The Secret of Azuron (The Sword Empire Book 1)

by J. R. Kearney

  COPYRIGHT J.R.Kearney 2016

  Published by Richkey Publications

  Cover Art created by Robert Bacchetto

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATED:

  To Mum for giving me Life

  To Nela for giving me Reason

  To Julie for giving me Belief

  Table of Contents

  AN END TO ADVENTURE

  LANDAU

  TRASH AND TREASURE

  ETCHED IN FLAME

  INTO THE WOODS

  THE SCOURGE OF RED MOUNTAIN

  THE TRIP TO TRIPPLE

  THE PURPLE KNIGHT

  MERCHANTS AND MURDER

  THE ASSASSIN

  DETOUR INTO DARKNESS

  A ROYAL WELCOME

  THE CENTENARY OF ARWENDEL

  A PROMISE OF HOME

  THE WHITE HALL COUNCIL

  DESPERATE CHOICES

  A SINISTER MEETING

  THE COMPANY OF LANDAU

  CITY OF THIEVES

  THE SHADOW PATH OF NELROAR

  REMNANTS OF THE EMPIRE

  FALLOUT OF THE SWORD

  Prologue

  AN END TO ADVENTURE

  The sun glistened on the morning sea towards the outlying village of Porthos, one of several villages that made up the farmlands of Ruun. The genial creak of bobbing ships was commonplace here, and chuckles from the dock revealed that fishing was not only the source of the village’s commerce, but an enjoyable lifestyle. Here the prominent fisherman was highly regarded, and those who could cook a palatable fish were among many friends. Farms bordered the north where a narrow stream weaved its way towards the shoreline, where a great wharf of pinewood, three ship lengths wide, harbored proud vessels. Nestled among the nets and crates, standing tall over the village was its most lovable haunt, 'The Floating Barrel'.

  Clancey owned the tavern here, settled from his overwrought lifestyle to fulfill his life-long ambition to father his own brew and share it with others. He firmly believed a good brew should reward the mind, and any success the fishermen had he put down to his fine blend. He looked outside the window toward the sun kissed sea to watch the fisherman return from their early morning sail. It was barely morning when Marcus; an old, rough and boisterous regular walked through the door as he did every morning, always bringing his own mug he settled in on a familiar seat.

  "Morning Marcus," Clancey said routinely, pouring his mug full of Caracian ale from the barrel, and Marcus wasted no time quenching his thirst.

  "How goes the fish this morning? Last night’s brew was none too agreeable with my patrons. My stomach shares the same grief if you follow me."

  "Aye, swam in from the tainted shores of Taperel I'll wager, no doubt Anville across the bay share the same retch. As long as you have some fine pint to rid me of that bile I'll make no complaint."

  "Complaint indeed, be happy all these years my patrons haven't been coming here for the quality of your food," he glared at Marcus.

  "Aye 'tis a fine brew, don't be deceived to thinking folk don't come here to revel in your stories also. Less are the tales these days of Clancey, famed treasure hunter of Heldorn."

  "And less are the years of which I have to tell them," he said, pondering days he was a much more agile portrait. He stared at his hands, withered and wrinkled, trembling slightly with little control. He had become elderly, his hair one shade of grey, his legs staggered more than strode and his copper eyes were not as attentive as yonder years. His only prominent feature was his commanding voice, sharp and engaging, most necessary for recounting his many endeavors.

  "I hear some of them Alduainian soldiers are heading this way, on their way to Corcadia no doubt, always trouble across them borders, not that it should worry us honest folk," said Marcus.

  "Aye they should be here by nightfall, old friends, and plenty of them by my reckoning. But I still have the extra barrels to get ready and the rooms to prepare," he said, traipsing about at a brisk pace. "If the lads don't get here soon I'll be up to my neck in tasks I fear."

  Come mid-morning Clancey went about with a bucket of well-water to polish the walls, and wondered where the boys were to relieve him, when ten-year-old Elliott tottered into the tavern. Elliott was easily the largest of Serin's kids with short red hair that curled in no equivalent fashion, wearing clothes borrowed from smaller kids that stretched tightly across his waist, wrinkled and soiled. He was well mannered, as were all of the Elder’s kids, still Clancey always noticed a smell about him.

  "Morning Clancey sir."

  "Sweet Bridgette lad, it's not yet noon and look at you, look like you dug yourself out of a grave! I'll wager Serin has no inkling to what you've been up to. Where are the others?"

  "Timothy is out choppin' wood, for the fire for tonight sir. Melly's still at home and Landau is with his da."

  "I should have you chopping some wood boy, there's too much of you if you follow me. I'm surprised the Elder can have you so well fed."

  Marcus on his fourth pint stood up for the lad.

  "Ah don't listen to the ramblings of this old man son. There's hardly a fisherman here who isn't a fine figure as yourself. A village like ours that prides itself on the finest fish should not leave a boy so thin."

  "Until you've tasted the fish from Nellore be quick not to judge," Clancey said, "that's if half the fisherman here could walk so far, even in the finest weather."

  "Ah leave it alone Clancey," Marcus said all grouchy, "'tis just a boy."

  Elliott moved behind the bar to begin his work. "Is it true that soldiers are comin' here tonight Clancey?"

  "Indeed they are," in a change of mood, "old friends from yonder days. Help me to remember the true quality of friendship, and the dangers they can cause. I'll be mighty grateful for you and your brother's help lad. There be a considerable crowd from Tripple coming tonight, some as far as Dairy. Maybe a few of them blokes from Nellore will come with a decent scale of Rudd for a change," he said loud enough for Marcus to hear.

  "Ah your foolhardy nonsense, never a bartender spew so much banter."

  Clancey towered above Elliott, for his knees felt too unsteady to kneel to his level.

  "My good friend Pollus and his companions will be here by dusk I hope, so an extra effort on your part will warrant an extra reward if you follow me?"

  "I do sir."

  "Good lad, now before you start, ask Serin to confirm if he is coming tonight. He is the Elder after all, would be a great courtesy to our guests."

  "Will do sir," anxious to get out and help.

  "And if you see Landau tell him I'll need his help earlier than usual, if his father will allow it."

  "No problem, I'll be back soon," Elliott said, walking to the door with as much energy as the elderly.

  "And clean yourself up lad, these soldiers will think we have you ploughing the fields looking like that."

  Clancey watched Elliott stumble up the road as more fisherman began to fill the tavern to feast on a well-deserved breakfast.

  "What that boy lacks in hygiene he makes up for in manners."

  "Serin's boys can't help you forever my friend," said Marcus. "Timothy's almost old enough to get a trade up north, with those wood lovers no doubt. Then there's Landau, always has his head stuck in a book, no use for it if you ask me. Kid will probably get a trade as some notary the way he’s fairin’, from Porthos of all places."

  Clancey laughed at Marcus who t
hought it unusual that anyone would consume their time learning to read.

  "If there's a book in this village that boy has not read then I haven't found it, a mind for adventure no doubt, a child's ignorance is to be endeared entirely."

  "His mind is not estranged from yours I suspect, do not be stubborn to think these kids do not adore your tales, be it the dream of all youngsters to aspire to greatness, be it your dream once I wager."

  "Dream all they like," Clancey said. "No kid in history has ever had a quest to speak of, a monster to slay or an army to conquer. No, books are sufficient for a young lad but a distraction from life, a life he needs to take seriously, nearly twelve now. His father is a good man, as is Serin, they will lead their children to the importance of a good life, farming and fishing. That is the reality of it." Marcus tilted his head and his ale disappeared down an endless throat.

  "I wonder what you would have done if someone gave you a similar speech when you were young my friend."

  Marcus' words were from a mind of ale, still Clancey pondered them. He walked to the window and stared out to the sea, though at nothing in particular; the continual splashing of water on rocks was always unwinding, a far cry from days gone by, and their soothing sound had him reflect on old thoughts.

  "I cannot say old friend, my memories are vague of late. As much as I look forward to tonight I am anxious, and rarely so. I fear I’ll see old friends and not remember them. Often I go through my tales of the past in my head, but after a while names begin to be forgotten, or replaced. Old age is an adventure like any other Marcus, constantly discovering obstacles yet with less means to conquer them. After a decade of settling into obscurity, I quite enjoy the idea of reacquainting with someone from my adventuring days. The onus to prove myself now as a host compared to a hero feels just as strong."

  "Youth be damned," said Marcus. "All it brings is worry friend. Concern yourself with the present, for no fisherman mourns yesterday’s catch."

  As noon approached the villagers amassed, Clancey returned to the bar to prepare for the night ahead, one he was sure to remember.

  The afternoon withdrew and the cobblestone bridge that crossed the stream never had so many footsteps echo off its pavement. The commonly quiet streets of Porthos quickly resembled the bustling towns up north. Everyone shared in the stories of their towns and welcomed the change of scenery, for few villages in the farmlands had the pleasure of witnessing the sunset reflect off a seaway canvas. They massed around the Great Oak, a towering monument at the heart of the village, decorated with lilies and lilacs all fastened to strings. It was Porthos' most imposing landmark, and the center from which all houses encompassed.

  A little south by the coast a path led to a paved square with market stalls, offering wares, spices and tools. The market led to the dock and tavern on its eastern side. To the west up a small winding hill sat one house, Serin's Manor, Elder of the village and generous foster father to a number of foundlings left abandoned or lost throughout the south-lands. Generally, the festivals would take place here on an inviting stretch of terrain that overlooked the village and sea. Upon the summit was his Manor, where gardens overflowed with flowers, and walls were draped with vines. It was a haven for birds, and the locals called it the 'Whistling Mountain'.

  While neighboring farms offered their stables for the numerous horses, Porthos prepared to welcome their allies from the west. Upstairs on his balcony Clancey looked yonder at the trail of people that ventured to the village.

  He smiled looking down at what had become of it, his friend would be humbled by the attention, it was rare for farm folk to behold military in their lands.

  While torches began to illuminate the streets, and the stars announced themselves to the night sky, the rumble from the tavern began to flourish. Clancey nervously scouted for his friends beyond the horizon, his mouth was dry and he found it hard to swallow. He withdrew to his study to see reminders of his adventures, old maps sprawled across the table, places he had seen and others he wished he hadn't. Encompassing the walls were shelves littered with antiquities, shields and swords lay scattered about the ground, blunt and battered but riddled with lore, and stained with blood and history.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, soft so as not to be intrusive, he called for them to come in. He found it was young Landau, panting from his sprint to appear here so hurriedly.

  "Sorry Mr. Clancey, Timothy asked if you were ready to come to the tavern, there's a lot of people down there," he said with wonder.

  "Ah little Landau, 'twill be a good night. Tell Timothy I will be down momentarily."

  Landau ran away as Clancey inhaled the occasion and stood tall, whatever issues that plagued him, he would not let them intrude on a good night.

  Timothy worked furiously behind the bar and despite the sea chill his brow was glowing from an arduous sweat. If he wasn't serving patrons drinks he was rolling up more barrels from the basement, the demand for Clancey's brew was astounding. A roaring fireplace warmed the tavern from the western wall, an ideal spot for crowds to gather and be entertained by Clancey's tales, while a stage on its northern end accompanied the occasional bard or minstrel to regale patrons of distant lands.

  Clancey was about welcoming the villagers from near and far, all anxious to meet the Alduainian soldiers who had yet to arrive.

  The crowd was grand, and spilled out to the dock where braziers were lit, and the smell of fish was soon overpowered by a smog of darkleaf that filled the air with exotic aroma. Empty barrels and crates were brought down from the ships to compensate for the shortage of seats.

  Elliott had fewer hands than needed to keep up with cleaning the tavern, weaving through a thicket of legs and dresses as he juggled numerous mugs. Landau had just as much trouble in the back keeping up with the torrent of dishes Elliott sent his way. Rignar was the village guard, a useless occupation in these parts, still the promise of an army to occupy Porthos for the night gave him validation to recess with a few ales. Folks from Footrot farm bore their stringboxes and flutes and bellowed rhythm through the walls, the dancing of the south was simple but most entertaining. Among those was Serin, the village Elder, and Clancey's most admirable friend, the very influence for him to reside here all those years ago. He was stunted in his size and adorned many robes of natural colors, a balding man whose cheeks were forged from his constant cheer, so round that when he smiled his eyes vanished behind them. Rare was the chance for him to venture away from the burden of his foundlings, still the occasion to dance was rare, and the Footrot's sung every ode known to the south.

  Amid the deafening tunes one voice bellowed over the music; Clancey engaged in one his many adventures.

  "So there I was, a necropolis of deathly grandeur, the very stench made my heart still. Every footstep, soft as I could make it, echoed through the boundless underground. Bones cracked beneath my feet, be they once man's or not, my eyes could not stray from the darkness ahead of me, my ears could only hear the hollow sound of a wind that rumbled like a crashing mountain heard leagues away. As much as my mind implored me to turn around, my feet moved forward. Then, as the darkness eased and started to light, amongst a pile of dead bodies did I see it…the horn of the undead."

  The village folk stood attentive and the children were frightfully engaged.

  "He who blew it had the power to summon an undead army, perilous it be in shady hands. With great fortune I smiled, but in arrogance no less. I took one step closer towards it when I heard a horror of a sound that would blight the dreams of any man, woman or child. Like a thousand bones breaking at once did it resemble, looking up my courage cowered, as before me stood a great bone dragon!"

  "What are you talking about, a great bone dragon?" a patron said in disbelief.

  "Be it once a dragon if you follow me, though nay a place were the moors for such a beast, yet still here it was, skinless and without a heart! Had it a voice it would surely have roared all goblins away from the wretched cavern
s. It was wizardry of some kind, the beast had no eyes yet still as I ran it charged towards me, every footstep of his was easily ten of mine!" he shouted, flailing his arms to show his dismay.

  "My only chance was to claim the horn, and use it."

  "And did you?"

  "He sure did," a voice boomed from the back.

  Clancey's face went from staggered to joyful, turning to a man he had not encountered in over thirteen years, and he smiled with exuberance.

  "Pollus my old friend, thank you for coming, you are most welcome here," and embraced him in a hug, the crowd applauded the Alduainian soldiers who had finally arrived.

  "We're simply passing through, thought we could trouble you for a drink. Hope we're not interrupting anything," Pollus jested, looking his aged friend up and down before admiring the atmosphere. "Wow my friend you have done well for yourself, I should remind you the last time I made your acquaintance in a tavern was in ill fortune."

  "On your part I believe," said Clancey, as he gazed upon his friend of old. He had the squarest jaw he'd ever known, spotted with stubble and a youthful tinge endured in his aging hair. His uniform in all these years had changed little, marred with a few more scratches perhaps, and upon his crest he bore badges, twice as many as their last meeting.

  Pollus turned to the patrons with their full attention.

  "This man could speak no truer a word. Countless creatures traipse our lands, many beyond understanding. Where most men would retreat, this man would stand tall, and his bravery be the reason I am still alive," patting his friend on the back. "Be that horn on the wall a reminder that people such as yourselves live a good, shielded life, departed from such things," he gestured beyond the stage where the solid bone horn of the undead now hung on the wall, cleft in two.

  While the Footrots endowed the tavern with song once more, Clancey moved Pollus away from the patrons’ attention, and gave his old friend a punch in endearment.