by DJ Morand
Contents
Title
Copyright
A note from the Author
Dedication
Quote
Cortland Dex: Master Bard
Cortland Dex: Immortal Journey
Vessen Marr: The First Bladesinger
Jessa Poe: Witch
Bastion Frell: Riftlander
Assassin's Price
Auren Trist: Legionnaire
The Siege of Haverfjord
Captain Seafang: Pirate Lord of the Maelsea
Cole the Sevens: Warden
Map: Age of the Opening
Terms
More Works
Legends of Vandor
Anthology volume 1
A LEGENDS OF VANDOR COLLECTION BY
DJ MORAND
Copyright © 2016 by David J. Morand
All rights reserved. This story, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design and layout by: DJ Morand
Cover Illustrations by: Kate Evans of Red Maiden Art
ISBN-13: 978-1539694748
ISBN-10: 1539694747
Author’s Note
For more of my books or complimentary review copies, visit me at djmorand.com or sign up for the mailing list at http://www.djmorandauthor.com/mailinglist/.
Dear Reader,
I set out on a journey to create a fantastic reality. I've read stories from Robert Jordan, Stephen King, Peter Straub, Terry Brooks, Dean Koontz, and David Eddings. I've been inspired by the lands of Middle-Earth and the stories therein. As such, I have felt a compelling to create something worthy of these contemporaries' praise. I have no illusions of grandeur that I am as perfected as these famous authors, but I seek to tread in their realms. With this in mind I began to mold the world of Vandor, a setting that seeks to blend the intricate horrors of life, love, hate, and passion with the exquisite wickedness that can be found in a fantasy world. This anthology is a culmination of ten of my short stories in an ongoing saga of adventures. The Legends of Vandor is more than random events occurring throughout the world, it is the cataloged history of Vandor and lays an incredible foundation for what is to come.
Ten short stories may not seem like much, but I have poured my heart into these ten stories to ensure I am giving you, the reader, the very best of my ability. I want you to experience what Vandor has to offer and keep you coming back for more, because I am going to keep writing. The adventures will continue. Be warned, these are no-holds-barred epic fantasy tales. I seek to stay true to the reality of hardship and struggle, there will not always be a happy ending. Sometimes in life, there are no happy endings. Rest assured, I feel you will enjoy these stories. They have been individually published, but they are not listed here in the published order. I have re-ordered them to fit the world chronologically. Without further adieu, I give you The Legends of Vandor: Anthology Volume 1.
Your Friendly Neighborhood Author,
DJ Morand
For my Cindywok.
You have been an inspiration and a treasure.
I could not have done this without you.
Without your patience, editing, and honesty,
I could not have made these stories a reality.
Thank you my love.
Sometimes there is no darker place than our thoughts, the moonless midnight of the mind.
- Dean Koontz
Cortland Dex
Master Bard
Caerlon - Year 1405 AO
45 Ienfer: Calal - 1st Hour of Feralda
Waywander Tavern
His hair spilled around his face dancing at the edge of the strong bridge of his nose and down to his stern lips. A look of concentration crossed over him as his eyebrows undulated in tune with the music. The smoke from his pipe wafted around his beard and out from his nostrils as his fingers danced over his lute. The atmosphere surrounding him was one of awe as he brought to life, his tale in song.
His voice was honeyed and bright as he began his tune. He wove a tale of how he had escaped a lover's quarrel. The tavern-folk tapped their feet in tune with his instrument as his voice rose up. Grasping the top of the lute, he silenced the strings. With air of power, he stared out at the crowd. His eyes burrowed into each of them. The song at an end, he let his gaze glide over them.
He touched the beaded bracelets around his wrists, “These,” he said, lending to his voice a mysterious quality. “Were from the princess of Barvvowind.“
He grinned and let the smile reach up to his eyes. His blue orbs bore into each of their souls as he laid his hands back on the instrument, idly picking at the strings. The strum of the lute echoed through the tavern, cutting through the smoke and idle chatter.
“Barvvowind, is from a place long ago, long before any of you were a twinkle in your father's eye, or a tickle in your mother's belly.” He shook the beads on his right hand as he pulled it away from the strings.
The light hum of his lute still rang from the last strum of his fingertips. He clicked the beads again, causing them to sound in tune with his lute. The sound was pure and magical. The bard looked up with mystery in his eyes as deep as the ocean.
“Barvvowind once stood where the Rift now stands, it was a grand place before demonic beings rose from the depths of the land. In Barvvowind, you would stand and see the reflection of the sun upon the ocean.” He took a deep breath and strummed the lute again. The musical notes crashed in the solemnity of the tavern. Every man sat on the edge of his seat leaning in to hear the bard's tale. “The princess, Tylene O'sar'lin lived in Barvvowind and she was the most beautiful woman in all the world.”
He remained silent for a few moments after introducing the princess. The music from his lute swam hauntingly through the tavern entrapping the patrons in its subtle magic. He struck a tone of melancholy. He watched as the patrons, barmaids, and barkeeps leaned in. Tears built up in their eyes and the bard lightened the mood. No sense in having them bawl before I hit the punch line, he thought. Time to kick this up a notch.
The music changed and the feeling was palpable. The bard’s fingers began to dance across the strings, plucking and drawing. The music swirled through the smoke and rose to a crescendo before falling into a decrescendo. The music slowed. The bard’s hands slowed and his brow furrowed. They could see that his song was coming to a close once more. He met their eyes and drew in a breath, quick and sudden. The crowd gasped with him and waited on the edge of their seats. With a smile, he laid the lute down next to him and drew pipes from his belt. The pipes were wooden and lashed together with a fine green sash. The gold filigree around the sash caught the light and reflected in his eyes.
His blue orbs scanned the crowd as he slowly spoke, “she was the most beautiful woman any man had ever laid eyes upon. Her coppery hair was woven in curls made from the light of the setting sun, and her eyes were emeralds that could draw in your breath and steal it.” He reached out a hand miming the plucking of a fruit. “Her laughter danced in your ears and in your thoughts, taking residence in your heart.”
The bard paused and played a tune. Once again it was melancholy, but this time striped with notes of pure harmony. The barmaid lost her composure and she wept. Her tears streamed down her plump cheeks and she dabbed at them with a kerchief handed to her from one of the patrons. The bard grinned around his pipes and blew the last notes of his interlude.
“In the age before this, before the R
ift, there was a bard. His name was Cortis Forland Aman-Dexar, and he held a great love for the Princess Tylene. Secretly, he composed music for her ears to savor, but she knew not of his personal love for her.” The bard reached out, palm up and hand open. He closed his hand slowly and drew it back to his chest.
The bard brought the pipe to his lips again and the song whirled to life once more. From the corner of his mouth his pipe puffed and shot smoke into the air. Blue-gray the smoke twirled and twisted around him as he danced. The flute played a tune of fancy. A steady clapping rhythm rose. Mugs met tables and hands met knees. Again, the bard grinned, taking the pipe in his teeth. The pipes seemed to vanish from his hands and appear in his belt once more. He began to clap a steady staccato. The clap mingled with the subtle clicking of his wrist beads. The tingling musical note of the beads cast a web of magic in the air.
“Sit, listen, and I shall tell you the tale of The Princess and the Bard,” Cortland Dex, the bard, took a chair and sat. The beads on his wrists still sang their delicate song.
* * *
Barvvowind: Year 901 AB
36 Sepfer: Sival - Dusk
It was the middle of summer. The land was warm and flourishing with summer flowers. The light of the sun sparkled above the world with such ferocity the people feared a reprieve would never come. The year had been one of the worst, crops had died, livestock keeled over, and the people worried incessantly about the state of the world. In a palace, in the heart of the land of Barvvo, a king called to his home musicians and bards to liven his court. The king’s daughter, the Princess Tylene, was coming of age for marriage. The king wished to have his daughter married so that he might increase his kingdom and wealth.
Suitors from every land and nationality came at the king’s invitation. Rumors of the princess’ beauty had stretched to the furthest corners of the world. Kings from other lands sent their princely sons while other kings simply came to present themselves. In the year following, the king of Barvvo’s proclamation caused the kingdom to swell. The castle itself sat upon an island connected by a thin mass of land; the king’s bridge. The keep upon the island was called Barvvowind, so named for the oceanic breeze that graced its halls. The great domed spire stood above the rest of the keep and it was said that from the top of the spire one could see the ends of the world.
Cortis Forland Aman-Dexar had never performed in any great hall let alone the palace of a king. Riding on the back of a donkey cart, the young bard played his lute. He strummed the strings. A moment later he winced. His youthful eyes squeezed closed, and he shook his head. The music did not sound quite right. Cortis knew he had tuned his lute before taking leave from the Weld, but that was weeks ago now. The caravan, if it could be called such, had traveled through heat as they traversed north. Even the Weld this year had been drier than the last decade. For Cortis this meant that he could make an easy living traveling from tavern to tavern, but he had his eyes set on a grander life.
The king’s call for performers, bards, and jesters had been enough to draw out even the staunchest naysayers. For someone like Cortis, this meant he was caught up in the excitement and hope for a new future. He adjusted the strings on his lute and tested them again. The chord was perfect harmony, and the furrow left his brow. Putting the instrument to the side, he gathered up his hair and pulled it back away from his face.
I will need to cut this soon, he thought.
Gathered in a pony tail at the crest of his skull, Cortis tied his hair up and away from his neck. The heat had already dampened his neck with sweat. With his hair out of the way the light oceanic breeze caused goosebumps to raise on the nape of his neck. He welcomed the feeling. The momentary respite from the heat was worth the weeks long journey. It was still hot in the north, but the cool air from the ocean made it feel more bearable. Cortis wasn't certain if the cool would last. He stood on top of the cart and raised his arms out to either side of him. The gusts of wind washed over him as he titled his head back and let the feeling take him away. The wind died, and the overwhelming heat from the sun crept in again. He felt the sweat instantly begin to seep from beneath his arms and at the small of his back. The uncomfortable sweat tickled as it ran down his spine, and he opened his eyes. A sensation as whole and shocking as the air before took him. Before his eyes lay Barvvowind Keep. He had seen the dome of the tallest spire from afar, but here in its shadow he felt awe. The earth-shattering, bone-shaking awe brought on by humanity's incomprehensible lack of understanding. There was nothing about the keep that was not large, ornate, and magnificent.
The oppressive heat was replaced by something slightly less so as they entered the shadow of the keep. Crowning spires reached for the heavens and glistened white and gold in the sun. Topped in crenelated circles, Cortis could only imagine the bowmen within. Great blocks of stone that seemed to have been shaped from the side of a mountain rather than pieced together. Colored windows depicted scenes of ancient battles and the faces of the gods.
It is like a temple, Cortis thought. A beautiful ominous temple.
The cart lurched and Cortis tumbled backward. He slipped, tumbling forward he tucked in his chin to miss the edge of the cart. He fell face first into the dry dirt. As he stood, he rose to the laughter of the other caravaners. With a scowl, Cortis turned on them and stuck up his middle finger.
“Fuck you,” he said off-handedly.
The others laughed again. Cortis composed his remaining dignity and dusted himself off. The dirt was hard packed, so it had not left any marks aside from a thin sheen of dust. He shook his tunic and coughed as the dust created a cloud around him. The bard caught up with the wagon and hopped back on it. Taking up his lute, he began strumming a lively tune as the caravan entered the keep.
Massive columns on either side of the main gate rattled as the drawing chains pulled the doors apart. The doors, no less imposing than the columns, opened slowly revealing a large entry hall that ended abruptly fifty yards at the opposite end. The barred gate remained lowered on the other side. Cortis felt his heart quicken as they were seemingly shut in. His fears increased as the gates were closed behind them. The heat pressed in as the doors slammed shut. The echo of a crank shattered the silence as the far gate was drawn up. The clattering chains reverberated in the hall. Borne by his nerves, Cortis began to play a quick and laughable song.
There once was a lass,
She was fair and tall.
Full of fire and sass,
Her name I canno’ recall.
There once was a girl,
Her father could not tame.
An adventurous girl,
To her father she brought shame.
There once was a gal,
In a tavern she swayed.
I said to my pal,
I think, I'll be delayed.
I once had a love,
Full of fire and sass.
I once had a love,
This one bonny lass.
The lute sang in harmony with his voice. The song of lost love echoed through the hall. The caravan began to move again as guards filtered into the hall. Lost in his song, Cortis ignored the guards and sat happily picking strings. One of the men, a burly pockmarked brute stepped up to Cortis.
“Quit that racket boy,” the guard said. His breath smelled of stale onions and garlic. Cortis ignored him and continued to play and sing. “D’’you hear me? Quit that racket!” the guard said, bellowing now.
“Give him a break Varn,” another of the guards said. He stood at least a head taller than Varn. Easy with a smile, he turned to Cortis, “you keep on playing. In fact, you keep on playing all the way to the inner city and I’ll bet the king hisself will invite you into the hall. Competition is fierce, but you’ve got some talent boy.“
The shorter, smellier, guard gave the first a hard look, “Why make promises like that Tygrum? I say the song and the strings are crap. Just like whatever hole this lot crawled up out of. Piss off.“
“You talk to me, the king’s cousin,
like I’m some bandymaid’s swine?“
“Bah, the king has a hunnerd cousins, he won’t mind if I talk down to one who’s mother probably was a bandymaid,”” he barked a short laugh and went to harass one of the other caravaners.
Tygrum gave Cortis a wink and then spun his finger in a circle in the air. Taking the cue, Cortis continued to pluck the strings, allowing the intensity to grow. The first song came to its close and he launched into another. The second song was more daring than the first and required twice the number of chords.
Planted with hands not fair
Dig dig dig, forever there
For my willow tree, for my willow tree
Planted seed and buried greed
For my willow tree, for my willow tree
Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring
Up and up grew my willow tree
From the roots, from the roots
My willow tree, my willow tree
Pointed ears and golden skin
The elf came to my willow tree
Sneaking 'round my willow tree
Hey there elf, hey there elf
That's my willow tree, my willow tree
I just came to see, the elf said to me
No harm will come to your willow tree
I took my rest and let the elf be
When I woke to see my willow tree
A hole in the ground greeted me
The elf stole my willow tree
My willow tree, my willow tree
The elf stole my willow tree
And left me a hole in the ground to see
The song echoed through the hall as the caravan made its way through. Cortis continued to play various tunes, but mostly without words. He placed a hand on the strings, silencing the music. The inner city hummed with the voices of hundreds, if not thousands, of people. The low roar of the crowd swam in the air. Cortis was lost in it. He had seen large towns and they had passed through the budding Crossroads, but the Barvvowind’’s inner city was another thing altogether.
