by Levi Samuel
About the Author
Levi Samuel was born in 1986 in Elk City Oklahoma, though he was raised in Springfield Missouri. While in Highschool, he discovered the game, Dungeons and Dragons, as well as a Live Action Role Playing group, where he truly discovered who he was. Graduating Highschool, he joined the Army, but quickly realized that wasn’t the life for him. He returned home and went to work in manual labor jobs. Being a quick study, he became a skilled tradesman in a number of fields, but the quest for happiness and purpose evaded him. In 2008 he became a father and has raised his daughter by himself ever since. In 2009, he decided to write a book, which was the start to a lifelong and rewarding career. His first book was published in 2013 under a penname, and he’s since established a laundry list of qualifications and achievements. Levi lives in southwest Missouri with his daughter and their cat, Alona.
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What you hold here is the product of several years of growth. This book had been revised many times and is far from the original concept, but remains one of his best works to date. Whether you enjoy this book or not, leave us a review on Goodreads, Amazon, or any other online retailer. Reviews help open the door for other readers, as well as teach the author new ways to entertain.
Heroes of Order Trilogy
Volume Three
IZARYLE’S KEY
Levi Samuel
ELDARLANDS©
Heroes of Order Trilogy – Volume Three
IZARYLE’S KEY
Eldarlands Publishing
Copyright © 2015-2018
All rights reserved. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without express permission. You are supporting writers and allowing us to continue to publish books for every reader.
The story, cover art, and illustrations by Levi Samuel.
Edited by Edward Gehlert
Foreword by Edward Gehlert
Genre: Fantasy / Series
Publisher's Note
Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used with expressed permission. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, and locations not covered by a release is entirely coincidental.
This work, including all characters, names, and places:
© 2018 Eldarlands Publishing, unless otherwise noted.
Find all the author’s projects at http://www.LeviSamuel.com
Foreword
When I was asked to write the foreword for Izaryle’s Key, not only was I deeply touched, but also more than a little nervous. I have known Samuel for many years and consider him a friend, peer, and an amazing storyteller.
The feeling of being deeply touched stepped in when I realized that he valued my thoughts enough to consider me his friend and peer; the nervousness reared its ugly head when I thought to myself, “Crap, what if I screw this up? What if I can’t convey my thoughts properly?”
The funny thing about my fears, about my nerves getting all jumpy, is that it is the same fear almost every writer faces when they sit down to tell a story. Those of us involved in this crazy industry have, at one point or another, questioned why they’re working on a novel, or an article, or on a… whatever.
To me, the act of writing is a daring adventure in and of itself. As authors, we get an idea in our heads. We plan out the trip our characters are going to take: What will they face? What will they overcome? What will they need to help them on this excursion? From idea, to planning, to executing; all of these are ultimately in our direct control. What happens after keyboards are finished clicking is another matter entirely.
We send our creation out into the world. We sit on the sidelines while people share in the journey with our characters, the children of our imagination. We take praise, but we also take criticism. We can be filled with pride, or just as easily feel our stomachs knot up when a reader points out an inconsistency with our tale that we missed. Every emotion the human mind can comprehend assails us during this entire process.
How can we separate the stress and unwanted, or unfounded, emotions from the joy we have while practicing our craft? The simplest answer is, use those feelings. Use whatever feelings you have to breathe life into the story; make the obstacles real to the reader. Make the elation of successes as real as the struggles themselves. Make the journey as believable as possible. If there are giant cows with wings in the fantasy world you are creating, bring them alive and send them soaring across the sky for your audience to see.
Levi Samuel has mastered these skills. He has overcome whatever fears on writing he may have had. His world is alive. It is a living, breathing environment with a history as rich as the one we walk around in during our daily routines. The struggles of his characters will pull at your heart. You easily find yourself cheering them on, hoping that they will find their own peace in a world torn by war and power hungry armies.
In this story there is a small group of friends that are struggling against the unknown. They each have their own skills and knowledge which complement those of their brothers-in-arms. They may bicker and chide each other, but at the end of the day they have their comrade’s best interest at heart. Together, they are not afraid to march into the future.
That also describes what it is like to work on a project with Levi Samuel. I trust the man with my life, the lives of my family, and with any task he says he will do. Honor is still alive. It is nurtured by Samuel and is imbued in his character and in his characters.
This series has held my attention and has made my work days fly by. The use of imagery allows the reader to exercise their imaginations in ways that will leave them begging for more.
Something tells me that Levi Samuel is busying himself crafting more adventures for us to share in. Something also tells me he is fearless about the journey. I will happily march into the unknown with him anytime he asks.
Edward Gehlert
Author, Children of Enoch Series
8/10/17
I would like to dedicate this book to my brothers, Brian and Justin.
To Justin for staying up late with me after D&D nights to help me think through interesting plot twists and always encouraging me to keep working.
And to Brian for being an asshole who never likes anything I write. It’s your nagging that makes me question myself and inadvertently what makes me better.
Contents
Chapter I
Dark Tidings
Chapter II
Desperate Measures
Chapter III
Remnants Past
Chapter IV
A Secret Weapon
Chapter V
An Unexpected Encounter
Chapter VI
Stolen Magics
Chapter VII
A Way Out
Chapter VIII
The Clash of Titans
Chapter IX
A Question of Royalty
Chapter X
Personal Demons
Chapter XI
Calm Before the Storm
Chapter XII
Bargaining Chips
Chapter XIII
No Place Like Home
Chapter XIV
Flanking Maneuvers
Chapter XV
Defining Fears
Chapter XVI
Always Present
Chapter XVII
A Dark Pact
Chapter XVIII
Whispers in Time
Chapter XIX
At Long
Last
Chapter XX
Outside the Box
Chapter XXI
Where it Began
Epilogue
Rightful Place
Chapter I
Dark Tidings
A sweet smoke drifted throughout the pub, filling the nostrils of all within. The barroom chatter blocked out coherent conversation more than a few feet away. Gareth tipped his tankard back, finishing off the golden liquid within.
“Maev, be a doll and bring me another.”
Without pause, she swooped the empty mug off the table. Giving him a telling smile, she turned and rushed off toward the bar.
Gareth watched her leave, studying the way her hips moved beneath the form fitting deep, red dress.
A moment later she returned, replacing the tankard. “You keep staring at me like that and you’re gonna’ have to buy me dinner.”
He glanced up with a hidden smile. “Who says we need dinner? I’m just here for dessert.”
“Follow me then,” Maev grabbed his arm and pulled him from his seat.
Gareth followed closely behind, anticipating the night’s adventures. I wonder how she’ll be? Reserved? Aggressive? Violent? How many came before? The questions piled, answers promised to come. Hearing a familiar voice around the corner, he slowed. Peeking through the cracked door, he paused just out of sight, searching the room under the stairs for the men within.
The young lord of Shadgull was wrapped in a black cloak, as was his best friend and adviser. Gareth thought for a moment, recalling the man’s name. Jam, Gem, Jem, that's it. They were locked in debate against a lowly looking man. The expression on his face suggested he didn’t wish to be in their company.
“Don’t play me for a fool. I've searched high and low. If it were here, I would have found some evidence to support your claim.”
Erik was growing tired of dealing with the rogue. He'd spoken to every low-life the kingdom had to offer and none of them had yielded the slightest creditable information. There was little chance this man was any different.
“Aye, My Lord. It is.” The rogue reached into his cloak.
Jem sprung forward, pointing a dagger at the man’s throat. “Do you know who you’re talking to? Remove your hand slowly.”
The rogue cautiously took a step back, slowly revealing a rolled parchment. The edges were darkened and burned away, suggesting it had been pulled from a fire.
“Forgive me, My Lord. I forget how quick I move sometimes.” His hand shaking, the rogue extended his arm and handed the scroll to Jem. Disarmingly, he backed away.
Jem unrolled the parchment and looked upon its contents. Shifting, he turned and showed it to Eric.
Gareth felt his heart skip a beat. The depiction of the kris was perfectly proportioned. Even the blended black and purple colors along the blade matched. There was no mistaking that weapon.
“How’d you come by this?” The young lord adjusted his stance, allowing blood to flow evenly through his legs.
“I saw it myself. ‘Bout a year back.”
“You comin'?” Maev leaned over the banister, impatiently awaiting the bald warrior.
Gareth took a deep breath, stealing a final glance at the dooming image. Such dangerous rumors circulating wouldn't help him or the Order. Demetrix would want to know about this as soon as possible. But at such a late hour, there was no sense in waking the lad. And he had pleasures to attend. I'll tell him first thing in the mornin'. Smiling at the bar wench, he pivoted on heel and rushed around the railing after her.
Eric glanced at the door, hearing movement too close for comfort. Giving a subtle nod, he said everything he needed to.
Jem approached the door and pulled it open just enough to peer out. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he closed and latched the wooden barrier. Returning to his lord's side, he gave a reassuring nod.
“You say you saw it yourself. Where’d you see it?” Eric raised an eyebrow, awaiting his answer.
“Marbayne, My Lord. The day the dreuslayers returned. It was tucked in the big one’s belt. I was gonna’ take it when they walked through the parade but I couldn’t get close enough. Too many wardens guarding ‘em.”
Eric rubbed the stubble growing on his shaved chin, processing the information. “Marbayne, you say?” Glancing at his oldest and most loyal friend, he gestured. “Do it.”
Jem sprung forward, thrusting his dagger beneath the man’s chin. He was dead before he hit the ground.
“It seems things just got a lot more complicated. Jem, contact the Black Lotus. Have a two-thousand gold bounty placed on Demetrix’s head. Pay half up front and half when the job's done. I don’t foresee them succeeding, but it should keep the dreuslayers distracted enough to slip a spy into their ranks.”
“As you wish. What do you want me to do about this one?”
“Leave him. We were never here. Release one of the thieves from the stocks and backlog his release two days ago. When people demand justice, we’ll hire the border wardens to pick him up. I’ve no problem letting Marbayne clean the mess up for us.”
“Do you think it wise to bring them into the mix? I’ve seen some of their methods. I doubt they’d willingly execute a man claiming to be innocent without complete certainty.”
Erik's eyes beamed, daring the man to question him again. “Did I stutter? The more stress we put on Demetrix, the easier it's going to be to get someone close to him. But if it makes you happy, pay the thief enough to keep him happy the rest of his days. When the charges are brought, tell him we’ll clear his name if he confesses. All we have to do then is turn our backs.”
“What about the money, My Lord?”
“What money?”
“The money to pay the thief. Won’t people question where he came up with it?”
“He’s a thief. Everyone knows where his money comes from. He simply scored a good haul, and probably murdered this man for it. Thief to assassin isn’t a far leap.”
“It shall be done, My Lord.”
Maev opened her eyes, stealing a quick glance upon the sleeping man beside her. His snoring was deep, yet peacefully rhythmic. She carefully sat up, hoping he wouldn’t wake. Placing her bare feet on the cold, wood planked floor, she stood and grabbed her dress. Shaking the wrinkles free, she quickly tossed it over her naked form and laced the bodice. She sat gently on the edge of the plush bed, giving him a light prod, ensuring he was still asleep.
Gareth snored louder, refusing to budge.
A sadistic smile formed on her lips. She didn't expect the sleeping powder to work so quickly. Leaning over the unconscious man, she removed the false jewel set into her ring, exposing a tiny needle. She would have to be quick and precise to prevent rousing him. Selecting the soft skin on the underside of his arm, she carefully pricked his flesh, watching a single drop of blood roll from the wound. Keeping the needle lodged, she fumbled with her coin purse and retrieved a small glass vial from the near empty compartment. A faint red liquid rested in the bottom, sloshing against the sides from the minor movement. Pulling the cork stopper from the top, she retracted the needle, bringing a drop of blood with it. Carefully, slowly, she watched it fall into the liquid and dilute throughout. Replacing the stopper, she swirled it, mixing the two together. The liquid turned a faint golden tone and released a soft radiant glow. She wiped the excess blood from his arm, holding pressure to stop any future bleeding.
Maev waited a few minutes, content it had stopped. Quickly, quietly, she rummaged through the dreuslayer's belongings, searching for the one item he carried at all times. The round leather badge was easy to identify, sewn onto a sash made of dreualfar skin. Maev poured the golden liquid over the etched trident, letting it soak into the material. No sooner than the last drop disappeared into the leather, the badge let out a faint glow. It faded away in no time, leaving it as it once was. She tucked his belt away and bundled his clothing to look as if they’d never been touched. Confident in the ruse, she quickly made for the door.
&n
bsp; Footsteps echoed along the ashlar hallway, slow and methodical. He walked the abandoned corridor without concern, taking in the bare walls of the citadel. Running his fingers along the rough stone, he brought his hand up and swept his lengthened silver tinted hair behind his slightly pointed ear. The massive doorway loomed ahead, awaiting his entry.
The masterfully carved twin doors swung open and crashed into the walls on either side, inviting him in. Stepping into the room, he kept his eyes locked on the shadowed figure upon the ornate throne at the far side. A single beam of light shown through the round window near the top of the wall, depicting a demonic face onto the stone floor.
“The infamous Ra'dulen. I wondered when you’d come for me.” The voice was pleasant to hear, yet the authority behind it commanded respect.
“Well, I’m here now. Since you know who I am, you know what I’m here to do. Your fortress has fallen, Tycondus. Your sharliets and orcs have been defeated. It’s just you and me now.”
The newcomer drew his blade, letting the curved edge slide against the sharpening stone in its sheath. It echoed throughout the grand chamber.
“Perhaps. But I didn’t get where I am by working with others. Rezerik and Inyalia were weak. Do you really think you can single handedly defeat us all?”
The seated figure stood, revealing his full height. Stepping into the beam of light, his elven form towered nearly a foot over the trespasser. His muscles flexed beneath the scaled shirt, stretched to capacity by the bulk beneath. Two thick horns protruded from his forehead, curving up and toward the rear, much like those of a ram. The elven nightking reached down, drawing twin daggers from his waist. The jagged blades glowed green, highlighting the many hooks in the razor-sharp edges. They were clearly made for inflicting as much damage as possible. “If you’re ready for death, let’s begin.”
