Gods Of Blood And Fire (Book 1)

by A. J. STRICKLER

  GODS of BLOOD

  and FIRE

  Book One

  SWORDS OF THE PHOENIX QUEEN

  A.J. Strickler

  GODS of BLOOD and FIRE

  By A.J. Strickler

  ISBN: 978-0692358023

  Copyright © 2014 by A.J. Strickler

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non commercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For permission requests, email the author at:

  godsofbloodandfire@gmail.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For my family who put up with the long hours spent on this project. A very big thank you to my wife Stephanie, without her unwavering support and understanding this book would not be possible.

  Special thanks to my editor Mike Valentino for his invaluable work, assistance, and support. A big thanks to Robert Kauffman for his fantastic work on the inside of this book, his exceptional artwork, and his patience with my many questions. Can’t thank these two men enough for making this a positive experience for a new author.

  Thanks to Brian Lynn and Sarah Scharfe for reading my work more times than I can count and their critical ideas and a welcomed opinions. And to my gaming crew Mike, Amy, Kevin, and Brian and all the other people that have shared a love of fantasy with me over the years.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 1

  Give us the coin or die,” his uncle commanded the man in the black cloak. Julian looked at the man closely from where he was hiding in the stand of trees. There was something dangerous about him that made Julian uneasy. They had stealthily followed the stranger for a few miles before they made their move. His Uncle Raul said he was a small man and would be easy to take.

  Julian felt wary about the man, he tried to tell his uncle he thought robbing this traveler was a bad idea; he got a busted lip for his effort.

  Uncle Raul was right: the man was not tall and although Julian could not see his body because of the long black cloak that he had wrapped around him, he thought their intended victim seemed slender.

  The traveler had black hair that fell just past his shoulders, but it was those green eyes of his that made Julian nervous—they seemed too calm for a man who was about to be robbed and murdered.

  “Are you a simpleton? Did you hear what I told you? The coin, hand it over now. I won’t ask again,” his uncle threatened.

  “Give us that cloak too,” Julian’s cousin Vlad added.

  Julian watched as the traveler’s feet shifted ever so slightly. The boy noticed that his own palms had begun to sweat and he was holding his breath.

  The man reached into his cloak and threw a small pouch on the ground. “Take it,” the stranger said. “The few coppers I have are not worth your lives.”

  His uncle smiled and bent down without taking his eyes off the stranger and picked up the pouch; he shook it and put it into his pocket. “You’re a cocky bastard for a man outnumbered three to one. My son said he wanted the cloak, too, now hand it over.”

  The dark-haired man looked at the sky for a moment as if he was checking the weather then slowly returned his gaze to Uncle Raul. “Winter is just passing. I will need this cloak, the nights are still cold.”

  Julian watched as his two cousins spread out to the right and left of their victim, both with smug looks on their faces.

  “I think he’s just a coward, Father, let’s just kill him and take it.” Julian’s uncle nodded.

  “Good idea, Stephan, why waste our time talking to this son of a gutter rat? Try not to get too much of his blood on the cloak.”

  The man threw back his cloak. He was dressed in black leather leggings and a long-sleeve black jerkin, but that’s not what caught Julian’s eye. It was the hilt of the sword that hung from his waist. It appeared to Julian to be inlayed with gold and silver.

  The traveler’s hand slowly moved down until it came to rest on the sword’s pommel. “I have given you what I have to give. I wish no trouble from you, just let me pass.”

  Julian could see that his uncle was not even listening. His eyes, bloodshot from the drinking he did the night before, were staring at the hilt of the stranger’s sword. It was worth enough to keep them fed and his uncle in ale for months.

  “Vlad, Stephan—kill him,” his uncle shouted. Julian had trouble following what happened after that; it was too fast.

  The stranger’s blade whispered from its sheath and blocked his cousin Vlad’s ax attack. Then the stranger spun away toward Stephan with the grace of a dancer. His cousin raised his mace, but the man’s sword slid through his chest before he could deliver the blow. Stephan fell as Vlad swung his ax at the traveler’s head. The man ducked the ax cut, rolling away to come up behind Julian’s enraged cousin. The swordsman moved like water flowing through a stream making Vlad’s attack seem awkward and clumsy. Before his cousin could turn around the traveler’s sword sang through the air. Vlad’s head jumped from his shoulders and rolled across the dusty road. His uncle screamed with rage his sword coming up to strike the traveler down. The dark-haired man spun on his heel, his cloak spreading out in the cool evening breeze. The beautiful sword severed his Uncle Raul’s head from his neck. The body fell to its knees then toppled into the road. The traveler stood over the bodies, his blood-stained sword still in his hand. In a matter of seconds, all the family Julian had left in the world was dead.

  Blood dripped from the tip of his sword. He had never killed before. Now three men lay dead at his feet. Their blood soaked into the dust of the dry road making a gruesome muck. Kian looked down at his grim work. Two of the brigands lay headless, the third had been pierced through the heart. He hadn’t wanted to kill them, but they had given him little choice; they had tried to waylay him for the few copper coins in his pouch. Even after he had even given them the little coin he carried, they still wanted to kill him for his cloak. Kian knew even if he had given them the cloak, the men still would have most likely found a reason to murder him.

  He had dealt with thieves and cutpurses many times in his childhood—robbery and murder were a way of life for many of the residents of Thieves Port. He was no child now cowering before the ruffians of a crime-ridden city. He had trained his mind and body for forty years in the Blue Dagger Mountains with his master Gildor. So many year
s, it was almost half a human lifetime, but then he wasn’t human.

  This was the first time he had drawn his sword to truly defend himself. It had been fast. His body just seemed to move on its own. Gildor had told him when the fighting started he would become his blade, and he had. Kian had walked the path of steel for forty years. He had honed his skills until they were second nature to him. The sword would forever be part of his life. Part of who he was. Gildor had taught him well. The lost techniques of the ancient Elven warriors were his now, but his master had never taught him how to feel after killing a man.

  Kian cleaned the blood from his sword on one of the dead men’s shirts and sheathed it in its scabbard. He would oil the blade later. The Elven sword he carried was the most precious thing he owned. The blade had been polished to a high sheen. The hilt and pommel were both inlayed with silver and gold. Forged when the Elven race still ruled the world, he would be hard pressed to ever find its equal. It had been a gift from Gildor, so he always took time to care for it properly.

  Kian wanted to bury the bodies. But having nothing to dig with, he dragged them off the road into some high grass so anyone that passed by would not have to look upon the gory scene. He retrieved his pouch from the dead man’s pocket and concealed the bodies as best he could. Then the Half Elf headed on down the dirt road, trying to digest what had just happened.

  He remembered what his old master had told him. “You are the blade, boy—strong, flexible and sharp. When you kill to defend yourself or another, the blade has no regret nor should you.” He felt little remorse for the dead brigands; he knew if he hadn’t killed them he would be lying dead in the dusty road. If he was going to live the life of a warrior, he would have to temper his heart for the barbarity of combat. Gildor’s words echoed in his mind again. “You have too much empathy for your opponents, Kian, and a trusting nature—two things a warrior does not need.” He had spent many years trying to harden his heart, but it was one lesson he had failed to master.

  He walked quickly from the scene of the fight; he wanted to cover as much ground as he could before it got dark. Kian hadn’t been out of the mountains for nearly forty years, he was very curious to find out what the world was truly like and he wanted to go home.

  He hadn’t gone far down the road when he heard a horse whinny; the sound snapped his head around. A boy stood in a small stand of trees holding the reins of three horses; he couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. A wave of guilt hit the swordsman: the boy had to belong to the men he had just killed. He walked towards the boy with his hands up, trying to show he meant no harm. Kian could see the boy was unkempt, his brown hair was a tangled mess and he was dressed in homespun clothing that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a very long time.

  Tears began to well up in the boy’s eyes and his lip quivered as Kian approached. He could tell the boy was scared, but to the young man’s credit he did not run away. “They won’t be back for the horses.”

  The lad said nothing.

  “They tried to kill me even after I gave them the coin.” Again the boy didn’t respond.

  Kian reached out and took the reins of the horses out of his shaking hand; the boy offered him no resistance.

  “What is your name?” Kian asked.

  “Julian,” the boy answered quietly.

  “Did you know the men well, Julian?”

  Tears rolled down his red-chapped cheeks. “They were my family, my uncle and cousins.” Julian wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand. “Are you going to kill me now?”

  Kian felt disheartened, the boy thought he was nothing more than a common criminal or brigand. “No, Julian, I would never harm a defenseless boy, you have nothing to fear from me.”

  Kian left the boy standing there, chest heaving, his tears coming now like a hard spring rain. The swordsman couldn’t tell if they were tears of relief, because he hadn’t been killed or tears for his slain family.

  He walked the three horses away and tied their reins to one of the trees in the tiny grove where the boy was hiding, and he set to work building a small fire. This would be as good a place to camp as any. Trees and cover were meager in this part of Trimenia. The winter snows had only melted a few weeks ago and the night would be cold.

  He watched Julian out of his peripherals as he made camp. The boy had sat down with his back to a tree, head down his arms wrapped around his legs. He would give the boy time when night came and he grew hungry and cold. Julian would come closer to the fire, and he could offer him food and water. Kian had no intention of leaving the boy out in the middle of nowhere to freeze or starve to death; he would try to see him safely to a town or village if the child would allow it. The warrior sat down and leaned back against a small oak tree and put his hands behind his head and waited.

  As night crept closer, Julian began to get cold. He had started crying when he realized the swordsman was not going to kill him. Most of his tears had been because he was scared. Very few were for his dead relatives; he remembered all the times his uncle and cousins had been cruel to him. Nonetheless, the fact was, bad or not, they were all he had and now he didn’t know what he would do. Trimenia was a grim land in which a boy his age wouldn’t last long on his own.

  He looked at the stranger. The man sat with the long sword he carried across his knees rubbing it with an oily rag. The traveler must be a great warrior, the young man thought, he had easily killed his uncle and cousins and they were the toughest men Julian knew.

  His father and Uncle Raul had been farmers once, until their land was taken by Baron Serban. Serban was the nobleman that governed the land where his family had once lived. He had killed Julian’s father and taken his mother away. After she was taken to the Baron’s castle, Julian never saw his mother again. That’s when he had moved in with his uncle. The Baron had taken his uncle’s lands a few months later, and his uncle had blamed Julian for it. That’s when they all had become bandits. Julian didn’t want to be a bandit, but his uncle said there was no choice if he wanted to eat. His uncle had grown mean and bitter after that. When he was drunk, he beat Julian and treated him little better than a dog. His cousins were no better. They too took their frustrations out on Julian. The boy realized that he wasn’t really sad his cousins and uncle were dead; he was sad because now he was alone.

  The sun was going down. Julian knew there were many wolves in the Kingdom of Trimenia and the Warrior’s fire looked very inviting. He got up and slowly walked over to get warm. Julian thought if the man was going to hurt him, he already would have. Besides this, Kian had said he meant him no harm. And he had spoken with such certainty that Julian knew it was the truth.

  Kian watched the boy come towards the fire. He stopped and stood just inside the ring of light the flame cast. “Come sit down, Julian. I have a little food you can have.” The boy sat down; he was starving since he hadn’t eaten at all today. He held his hands out to the small blaze the swordsman had built. The evening air was so cold Julian could see his breath.

  The fire felt good, its heat making his face almost hot. Without its warmth, the night would have been miserable for him.

  Kian leaned over for the small pack and water-skin he carried. His long black hair swung forward and parted exposing his ear. He heard Julian gasp.

  “Your ear, it’s pointed,” the boy stammered.

  Kian sighed. “Yes, I guess they are slightly pointed.”

  “Are you an Elf?” the boy asked wide-eyed.

  The swordsman shook his head. “No, I’m not an Elf.”

  The boy seemed almost disappointed. “I have never seen an Elf before. The priest in our village said they are nasty creatures and God has no place for them in his heart.”

  Kian threw an apple from his pack to the boy. “I’m not an Elf, but my mother was.”

  Julian pointed his finger at Kian. “You’re a half-breed, the priest of our church talked about them too. He said that’s even worse than being an Elf. He said it was an abomination
before God for a human to breed with an Elf.”

  Kian looked at the boy and saw the wonder in his eyes. Kian was a rarity, something not meant to exist, according to the Holy Tome of the human Church; he knew all too well what the world thought of his kind. What the boy had said didn’t anger him; he had heard it all before. Besides Julian didn’t seem malicious just genuinely curious. “Your priest is wrong. I’m just like any other man. No better no worse.”

  “I heard all the Elves were gone from the world, except the ones that lived in Sylonia. What are you doing here in Trimenia? What is your name?”

  The half-breed smiled in spite of himself. The boy seemed full of questions. “My name is Kian, and what I’m doing here is a very long story.”

  “I love stories,” Julian said. “My father would tell us stories every night when I was little.”

  He marveled at the boy’s resilience; a few hours ago he had killed his uncle and two cousins, now he wanted Kian to tell him a story. Maybe he hadn’t been that close to them, the swordsman thought, or maybe he was just amazed to see something as unique as a Half Elf. There were very few of his kind in the world, even Kian only knew of one other and that was his twin brother, Tavantis.