by Jez Cajiao
The Forgotten Faithful
Book Two of the UnderVerse
By Jez Cajiao
Contents
The Forgotten Faithful
Thanks
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
End of Book Two
The LitRPG Guildmasters
LitRPG Guildmasters Titles:
LitRPG!
LITRPG!
Reviews…
Thank you
Copyright © 2020 by R J Cajiao
Editing by Stephanie of Lit Forge Edits
Cover by Chris Cold
Typography by May Dawney Designs
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author/publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction, all characters, places, spells, realities and secrets of the Upper and Lower Realms are entirely my own work, and if they offend you, it’s not intentional. Probably.
Thanks
This second book has been a pleasure to write, but there’s no way it could have come about, if not for the love, support, and encouragement of my family and friends, so thank you all.
I’ll not mention everyone individually, as it’d take a month to write, and it’d be half the length of the book, but a few people have to be singled out…
First and foremost, my wonderful wife Chrissy; you’ve worked your ass off, looking after the house, looking after me, and looking after our Son Max, all while working part-time and being heavily pregnant… all so I could write.
You’re amazing, and I love you. Thank you, baby.
To our family, thank you all, you support me daily, a word, a gesture, the belief you all show, it really has helped, you’ll never know how much…
To my beta readers, Denny, Oliver, Shawn, Donald, and Brenden, you’re brave and selfless sacrifice has been noted! Thank you guys… really…
To Luke, Nathan, M.H., Aleron, Phoenix, Dawn, Tao and many other authors who are far more accomplished and skilled than I’ll ever be, thank you for your advice, your patience, and for keeping me on the right track.
To BF and our group of Guildmasters, TJ, Rob, Paul, Richard, Max, Sean, Aaron, Tim, Marcus, Troy, Grayson, Ed and Kevin, it’s been a hell of a few months, so thank you all, for your support and your friendship. (Let the second round of the race begin, Sean!) ��
To Stephanie, thank you, I know it was hard getting this done, I really appreciate the hours you put in, and your friendship.
To Chris, thank you for your amazing art, and May, thank you for your advice, your fantastic Typography, and your patience!
I’ll never be able to thank any of these people enough, and I know that 99% will never read this, but thank YOU for doing so, and for giving my dreams a chance to flourish…
Prologue
Thomas sat back with a groan as the wagon bumped over yet another rut in the road, gloomily certain the bastard was actually aiming for them now. He’d been in the back of the wagon with seventeen other inmates for just over four hours, bouncing, juddering, and shaking their way across the entire goddamn city, and then out into the countryside. He’d occasionally smelled a hint of grass and heard the wind in the trees around them.
He’d actually seen fuck-all, because that bastard Boris, back at the jail, had put a blindfold on him before leading the prisoners out to the wagon. He’d fallen over, had things he’d rather not guess thrown at him, and groups of kids had been throwing stones at the prisoners on at least three separate occasions as they traveled. The guards had laughed and told the little shits who to aim for.
Thomas had given up months ago on plans of revenge… then he’d given up on hopes of escape…lately, he’d actually begun fantasizing about the guards going too far and beating him to death accidentally.
That had come to a stop yesterday.
He didn’t know why, but something had changed in the ongoing war that Himnel was waging with Narkolt. He’d heard that someone new had joined in against Himnel, so even the dregs like him were getting a chance.
He’d be used as fodder, good enough to soak up a few arrows, if that, but maybe, just maybe, he could use the chance to get away. Maybe the real soldiers would take pity on him; hell, if they killed him, at least it would be over.
Thomas fell forward as the wagon stopped unexpectedly, falling into the wagon-bed, and pulling others with him, the captives’ wrists and ankles chained together as they were.
“Idiot!” someone growled, and he felt a punch rock his head back, a mailed fist tearing the skin of his cheek, before someone else twisted his chain, and yanked him out of the wagon by it.
Thomas cried out in pain and fear as he fell forward with no way to catch himself. The cry was cut off cruelly by a mouthful of cobbles.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
He’d lost everything, and now he could taste blood filling his mouth from broken teeth.
He felt tears prickling his eyes, soaking into the cloth that blinded him, and the first spark of anger he’d felt in what seemed like forever kindled to life, fed on the shame of his own inability to escape.
This was that fat shit Boris’ fault.
Thomas had found Dirik’s family, taken his sword back to them, given them Dirik’s cut of the loot, and told them how their son had been a hero, about the times he’d saved Thomas’s life. He’d told them how they’d been friends…and how sorry he was that Dirik had died.
The last thing Thomas had seen as a free man was the look of cold hatred in Dirik’s father’s eyes, and the lead cosh that bastard Boris had swung into his face.
When he’d woken up, he’d been in a cell for ‘attacking a guard’, with—surprise, surprise— Boris as both the victim and his new jailor.
He’d still managed three escape attempts; during the last one, he’d actually made it out of the mana-canceling field of the dungeon and had even managed to fire a few spells off, but ultimately, it was all for nothing.
Since then, his life had become a nightmare of daily beatings, starvation, and sleep deprivation.
The tiny flame of anger sparked again at that thought, growing slowly, smoldering away, and he took a deep breath, trying to bury it. It was dangerous; for a prisoner with no hope of escape, it came at just too high a cost.
“What is this filth?” A voice called out, carrying over the screech of seabirds and the grunts and shouts of men working.
“New recruits, sir!” came a shout inches away from Thomas, making him jump in panic, his heart racing.
“Worthless!” The first voice snarled, and the sound of steel-shod boots smashing into the cobbles moved closer.
“What the hell hap
pened here?” the voice of authority demanded, coming to a stop somewhere to the right.
“Fell outta the wagon, sir!” came Boris’s voice, and Thomas flinched instinctively.
“Then you’re even more of a fool than I thought, jailor. You’re responsible for this scum. Don’t think I didn’t see who got the recruitment bonus for them, yet still you’re trying to hand them over damaged?”
“It’s ‘is own fault, sir, tried t' escape.” came Boris’s voice, and a laugh rose from the man in charge.
“’Tried to escape’? With his wrists and ankles bound? Blindfolded and a slave collar on him? Don’t be stupid.” Hands tore the blindfold free of Thomas’s face, and he squinted in the suddenly revealed sunlight, wincing back from the glare.
“Well, boy? Were you trying to escape?” The man standing before Thomas asked gruffly, his gleaming black and gold-highlighted armor showing that he was a Paladin of the Death God, Nimon.
“No...” Thomas started, then spat out a tooth and a glob of blood onto the floor.
“No…sir.”
“’Sir,’ is it?” the man asked, snorting. “Humph…well, at least he’s got a brain. Tell me, son, what were you in jail for? Murder? Rape?”
“He assaulted a guar…” Boris started, only to have the Paladin cut him off with a roar.
“Silence!” he screamed, stepping forward and gritting his teeth as he glared at Thomas’ tormentor.
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re no better than them! They committed crimes, but you pulled strings to make sure they were accepted into MY forces, and even had the sheer fucking gall to take a recruiter’s purse for them! Your little ploy means I’m stuck with them, nearly twenty fucking prisoner scum I’ll have to train and watch over, instead of the honest men I asked for! The least you can do is shut the fuck up!”
Boris straightened to attention and swallowed hard, keeping silent as the Paladin turned back to Thomas, breathing hard as he tried to get his fury under control.
“Well, boy?” he snapped eventually, then shook his head. “I’m wasting my damn time…” He muttered, starting to turn away.
“I took word of my friend’s death back to his family, sir…and they attacked me for it.” Thomas said, desperate to seize the slim chance before him.
“Yer lyin’ bast…!” Boris screamed, yanking his infamous cosh from his belt and lunging for Thomas.
The Paladin had half turned back, only to see the jailor smash the cosh into Thomas’ side, then his jaw on the backswing. Thomas collapsed to the floor, blood spraying from the severed half of his tongue, caught between his teeth when the cosh had landed.
“Restrain him!” The Paladin of Nimon ordered and stepped forward, looking down at Thomas and seeing the blood rapidly spreading from his mouth. “Fucking idiot!” he raged, twisting his hands rapidly as he muttered out a spell. Thomas was struck with a black and purple lance of power that made his entire body go rigid.
“Arrrgh!” Thomas screamed, thrashing about, his tongue regrowing, bones and cartilage popping as they shifted back into place. He rolled back and forth, as far as his chains would let him, crying out in pain as the ‘Dark Mending’ spell tore into him.
When it finally stopped, he lay there gasping and staring up at the Paladin, who stood regarding him thoughtfully.
“You were a soldier?” he asked flatly, and Thomas nodded, still trying to catch his breath. “Freelance or sworn?”
“Freelance…sir.” he managed to get out.
“Interesting…”
“E’s lyin’, sir!” Boris wheezed from the restraining grasp two of the Paladin’s guards, arms wrenched awkwardly behind his back. The guards were dressed in the black and gold livery of the Church of Nimon’s forces, and they evidently regarded the city guards and jailors with obvious contempt.
“Really? Well, let’s look at this, shall we? We’ve got a prisoner who’s been purchased from the city to be used as a soldier by the Church, a prisoner who arrives in a sorry state, then is further injured, and almost killed. A prisoner who is already the property of the Church…yet a lowly jailor believes that he can not only damage the Church's property, but can kill it? I have to step in and heal the Church's property personally, only after he accuses you of what would be laughed off if there was no truth to it…? Does this seem accurate to you…jailor?” The Paladin asked, forcing obvious patience into his voice as he finished with a snarl.
“I…I…”
“I have been forced to accept this…this dross... in place of real soldiers,” the Paladin continued, “and not only are they far poorer quality than the Church was promised, but you dare to injure them further?”
“They…they all be murderers an’ such, sir! They all be violent criminals!” Boris stammered out.
“Well, let’s find out, shall we? You have an obvious issue with one of them, and if there’s a grain of truth in what he’s said against you, he’s certainly got one with you… Release him.” the Paladin said, gesturing toward Thomas, and another of the Church soldiers tore the keys from Boris’s belt and knelt to free Thomas of his restraints.
“And the collar, sir?” the guard asked as he removed the shackles. Thomas slowly rose to his feet, rubbing at his calloused wrists and stretching out fully for the first time in months. His health was barely above half, his body atrophied through malnourishment and regular beatings. He’d been broken, less than half a man, but he’d take what he hoped the Paladin was offering…oh hell, yes…
“You’d let me fight him, sir?” Thomas asked, and the Paladin nodded in satisfaction.
“You’re still a man after all, eh? Good. I’ll have use for that fire in your belly. If I let you fight him, will you swear the Oath?”
“What Oath…sir?” Thomas asked, shifting his jaw, and probing his teeth with his regrown tongue. It felt as though some of the teeth had been replaced, but some were still sharp and jagged…he could live with them, though, as long as he got his chance here.
“Swear to obey the orders of the Church of Nimon, to follow where He leads, and to face the false gods wherever they skulk. Swear to obey the commands of the Holy Order, and one day, who knows, boy? You might end up standing as a free man again. Or you’ll be kept, as appropriate to the crimes you’re accused of.” The Paladin nodded toward Boris and the others, and Thomas paused, thinking quickly. He’d be signing his life away, property of the Church to such a strict degree that even a slave wasn’t. A slave always had the hope of escape…but…he’d be a soldier again. He’d be able to move around the camps, even earn his way up the ranks…if he were lucky. He’d heard the horror stories of the Oathsworn, the Warriors of the Night…but he’d heard the good tales as well, and at least he’d stand a chance this way.
“I’ll swear, sir, if I get a chance at him?” Thomas said, jerking his head toward Boris, and the Paladin grinned at him.
“Excellent! Perhaps this morning isn’t a waste of my time after all!” He clapped his gauntleted hands together. “No time like the present. Form a ring!” he shouted, gesturing to his men, and in short order, the prisoners, transport wagons, and guards had formed a rough circle around Thomas, Boris, and the Paladin of Nimon.
“Sir…the collar?” The Church solider asked again.
“Hmmm… no, I think not. For now, it stays on. He can earn its removal,” he mused, looking Thomas in the eye. “Mage?”
“No, sir, Arcane Soldier,” Thomas said, getting a raised eyebrow as a smile quirked at the edge of the Paladin’s mouth.
“Really? Well now, there’s a rare gift. How many spells?”
“Five, sir. ‘Flame Touch’, ‘Magic Missile’…”
“Best you keep them to yourself, son; we’ll talk later. For now, you’ve got the chance to prove yourself, followed by an Oathbinding as a Slave-Aspirant…” The Paladin said with a nod toward Boris, whose face was a mix of fear and fury.
“E’s a criminal! E’ attacked me when I weren’t ready, an’…” Boris spoke up quickly, po
inting at Thomas.
“Then you’ve got the chance to face him fully aware now, haven’t you? How wonderful.” the Paladin said, cutting him off. “I’ll admit I’m curious, though… if an Arcane Soldier attacked you without warning, yet you still managed to defeat him, why are you a simple jailor, rather than leading a squad now? Hmmm?” Then he turned to look Thomas up and down, noting his condition and dismissing it as unimportant. “If you’re a real Arcane Soldier, boy, you’ll be able to beat this streak of shit easily, even as weak as you look.”
“If not, then you’re a liar, and I expect this jailor will beat you to death, in which case I’m out a potential soldier. While I’ll regret the loss of a man, I’ll not have liars in my forces. Last chance to back out.”
“I’ll rip off his head and shit down his throat… Sir.” Thomas said, shifting from foot to foot, ready to fight. “Do I get a weapon, or do I have to do it with my bare hands?” he asked, focused on Boris with laser-like precision.
“What do you use?”
“Anything, sir. I trained in spear, sword, mace, lance, and Morningstar.” Thomas replied, still focused on Boris, watching the sweat beginning to bead across his forehead. Thomas’s injuries were still there; most had been healed, but months of beatings, deprivation, and abuse couldn’t be reversed in a single spell. He was weaker than he’d ever been in his life, and absolutely desperate for the chance to kill his hated attacker.
The Paladin nodded to the soldier that had unlocked Thomas’s restraints, and he sighed, pulling his own mace from its hook on his belt.
“You better not damage this, laddie…” the soldier quietly warned Thomas, handing the weapon over before stepping back.
“Well then, let’s see what you both can do,” The Paladin nodded, his mustachios quivering as he grinned at the two men standing before him, and he stepped back.
Boris lunged forward immediately. His regulation short sword whistled through the air, the tip cutting a thin line across the ragged, filthy jerkin Thomas wore.
