by Sever Bronny
VALOR
The Arinthian Line: Book Three
By Sever Bronny
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, establishments of any kind, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Bronny, Sever, 1979-, author
Valor / Sever Bronny.
(The Arinthian line ; bk. 3)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-0-9937676-4-7 (paperback).--ISBN 978-0-9937676-5-4 (ebook)
I. Title.
PS8603.R652V35 2015 C813'.6
C2015-904466-9 C2015-904467-7
Version 1.0
Copyright ©2015 Sever Bronny Ltd. All Rights reserved. Map and cover by author using creative commons and commercial licensing. “Valor” cover font by Steve Deffeyes, deffeyes.com. For information about permission to reproduce certain portions of this work, please contact the author at [email protected] or via www.severbronny.com
The Tallows
Augum Stone tightened his grip on the reins, urging the black warhorse onward. The sun clung overhead in a cloudless azure sky, its rays reflecting off glimmering waist-high snow, forcing him to squint. Three days had passed since they left the remains of Sparrow’s Perch. Three long, drab days of nothing but the Tallows, its tall yellow grass peaking through the endless snowy expanse. Well, almost nothing—the trio had managed to practice arcanery now and then.
Raven-haired Leera Jones clung sleepily to Augum’s waist, head bouncing on his back to the rhythm of the horse. She startled awake and blankly stared about.
“We there yet?”
“No.”
“We close at least?”
He did not reply.
She gave an exasperated sigh, squeezed his midriff tighter, and nuzzled closer like a cat seeking warmth. Usually her touch would have sent a thrill through his heart, but he felt dull and empty ever since Mya Liaxh had died in his arms.
That reminded him—it was long past time to check the Orb of Orion, he was sure of it. It remained where they had left it, in the ruins of the Legion camp at Hangman’s Rock. Luckily, they possessed an engraved pearl that allowed them to see and communicate through it. The girls took turns. They knew it would be painful for him to look and thus spared him the burden. He was grateful, but it needed to be checked. He didn’t want the Legion claiming Mya’s body and … and raising her from the dead.
He cleared his throat. “When’s the last time you looked through the orb?”
Leera removed her hands from his waist, yawned and stretched. “This morning. Still nothing.”
“Can you look again?” He tried not to imagine Mya’s long jet hair lying in the snow, partially buried; her once brilliant almond eyes, now vacant.
There was a pause. “Guess so.” Leera dug the pearl out of her robe and concentrated. “Nothing.”
He wanted to ask if she was sure. No, what he really wanted to ask was whether or not Mya’s body was still there.
“Want to practice arcanery?” Leera asked.
“Not really.” They were supposed to be studying for their 2nd degree but he hadn’t been in the mood to practice today. Actually, he’d been forcing it the last few days—the loss of Mya had tainted those pleasures too.
Leera’s hands returned to his waist. “You’re thinking about her.”
He shrugged. Of course he was thinking about her, what did she expect? Always the same memories too. The time he used oxy to save her life. Their dance together in the ancient underground Leyan city. The last look she gave him as she died, his hand on hers, pressing the wound on her throat.
Robin Scarson had murdered her. He regretted not tearing Robin’s arms off when he had the chance—he could have used the Banyan beast back when Robin was sitting in the snow, defenseless. Instead, he chose to let him go. Now he knew the consequences of that decision.
“I miss her too,” Leera whispered. “I miss her too …”
He didn’t reply. He wished she wouldn’t talk about Mya. She didn’t understand how he felt about her.
Unlike after the massacre at Sparrow’s Perch, there hadn’t been an arcane memorial ceremony to dull the pain of loss. Nana had not recovered enough to perform the powerful spell. Bridget and Leera had been as supportive as possible, but the pain was beyond the reach of even their friendship.
For the umpteenth time, he thought of turning the horse around and galloping back. He imagined picking Mya’s body up and stealing her away, calling on the Unnameables—on any power that would listen—to help. He thought of ways to bring her back to life. Crazy ways, ways he dared not speak of.
The snow whooshed as the horse plowed it aside like waves in a frozen ocean.
Augum glanced ahead to the other two horses. Albert Goss and his son, Leland, led the group. They sat on a similar warhorse whose packs bulged like the chins of a well-fed man. Mr. Goss was middle-aged with spectacles and a balding head, while nine-year-old Leland was blind and mute, a result of lightning burns inflicted by Augum’s father. Every time Augum laid eyes on the boy, there was a guilty pang in his stomach. His father had done that, one of countless atrocities.
Bridget Burns and his great-grandmother, Anna Atticus Stone, rode next on a languid chestnut mare. If Augum could have a choice of any girl to be his sister, he would choose Bridget. Compassionate, smart and loyal, with long cinnamon hair and a pert nose, she had been particularly supportive since Mya’s death.
His brow creased with concern as he worried about Nana, wheezing in Bridget’s arms, sick with a potent fever. It had taken hold of her after the recent battle with his father at Hangman’s Rock, and worsened daily. She was too old to be sick.
The scion, embedded at the top of her sleek staff, caught the sun, blinding him momentarily. Fifteen hundred years ago the Leyans presented it to Augum’s ancestor to help fight a legendary necromancer by the name of Occulus. It was more than just a powerful artifact though—it was a piece of family history, the only scion passed down within the original receiving family, generation after generation, for the entirety of that fifteen hundred years.
This was his inheritance, this … burden. He didn’t want it as it was keeping his great-grandmother alive. Sometimes he thought she was speeding their training along to prepare him for inheriting it.
He looked away from the scion, still seeing a ghostly afterglow in his vision. So much to worry about, yet it should be a happy time. After all, it was the fourth day of Endyear, the celebration marking ten days until New Year’s Day, or “Founding Day” as warlocks called it, referring to the day arcanery had been formalized into elements 3340 years ago.
Every breakfast, Mr. Goss marked the occasion by lighting a candle on a bed of holly. Normally, the candle was kept lit day and night until Founding Day. Except no one was about to hold a candle in this weather for the sake of tradition, especially not while on horseback.
Augum almost smiled. He loved all the Endyear traditions, but Merrygive the most. Merrygive called for the young to go to the doors of the old and volunteer to help around the house or farm in exchange for butter cookies. Butter cookies always tasted better during Endyear.
There were games, singing, dancing, music, and traditional tournaments of sword and bow. There was the communal hunt, the top prize awarding three bushels of hay, candy apples, two loaves of bread, and a barrel of sweet mead. Sir Westwood, his guardian at the time, won two years in a row, downing a plains elk one year and a buffalo the next.
Then there was the winter Star Feast held in the dead of night under a blanket of stars. It was what everyo
ne else looked forward to the most. Typically, boys asked girls to attend, though the reverse wasn’t unheard of. It was the only time parents did not, by tradition, step in the way of such requests, mostly because it was quite a public affair. Not that Augum had either back then—parents or friends. He had longed for friends, mostly someone to relate to, share dreams, fears, failures and triumphs with—but the other children hated him. He hadn’t dressed like them or talked like them. He was either too learned or too quiet. Above all, he was gutterborn scum in their eyes.
And parents? He had known the Pendersons, with their foul breath and vile children. He had been a slave to them, working on their farm like Meli the mule. He had also known Sir Westwood, a stern guardian and capable mentor. But he had not had parents.
Augum sighed. Butter cookies, games, the Star Feast … that was all back when things were simple, back when he strove for nothing more than knighthood. Willowbrook was a pile of ashes now, Sir Westwood dead and gone, murdered by the Legion.
He spotted something ahead. “What do you think that black dot is in the distance?” he forced himself to ask.
“The Waxman farm,” Leera replied groggily. “At least it better be, else I’m going to go mad and eat my turnshoes or something.”
The Waxmans were friends of Mr. Goss’ and might provide food and shelter until Mrs. Stone got well. After, the group would make its way to the Muranian Mountains to find Occulus’ castle and retrieve an ancient recipe for making a portal to Ley before his father got his hands on it.
Her hands adjusted at his waist. “Think Mr. Goss is lost?”
He shrugged, in no mood for banter.
She sighed, her head returning to his shoulder. “Let me know when you want to switch.”
Clouds slowly gathered on the horizon as the day snailed along. The wind was calm, a welcome relief from the usually gusty Tallows. The cold still bit at Augum’s ears though.
The speck in the distance grew closer, soon splitting into two, then three, then four distinct structures. As the sun kissed the western edge of Solia, Mr. Goss stopped his horse, waiting for everyone to catch up.
“I think we can get there before nightfall if we ride through supper. Is everyone all right with that?”
“Sure, Mr. Goss,” Bridget said, holding a sleeping Mrs. Stone in her arms.
Augum and Leera gave lackadaisical nods.
“Good.” Mr. Goss drew the blanket tighter around his son, who sat silent in front, and resumed the pace.
Leera dug inside her robes, withdrawing the pearl.
“See anything?” Augum asked.
“Give me a moment.” She concentrated. “Hmm.”
“What is it?”
“Thought I saw movement, but I think it was just a rabbit or something.”
Augum had the urge to see for himself, but the memory of Mya’s smiling face promptly changed his mind.
“Hold on, I see a Legion soldier …”
“What do you mean? Where?” He pictured the typical soldier—shining black armor marked with a burning sword emblem, matching pot helm, and sword.
“There’s another one.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And another. Looks like … looks like a column of them, filing out of the woods. Fifty at least.”
He turned. “Any warlocks?”
“Yes … and his robe’s got black and red stripes—”
His knuckles whitened on the reins. That could only mean one thing—a necrophyte, an apprentice necromancer.
“There are other people with them … villagers, I think,” Leera continued. “They’re fanning out. The necrophyte is telling them to pick up the bodies. Oh—”
“What? What is it—?”
“Haylee’s one of them.”
Haylee Tennyson was one of Bridget and Leera’s former academy schoolmates. She was their age and studied the ice element. She had joined the Legion along with Robin as a necrophyte but revolted to save the trio’s lives. Unfortunately, she disappeared trying to stop Robin’s wraith during the Battle at Hangman’s Rock.
“She’s in chains,” Leera reported.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s a mess …”
He didn’t want to think about what kind of revenge Robin would exact for her betrayal. What pained him most was that until Mrs. Stone got better, there was nothing they could do for her.
“She’s making her way over to the orb,” Leera said.
“Think she’ll recognize it?”
“She’s seen it plenty enough. At least I think she has …”
But Augum couldn’t recall ever explaining to Haylee how the orb worked. “Maybe we could teleport her out somehow. Suck her through the orb or something.”
Leera made a sound with her lips suggesting he was crazy.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I’m just saying maybe Nana could figure it out,” but the more he thought about it, the dumber the idea became. Nana couldn’t even stand, let alone perform arcanery.
Bridget looked back and raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”
“Leera’s listening through the orb. There’re soldiers.”
Bridget slowed her horse, drifting close.
“It’s him—” Leera said through gritted teeth.
Augum stiffened. He didn’t need to ask who. He only wished there was a way to arcanely throttle Robin through the orb.
“He’s harassing Haylee,” Leera reported, “making her remove weapons off the dead.”
“Maybe he’ll find the orb,” Bridget said.
“He’s coming closer. We have to be quiet now.”
Augum and Bridget stopped their horses, allowing Mr. Goss to canter ahead obliviously. They had once overheard conversation within the orb via the control pearl, back in Evergray Tower. Erika hadn’t even been aware of them listening in. If they weren’t careful, someone could do the same to them.
Leera eventually opened her eyes and pressed a finger to her lips. She removed a cloth from her pocket, wrapped the pearl in it, and stuffed it in her robes. “Think they’ll be able to hear through that?”
“Doubt it,” Augum said. “So what happened?”
“Robin found the orb. He made Haylee stick it in his horse’s pack. Can’t see or hear anymore.”
It was exactly what they had hoped for. Now, if they were careful, they might glean some useful information through it.
The sky turned to fiery dusk as they caught up to Mr. Goss.
The Waxman Farm
“This is it,” Mr. Goss said, dismounting at the edge of a rustic wooden fence, portions of it collapsed. “It is unfortunate we lack a horn to announce our presence.”
Augum, Bridget and Leera dismounted while Mrs. Stone wearily sat up in the saddle, coughing.
Mr. Goss stepped over the fence and urged the horse to do the same. Leland, who stayed on his father’s horse, moaned.
“It is all right, son. We are almost there.”
Leland moaned again impatiently.
“I know that is what I said earlier, but we really are almost there.”
Augum noticed the dark windows and broken shutters, the pileup of snow on the sills. The Waxmans were supposed to be a large family, yet the place looked deserted.
They slowly approached a barn, its planks grayed from the sun.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” Mr. Goss called out.
No reply.
“Most unusual.”
Suddenly a lone figure dressed in furs peaked out from behind the barn before disappearing.
Mr. Goss waved excitedly. “Hello there, is that a Waxman I see!” He turned to the trio. “Must be one of the younger children.”
They made their way around the barn, coming across a set of footprints that led to an earthen home, its windows shuttered.
“Let us put the horses in the barn and make ourselves presentable,” Mr. Goss said. But after stepping inside, his face darkened. The barn was empty, stripped of its animals, its farm implements, even its hay.
They walked over to the earthen house. Mr. Goss opened the plank door. It squeaked on rusty hinges.
“Hello?”
Nobody replied.
“It is all right, we mean you no harm. We are mere travelers in need of rest.”
Augum stepped into the dark abode after Mr. Goss, noting a dirt floor covered with straw, a dusty trestle table and benches, a hole for a fire, and a broken ladder-back chair on its side. There was an open doorway off to the right to the only other room. The place held the lingering scent of cooked meat, herbs and smoke.
“I know you are here, please do not be afraid,” Mr. Goss said.
Augum raised his palm. “Shyneo.” Lightning spidered along his wrist and fingers, flooding the room in a bluish glow.
“Leave me alone, I not do nothing,” said a thickly-accented and quivering voice from the doorway of the other room.
Augum pointed his palm in that direction in time to see a small fur-clad figure scurry into a corner like a trapped rat. When the boy looked up, Augum’s first thought was that his face was painted white, before realizing that was his actual skin color. Multi colored jeweled rings pierced his nose and lips. His eyes were as black as coal.
Mr. Goss took a tentative step forward. “But … you are not a Waxman.”
The boy looked around as if searching for an escape route. His fur hood fell away from his head, revealing straight milk-white hair that dangled just past his ears.
Mr. Goss dropped to one knee, voice soft. “What happened to the Waxmans?”
The boy’s eyes darted about, fixing onto Augum’s shining palm. “You not them, no?”
Mr. Goss kept his hands open before him. “Them? Them who? Do you mean the Legion?”
The boy only stared at Augum’s palm, breathing rapidly. Augum extinguished it, plunging the room into dim darkness. The boy eased his breathing.
“Are you talking about the men in black armor?” Mr. Goss asked gently. “Is that who—”
“Burners. Burn animals. Burn people.” The boy made a wavy gesture mimicking fire and looked at Leland. “Burners.”
