Firebound Books
Presents:
The Legend of the Nine: Part One
Copyright © 2017 by T.J.Garrett
All rights reserved. This book 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. The moral rights of the author
have been asserted.
Acknowledgments
Carol Walker of the Royal National Institute for the Blind (RNIB). Thanks for the cool software and gadgets. I am sure this project would have taken twice as long without your help.
Liz, Paul, Annalise, and Kieran. For remaining patient, while I spent every waking hour thinking about this book.
And especially to Matt Taylor. Every artist needs a friend, someone to tell them they are not wasting their time and keep the wolves of doubt from the door. Matt has been a constant friend, this project would not exist without him. Thanks, Matt.
Table of Contents
Map
CHAPTER 1
Lord Breen
CHAPTER 2
View from the River
CHAPTER 3
What Elucia Wants
CHAPTER 4
Nerys
CHAPTER 5
A Thing of Interest
CHAPTER 6
Uld
CHAPTER 7
Daric hears the news
CHAPTER 8
The Tandrian Blade
CHAPTER 9
Tevaryn
CHAPTER 10
Legites
CHAPTER 11
Damari’s Lot: Part One
CHAPTER 12
To Ship
CHAPTER 13
Sugal to Rieg
CHAPTER 14
Reunion
CHAPTER 15
Raff
CHAPTER 16
The Tower Ship
CHAPTER 17
Damari’s Lot: Part Two
CHAPTER 18
Scale
CHAPTER 19
Fe’roc
CHAPTER 20
The Shed
CHAPTER 21
Daric
CHAPTER 22
The Old Farm House.
CHAPTER 23
The Reluctant Spy
CHAPTER 24
The Kitchen Boy
CHAPTER 25
Attack on the Tower Ship
CHAPTER 26
Grounded
CHAPTER 27
The Machine
CHAPTER 28
Damari’s Lot: Part Three
CHAPTER 29
A Debt Paid
CHAPTER 30
A Wolf’s Response
CHAPTER 31
Ready or Not
CHAPTER 32
The Hour Before
CHAPTER 33
Surprises
CHAPTER 34
The Inside Space
CHAPTER 35
The Last Chapter
CHAPTER 36
Epilogue
MAP
Click for Larger Image
CHAPTER 1
Lord Breen
From within his human host, the demon’s gaze flicked across the grounds of what had once been Lord Breen’s estate. It was all his now, from the manor house by the Townhill road to the smallest of the two dozen farms, Fa’rann owned it all.
From where he was standing, at the window of what were now his private chambers, Fa’rann saw nothing of the once well-manicured lawns and pristine carriageways. Now, the grounds of Breen’s estate were as they should be: efficient and fit for purpose – fit for war! In short, the show was over. Everything his human host had thought essential – the fancy balls, the hunting parties, the elaborate feasts – were all gone. This would be a working manor, a base for his conquest of Aleras, not a playground for weakminded nobles.
“And about time, too,” Fa’rann mumbled. “I have better use for your money.” A thin laugh escaped his lips. “What am I saying? It is my money now, is it not?”
He heard a cry from deep inside his mind. The real Lord Breen was still in there, somewhere.
Don’t fret, my friend, Fa’rann told the almost imperceivably voice. Worry not over your trinkets. When I have finished, you will rule the known world. Or rather, I will. But it will be your name that inspires fear, my lost friend. You should be proud. They will call you Emperor Breen, or maybe Tsar. Do you like that? Tsar Breen?
Another quiet laugh. And again, the near-silent cry.
Fa’rann ignored it.
Things to do, he thought. My pardon, Your Lordship, but I cannot waste time on you.
Pushing his host’s voice to one side, he turned to the other man in the room.
The messenger had been given food and drink and a bowl to wash his face and hands, but he still slouched in the chair by the fire, a look in his eye that said he wanted nothing more than a bed and a few hours’ sleep. Indeed, his eyes were barely open. Even Kasini, the huge basti, appeared to have little effect on the drowsing man – which was odd, most folk took one look at the enormous desert cat and could not wait to leave the room. The man really must be tired.
It was Kasini’s doing, Fa’rann knew. Even without looking into her eyes, humans would soon fall asleep around her. In the wild, the basti used that trick for the hunt; in Lord Breen’s audience chamber, that same trick was becoming a nuisance. He could not talk to anyone for more than five minutes without them dropping off to sleep.
“Kasini, go to the bedchamber,” Fa’rann said, pointing toward the door at the bottom right corner of the room.
Slowly, Kasini rose. She shot him a green-eyed glance, then padded off to the bedchamber.
Fa’rann turned back to the messenger. The man’s eyes were fully closed now, and he was resting his head against the chair back, his mouth open, breathing in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.
Fa’rann shook his head at the sleeping man. Honestly, how long must I associate with these useless animals?
He had gathered most of his Devotees from in and around Whitecliff. The local folk were so easy to turn; five minutes with Kasini and they were his. Indeed, thanks to the desert cat’s unique ability, gathering his first ten thousand men was hardly a chore, more like herding sheep. Humans were such weak minded fools.
Like this one, Fa’rann mused, glancing at the messenger. If I wished it, he would jump out that window. Pathetic.
As the messenger slept on, Fa’rann picked at his robe and eyed the chamber. Neither the robes nor the room were suitable trappings for a Sentriarch, especially one of the Cral Spirits. And yet, Lord Breen – the original owner of this body within which he now resided – was considered somewhat ostentatious. The clothes were fine enough, Fa’rann supposed, but he could never understand why such a supposedly powerful man would live in these cramped conditions. His private chambers were barely ten-paces on a side, and most of that space was taken up with what the nobleman had considered quality furnishings. Fa’rann had long-since decided, when he finally overthrew the king, he would knock down the old palace in Bailryn and build a structure worthy of his status – something monumental.
And to hell with the Balance, he thought. To hell with Diobael and his schemes. Enough hiding in the shadows. It is time to show the world just why it is they scare their children with tales of the old world. Yes, I’ll build a palace worthy of the old gods.
With another sigh, he turned back to the messenger – th
e manor house would have to do, for now.
Fa’rann kicked the chair leg. The messenger started, eyes blinking, then he immediately resumed eating from the tray still on his lap.
“Have you quite finished?” Fa’rann said. “This is not an inn.”
The messenger swallowed the lump of meat he had been chewing. “Yes, my lord. I be finished whenever you say I am, my lord. And thank you kindly for the food and wine, sir.” He did a seated bow.
The truth was, had he not looked fit to drop, Fa’rann would have left the man to starve. And even now, he did not care one wit for the messenger’s wellbeing. All that mattered was the information he carried.
Pedril Gaun had ridden down from the capital, where he had not long since unshipped from a merchant’s vessel. In turn, the ship had only recently docked after it’s month-long trade mission to the Southern Isles. Where, thanks largely to a well-placed bag of silver, Pedril had persuaded the captain to allow him a two-day visit to Bly.
“Have you seen them for yourself?” Fa’rann asked.
Pedril nodded. “Aye, Your Lordship. I did. From a distance, mind, but there was no mistaking the beasts. Each as tall as a big man and twice as wide. Horrible things, sir. And thousands of them. Tens of thousands, mayhap.”
Fa’rann felt anger boil at the man’s flippant remark. Did he not know what he was saying?
Tens of thousands! By the old gods, how could anyone defeat so many Karakin?
The beast inside Breen’s body wanted to tear the messenger’s face off. Or rather, he would try to rip the man’s face off. Fa’rann knew he could no longer do that. He was human now, he reminded himself, and did not possess the talons and teeth of a demon. Not for the first time, he wondered if the price for living in this body was worth paying.
Better to go back to Thenia, the beast in his chest said. Better to hunt and kill and torment.
Hunting and killing, Fa’rann echoed the beast’s thoughts. Yes, all were powerful instincts, but he had learned to quieten that voice. Oh, he needed the beast, but that part of his mind was not right for this world. Yes, as Fa’rann, he could likely garner a measure of dread and fear from the humans, but if he wanted the power – if he wanted the palace, the crown – he would need their respect, too. And human’s, as weak as they were, would never follow a creature of Thenia.
“And the others,” Fa’rann asked. “Did you see them, too?”
Pedril frowned. Face pale, he asked. “Sorry, My Lord, what others?”
Fa’rann sighed. By Grael, how much longer must I suffer these fools?
“The Darkin,” he said. “The Darkin and the Rukin. The other wolf clans, the battle brothers; were they with the Karakin?”
The man seemed confused by the question – which was hardly surprising; he had the sense and wit of a six-year-old.
“Uh… they are the king’s, my lord. The Darkin, the Rukin, the Wildlings: they’re all Vierdan’s creatures. I saw only the spirit wolves and… and that beast.”
It was Fa’rann’s turn to frown. “What beast?”
“The big man, my lord. The Cinné’arth? That Arfael character. You know, the one what killed the witch. He were down there, too. I reckon he was after trying to stop the Karakin escape, my lord. Him and his friends, I mean. There were a group of them, at least ten. Half men, half women. And a bloody big dragon, biggest I ever seen. Not that I’ve seen many dragons, you understand. But this one, he—”
“Yes, yes,” Fa’rann said. “A big dragon, I get the idea.”
“It were more than big,” Pedril insisted. “It were huge, the size of a ship. And I mean a Galleon, sir, not one a them fishing boats.”
Fa’rann allowed his brow to rise. Could it be Tor’gan the man was speaking of?
No. Tor was big, but not that big.
A Cuis, then? Maybe Ribion?
But Ribion would not travel alone, and neither would any of the Nirad.
“It cannot be Skorn,” he whispered, unable to stop the grin creasing his lip.
But could it? Could the huge Siet’cuis have found his old friend the Cinné’arth? And if so, what were they up to? And would they work together after what had happened on Toi’ifael? The Cinné’arth had vowed to kill Skorn if he ever saw him again? No. It was doubtful those two would be on the same side.
Still, there was a huge dragon, and the Cinné’arth was in the Southern Isles. Or at least he had been in the Southern Isles. That was interesting information.
And what of the Darkin? Fa’rann had forgotten the old battle brothers were the king’s pets. He sighed deeply. He would have to gather more men. Maybe harvest a few thousand souls from Halem or Linieth. Certainly, what with the wolves against them, a poultry ten thousand men would not be nearly enough.
“And then there’s that snake, a course,” Pedril said as if forgetting to ask for honey in his tea.
Fa’rann stared at the messenger. “What snake?” he asked, but he had a horrible feeling he knew exactly who the man was talking about.
“The big one,” Pedril said. “About six spans long, body of a man on one end. Ugly thing.”
Fa’rann closed his eyes. “Ash’mael,” he whispered.
Now, this is bad news.
Yes, he could likely deal with the snake demon, but Ash’mael was the Vin Sentriarch, if he gathered the Six to his cause….
Bal the Watcher, Kru the Seeker, Harn the Listener, Dune the Voice, Rakki the Touch, and Little Rog?
Maybe he could deal with one or two, but all six?
No, you can’t fight all the demons, he told himself. If Ash’mael takes the stage, you may as well pack up and go home.
But then again…
“The Cinné’arth,” he whispered.
“What was that, sir?” Pedrina said. “I didn’t—”
“Quiet,” Fa’rann snapped, raising a hand to the messenger.
Immediately, Pedril froze. He sat, eyes wide, like a statue, not even breathing.
“The Cinné’arth,” Fa’rann said again. “Maybe I can…”
Yes, Ash’mael was strong, but the Cinné’arth was the Dragonkin; if anyone could defeat the serpent, it would be him. After all, was it not the Dragonkin who helped imprison the Karakin in the first place? Maybe not this Dragonkin, but Arfael must have the Cinnè’arth’s power.
And Arfael is the only Cinné’arth left; he should be even more powerful. Assuming the fool can remember how to use his gifts.
That was true; this Arfael had forgotten half of what he was capable of.
Fa’rann remembered the fight he had had with the Cinné’arth, the fight on the battlefield north of Bailryn. That Arfael had not remembered any of the old tricks – he could not even summon the wind. If that Dragonkin took to the field, Ash’mael would chew him up and spit him out.
Fa’rann slumped in his chair. No, he could not depend on the Cinné’arth to rid him of Ash’mael, which meant he would have to deal with the serpent himself.
Then again, had Pedril not said the Cinné’arth was on Bly? If Arfael was in the Southern Isles, he must have remembered something of his past. Enough to fight the serpent, at any rate.
Still, he will need some help.
A smile creased his lips. Yes, the Cinné’arth would need some help, and Fa’rann knew just the woman for the job.
Laughing now, he sat back in his chair. “Yes, she will do nicely. And she’s one of your old friends, you ugly snake. How fitting, to be undone by your own man. Or should I say, your own witch?”
The messenger was turning red. Fa’rann released him, and Pedril slipped off the chair and onto the floor, clawing at his throat and taking in huge gulps of air.
“That will be all, I think,” Fa’rann said. “Report to Captain Huish.”
He waved the struggling man away with a casual flick of his wrist, wondering if Pedril knew how close he had come to losing his life – if there was one thing Fa’rann hated, it was bad news.
“Send Bayon in on your way out.”
Pedril stumbled to his feet, very nearly tipping over the small table in his haste to be gone – maybe he did know how close he had come to death. “Aye, Your Lordship. Thank you, sir,” he said, voice harsh. He backed away toward the door, bowing all the while. “Bayon, sir. I’ll send ‘im right in. You see if I don’t. I’ll—”
“Yes, yes,” Fa’rann said around a sigh. “Just hurry it along, man.”
Without another word, Pedril turned and was out the door, barely pausing to close it behind him.
So, Ash’mael and the Karakin, Fa’rann thought, grinding his human teeth. He walked over to the mantel and refilled his cup – at least the wine was good. And such unfortunate timing, cousin. Could you not have waited a few more years?
In a few more years, it would not matter if Ash’mael had led the Karakin through Aleras while riding a giant golden lizard: Fa’rann would have the capital, the crown, and the human armies under his control. And maybe the dragons, too. But now… Well, his cousin had more than complicated matters.
There were already three sides to this battle. Four, if one counted the Lord of Darkness himself. The witches were not much of a worry, and the king was weak, but the dragons, especially Sek the Black, were another matter entirely. And add the Karakin to the mix… Even without Ash’mael at their head, that lot would likely scuttle his plans – or at least force him to change a few.
Fa’rann let out a long breath. “Honestly, cousin,” he whispered, “you were always a one for gatecrashing other folk’s parties.”
A tap on the door, and Bayon entered.
Bayon was a studious man. He had worked for the Breen family for some forty years and likely knew Lord Breen was no longer in control of his body. But the old secretary had not missed a beat. It seemed the man did not care who pulled the strings, as long as his name was Breen. Bayon was a thin, greying man with long fingers and bright eyes, and rarely had Fa’rann needed to tell him something twice. As human’s went, he was almost tolerable.
“Send a message to Halem,” Fa’rann told the old man. “Tell Shanks to increase the quota. An extra two hundred a week until mid-spring should do it.”
The Ship of Tears: (The Legend of the Nine: Part One) (The Eastern Kingdom Chronicles Book 8) Page 1
