Chains of Fate (The Fate Circle Saga Book 1)

by Alledria Hurt

  Chains of Fate

  Alledria Hurt

  Copyright © 2015 Alledria Hurt

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:0692456996

  ISBN-13:9780692456996

  Dedicated to my parents.

  You were my first readers and best cheerleaders.

  1

  It could hardly be called a hill, the spur of land above the plain where Vad’Alvarn’s army marched. He sat on his horse, watching, waiting as the formations were created. Bodies far enough away they were nothing more than moving suits of armor, mechanical things carrying out his orders. He sat alone above them, watching with some slight pleasure. It was good to watch his orders being carried out. He gazed in the distance. Some miles away he could see the walls of the city of Kerlan.

  Kerlan stood in defiance of him. Of course, they had. He had never come to them before, only devoured their neighbors as he marched his army across the land. They had never had reason to fear him. His campaigns were many, but they were far away, so far away Kerlan saw the army of the Burning Island as little more than a mythical threat. When he turned from Corilor and began across the sparsely populated plains between Corilor and Kerlan, he sent runners ahead, at the behest of his council, to inform Kerlan of how soon it would be joining the kingdom of the Burning Island under the helm of Vad’Alvarn, the great king of the empire. His spies said the messengers fought valiantly but were beheaded before they could return with their answer.

  The man’s death was answer enough. His body had been discovered strung up outside the city walls, his livery prominent upon his shriveled corpse. Kerlan feared no invader. Their walls would protect them.

  Vad’Alvarn smirked at the thought. Their walls would protect them certainly. Yet their protection would also seal their fate. They had high sturdy walls built to keep out harrowing bandits, the raiders who would dare to consider the city a prize worthy of taking. Against such opponents, they were formidable. Against the army of the Burning Island they would do nothing more than trap women and children in amongst fighting men, dividing the lives of every man who stood in their defense.

  Kerlan’s magistrates, in their arrogance, had not called for an evacuation of the city. No, they simply shut the gates and expected the great army would only continue forward, leaving them to stand behind them and pelt them with whatever they had on hand.

  One leaves no enemy behind.

  The smile on Vad’Alvarn’s face faded slightly at the sound of those words spoken in his ear. The voice was one he knew well, one he had once enjoyed hearing. Now, however wished for it was, the voice was no more than ghost haunting his life. Despite magics aplenty, there was no true cure for a haunted heart.

  The sound of hoofbeats coming toward him made him glance away from Kerlan. None would join him there without express permission save one, Navar, his second. The blond warrior rode toward him, a grin on his broad face. Navar never made any secret of how he anticipated the slaughter of taking a city. They were truly brothers in that respect despite the difference in their ages.

  “Formations are nearly completed. We blanket the plains for three miles back.” Information Vad’Alvarn already truly knew, but he signaled his hearing. “Are you ready to begin?”

  “Yes. We should begin soon. They know we are coming. They have had time to fortify their gates and prepare. Now would be the best time to show them that their fortifications and their preparations are for nothing.” His smirk turned into a grin, showing his pointed teeth beneath his helm. Navar shared his expression.

  “They have already run themselves to ground. I doubt they will put up much of a fight.”

  “I suppose they won’t. It is wearing to fight an opponent with no real interest in winning.”

  “You do not seem all that tired.”

  “I’m not. The world will be mine. I made a vow.”

  Navar said nothing. The vow was something he knew of but rarely spoke of when it came to his best friend. There would always be some secrets between them. Some things left unsaid. It was the way of all men. There was no reason they should be different.

  “Shall I give the order to advance?”

  “Yes.”

  Navar reached down next to his saddle and took up the great curved horn hanging there by a leather strap. Though it had once been banded with bronze, the tarnish of age had settled upon the bands giving it a disgusting sea green color against the yellow of the horn from which it was made. Only the mouthpiece seemed untouched and it was this Navar touched to his lips. It would cry across the plain, the tone of its great bellow carrying to the ear of every commander in Vad’Alvarn’s army and even up to the halls of Kerlan itself.

  There were those who said the cry of that horn, the horn of summons for the king of the Burning Island, was actually the cry of the warhounds of the warrior god of the Burning Island himself. When it sounded, it drew on the darkest parts of men sending them from the light into the savagery of their soul. Those who watched the Burning Island’s army advance and then raze a city could truly understand such a description.

  Now it bellowed across the plain, baying for blood as it had many times throughout Vad’Alvarn’s campaign. The effort brought redness to Navar’s face, but it did not disturb his grin. When he brought the horn down from his lips, he hung it back against his saddle.

  “We will destroy them and they will give us spoils.”

  “So simple the things you want.” Vad’Alvarn glanced at the man near him with amusement.

  “Are you not interested in the spoils?”

  “I want to rule the world.” Then Vad’Alvarn kicked his horse into a trot off the hill. Navar followed close behind. They would join the royal standard bearer at the head of the army. There was a city above them they needed to be conquered.

  Night found the army of the Burning Island drawing back from the walls of Kerlan, defeated but undaunted. It was a high walled city, to take it in a single day would have been an insult to the architect. They pulled back far enough the catapults set high in the walls could not reach them, but only just.

  Vad’Alvarn sat in the dark of his tent with his hands before him, fingers touching but palms apart. His choice pose for thought. Though there were no braziers or torches, he could easily see the forms of the men moving outside of the tent, could mark the pattern of the carpet beneath his feet. His armor was settled on a stand near his cot. There was no great bed here, not like the one he enjoyed back in his capital city, but he did not care. A place to sleep was enough. In his travels, he had learned that many times over.

  Taking in a slow deep breath, he let himself settle into a doze. Sleep was not truly necessary and he wanted to be awake for the raid he planned with a few of his elite. They would go against the gate itself in the dark, force it open, and then when the horn sounded, it would bring the army flooding in like a tide. Kerlan would have no further defense against them. Another city fallen before his might.

  At high moon, Navar entered the tent but only as far as the light from outside extended.

  “We are ready, my lord.”

  “Good.” Vad’Alvarn opened his eyes and for just a moment, they burned like live coals in the dark before returning to their usual scarlet shade. Within moments, he was up, putting on lighter armor than standard. They needed to ride quickly and his heavy armor would only slow him down and give them away.

  Circling away from the camp, they made for the high white walls of Kerlan from the side, slipping up close to use the wall as shelter against the eyes of the defenders. At the gate, Navar banged on it with one heavy fist.

  “Identify yourself.” The voice from within sounded unsure, shaky
, and young.

  “Deserters. We seek refuge. Please!” Navar gasped out, his lips nearly to the wood of the door. When the person beyond hesitated, he repeated. “PLEASE!”

  There was some hurried scraping as the defenders unlocked the gate, then a great rattling as the wheels beyond the gate were rotated so it could open.

  Navar hefted his axe in one hand, changing his grip on the shaft.

  The gate open, a line of five archers watched the small group now attempting to enter the city.

  “Show yourselves peaceful,” an older voice commanded from the shadows. “Drop your weapons.”

  “Apparently the boy had a father,” Navar observed as he laid his axe on the ground.

  “A true father,” Vad’Alvarn replied. “Would have told him not to open the door for the wolf.” Vad’Alvarn moved to kneel and place his own sword on the ground yet sprang forward with a lion’s agility, putting his sword through the closest defender. Four arrows flew from their strings and the archers reloaded.

  Navar had his axe off the ground with ease, bringing it to bear against the man appearing from the shadows. The pair engaged as another man attempted to escape to raise the alarm. One of their other raiders caught him before he could, snatching him by his far too long hair and yanking his head back to slit his throat. The body hit the ground with a crash.

  The arrows lodged themselves in Vad’Alvarn who had already begun to change. His eyes slipped into the color of burning coals, his skin growing thick and scaly as his fingers lengthened into claws. One of the archers nearly dropped his bow as he watched, his eyes growing wide with fear.

  “It’s true.” The words were breathed fearfully into the air.

  The curse was no myth as many had believed. None knew for certain how long the king of the Burning Island had lived, but the stories of him becoming a great monster when confronted in battle had been bandied about for years from place to place. The conquered territories spoke of it as legend. To those outside of the territories it was little more than a story. Now it stood before them, body growing spines and teeth so strong it could snap weapons in half.

  Wings split his armor and he let out a roar much like the bellow of the great horn. It traveled across the ground, seeming to come from a thousand mouths even as it moved. It was the sound that would mobilize an army to come to his aid.

  Half-turning, Vad’Alvarn smashed a man to the ground with one arm then reached for another, his claws going straight through his armor and into the flesh beneath. The man screamed before choking as his chest collapsed. The noise brought more defenders pouring into the gate area, but it was too small, meant only for a few. They were on top of each other and in the way, on top of fighting against a monster from a nightmare.

  Within days there were those who spoke of the slaughter at Kerlan. The captured city had little else to do but talk. Its people huddled around home fires and kept each other company as the sounds of the invading army rattled the shutters. Each time a loud crash was heard, eyes searched furtively for some break in the household defenses. When none was found, they breathed a silent prayer of relief that for the moment, at least, it was not them who were so visited.

  In the next breath they prayed for the people they knew. Someone would fall victim. Eventually, it would be all. Such was the way of the army of the Burning Island. It swept all before it into oblivion.

  2

  Vad’Alvarn stood at the window of the highest house, once again watching as his men moved through the streets. While the people thought it random, the looting was systematic. Meant to keep the people inside and out of the way while the last of the resistance was rooted out and disposed of. Their reputation for ruthlessness was deserved, but he saw no need in loss of life which could be brought to serve him with little effort. The common folk generally wanted nothing more than for life to return to some semblance of normalcy, for the market to reopen and food to be available, to be able to go to the tailor and buy clothes for the baby. All the things they had done before the army came. He would give them those things back once the resistance gave up the futile fight to push his army out of their home.

  The sooner that happened the better.

  A knock at the door behind him, which stood open, got his attention. One of his guards stood in the doorway, his helmet tucked under his arm to show his shaved head.

  “They’ve gathered.”

  “Of course they have.” The pair left together for the dining hall of the house.

  The hall was far warmer than it should have been with the great fireplace standing empty and cold. Yet the pack of bodies into the space was enough to bring beads of sweat to some faces. Vad’Alvarn strode in and the pack parted for him, chatter stopping at the sound of his heavy boots on the stone. Around the edges of the room, a soldier stood, one every five feet. They were silent, face guards down to hide their faces behind grotesque masks. At the head of the hall, Vad’Alvarn stood and waited for a few moments, just long enough so that people glanced at one another.

  “So you have come as asked.”

  “How could we not? You hold our city and our very lives in your hands,” one man cried. Signals of assent flickered around him.

  “You could have run. There were those who did.” At those words, the doors on the far end of the hall banged open and five men were dragged in, their chains slithering along the floor like metal serpents. “They failed. Certainly you all wouldn’t have failed.”

  Each of the five was brought to a place before the crowd and made to kneel.

  “These are men who would fight my rule. Men who endanger you all with their ideals. They have forfeited their lives. How many more of you would forfeit yours?”

  The doors banged shut again closing off any route of escape. Several people exchanged glances across the spaces, but others were already gazing up at the man before them with their lips moving in prayers or maybe pleading.

  “If you will kneel and pledge loyalty to me, then I will spare your lives. Each of these men is already dead. Do not die with them.”

  The solider standing over the man furthest to his left raised his sword and brought it down with one definite stroke. The man’s head separated cleanly from his neck and dropped to the floor before his knees attempting to roll but only managing to stare up at the ceiling gaping, eyes and mouth wide.

  The praying became louder as several standing in the crowd dropped their knees. A few of those assembled tried to grab those nearest to them that had gone prostrate, all too aware of what their fear truly showed. Their fear showed they were not united. There was no great front for this usurper king to fight against, it was only a few scared people willing to put their lives on the line for the chance at something better and even then, when it came truly time for that conviction to be tested, they would fold, their knees giving way to the weight of their crushing fear. Exactly as the king wanted. He wanted them crushed, certain of their demise if they did anything other than his will. It seemed he had it.

  The second man, younger than the first, undoubtedly one of those who truly believed Kerlan could be saved from its fate if only a few of its nobility survived did not take his eyes off the king even as the blade was brought down on his neck. His eyes remained open, accusing, as his head came to a stop on the floor.

  In the crowd, there was an audible cry of despair. A mother’s cry for a son she could no longer hold or coddle. Vad’Alvarn found the woman in the crowd easily. Her robes were noble, gray hair bound up in a braid meant to mimic a crown. There were even jewels braided into it. She rushed forward, unthinking, wanting only to gather to herself that last precious moment of her son’s life; or perhaps to throw herself upon the blade responsible for ending it. The sheep in the crowd parted for her, none stepped in her way or even cried out in warning. Except one.

  A woman reached out, wrapping one slim hand around the woman’s arm and then drawing her quickly into an embrace to stop her from breaking forward into the space near enough to guards to forfeit her lif
e. As she held the mother in her arms, the woman glared at Vad’Alvarn. Her eyes were a blue so soft it seemed almost as if they wished instead to be clear.

  “No more,” she pleaded. “No more. You’ve shown your strength. Please, no more. Take this city, but let us have our families.”

  Beneath his shirt, Vad’Alvarn felt the skin along his back as it hardened to scales. His shoulders itched with the beginnings of the wings begging for freedom. Glancing above the woman speaking, he forced his thoughts to move away from how similar those eyes appeared and how the creature within him responded to her looks and sound.

  The mother sobbed against her chest, the fight drained away by the touch of someone younger and yet wiser.

  Finished with her missive, the woman glanced from Vad’Alvarn to another man in the line, then she gazed up again; hopeful for what would come. The king caught her movement, letting his gaze slip from one to the other.

  “Your name.” It was not a question though he kept his tone soft.

  “Clara of Gellac.”

  “Is that of some consequence to me?”

  “Gellac is the Magistrate’s house.” She lifted her chin when she spoke of it though her eyes still darted over the man kneeling with a sword poised above his neck.

  “And a proud house it must be with a young woman like you willing to strike out against a conqueror for its children. Is that your husband you bargain for?”

  “Yes.” There was not a moment of hesitation before the word leapt from her mouth and even under his certain gaze she didn’t color or seem to lose any of her hard won composure. “He is mine and I am his. Our home may be lost but where we both live, life will go well.”

  Vad’Alvarn did not respond, watching how the woman’s behavior affected the man she tried so desperately to save from his certain death. The man’s eyes were resolutely kept on the floor in front of his body, neck partially arched as if it strained to welcome the blade above it.