Sro 03 axestorm, p.1
SRO-03. Axestorm, page 1
part #3 of Sky Realms Online Series
Contents
Prologue
I. PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
II. PART TWO
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
III. PART THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
IV. PART FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Epilogue
Hall Stats
Hall Inventory
Hall Quest Log
BOOKS OF SKYREALMS ONLINE
About Troy Osgood
LitRPG
Prologue
He took the book off the shelf. It was large, a foot tall and a couple inches wider, a couple inches thick. Bound in thick leather with brass bindings. Gold etched lettering flowed across the front as he examined it.
The History of Hankarth, Volume 3
Jorat of Alberstan
It was covered in a fine layer of dust that he had to blow away, fighting back a cough. Holding the book against the ladder, one arm curled around the upright to hold himself in place, he opened the cover and flipped through the pages. Skimming the text, he nodded and closed the book.
Holding it against his body, he started climbing down the ladder. It was attached to runners set along a rail far above, leaning out at a steep angle. He descended, not looking below, carefully placing his feet and one free hand. His robe kept getting in the way, the ends swishing and getting caught on the rungs. The ladder, made of ironwood uprights and rungs, still flexed under his weight, even with the extra support railing halfway down.
Cursing, he finally felt his feet hit the hardwood plank flooring. He looked up the ladder at the fifty shelves before him. He could see the one empty space on the forty-fifth shelf, so high above. Hundreds, thousands, of books filled the shelves of the spherical room, the iron runners circling along the top and halfway point with two ladders attached. Only the single opening marred the surface of books.
“No wonder I haven’t read this one in a while,” Bastian the Sage said to himself, looking up at the lone spot so high above. “Of course, Jorat was never that good a writer.”
He had only read Jorat’s Histories twenty times. Which was nothing compared to the number of times he had read all the others. The most was in the hundreds now.
Turning away from the stacks, he walked out the opening and into the next room. This one was large, with light wood flooring and dark wood paneling. A large window opened out onto the sky of Hankarth. Clouds drifted by, the sun high, with dark specks of other islands visible. Tapestries hung on either side of the window, another opening leading to the rest of the tower. A large stone hearth was on the far wall. Assorted couches and chairs filled the room, some alone and others in clusters. Different styles and colors. A small bar was set up next to the hearth. Wine bottles, their corks visible, filled a shelf behind it, more bottles and glasses on top.
He walked across the room, choosing a spot at random. All the seats looked worn, well used. Bastian paused as he was about to sit down. He looked down the room at the hearth and a seat.
The seat was occupied.
A man was sitting there, glass of wine in hand, staring into the flames of the hearth.
With a sigh, setting the book down on the chair, Bastian walked down to the hearth. He paused next to the chair, thinking to get his own glass of wine but decided not to. The guest would not be staying long. He took another step and turned to look down at the man.
Dressed in elegant clothes. Well-tailored, the latest style in the lands of the Highborn Confederacy. Clean lines, simple but ostentatious at the same time. Bright colors that seemed to stand out alongside the man’s light gray skin. His head was shaved, the only hair was a braided beard hanging from his chin. Black eyes stared into the flames, not bothering to look up at the Sage.
“Feardagh. I would say that it has been too long, but that is not true,” Bastian said in greeting.
“That is not my name,” the man in the chair said. Fingers tightened around the wineglass. He turned and glared at Bastian, who returned it.
The black eyes smoldered, the man radiating anger even if he did not appear it.
Bastian shrugged.
“It is your name,” he said.
“No,” the gray-skinned man said slowly, powerfully. His voice was deep, the echo of years within it. The words carried a threat. “It is not.”
Bastian just sighed, shaking his head.
“It is since I saved us all by creating this,” Bastian told the man, his arms rising to indicate everything around them.
“We created this,” the man said, still staring. He forced himself to relax and took a sip of wine.
Bastian turned his head and glanced out the door toward the map room across the hall. In that room was the map of the fractured islands of Hankarth, the only complete one in existence, with the black iron nail stuck in the middle piercing map and thick wood table. He returned his gaze back to the Feardagh.
“It was your power that caused it,” Bastian said, his own voice containing threats. “It was my power that used yours to save us.”
The sky outside darkened, and Bastian felt as if the walls, floor, and ceiling were closing in. He could feel the gathering power, the storm that was starting. A great weight started to press in on him, fears nipping at him.
With a wave of his hand, the feelings vanished, the sun returning outside the window. He glared down at the seated man, more annoyed than angry.
“Do not play games with me,” Bastian said. “Why are you here?”
The Feardagh stared hard at Bastian, eyes boring into the man, before his expression changed in an instant. One second, hard and anger, the next, happy and calm.
“Things are progressing,” he said with a smile.
“I know,” Bastian replied and walked toward the bar.
He saw the open bottle sitting on top. A rare vintage, one of only a dozen bottles still in existence, and the Feardagh had just opened it. Picking up the bottle, taking a sniff, Bastian poured himself a glass. He swirled it, seeing the red liquid move and change colors. A deep maroon to a light pink and back. Taking a sip, he enjoyed the flavor. Quite possibly the finest bottle of wine ever produced on the islands.
“Is that why you are here?” Bastian asked. “To tell me something I already know?”
“I just wanted to remind you of the deal,” the Feardagh said, taking the final sip of his wine.
He stood up and crossed over to the bar, coming within a foot of Bastian, staring at the man. They were of equal height, the Feardagh a little more muscular. He reached for the bottle, but Bastian grabbed it and moved it away. The Feardagh chuckled.
He placed the wineglass on the bar, hard, and the glass cracked.
“It has been a long time,” he said and walked away, feeling Bastian’s eyes upon him.
The Sage knew the Feardagh, the demon of deals, was trying to make up for his earlier mistake. Always a showman, the Feardagh had let pride get in the way of his performance. He was working to get that standing back. Why bother? Bastian thought. It wasn’t going to work. He wasn’t one of the common people, swayed by pretty words and cheap theatrics.
He glanced out the doorway again, toward the map and the black iron nail.
No, he hadn’t let words and tricks sway him. He had made his deal knowing the consequences of his actions. But it had been the only way, the only choice.
“How many hundreds of years?” the Feardagh asked, turning back to Bastian. He had stopped walking at the book, looking down at the cover, running his fingers over the text. Bastian did not respond. “So long with no action, but now things are moving quickly.” He turned and looked back at Bastian. “Almost too quickly. The time is coming.”
“Yes,” was all Bastian said, and he cracked a smile seeing annoyance flash across the Feardagh’s face. A small victory, but still a victory, showing that he had the upper hand.
“A final reckoning,” the Feardagh said, sweeping his hands out in a flourish.
Bastian made a quick ‘get on with it’ gesture while taking a drink of wine.
The Feardagh smiled, tilting his head as he studied Bastian.
“Have you been out in the world?” he asked, knowing the answer. “It has changed in the centuries. Adapted to survive. No longer the world we once knew.”
“Of course,” Bastian said. “That was the plan. It was the only way.”
“Things have changed,” the Feardagh continued. “People, cultures, animals, names.” He finished with an emphasis on the last word. “Things are no longer what they were,” he spat, angry now, his mood changing quickly again.
Bastian remained calm, taking another sip of wine. It was very good.
“We survived,” he said with a hard edge to his voice. “That is all that matters.”
Taking a deep breath, the Feardagh visibly calmed. He smoothed out the folds in his jacket, showing long and sharp-looking black fingernails that were neatly manicured.
“Are you nervous?” he finally asked with a sneer.
“Not at all.”
The Feardagh laughed. The sound echoed around the room, bouncing off the hard walls. There was nothing joyful about it. Sharp and harsh, the laugh hurt to hear. Bastian managed to ignore it.
“You should be,” the Feardagh barked, the word sharp. “If you lose, all that you have worked for will be lost.”
There was a minute or two of silence, the two staring at each other. Sage and demon. The Feardagh smiled, arrogant. Bastian was calm, knowing.
“That was the deal,” Bastian said, breaking the silence.
“I have seen your Champions,” the Feardagh said. “You should be very worried.”
“And yours?” Bastian asked. “When will they arrive?”
“Soon enough,” the Feardagh answered. He glanced up at Bastian. “Will they still be your Champions when they learn what you have done? What you did to them?”
Bastian stared at the gray skinned demon, studying him, ignoring the question. The Feardagh was looking at his long, sharp fingernails. He picked at them, acting as if bored. Bastian sighed.
“It saved you as well,” Bastian said slowly, sadly. “You would have been destroyed. We all would have been. Why force the deal?”
He watched the Feardagh’s expression. The demon glared at him sharply, hatefully, but there was a hint of fear. Desperation. Despair and sadness. Regret. Guilt. So much guilt. It flashed across the Feardagh’s face quickly, gone in a blink. But it had been there.
“I am what I am,” the demon answered with a wicked smirk.
The Feardagh picked up the book from the chair, flipping through the pages. He pretended to read a couple. The emotions still fought within the demon. Bastian could see the inner conflict before the demon’s normal nature dominated and its arrogance resurfaced.
“Trash,” he said and threw it on the floor where it landed with a thud, sliding a couple inches across the smooth planks. The Feardagh looked back down at it. “What the histories do not say, none of them ever do, is that in all the deals I have ever made, I always come out on top.”
He laughed again, staring at Bastian in amusement. And then he was gone. No smoke, no clap of thunder, no gesture of spell. The Feardagh just disappeared.
“Not this time,” Bastian said quietly, setting down the glass of wine. “Not this time,” he said again, a note of desperation creeping in.
He walked past the clusters of chairs to where the book lay on the floor. Crouching down, he picked it up, running his fingers across the cover. The Feardagh’s sharp nails had cut the leather, leaving a scar. Bastian sighed and placed it carefully on the chair.
He no longer felt like reading.
Part I
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
The ax swung down at an angle, slamming into the thick trunk of the tree. Splinters of wood pulp flew in all directions as the ax head was pulled back. Another swing and more chunks were removed, a growing pile on the ground. The notch grew bigger and bigger with each swing.
Pulling the ax up, laying it across his shoulders, Hall took a step back. He wiped the sweat off his brow, pushing a few strands of his loose shoulder-length hair away from his face, staring at his handiwork. He had never swung an ax in real life, but this was the third tree he was chopping down in the Greenheight Vale. The large forest was just south of Breakridge Meadow, where his village of Skara Brae was located. Surrounded by the Thunder Growl mountains on all sides but the north, the Vale was at a higher elevation above the meadow.
Old growth, the Vale had stood undisturbed for a long time.
Until Hall and his friends had arrived and started rebuilding the ruined town.
He wasn’t a fan of chopping down the trees, but they needed the wood and they were being selective about what they took. Under the guidance of the Valedale Gnomes and the forest’s Leshy guardian, Smol, Hall only took what they said he could. It was an effective pruning method. Cleaning out dying wood, or trees that were choking the growth of others, but it was a slow process getting the wood they needed.
Duncant, the Bodin carpenter they had gotten from Silverpeak Keep, was outpacing the production of the wood. His need was greater than the supply. But Hall was okay with that. Slow and steady. He had no desire to destroy the forest just to build his village.
Leaning the ax against the tree, he walked a couple steps back and picked up his waterskin. Taking a drink, he dumped some over his head to wash the sweat away. He shook his head, drops spraying everywhere, more dripping down his beard. It wasn’t hot in the Vale, but the sun did beat down and the work was strenuous. The mountains protected the forest from the ever present wind that blew across the meadow. Dropping the skin, he stretched his arms to work out a knot that had started to form in his shoulders from the repeated swinging action.
He wore no shirt, the linen tunic bunched on the ground near the waterskin and his pile of weapons. Green tattoos ran across his chest, skin the color of bark, some bisected by long healed scars. Swirls, runes, and other symbols ran up his arms, across his chest and back, then down his other arm.
Hall glanced up into the sky, seeing the black speck that would be Pike circling above. The dragonhawk spent most of the day hunting in the woods and the mountains. Distant but never truly far away.
Picking up the ax, he set his feet and went to take another swing.
“Halls,” a squeaking but rough bark-like voice said.
He turned and saw Smol, the Leshy of Greenheight Vale. The creature was only about three feet tall with brown skin covered in light fur except for the lower half which was all fur. It had four-toed paws for feet and four long fingers that ended in claws. Green moss-like hair spilled down its head, onto its back, and covered its shoulders. The face was like a bear with a small nose and two small eyes. Small pointed ears poked out from the green hair as well as two small horns from the forehead.
Leshies were forest guardians. Solitary, they protected the woods also serving as gardeners. Not all forests had one. A Leshy’s presence showed how magical a forest was. Hall had yet to find out exactly what it meant that Greenheight Vale had one.
He had first met Smol a couple of days after defeating Vertoyi, the original Custodian of the Grove. The Leshy was being attacked by two corrupted bears, the corruption of the grove starting to seep into Greenheight Vale. They discovered that the corruption had attracted a tribe of Spriggens that had taken over the small village of Gnomes that lived in Greenheight. Hall and his friends had defeated the Spriggens, saving Smol and the Valedale Gnomes. Also making the first allies of Skara Brae.
As thanks, the Gnomes were serving as laborers in the rebuilding of Skara Brae. For which, Hall was eternally thankful. There were thirteen people living, somewhat, in the village now and not all of them would make productive carpenters. The thought of Timmin swinging a hammer brought a smile to Hall’s face.
