.
She smiled. "You did a good thing." Lightning flashed above them. "I don't like the look of this storm."
Alfric grasped the pendant hanging on his chest. "Let's get inside." He frowned before grinning again, the scars twisting. "We have a win to celebrate."
No celebrations for you lot," a warrior said. "I couldn't help overhearing. This storm has the Council concerned. Everyone is to return to their homes . . . or wherever it is you Fatherless spend the evening.
3
Edoma
Edoma, Mother Superior of the Daughters of Enlil, fastened her toolkit to her belt. It was filled with chisels, brushes, hammers, and various other utensils required for the catacombs. She wasn't looking forward to descending into the depths of Enlil's Temple today, but she never really was. The allure of the mysterious catacombs had worn off years ago.
But she wasn't one to give up so easily.
"Mother," Mildryd said as she came into the room. Normally she wore a smile, but today she was frowning. If she weren't so old, Edoma might have considered Mildryd for the next Mother. Mildryd enjoyed her duties as librarian in the temple's substantial library, but she led the other Daughters well and normally handled most things herself. Whatever concerned her now had to be important. "The novices are fearful of this storm. They think Aern has finally come to strike us Daughters down."
The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1) Page 1
