Child of Fate

by Jason Halstead

  Child of Fate

  By Jason Halstead

  Copyright 2012

  Published by Novel Concept Publishing LLC at Smashwords

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For additional information contact:

  www.novelconceptpublishing.com

  7974 Brookwood ST NE

  Warren, MI 44484

  Cover art © 2012 Willsin Rowe

  Photography by Marcus Ranum

  Edited by Valerie McCarty

  Proofread by Faith Williams

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Jason Halstead’s website: http://www.booksbyjason.com

  Look for these other Blades of Leander books:

  Child of Fate

  Victim of Fate

  Chapter 1

  The shrill whinny of a horse caught Caitlin’s attention. She looked up from where she and Kressa, her younger sister, were washing clothes. Gemini, their father’s horse, walked out of the fields toward them. He pulled an untended plow behind him.

  “Mom! Gemini’s back without Dad!” Caitlin shouted. “Stay here,” she ordered Kressa as she stood up and gathered her skirts to rush over to the horse. She’d closed less than half the distance before she could make out a bundle behind the plow. It was her father.

  Caitlin screamed again, this time crying for help from her older brother, Alto. A young man wearing only breeches and boots emerged from the barn. He took off at a run, discarding the pitchfork he’d been using while doing chores and easily beating Caitlin to their father’s side.

  Alto stopped Gemini with a hand to the stallion’s reins and then went to his father. A strap had caught Halgin’s foot, dragging the unconscious man behind the horse as he made his way back home.

  Alto looked his father over and knew that his arm was broken. Blood flecked the older man’s lips and a bruise was beginning to discolor the side of his face. Alto turned to his sister as she ran up. “Fetch some water!”

  Caitlin returned a few minutes later, a cup of water in hand. Lana, their mother, rushed over with her skirts in her hands beside her. Behind came the other five children to see what had happened. Lana took the cup and knelt down, whispering her husband’s name and lifting the cup to his lips. The cool water brought some life back to him, causing Halgin to moan and flutter his eyelids.

  “Father!” Alto whispered. “What happened?”

  “Hush!” Lana chastised her son. She turned back to Halgin and lifted his head to help him drink. “Are you all right?”

  Halgin grimaced and then coughed. He tried to move his arm to his side but the movement caused a fresh grimace of agony. “Raiders,” he managed to wheeze. “Goblins. Spooked Gemini and earned me a kick from my own horse.”

  Alto finished removing the tangled rein from Halgin’s ankle. He turned until his eyes found his brother. “Darren, take Gemini and fetch the healer!”

  Darren’s eyes widened, and then he nodded and turned, running to their barn as though his life depended on it. The healer was in Monterose, the nearest village to them and still at least a thirty-minute walk. On his father’s horse, he knew Darren could make it in less than ten.

  “Help your father inside; let’s get him out of the sun,” Lana said.

  Alto scooped Halgin up. Still a young man, Alto had his father’s strong back and broad shoulders, made all the more sturdy from working the farm. Halgin passed out again, moaning slightly when Alto’s step was too harsh.

  Alto laid his father down and stepped away. He watched his mother fuss over him and shoo his brothers and sisters out of the room. After the urge to do something became too strong to resist, Alto turned to the chest his father kept in the corner.

  “What are you doing?” Lana hissed.

  Alto had opened the chest and stared at the contents. “Raiders—you heard him,” he said. “We can’t let them destroy our crops or animals.”

  “They’re goblins! They don’t want crops and animals; they want food that’s been cooked and weapons and gold! Stop your foolish notions. I’ll not have two men down.”

  Alto’s back stiffened. “Which is it then, am I a man or a child?”

  Lana stared at him, her eyes moistening with unshed tears. Her voice remained firm. “You’re my child, whether you’re a man or not!”

  “And I’m the man of the house while my father’s hurt,” Alto said with finality. He grabbed up the leather vest that had metal bits sewn into it and slid it over his head and shoulders. Alto had to loosen the straps as far as he could to fit it on his broad chest, but it provided modest protection.

  “Alto, don’t be a fool!”

  Alto ignored her. He girded his father’s broadsword about his waist and then plucked the wooden round shield from the chest and set it properly on his arm. “I’ll return when I’m sure we’re safe.”

  “Alto!”

  Alto strode past the wide eyes of his sister at the doorway. His siblings scattered as soon as he left his parents’ room, though they all stared after him. “Mind Mother,” Alto reminded them. Unspoken was his thought that he was failing to take his own advice.

  Alto hurried to the barn and threw a saddle and bridle on his own horse, Sebas. He rode out, following the drag marks across their yard and the fields beyond, looking for sign of the raiders.

  He found the scene of the conflict, and saw the small tracks made by the raiders. Goblins, his father had said. Alto knew nothing of the creatures save the stories told among children and by adults when they sought to scare him. The tracks made it look as if some neighbor children had surprised him. He dashed such thoughts from his head, knowing no mere children could possibly have felled his father, even by accident. Alto struggled to remember what his father had taught him of hunting and tracking and tried to follow the tracks.

  He hadn’t gone far when he heard the sound of steel on steel and an inhuman scream. Sword drawn, he guided Sebas across a marshy field and through a copse of trees. On the far side, he pulled Sebas to a stop and stared, amazed.

  Alto had seen death. He lived on a farm: animals were slaughtered daily for food or to prevent the spread of illness. He’d never seen a battle before, or the gruesome remains of one. Before him several goblins lay upon the ground, pierced by bolt or spear or hacked by blade. A group of five remained standing, gibbering excitedly in their crude tongue while three men rode their horses around them like wolves circling a wounded mountain lion. A fourth man sat upon the ground, holding his thigh and cursing with a foulness that turned Alto’s cheeks red.

  One of the riders rushed toward the goblins, sending them scattering. They routed in full, rushing away from him and trying to avoid the sweeping blades of the other two. One was caught up in the legs of a horse and stomped to death, a second and third fell to blades, and a fourth was reached in short order by the charging horseman. The fifth goblin bore straight down on Alto, though the goblin looked to the rear in fear of pursuit.

  “You there!” the unhorsed rider called out. “Stop him!”

  Alto looked at th
e broadsword he held in his hand and then at the goblin rushing toward him. The creature had a pinched and dirty face that could have looked like an ugly child if it weren’t for the stained and twisted teeth. His eyes fell upon the goblin’s feet and he saw how small they were. The sight connected with the footprints from where his father had fallen. It became real for him then. Not a story, but he had proof of what had occurred and he saw how he could stop it from happening again.

  Alto’s nostrils flared and he felt rage overtake him. He put his heels to his horse, which caught the scent of death and snorted nervously. Alto kicked again, spurring the horse onward, and raised his sword. The goblin turned his head and saw Alto. His narrow eyes widened in fear and he tried to angle his flight to take himself away from the newest threat.

  Alto’s rage remained, but it cooled. He felt calm instead of excited. Alto saw the goblin’s path and he steered Sebas toward the creature. He leaned low in his saddle and swung his father’s blade. The jarring shock of the impact surprised him and wrenched the blade from his hand. Alto spun Sebas around, fearful he’d failed. He stopped and stared at the carnage he’d wrought.

  The goblin lay twitching on the ground, the broadsword stuck fast in the body where he’d hewed into the creature. The other riders were upon him then, circling around to appraise his handiwork.

  “Ha! Well placed!” said a man wearing a chain shirt with a bloodstained tunic over it.

  Another nodded, raising his fist in salute. He wore a chain shirt and leggings. Both men wore tunics bearing the symbol of a sword and axe crossed in front of a blazing sun. When he smiled, Alto noticed he was missing several of his teeth.

  The third man reached down and wrenched Alto’s blade free, and then held it up in front of him, admiring it. He seemed the leader of the troop, and wore the finest chain shirt among them, its links gleaming. His white tunic was also the cleanest and brightest. He reversed the sword and offered it Alto. “Well done, young man,” he said. “I’m Tristam.”

  Alto took it and made as if to sheathe it, but had a hard time placing the tip in the scabbard. His hands were shaking.

  “Here, son, use this,” Tristam said and pulled a piece of cloth from where he had it tucked under his saddle.

  “Alto,” he managed while taking the rag and looking at it. He intuited what the man intended the rag to be used for and ran it down the length of his blade to clean the blood and gore off. By then his hands were reliable enough to sheathe the sword. He offered the rag back but the man only waved.

  “Keep it, you’ve the look of a man who’ll be needing it,” he said. He turned away and rode back toward their fallen comrade. He turned his head back and said, “Grab that whore-son of a goblin. They don’t deserve the respect of a funeral pyre, but we’ll burn the lot of them to keep the scavengers away.”

  The man wearing the chain shirt leaned low over the back of his horse, keeping his balance on the mount with the skill of an experienced horseman. He grabbed the dirty hide tunic of the goblin and yanked him upright, spilling more gore. He rode after his captain, tossing the baggage onto the pile of other goblins.

  The man with the gap-toothed smile grinned again. “I’m Gerald. That’s a nice horse ya got there, boy. Think ya might want to be selling him?”

  Alto shook his head. “Sebas is not for sale.”

  The man shrugged and turned to ride back toward the others. Alto watched him and felt a shiver pass through him. He looked back down at the ground where the long grasses were stained red with the goblin's blood.

  “Boy!”

  Alto’s head shot up and he stared up the slight incline to the others. Tristam waved at him. “Come up here.”

  Alto glanced back at the blood again and then rode Sebas toward them, making sure he kept on the outside of their grouping in case they weren’t as well-meaning as they seemed. When he reached them, he saw that the clearing dropped away on the other side of them more steeply, and an older man with a brushed beard, brown robes and hat that hid most of his fading blond hair was riding up to meet them.

  The wounded man saw the man in robes approaching and called out to him, “Where’s that boy of yours, Kar! I can’t stop the bleeding.”

  “Serves you right, Drefan,” Kar snapped at him, a grin on his face. “Told you not to play with sharp objects!”

  “Kar,” Tristam said, his tone filled with warning. One word was enough, it seemed.

  “Fine,” the older man said. “Karthor’s just behind me; he was tending that fool farmer’s family that the gobbo’s hit.”

  Alto’s eyes widened. Another farm had been raided. He glanced around, noticing that the other two men had dismounted and were rifling through the belongings of the dead goblins. Hiding his disgust, he turned to their leader again.

  “This Karthor is a healer?” he asked.

  “Aye, he’s our priest,” the man responded.

  “Bah, he’s no priest,” Kar said as he rode up. “He’s a young whelp, barely an acolyte.”

  “Priest enough for me,” the wounded man muttered. Alto noted he looked a little pale and he was clenching his leg with less strength than before.

  “Who’s this?” Kar asked, peering at Alto curiously.

  “Says his name’s Alto,” Tristam offered. He turned back to Alto and completed the introductions, “That’s Kar; the whiney bloke there is Drefan,” he said. “Gerald has the winning smile and William rounds us out.”

  “Whiney?” Drefan protested, panic tainting his voice. “I’m bleeding out here!”

  Tristam glanced down the hill and then smiled. “Ah, and here comes Karthor. Methinks he’s about your age, Alto.”

  Alto glanced down the hill and saw the priest approaching. The resemblance to Kar was obvious, both in his blond hair and his build. Unlike his father, the son wore a chain shirt and tabard, like the others. Unlike the others, the holy symbol of Leander, patron saint of growth and light, hung from a chain on his neck.

  “Hurry up, Drefan’s gone and got himself stuck again,” Kar yelled down to him. He turned back to Alto and chuckled.

  “What’s your story, lad?” Kar asked him, reaching into a pouch and pulling out a pipe.

  Alto glanced at Tristam, who seemed more interested in Karthor’s approach to Drefan. He looked back at Kar and nearly fell off his horse when he saw the man snap his fingers and send a spark of flame into the end of his pipe, lighting it.

  “You’re a wizard!” Alto gasped.

  “Aye, and if you keep dodging my questions, I’ll turn you into a frog,” Kar said with a wink and an exhaled plume of smoke.

  Alto gaped for a moment, terrified until he saw the wry smile on the older man’s face. Still hesitant, he mustered his courage and forged ahead. “My father was injured by goblins; he’s waiting for a healer from Monterose. I rode out to be sure our lands were safe, and tracked the goblins here.”

  “Tracker, eh? You’ve some skill then?” Kar asked him.

  Alto shrugged, unwilling to boast since he had lost the goblins’ trail and only found them from the sounds of battle.

  “Alto! Here lad, here’s your bounty for the goblin you slew,” Tristam said, riding next to him and holding out his hand.

  Alto took the offering, counting the seven silver pieces that Tristam dropped into it. He stared at it and then watched as Karthor glanced at him a moment before dropping next to Drefan and holding his holy symbol in one hand while he chanted softly. The religious object began to glow. The light reached out like a ray of sunshine to touch briefly on Drefan’s body.

  Drefan groaned and dropped his upper torso back to the ground. He let loose a sigh and looked down at his leg. His leg was still coated in blood, but no fresh flowed from the wound. Alto stared in open-mouthed astonishment.

  “Tristam,” Alto said, gaining the attention of the man after he’d already turned away. “Come to my farm and have Karthor heal my father. You can have this bounty back.”

  Alto thrust the money back at the man. Tristam
looked at the coins and then at Alto. He frowned.

  Kar chuckled. “Seems there’s something to this boy after all.”

  Tristam shot a dark look at Kar, who only smiled behind his pipe.

  “I’ll do it,” Karthor said, standing up.

  Alto turned to look at him, surprised. He saw a simple honesty in the handsome priest’s face that impressed him. He knew at that moment that he could trust the man. He suspected that they could have been friends, had their lives been different.

  “Keep it,” Tristam said, and then glanced at the goblins.

  “We’ll help, but first this mess. Help out, boy, and your father can be seen to sooner.”

  Alto smiled and nodded, feeling a great sense of relief. “What can I do?”

  “Haul those bodies to the hill’s peak; we must fire them.”

  Alto nodded and dismounted Sebas. Kar offered to hold the reins, allowing the young man to go to the nearest body. He ignored the gore and grabbed the goblin with one hand. He dragged the body toward the highest point in the clearing, pausing along the way to pick up another goblin corpse in his other hand.

  He made the trip multiple times, picking up a total of twelve goblins. Gerald and William also helped, moving other dead goblins one at a time. Alto stood back and turned to Tristam, wondering what was next.

  “Stand back, lad,” Kar said, raising his arms and letting the sleeves of his robe slide down them.

  Alto backed up and nearly stumbled when Kar pushed his hands above his head. Flames poured out of his fingers, striking the pile of corpses to start a magical conflagration.

  He watched as the flames consumed the goblins in record time, leaving behind only charred scraps of bone and metal. He tore his eyes away when he heard someone speak his name. Turning, he saw Karthor offering him the reins to Sebas. He smiled thankfully and swung up onto the stallion his father had given him when it had been born six years past.