The Chronicles of Lumineia: Book 01 - Elseerian

by Ben Hale

  Elseerian

  By Ben Hale

  Copyright 2012 Ben Hale

  To my family and friends, who believed

  And to my wife, who is perfect

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: The Woodsman

  Chapter 1: Elseerian

  Chapter 2: The Acabi

  Chapter 3: Discoveries

  Chapter 4: Throwing Lessons

  Chapter 5: Pirates

  Chapter 6: Outnumbered

  Chapter 7: Thacker's Tale

  Chapter 8: Keese

  Chapter 9: Escape

  Chapter 10: Watchers in the Wood

  Chapter 11: The Giant's Shelf

  Chapter 12: Azertorn

  Chapter 13: The House of Runya

  Chapter 14: Tallendale

  Chapter 15: Impregnable

  Chapter 16: The Drunken Elf

  Chapter 17: The Queen and the Quest

  Chapter 18: Test of Loyalty

  Chapter 19: Terros

  Chapter 20: A Thief in the Night

  Chapter 21: The Oracle

  Chapter 22: Heritage

  Chapter 23: The Ravine

  Chapter 24: Life and Death

  Chapter 25: Answers

  Chapter 26: Healing

  Chapter 27: Council of War

  Chapter 28: The Prophecy

  Excerpt from The Gathering

  Author Bio

  Prologue: The Woodsman

  “He was still alive when they found him,” the woodsman said, his voice raspy, like bark being scraped off a tree. “Alive—but he should have been dead with so much blood seeping from his wounds.”

  The three soldiers leaned into the firelight, their eyes widening at his words. Cast into shifting patterns of shadow, the woodsman’s expression intensified as a gust of chill wind whistled through the clearing, blowing aside his long black hair to reveal an ugly scar stretching from left shoulder to ear.

  “Guided by moonlight, the villagers found him in a clearing. Some of them rushed to his side and struggled to staunch the bleeding. The others huddled into groups and watched the dark forest, terrified that the attacker was still nearby. Everyone knew his skill with a blade, but the hero’s body lay twisted and crumpled, like an empty sack of flour tossed into a corner. Glittering around him the broken shards of steel were all that remained of his powerful weapon.”

  “As they pressed against the flowing blood, the dying hero managed to speak four words, ‘Death came for me.’ They paid no attention to his warning—until a tall form in a black cloak separated itself from the shadows nearby. In his hands a wicked scythe hung—still stained with the hero’s life. One by one the villagers froze as they saw the killer approaching, and as the specter of death neared, the cowl lifted to reveal eyes like burning coals.”

  “Most of them bolted then. The few that remained claimed they saw Death raise a hand of stark white bone to point at them. Their hearts failing, they scattered. As their screams died in the night, Death stood over Valir, watching him take his last breath.”

  The woodsman paused when one of the soldiers, the new recruit, shuddered and pulled his cloak closer. Another drained his ale and glanced at the dark forest with suspicious eyes, his bald head reflecting the firelight as he turned.

  “What happened next?” the large one said, louder than necessary, eliciting glares from his companions and more looks into the trees.

  The woodsman flashed a grim smile. “Morning light brought a group of heavily armed men to look for the body and search for the mysterious assassin. They found the body, but there was no sign of his killer. No tracks. No scent for the dogs . . . nothing. Not even a single bent blade of grass.”

  The young soldier hesitated and then asked, “Is that the same thing that happened to the others?”

  The woodsman leaned back into the shadows and considered the question before answering in a low rumble, “Valir is the most recent that I know of, although he is by no means the first. Most of the killings seem to be fighters or leaders.”

  At this the soldiers started to relax, but the woodsman cut through their calm in an instant, leaning forward with a growl. “No one is safe. There have been other deaths that appear to be random slayings, villagers, merchants”—he paused and the intensity of his voice chilled the air—“. . . or a simple group of travelers.”

  After a moment of stunned silence the large one cut in, glancing uncertainly at his companions. “When did it start?”

  “About six months ago,” the woodsman replied, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight. “But no one knows who the killer is, even though the king has sent his best troops to hunt him.”

  He shook his head, stabbing a finger at the three men across from him. “If you ask me, someone is sending him out. The deaths are just too convenient, too coordinated. You only take out fighters and leaders if you are planning something . . . something big.” His raspy voice darkened at the grim thought, causing them to shudder and pull their weapons closer.

  “What about the villagers and travelers though?” the bald man asked in a harsh whisper. “The other murders.”

  The woodsman gestured wide, his expression fierce in the firelight. “I’d wager a sack of gold that this Death figure is just a killer. The villagers and soldiers must have been on his way—or in his way—to his real targets,” his voice shifted as he considered his own words.

  After a moment of silence the fire snapped and all three of the soldiers started. “Relax,” said their guide, his rough voice turning mild. “We’ll be fine, but we should turn in. If we push it, we should reach the king tomorrow before nightfall.”

  With that said, he drained the mug of ale he’d been nursing before grabbing his bedroll and moving away from the fire. Striding into the cold wind he tossed his blankets next to a large oak tree at the edge of the clearing. Long experience had taught him to sleep with his back to something. It might be a colder spot to sleep, but it had proven to be safer.

  The three soldiers remained at the fire for several moments until the youngest rose to his feet and strolled to his own blanket. Attempting nonchalance, the others stretched before sauntering towards their bedrolls. Despite their forced calm, each man subtly moved their blankets a little closer to the fire. They probably would have been more apprehensive if they knew the thoughts of their companion.

  The attacks had steadily become more frequent.

  In the beginning they had occurred only once every few weeks, and were scattered in the far eastern villages. Now a corpse was found almost every day, with some only a day’s ride from the king’s own castle. Messages from towns and homesteads had been flooding to the king, begging for troops to protect them.

  The woodsman was one such messenger, and had travelled from the far eastern villages to inform the king of an unknown disease that was spreading throughout that region. Reluctantly leaving his wife and two children, he had already been on the road for over two weeks, pushing his steed as hard as he dared.

  Shedding weight to gain speed, he had also elected to get supplies on the way, but food had been unusually scarce. Even hunters or traveling tradesmen had little to offer. In the last town he had passed, the woodsman had met the soldiers at the tavern. Traveling in the same direction, it didn’t take long for them to depart together.

  Hungry for answers, the men had pried him for new tales, and he did his best to deliver. Having lived through other times of rumor and strife, the woodsman knew well the signs of fear and the whispers of war, but this was different. Something . . . intangible permeated everyone—and everything. You could see it in the abrupt, suspicious looks that had replaced warm, o
pen smiles. Hurried footsteps and jerky movements gave subtle evidence that everyone they met felt it too. Even the woods felt dampened. Birds sang less, the breeze carried a hostile edge, and the shade from trees loomed like the shadows of angry giants.

  It was the first time in his life he did not feel at home in the woods.

  Rationally, he knew there was nothing to fear. They were not at war with anyone, as far as he knew, and even the northern tribes had been quiet. But he still couldn’t shake the sinking foreboding that hung like a shroud. Sighing in a vain effort to shake the unease, he glanced into the shadows—

  —a pair of red lights flickered through the trees to the east. His blood froze as he felt his heart begin to pound. Normally he would have passed it off as too much ale, but not with the tales of late. Unable to stop himself, he eased his sword free from its scabbard. Fighting to keep his breath slow, he focused all his senses on the surrounding area, straining for any sign . . .

  At first there was nothing . . . then he began to feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Like a winter's wind, fear pierced his cloak and clawed at his heart. One of the men straightened—his eyes wide and his hand already reaching for the weapon at his side. The other two finally felt it and were quick to palm their blades as well, twisting when a snort from the horses betrayed their own terror. Smoothly rising and moving towards the fire, the big woodsman readied his sword.

  “If we stand together we may have a chance,” he growled, and the soldiers stumbled to join him.

  Whistling wind and the crackling flames were the only sounds until a sinister shadow drifted out of the darkness. The soldier directly in front of him shouted in alarm and leapt back to the others, who whirled in its direction. Despite the tale they had just heard, the description in the story could not have portrayed what stood before them.

  As it moved closer, firelight revealed a menacing figure in a tall black cloak and cowl. Dark red ovals simmered and burned where eyes should have been. Hands of bone protruded from the sleeves, holding the shaft of a long black scythe pulsing with red veins on both handle and blade. A loud snap of leather caused all four of them to jump and look at the horses, only to watch as the three soldiers’ mounts disappeared into the trees.

  Unsure of what to do, the soldiers moved closer together while the woodsman took a step away. Then the young one leapt in with a yell. “Stop, you fool!” the woodsman shouted—but it was too late. The killer turned aside the thrust and dispatched the man in a single blow. The silent thud of his body hitting the ground caused the group to gasp. Collectively they took a few steps back, placing the fire between them and the assassin before them.

  “We might survive if we fight together!” the woodsman said, his voice savage. “Move apart and flank him.” Responding better to orders, the men separated. A moment later they attacked as one. A coordinated attack from three sides would have dispatched almost anyone, but the assassin didn’t even give ground. Scythe hit steel in a dizzying display of skill, blocking every attack that came near until their initial charge slowed, allowing an opening.

  Blocking one slash, Death glided in to cut another one of the soldiers down, slicing him nearly in two. As the bald man screamed his final breath, the survivors fought with the fury of desperation, but to no avail. Finding another opportunity against only two didn’t take long. Crying out in agony, the last soldier fell to leave the woodsman alone.

  Realizing he didn’t have a chance, he spun and leapt towards his own horse, still tethered to a tree. Just as he mounted, a final swing from the scythe gouged deep into his right thigh. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he kicked the horse and yelled for all he was worth. The already frightened animal snapped the lead and bolted out of the clearing to carry his rider to safety.

  As the woodsman galloped into the night, Death surveyed the carnage for only a moment before melting back into the shadows from which he’d come. A dying fire and three cooling corpses remained when the only survivor dared to look back.

  Chapter 1: Elseerian

  Taryn Elseerian’s eyes snapped open and he scanned his surroundings for what had woken him. Focusing his attention on his senses, the half elf directed his slightly pointed ears to listen intently. At first glance, the young man might have passed for an elf except for his eyes and hair. Eyes of dark blue, very unlike the sky blue of the elven race, pierced the shadowed room from under his hair, which hung thick, wavy, and dark red around his face. He had been told too many times to count that his hair looked like a dwarf’s.

  With his heritage a mystery, he’d always pretended to laugh off the comment—but each time he heard it, he felt something stir and tighten within him. To anyone but his close friends he could pass it off as nothing, but the few who knew him best understood, even if they never voiced it.

  Another whisper caressed his ears, and he strained to find the source. The little cabin in which he lived was sparsely furnished. A desk sat in one corner with a few pieces of parchment scattered across the surface. Windows above the desk and bed, typically open to allow an afternoon breeze to cool the room, were now covered to ward off the nightly chill. Moonlight filtered into the room through an opening in the drapes above the desk.

  A slight movement in the curtain above his bed caught his keen eyes. Unbidden, an easy smile broke across Taryn’s features. Murai is at it again, he thought. From an early age, Taryn had been trained by his uncle to wake up instantly if there were any unnatural noise. It had been over fifteen years since someone had surprised him, even when sleeping. That didn’t stop his uncle from testing him, though.

  In truth, Murai wasn’t really his uncle at all, but he had been the one to take him in when his shipwrecked mother had been found twenty-one years ago. Raised by him, it had been natural for Taryn to call him Uncle. Well into his fifth century, the seasoned elf had taught him with kindness and a deep-rooted love. “Always be quick with a smile and a sword,” Murai liked to say. Taryn couldn’t help but love him.

  The young man slipped from his bed and onto the floor, keeping his knees under him in a crouch. At the same time he drew the dagger he kept under his pillow, careful to not make any sound. A hand holding an object emerged through the window, followed by an arm. Soon the grinning face of his uncle came into view. Taryn had to hand it to him—for an old elf he was still pretty stealthy. No sound betrayed his presence except the soft rub of cloth on skin as he leaned through the window. His uncle paused before pouncing on the dark bed. At the same time Taryn leapt as well, landing on top of him with the dagger carefully placed with the flat side at his throat.

  “I was just coming to get you for breakfast,” a muffled voice came out from under Taryn.

  “I might believe that, but you brought a knife,” he replied mockingly. “You also came through the window. I am sure you know how to use a door.”

  An arm moved out from under the blanket to reveal the object in his hand to be a spoon. “Breakfast is ready!” the muffled voice said. Taryn burst into laughter as he got off his uncle and moved to open the drapes. Moonlight flooded the room, allowing the young man to get a look at the intruder. Dressed in worn pants and just a shirt, it was clear that he hadn’t gotten ready for the day yet. He must have come straight after waking. Elven features were prominent, with eyes of light sky blue, blond hair, and pointed ears. The wiry old elf was short for his race, barely as tall as Taryn’s shoulder. You would never suspect that he was one of the best fighters in the history of the island.

  Proficient with almost any weapon, he was deadly with a katsana, a long, curving blade about an inch wide. Because of its length and weight, it required both hands—so few elves chose to wield one. He was the only master of that particular weapon on the island and had been Taryn’s first teacher. Thinking of that made Taryn look up at the only items hanging on the wall. Sheathed in beautiful black scabbards rested two uniquely crafted katsanas, the only link he had to his parents.

  Following Taryn’s gaze, Murai looked at the swords
as well. “Your parents would be proud of you, Taryn, especially today.”

  He nodded in response without looking at his uncle, and tried to not show how much he missed not knowing them. Finally of age, today he would be tested and take his rites of passage. He just wished the idea didn’t make him feel so alone, and he found himself wondering if others felt the same way.

  For as long as the histories had been written, the island of Sri Rosen had been the training ground for elves, who were sent to practice and master weapons from the age of twenty to fifty, when they reached adulthood.

  Although most of the fighters had traditionally been elves, there were often a handful of humans and dwarves that were allowed to study with the masters of Sri Rosen. Dwarves, whose life spans matched those of the elves, also trained until the age of fifty, but humans completed at twenty-one.

  Without realizing it, Taryn had drawn closer to the swords that were his parents’ legacy and he reached up to caress the hilts in the darkness. Drawing both blades in one smooth motion, he left the sheaths on the wall and returned to the beam of moonlight to study the weapons.

  The swords were almost identical in every way. Perfectly weighted, they could be balanced on the edge of a chair and remain that way for days. Taryn knew—he’d tried it. Not a single chip marred the razor sharp edges. Shimmering in the moonlight were twin dragons of blue and green, etched down the length of both blades in perfect detail, twined together in an embrace. The only real difference between the two swords was a bright blue sapphire above the hilt in one, and a perfect emerald in the same location on the other. Below the gemstones, black leather had been braided and fastened tightly down the double long hilt, allowing the wielder to fight without losing his grip.

  Catching his uncle looking at him, Taryn said, “I wish they could be here for this, Murai.”

  Without responding, his uncle placed a hand on his shoulder in a token of comfort. They remained there in silence until Murai gently pushed the swords aside while moving to stand in front of him. “You would make any parent proud today,” he said as a spontaneous grin creased his features, “except me. I can only be proud of you if you eat breakfast with me.” At the same time he scrunched his face up in mock haughtiness and looked away.