Fire and Frost (Seven Realms Book 1)

by Goodner, Allen

  Fire & Frost

  Copyright © 2016 by Allen Goodner

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-1523385645

  ISBN-10: 1523385642

  Cover Design by Logotecture

  Connect with the author:

  allen.goodner@gmail.com

  facebook.com/writerAllenG

  First Edition

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  DEDICATION

  To Sean.

  Because every boy should dream of adventure.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not have been possible without the contributions of Tim, Elisabeth, Elizabeth, Marcus, and Sam. Thank you all.

  Contents

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  Monsignor August Manitoc gave a brief, disgusted glance to the sky. The storm clouds were moving in off the mountains faster than he’d estimated, and several weeks’ hard work was about to be washed away, if his team did not work quickly. Manitoc was one of the preeminent sages in the kingdom, and particularly of the Ancients. It had taken a find of enormous magnitude to convince him to leave his cozy study in The Citadel. The fact it was so close to the Border with Molari had not helped.

  Nevertheless, a find of enormous magnitude it was. This was not the normal potsherds and fragments normally found. The advance team believed they had found intact architecture. When they had sent word of their initial findings to the Monsignor, he’d felt compelled to investigate himself.

  Now, several weeks later, all of that was about to come crashing down if things didn’t get done quickly. Rain was always a danger to an excavation, so precautions were always taken. In this case, however, the nature of the find made such precautions less than effective.

  “Get the canvas! Quickly, we must preserve as much of the find as possible!”

  The laborers were moving as quickly as they could. The need to balance haste and care put some limits on how fast they could move. Too much haste would be as bad as not enough. Worse, working with too much haste could cause injuries to personnel. Manitoc had no problems with laborers being injured, but if they were going to be injured without even saving some of the artifacts, he’d rather avoid the injuries.

  Manitoc glanced again to the sky, and scowled at the noticeable darkening which had occurred in just the last two or three minutes. The wind had already picked up considerably. When the rain hit, the mountains would funnel it to this site like an avalanche. All of the progress they made would be unmade if those canvases weren’t down quickly enough.

  He turned his eyes back to the site, and let them stray to the main attraction. At least that probably didn’t need to be protected. The building, obviously a temple of some sort, had managed to avoid any but the most superficial of damage for the last several hundred years, all while buried. A little rain wouldn’t hurt it.

  His survey of the site took in the perimeter guards as well. He’d briefly considered conscripting them to help with the laborious task of covering their finds, but decided against it. For one thing, men at arms such as he’d brought to protect his team did not take kindly to being treated as common laborers. For another, they were on the Border, and anything could happen here. Better for them to be looking out for a different kind of disaster, than be caught holding a rope when they needed to be holding a pike or gun.

  At any rate, it looked like such would be unnecessary. The laborers had finally managed to get the canvas down over the most important areas, and were already covering them with pebbles to hold the cloth down. Soon enough, just barely, they would be covering them with dirt to protect them from the elements.

  With a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning, the deluge began. The Monsignor pulled his cloak tighter around himself and his hood over his head. His work would survive the storm.

  CHAPTER 1

  Sir Alaric Dell pulled back on the reigns, easing his courser to a stop. He stood in his stirrups to get a better view around him. A tall, handsome man, Sir Alaric was the youngest son of Lord Boores Dell, a Baron of the Firemarch. His high cheek bones, broad shoulders, and strong chin all came from his father. His mother had given him his bright green eyes and strawberry blond hair. When dressed for court, he was the envy of many a man; he’d cut a fine swath through the ladies, often enough. If not for his exquisite manner, such grace at court would probably have lead him into a great number of fights. He pulled a corner of his traveling cloak to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Here on the border was a definition of heat few other encountered regularly. Even in his light riding gear, the sweat poured into his eyes like a waterfall.

  Without looking at them, the young man assessed his companions. Specially chosen for this mission, they were his best friends as well as the best small team he could assemble. They were the champions of the Firemarch, and often called such.

  Alaric could hear the labored breathing of Morgan’s poor steed. He could also hear Morgan’s labored breathing. By all rights, the giant of a man should still be laid up in bed. An injury during the winter had cracked some ribs, and Morgan wasn’t back to fighting weight yet. Even so, he was the match of any three other men in the duchy. Morgan was burley man, often called Morgan Barin, the Bear; it was hard enough to find a charger for him. Finding a horse for this kind of scouting was almost an exercise in futility, or cruelty. His broad shoulders and wide hands counted for a lot. More importantly, his shaggy black hair, brooding dark eyes, and scraggly black beard hid an intellect the envy of more than one scholar.

  Coming up behind the Bear was Ettienne. The most foppish of the group, he looked like he would be much more comfortable at court than on a scouting mission on the Border. His fair hair and bright eyes had won him many a woman. His swordplay had protected him more than once from their jealous paramours. Ettienne was a welcome presence, for his camaraderie and his good spirits, but Alaric suspected he was here as much to get him out of court as anything else. He’d heard something about a certain baronette’s daughter, and Ettienne was almost certainly lying low.

  The final member of the Champions was Troye Cordonnier. A son of a cobbler, Troye was the only one of the four who had risen to knighthood by valor alone. Not the swordsman that Ettienne was, Troye was by far the best horseman in the duchy, and possibly the kingdom. He insisted on riding drag, in case any of the others had
a problem. Many a cavalry captain looked like a boy first riding a farm horse compared to Troye. Alaric knew of at least three times the Duke himself had courted the cavalryman and been rebuffed. Troye’s face was the plain face of a peasant. His broad nose and wide mouth would not win him many women, but his laurels usually did that. His dirt brown hair was cut short, and his brown eyes were unremarkable.

  Alaric was glad to have these companions along. He hoped he wouldn’t need their expertise, but feared that it would barely be enough to see them safe home. His main hope was that they would find their quarry and be able to return to his father with minimal incident.

  Some months ago, in the height of winter, raids began on garrison camps along the Border with Infierno, the Realm of Fire. The Ignis were usually less apt to campaign in winter than were Men, so if they were raiding now it pointed to something very, very bad on the horizon. Emissaries were sent to the Ignis, who claimed no responsibility for the attacks. The Duke, as Protector of the Flame Wall, had sent parties to investigate. So far, none had returned.

  The little information the Duke had been able to gather, however, did suggest that the Igni were not to blame. For one thing, the raids appeared to be focused solely on wanton destruction. While the Fire Apes weren’t above completely razing fortifications, such raids normally had more point. They might steal provisions, or weapons. The Igni were soldiers, after over two hundred years of contact with humans, not mere barbarian raiders. These attacks, however, left all the animals slaughtered. No noticeable material had been taken. Even the camps which were chosen seemed to have no rhyme or reason.

  Then there was the information the Igni had provided. They claimed not to know about the attacks in any specific way. Something about their denials, however, showed they were hiding something. From his time both in his father’s court, and in the Duke’s, young Alaric knew there were ways of saying things without saying them. What the Igni seemed to be saying was that it wasn’t them, but they thought they knew who.

  Everyone knew the stories of monsters in the Borderlands, and few believed them. Who needed monsters when a swarm of Fire Flies could cook a man in a matter of minutes? What need of bogeymen and goblins when one of the Great Dragons could decide it wanted a light snack, your largest herd for instance? Yet something about the way the Igni had been reacting told Alaric that something was very wrong. They had suspicions, but were unwilling to voice them.

  It was these unvoiced suspicions that had Alaric and his companions out searching. They had been sent to investigate the latest of the attacks, on a garrisoned village very near the Border. By rights, they should have taken a direct route. Troye had argued for just such a tactic, especially in light of Morgan’s lingering injury, and Ettienne’s lesser skill on horseback. A ride straight to the village would have used a trade road, however lightly used, and would have been a much easier trek.

  Alaric rejected that idea for one reason. He wanted answers. Several scouting parties had taken just that tactic. The ones who rode hard enough didn’t return. The ones who took a more leisurely pace returned with no useful news. Alaric hoped he could swing around closer to the Border, and come to the village from the other side. He hoped he might find what was behind these attacks. Then he hoped he could get his companions home in one piece.

  Beyond whatever force was arrayed against him, the very terrain was an obstacle to his goals. Here on the Border, things were different. He took in the lay of the land as best he could, astride his horse. Short trees looked as if they were forever locked in autumn, with gold, red, and orange leaves. Only someone who had grown up on the border knew the truth, these were not trees as Men normally understood them. Hot pits of tar hid beneath scrub and grasses which somehow thrived in the conditions of the Border. The elemental nature of Infierno bled over, here, and its effects could be seen in the land. Pools of constantly boiling water bubbled beside the narrow track Alaric had chosen. The companions had to be ever careful for the sputtering sound of a geyser, to avoid being bathed in scalding water.

  It was this rough terrain which had made Alaric consider his friend’s plan, and that so many others had chosen, at all. Only the most able riders would willingly face the challenges here, and two of his companions simply did not meet that standard. Nevertheless, he knew his best hope of finding out what had been happening to the Duke’s people, his father’s people, was to do what others had not.

  When Morgan’s breath finally came under control, Alaric sat back down and nudged his courser into motion. He chose his path carefully but quickly. As much as he could not afford for one of his friends to fall, neither did he have time to waste. Surveying the land, he decided he’d come far enough. The Gate would not be too much further; it was time to turn parallel to the Border. He corrected course, and led on without a word.

  Their travel was as quick as possible without being reckless. When the terrain would allow, Alaric would run the horses for several minutes, before slowing back to a walk. The land here along the Border was flat, which often only made it more dangerous. There weren’t exactly hills, so much as there were gentle rises to the land. Waves of heat rose off the horizon. It was easy, if you were unprepared, to get lost out here. To get lost was to die. More than one story told of men who, lost and out of provisions, fell prey to those same heat waves, believing them to be visions of water.

  On and on they travelled. They had left city and castle of Dell nearly a fortnight previously, and their own rations were beginning to dwindle. As knights in service to the duke, they had managed to requisition water coins to purify the water they found, but it was still flat and tasteless. Their food was dry tack which wouldn’t spoil in the heat and humidity.

  “Alaric,” Troye finally voiced his concern, “it’s been more than two weeks since the attack we were supposed to investigate. Tell me how we’re going to do that when, as I measure it, it will take us at least three more days to get to the scene?”

  “I know, Troye,” the young knight answered, “But investigating each attack has yielded no results. If the point is to find out who or what is raiding then we must do something previous groups have not tried.”

  “How do we know this isn’t exactly what those previous parties, the ones that never returned, did? You may be the best tactician since the Duke himself, but that doesn’t mean you’re the only one to have thought of this.”

  “We don’t know that. What we do know is that none of the groups that came up empty did it. I don’t plan to come up empty.”

  “Alaric, you know I hate ever to agree with Troye, but be reasonable,” Ettienne inserted, “By the time we get to the village, it will be rebuilt! There won’t be anything to find, because we’ll have taken so long getting there.”

  “You, too? I understand what you’re both saying. I just can’t accept that simply riding to the village would have yielded any results. For that matter, we’ve already come all this way. Do you really want to ride back to the castle and start over?”

  That got a grunting chuckle from Morgan. “Listen, fellows, Alaric here has led us into more scrapes than I care to remember, and led us back out in one piece again. It’s not exactly a market-day picnic for me to be out here, but I think he’s on to something.

  You weren’t there when the Igni Ambassador came to see the duke, Troye. There was something about his eyes. If I thought they could feel such a thing, I’d have said it was shame. They know what’s going on, or they think they do, but they can’t or won’t do anything to stop it.

  We have to come back with answers, and not just the same lack of them that others have brought back.”

  As usual, when Morgan spoke, the others listened. Still not completely sure, himself, that it was the correct course, Alaric looked each of his companions in the eye. Seeing their nods of acceptance, he turned again and rode on.

  That night, as they made their camp, Morgan approached him quietly. “You and I both know that we’re not going to find any answers about the attack itself. What a
re you looking for, Alaric?”

  “I’m really not sure. Like you said, the Igni know something. Now, normally the Fire Apes are so forthright and honest that it’s almost painful. For them to be hiding something tells me that we really, really need to know what it is. Something about this scares them. You said you saw shame in his eyes that day? I saw fear. And anything that makes a Fire Ape afraid is something I’d prefer to know about before it comes knocking on the gates.”

  “You’d better get some rest. We’ll turn back toward the village in the morning. The riding won’t get easier, but maybe the weather will get cooler as we get away from the border.”

  The next day started as the others had. As they broke camp and saddled their horses, each man took time for a brief prayer. A breakfast of more hard tack saw them on their way, and they started the morning leading their horses.

  As promised, the ride did not get easier. As the terrain moved away from the border, the land became harder. There were more small hills and rises, fewer areas of level ground. While there were fewer tar pools and geysers, there were still enough to leave a man dead, if he wasn’t careful. Fourteen days on the road had not been kind to Morgan, and Alaric and Troye silently agreed to pick up the pace as much as possible; their friend needed a real bed. If they rode just a little harder, they could make the three day trip to the village in two.

  With his concern for his friend on his mind, Alaric still kept constant scan of the terrain. He’d grown up here on the Border, and knew what was right, and what was wrong. So far, nothing seemed to be wrong. Even with fourteen days, the attackers should have left some trace. To so completely have devastated the village and garrison, there had to be a force of hundreds.

  Perhaps it was his own hopes for cooler weather, or perhaps it was his concern for his friend, but Alaric almost didn’t notice until too late. The weather had turned cooler. Almost between one moment and the next he stopped sweating; his clothing felt too light. This wasn’t a simple temperature change as they got farther from the Elemental Fire, this was something else.