BlackThorn

by DeWayne Kunkel

  BLACKTHORN

  Chronicles of the Dark Sword Book One

  By DeWayne M Kunkel

  Copyright © 2011 by DeWayne M. Kunkel

  All rights reserved

  This book is dedicated to my children,

  Without them Tel’Ganduil would never have set sail across the Darkling Sea.

  DMK.

  PROLOGUE

  Three thousand years ago the world of man stood on the brink of destruction. An age of peace and prosperity had come to an abrupt end. For more than two hundred years war had ravaged the once fertile lands, laying waste to the great cities, and entire nations fell beneath the sword.

  The last remnants of free men had assembled upon a plain of scorched earth. At their side were the immortals, the Tal’shear. The tall fey beings stood defiant, resplendent in golden armor and brightly colored tabards of blue and silver.

  A lone Mountain loomed over the plain, its roots seated amid barren hills of broken rock and gaping black chasms that leaked poisonous vapors into the air. The Mountain’s ragged crown was lost in a billowing cloud of fire and smoke, obscuring the sun and casting the plain into darkness.

  Along its flanks flowed thin ribbons of orange light, molten stone vomited up from the earth’s fiery depths. Flowing about an immense fortress built upon a high tor at the peaks base. The racing lava disappeared into deep crevices in the heat blasted rock.

  The keep was offensive to the eye. A construct of dark stone, its crenellated walls surmounted by four high towers that resembled the jagged fangs of some wild beast. Three massive gates of iron were set into the thick walls, dark openings from which crept a foul mist reeking of death and decay.

  Vi’Erud it was named, the keep of the damned. For more than two hundred years it had endured. Guarding the sole entrance to Sur’kar’s sanctum. Many times it had been attacked but the dark fortress had never fallen, and within its daunting ramparts lurked Sur’kar’s cursed horde.

  Amid the host from the east upon a low hill, eight Tal’shear had gathered. They were unlike the others of their kind; each emanated an aura of power and wisdom. They were the warders, a group of powerful mages sworn to the protection of the two races.

  Horns sounded and the black gates of Vi’Erud slowly swung open. From within the darkness a great host of Morne marched out onto the plain. They came by the tens of thousands, pouring forth as a dark tide that stained the land. Bearing before them crimson standards held aloft upon spears capped with the skulls of slain men.

  From the fuming maw of Trothgar a great explosion of gas and fire erupted. Shaking the earth with its vehemence.

  Drums pounded and out from the center gate advanced the giants. Huge one-eyed brutes that waded through the assembled Morne brandishing iron cudgels cruelly barbed with long spikes.

  The Trolls towered over their allies; the rock trolls easily twice the height of a man while the Ice trolls stood even taller. They were massive beasts, cruel and wild. One Troll could instill terror in the heart of any man, but here there had gathered more than two thousand.

  The drums grew silent as two riders left the keep. They rode upon reptilian creatures with horned crests that spewed fire from their nostrils. The figures wore armor of deepest black. Upon their great helms brass horns gleamed brightly in the deepening gloom. From within the dark visors an emerald fire burned, the feral glow filling the men with fear.

  These were the Balhain, Sur’kar’s most powerful servants. Twisted by his might until all that remained was nothing more murderous spirits endowed with great power. Even the warders feared them, and with good reason, for the Balhain had once stood among their number.

  The Morne continued to flow from the gates, the army swelling in size until its number became all but uncountable.

  The warriors of the east knew that they were hopelessly outnumbered; their foe would easily overwhelm them. Fear spread through the ranks and many of the men felt despair darkening their hearts.

  There were many heroes in those days, both Tal’shear and men of renown. Mighty warriors who bore enchanted weapons of great power. They gathered before the assembled men and rallied their spirits. Fire shone along their blades and they stood defiant before the enemy without fear.

  Lightning flashed in the darkness overhead and resonating booms split the silence. A hot fetid wind blew down from the mountain reeking of sulfur.

  Twice the horns of Vi’Erud called, the discordant sound reaching far across the plain. The Trolls lumbered forward, their long legs quickly outpacing the charging Morne. Shaking the plain with their great weight.

  Sur’kar’s forces slammed into the eastern army. Swords flashed and the cries of the dying contested with the clash of steel blades.

  The Trolls shattered the lines and waded through the ranks reaping men as if they were wheat. Their iron cudgels growing slick with gore as they pulverized their enemies.

  Arrows filled the dark sky; iron tips reeking havoc among the combatants wherever they fell. The Tal’shear engaged the giants, at great cost they slowed their progress and with long bladed spears the tall warriors began to slay the fearsome juggernauts.

  Emerald sheets of fire rained down upon the armies, slaying friend and foe alike. The Warders engaged the enemy powers and turned aside many of the attacks the Balhain hurled at them.

  The Balhain became incensed by the arrogance of the Warders. They ceased attacking the soldiers, turning their attention to the hilltop. Bolts of power lashed out and the Warders were hard pressed to defend themselves. The hilltop glowed with power and the eldritch forces being wielded there killed any who stood too near.

  So’san, mightiest of the warders was driven from the hilltop by the Balhain’s power. He staggered through the field of combat protected by his Anghor Shok, his sworn guardian. The warrior fought valiantly, slaying any who would dare attack his charge.

  So’san climbed a jagged hillside and soon stood above the combat. He watched in horror, as the army of the east was being overrun. Looking on helplessly as brave and powerful heroes fell and rose no more. The Balhain were pounding his companions mercilessly, their might setting the very air ablaze.

  He knew they had lost; their brave ploy had failed, for Sur’kar yet remained in his tower within the volcanoes heart. He would not come out and they lacked the strength to enter.

  His Anghor Shok was slain by one of the few remaining giants, struck from behind his body exploding into bloody fragments by the force of the blow.

  Rage filled the warder, an emotion he was unfamiliar with and could not fully control. Power filled him and he threw down the Troll with a bolt of searing energy. The Troll cried out in anguish as his body burst into flame.

  Horrified by what he had just done, So’san fell to his knees weeping. He had violated the most sacred of his oaths. To use their strength to kill was against everything his order stood for. In the blink of an eye he had become akin to the evil that they now fought.

  Tears clouded his vision and despair filled his heart. He knew today, right now upon this field was their only chance to save this world and its people.

  There was but one choice remaining, a desperate plan that would kill millions but it would slay Sur’kar as well. It offered a slim chance for the survivors to rebuild a new world without the darkness of the Kin slayer.

  He closed his eyes and called upon all the power he could master. He cast aside his barriers and allowed the might to build within him to a level he had never felt before. Pure power raged within him. He jumped to his feet. All of his restraints now gone, he felt as if he could simply close his fist and grind the world too dust.

  The energy built within him until his body could hold no more and as he burned away he sent his final casting out into the darkness above.


  The hilltop on which he stood exploded in a ball of golden light, so bright that it rivaled the sun. A blast of tremendous force raced out knocking nearby combatants from their feet. The soldiers closest to the blaze simply vanished consumed by the hellish energies So’san had unleashed.

  The Balhain were caught in the open and the light burned them, shrieking in anguish they disappeared into the shadows. Dissolving into a dark mist driven by the wind.

  The warders looked on in shock, they knew not what So’san had done, but it was a violation of every law they upheld.

  The glow subsided and silence reigned upon the field of combat. Broken only by the groans of the dying and the rumble of the fire crowned mountain.

  A new sound came on the wind, a deep rumbling screech that grew to deafening proportions quickly. The cloud of ash and fumes above raced off to the west as if it were simply wiped away by a giant hand. The sun shone brightly and a terrible hot wind raced across the landscape.

  The sky brightened and a flaming sphere fell from the heavens, trailing a dark roiling cloud behind it.

  There was little time to react; it struck with a violence that nearly split the earth. A huge blinding fireball erupted from where Trothgar had stood. A wall of searing flame and gale force winds flowed out from it with unbelievable speed and power. The hills were flattened and the Keep of Vi’Erud exploded into dust.

  The Warders used their strength to hold back the conflagration, but they were not strong enough. Much of the Army was destroyed, dying horribly as their bodies exploded into flame.

  Great crevices opened in the plain and magma rose up covering the landscape. The sky darkened and fiery debris fell from the clouds to strike the earth in powerful explosions.

  A great crater had formed and jagged mountains of glassy stone erupted up out of the earth ringing the hellish pit. Through the haze of smoke and fire the great volcano still stood at its center. It had been reduced to a mere fragment of its original size but the power of Sur’kar had spared it from total destruction.

  Within the tortured Calderas the great tower V’rag was no more, and with it Sur’kar’s throne. Few were the survivors of that great battle, only those who stood close to the Warders survived to tell the tale. The heroes and their weapons of power were forever lost in the destruction.

  The world was cast into darkness for many years. An age of ice had settled upon the land, where only the strongest would survive.

  “The Challenges of tomorrow are often

  Rooted in the deeds of antiquity.”

  Lenar, Bard of Ril’Gambor

  Chapter One

  Casius stood facing into the wind, watching as the gull's wheeled gracefully in the sky. Their plaintive calls a sharp contrast to the wind chimes ringing in the graveyard behind him.

  Seventy-two Cairns of piled rock lay in orderly rows. Each with its own marker of carved wood that had turned gray with age. Here rested New Hope’s dead, securely surrounded by a low wall of dry set stone, blanketed with thick patches of dark moss.

  The Graveyard had been built on the highest point of the island. A flat-topped hill of dark stone rising high among the eastern crags that bordered upon the vast expanse of the Southern Sea.

  One hundred feet below, powerful waves crashed onto the jagged rocks of the cliff's base. Striking with such force that they often sent spray high above the cliff, where it drifted down in tattered patches of fog, giving the whole area a surreal look.

  A lone tree grew here. A hoary old pine moaning as the wind blew through its needles. From its lowest branch hung the ringing set of chimes. Once, when they were new they had shone brightly in the sun as they swung in the breeze. The silver metal was now a deep tarnished green from years of exposure to the salt laden air. Their soft silvery notes were believed to keep the unsettled dead from rising.

  Squinting his eyes against the afternoon sun, Casius let his gaze wander northward. Where he could see a distant line of dark ominous clouds. Up thrust like an angry fist they rose above the horizon. He had little doubt that the approaching storm would strike the small island as many did during this time of the year.

  The same wind that drove the clouds had also turned the day bitterly cold. Casius shivered, the freezing air cutting through his thick wool shirt. He grimaced at the thought of freezing rain and deep drifts of snow soon to come. Gone now were the long days of summer and winter was fast approaching.

  The Island of Kale lay north of the tropics, fifty miles off the eastern tip of Ao’dan. Winters here were long-lived and often brutal, testing the limits of both man and beast to survive.

  Tiring of the wind's relentless fury, he turned his face away from its clawing fingers. Remembering to ring the small brass bell he held. He carried it to frighten any lurking spirits away. To look upon the dead was a dangerous thing for the living to do.

  Gazing on the cairn that held his mother, he remembered how she would laugh at the superstitions held by the villagers of their home.

  These hardy folk earned their livelihood from the sea. It was an arduous life, often perilous. The deep was capricious and scores of myths had grown around it. The Fishermen often told tales of legendary creatures, both benign and malignant. Strange beings that populated the mysterious depths of the dark abyss, at times they would rise up from the deep and pull a ship and crew down to their doom.

  Casius rang the battered bell. He did not believe in the tales of ghosts that would steal a man’s spirit. To him it was nonsense, a belief grounded in ignorance. He carried it though, as did his father when he visited her grave. I am my father’s son he thought, pragmatic to a fault.

  He set the bell upon the low wall and stepped easily over the barrier. A narrow path lay before him leading down the steep slope of the hill. He paused at the trail's head looking out over the island. From where he stood one could almost see it in its entirety.

  A mile away, stretching to the west, lay a sea of gold and red, the Nahl wood. The stately trees having changed their colors, heralding the beginning of the lean months yet to come. The wind swirled through their tops scattering loose leaves high into the air. The skeletal branches swaying as if clawing at the escaping flecks of color, seeking to hold onto the last remnants of their foliage.

  The wood was old and forbidding. Few men ever ventured far within its verdant confines, and fewer still ever came out again. When Casius was eight years old he had brazenly walked into its shadowy depths. His ill conceived plan to prove his manhood to his friends went terribly amiss when he had become hopelessly lost. Twisted about in its maze of snarled undergrowth, he wandered beneath the looming trees for two cold and lonely nights.

  Tired and hungry he eventually staggered out of its clutches. His sudden emergence from the gloom of the wood startled a group of nervous woodcutters who were laboring nearby.

  The people of New Hope considered him to be blessed by the gods; His father however insisted it had been nothing but good luck. To this day the sight of the wood still fills him with dread although he has no recollection of what had happened to him during his time within it.

  To the south, less than two miles away stood the settlement of New Hope, surrounded by fertile fields and orchards. It was a small village of stone cottages clustered closely together. Trails of smoke rising from their chimneys hung in the bright sky above newly thatched roofs.

  The village was well protected by a surrounding earthen bank crowned with a palisade of sharpened logs through which a narrow gate allowed entry. Along the bank livestock meandered, eating at the lush grass to be found growing there.

  The town had been built around the only beach on the island. A shallow cove that sheltered a crescent shaped shore of small pebbles. The rest of the island ended in low rocky cliffs that would tear a ship to pieces should one venture too close. The Settlers had chosen this island well; it was remote and easily defended.

  Casius took one last look at the row of graves before starting down the narrow footpath. At its bottom stood his fa
ther's horse, an old gray gelding named Fleet. He was one of only three horses on the isle. A gift from lord Baln, given to his father the day he was granted the title of Ship thane, an honor even in such a small community as New Hope.

  Fleet snorted when he noticed Casius was on his way down the slope. Tossing its head the horse pulled at the yellowed grass growing around the lichen covered rocks.

  The booming thunder of the waves lessened as he descended. A new sound was borne upon the wind. A deep resonating tone that repeated itself twice more before he realized what it was that he was hearing. It was coming from the village; someone was blowing the brass horn at the watchtower that over looked the bay.

  Casius dashed down the slope, excitement making his heart race. The horn was never blown lightly it was only sounded in emergencies, a call to arms for the men of New Hope.

  He swung up onto fleets back; the old horse refused to budge, as it was busy eating. A heel to its flank and a light twitch of the reins got the animal moving.

  Down out of the crags they raced, Fleet running as if he were a young colt. Leaving the last of the hills they sprinted through dormant fields, between rows of steaming haycocks. The wind roared in his ears, clods of muddy soil flying from Fleets hooves.

  Without slowing they plowed up the earthen bank scattering a group of chickens. Amid a flurry of squawking birds and flying feathers the horse bolted through the thick gate. The men standing behind it were just beginning to push it closed. A few of them cursed the reckless boy as they leapt from the charging horse’s path.

  He reigned Fleet in as the gate boomed shut and the cross bar was slid into place. The village was in an uproar and through this chaos of running and shouting he led the horse. He still had no idea what was happening, but from the looks on the faces of the armed men scurrying about it was serious indeed.

  The men bore axes, Swords and bows a few farmers even carried the sharp scythes they had been working with just as the alarm sounded. They took positions along the palisade their faces grim. Women, children and those too old or sick to wield a weapon went to the long house, where armed men would protect them.