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Copyright 2012 by Aaron Dennis
New edition released November 13th 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
From time immemorial, those who obtained power were the ones to rule. The remainder fell in line or simply fell. A long war had razed the land of Ilteriel, but the people were strong, the soldiers resilient, and the king, cunning. It was said that King Eidon had secured the favor of the Gods; there was, after all, no other way for him to know the plans of attack employed by the barbarians of the west, the Medsai of the forested regions.
After a two year war, the Medsai were reduced to a mere shadow of their former numbers, and Ilteriel began a diligent rebuilding. The Medsai were thought to be the only threat left on the continent of Roth, and since they were defeated, King Eidon set his sights on more power. Little did he know, other forces were conspiring.
His most trusted wizard, and head of the Council of Five, Lothaam informed his lord that an island had been discovered far to the south, farther than anyone had dared explore. The wizard’s magic bestowed visions of a force worth coveting. Lothaam’s advice was enough for the king to send a handful of men to investigate. New lands meant new resources, perhaps new allies, perhaps new enemies, and the most intriguing possibility, more power.
Warm Winds
The rhythmic sound of low waves crashing onto the sand was a relaxing melody to the ears of Jorunhaal. He was a great and mighty warrior; legends of his triumph over an entire clan of Medsai, though exaggerated, stuck to him like his own shadow. He was young, yet, and taught the various weapons of Ilteriel by the finest warriors who preceded him. King Eidon placed him in charge of the team of eighteen men and women. His sole purpose was to keep the expedition safe.
A few weeks at sea brought the ship of warriors and workers to golden sands. They had arrived on the island as their king had wished. Jorunhaal methodically scanned his surroundings. The broad-shouldered and burly man saw hills in the distance, mountains stood beyond.
“Sotha, unpack the furs and linens first,” Jorunhaal ordered.
Having only just anchored the ship, he knew his fellow party members were weary, and erecting camp was of the utmost importance. Sotha, a lithe woman who bore her age well, was charged with inventory, logging discovery, and sound planning. She was tasked with returning accurate information to Eidon’s hands.
“Aye,” she replied while shielding her eyes from the bright sun.
She wore traditional clothes, heavy linens. Her hair was thick and dark. Her eyes sparkled with a keen intelligence.
A warm wind caressed the backs of the party as they worked to erect tents, unload crates of supplies, and finally relax. During the hours that passed, Jorunhaal took stock of the immediate surroundings. About what I would expect, he thought. Blue waves continued crashing against golden sand. The beach before him was pristine, and the wind, heavy with salt. A few trees grew about. They had tall, straight trunks, light brown in color with a tuft of short, squat, green leaves at their tops.
Before long, night settled above the party. It was clear and many stars shone brightly over the island; prosperity seemed to be in the air. The men and women were glad to be in a new place. As they ate and drank around a large fire they conversed about what they might find, the proper steps to take, and much more.
“You think there are no men, here? No dangers,” Wilheim the mage asked in an accusatory tone.
The codger was balding and what little gray hair remained laid loosely over his shoulders. He had a hard face; years of magical practice left it worn and creased, a perpetual scowl. He continued arguing with another.
“I never said that, old man,” Durro, captain of the soldiers, replied.
The mage stood and spat at the ground before adjusting his brown robes. His long nose gave him the appearance of a wicked hawk. Durro, who sat cross legged, looked at the mage with subtle dismay. He shook his head. The fire before him made the studs of his leather armor glow like embers.
“I’m getting some rest,” Wilheim said. “We should rise early on the morrow. Jorunhaal, our king has placed you in charge, but I am the one who knows the worst kind of danger is the one the eye does not see.”
The barbarian observed him. The old man’s ominous tone concerned him, but he was no fool either. He brushed thick, red braids from his bearded visage. Wilheim was a grumpy old fuddy-duddy. But not necessarily wrong.
“Aye, let us all rest well. Tomorrow we begin a journey into the hills.”
Upon retiring to their fur, pelt, or linen tents, the party drifted off to sleep on solid ground for the first time in over a month. It was not good sleep, the kind they expected after weeks of traveling. Odd dreams gave rise to hidden apprehension.
Beasts Abound
At first light, Jorunhaal set off to wake his men. Six of them were chosen for a trek into the hills overlooking the beach. Wilheim was already awake and gazing at the green mounds in the distance.
“What do you see, old man,” Jorunhaal asked.
The wizard opened his eyes; a magical light receded and his irises returned. “Nothing,” he replied and turned to leave.
“Oi!” Jorunhaal called, “nothing is good.”
It was a question more than a statement. For a brief moment, silence prevailed. The waves were not crashing upon the beach, and the wind was caressing no one. Wilheim stared at the warrior. A tangible energy constantly exuded from the wizard. Most mistook his demeanor for anger. Jorunhaal knew him better. It was the forces of magic. Wilheim’s old body barely contained them.
“I see nothing because what once was has been torn down. You will see when we set foot on those damnable hills.”
The barbarian let him walk away, but remained looking upon the old mage with a raised eyebrow in wonder. After mere moments, the men were gathered with travel packs—enough supplies for a few nights. Among them were Jorunhaal, Wilheim, Pasquale, the herbalist, Sotha, Lokheart, who was a soldier, and Samja, the tracker.
Sotha had planned on making sketches of the scenery or of small creatures they might come across. It was not unusual to log creatures and the environment during an expedition, especially on uncharted lands.
During the journey, the others remained behind in wait. Supposing everything was deemed safe, camp was to be moved further into the island. As their boots crushed the sand, Sotha spoke.
“Once night begins to fall we will erect a camp in the hills and slowly extend our reach. If Pasquale and Samja can find food and supplies, we should be able to sustain our group for months.”
“Aye, there is without a doubt food here,” Pasquale said. “Look at those green hills and beyond them, mountains far, far away. Be it leaf or meat, we will find food.”
He was a short man, but thick. His black hair was always oiled back. Upon his shoulders, a gray, quilt armor kept him lightly protected. Several satchels and pouches were strewn about his body. Pasquale was an authority on medicinal plants and subsequently poisons.
Samja was quiet; her ears on her surroundings and her eyes on the ground before them. She was a very dark woman with black hair. Strange furs adorned her trim figure. They were unlike any of the animals native to Ilteriel. Over her shoulder, she wore her bow, and a small
quiver hung from her belt.
“You will find nothing in those hills,” Wilheim started.
“Enough, you old codger!” Lokheart barked.
He wore the same, studded leathers as the other soldiers. The armor left the joints free to move. His helmet kept his long, blonde hair out of his face. He carried two swords, and his temper was as sharp as his weapons.
“Enough to both of you,” Jorunhaal interjected. “At least explain yourself, Wilheim. You have naught but complained like a child since our arrival.”
As the largest of all the men, Jorunhaal preferred the heft of a massive, double-edged axe, and the freedom of no armor at all. Wilheim raised his eyes to the imposing warrior. The barbarian’s bare chest gleamed in the sunlight.
“My eyes walked upon those hills. The trees have been cut,” he replied with a hint of apprehension.
“What do you mean, the trees were cut?” Lokheart’s tone trembled.
“He means there are…or at least were people here,” Sotha clarified.
Again, quietude fell over the group; silence and bright rays of sunshine. There had never been mention, from either King Eidon or the Council of Five, of former inhabitants. I wonder if he speaks accurately…an expedition might seem an act of war, though Eidon would surely have considered that. Thoughts plagued the warrior.
After some traveling, the sand gave way to