by Philip Blood
Nexlord:
Dark Prophecies
Book One
by
Philip F. Blood
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Version 3.0
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PUBLISHED BY:
Philip Blood on Smashwords
Nexlord: Dark Prophecies
Copyright © 2010 by Philip Blood
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Friends I’d like to thank.
This novel is about the bonds between friends, and I have many to thank for their support. Thanks, Ron DeRuyter for all the editing and suggestions, you’re always there when I need you. Thank you, Rhonda St. Laurent, my sister and English teacher for your skills and understanding. I’d also like to thank Phil R. Blood for encouraging me to write. Sadly, my father did not live to see my books published, but he did get the chance to read early versions of this novel series.
And last, but by no means least, thank you, Marianne Wilhelm, for living with me and my main characters: Aerin, Gandarel, Dono, Lor, Katek and Mara, and putting up with them as if they were family members. We all appreciate and love you.
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Nexlord: Dark Prophecies
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Chapter One
“…and in this vision, I saw the return of evil twice banished. It was a strange vision where two go as one to become the opposite faces of darkness and light. But the future blurred; for I saw a meeting in a far place where the bleakness of hate met the fullness of friendship, and the future was left in the Dreadmaster’s hands. Yet it was the NexLord who saved us all.”
- From the Prophecies of Gold
Fear only strengthens the enemy.
Aerin’s father had told him this many times, but right now the young boy was terrified. He clutched at the insides of the swaying canvas covered wagon as it hurtled down the bumpy dirt road with reckless speed. From the front of the rumbling wagon, his father’s voice rang out urging the two horse team to even greater efforts.
Their pursuers were gaining.
The boy's mother guided her twelve-year-old son down onto the floor, wedging him in between the side of a large clothing trunk and the corner of the wagon. She pushed his head down until it was below the top of the rough wooden sideboards.
The dull staccato of hurtling hoofs pounded angrily against the hard packed dirt as a horrid guttural voice barked out a war cry. That deep voice could not have issued from a human throat, it seemed to vibrate the very air inside the wagon.
Aerin tried to contain his terror, but it seeped from his mind like sweat from the pores of his skin. With wide eyes, the frightened boy watched his mother scramble over fallen boxes and clothes until she reached the back of the lurching wagon. Her slim hand grasped the edge of the canvas and pulled it slightly open so that a thin blade of sunlight cut into the shadowed interior of the wagon. She peered out and a gasp of dismay escaped before her hand came up to swiftly stifled the involuntary sound of horror. She knew she must be strong for the benefit of her son.
The sound of the pounding hoofs drew closer.
Sariah released the canvas and turned to lock desperate eyes on her young son as if her gaze alone could protect him. As their eyes met a ray of light pierced the dim interior through a new hole in the canvas and his mother lurched forward. A red circle of blood appeared on the left shoulder of her cream colored dress. Her hand lifted toward her son, but then she fell forward revealing an ugly black barbed shaft projecting from her upper back.
Aerin cried out and started to get up from behind the crate, but Sariah gasped through her pain, "No, Aerin, stay down!” She crawled her way toward her son, determined as only a mother can be when protecting that which is most precious, her child.
The hoofs grew louder and the boy could hear them on either side of the hurtling wagon. An arrow struck the wood near Aerin's head as three more of the ugly shafts penetrated the canvas. Beams of sunlight stabbed the darkness emerging through the new holes and crisscrossing the shadows like some crazy nightmare.
The wagon swayed wildly and the cutlery drawer fell out crashing loudly to the floor near the boy's hand. The noise, violence, and disorder were akin to what was now happening to Aerin’s once peaceful life. He reached out and picked up one of the small sharp knives.
The deep guttural voices barked from all around them in a strange harsh language. There was a horrible wet thud from the front of the wagon, and the wagon began to slow.
From the covering that hid the driver’s bench at the front of the wagon, a hand fell in under the edge of the canvas with a single trail of red blood winding down the wrist and across the palm. Aerin reached out tentatively for his father's limp hand, fearing the truth it screamed.
But before his small shaking hand could finish the journey the wagon slowed. Sariah struggled to her feet and took her son's reaching hand. She used it to pull Aerin out from the corner and led him to the back of the wagon. Quickly she pulled the stopper from their flask of lantern oil and shook it out over the canvas wagon covering, splashing the liquid around liberally. Next, she opened the metal pot where she kept the hot embers for a fire. She gasped with pain as her movement caused the embedded shaft in her shoulder to scrape along the bone. Working through her pain Sariah dropped a light cloth across the coals. She fanned the hot coals with her good hand and the cloth burst into flame. She grabbed the edge and tossed the burning cloth across the oil-soaked canvas. The liquid caught fire and the dry canvas started burning within seconds.
Low barks of surprise came from outside as the flames were seen.
Sariah parted the canvas a crack at the back of the wagon for a furtive glance at their enemy's positions. As the wagon rolled to a complete stop she whispered to her son in a quiet voice of iron control, "Run for the trees, and don't look back... ready?"
He nodded and she flung the canvas aside. As they jumped down to the hard road Sariah stumbled from the pain but recovered quickly. They started running across a small meadow toward the nearest portion of the thickly treed forest. Aerin clutched his mother's hand as they ran. Behind them, a curt bark sounded in the strange language. It heralded a horrid wet, "thunk" of an arrow striking flesh. Sariah stumbled again and released Aerin's hand as she fell skidding across the grass.
"Mother!" Aerin cried out and stopped, dropping to his knees by her fallen form.
A second black shaft now projected from the small of her back. Though weak she called softly to her son, "Run... Aerin."
The scream started deep in Aerin's small frame and grew as it found a voice, "Noooooo!” the young boy's grip on the small cooking knife tightened as he stood and turned back toward the burning wagon. For the first time since the terror began, Aerin saw the creatures that had murder
ed his parents. They were horrible to behold, but the small boy stood his ground over his mother’s body and prepared to defend her to the death.
Gandarel Trelic, the twelve-year-old heir to the Seat of Stone and future Warlord of the Borderlands, hated his dress coat collar. For the twentieth time this day he hooked his fingers into the offending material and pulled, hoping to gain some slack.
When Niler Corbin, First Seat of the council, aimed his overly bushy eyebrows at him with a stern look Gandarel desisted his tugging.
Gedin strike me down, I'm bored! Gandarel thought to himself and was pleased; he loved getting away with a curse in the presence of Niler, even if it had only been in thought.
Mercifully the tithing report was finally concluded and Gandarel was hustled off to his next appointment, requiring yet another change of clothing. As he pulled on the stiff leather fencing armor Gandarel frowned as he gazed out the nearby window. The scene extended beyond the far wall of the castle to where the towering buildings of Strakhelm beckoned. He longed to be out exploring the great city instead of being 'safely' locked up in the musty old castle.
One of Councilman Corbin's underlings escorted the twelve-year-old heir down to the arms courtyard where the new battle master, Herus, waited by the sword rack. Gandarel missed his father's battle master, but he had been 'retired', as Councilman Enolive had explained. Herus beckoned him over, thick meaty hand waving and false smile showing feigned encouragement.
In his gravelly voice, Herus barked, "Good, you look fit today, young man. We will begin with hacking practice. Here is your broadsword," the ox-like man proclaimed, leaning the heavy sword hilt toward the boy.
Gandarel scowled and took the grip with both hands, then dragged the massive sword across the ground, letting the tip dig a deep furrow from the forty pound weight. He eyed his destination with hatred, a large wooden hacking post sunk upright in the ground. Countless sword hacks had worn it to roughly circular proportions around the middle. Arriving at the post, with sweat already beading on his young brow, the boy used all his strength to lift the heavy broadsword and clumsily swung it at the wood.
"Again," Herus growled, "and put your back into it, you'll never crush an enemy with a blow like that!"
Gandarel muttered under his breath, "I can barely lift it, let alone crush anyone with it, Fool." But he knew better than to argue, or he would be swinging the heavy blade until his arms fell off.
His thoughts went to his father, dead now six months. Father would never have allowed them to do this to me, he thought and his anger and hatred seethed beneath his skin. He managed a slightly better cut at the wood as he pictured Herus' leg as the wooden beam. He would have wished this hard work over and done, but he knew what fate had in store for him: Courtesy and Protocol class.
Glumly he wondered what other children his age were doing at this moment; having fun he had no doubt.
Standing over his fallen mother Aerin faced the creatures that had struck down his parents. The young boy had never seen a Togroth before, but the six snout-faced brutes that approached him, with slavering razor-toothed maws, were more horrible than he had ever imagined. Muscles bunched on their shoulders, making their heads seem almost embedded without a neck. Dull and rusted pieces of mismatched armor attempted to cover their thick hides unsuccessfully as coarse bristly black hair protruded from the armor's joints.
Two carried small metal bows with short ugly shafts notched and ready. The others brandished axes and nicked swords. Even to a large human their size would have been formidable, each beast easily weighed 300 pounds, but to the small boy they were giants. Piggish red eyes without whites were locked on the boy, who stood above his fallen mother.
"Naugz tar gutuk!" one barked at the others. They started to close the distance, fanning out with sick grins of blood lust showing their black teeth. Looking at those teeth, Aerin’s fear grew as he remembered the stories that said Togroths ate their foes raw.
From behind the burning wagon, a large man on a white horse trotted into view. He was obviously a warrior; muscles bulged across his shoulders, arms, and nearly naked chest. His normally white colored skin was well tanned. The hilt of a Great Sword projected upwards from behind his back and his bare wrists showed the golden chain marks of the legendary NexLord warriors. He had a strong jaw, deep-set dark eyes and short bristly blonde hair that was nearly flat across the top. Dominating his face was a somewhat long nose, arched at the bridge. His face was unconcerned and confident, even in the face of these monsters.
He was like some great hero out of bygone ages, the likes of which Aerin's father used to read about to his son; tales from the old books that told of the mighty NexLords who saved the world. Hope played across Aerin's face. "Help me, please, my mother is hurt!” the boy cried out to the man.
The man spoke in the guttural tongue of the Togroths, though his voice was not as deep as the beasts. "Kag, vabok Nas!” he barked to the six brutes.
Aerin didn't understand his words, but the short pulling motion of his forefinger across his neck told the story plainly.
The Togroths moved forward a little faster, behind them the man on the horse dragged Aerin's father from where he was draped lifelessly across the wagon seat and let the limp body fall to the ground. Next, he tried to cut away the burning canvas before it caught the rest of the wagon on fire, but he was too late.
There was a zipping sound of an arrow cutting air, followed almost instantly by another. Feathered shafts abruptly appeared projecting from the foreheads of each of the two Togroth archers. They fell heavily to the ground.
The others barked loudly in confusion, but when a third fell to another of the deadly arrows, the remaining three charged toward Aerin and the lethal hail of arrows.
Out of the trees behind Aerin a cloaked man appeared carrying a dull gray staff, he was moving so fast his legs seemed almost to blur. Although the Togroths were closer the cloaked man reached Aerin first. As he passed Aerin his momentum did not diminish, the gray staff blurred in a horizontal arc that smashed the nearest Togroth's head to pieces. Hardly slowing, the blurring staff continued in a circle with the angle shifting downward. The opposite end struck a thrusting sword, breaking the metal with a loud 'chink' sound. Before the Togroth could do more than gape at the worthless hilt it grasped, the other end of the staff came down on the top of its misshapen head, not stopping until it reached the bunched shoulders of the dying beast. The body dropped. The sixth Togroth was already dead due to another feathered shaft protruding from its eye socket.
The sound of galloping horses was all that stirred in the forest meadow, as the muscle-bound human who had commanded the Togroths rode away leading the Togroth’s large mounts. The fleeing man rounded the corner of the road a moment later and disappeared beyond the trees.
Aerin fell back to his knees at his mother's side; he lifted her limp hand and spoke softly, "Mother?"
The large cloaked man with the gray staff knelt down on one knee beside him and leaned his head down near Sariah's face. Then in a low deep voice that rolled the ‘r’s in a strange accent that was full of compassion, he spoke, "I'm sorry, boy, but your mother is passed all pain now. She goes to her reward in faraway Nevarian."
Aerin collapsed on his mother's still body and wept. After a time, he sat up and turned his tear-stained face toward the wagon, "Father!"
The cloaked man next to Aerin looked toward the burning wreckage of the wagon to where another man holding a bow knelt by the body of Aerin's father, a look passed between the two men. The large man with Aerin placed a black gloved hand on the boy's shoulder and shook his head sadly, sending Aerin into renewed tears of grief.
The creaking sound of moving wheels heralded the approach of another wagon, which finally stopped a short distance from the scene. Aerin looked up through tear clouded eyes and saw an old woman with long gray hair. Her blues eyes were nestled in a well-lined face, old with age and wisdom. There was a proud strength in the set of her shoulders, yet compassio
n in her expression as she climbed down from the wagon and approached.
The old woman's keen gaze took in the scene. The story was plain to see. "They'll need graves, over there by that copse of trees, where they'll have shade during the hot part of the day," she said to the accented man by Aerin. "They'd like that, wouldn't they boy?” her voice softened when she spoke to the grief-stricken orphan.
Aerin couldn't speak, but he nodded. He stayed by his mother's side until the graves were dug. When the cloaked man lifted Sariah in his large arms Aerin followed along behind, his head bowed.
Soon they went to get his father's body. Aerin saw the book that his father had been reading to him earlier that day; it lay in the dirt by his father's hand. The history book was Aerin's favorite and they had spent many an hour reading together about Ragol, last of the NexLords. Aerin took it carefully into his arms and then followed as the cloaked man took his father's body and laid it next to his mother’s. Aerin stood before the open graves to look upon his parents for the last time. Still clutching the old book in his hands, he spoke softly, "I'll never forget you." His tears fell on the old leather binding and then ran off to fall on the earth that would soon cover his parents.
The old woman spoke quietly to him, "Remember your love for them, boy, don't dwell on the pain. You don't want to stain this place with only sorrow."
Aerin nodded, it was something his mother would have said. He forced aside his grief for a few moments and remembered some of the good times and the love he had shared with his parents. He almost smiled as he recalled the many nights sitting by the fireplace with his father reading wondrous stories, never tiring of his son’s endless questions. His mother would sit with them, usually knitting, smiling, and sharing in the warmth of their family. Aerin promised himself that he would remember his parents like that, and try not to think of how they died, only how they lived. His parents had been caring, gentlefolk, that he loved above all else. He couldn't watch as the cloaked man covered their bodies with the earth, mixed with tears and memories of love.
