Ascent of the Unwanted (The Chronicle of Unfortunate Heroes Book 1)

by Nathan T. Boyce

  Chronicle of Unfortunate Heroes

  Ascent of the Unwanted

  Nathan T. Boyce

  Contents

  Prologue ……………………………………

  Infatuation……………………………..

  Sorrow……………………………………..

  The Flawed Ruby………………………

  The Man and the Dog He Rode in on

  ………………………………………………….

  Friends…………………………………….

  Brothers…………………………………

  Hard Lessons………………………….

  Payments……………………………….

  Resolve…………………………………..

  Testing……………………………………

  The Usual Reaction………………….

  Commencement……………………

  Ready on Hand………………………

  Strangers…………………………………

  Together………………………………….

  Specter……………………………………

  Confrontation…………………………

  Aftermath………………………………

  Prologue

  The rusted metal bit into his arm. As the skin tore away from the muscle beneath, the raw burn of exposed sinew flashed back to a sharp jab. The sweat rolled down into his eyes again, a mild sting compared to the agony above him. The torment forced him to gulp in more air while his left arm shivered, threatening to cramp. He looked up at the thick chains. The cuffs around his wrist were snug and the skin bulged out of the thick metal. A dark ring of blood soaked into the orange rust of the metal.

  This post had to be driven several feet into the ground, it would not budge. All hope fled. The idiot, Sarik, lumbered up to the top of the small bald hill with the remainder of his men.

  “Where are the stones, Ashur?” Sarik screamed. Flecks of spit flew from his red face. His veins bulged in his neck while his gold cloak flashed behind him in the breeze.

  What fools they all were! He could have been one of the greats, one of the heroes the bards sang about.

  “All those ambushes and you survived.” Ashur said.

  “How did things end like this? You sacrificed your honor as well as your family’s name to prove we made a mistake?” Sarik asked, a touch of gentleness in his voice.

  “You must have hidden behind some poor fallen brother. I don’t see Nesith. You always hid in his shadow.” Ashur dug the barb in deep. His arrow killed Nesith.

  For millennia the Darharim held the key to peace. Weapons of such power that no nation dared aggression toward another. While not an army their training and numbers were enough to tilt the scales of war against anyone initiating a conflict. If they had the weapons. The six greatest kings of the past established the peace after exhaustive wars grew tiresome. The wars went on for so long they no longer even had a name. They were just called the Great Wars. The Darharim and their weapons were their answer.

  Before his betrayal Ashur trained for years for his final testing with these elite guardians, to become one of the Darharim protectors. While others who came after him received the final ordeal he waited. He suffered when the occasional student succeeded, donning the radiant gold cloak of the Darharim. Internally he gloated when one failed while he played the consoling friend. He found new allies. Allies that paid him handsomely to steal what was guarded. Indeed, the sole purpose for the Darharim’s existence could not be accomplished without them.

  “Who has them now?” Sarik demanded.

  “Does it matter? You don’t have the numbers to take them back.” Ashur laughed. He may be finished but his name would live. The bards would sing about him after all.

  “They don’t know the secret of the stones. They’re useless to them!” Sarik said.

  “Now, you’re useless too!”

  They paid dearly for dismissing Ashur. The Darharim were slaughtered. Their proud numbers reduced from hundreds to a mere dozen. The items they guarded like zealots for these past millennia gone.

  His captors led Lightfoot toward him. The stupid horse was half the reason he was in this mess. The beast was no help at all in the last portions of his testing and his failures could be placed right at the feet of his mount. If it were not for the bond the Darharim gave him with Lightfoot he would have been rid of him ages ago. He loved him like a brother but a better mount would have helped him succeed.

  “Ashur, your betrayal of our order is unforgivable. We who remain have pondered long about the appropriate punishment. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Sarik asked. His question held heavy in the air.

  Ashur hocked up mouthful of spit and phlegm and launched it at Sarik’s face.

  Sarik did not move. The spittle and mucus crawled down his long face. “You think you have defeated us? We will grow again. Instead of the weapons we will protect the Roh.”

  “The Roh? You will protect the commoner? You do that and all the money you get from the nobles will dry up.”

  Sarik turned his head. Ashur smiled until Sarik faced him again. Tears fell from the eyes of his old tutor.

  “We have decided to give you the worst possible fate. You will wander this world forever aware of the deaths you have caused, including your brother’s. When the kingdoms go to war, and they will, you will be alive to witness what you have wrought.”

  “No! You can’t kill Lightfoot!” Ashur screamed but it was too late. A shot of fear went through him. He was not sure if the feeling came from him or his brother. Lightfoot reared back. Ashur pulled against his binding, not feeling the metal bite. The blood began to stream down his arms. He could feel the stones hitting Lightfoot, breaking bones. His mind reeled with each successive blow. The horse strained against its bonds and Ashur strained with him. “You butchers!”

  Ashur barely remembered them bandaging his wrists after Lightfoot’s death. The world was gray and his breathing came in shallow gasps. He looked down at the stumps at the end of each of his arms. The agony of experiencing Lightfoot’s pain overshadowed his own during the ordeal. He had pulled his hands through the shackles, ripping most of the skin and muscles from pulverized bones. There was a time when he had envisioned himself becoming one of the greatest warriors of his generation. His only purpose now would be watching others fall into the same misery he felt. Perhaps the stone he kept, the slab of obsidian, would give him the power to make it happen.

  Chapter 1

  Infatuation

  Miranda stared down through her bedroom window, her breath frosting the pane. A man dressed in black approached her father’s smithy. His gray stallion flew across the ground, a disciplined horse with a well-trained rider. Like a mouse trapped by a snake she could not look away from the threat the man presented. A shiver crawled up her spine while she peeled herself away from the glass. Today held the promise of more pleasant visitors. Gordon should be coming to pick up the sword her father made.

  Desire burned with a need to attract those hazel eyes today, and she shook the feeling of dread the dark man imposed. Two great bounds took her to her wardrobe. She may not have the finery of the ladies at the lord’s court but she did have a few items to set off her face and figure.

  Pulling out her green bodice and dress, Miranda held it against her. This would give her a natural tone enhancing her green eyes and curly brown locks. She grabbed her most precious possession, a small hand held mirror. Her father ga
ve it to her on the day he deemed her old enough to be courted.

  Miranda knew how pretty she was. False modesty was just as unappealing as arrogance. She could certainly get her target’s attention she just needed to accentuate her physical attributes. After dressing she ran a brush through her hair looking into the small mirror, and adjusted her curls in just the right way to frame her face. A few pinches at the right time would add color to her cheeks and some spring berries would redden her lips.

  Maybe she would hold off on the berries. Appearing too eager to snag the consideration of a man could blemish the overall effect.

  One final pass with the mirror, and she headed downstairs then outside toward her father’s smithy.

  It was a crisp spring morning in the forested hills of Tredale. Halfway to her father’s shop she saw the gray mare picketed outside. She felt awkward interrupting him with clients and she had no desire to meet the dark man. She created an errand to bring her father some water. It was still early in the morning but working next to the hot fire could cause a man to work up a thirst.

  She headed into the kitchen seeing her mother plying a wad of dough for the midday and evening meals. Her mother looked up smiling at her. “You’re looking very pretty this morning, Miranda. Trying to catch the eye of a young man?”

  “Can’t I want to look my best for no reason?”

  Miranda ducked behind the door of the pantry to shield herself from her mother’s stare.

  “Of course! But when a girl puts on her finest outfit heads turn and the girl is usually not oblivious.”

  “I thought I would watch Dad today. Think he could use some water already?” Miranda asked, trying to change the subject while heading across the kitchen to the cups.

  “I’m sure your father would enjoy a little refreshment but I don’t want you wearing such a nice outfit in the smithy. It could get burned. Maybe you should change into more suitable clothes.” Her mother punched the middle of the wad sending a cloud of flour into the air. Miranda slid away from the falling puffs to keep her dress from being assaulted.

  “Oh, Mother. It’s not like I am going to be the one taking the hammer to the steel or that I still get underfoot. I’ll stay well out of the way.” Miranda grabbed a large steel cup and headed toward the well.

  Miranda despised the well. Turning the handle became tedious just for a bucket of water. Filling the cistern was Terrel’s chore and the brat never did his work unless forced. The cistern was empty, of course. Luckily the bucket still held just enough water to fill her cup. She turned toward the smithy with her original mission still in mind.

  The dark man exited as she arrived. He looked at Miranda and smiled. Her nerves itched under his gaze, the shield of her clothing incapable of protecting her naked skin from his prying eyes. His long dark hair lay flat on his back and his sunken eyes probed every inch of her. She moved her arm across her bosom without thinking to protect it from the man’s gaze. His examination finished, he turned to the horse lashed just outside of her father’s shop. He pulled his black leather riding gloves tight, and mounted.

  Miranda had never seen a prettier horse. Black spots danced around branding scars in its hindquarters. The stark white main and tail next to the charcoal of the beast’s sleek frame only enhanced how still the horse remained. It looked calm, like a cool gray pond stirred by a gentle breeze.

  He gave his black riding gloves an unnecessary flare, and rode slowly away. His lascivious smile stayed on Miranda until he was forced to turn and face the road.

  She glanced over her shoulder to catch a final glimpse of the beautiful horse seeing the large scars on its rump clearly now. Odd branding, she thought and cruelly large. Not one used around here. It looks almost like a tree.

  “Who was that?” Miranda asked walking inside and offered her father the cup.

  “Just a messenger from the baron. His son will be here shortly to pick up his sword. I need to touch up the hilt a little bit. Seems a little bland, y’know. Maybe etching the baron’s coat on the hilt will give it some flair.” he said.

  Like most smiths he possessed large arms and a broad chest wrought from countless swings of the hammer. Miranda always felt tiny standing next to him, but the size made he feel safe. He grabbed the cup from her and emptied it in a large gulp.

  “Thanks, Mira, that was good,” he said wiping sweat from his brow. He looked at her, eyes wide with pride. “Aren’t you a fetching picture of a waif this morning?”

  Miranda blushed. Feeling half her age she spread her skirt and spun about for him.

  “All my chores are done. Can I watch you?” Miranda asked, looking up at her father with her most pleading face.

  “Y’know I can’t say no to that face.” A large smile spread across his face. “I need to finish up this hearth hook for Miss Graldy, and then I will start the hilt work for the baron’s son. You can watch that if you wish. It’s the most boring part about making a weapon for most people. No real purpose to it really, besides making the weapon look pretty but you know what I say: A jobs not done until…”

  “…the small details are complete,” Miranda finished for him. “You better get started with your work before the baron’s son gets here. I would not want it to be said that you can’t keep up with your work because your daughter is too much of a distraction.

  “Girl, that’s been said since the day you were born.”

  He finished hammering and twisting a large iron rod into an S-spiraled hook, attaching it to a hinged plate for wall mounting. He wrapped it in an oiled leather cloth along with two spikes.

  “Fetch the sword off the wall while I go retrieve my tools, sweetie.”

  Miranda went to the wall where her father hung his unfinished projects. A shiny steel long sword with a brass hilt and coiled wire grip hung alone from its hand guards. She lifted it off the wall. It did not seem as heavy as she had anticipated. She tried a few rudimentary swings. It seemed light for such a large amount of metal. Unprepared, she ended up swinging the tip into the soft dirt floor.

  “How many times have I told you not to dig a blade into the dirt? It’s not good for it,” her father reprimanded her as she came into his work area.

  “I don’t recall you ever telling me that father, and it was not my intention to dig it into the dirt. It feels almost alive in my hand. Why does it feel so light?”

  “Hmmm…must have been your younger brother I told,” her father said, rubbing at his long dark beard. “Well, anyway, don’t dig a blade into the ground. It’s bad for the edge. There, now I’ve told you.” He reached for the sword. “A well-made sword is balanced for easy swinging and that is a very well made sword, if I do say so myself.”

  She sat across from him at his work table watching her father fit a small circle of wood by the hilt. He chiseled small peels of soft wood from the disk. Her father was correct, this was pretty boring. Delicate work like this required metal to be poured into a mold. Any metal carving would only be to remove any flashing the mold may impart. It did not have the action and stirring ring of hammer on steel. It was over an hour before the most rudimentary forms of the familiar Wynnarche stag started to take shape.

  If only Gordon would notice her today. The elegant symbol of strength and beauty would be a bonus in becoming a member of this house. When she caught his eye the courting would not be long after. If luck would not place Gordon in her lap she would manipulate the situation to get his attention.

  Miranda had never been a large believer in luck. Mrs. Graldy had taught her a few of the finer points of ensnaring a man’s interest.

  Snapping out of her daydream she looked at her father’s handy work. The stag was brilliant but an unfamiliar item was beginning to take form in the background.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “A new addition to the coat The messenger who came by earlier informed me about it. It’s a tree to protect the house of Wynnarche, the symbol of the newly adopted religion of the house.”

  “That’s
nice I guess, but what religion is it?” Miranda asked. The tree was beginning to look familiar. It looked like the one branded on the horse.

  “Something about a father oak.” Her father scratched at the side of his head with the chisel. “Anyways, it’s no matter. I figured I might as well show that I am as current as the next blacksmith with our lord’s heraldry. Good for business, ya’ know”

  “Will we be converting to this new religion?”

  Her father gave her a look she had only seen once before, the day he caught her kissing Flint Nilwin by the river before her courting announcement.

  “I sure hope that Beshra did not hear such heinous blasphemy from your mouth, child,” he rumbled.

  “I am sorry, Father, but if the baron and his family converted why don’t we?”

  “Whatever foolery the noblemen do is beyond our control. As long as I am head of this house I will not tolerate blasphemy from my children.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  She spent the rest of the time quiet, hesitant to speak as her father continued to work. She did not want to push him from irritation to anger. A kind man, slow to anger, but when his ire was up it could take hours for the emotion to pass.

  Finishing the carving on the hand guard he poured the molten steel into the mold. The pops and hisses of hot metal hitting cool wood soon was accompanied by numerous hoof beats coming up the path to her father’s shop. Miranda’s heart leapt into her throat.

  “Miranda, would you go and refill this cup, please.” Her father handed her the empty cup she had brought into the shop.

  “But father, I—”

  “Now!”

  “Yes, Father.” she said. He always treated her like a little girl. Why couldn’t she stay and watch the transaction? She would just have to hurry along with her errand. If she came back before the baron left her father could not possibly be angry with her. Being quick with one’s duties should never be punished, it should be praised.

  She ran to the well to fill the cup with water. She could hear the hoof beats slowing as they approached her father’s shop. She upended the bucket over the cup and watched as a weak stream of water mocked her. She threw the bucket into the well. The weight of it usually sent the rope spinning along the spool, soon to be followed by a crash of wood on water.