The Sword to Unite Read online

  THE SWORD

  TO UNITE

  Peter J. Hopkins

  Copyright © 2017 Peter Hopkins

  Published 2017 Digital Fiction Publishing Corp.

  All rights reserved. 2nd Edition

  ISBN-13 (paperback): 978-1-988863-44-3

  ISBN-13 (e-book): 978-1-988863-45-0

  DEDICATION

  For Kenny.

  Contents

  Contents

  Act I The Lord of Orford

  Chapter 1 The Dawn at Orford

  Chapter 2 The Guardian of the Woods

  Chapter 3 The Festival and the Bird

  Chapter 4 Alfnod and Edward’s Adventures

  Chapter 5 The Burning

  Chapter 6 Charred Ash

  Chapter 7 The Lighthouse of Evrand

  Chapter 8 Arazor

  Chapter 9 The Road to Wulfstan

  Chapter 10 Wulfstan and the Ram

  Chapter 11 The Secrets of the Palace

  Chapter 12 Wizards and Their Towers

  Chapter 13 The List

  Chapter 14 Blood in the Water

  Act II The Questing through Midland

  Chapter 15 The Departure into Midland

  Chapter 16 A Company of Dweor

  Chapter 17 The Wedding at House Moricar

  Chapter 18 The Rider

  Chapter 19 The Ithon

  Chapter 20 The Guidemaster Pike

  Chapter 21 The King of the Forest

  Chapter 22 Reavers and Knights

  Chapter 23 Loden the Wanderer

  Chapter 24 The Dogs of War

  Chapter 25 In the Lair of the Basilisk

  Chapter 26 The Siege of Prav

  Chapter 27 The Child of Lenich

  Chapter 28 At the Sundering Hills

  Act III The War for Spring

  Chapter 29 The Final Dream

  Chapter 30 Castle Green Rock

  Chapter 31 The Second Stone

  Chapter 32 The Rain at Broken Fang

  Chapter 33 The Battle of Broken Fang

  Chapter 34 The Horns of the Ithon

  Chapter 35 The Waking Spring

  A Collection of Tales and Ages from the Lands of Yennen and other Continents

  The Age of Glory

  The Age of Erastrius

  The Age of New Kings

  The Age of the Lion

  The Age of Many Kings

  The Warriors of Trundor

  The Lands Where None Dare to Sail

  Thank You!

  Also from Digital Fiction

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Act I

  The Lord of Orford

  Chapter 1

  The Dawn at Orford

  The sun began its journey across the sky, overlooking the small village of Orford, its burning brilliance shown bright as a radiant herald of the new day. Its light danced across the lush alder trees of the nearby forest, the lake glimmered as if it had been transmuted into gold, and the chirps of the songbirds appeared amplified by the star’s warmth. The villagers rested peacefully, the warm wind blowing through their open windows, with only a handful of farmhands tilling the fields and pitching tents. There was nothing architecturally significant save the remainders of an ancient elven statue resting on the edge of the village towards the road. Its visage and inscription had long since been ebbed away from weather and time, with only its sentinel watch over the village remaining.

  At the basin of this guardian, the other protector of the village rested. Cedric, the lord of the village, sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, at his hip, his father’s blade rested at his side, Bayeux, it had seen many wars, but none with its current master. At his side, the metal holder for a candle, the wax had now melted down to a puddle. Many glass bottles were sprinkled across the grass, their contents, consumed in the night.

  Cedric sat on a restless watch, staring at the road ahead of him, unsure of what lay beyond it. As the sun continued its great race across the sky, Cedric spotted a cart coming out of the forest. At the driver’s seat was Eadwine, the wood elf. His face pointed and sharp, just like his ears, steadily he guided the mule along the road, humming a tune of his kin.

  As Eadwine approached the village he spotted Cedric, calling to him he said, “Defending the village from foul bands of rabbits and birds Cedric? I’m sure they’ll be a formidable villain.”

  Eadwine paused before answering, “Well…in a way, you see I was continuing my usual path through the woods, leaving my cart on the edge of the road. It was an ordinary night, I set my snares and waited for some buck or doe to cross my path…and that’s when I saw the Guardian.”

  Cedric sat unconvinced, and his eyes were filled with doubt, “Really?”

  Eadwine quickly responded, somewhat in disbelief his friend would question him, “Yes! I was crossing a small brook when I saw a trail of blood, deer blood. I thought it would be injured, so I followed until I realized there was more than blood on the trail, a bit of liver rested on a rock. When I looked up, I saw it through the bushes, its eyes were just staring at me, and it was as if they were glowing from the light of the moon. I ran as fast as my feet could carry me, and made sure to avoid that brook for the rest of the night.”

  Cedric listened patiently, and he leaned in, deeply engrossed in the story, “Well I suppose it is possible, at least it was occupied with a deer. Come on, let’s head back to the village together.”

  The pair rode the cart the rest of the distance to the village, which had now fully awoken. The sounds of the craftsmen and shop owners overtook the streets, in a chaotic but rhythmic fashion. The smell of fresh baked goods filled the air with sweet delight. All in preparation for the festival of Marsancius, marking the first day of the summer season. Marsancius had saved the city of Wulfstan, many years ago during the great Summerspot plague which gripped the city. The alchemist had long studied the effects of the disease when he discovered a strain of the toxin practically harmless that caused immunity from the illness in its entirety. Now the cruel memories of summerspot remain in the back of the commoners’ minds, and the festival serves both to honor the alchemist, and to signify the happy days of summer to come.

  The village was composed of narrow streets, lined with wattle and daub houses, each thatched roof bellowing the smoke of cozy fireplaces. The doorways of many homes had gold paint designs of flowers and family inscriptions. The true pride of the village was the townhouses abundance of glass windows, the envy of every village and hamlet near and far.

  Along the outer railing of some of the more affluent houses, banners of brilliant pattern and color were proudly waved, each a tapestry of history for the families. Cedric had long since placed his own banner inside his home, now destined to grow dust and spider webs. Cedric’s family, the house Thorne, on their tapestry a weaving of legend dating back to his great-grandfather, Edric the Marksman. At the top of the fabric, a depiction of Edric’s battle with the great cyclops Rolf, the only of his kind to possess cunning in his skills. In the weaving, Edric is shown slaying the beast with a single arrow to the eye, while at the same time rescuing a daughter of the king of the time, Orfric, who granted Cedric’s family his current estate as a reward.

  Cedric and Eadwine passed by the brewery, where the brewmaster, Hamund, was perfecting his art as an alchemist is to transmuting grain into gold. The honeyed mead wafted through the air as if it were a thick rolling fog. It was his special reserve, only made for the summer festival, leaving all who drink it dissatisfied by all other alcohols. “Sirs, if you would indulge me, would you like the first test?” Hamund cried out to two. Like eager children awaiting sweets, the two hopped off the cart and rushed into the small stone brewery with lightning
speed. Grabbing the two flagons, they drank the heartiest mead ever conceived, its contents more akin to molasses than alcohol. They drank until the cups were emptied in their entirety, leaving not a single drop unsipped. Hamund all the while stood smiling over a large vat, adding in spices and other ingredients. Originally hailing from the north, all the way to Canterbrick, he had brought his trade south when the cold began to bite worse than his aging bones could take and now lived as a beloved member of Orford. Eadwine leaped over the counter of the store, leaving gold in exchange for another bottle, “for the road,” the elf explained, and the two left giving Hamund their most sincere gratitude.

  When the pair arrived at Eadwine’s cabin the two parted ways, “Eadwine, don’t forget about the tavern after the festival begins, Alfnod might even be able to make it.” Eadwine responded, “Humph, I would not doubt he’ll arrive late, trying to convince some poet to write down his epic tales.” Cedric wandered the streets, remembering his old friends, thinking of all the stories they would have to tell of the world outside the Kingdom of Lorine, what wonders were just waiting to be discovered in the distant snowy peaks of Belfas, or perhaps the ancient land of Essaroth. These tales were sure to impress the youth of the village, probably would give them the thought to go out on some heroic journey rather than till the land. But Cedric recalled his thoughts to the tales of the merchants passing through the village, and what strange occurrences had overtaken the outside world.

  The village had only a handful of regular outside traders, often bringing in common goods from Wulfstan, the capital of Lorine. Cedric remembered the time the village had a merchant all the way from the Tanaric Kingdom, the spice capital of the world, who told tales of such distant and strange wonders that the whole village was abuzz. Now it seemed, trade had all but diminished, with the few remaining merchants now only bringing word of bandits overtaking roads once thought safe. On more than one occasion, tales were exchanged in the inn by terrified traders from up north, of a man in a golden mask, preying on the strong and weak who stray too far from the road. Cedric did not know whether to believe in these stories, which were relayed like the tales of ancient monsters meant to scare children. All Cedric knew was that if every road in the north were overtaken by the demon lord Baphomant himself, Orford would be unaffected.

  It was truly a gray age of time, where all Yennen appeared slowed and saddened, though never to the brink of collapse, merely teetering on edge. Yennen, the largest of the continents of the world, where icy tundra, rolling fields, and expansive sand all laid together. The ages of great kings seemed so distant, now told as myth more than history. Lorine was a little version of Yennen, stalled, awaiting a burst of new life to break it from its cumbersome and rusted chains. Northmen had long awaited this revival, since the time of their first real king, Adalgott, who some say ruled for one hundred full years.

  Undoubtedly, Alfnod would share some news of the rest of the continent, Cedric thought. He would bring tales of bravery and adventure, of life beyond the smallness of Orford and Lorine. Cedric arrived at the end of the marketplace and now headed up a small hill, towards his lordly manor.

  Along this hill, a massive man rested on a stool outside a humble cottage nestled like a bird’s nest by the trees. His hair was very short and black on the sides of his head, a militaristic style, and it had begun to grey. His name was Beorn, the village lumberjack. He sat with a pipe in hand, resting next to a pile of freshly cut wood for the festival that would require much fuel for light. The top of his head was cleanly shaven, which shined from the light of the morning sun, and his beard was long and black, with many knots which stretched to his abdomen. He waved at his lord but did not speak.

  “Good morning Beorn!” Cedric shouted out to Beorn’s dismay, as the brute of a man leaped from his seat and shushed at his lord. “Hilde and the lad are still asleep inside. I am sorry I should have said something.” Beorn spoke in a quick tongue, with much worry behind every word.

  “No apologies Beorn, I was at fault.” The lumberjack offered his lord his spare pipe, and the two sat on the grassy knoll overlooking the village. Beorn had built many of the wooden homes that dotted the outskirts of the town, including Eadwine’s. He was shrewish in nature, refusing any payment in coin, preferring the offerings of baked goods and hunted meats that villagers offered on his doorstep. “Shall we see you at the festival Beorn? I know the little ones would enjoy it, see the man with the strength to lift ten of them at once?” Cedric joked as the pair overlooked the peasants who were hard at work setting up tents and tables.

  “I don’t know, I might stay at home, but I’ll encourage Hilde and the lad to go,” Beorn murmured.

  Cedric made a humorously sad face and prodded at the shy giant. “Oh, you’re not fun at all, half those people down there owe the roof over their head to you, and you’re too stubborn to say hello.”

  Beorn shrugged and looked back towards his cabin, his family still resting unstirred. “I live my life satisfied and happy, and I prefer to keep it that was Cedric. I’ll tell you what my lord, I will try to my fullest to make it.”

  Cedric hopped up and spoke, “I’m sure it will be absolute torture Beorn, interacting with the rest of the village.” Cedric walked away moaning like a tortured prisoner of war, as Beorn sat quietly, almost unaffected save a slight redness in his face as he returned to his pipe.

  At last Cedric reached the top of the hill, from where one could gaze at the whole of the noble’s land. The house was of the same material as the village, mixed in with a stone foundation, imported from nearby quarries in Lahyrst. Adoring either side of the walls were majestic stained-glass windows, upon which many great legends were presented. There was a stark contrast with the rustic beauty of the outside to that of the interior. As Cedric swung open the door, the incoming sunlight danced off storms of dust swept up from the rush of fresh air. Bottles clanged and rolled along the floor. The whole house was dark, not a single candle was lit, nor was there a servant in sight, Cedric dismissed them back to the fields long ago. Cedric dropped his sword and sheath on the entryway table, lit a lantern, and retreated to the cellar.

  Many fine Elven wines had been collected by his grandfather, Derwyn, The Elf Friend, in his adventures through the Golden Court and Geladhithil, where the wine appears as common as water. Another staple of Cedric’s cellar was the Dweoran ales and ornate mugs his father, Albert, received for his service in the War of the Green Mountains, where he and his companions defended a hamlet of Dweoran shepherds from constant raids.

  The Dweoran were a stout, bearded, and fickle folk, dwelling in caves and mountains, keeping to themselves in most matters. They acted as master craftsmen and shrewd traders to the outside world, bringing trinkets and baubles valued like precious stones. These raiders came from the far south, where grass fields turned and dried to never-ending seas of sand, and where the men ride horses with strangely humped backs. The Dweor were too poor to pay in gold, so they gave their ale and stone carved mugs as a sentimental compensation. Now it appeared Cedric was left to drink away his ancestors’ legacies. The noble son could not help to think this as he shut the cellar door, with two bottles of aged Sironde brandy under his arm.

  There came a knocking at the door, its tone familiar to Cedric. The young lord opened the door, revealing a round-faced youth, with eyes bright with eagerness. His figure too, was plump in nature, though in no way fat. His hair was wispy and golden as the rays of the sun. It was Galdwin, the squire in training, and Cedric had forgotten his lessons were due for this hour. The boy, not yet old enough to grow a beard, bowed with admiration at his lord.

  “My lord, apologies I forgot our lessons for today.” He spoke in a nervous voice.

  Cedric waved off Galdwin’s attempts to apologize. “No trouble at all Galdwin,” he said as he downed more of the wine in his bottle. “Come, to the field then.”

  In the back of the manor, a basic training ground had been set up, complete with hay men and archery targets in s
hapes ranging from bears to the size of a hummingbird. Cedric took his place on a pile of hay, where he sat and drank while Galdwin sharpened his blade on a whetstone.

  “What did we leave off on last time Galdwin?” Cedric said as he rubbed his temple.

  “Footwork sir,” Galdwin responded eagerly.

  “Right…well have at the hay man, let me see your form,” the lord said as he motioned to the target with a wooden bucket for a helmet.

  Galdwin approached and took his position in front of the practice target. He had good foot form for one so early in practice. It was when he swung that his inexperience showed itself. He hacked at the haystack with violent two-handed swings, throwing his feet off balance and exhausting himself.

  “No!” Cedric suddenly burst out, causing Galdwin to jump a foot in the air. Cedric calmed himself and took a gentle and wise tone. “We do not slash and carve at our foes like some piece of pork on a dinner table.”

  Galdwin interrupted, with a somewhat harsh tone. “But he’ll be dead in one swing that way, why not get it done with before he can take a strike at me?”

  Cedric got up from his seat of hay and approached Galdwin. When he came to meet his squire’s side he spoke, “Well if it’s so easy for you to cut down a sack of hay, why not try on me?”

  Galdwin was confused by this. “My lord?”

  “Come on.” Cedric motioned his hands to himself. “Take a swing at me.”

  Galdwin tried to laugh off the command, producing an awkward smile. “My lord I can’t.”

  “What, had too many of the old lady’s sweet cakes today? I swear Galdwin you look more like a circle every day…” Galdwin’s face turned red hot, and in a fit of rage, he lifted his practice sword above his head and swung down at his lord.

  Cedric effortlessly stepped to the side, his feet gliding with the speed of a bird in flight. Cedric did not even look at Galdwin as the squire took his next swing, and again Cedric dodged the blade with ease. Cedric saw that Galdwin was no longer focused on his footing, and kicked the squire’s feet out from under him. Cedric drew his blade and placed it at Galdwin’s neck, as he lay there in a mess on the ground, with his hands at his head in surrender and the look of panic in his eyes.