The god spear, p.1
The God Spear, page 1
Table of Contents
Reviews for The Triempery Revelations
More Books from L. L. Stephens
The God Spear Title Page
Map of Amallar
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
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31
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40
Preview of Book V -- THE WALLED CITY
Triempery Appendix
Acknowledgements
Author Bio
Independent Publishers Rock!
Copyright Information
Reviews for
The Triempery Revelations
“Two elements elevate this work above standard fare. First, it's a character study at its heart, driven by the growth and evolving relationships of complex people, vibrant and varied, without any reduced to stereotypes of good or bad. Second, the mysteries of the Rill and the Wall are compelling and drive readers to explore this world more deeply. Stephens serves up a terrific first entry to a fascinating new series.”
—Booklist
“An incredible introduction to a new fantasy series… layered, flawed characters within a fascinating world with a rich history and intriguing magic system that you can’t wait to learn more about.”
—Smyco
The Kheld King takes all the elements that made Sordaneon great and expands them. A character-driven story with high stakes, with politics as the main focus of this fantasy.
—Jamreads
If Dune, Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones all got together and made a book baby, it would be rather like Sordaneon, which is to say that it’s brilliantly done. ... It was easy to sink into the world along with Dorilian and the others. I’m absolutely in awe of how many layers Stephens brought to the strange world of the Rill and all those fighting for power.
—Rebecca Crunden
More Books from
L. L. Stephens
The Triempery Revelations:
Sordaneon
The Kheld King
The Second Stone
The God Spear
The Walled City
(fORTHCOMING)
Also:
Moon Blood and Salt Flowers
For my mother, Betty Capelle—who never quite understood my drive to write these books, but who ended up in them anyway.
1
Amallar is a wild land, a tangle of trees into which no light—even that of knowledge—can penetrate. It will be no loss for the King to give it to the Khelds, who are little better than beasts. They follow a god called Lud, whom they believe led them through a door of stone into this land. For that reason, they claimed our land god-given to be theirs.
RAMMELON OF AVERRN, LETTER TO HIS COUSIN THE BAS OF NALAPAR
“I THOUGHT THERE’D BE an actual road,” Hans said. The line drawn on the maps he’d looked at in Sordan and Trongor had hinted at something better than this sorry excuse for a highway. “No wonder Amallar has trouble building trade with its neighbors.”
Herberth’s answering chuckle earned a scowl from Arne. Herberth ignored the warning and proceeded to elaborate. “King Stefan ordered a better road to be built in the early years of his reign, but Stefan withdrew the funds later to pay for his wars. It didn’t help that his trade minister in those later years was incompetent and never resumed the work. From what I hear, the only finished parts of the road lie east of the country.”
Clearly no one had finished the part of the road leading to Trongor. From maps and talks with geography tutors, Hans knew that Amallar’s claim to a seacoast consisted of sheer cliffs topped either by more mountains, or by vast bogs with not one serviceable harbor. He got the sinking feeling that he had exchanged a frustrating situation for an impossible one. He hadn’t expected Amallar to be this isolated and backward. Sordan, for all its uncertainties and treacherous politics, had infrastructure. Sordan not only built armies with which to defend itself, it built roads to move them.
Only now did it occur to Hans why Marenthro had sent him to Sordan. It had not been just to enlist Dorilian or learn more about the Rill. Marenthro wanted Hans to gain the backing of a powerful state: a leader, nation, and people capable of mounting a successful war. So far, Amallar didn’t look like it had much to offer in the powerful-state department.
At least Amallar didn’t feel dangerous. The Trongor Pass had dumped Hans and his party into a vast, hilly country thick with ravines and mist-shrouded forests. There might be people and villages to be found among the folds and hollows of those grandmotherly skirts, but the comforts of civilization would be few. Even the trade road to Trongor, important enough to have a name, was barely more than a track.
The few encounters with fellow travelers along the road had been with the occasional small trader or people, generally women, intent on reaching the next town to treat the sick. As for hospitality—the most pressing inconvenience was that the handful of inns along the road were inadequate establishments wholly incapable of sleeping or feeding the number of men Hans and Herberth had with them. Save for Herbeth and his captain Farrl, both of whom Hans insisted be housed under a roof each night, the Trongorians ended up camping nearby. At least, as Hans had predicted, the people they met along the road were more curious than suspicious and never seriously challenged his progress.
A brisk, chill wind had kicked up overnight, reminding Hans and his party that they were in the northlands now. The farther north they rode, the more the trees wore autumn colors, so that the hills looked to be afire. They made good progress along the dry track and stopped at midday to water and rest their horses.
“You’d think someone would wonder who the hell we might be or what we might be up to,” Arne commented, noting the lack of scrutiny as they prepared to move on. His riding skills had improved and he easily swung atop his sturdy horse.
Hans patted the shoulder of his own dapple-gray mount and checked the girth strap one more time.
“We’re being watched,” Farrl assured the party. “Essera’s kings have long ordered Kheld rangers to not interfere with mercantile or diplomatic missions.” He gestured to the banners that proclaimed them so. “They act only if they suspect trouble. Consider too that it was not so long ago this land was protected by powerful interests. Highborn promises on the one hand and Essera’s might on the other are effective deterrents.”
“Seems to me, both of that lot are dead and gone,” Arne countered. “Guess it’s a good thing Trongor doesn’t have a craving for land over the mountains.”
“Our folk prefer the sea and the riches mining brings. We are interested in your country and people only for what trade we might share.” Herberth lifted his hat to wipe at his brow. “Can you tell me how far we are from Rhodhur?”
“Day or so.” Arne scratched at his head as he considered. “We should reach the Rhodhur Road tomorrow once we get to Uggwil’s Pitchfork today. The road branches there. One road will head up Rhodhur way, one will cross the Brennan to the Toregh Trail, and the other will run over to Eastmeary.” Just speaking the name made him brighten. “That’s where I grew up. Eastmeary Brenna. Good land, all farms and towns.” He slapped a hand to his forehead. “Damn it all, but I should’ve thought of this before! We don’t have to stick to this road or wait to get to the Fork to turn north. We’re going northeast now. All we have to do is set out cross-country from here, point ourselves north, and intercept the Rhodhur Road about halfway. We could cut a day off our time, easy.”
Herberth eyed the surrounding hills. “The forest is thick. We could get lost in it.”
“Nah,” said Arne, “I have cousins in these parts. Had an uncle too, near Uggwil. My brothers and me visited every year until a bear got him. Point being I got a map in my head. The hills are taller not far from here, and I know those hills with their insides out and backwards. I can find Rhodhur blindfolded.”
“I sure hope so,” Hans said. “I don’t remember it being quite this tucked away.” He was willing to count on Arne as a guide. None of the Trongorians had deep knowledge of Amallar whereas Arne, at least, was a native.
“And I’m for staying on the Trongor Road,” Herberth insisted. “We know where it goes, and there are certain to be inns along the way, as there have been thus far.” He generously did not question the quality of that housing.
Arne refused to be swayed. “We’ll make Rhodhur by tomorrow night if we get a good start today. You can’t do better for inns than Rhodhur’s and you can’t do better for food. We should travel fast while we can. This time of year the weather can change like a mad goat’s temper and when it does it’ll rain like the heavens come falling in, or I’m not a Kheld!”
Herberth turned to his captain. “Farrl?”
“I think it safe to cut overland, sir. At this point any course that takes us north will bring us to the Rhodhur Road.”
Herberth then nodded his assent and returned to join his men. Hans mounted his horse and gave Arne a weary, hopeful smile.
“I’m not making trouble,” Arne said in his defense. “This is better. It’s a shortcut. There’s a trail and all. You’ll see.”
“There should be a road.”
“There should be a lot of things, if people did a better job of getting them done.”
They set out riding north into forested hills that seemed never-ending. The sun nudged just above the trees as they began to ride downhill into bottomlands, where a river tributary rushed swift and cold. One of Farrl’s men, riding ahead, returned to say he had spotted people on horseback on the other side of the narrow valley between the hills.
Herberth turned to Arne. “Should we be worried?”
“Nah. We’re too far from the road to start running into ruffians.”
“What if they followed us and are now circling to cut us off?” Herberth’s words prompted the Trongorian rangers to exchange glances and nods. “Is there any way to turn back and go around?”
“We’d lose a day or more,” said Arne, looking put out. “Aside from the bridge at Eastmeary Brenna, the only place to cross is at the Frendel Fords.”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that when you proposed this adventure,” Herberth snapped.
Arne’s ears burned bright red. “Look, I might have groused a lot, but we never seriously thought we’d ride all this way without nobody seeing us. It might be someone who’s followed us, and it might be someone who don’t even know we’re here. Lots of folk use the Fords.”
“I have no wish to be set upon by bandits.”
“And I tell you bandits wouldn’t want to be set upon by us! Whatever that lot is, they’re not Staubaun robber lords.” Arne looked affronted by the thought. “There aren’t enough rich travelers in these parts to make a business of robbing folk. It’s young hooligans, mostly, and nothing your swords here wouldn’t set to running.”
“I say we go ahead,” Hans decided. “He’s right about us being well armed.” He suspected forty veteran Trongorian soldiers could hold their own against even Staubaun robber lords. Meanwhile, standing here was getting them nowhere. Hans had adjusted his own sword and tested his grip. Even though he, like Arne, had never used a blade in actual combat, it wouldn’t hurt to look menacing.
They set out again, more cautiously than before. The rangers riding in front and behind the party, respecting the possibility of ambush, rode with their weapons ready at their sides. Herberth, at least, was mollified. In weather dry and cool enough to not overtax the horses, they covered ground quickly. By afternoon they rounded a bend and were thankful to see the trail broaden to become a path. As they began to wend downhill, they glimpsed the glittering trace of a river.
“That’s the Frendel,” said Arne.
The Frendel didn’t seem mighty, but Hans remembered from childhood that it was barely navigable. Rhodhur itself was not a river port. The Fords were located below the town. So were the gentler, useful parts of the Frendel. What they saw below them was wild, untamed, a young torrent of water imprisoned by a narrow valley. It presented churning stretches of whitewater only a fool would attempt to cross.
Herberth frowned. “After three days of rain, I hope your fords are passable.”
“They ought to be,” said Arne. “But we should aim to cross today before it rains again. Those clouds are awful dark.” They had only to look to the north and west to see the threat. “We’ll be glad once we’re over. There’ll be proper inns. The road on the other side is well traveled.”
The path down the hill was steep and followed a deep ravine thick with oak, maple, and wild apple trees. A fast stream flowed along the boulder-strewn bottom and the tree-crowned hill loomed above. Hans wanted to get through it and out into the open again.
They had just emerged from trees into an open patch dense with young pines and low, fruiting scrub when a spray of dirt and stone erupted on the trail ahead of them. A second shower, this time of splintered rock, shattered from the stony hillside close above their heads. The party rapidly dismounted and sought shelter—along with their horses—among a stand of mixed beech and sturdy maples just off the path.
“Madrock’s Hells!” Arne swore. “They’ve got us pinned and proper all right!” Below them, precariously near, was the stream. Above, the path was wide open to attack with only two outlets, both narrow and easily bottled.
“Maybe if I get up and talk to them…” Hans moved to push to his feet. The attack had been sudden but not entirely unexpected. Their attackers had merely bided their time, knowing there was no way out of the ravine but to go forward or back, and able to control both from the surrounding bluffs. They’d even made a point of sorts by not killing anyone with their first barrage.
But Arne held on to Hans and did not let him rise. “No,” he said. “This is my job, remember. If they ain’t friendly, it’s better me getting a rock to my head than you.”
Arne stood up and stepped out onto the path again, where he took off his hat and waved it. When no one took a shot at him from the surrounding bluffs, he hollered in his native tongue, “What the hell, you damn cowards! Haven’t you ever seen a Kheld before?”
Hans broke out laughing. It was perfect.
A voice from the bluffs hailed across the stream. “You’re the first damn Kheld I ever saw come out of Trongor at the head of their folk! If you’re an honest Son of Alm, give me a name!”
Arne flashed Hans a huge grin. Brigands would not have trailed them all the way from Trongor, nor would they have bothered to ask for a name. He threw out his chest and shouted back at the cliff. “My name is Arne! Arne Thegn Anseldson! I was captured in Neuberland, but now I’m back!”
“Like hell!”
“The Mother’s Truth! My mother is Wyneghan Thegn Aelfricsda of Prydoahn, and I have seven brothers and five sisters”—with pure defiance Arne thrust his hand over his head, finger pointing to the sky—”and I can name them all!”
A long silence answered him. Hans wondered if whoever listened was waiting for Arne to continue. Then there came a different sort of shout. “Go on up the trail until you come out near the first ford. We’ll deal with you there. And don’t try to turn back. We’ll damn kill any who do!”
One by one, with Hans going first only because no one was near enough to hold him back, the rest of the company emerged with their mounts out of hiding and rejoined Arne on the path.
Only Herberth, however, openly grumbled about the reception. “Your countrymen extend a harsh welcome,” he snorted to Arne.
“Yeah, well, they got good reason.” Arne followed Hans’s lead in remounting his horse. “We have to give them a chance to look us over, to make sure for themselves that we mean no harm.”
As the day slipped toward its end, it dissolved into fine drizzle. The swirling water of the river ahead of them took on a heavy, leaden cast as they left the stream behind and the sodden trail broadened into a lowland clearing.
“They aren’t here yet,” Herberth observed as they reined to a halt within paces of the water. Here the Frendel was wide and appeared to be shallow, lined by rushes and river grass, with an area of silt and gravel that marked the Ford. The open flat was unmarred by either foot or hoof.
Hans shifted in the saddle and searched sharply up and down the line of the river, attending every thicket and patch of weeds, every stand of sapling elder. Khelds owned these woods; he’d seen for himself as a child how they walked and lived and breathed the ways of their forest. They would stand among the oaks and one might think the trees had eyes as blue as the jays that chattered in the branches. Even the woodland sounds might be no more than Khelds signaling each other from hill to hill. As Hans heard a clacking birdcall break across the clearing, he looked to Arne, whose gaze met his with the shared knowledge that they were, indeed, being watched. All around them, hidden by the thickets and shadows of the wood, men of Amallar waited, bows drawn and slings ready, watching to see if the strangers would prove to be bad guests or welcome friends.
A short time later, a dozen or so men emerged from the woods around the clearing. They were Khelds, with skin browned by lives spent out of doors, dark haired and dark-bearded beneath their hoods and various head coverings. A few had pushed back those hood to reveal eyes of every shade of blue.
