Steelfated, p.1
Steelfated, page 1
T.A. Spencer
Steelfated
Inheritance of the Skies, Book 1
Copyright © 2022 by T.A. Spencer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
T.A. Spencer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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To my Wonderful Wife, Hollie- whose capacity for support is nearly as infinite as her capacity for love, and mine for her. She is by my side through everything, and often tells me how proud she is that I managed to finish this book, finally,- but won’t read a word of it.
And, to my Parents for providing me with an eclectic eccentric childhood full of “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” that allowed my brain to create and pursue whatever weirdness it decided to brain- albeit cautiously.
“What in the world happened?”
“You left me unsupervised!”
“What- Wait a minute YOU are the supervisor here!”
“Well, who the hell’s idea was that?”
“Um… Mine?”
“So that’s your fault then.”
-A conversation between my boss and myself at my day job -circa the early-mid stages of the Covid -19 Pandemic(Late fall to early winterish of 2020-21) Immediately upon making a rather large mess in a rather spectacular fashion.
It is, perhaps, the most accurate description of my life currently available.
Contents
Preface
Acknowledgement
I. STÀILINN AN DÀN
1. Prologue: Arbregard
2. Dragon On A Spring Wind
3. Wrach-Dealanaich
4. The Long City
5. Another Way To Die
6. Ironlake
7. Battalion Five
8. Mistbourne
9. Life and Death Among the Dead
10. The Pryndakken Heights
11. Ash and Rain
12. Lessons
13. Valerica
14. Stormborn
15. Adjudication
II. TANGLETHREADS
16. Interlude: Arbregard
17. A Knotwork Nightmare
18. The Mistthorn Circle
19. Bandrui
20. The Fey Court
21. A “Feyvor” for a Favor
22. The First of the Seven
23. Behltai’ne
24. Headaches
25. The Pools of Magh Maellagh
26. The Fall of Connacthia
27. A Mother’s Warning
28. The Road to Bhen Rhil
29. Bhen Rhil
30. To Hunt A Huntress
31. Feronia
III. THE BOND
32. Interlude: Arbregard
33. Knots
34. The Muster
35. Tribulation
36. The Crucible
37. Secrets and Darkness
38. Absolution and Ascendancy
39. A Night of Solace and Introspection
40. The Foundations of Yesterday
41. The Mysteries of Today
42. The Problems of Tomorrow
43. Return to the Highlands
44. Epilogue: Arbregard
About the Author
Preface
This work is… well, honestly the first drafts of this work are old enough to vote- or enlist in the military, which is saying something, since I myself managed to finish it at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. In fact, the very first portion of it, and a single thread of it that I have managed keep however obliquely through all of its various drafts won first place in a local 4-H writing contest when I was in the fourth grade. Admittedly, that particular thread doesn’t actually show up until the very last chapter, but dammit, it IS there and I never let go of the roots that began this… verbose monstrosity of an adventure called writing.
This work has been scrapped, set on fire, shredded, stapled, stabbed, and killed off more times than a character in the prologue of an A Song of Ice and Fire novel and a cast member from a soap opera combined. It has faced death with the disturbing regularity that the members of the Steelfated that you will meet as you(hopefully) turn the pages of this book do. Part of that is just the simple maturation of myself as both a person and an author(you know- since I first started working with the most basic forms of these characters as a ten year old.) And while I make no claims on being mature, boring, or any variation of the word normal, I have experienced a great deal of growing up since I was ten. Which, again- kind of happens to a somewhat large portion of the human race.
Other parts of the work have been extremely heavily influenced by authors who I have come to enjoy greatly over the years, and to whom I owe my continuing love of fantasy- if you have the same taste in novels as I do- great! You seem like fun people! Maybe you’ll see the references! They are supposed to be somewhat blatant and shameless, then twisted into my own creative interpretation of a celtic knotwork pretzel. If you don’t see them, well then, I humbly ask you lie for the sake of my pride and tell me that you were unobservant, rather than to think that happened because I’m still a rookie at this and didn’t make the references as blatantly as I intended to.
These references and inspirations include but aren’t limited to, J.R.R. Tolkien( I know EVERYONE is inspired by Tolkien, but sometimes there is a REASON for that), Robert Jordan, Brandon Sanderson, George R. R. Martin, Douglas Adams, Kevin Hearne, Neil Gaiman, Lindsay Buroker, R. A. Salvatore, Terry Brooks, Terry Goodkind, and most recently( as painful as it is for me to admit this because I definitely waited far too late in life to start reading his work) Terry Pratchett.
Also, while I admit to everyone that in this particular novel it might be difficult to see since it IS not much more than a blueprint for later on in the series, I’d like to ask anyone who has anything resembling an interest in mythologies and religions around the world, to try to put their best guess out as to what my overall master plan with this series of books is! Assuming the book sells well(Big assumption I know, and we all know what assuming does) I will send a signed first edition and a large pizza(or some variation of a pizza up to 5 toppings[Ordering a supreme would be fine as well]) to the first person who manages to guess at it close enough to satisfy my pride. I won’t give away the specifics, or the spoilers. Sadly, that deal is not going to apply to a very select few individuals who I’ve told it too blatantly- which includes a small but disproportionately helpful group of beta readers, my mother, my wife, and maybe my cousin Francis, who is something in between a final beta reader and the first ARC reader. So sorry in advance to you lot, (particularly Francis if I didn’t tell you and just denied you a free pizza.)
Acknowledgement
Thank you to all of the authors whose work I’ve read, referenced, and drawn inspiration from throughout my life, this story would not exist without them. Thanks of course to my loving wife Hollie and my family for their unwavering support in this venture(Despite Hollie’s refusal to read it, finished or not). Thanks to the fellow authors and administrators of the Fantasy Writers Critique & Support Group on Facebook, but particularly Christiana Matthews(Check out her Heirs of Samandahl series), Madeline Miles, Kari Robinson, & Zara J Black(Ruled By Magic Series).
Also, last but not least- Thank you to Kevin Hearne, who I have never personally met, for taking the time to answer a random Facebook message from a mildly disgruntled fan of Atticus O’Sullivan (and more importantly Oberon the Irish Wolf-hound) immediately after the release of Scourged. As an author who was struggling with his own work at the time( that hasn’t gone away) the fact that you took the time to answer me and wish me luck with my book was greatly inspiring. So much so that I somewhat shamelessly stole your ideas on druids getting their power through the earth from tattoos, ( I completely changed the mechanics of how that worked to make myself feel better about the theft, and so as not to ACTUALLY commit plagiarism). Which in turn led to a MAJOR renovation of my magic system, that I thought was going to be SUPER SIMPLE, but it turned into four years of work, and to my main character being a druid instead of a mage. (But honestly- who isn’t in awe and a little scared of tattooed Irish chicks who drink beer and kick ass? It’s an inspiring thought.) I did completely shamelessly steal a line concerning a very particular vowel change, and used it in much the same context. So, in honor of that and the perhaps unintentional help you gave me, Kevin - may your beer always be cold and stout, may your whiskey be smooth, may your druids always find some druidic shenanigans to take a part in, may all Irish wolfhounds find gravy, and may Harmony find you.
Marathe Itanea.
T.A. Spencer
I
Stàilinn an Dàn
1
Prologue: Arbregard
(9th Storms Fall 690 3rd Era, by the Reckoning of Reysh’ar’ak, the Monitor of Times passing in Talys Rae)
Caitriona Mallory leaned back against the large oak tree in her parents’ yard, listening to the raucous laughter of Ed and Don, her brothers, below her . The twins were three years younger than she was, and prone to playing childish games all the time. Caitriona, at eleven years old, felt that she was much more mature than they would likely ever be. She worked diligently at a stick with her belt knife, a gift from her father for her sixth birthday. The blade was sharp and well made, though plain. The blacksmith in Arbregard, Master Tristan, did fine work, though it was not as pretty as some work that she had seen when her mother and father had taken her all the way to Ciuransae last summer. Ciuransae was a proper city though, and over fifteen thousand people lived there, and it had specialized smiths, actual shops, and real inns. Not that there was anything wrong with Arbregard. It was just small. With only a single mill, a single baker, two carpenters, a thatcher, one weaver, and the lone Inn, The Marisol, which was run by Master Tristan’s wife, Rosa. The rest of Arbregard were either farmers, or woodsmen. Her father told her once that Arbregard was so far into the hinterlands of Fairis that no one had seen a tax collector or guard patrol in more than a hundred years. He was joking, of course, but she had only seen one tax collector she could remember, and had only ever seen guard patrols when they’d gone to other places.
Caitriona wasn’t trying to do anything in particular with her whittling, rather she was just passing the time waiting for either her father to return from the forest with her elder brother, Haldyn, or one of her friends to be free from chores for the afternoon.
The twins crashed through a pile of leaves, shouting for all they were worth. A moment later, Don raced by her at a flat out sprint. He grabbed the stick she was whittling as he passed. His momentum ripped the stick from her hands, and as soon as he was able, he began whacking Ed with it.
She sighed. Then, carefully wiping the blade on the sleeve of her dress before sheathing it, she rose and walked into town.
Familiar faces and friendly waves greeted her as she walked, idly wondering what the winter was going to bring. She trailed her hands through the tall stalks of wheat that poked through the split-rail fence alongside the Ruiz farm, hearing the farmer bark orders at his hands as they threshed the last of the year’s wheat to haul to the mill. She stopped to see if Nina was home, but got no answer, so she moved on with no destination in mind.
A group of village boys a couple of years older ran by with armfuls of apples. The leader, a boy named Miguel, stopped, took a large bite out of one of them, and then handed the rest to one of his cronies.
“What’s wrong? Did you see a spooky ghost?” He teased, then he took a step back and mocking fear crossed his face. “Or are you sick? Stay away from me if you are catching, plague-bearer.” Cait arched an eyebrow and looked at him flatly.
“Sorry, not sick. And sadly, I don’t think wits are catchy, so you have nothing to worry about from me.” she said flatly. Miguel paused for a second, taking another bite of his apple, chewing it while his brain worked to interpret her words. Then his eyes sharpened, and he puffed out his chest.
“Are you calling me stupid, you highland brat?” Caitriona arched one eyebrow and shifted her feet slightly. Despite being two years younger than Miguel, she had about a half an inch of height on him, though he was broad and stocky where she was wiry.
“I’m sorry, did wits have too many letters in it for you to understand, or was it ‘so’ that you struggled with? I know there were some other words with over four letters thrown in there, but I tried to speak on your level.” She said levelly. Miguel’s lip curled, and his fists clenched.
“Why you b-” She glanced over his shoulder and saw Hugo Alvarez, the farmer whose orchards the boys had raided for the apples striding up the road behind them with a half dozen of his farm hands, looking rather irate, and cut him off. More disturbingly, Hugo’s wife Maria was with him, hefting a rolling pin like it was a switch. Caitriona glanced over and realized that one of the older boys was holding a pie. One stuffed with apples, no doubt.
“You already called me a brat, and repeating insults is not at all professional. You’d know that if you’d ever seen a highland flyting.” She said idly checking her fingernails.. “It’s much beloved pastime in fact.” She neglected to tell him she’d never been to one, though her parents had made the mistake of telling the twins about the custom about a year before.
“I would not say brat. I was going to say b-”
“Miguel! I should have known you and your thieving band of ruffians were behind it!” Hugo barked suddenly. The boys whirled, including the one with the pie, which made Maria’s eyes widen and her face flush.
“Scatter!” Miguel shouted, and the group parted like a handful of small rocks when thrown.
Caitriona stuck out a foot and tripped Miguel as he tried to dart past her. She caught him as he was leaning forward to gain speed rapidly, and he went down like a tree in a windstorm.
He hit the ground with a thud, and before he regained his feet or his breath, Maria had a hold of his left ear and started dragging him down the road, speaking in a furious rush of words.
Caitriona forgot all about the rather dismal turn the previous hour had taken.
She entered the town square a few moments later and wandered around aimlessly for a time, lost in her musings.
A cacophony of cursing from her left caught her attention a few moments later. She looked up and chuckled as curses continued. Punctuated with several ringing clangs and a loud hiss, the blacksmith three doors down emerged from the shade of his shop, holding a steaming piece of metal in his tongs and looking at it with obvious disdain on his face. When the cursing abated, and the smith stepped back with a sigh, he noticed and gave her a friendly wave and a warm smile as he wiped soot from his face with his other hand.
“Heyo, lass. Waiting for one of my lads, are you? They ought to be done with their chores for the day, so long as they behaved, that is.” He gave her a knowing look that told her the boys probably hadn’t been behaving well.
“Hello, Master Tristan. I guess if they are free, but I wasn’t particularly waiting on them. I was just wandering around trying to avoid the sticks my brothers were beating each other with when last I saw them.” she said with a shrug. Tristan’s smile took on a mischievous edge and Caitriona could help but laugh. While he was working, Tristan was prone to random fits of cursing and rage unlike anything that she had ever seen. Her mother had told her once that he cursed the steel he worked in a such a way as to impress the dead, whatever that meant. However, she had frequently walked up to the side of the forge when he was taking a deep breath to continue one of his tirades, and spoken to him. Except for an initially irritated “what” if he wasn’t expecting someone to be there, he had always spoken to everyone, herself included, with incredible patience and calm, no matter that he’d just been cursing the steel, the coal, the mines they both came from, and generously commanding that the knockers and flame sprites do lewd things with the clinker producing stone they called coal.
She thought about that for a moment, then amended the thought. He was patient and calm and kind without fail, as long as he wasn’t hungry. If he was hungry, he was crankier than a bear woken early from hibernation with a sore tooth.
Fortunately, it was a rare thing for him to be hungry. His wife, Mistress Rosa, operated the lone inn Arbregard provided, and was a phenomenal cook. Her soups and stews were famous for a five days’ ride around, and she kept a variety of foods at the Marisol to sell. Everyone in Arbregarde ate her cooking at least once a week, bartering for it with whatever they had at hand, since there was little in the way of hard coin here in Arbregard.
A shout came from the yard and Caitriona turned to look.
Master Tristan’s younger son, Sawney, exploded through the gate and into the yard, breathless, and splattered with mud. He was of an age with the twins, and very close friends with them. Spencer, his older brother, was a year younger than Caitriona, but he was rather bookish and quiet. She and Spencer got along well, but Sawney could be… tiring.
“Father! Father! You’ll never guess who just came into the inn!” his words tumbled out with about the rapidity and rhythm of a pair of horses galloping down a cobblestone street..
