Prophecy of swords, p.1
Prophecy of Swords, page 1
Prophecy of Swords
M. H. Bonham
Published by Margaret H. Bonham/Sky Warrior Books at Smashwords
© 2005 by Margaret H. Bonham
Print book published by Yard Dog Press, 710 W. Redbud Lane, Alma, AR 72921-7247
www.yarddogpress.com.
Other Books By M. H. Bonham:
Runestone of Teiwas (Yard Dog Press)
Serpent Singer and Other Stories (Yard Dog Press)
Lachlei (Dragon Moon Press www.dragonmoonpress.com)
Howling Dead (Dragon Moon Press)
The King’s Champion (WolfSinger Publications www.wolfsingerpubs.com)
WolfSongs I (WolfSinger Publications)
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this books and did notpurchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
To Larry, who’s been through it all more than once. To my parents, Al and Betty, who really wanted to see my first novel. And in memory of Snopeak Kiana of Sky Warrior, best friend and my own personal Ni’yah.
Acknowledgements
My thanks goes out to:
Larry Bonham, husband, sounding board, and editor.
Al Holowinski, who encouraged me to write the story again.
Dusty Rainbolt, who encouraged me to send it in.
Selina Rosen, Publisher, and Lynn Stranathan, editor, who gave it a chance.
Chapter One
Allarun awoke with a start. The cold air from the keep's sole window prickled his sweat-drenched skin. He sat upright for a while, watching the moon's light play among the clouds. The nightmares had come again. It could not be a coincidence.
He drew himself out of bed and slid into the silken clothing. Cold finery, he reflected thoughtfully. How different it was now from those days on the battlefield. He had never been haunted by nightmares then – the world had been remarkably real. Life and death. Living and dead. Friendship and betrayal…
He almost flinched, but caught himself. It was a long time ago, he told himself. Lachlan was gone – his ashes scattered and long buried beneath the Darkling Plain. The Eleionwere but a scattered race among the Ansgar. There would be no more war.
Then, why do you dream?
Why indeed? Allarun strode to the window and gazed out into the night. He leaned against the stone; strong, slender fingers gripped the railing. He was tall, even by Eleionstandards. Slender to the point of bony – the years had not been kind. At one time, he might have been considered handsome, but now he was wan and withdrawn. The dark mane, once full and flowing, was now lackluster and brittle. His face was angular and pale, but his eyes were still dark and held a hungry fire within. That fire now searched for something.
In the distance, the storm clouds had gathered. Lightning flashed, lighting up the cloudbanks. The thunder rumbled muted, as though the silence weighed heavily upon it. But Allarun knew the wind. The storm would head this way. It always did.
"This is the third time this week," a soft, female voice said.
Allarun turned. His gaze fell upon a small woman in crimson robes. Cascades of golden curls flowed from beneath the hood as she gazed into his eyes with her own steady green ones. "I did not summon you," he remarked, not bothering to hide the irritation that crept into his voice.
"No, you did not," she said as she closed the door and strode into the room. A delicately painted fingernail traced the crystal ball that sat on the stand near the bed. "My Lord, I am indeed surprised. I would have thought the Sight would not have left you."
Allarun frowned. "It has not, Lila, though I sometime wish it were so." He stared back out at the moon.
"What did you dream?" she asked.
"How did you get past the guards?"
Lila laughed. "You ask a sorceress?"
Allarun's gaze narrowed. "I have grown too complacent," he grumbled. "A few hundred years ago you wouldn't have made it to the Keep."
"Perhaps," she smiled. "Are you going to answer my question?"
"Why should I?"
"Because I may have an answer for you."
"And in return?"
"That remains to be seen."
Allarun frowned. He knew Lila too well. She would bargain when she had the advantage – that was her kind's treachery. The link between him and Areyn Sehduk had grown dim over the centuries. Perhaps she might be able to resolve that which he had lost. Still, the sorceress's help did not come without a price.
"Very well," he said. "I dreamt of the Darkling Plain and of Lachlan again."
"Did he die?" she asked, as her hands traced the reddened wood on the table.
"Yes, yes!" he snapped.
"Then what causes your concern?"
"The curse – it becomes stronger each time in my dreams."
She ran her hands lightly along the crystal ball. "My Lord, you know the death curse is the most powerful of magic. As the son of Rhyn'athel, his powers were not weak…"
"I know! I know!" he said. "But why now? Why after all these centuries?"
"Perhaps because the line of Elsonre still runs true."
Silence engulfed them both. Allarun stared at the moon as it emerged from the dark clouds. "Romarin of the Silver Hand…"
"The Red Wolf."
"He is at Citadel Heights."
"Find him and you find Lachlan. Destroy the Lachlan’s incarnation before he awakens, and the curse is no more."
Allarun nodded.
###
Shadowhelm stared at the gallows as it swung before him in the wind. The wind was strong that day, blowing the cold air from the alpine tundra miles above the city of Citadel Heights. But even the alpine air could not clean the stench of death and decay that filled his nostrils. The gallows had been used many times before – even if Shadowhelm hadn't seen it, he would have known by the feel. He could feel the gasps as the rope dropped, hundreds, maybe thousands of times before.
Although mid-morning, the cold sun had not crested the cliffs on the east. He would die in a foreign city, far from his homeland even before the sun rose. Shadowhelm stared dismally ahead. The gallows towered on a platform twenty feet on the North end of Merchant's Quarter. Below him, the shopkeepers were busy displaying their wares and people were going about their business, either buying or selling. Not far from the gallows was a bakery; the aroma of fresh baked bread was incongruous with the morbid scene. There was always a crowd in the Merchant's Quarter – many were wandering idly around, waiting for the day's executions.
A sharp prod propelled him forward, followed by a harsh laugh. "Can't worm yourself out of this one this time, thief?" the guard said.
Shadowhelm wheeled around, deftly averting the poll-axe as it swung towards him. Although ropes bound his wrists tightly behind his back, he still had use of his feet. "I stole nothing!" he hissed. He was shorter than an Eleionand dressed in rags, but he held his head high. Beneath the dirt and bruises was a mixture of Ansgarand Eleion features and a gaze that commanded power. The guard stepped back for a moment, forgetting the man's wrists were bound.
The guard laughed and spat. "Shara'kai." Half-blood.
Shadowhelm did not flinch. Under the grime and the rags, he still bore the mark of kings – half-blood or not. The red-gold mane marked him from the Royal House of Lochvaur. "Filth!" Shadowhelm snarled. "I stole nothing."
"Then may Areyn judge your soul," the executioner snapped. The big man grasped Shadowhelm's shoulders and spun him around towards the gallows.
Hanged like a common thief,Shadowhelm thought.
He stared at the noose and redoubled his efforts to slide his hands from the ropes. His wrists were slick with sweat and blood, but the ropes were tight. If he could somehow move his fingers to untie the knots…
The pole-arm prodded him forward. He took two steps and the executioner shoved him into place. Shadowhelm almost recoiled as the man fit the noose on his neck.
All at once, the memories of dying men flooded Shadowhelm’s mind. Their last thoughts, hopes, and feelings echoed within his thoughts as though this was some ghoulish final torture. His gaze fell on the trap door. At least it'll be quick and he wouldn't have to hear the dying men's final thoughts.
"Halt!" a female voice rang from somewhere beyond the crowd.
The crowd parted and Shadowhelm watched as a soldier astride a dapple gray rode forward. The stallion's hooves chattered on the cobblestones as the warrior reined the steed.
She was a tall woman wearing chainmail and an open-faced helm with a noseguard. The surcoat she wore over the armor was red and gold with a dragon emblazoned across her chest and back. Shadowhelm recognized the colors and armor immediately. A Chi'lan warrior.
“What are you doing?”
Shadowhelm's gaze met hers. She's Eleion, he thought as he recognized the icy steel color of her eyes. He wondered if perhaps she might be from the Royal House of Lochvaur, herself. He couldn't tell, because her hair had been cut warrior-style and was concealed by her helmet. His wrists, drenched with sweat, had become slippery and he found that he could wriggle his hands enough to work the bonds. He slipped his fingers around the knot, praying for more time.
The executioner squinted. "Just hanging a thief, Commander."
"We're at war, Executioner. Or haven't you heard?"
"Ma'am, I…"
"Didn’t you receive the King's orders? There will be no executions until further orders."
A murmur ran through the crowd. She stared into the Executioner's eyes. He flinched. "Allarun is on the move. We need anyone who can wield a sword. We need shock troops for Citadel Heights."
The executioner grinned at Shadowhelm. "Eltarfodder. I hear they are soul-eaters."
"How would you know? You haven't one," Shadowhelm shot back. At that moment, the knot slipped and his hands pulled free.
The executioner snarled, seeing his charge freed. He tripped the trap door.
"No!" shouted the commander.
But, Shadowhelm had leapt up and grasped the rope before he could fall and snap his neck. He pulled himself upward, clinging to the rope, knowing well that one slip would kill him. All around, the crowd began cheering and yelling. The commander rode forward, trying to reach the platform. "Stand back, all of you!" she warned. The guards held back, not daring to disobey a Chi'lan’s orders.
The executioner was not deterred. He bellowed, drew his sword, and charged at the Shara’kai. Shadowhelm swung and kicked, knocking the executioner in the chest. The man reeled backwards and fell through the trap door. Shadowhelm's hands began slipping. He looked up, trying to gain more purchase on the rope when he saw a flash of a silver si'lardagger. The throwing weapon sliced through the rope cleanly and he plunged downward.
Shadowhelm caught the edge of the trap door, dropped, and then caught a scaffold. He dropped again and grasped another, before dropping to the ground. The crowd backed away as the executioner rushed forward, swinging his sword. Shadowhelm stepped aside as the heavy hand-and-a-half slid past him and used the big man's momentum to fling him to the ground.
Shadowhelm turned and halted. The Chi'lanwarrior’s sword was pointed at his throat. "You don't fight like a common thief," she remarked, eyeing him appraisingly. "Come with me, Shara'kai, we can use fighters such as you."
Chapter Two
"Allarun's army has just passed the Rolling Hills," Falar said. "Scouts estimate twenty thousand total."
Romarin of the Silver Hand, High King of the Eleionshook his head. He rose from the throne and strode to the small window, looking over the lands beyond Citadel Heights. A handsome man, even by Eleionstandards, his silver eyes searched the lands beyond as though he could see something beyond the fields and forests. His red mane was long, a testament to the years that had passed since he had seen battle. He had not worn a helm in over ten years – he would have cut it close in a warrior's cut like the knights wore theirs. It was streaked with silver, betraying his years.
Yet Romarin was far from being old or infirm. The royal finery could not conceal the rippling muscles on the king's six-and-a-half-foot frame. Unlike most Eleion, Romarin was not fine-boned. In the light, he had the look of a snarling wolf that had given him the nickname, "The Red Wolf." He curled the fingers of the silver gauntlet that had replaced his right hand years before. He turned and considered his nobles. Eleion, Ansgar, and even Shara'kai lords and knights stood in two rows in the dimly lit room, smoky from the sconces. At one time, Citadel Heights had been the domain of Eleiononly. But that was even before Romarin's time and ever since he could remember, the Eleionnumbers had dwindled. The Eleionwere no threat to Allarun's sovereignty.
"Why now? Why would Allarun move against us after all these years?" Romarin mused aloud.
"Allarun is a fool if he thinks he can storm Citadel Heights," Falar said. He was young Eleion– one of the few purebloods left. The golden mane, cut back short to fit a helm, and pale gold eyes marked him from the House of Redel.He wore the colors of the Chi’lanwarriors and the king: red and gold with a dragon emblazoned across the surcoat.
"He would only do it if he felt he could win or if there were something at stake," Romarin replied. "Allarun is lord over all the continents, save perhaps the little feudal kingdoms a few of us dare rule."
"Perhaps the freemen have been too large of a thorn in his side," remarked Lord Isen, a Shara'kaiknight whose father had fought for Romarin in earlier wars.
"Perhaps he seeks Lachlan once more."
Both Romarin and the nobles turned in surprise. A figure, shrouded in a black cloak, trimmed in red, entered the chamber.
Falar drew his sword. "Who are you? How did you get here?"
###
"I'm not a thief," Shadowhelm said. "I'm a free-lancer."
Shadowhelm rode beside the Chi'lanwarrior on a red roan. His wrists were bound in front, allowing some movement, but they were tied to the pommel of the saddle. The knight held his horse's reins. She arched an eyebrow in amusement. "A mercenary?"
Shadowhelm nodded and glanced down at his clothes. "I admit, I look a lot less impressive in rags."
"Why were you arrested?"
"The last sentinel gold run – someone filched the chest right from under the sentinel's watch."
"You?"
He shook his head. "But someone was kind enough to slip a few gold coins in my trunk before the guards searched the boarding house." He met her skeptical gaze. "I didn't take it," he said evenly. "I pride myself on honesty."
She stifled a chuckle. "A mercenary with a reputation? My, my…"
His gaze narrowed. "You don't believe me."
"What's your name, Shara'kai?"
"Sceaduhelm– Shadowhelm."
"An odd name," she mused. "That's not Eleion."
"No, it's Northmen," he replied. " I was born in the Northlands not far from the Tundra Steppes."
"Is that where are you from?"
He shrugged. "It has been years since I have seen those frozen lands. I left there shortly after I came of age. My last work was in the Southern Shoals defending Prince Armir's merchant ships from pirates."
"I heard about that. The mercenaries decided to set up a fake merchant ship and when they were boarded, they took the pirates by surprise. Clever."
"Thank you." Shadowhelm paused. "I usually don't disclose this much information about myself, even to a beautiful woman, without first knowing her name."
She laughed at his boldness. "Commander Kalena of the Long Sword."
His eyes widened slightly. "Your reputation precedes you."
She smirked. "Hardly."
"The right hand Chi'lanto the High King?" he said. He considered her. "One of the few remaining Lochvaur…"
Kalena reined her horse. His own horse backed up a few steps. She met his gaze steadily. "And so are you, Shara'kai. What line do you hail from?"
