The Blades of War

 

The Chronicles of Eres Book II

by MB Mooney

 

Copyright

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

© 2015 MB Mooney

All rights reserved

 

www.mbmooney.com

 

Dedication

 

This book is dedicated to the missionaries and martyrs of the faith who have inspired me. Whether those I know personally or have read in amazing books, the world is not worthy of you.

 

And to the select but vocal fans of The Living Stone who continually and consistently asked me when the sequel would arrive. Here it is.

 

 

 

 

Prologue

The Burning Man

 

Spring brought new life to the land of men. Buds of yellow and crimson grew in the branches of the dragontrees of Asya. But Freyd Fa’Yador knew today would be a day of death.

A single man stood condemned by the Empire upon the stone platform that faced the main Square of the city of Asya. And while the norm was for the First Captain of the guard to stand before the men, women, and children of Asya and read the charges and light the kindling that would burn the criminal to death, the Steward of Asya himself stood next to the man sentenced to a horrifying death.

Nialus, the Steward of the city of Asya, faced the people of Asya with pride and satisfaction. Thin and graceful with long dark hair and bright blue eyes, he wore a long, fine, white silk robe with a red sash and belt around his waist that carried a bejeweled sword.

Arrayed across the stone platform and evenly divided on either side of the condemned man, two hundred Kryan archers stood motionless, arrows notched and held at ready as they looked over the crowd. At the base of the platform and along the whole wall before the Steward’s palace was a full legion of militan, 5,000 elves with shields, spears, and gladi at their hips. Cityguard were interspersed at the main streets that led into the Square, more than a thousand of them.

The Square was full of the citizens of Asya, their attendance required to see what happened to those that were the “enemies of the Empire.” In the middle of the Square, the center of the crowd, a massive golden statue stood. The image of Tanicus towered over the people, his hand outstretched to the west.

Freyd stood near the back of the crowd. He was able to contain his nervousness and anxiety, clasping his hands before him to keep them from shaking. The hood of his cloak was pulled as far down over his head as possible and still maintain sight of the man on the platform. Freyd was ready to flee at any moment.

The condemned man on the stage was his friend and the father of the girl Freyd’s son had married. His name was Jyson Re’Wyl.

Next to Freyd stood Jyson’s wife, Rose, also covered in a long green cloak with the hood set forward enough to hide her face and see the killing of her husband.

Freyd had tried to convince the woman to stay home, to run. He possessed connections and money enough to send her anywhere she wished. Freyd didn’t know if he could protect her here in the city. They hunted her, too. She was stashed in one of his safe houses on the northwestern part of the city, near the docks, but Kryus recently shipped two extra legions into Asya to crush any thought of rebellion.

Stories and gossip, whispers of events far to the west, had found their way into Asya. Humanity had risen up and taken the city of Ketan – a city now free of elven control – after battling a horde of creatures from the Underland. Some said the demics were dead men come to life, others that they were five mitres tall with six arms. But the walls of Ketan held and the men fought like heroes of old. Freyd heard the men of Manahem fought this evil for two ninedays, almost starving to death. Still others said that it was the whole of the autumn.

The most amazing stories came of the man who led them to freedom. The Brendel.

Tales claimed he was not a man but a god, and that he never tired, never suffered a wound. Some claimed he singlehandedly held back the legions of evil creatures that assailed the city of Ketan with his bare hands, his fists like large hammers.

Others said he did not use his fists but had a sword. A unique sword, and it was that sword that gave him power.

The stories of revolution in Ketan motivated the Kryan Empire to root out any who believed that men should be free, any who possessed faith in El. In Asya, that led Kryan agents to Jyson and Rose. The militan caught Jyson, but Rose escaped due to her husband’s sacrifice. She had come to Freyd for help, but despite Freyd’s pleas for her to leave the city, Rose insisted on coming to the Square to see her husband burned at the stake.

Glancing up at the bright sun and the clear azure sky, Freyd thought, it is quite a beautiful day.

Two elves of the Cityguard flanked Jyson. He stood tall, but looked like crit. A long gray canvas shirt was his only clothing, tied at the waist with a tattered rope, it hung to his knees but was stained with blood and the gods only knew what else. His hair had been shaved down and the white beard ripped from his face, existing now only in patches. Bruises and lacerations covered his malformed face, the right eye swollen shut and lips cracked, dry and bleeding. Several teeth were missing. His hands were bound before him.

Behind Jyson was a tall, blackened pole of treated wood. At the bottom of the stake, the elves piled kindling and surrounded the wood with gray brick.

Through what few channels remained to Freyd, he had heard that they tortured Jyson for days, a ninedays or more, to get him to give up other rebels, other believers in El, namely his wife. He refused to speak at all, so they decided to make a more public example of him.

Now Steward Nialus stepped forward. Every movement announced his authority. Freyd wondered if they trained such elves to appear that way. The crowd fell silent. “This man, Jyson Re’Wyl, is an enemy of the Empire,” Nialus announced.

The Steward’s voice carried through the Square, bouncing off of the white stone around him. Murmurs of anger invaded upon the silence.

Nialus continued. “His Emperor, the great High Evilord Tanicus the Compassionate, the Righteous and Powerful, has done nothing but provide for the men and women of Ereland, given you his protection and his provision.” Nialus glanced at Jyson with a look of disgust. Jyson continued to gaze out over the crowd. “In return for that protection and provision, this man has spread deception about our great and mighty Emperor and the Kryan Empire, all in the name of his rebellious faith in an imaginary god.”

The Steward raised a parchment before him and began to read. “Jyson Re’Wyl is found guilty of the following charges by the only recognized authority in this land, the Emperor Tanicus and the Kryan Empire: insurrection, rebellion, and propagation of myths.” Nialus lowered the paper and wheeled on Jyson. “Jyson Re’Wyl, you have been found an enemy of the Empire. The punishment for this is death by burning at the stake.” The Steward lowered the parchment. “Let justice be done.” The Steward nodded to the Cityguard next to the man.

They didn’t need any further instruction. One guard cut Jyson’s bonds while the other drug him back to the stake. His only clothing was ripped from his body. Jyson did not resist. He stepped backwards onto the kindling and held his head high as his hands were wrapped around the stake behind him and gathered on the other side. A guard pulled out a long metal spike and a hammer. He gathered Jyson’s hands and used the hammer to put the spike through both hands and into the wood.

Jyson writhed and cried out.

Next to Freyd, Rose groaned and bent at the waist. “Jyson,” she whispered like a prayer.

Freyd almost panicked, but didn’t, putting his left arm around her, pulling her close, shushing her, scanning to see if anyone heard her. No one seemed to notice. The man on the platform transfixed them.

“We can leave,” he muttered. “Let’s go. You don’t have to watch this.”

The woman set her jaw, raised her eyes, and shook her head. Shog me a goat, Freyd thought.

The Steward produced a torch and one of the guard lit it with a flint, and Nialus lifted the torch high for all to see.

“This is what happens when you rebel against your Emperor, the Great Liberator!” the Steward cried and leaned down to light the kindling.

“Great and mighty El,” Rose breathed. “Help him.”

The kindling caught fire and spread. Jyson didn’t look down at the flames that gathered at his bare feet. The flames began to reach his skin. He gritted his teeth and looked over the swarm of humanity. Standing as tall as he was able, which pulled against the spike in his hands, he lifted his face to the sky, and he cried out.

“Yosu!”

With all the countless executions he had witnessed, this had never happened. Other condemned men and women screamed, begged for their life, cursed the gods. But Freyd watched his friend, Jyson, stand against the pain, against the injustice, and cry out Yosu’s name.

Freyd watched as the crowd became anxious, nervous. People regarded each other, some with faces of anger and others with terror. Men and women began to mutter to each other, phrases and tones of temper.

Jyson took a deep breath and cried out the name again as fire engulfed his legs to the knees. “Yosu!”

Freyd glanced from the crowd to the Steward, who became enraged and spoke to the Cityguard, giving some instruction Freyd could not hear over the growing noise of the crowd. One guard stepped closer to Jyson, and as the flames were up to his waist, the guard reached out and struck him across the cheek with the butt of his spear. Freyd heard the guard say, “Shut up!”

Jyson collapsed and his head whipped to the side, dazed by the blow. The guard stepped back, but within a moment, after Jyson collected himself, he stood to his full height again.

Taking in the people of Asya, Jyson sneered, but it was almost a smile. He straightened, and he opened his mouth to speak.

As if on cue, the crowd fell silent.

“The Brendel is coming,” he said, and then he repeated it louder. “The Brendel is coming!”

The crowd reacted. For some, hands and voices were raised in fury against the elves of Kryus. Others screamed at the protestors, cursing and trying to silence them.

The Kryan archers faced the crowd and considered the Steward with nervous eyes, unsure at the chaos that began to erupt below them. The militan on the ground below the platform raised their shields and spears just a little higher.

I knew this was a mistake, Freyd thought, scanning around him for the quickest exit. Maybe back through to the street behind or to the left.

Rose was speaking next to him. He leaned in close. She pushed back her hood and he could see her mouth the words. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Brendel,” she said. Over and over. “Brendel.”

The chant grew in volume and intensity. Brendel. Over and over.

But the entire crowd did not join. Many men and women among the throng pushed and shouted curses at those that carried the chant, trying to silence them. It was soon to be a full-fledged riot. Freyd could see it evolve, and it scared the living crit out of him.

The Steward leered at the mass of people around him, the archers, then Jyson. The flames had reached Jyson’s chest and his neck, blistering skin and flesh, and he shuddered with agony. But even through the pain, unimaginable to Freyd, he was mouthing the same words, as if he led those who chanted.

Brendel. Brendel. Brendel.

Drawing his sword and filled with a rage of his own, the Steward had enough. He pushed one of the guard out of the way and swung his bejeweled sword in a long arc and cut through Jyson’s neck in one full swipe, blood spouting a mitre high and the man’s head falling forward and rolling down through the flames and off the platform onto the militan below.

Many cheered at his death, raising fists.

Those who had chanted along with Jyson screamed in outrage, throwing things at the platform, at the Steward, yelling the word even louder.

Brendel! Brendel! Brendel!

The crowd pressed forward and against each other. The mass of humanity became a roiling storm about to break, pushing against the militan with faces of wrath and bile. And fear.

Fights broke out among the swarm of activity in the Square, and the chant for the Brendel faltered as men began to oppose one another, shoving, striking, choking their neighbors.

The Steward froze for a moment, his eyes bulging in horror.

Freyd held tight to Rose, and he shouted in her ear. “Let’s go,” he said. “Now!” She was not a frail woman, but he was not a mouse of a man; so he was able to pull her, almost pick her up and physically carry her, out of the crowd and into an alley hoping that no Cityguard saw them. With one arm Freyd gripped her shoulders, and he led her back into the alley.

Even from the alley, Freyd could see the Steward recover from his fear, his horror morph into anger, a scowl on his face as he shouted at the archers. From this distance, Freyd didn’t hear what was said, but the intent was clear. The archers rotated and began to fire into the crowd. People began to fall, screaming, dying. He saw an old woman with a bloody arrow through her neck, a boy with two arrows in his chest.

Some in the crowd began to run, howling in fear. Others became more enraged and attacked the militan.

This was no Cityguard standing before them. This was a Kryan Legion, militan of the greatest army on Eres, the most feared force in the world. They knew how to react swiftly and decisively, and so they did.

Shields linked together to form a wall of protection, and spears found their way through that wall to stab and run people through. The Legion moved forward as one, trampling and killing as they advanced.

What remained of the Brendel chant came to an end. The Square was filled instead with one constant roar of shouting and the screams of the dying. Freyd saw a spear with a child hanging from it run another man through, their open-mouth screams indistinguishable from the deafening noise of the riot. Men, women, children, all were equal before the advancing Legion. Freyd tried to look the other way. He couldn’t.

“Oh, El, no,” Rose said, and thankfully did, because it roused him from his shock at the sight of death before him.

“Shog me,” Freyd said, and he grabbed Rose’s hand and ran.

She ran with him. Together they weaved through the alley to come upon a side street that allowed them to move west. Freyd made them pause for a moment to peek back up the street toward the Square. A few people ran through the streets, in no discernible direction. The guard and the militan were all focused on the Square, and so Freyd bolted away from the slaughter with Rose holding his hand and at his heels.

The noise died away as they made their way through the city, empty because of the assembly at the Square today, eerily quiet now. He had trouble catching his breath but he didn’t stop.

Within a half hour, they made it to the safe house where Rose stayed, an apartment in a poor tenement near the warehouses and the docks.

Closing the door behind them, he turned to Rose. Her hair was a mess of blond and gray; she was flushed and heaving for breath.

“Pack,” he said. “We’re leaving the city. Right now while we can. You have to get out of here.”

She faced him more fully. “No, Freyd, I am not leaving.”

“What?” he exclaimed. “Didn’t you see what just happened? This city is a breakin’ war zone!”

“Which is why I will stay,” she said.

He caught his breath, and blinked a few times, measuring her. She was serious.

“Crit on a frog, woman,” he said. “You’re shoggin’ insane.”

Rose walked over to the small table, the only furniture in the room besides an old black chair and a pallet on the floor. She reached into her bag and pulled out a parchment. Moving back to Freyd, she handed it to him.

He hesitated, but he took it from her. “What is this?”

“Read it,” she said. “Please.”

He heaved a deep sigh. Breakin’ crazy, he thought. But he lifted the parchment to his face and began to read aloud. Due to the fact he was not a great reader and the fear coursing through him, he stuttered and stammered through the words.

“He will be born in the land of men but travel far away. His return will be a sign that man will rise and claim their freedom from the chains of others and the bondage they place upon themselves.”

Freyd met Rose’s stare.

“Continue,” she said, calm and quiet.

“He will be the rebirth of the Sohan-el. The sword that gives him life will take his life. He will be inflicted with deep wounds, and those scars will follow him all his days. He is not a man, but a sword, and El will wield him as a sword, a blade to cut out the heart of those who enslave and oppress.”

Rose spoke as if every word were one closer to sobbing. “Now do you understand?”

“Not in the shoggin’ least!” he said. “What the break does this mean?”

She reached out and took the parchment from him.

“It means it is happening. After centuries of being enslaved to our own stupidity and the will of an evil tyrant, El has brought the man that will lead us to freedom. The world will burn and be reborn.”

“This Brendel character.”

“Yes.”

Freyd put his hands on hips. “That man that came through a few months ago, the one that took Aden and freed the Prophet, he’s the one you’re talking about.”

“Caleb, yes.”

“But he’s just a man,” Freyd said. “He was impressive for a crazy person, I’ll grant, but Rose …” He stepped forward, closer to her, and he took her hands, trying to reason with her. “Rose, he cannot win. In the end, he’s just a man. He can’t win. Not against the Empire.”

“He may be only a man, but El is with him. That makes him something more, far more. And he doesn’t have to win,” she said. “It isn’t about winning. It is bigger than that.”

“I don’t understand,” he said.

Rose smiled at him. She reached up and stroked the side of his face. “I know. You’ve always been such a good friend to us, so kind.” She took his hand again and gripped it. “But the time has come, and you must choose for yourself. Do you believe? Will you stand and fight? Or will you run? There is no middle ground left. You must choose.”

“Choose what?” he said. “We need to go. Please, Rose. This place … men are fighting and killing each other. The Legions here will slaughter us.” He exhaled, his heart heavy. “There’s nothing to fight for. Nothing to save.”

“There’s always something to save. With El, there is always hope. Don’t you see? That is why I must stay. People will need reason and truth, a way to learn how to fight for love instead of the anger and hate you saw today. I cannot leave them there.”

Freyd ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Why does it have to be you?”

One of her brows rose as she regarded him. “Who else is there?”

His mouth opened, but he didn’t have an answer.

“I will teach and gather and lead them to a better way than you saw today,” she continued. “They will need hope more than ever. And in time, he will come.”

“He? Caleb? This Brendel?”

“Yes. He will come,” she said. Her face altered from a visage of peace and calm to a deep frown. “And he will kill all who oppress.”

A chill went up his spine.

“But how do you know?” he begged her. “How can you know?”

“Two reasons,” she said. “First, because I hear the voice of El.”

Insanity, he thought. “And the second?”

She cocked her head at him. “Because he’s the Brendel. He is the Sword of El. That is why he was made.”

 

 

The brothers Yon and Mychal were working their fields the day Yosu walked by and called them by name.

It was the heat of the day, and the brothers were very tired.

“Come with me,” Yosu said.

“We have heard of you,” Yon the elder said. “Your teaching, miracles, and a sword that was never forged.”

“I am more than those things,” Yosu said.

“Then who are you?” Mychal the younger asked.

“I send the tempest, but I am the calm. I decide justice, but I am mercy. I fight wars, but I am peace. I judge the sin, but I am the righteous.”

Yon and Mychal looked at one another. “We do not understand.”

Yosu beheld the sky. “Do you see the sun?”

“Yes.”

“It is the sun that gives life, bears down with its heat and light. But the people of this world are lost, gazing down at their shadows. Will you help me point to the First Light that gives life?”

“But what can we do?” Mychal asked. “We are simple farmers.”

“Follow me and I will make you warriors and leaders of a kingdom you cannot see with your eyes but feel with your heart, and teach you a freedom no one can take away.”

“If we go with you, when will we return to our fields?” Yon said.

“There is no end to what I begin, and where I am going, there is no return,” Yosu said.

They left with Yosu that day.

 

- From the Ydu, the 5th scroll, translated into Common Tongue by the Prophet

 

 

The Blades of War will descend upon the land, and sorrow and death. But there will be hope, a light in the darkness.

 

- From the Fyrwrit, 2nd Letter of Gabryel to the founders of the river-town of Asya, translated into Common Tongue by the Prophet

 

 

Chapter 1

To the Harvest

 

She stood in a vast field, the golden wheat rising to her waist. The field stretched farther than she could see. It reminded her of home, of Delaton and Compton, of the plains of Manahem that seemed bigger than the sky at times.

Eshlyn smiled, extended her palms and brushed the top of the plants as she stepped forward, walking to the east. Her husband would be pleased with the crop this year, and she was proud of her work that led to such bounty. She thought of the warmth of her husband’s touch and embrace, how her new baby was safe at home in the wooden crib next to the bed. Her heart was full and content.

“It is ready for harvest,” a voice said.

Eshlyn peered up from the wheat to the east. She recognized the voice, but it was not the voice of her husband. A man stood far away. Holding a hand over her eyes, she squinted against the brightness of the sun high overhead. The man had long gray hair and wore a long red tunic. She could see a forest behind him.

A dark cloud appeared and covered the sun, covering the land with shadow.

Another step towards the man and she could see him better now. The man swiveled to the side as if to enter the forest. He wore a crown like a king and a belt with an empty scabbard at his side. She did not know the man, but felt as if she should.

“Yes,” she said. “The field is ready for harvest.”

Even at this distance, she could see the king frown.

“No, Eshlyn,” he said. “Not the field.”

She could see now what blocked out the sun. It was not a dark cloud but black smoke, billowing up from the forest behind the man in the crown.

“If not the field,” she said. “Then what?”

Flames licked the sky now, trees like torches. The fire inched closer to the king.

“Eres,” he said. “The world is ready for the harvest.”

Her heart constricted in fear. The sky darkened with smoke. Ogling the flames nearing the king, she waved at him to move away from it.

He held out his hand. “Come,” he beckoned her.

She swallowed. “Where?”

But she knew the answer, a deeper part of her knew but couldn’t – or wouldn’t – say the words.

The forest was a blaze now behind him. The king glanced at the burning trees then back at her.

“To the harvest,” he said.

She hesitated, stopping in mid-stride. Leave her husband? Her baby?

The king entered the burning forest.

“Come,” she heard him say one more time. “Come to the harvest.”

 

Eshlyn awoke in her bedroom in Ketan, Javyn slept next to her in a smaller trundle in the corner. She sat up, sweating, and she wiped tears from her cheek. The morning sun peeked through the canvas curtains over the window.

And glimpsing down, she was gripping Kenric’s unforged sword. She rubbed the marriage bracelet on her wrist and pulled the sword to her chest. She cried for her dead husband, as she had a thousand times, but now quiet and familiar. But she wept for something different, as well, something she felt and had dreaded now for the long winter.

Everything was about to change.

 

It was two hours before dawn when Iletus was awakened by faint skittering noises in the brush fifteen mitres to the south of his camp.

The fire burned low, orange embers still warm enough to keep him comfortable, although, in the break of spring, the air on the plains of Manahem carried a slight chill. His elven eyes opened, the sky dark, but he could see well enough with the three moons in an arcing pattern to the north.

Iletus was a half-day ride from Ketan and two days out of Biram, and he had camped around dusk of the day before, not wanting to come upon that city while it was dark. There were stories about the city now controlled by men. An elf like himself might not be welcome during the day; he could be seen as a threat in the middle of the night if he came upon those gates while the moons were high in the evening sky.

He listened intently to those noises fifteen mitres away. They were not the noises of any animal he knew, as much as he was in a foreign land. And they were not human. They were something else.

Iletus rose to a crouch without a sound. Dressed only in underbreeches, he silently slid toward the wagon and patted the horse when passing. Whatever was out there was hunting. He could feel it. An elf and a horse would make a good meal. Underneath the small wagon, a hidden compartment held a sword. It came free easily, and as he pulled the blade from the sheath a ringing sound disturbed the quiet. Iletus remained crouched, facing the brush to the south. His long, straight red hair fell to the side of his face while bright green eyes scanned a copse of trees in the distance.

The sword was one of the finest in the world. He had bought it the only other time he traveled this particular road, two hundred and fifty years ago, and paid a hefty sum for it. The hilt was gilded and wrapped in crizzard leather, the best grip made. The blade was thin and had a slight curve, only one edge to it, sharp enough to castrate a gnat but strong enough to withstand any other blade. The sword of a Bladeguard.

There was another blade stronger, however. The unforged blade was a thing of myth and legend now, but he had encountered one long ago. Perhaps he would see one again, soon.

Iletus held the sword up in front of him and skulked, in a constant low crouch, to a position between the horse and the foliage nearby.

They all attacked at once, screeching and growling, perhaps ten of them. Monsters, yes, but sad ones at that. The creatures were shorter than dwarves, and emaciated, with red skin and black eyes and teeth and horns and talons on their long arms and shorter legs. The only coordination to their attack was that it was all at once.

He leapt to meet them.

The sword caught the moonlight upon the silver blade as he sliced through two at once, cleaving them both in half. Iletus spun, his hair fanning out around him. He kicked one away with his left leg, grabbed another by the neck with his left hand as he cut down two more with the sword. Upon completing his spin, he snapped the neck of the imp in his grip and stabbed one on his left before ducking two that came at him from the other side. Pivoting again, his right leg swept around and upended three of them. Iletus jumped high over another and came down upon two more, decapitating one and slicing through the torso of another.

Three of the remaining six – he had been wrong, the count was originally twelve – ran from him and towards the horse, which began to rear up and try to pull away. Fastened to a tree, the horse panicked against it.

Iletus bounded back to the horse and slew the three of them with two quick strokes, cutting them down from behind. He swiveled on a heel to face the three that were left. The monsters came quickly and hoped to reach him in a vulnerable position. They failed.

Quiet surrounded him, as it always did after a battle. For a moment he stood, his legs spread far apart, the blade raised high. Only the sound of his own breathing whispered into the night. He had not broken a sweat.

He ripped a loincloth from one of the dead bodies and wiped the black blood off of his blade.

So, he thought. Those are demics.

Iletus surveyed the west, to Ketan. He was awake now. The horse was awake. He might as well continue his journey to Ketan and the revolution that waited there.

Taking a deep breath, he sheathed the sword again, placed it back in its hiding place, and got dressed. The horse was hitched to the wagon within minutes of covering the fire with dirt and gathering his things back in the jockeybox of the wagon. He put up the hood of his red silken cloak against the cool morning wind.

Dawn met him an hour and a half later, announcing itself with a bright orange horizon behind. After another three hours of travel, he perceived the imposing spectacle of the city of Ketan and the mountains of Gatehm beyond.

Iletus remembered it from more than two centuries before, but the city appeared different to him now -- not different due to a lack of memory, but due to recent events. The walls of the city were massive. Behind those walls, though, men were now free. Or so they thought.

The gates were open, but ten men in breastplates stood there with spears in their hands. Iletus neared the gates, and the men came to attention. One man, with dark hair and a scar across his left arm, walked forward to meet the elf. He smiled.

Iletus pushed back the hood of his cloak.

The men lowered their spears to point at him and blocked the gate. The man in front pulled a gladus from his waist and retreated a step.

“What is your business here, elf?” the man said.

The elf bowed from the wagon. “My name is Iletus. What is your name?”

The man did not answer at first, casting a glance back at his friends before meeting the elf’s gaze again. “My name is Crawn,” he said. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

Iletus nodded. “You are correct. I have not. I gave you my name because I thought you might recognize it. I have come to see Caleb, the man you call the Brendel.”

Crawn scoffed. “You breakin’ maddy, eh? You think we’re just gonna let an elf go see the Brendel?”

“Probably not. But, if I may suggest, you could tell him that I am here. I am sure he would appreciate your diligence in this matter.”

“How do you know?” Crawn asked.

“Because I helped train him.”

Step. Thrust. Block. Stab. Turn. Step. Strike. Parry.

Aden repeated the forms as Caleb called them out to the group of men and women gathered in the old ballroom in the palace of Ketan, a large room emptied of all but weapons and other warrior paraphernalia so that Caleb could train the rebirth of the Sohan-el.

Twenty-one men and women stood in a disciplined line, also obeying the forms as Caleb spoke them, all as one. They did this every morning after prayer and a reading from the scriptures, and had for the last four months through the winter. Some days were more strenuous than others, but they always trained.

Looking down the line, every face now belonged to people Aden considered close friends, if not family. Athelwulf, with thick black hair and dark brown skin, was to his right in the line while he towered over the shorter Aden. Just after the Battle of Ketan, Esai had gone to the Ghosts of Saten, and Athelwulf returned with Esai and little more than a thousand men and women from the forest trailing behind.

Esai was here, too, on the other side of Athelwulf, shorter with close-cropped hair, wide features, and near black skin. He had traded his signature two-sword style for the singular beautiful blade in his hand.

To Aden’s left was Eshlyn, who somehow ran the whole city and took care of her son in the day that remained after training with them through lunch. She was as beautiful as ever with long dark hair and light skin, if not more so with her divided skirts and her dead husband’s sword in her hand. She had proven herself strong and athletic, capable of handling the training.

Beyond Eshlyn was Xander, her brother. The whole group marveled at his growth and skill. He was quickly becoming one of the more accomplished swordsmen in the group, and all with one arm – his left arm, at that, losing the right one in the Battle of Ketan. The sweat was pronounced on his face, fixed in concentration.

On the other side of Esai was Carys, Caleb’s sister. She still wore the leathers and green cloth of the Ghosts of Saten. Her shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back behind her and exposed her child-like features.

The other fifteen were people of the Saten chosen by Caleb and Athelwulf, people who were both talented fighters and leaders, men and women who believed in El and inspired others.

All twenty-one, twenty-two including Caleb, carried unforged swords.

The Sohan-el were reborn.

Eshlyn carried her deceased husband’s sword, passed down from the last King of Manahem, Judai. Caleb and Aden had been the first in more than three centuries to climb Mount Elarus and face the Living Stone to receive theirs. Carys, Athelwulf, and Esai had gone to the Living Stone at the beginning of autumn, as soon as Carys had healed enough from her battle wounds.

The others had gone just as the first thaw of winter came two ninedays ago. A larger group had left Ketan and made the trek, twenty-eight in total, but not everyone had endured the trip or proved brave enough to face the dark cloud that surrounded the top of Mount Elarus. Five yielded to the hardship and abandoned the climb up the side of the mountain. Six others reached the roiling and violent dark barrier and shrank back due to fear.

Aden could understand. He had been barely able to do it himself.

Seventeen of the original group had returned, found worthy by the Stone and given a sword. Each person remained quiet about what they had experienced and had learned from El. No one had to tell them to keep it to themselves; it wasn’t an instruction from Caleb. Each knew deep within that what El spoke to them in the black tempest was private and for his or her soul alone. And the encounter with the Stone itself was such a mystery, it was simply something one must experience. They returned as Caleb and Aden had: sober, both at peace and disturbed in a way they would not try to explain.

But that shared experience connected these men and women deeper than friendship. Aden would say deeper than family, but he knew nothing of that to compare. Even so, Aden knew it was good and right.

A ninedays ago, Caleb found an artisan in Ketan that he felt could give a proper tattoo, and soon all of them had a tree growing out of a stone on the inside of their right forearm, the mark of a Sohan-el – Aden’s arm was still sore.

All but Eshlyn, that is. She declined, feeling that since she hadn’t made the trek to the Stone herself, she shouldn’t have one, but she would take the training. Caleb respected her decision. He deferred to her often.

At times, Caleb seemed more at peace, more calm, which only added to how intimidating he was to most people. But beneath the calm, what seemed like serenity, Aden could still sense a passion deep within the man, a mixture of anger and resolve waiting to be unleashed.

Caleb’s gaze moved over each person.

“The Vow,” he said.

The ancient Sohan-el took a Vow before journeying to the Living Stone. But since most here had received their unforged sword and tattoo before being fully trained, Caleb had modified the Vow for them to say every day during their training.

Each knew it by heart.

“Before the Light of El, the hand of Yosu, and the witness of the Living, I dedicate my soul, my heart, and my life to defend the innocent, free the oppressed, and spread light in dark places.”

“Very good,” Caleb said, and every person stood straight, their swords at their side. “But remember, those are only words, and they mean nothing unless you live them. Live them now, while we are at peace and safe, and you will live them when the time comes to fight. You have not become Sohan-el to achieve a position or to rule it over others. You have a purpose. To serve. To give your life for the good of others. To fight so others can live. Just as Yosu taught.” Caleb allowed the words to hang in the air for a moment. “Let’s do some sparring before the mid-day.”

He paired them up, Aden with Lyam, a young man only a few years older than Aden, but taller. Lyam had been born and raised in the forest of Saten, and his smile was genuine.

Aden shook hands with Lyam, and they embraced. Then they stood two sword lengths apart, and bowed low to one another. The group had sparred with wooden swords for the first few months, but now that they all possessed unforged swords, Caleb told them it was time to train with their own weapons, as they would in a fight or a battle. It was more dangerous, but Aden and the rest of the group had learned exponentially more over the past two ninedays.

Training with the unforged sword was odd. Aden possessed limited experience with a regular gladus, the Kryan short sword, but the unforged sword was vastly different. Yes, it was a greater quality blade, longer, stronger, all those things. But it also seemed to be … alive was the only way Aden could describe it. It moved with Aden, sometimes against him, guiding him at times, other times resisting him depending upon the situation. He caught thoughts that were not his own. And the more he learned of forms from Caleb, the more the sword would bring to his mind, as if they were connected somehow.

They had been sparring for only a half hour or so when Tamya burst in. Everyone stopped and turned towards the door of the ballroom for two reasons. First, if there was an interruption during their training, then something serious was happening.

Second, at Tamya’s heel was her pet bloodwolf, Hema.

Aden remembered well when Caleb had rescued Tamya from execution in Biram those months ago. She stayed with Athelwulf and the Ghosts of Saten as Caleb and the others continued their journey to Ketan and the Living Stone.

While with Athelwulf in the Forest, she found a bloodwolf pup near death and nursed it to health. The frightening creature never left her side as she came to Ketan with Athelwulf to join the revolution.

Tamya’s hate of the elves ran deep due to the deaths of her husband and child, both killed for her husband’s belief in El. And even though Aden had become one of her only friends here in Ketan, Tamya always held something back, isolated herself as much as the community would allow. Her presence in Ketan was clear – she wanted to kill elves.

The bloodwolf made everyone nervous – except Caleb; nothing seemed to make Caleb nervous.

“Cal,” Tamya shouted into the training room, and her voice echoed in the large space. She was one of the few that felt comfortable enough to use his nickname. Caleb didn’t seem to mind. Aden guessed that fighting bloodwolves with the Brendel in the Saten gave her that right. Hema, the bloodwolf, sat on his haunches when she stopped. “Zalman needs you at the palace entrance. Says it’s urgent.”

Caleb rubbed his chin. Zalman – a large man who was now the Captain of the Guard – rarely thought anything was urgent. “I’ll be right there.”

Tamya sniffed and left the room, Hema at her heels.

Addressing the group, Caleb said, “Aden, Eshlyn, with me. The rest of you, continue. Ath, take over. I’ll send word back if I need you.”

And then he put his sword in his scabbard and began to march to the door, trusting they would follow. Aden joined the others as they sheathed their swords and fell into step behind Caleb.

Exiting the palace, Aden let the others walk ahead and fell back to keep pace with Tamya and Hema. He stole a glance at Tamya. She wore a simple green tunic and tan leather breeches with the leather moccasins, the simple clothes of the forest people. Two swords hung at her hips, made for her by Bweth the weaponsmaster. Her hair was cut short, exposing the elven ears that belied her half-elf status, but that, combined with her chocolate skin, only made her more alluring and exotic to Aden.

“What is going on?” Aden murmured.

She shrugged. “No one tell me,” she said.

They strode out through the main yard and then through the tall trees rimming the field. As they continued beyond to the arch that opened through the smaller wall around the palace, Aden frowned.

Standing at the arch were ten men, all with gladi drawn, and Zalman, who towered over an elf that waited before them. The elf had long red hair, piercing green eyes and a red cloak over his shoulders. He wore a simple white tunic with black breeches and black leather boots.

Tamya drew her two swords, longer and thinner than gladi but still short swords, beautiful weapons, as were everything that Bweth made. Hema spread his forelegs, bared his teeth, and growled loudly. Aden tensed at the growl, and his hand went to his own sword.

Caleb flashed a warning at Tamya with his eyes. She knelt and put an arm around the bloodwolf and muttered calming words to him, even though her own face was a snarl.

Aden stopped beside Caleb, who faced the elf. Eshlyn stood on Caleb’s other side.

Caleb and the elf stared at each other for a long moment.

“Caleb,” Zalman said. “This elf say he know you.”

No one moved, watching as the two of them stared at each other. Finally, Caleb said, “Well, break me,” and stepped forward in a rush and embraced the elf. “Ah, my friend. It is good to see you.”

The elf returned the embrace. “You have done well, I see,” he muttered in Caleb’s ear.

The rest of the group relaxed visibly. Except for Tamya, who sheathed her swords, but she kept a hand gripping the red fur of the wolf at her side, both of them sneering at the elf.

Caleb and the elf separated, smiling at the other.

“What are you doing here?” Caleb said, in a tone both warm and sad.

“Much has happened, boy,” Iletus said, his face crestfallen. “We must talk, you and me.”

“Yes, of course,” Caleb said.

Iletus paused before continuing. “But first, I have something for you. A great treasure.” Iletus spoke to Zalman and the other guards around him. “Bring my wagon here, please.”

A man led a horse pulling a small wagon – a merchant wagon, it seemed to Aden – up to the archway. Three trunks were tucked in the back of the wagon. Iletus leapt into the wagon with a grace and ability that caused Aden’s brows to rise. Caleb followed him. Iletus opened one of the trunks, and Caleb looked to Iletus and then back to the trunk with a blank face.

“Aden,” Caleb said. “Come here.”

Aden started at his name being called, but he ambled forward and hopped up on the wagon with them – notably not with the quickness and grace of Iletus. Staring down in the trunk, Aden said, “Well, crit on a frog.”

Books. They were filled with books.

Iletus smiled at him. “Upon leaving Kaltiel and the Citadel, I stopped in Hyperion, and the library there. I … borrowed these from the underground vaults.”

“They are the books of men,” Caleb said, and Aden caught a hint of awe in his voice. “Histories, journals, commentaries on the Ydu and Fyrwrit, books thought lost to time.”

“But they kept them?” Aden asked.

“In an Empire built on the control of knowledge,” Iletus said, “the hubris of that control necessitated that they keep a copy of such things, even if they found them dangerous, and hide them.”

“It has been my experience that things in secret vaults have a way of making their way out,” Caleb said.

“I believe history would agree with you,” Iletus said. “For good or ill.”

“Aden,” Caleb said, “would you see that these books get to the new library? Iletus and I must talk.”

Aden studied the interior of the trunk again, filled with books. “Yeah, sure.”

A treasure indeed.

 

Caleb watched his old friend step into the largest office in the nearby administration quarters, the room where Caleb now had regular meetings with the leadership of the city. Big and spacious, the room had a long wooden table in the center with comfortable chairs. Motioning to the end of the table, Caleb invited Iletus to sit.

Iletus appeared just the same, his straight red hair that hung to his waist, the long nose and bright eyes. He was one of the most dangerous people on Eres, and he had run from Kryus all the way to Ketan. Caleb dreaded hearing what news Iletus possessed. If it meant the Bladeguard’s flight from the Citadel and Kryus, then it was bad indeed.

Caleb knew this day would come. After sending Macarus and the other elves away following the Battle of Ketan, he knew it was only a matter of time before Tanicus responded and Galen’s part in the rebellion made known. The army now in Ketan was Caleb’s preparation for it. Sooner or later, what had begun here in ketan would have to move beyond the walls of the city.

A young woman entered with a tray of dark, strong tea and thick brown bread, placed it at the end of the table and left. He sat across from Iletus at the table.

“So,” Caleb said. “Tell me.”

Iletus leaned back in his chair, a mug of tea in his hand. “First, I would like to hear how it is going here. I’ve heard rumors and read the report from that First Captain …”

“Macarus,” Caleb said.

“Yes,” Iletus said. “Macarus. So I know the basics. There was a battle here with some creatures from the Underland, nasty little things.”

“Demics.”

Iletus sipped his tea. “I ran into a few while camping just outside of the city.”

“Not a total surprise. Most drowned after we flooded the area from the dam, but the water didn’t kill them all. Some are still around. We run into them from time to time, but they’re not usually a problem. I take it you handled them without incident.”

Iletus waved a hand in the air. “Easily. So you took over the city and after the battle, it is now completely under your control.”

“Not all my control. We have a council of elders, some that you met today, a council of leadership, and a head elder. A woman, Eshlyn, and the former Second Assistant to the Steward, Chamren, they really run the city. We got through the winter only because of their amazing administrative gifts.”

“I see you have your own army, or at least a Citywatch,” Iletus said.

“After the battle, we did form a type of security force, both to keep peace here in the city and guard the wall. There hasn’t been any trouble. Most who were uncomfortable with being free from elven control left and went somewhere else, most likely Biram or beyond, and mostly for more Sorcos.”

Caleb leaned forward. “I’ve been raising an army. We have some people from the forest of Saten, trained fighters, and I’ve been instructing a force of volunteers in the afternoon. They are coming together.”

“How many do you have?”

“Total? Six thousand.”

“Against the Kryan Legions?” Iletus asked, setting his mug on the table.

“It is only a beginning.” Caleb rubbed his beard. “And I’ve been training Sohan-el, real ones.”

“So it is true.” Iletus’ eyes narrowed at Caleb. “Do you have an unforged sword?”

Caleb pulled the sword from his waist and laid the blade upon the table.

Iletus could only stare for several moments, his face catching the light from the blade.

“In a way, it is a simple sword,” Iletus said. “I can … feel its power.”

“It is all true,” Caleb said. “The Living Stone, the unforged sword came right from the Stone and into my hands.”

Iletus shook his head in awe. “And there are more of them? More besides this one?”

“I am training twenty-one Sohan-el, all with unforged swords and tattoos.”

Iletus frowned. “I believe tradition was that a person train for years before receiving a tattoo or traveling to the Stone.”

“That is true,” Caleb said. “And I thought the same thing. But Aden changed my mind.”

“Who?”

“You met him earlier,” Caleb said. “Aden, a young man who helped me free the Prophet and joined me on my journey here.”

“And what did he say that made you change your mind?”

Caleb chuckled. “It wasn’t what he said, it was what he did, who he is. Going to the Stone, Aden taught me something: the Stone doesn’t test skill. It tests the heart. And Aden has the heart of a Sohan-el if not the skill. I can teach skill. I cannot teach that heart. Aden went with me up the mountain, and the Stone gave him a sword same as me.”

“Interesting,” Iletus said, transfixed by the sword. “May I?” he asked.

“Of course,” Caleb said, and he leaned back and away.

The elf grabbed the sword by the hilt and lifted it. He gasped. “It is so light, but it feels so strong. I can almost hear … a voice. Like a whisper when I hold it, but I can’t make out the words.”

“That is how it is, always. And it seems that for those who truly believe in El, they can hear the sword speak to them.”

“Does it speak to you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Incredible,” Iletus said. His stare on the blade, he handed the sword back to Caleb, and Caleb placed it back within its sheath. “You’ve done well, boy. Very well. But what do you know of the rest of the world? What do you know of the other cities of men?”

“Almost nothing,” Caleb admitted. “We’ve been here for the winter and very isolated, which has kept us relatively safe, for now, but also insulated against any news of the outside. What is happening?”

Iletus took a deep breath and exhaled through his nostrils. “The story of what transpired here has spread, boy, spread over the world. How could it not? It is quite the story. A demon horde against an ancient city, humanity able to beat them back, and then expelling the elves from Ketan. You declared yourself free, declared it to the Emperor of the most powerful Empire in the world. They speak the name of the Brendel in reverent tones in the back rooms of taverns but curse your name in the great elven halls of power.

“Tanicus has sent more legions into Asya, Galya, Oshra, and Landen, even little Falya is not immune. And the Bladeguard are more active than ever. Together with the militan in the cities, they are rooting out all resistance, in some cases killing indiscriminately to instill fear.”

Caleb groaned.

“Tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands have died. And the humans of those cities are rioting, unorganized, easily divided and beaten. They only know rumors and false tales of what has happened here, and as glorious as I believe it is, they are limited by their ignorance and fear and hate. Men are killing one another as much as trying to fight against the elves.”

Caleb said, “Break me.”

“You started something, boy, and like a match put to kindling covered in oil, it has burned quick and full. You began it, but you cannot contain it. The world is burning.”

“El help me,” Caleb whispered, like a prayer. He meant it like a prayer.

He felt Iletus’ hand on his shoulder. “He has helped you. The Imperial Senate is in an uproar. With recent conflicts with Faltiel and Jibril, Kryus is spread too thin and it is costing a fortune. The Empire is being plunged further into debt to the dwarves, and there are rumblings against Tanicus at home, for the first time. Some who have been silent in their opposition to the current regime are beginning to make small movements against the Emperor. Two Senators have been murdered within the last month.”

Caleb grit his teeth. The plan had been for Caleb and his Uncle Reyan to build the revolution, over time, exposing themselves and the resistance when they were ready. But El had other plans. The demic attack had forced his hand, to take control and lead humanity, and Caleb watched men rise and build something amazing in this city over the past few months. He couldn’t change it now, and he wouldn’t if he could. But the world was burning just the same.

“What of Galen? You haven’t told me of him.”

But he knew. Even before Iletus spoke, he knew. Back in Anneton, after rescuing Tamya from the Steward there, he knew his master Galen would be compromised. Now, after taking control of a city of men with the very Letter of Regency Galen got for him, the wrath of the Emperor would be fierce. Caleb wondered, Is he dead? Did they capture him?

Iletus hesitated before speaking. “As rumors began to be confirmed, and the reports came in, Galen told me that I must come to you and help you. He sent me away before …”

“Before …?”

The elf drew in a deep and heavy sigh. “They have him, my boy. Tanicus has him and knows everything.”

 

Chapter 2

 

The Worldbreaker

 

 

Galen, the Blademaster of the Citadel, the Hero of the Kryan Ascendancy, the best swordmaster alive, was dragged into the High Evilord’s throneroom. Exhausted and in pain, he wore tattered clothes; his long white hair was tangled and matted. Bruises and lacerations covered his body from the constant beatings over the past two days.

Two Sunguard, the Emperor’s personal guard dressed in shining golden armor, each had an arm, and they pulled Galen through the open double doors, also made of gold, and over the marble floor mined from the mountains of the dwarven Kingdom of Valahal. The floor was smooth and cool against his legs. The guard lifted him and set him down ten mitres from the throne itself, empty for now.

Rising to his feet, Galen scanned the room, his wrists twisting slowly against the ropes that bound his hands behind him. Six other Sunguard stood guard in the room, each dressed in a flowing white robe and a golden breastplate. Their faces were covered by a golden helmet, except for their bright eyes. Galen noted the golden swords each Sunguard wore at their hip.

Teetering, Galen squinted as he heard movement behind the throne.

The throne itself was made of Jennahan glass with veins of gold and silver running through the back, arms and legs. The window to Galen’s right let in an abundant amount of sunlight, and the throne caught and threw the light across the room, as if the throne itself were a lamp. The back of the throne reached four mitres tall in spires like the towers of a palace.

From the left of the throne, the Emperor of Kryus, Tanicus the High Evilord, appeared. He was, Galen had to admit, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

While average height for an elf, nothing else about him was average. His blond, silken hair was held away from his forehead with gold and silver combs. His oval face framed his full lips, large sapphire eyes, and thin nose. Every aspect of the elf’s face and figure was balanced and symmetrical, as if an ancient artist from Hyperion had sculpted and modeled the Emperor.

Tanicus rounded the side of the throne. His long, white robe with billowing sleeves glistened in its finery. A crown of gold holly leaves rimmed his head. He gazed down at Galen. Then the Emperor sat upon his throne.

Galen swayed in his weakness.

“I am disappointed in you, Galen,” Tanicus said in a soft voice.

“I can imagine,” Galen answered.

“You came to me with this grand idea of training a human, a man, as a Bladeguard. This man would be able to infiltrate the most secret corners of resistance in Eleron. He would bring us the head of the Prophet and all who tried to spread that idiotic ideology about a single god who created our beautiful world. That’s what you told me.”

“Yes,” Galen said.

“But you lied to me.”

Galen did not answer.

“And if that wasn’t enough, you put a Letter of Regency before me, telling me it was for a new Bladeguard, but it was for this man, Caleb, was it not?”

“It was for him.”

“But you knew I would never have given such a Letter to any human, Bladeguard or no, did you not?”

That was a preview of The Blades of War: The Eres Chronicles Book II. To read the rest purchase the book.

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