Read Steel And Flame (Book 1) Online
Authors: Damien Lake
Steel And Flame (Book 1)
Book One of
The Chronicles of
the Crimson Kings
By
Damien Lake
STEEL AND FLAME
Copyright © 2014 by Damien Lake
Written by Damien Lake
Cover and maps created by Kryslin Franks
First Publication 2014
Version 1.8
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review,
the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole, in part, or in any form
by any electronic, mechanical or any other means now known or hereafter
invented, including photocopying, recording, digital copying, scanning, or in
any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written
permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Thank you for purchasing an authorized copy of this
novel and complying with copyright laws. By not distributing this novel without
permission, you are giving support to all self-publishers and allowing them to
continue sharing their creative spirit with readers worldwide.
Dedication
This novel, which I hope will be the first of many, is
dedicated to my father, who took his children to the library every weekend from
an early age, and thus ensured that a love of stories was well and truly seated
in me.
Table of Contents:
Table of Maps:
His stomach heaved like the unceasing waves of the
roiling sea as the swordsman burst into the night and stumbled from the
isolated cottage. He fell to one knee with his palms pressing the grass, body
trembling violently as he gulped deep swallows of air. The swordsman
desperately wanted to wipe the horror from his mind. Wind whipped his hair and
filled his lungs with salty ocean breeze.
It seemed as though the turmoil in his stomach would
never cease. That it would, forever hence, verge on purging itself.
Highest
gods watching from above! That…that…
He concentrated fiercely on the gentle washing of the
distant surf. Its clean rhythm of retreating waves slowly carried away much of
the horror.
At last the churning eased. The shaking man raised
his head.
This bluff overlooked the sea. The fading sun laid a
golden ribbon across the waves to the beach below. Focusing on those fiery
waters helped pull his mind further from the cottage’s interior. Years of
witnessing battlefield slaughter and butchery had not prepared him for this.
Bumps sounded from within the lone cottage. The Red
Man remained inside, sifting through the raw evil in his search for clues. The
swordsman did not care; he had seen enough already to scar him the rest of his
life. Deduction and inspection were not his primary skills, anyway…thank the
Twelve for small enough favors. There was no need for him to return to this
ravaged family’s remains. A family who had tended their flock on these bluffs.
Creaks sounded from the old door. The Red Man must
have finished. The swordsman swiveled to face the cottage, hoping to see
revulsion or outrage or sadness, but the Red Man’s face remained as granite.
Sunset made the Red Man look eerier than usual. When
they had first met, the swordsman thought the man wore so much red because it
matched his flaming hair. A red shirt of fine silk with long sleeves met
exquisite gloves of the same color. Heavy leggings held up by a dyed belt of
tooled leather were tucked into expensive riding boots. All were the earthy
red of fine wine. He wore an unusually long coat hanging to his ankles, with
full sleeves and a broad collar. It was thick and waterproof with a shiny red
satin lining that flashed with every step.
Despite the bright red hair, the preponderance of the
color in his clothing seemed unnatural. But one look at the Red Man’s eyes
froze any comment. Jewel red, they shone like blood rubies twinkling in
firelight. The setting sun made his crystalline irises blaze.
“He is long departed.”
The swordsman nodded yet remained on his knees, too
unsteady to rise. The Red Man placed a firm hand on his shoulder in sympathy.
A strange gesture from such a cold person.
“The strength of this one is increasing, but the life
energies he harvested from these innocents will not long sustain him. More,
they will feed his thirst for power. He will be driven to greater extremes.”
The swordsman wished he could avoid asking. He had no
wish to stir the cauldron of his revulsion. Except his mind refused to let it
go. “How…long did they suffer…that?”
“Days,” the Red Man stated quietly, a simple statement
of fact. “An eightday at the limit, if he worked with caution.”
The nausea roared back. As real as though he stood
within the cottage again, images tormented him, especially that of the young
boy twisted in mind-shattering pain. Eyelids cut away. Bones pulverized. His
skin peeled back, his muscles laid bare…and forced to remain conscious through
it all, without question. Every member of the family arranged so they were in
view of one another’s suffering, enduring such agony as could not be imagined
by the swordsman.
His gorge rose too fast to control. While he purged
himself, the Red Man cast his gaze over the golden sea. Not until the retching
faded to heavy breathing did he speak.
“Do you see? This is but the inception. As the true
power awakens, his nature will be subverted and corrupted further. For the
nonce does his hunger override his intellect, yet once his mind regains
control, the locating of him will be so much the harder. His stealth and
caution will intensify, as will his power.”
“What then? More of…this?”
“Such as this will forever be born wherever he
treads. More, the scope will broaden as his strength rises. And he is but
one. In all my years of searching, he is the only one I am certain of this
time…”
“How bad?” The swordsman slapped the ground hard with
one hand. “Tell me! Just how far can he go?”
“I have related to you the tragedies of the past.
Such a repetition is within the bounds of possibility, I assure you. And such
is his goal. We must find him.”
The swordsman felt sick again but not from memory of
this gristly scene. His own home, his friends, family…all at risk. At risk
of…
this
.
He nodded, which satisfied the Red Man. “Then come.
It is decided. You are my friend no longer, but my
edom
from here
forward. There is much work to be done, for he has a good lead. Time is
short, yet still favors us if we precipitate our pursuit.”
The Red Man helped him to his feet. Together they
turned their backs on the sea and the cottage overlooking it.
Book 01
Novice
01
From his perch in a relatively small Euvea tree, Colbey
watched a trapper going about his business. He had stumbled across this
distasteful man while making the rounds in his assigned section of the Euvea
groves. More often than not, in Colbey’s opinion, the duty was a waste of
time. Yet once in awhile he actually found an outsider who had wandered into
the groves. Usually it turned out to be a thrill seeker looking for treasures
or undiscovered civilizations or some even more extraordinarily ridiculous
fantasy. Or perhaps they thought they led a charmed life and were immune to
the forest’s threat.
Or they’re too foolish to know better,
Colbey
thought bitterly.
For the length of a seven days’ journey into the
Rovasii, the flora grew as in any other forest. The tallest trees topped
eighty feet. A treasure trove of herbs and game, the Rovasii provided well for
the settlements on its fringes. But few ever penetrated to its heart.
There, the Greater Euveas soared hundreds of feet from
massive roots that twisted the very ground. Each tree stretched tall, a
towering monument forty men would fail to encircle though they touched their
fingertips to one another’s.
As awe inspiring as the Rovasii Forest’s Euvea trees
were, the rumors concerning them were beyond exceptional. Tales regaled the
taverns in the fringe towns concerning strange happenings and unearthly
trickery experienced by those hunters who dared to venture so deep. It had
been accepted by the fringe towners that the forest would share its bounty, but
would never tolerate the desecration of its sacred Euvea heart. Few lost their
lives in the forest, and the deaths which did occur were attributable to the
natural hazards of a wild area. Still, none who had beheld the forest’s
splendorous core ever ventured so far a second time. The warnings were clear.
Unfortunately the very lack of obvious lethal
retribution by the forest tempted the foolhardy to witness this world of wonder
for themselves.
Which,
Colbey reflected,
is exactly why I have to
deal with outlanders like this one!
Colbey thought that by now the forest’s reputation
would keep the outsiders away. The depths of the outlanders’ ignorance and
sheer stupidity still amazed him. Take this one for instance.
Undeterred by stories of spirits and demons and
vicious creatures, he had trekked all the way here, to the sacred Euvea groves,
just to carry off a bundle of hides! And not very many at that because he’d
come without a pack animal. While the innermost depths of the Rovasii were
home to many unusual and fantastic creatures, their hides were less useful than
good leather or fox fur. What did he think would be worth the time and effort
it took to make the round trip on foot? Probably he came hunting for something
unusual enough to make a unique accessory for a wealthy lady’s party gown, a
one-of-a-kind rarity to make the other frumps green with envy. Colbey nearly
felt like asking, except anything this outlander might have to say interested
him little. Anger filled him rather than curiosity, and now he had work to do.
He needed to drive this fool out of the Euvea, as his
appointed duty dictated, preferably without killing him. Colbey had long
believed that if they
did
kill a few of these lackwits, the other
hunters in the fringe towns would take the stories regarding the deep forest
seriously. Maybe then he could be spared making these endless patrol sweeps
every other day. That decision belonged to the elders though, and he respected
the village council to a far higher degree than these outland scavengers.
The man checked his trap, a wicked contraption of
metal jaws that snapped shut on whatever stepped in it. Colbey moved through
the interwoven Euvea branches to the tree above the trapper’s camp. Since most
Euvea boughs were as wide as the paths in the outer forest, traveling by air
was far easier than walking across the uneven ground, where one needed to climb
gnarled roots in wall-like tangles.
Colbey double-checked his climbing gloves. They
consisted of thin leather studded with steel spikes. The first forty feet of
the colossal Euveas tended to be devoid of handy branches so a firm grip on
their bark was essential. After spending his entire life in the deep forest,
Colbey could skitter up and down the trees with the graceful speed of a
squirrel.
He climbed to the ground without making a sound. Once
there, he quickly surveyed the man’s belongings; travel packs, bed roll,
various cooking gear, food, a small hatchet, bow, arrows, and skinning
instruments. Searching the packs revealed extra clothing and trap parts.
Colbey made his choice. He tied the packs containing
clothes, parts and the tools together by their strings. After shouldering the
load, he re-ascended to the treetops. The packs’ combined weight made the
climb considerably slower than the descent, nearly pulling him from the bark.
Once he stashed the packs in a crotch, he returned to
his previous tree. The man had finished setting the trap and begun covering it
with forest grass. Colbey expected him to return to his campsite, so it
surprised him when the man started setting another of the contraptions.
How
many does he have?
Quite a few, as it turned out. They had been sitting
near a stand of shrubbery which blocked them from Colbey’s view. The
trespasser apparently intended to trap this entire clearing between the Euvea
roots. Only after he finished the last trap did he return to his camp.
Colbey eagerly anticipated the trapper’s bewilderment
at the loss of his gear and subsequent retreat from the forest in superstitious
fear. But the trapper only stiffened in grim determination, retrieved his bow,
then set off into the outer woods. He headed away from the deeper Euvea so
Colbey let him go. The man had left his remaining gear, meaning he would be
back.
His bewilderment increasing, Colbey reviewed the
trapper’s odd reaction. This outlander ought to be confused and nervous and
running for the nearest fringe town. Colbey’s temper flared before his
training reasserted itself. No one ever solved puzzles when they were too
angry to think. Bad enough that he already wasted the day like this when there
were other pursuits he wanted to devote his time to.
The trapper had taken only his bow. So…he must be
hunting for food to supplement his travel rations. He must also wish to leave
the area he’d trapped alone for awhile so his scent and presence would fade.
Except he had not bothered to search for his missing belongings, which must
mean he’d been in the Euvea before. If he’d experienced similar tricks by
other patrols, he would know that his possessions would never be located. It
would also explain his lack of a pack animal. Colbey recalled several popular
tricks the scouts played involving such beasts. This trapper would never have
brought another one into the groves again.
Colbey’s anger returned. If this
outlander
had
been here before and learned enough to accept the loss of his equipment as
final, his stupidity clouded his senses too thickly to take the warning for
what it meant! He’d been given a chance to leave unmolested once. Perhaps
even several times if he had returned before this. The usual tricks would be
insufficient to drive him off for good.
The trapper would be gone for awhile yet. Colbey
needed to think of a warning that would get through the fool’s skull this
time. Insinuations that outsiders were unwelcome obviously were not working
with this one. He set his mind to the task of devising a strategy to deal with
the trapper and descended to the forest floor while it cogitated.
First, he gathered various wind fallen branches that
were of a size to be handled, mere twigs to the giant Euvea. He dropped one in
each trap. The cruel barbarity of the contraptions sent a shiver down his
spine. One large branch snapped in two. Such a trap did not kill
immediately. Animals could suffer for days before the trapper returned. Not
to mention making it unsafe for a scout to walk about in his own home!
He returned to the small camp, contemplating what else
he could do, when noise in the underbrush alerted him to the man’s return.
Wasting no time being surprised, he slipped his gloves back on and scurried to
the treetops. Colbey wondered at the trapper as he watched the man emerge from
the trees. He had been gone hardly a few minutes yet already returned with the
carcass of a year-old deer.
The feat impressed Colbey until he noticed the mangled
hind leg. This animal had wandered into one of the man’s evil traps. He could
see the scene in his mind, the young buck feebly attempting to escape while the
trapper walked over, only needing to slash its throat with his knife.
Rather than stopping at his camp to butcher the meat,
the trapper brought the kill over to the trapped clearing. His expression at
finding his traps sprung looked only mildly more irritated than when he had
discovered his packs missing. It must have seemed as though the Euvea trees
had dropped their own branches so his traps would snare naught but firewood.
The fool acted as though it was little more than what he expected.
Again he ignored the message. He set about rearming
the traps after dropping his kill in the clearing’s center. This outlander
possessed determination; Colbey gave him credit for that much. The trapper
finished, then searched the clearing one last time. Colbey assumed he looked
for signs of whatever had disturbed his work. Soon he learned otherwise. A
sturdy branch had been the trapper’s goal, one with a tip that could be
sharpened.
He used his knife to hack at the carcass, ruining any
chance to use it for meat when he relentlessly scored the body. Once he turned
it into a ruined mess, he dragged it around the clearing until blood smeared
everywhere. Only then did he stake it to the ground in the center of his reset
traps. Apparently satisfied, he returned to his camp.
Colbey felt disgusted. This trapper must be hunting a
specific creature. Whatever he wanted, it must be a predator or a scavenger
that he hoped to lure with the sent of a fresh kill. The scout considered
dragging the mutilated carcass to the man’s camp after he fell asleep and
leaving it draped over his body. Such wanton waste and despicable methods went
against every teaching Colbey had received. He wanted to make a clear example
of this outlander. Too bad the intruder watched his surroundings intently,
alert to the forest’s trickery. It would be better to return after dark for
the next attempt to drive the trespasser off.
For now he must report to the village. One last
glance at the man assured Colbey he was settling down for the long wait of the
hunter. With that, he hurried along the branches of the Euvea Road, which no
outlanders ever walked.
* * * * *
Marik watched the wagon line trundle eastward along
the Southern Road from atop a hill beside the town of Tattersfield. He could
see for quite a distance from his vantage point. The Rovasii was a distant
smudge far to the south. Caravan guards rode at the fore of the procession,
not yet spread across its length. Bandits who would dare attack an assemblage
so large would never do so this near population. Ten wagons with a dozen
guards and nearly as many drivers would keep the caravan safe from any but the
most organized raid. Also, with the highwayguards constantly riding the roads,
the chances they would run into outlaws were very small. Despite that, Marik
imagined the life a caravan guardsman led must be a far cry from his own.
He led the caravan into a large inn yard at the heart
of the city. After adjusting his sword scabbard and shifting his armor, he and
the other guards slid down from their saddles. They gave their reins to an
assembly of eager stable boys. A dirty, humble man in a stained apron appeared
from the kitchen door, greeting them with, “Good evening to you, men. Putting
in for the night, are you?”
“Pate! You better have a good table and better food
ready for us. It’s been a long ride!”
“Is that you, Marik Railson? Why, it has been a
time! You haven’t been around since you ran the Black Hand Gang out of the
fourteenth district. We thought you’d headed for distant lands to seek
adventure and fortune.”
“Not until I finish up some business around here
first.” The remaining wagons lined up by the yard’s outer wall. Guards and
drivers gathered near the kitchen door. Boys lingered near the stable doors to
hear what Marik, Bane of the Black Hand Gang, would say next.
“Ellise,” Pate called to a serving girl. “Clear out
the corner table and fetch a round of clean tankards.”
“None of that watered down piss you call ale, Pate!
I’m not in the mood. Not after that group of cutthroats at the crossroads.”
“Oh my, did you run into trouble, good sir?”
“Nothing a few skewered bandits didn’t resolve.” He
patted the large blade hanging at his side. The stable boys’ eyes widened
while they whispered and stared at the mighty men.
“Yes, I imagine such fools would not be much cause for
concern to one of your ability, Marik. And you’re right, of course. Ellise!
Tell Miriam to tap one of the back barrels! And roll out the best mead as well
for Marik and his men! They deserve only our finest!”
