Heart of a Hero

By Kenneth McDonald

Heart of a Hero begins the story of an improbable hero. Forced to become a fugitive by circumstance, Daran’s questionable morals and dubious choices lead him deeper and deeper into trouble. Those choices culminate in him being hanged for murder, but to his surprise, his story doesn’t end there. Fleeing the harsh authority of the Baron, trying to make sense of what’s happening to him, Daran joins a small group of priests who have been sent to investigate odd happenings on the wild northern frontier. Daran must help two young priests, the missionary soldier Arla and the empathic Jaros, with their own quest as he fights both to stay alive and find out just what is happening to him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: Sep 11, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458114211

Kenneth McDonald

I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

Book preview

Heart of a Hero

Book One of Daran’s Journey

Kenneth McDonald

[e-mail]

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Kenneth McDonald

* * * * *

BOOK 1

Chapter 1

Daran looked down at the food on the battered iron plate in front of him. The bread had weevils in it, and the lump of stew was a cold, congealed mess of grease. The meal was less than appetizing, but Daran hadn’t eaten in almost a full day. Still, he put the plate down on the pallet next to him and slid it away. His guts clenched, a twisting pain that had been slowly building in intensity for a few hours now.

Not hungry? Albrizar asked. Aye, facing a hanging in the morning will do that to a man, from what I understand.

Daran looked up at the man in the next cell. Albrizar had already consumed most of his food, and as the younger man watched he used the remnants of his bread to sweep up the trailings of grease left on the plate. Ghastly, but a man needs to keep his strength up, he said.

You don’t seem to be that worried, Daran offered. He shifted, trying in vain to ease the needles of pain that felt like they were stabbing him from the inside.

My neck is not on the line.

You were taken with me. The magistrate said you were an accessory.

I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, the other man replied. He was dark where Daran was fair, possessed of the swarthy features and angular expression of a citizen of the distant Amarian Empire. His beard had been carefully trimmed to a point, giving him a somewhat exotic look. His clothes had obviously once been colorful, but in the current circumstances were somewhat drab and dirty. Albrizar licked his fingers, then tossed the plate down onto the floor near the door to his cell. It rattled loudly, and someone from further down the block hissed something deprecating that the southerner dismissed with a wave of his hand.

What do you think they’ll do to you? Daran asked.

Oh, some sort of indentured service, no doubt. I am certain that my skills will be useful to the Baron. As a practitioner of the arcane arts, I am not like the common sort of ruffian who infests this place.

Yeah, well, I’ve seen your magic, and it doesn’t seem to be very useful. If it could get us out of here, for instance…

You speak of matters that you do not understand, Albrizar said. But as he looked at Daran, he seemed to get some sense of the other man’s distress, for he added, Come now. You need to take your mind off of all this. ‘That which cannot be changed, must be endured.’ Was that Efram, or Zelotothes? I can never remember my ancients. Why don’t we well each other tales to pass the time? I doubt I will be able to sleep tonight, with such poor accommodations. His nose wrinkled as he flicked an insect off of the thin fabric covering his pallet.

I don’t know any tales, Daran said gloomily.

Nonsense! Obviously a country lad like yourself must have an account worth the telling, to end up at the baron’s court with a sentence of death over his head. We did not get much of a chance to speak at the inn, but I believe I shared the tale of my modest origins with you and my fellow gamblers over the cards ere that little… incident. And we did not have time the next morning to get acquainted, before the baron’s men interrupted. I admit, I am curious, that such a humble-looking fellow could get in so much trouble so quickly. Indulge me, and perhaps the night will pass more swiftly for both of us.

Daran looked doubtful, but at that moment a new twinge transfixed him, a wedge of pain so sharp that it drew a gasp from him. Are you quite all right? Albrizar asked.

Yeah, I’m in perfect health, for a man who’s going to have his neck stretched in a few hours, Daran said. But after a moment, he settled back on his pallet, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the hard and cold stone wall behind him. There’s not much to tell, he said. Like you, I guess I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the pain that was radiating out from his belly.

I was a nobody, in a nothing village in the middle of nowhere, he began, keeping his voice low enough so that only Albrizar could hear him. My friends said I was a lucky sort, or as lucky as a kid with no parents and little prospects could be, I guess. Maybe I got out of a few scrapes. But my luck changed big about a month ago, and all for the worse.

Albrizar listened quietly. After a while, Daran started to get caught up in his words, and both that discomfort and the sense of his surroundings started to fade somewhat, as he revisited the pathways of the past in his mind.

* * *

Dragons, dragons, dragons!

Just roll the damned dice already.

Daran grinned and snapped his wrist, catapulting the two white cubes into the circle in front of him. The light filtering in between the cracks in the walls and ceiling of the decrepit old barn were the only illumination, so it took a moment for the four young men to discern the result: six pips showing on one of the dice, and four on the other.

Fortified castle, Sludge said in disgust. The result was not the best possible, but with no dragons showing on any of the pairs in front of the other three players, it was narrowly sufficient for a win.

Damn your blasted luck, Daran, Armon said, although his grin softened the impact of the words. Daran swept up a small handful of oblong brass tokens from the center of the circle. It was a weak pot, the entirety of the coins barely worth an Evrosian copper duccan, but none of the four young men here had the look of folk used to quantities of wealth.

Pass and play, already, Brannik said. He was a tall, lanky youth whose chin was covered with the first hints of what someday might become a beard. The young men each grabbed their dice and passed them to the person on their right. Sludge, the pock-marked youth who’d taken Daran’s dice, lifted them up to a few inches in front of his face, peering at them intently.

You going to eat those dice, Sludge, or play? It’s your wager.

Just makin’ sure we playin’ a fair game, Sludge said.

You calling me a cheater? Daran asked. The poor light made his dark brown hair seemed almost black, but it could not conceal the tattered state of his attire, or the fact that one of his ears was mangled, half of it torn away by some old mishap.

I ain’ callin’ yer nothin’, yer majesty.

Daran’s eyes narrowed at the slur, promising danger. Sludge either didn’t see the message in the other boy’s stare, or didn’t care; he sneered. For a moment there was a taut tension between them, before Brannik intervened. C’mon, let’s play a few more runs. I got a ton of chores need doin’, and my ma will tar my hide if she catches me in here gambling. It’s your wager, Sludge.

Keep yer shirt on, Brannik, Sludge said, tossing a pair of tokens into the dirt circle. The others made their own investments, and tossed their dice as one into the ring.

The initial round was inconclusive; none of them scored high enough to take the pot outright. Play continued into the second round, with each taking turns betting and making an individual toss. This time Brannik won, and Sludge threw the worst combination, known as the Village House in most places, with more colloquial names, mostly involving body secretions or disgusting acts, popping up among the baser communities of players. On seeing his roll—he had to lower his face almost to the dirt to make it out—he let out a curse.

Your damned dice have cursed me, Daran!

Maybe they’re magic, Daran returned. He seemed to regret the words as soon as they were spoken, for the other boys looked suddenly uneasy, and one made a hex to ward off evil.

Of course, if that’s the case, then Brannik here must be a sorcerer, Daran continued, nodding to the pile of tokens in front of the tall youth, considerably bulkier than that before any of the others. Brannik was an apprentice, and had brought more coins to the game than the rest of them combined, but the comment seemed to satisfy the others.

They passed the dice again, and this time Sludge’s luck seemed to have changed. While he didn’t capture the pot outright on the first roll, his Dragon’s Breath combination put him in very good position for the follow-up roll. There were only a few pairs that could beat the Dragon’s Breath, but the wise play was to start with a moderate wager, since the other players could bow out if the stakes were too high, although they would forfeit the first round’s bet.

If he was aware of the orthodox strategy, Sludge didn’t show it. Instead, he shoved a fistful of tokens, nearly his entire stake, into the center of the circle. He looked smugly at Daran, and in fact on closer examination it did appear that there was a method to his action, as the value of his bet was just slightly higher than the size of Daran’s stake.

Match or forfeit, Sludge said. According to the rules of the game, on the opening bet of a round, a player either met the totality of the wager, or had to withdraw.

What do you say, Armon? Brannik said to the fourth youth, a darkly tanned fellow clad in the unadorned tunic of a farm laborer.

Nah, I’m saving up for some new arrowheads from Torvik, Armon replied, sliding back from the circle.

Sludge and Daran didn’t even acknowledge the side conversation; their attention was fixed entirely on each other. Well? Sludge asked.

Daran glanced at Brannik and Armon.

Heh, they’re not likely to offer you a loan, Sludge said. Everyone knows the Arbiter’s got all yer money locked up real tight in that strongbox of his. Guess yer folks shouldn’t a’gone and died while they was in debt.

Daran’s expression darkened like a stormcloud, and a deep growl arose from his throat. Even Sludge sensed it this time, and he paled slightly, perhaps recognizing that he had gone too far. His hand stole behind him, toward a broken axehandle that lay discarded in a heap of old tools a few feet away. He’d been careful to sit next to it when they’d chosen their spaces around the circle that Armon had drawn in the floor with a scrap of chalk.

Hey, guys, c’mon, Brannik began, trying to defuse the situation.

Daran’s hand dipped inside of his open tunic, and each of the others tensed. But it returned with only a small object, which he tossed into the circle.

It was an Evrosian silver dolmen. The coin was a round trade mark, not one of the cheap clipped wedges one occasionally saw in the village. It was stamped with the vague outline of the baron’s head. For the four of them, it was a small fortune.

Sludge squinted at the coin, and his eyes widened when he recognized it. Where did you get that? he squeaked.

None of your damned business, Daran said. It’ll cover your bet, and ten more just like it. It’s your roll.

But despite the increased drama of the game, the other boys were more interested in the source of the coin. It was that Free Company caravan last month, I bet, Armon said. Right, Daran? You were real chummy with that guardsman, I saw you talking with him for an hour in the tavern.

"I bet you earned that mark, Sludge said. Them Free Company guards like soft boys, I hear." His confidence had returned somewhat, since his probing fingers had found the axehandle and he now had it concealed against his leg, the maneuver shielded by the bulk of his body.

But Daran’s expression hadn’t changed. Roll the damned dice.

Chuckling, the boy made the toss. The dragon that might have given him the game outright didn’t show, but the two-five combination was decent, the Knight’s Host. With Sludge’s earlier Dragon’s Breath, Daran had to either toss double dragons, or another combination that totaled 10 pips or more to win. The odds were not in his favor.

Go ahead, roll, Sludge said. He was sweating, either from the stale heat of the barn or the intensity of the confrontation.

Daran took up the dice, and shook them in his hand. He didn’t shift his gaze from Sludge’s as he snapped his wrist and released the pair into the circle.

Sludge’s reaction was predictable; his head lunged forward, his eyes squinting as he tried to see the results of the roll. The movement brought him right into Daran’s hand, as he smacked the other boy solidly across the face. Sludge squealed and tried to recoil, already reaching for the axehandle, but Daran was faster, leaping up and slamming his knee solidly into Sludge’s face. Sludge fell backward, stunned. Daran took advantage to kick the axehandle out of reach, and stood over the other, who was squealing as he clutched at his nose.

You bastard! You bwoke my nose!

The other two youths had risen as well, but they made no move to intervene; both had seen the axehandle. You had it coming, Sludge, Brannik said. And you lost, as well, he added, glancing at the dice that showed the Lord’s Towers, the six pips showing clearly on each cube. I guess the game’s over, he said, bending to recover his jacket from the dusty floor.

I’ll get you for this! Sludge said, but he wisely didn’t make any aggressive moves; he knew at least when he’d lost the field.

At that moment, the heavy outer door of the barn suddenly groaned loudly and swung open, revealing the outlines of two men silhouetted in the bright afternoon sunlight. There he is! one of the men yelled, as both charged into the barn.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

The boys shot away like lightning. Brannik and Armon vanished through the side door of the barn in a flash. Sludge went the other way with just as much alacrity, blood spraying out of his damaged nose as he darted behind one of the stables. The crack in the wall there was well known to all of the boys of the village. It was a tight fit in the best of times, holding Sludge for a few seconds, but desperation gave him added strength and with a crack of old wood he was free and gone.

Daran had hesitated for only a heartbeat, diving for his silver coin, reflexively swooping up a few of brass tokens with it in his fist. The delay cost him only a fraction of a second, but as he sprang for the door after the others, the faster of the two men seized him. He tried to aim a kick for the man’s knee, but Garath was ready for it, and jerked him roughly aside, painfully twisting his arm.

All right, none of that, he growled. Garath stood a full foot taller than Daran, his muscled frame distinctive even under the vest of boiled leather he wore, its metal studs gleaming in the afternoon sunlight that filtered in through the open doors. There was a small sword at his hip, and an old scar running along the left side of his jaw added a further air of menace to his features. He held Daran in a grip like an iron manacle, ignoring the youth’s pained squirming.

The other man, clad in plainer working clothes of old wool, had dropped to the floor, and was scooping up the remaining brass coins left by the fleeing lads. Just leave it, Tobbs, Garath growled.

Money’s money, the other replied, finishing his search, the coins vanishing into his clothes as soon as they were discovered. But when he reached for Brannik’s jacket, dropped by the young apprentice in his haste, the man-at-arms barked another command, yanking his captive along with him as he exited the barn. The farmer came along behind him, rubbing his hands against his dirty leggings.

A few of the villagers stopped to look at the unusual procession as it crossed the commons, but all quickly went back to their labors. Garath led them around the decrepit pilings of Jannsen’s place, the store’s interior dark against the warmth of the day. There was a faint trail heading off the main road behind the leaning structure, which the two men and their captive started down without stopping.

Daran knew where they were going, had known from the moment that Garath and Tobbs had busted up the game. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d done to earn old Sovern’s ire; he hadn’t even been out to the estate in a few months. There were a few outstanding crimes for which he’d never been pinched, however, so he had no doubt that something unpleasant was in the brewing. He considered trying another break, but his arm was already numb from where Garath’s meaty fingers were locked around it, and he could sense that the guardsman was in the sort of mood where the smallest excuse would draw a few cuffs to the head, and maybe worse.

At least he’d recovered his dolmen; the coin lay in a hidden pocket close against his skin, proof against anything but the most determined search. If things at Sovern’s place did get too hot, he could always blow up to Tollerton for a week or two, eating off the silver and sleeping in the woods behind the adjacent hamlet.

The small company passed between two low hills, and along the longest fence in the village, marking off a considerable expanse of tilled fields. Even in the heat of the afternoon there were a dozen men working there, tending to the rows of tomatoes, lettuce, and other plants that were only a few weeks from harvest. Daran remembered hearing that the farmers had been dealing with some new bugs that were threatening some of the plants, and some of them had said that Sovern was even considering sending to Evros for an alchemist who could work up a brew that would repel the pests without harming the plants.

The laborers were even more studious in ignoring them than the villagers had been. Eventually they left the fields behind, and skirted a copse of old growth trees until they could see the estate up ahead, ringed by lush meadows that were all surrounded by fencing.

The place was impressive, especially for someone like Daran, who had never been further than Tollerton in his life. The estate house was a broad two-story structure with a sloping tile roof, flanked on each side by single-story wings that swept out from the main building like outstretched arms. The place always had a clean look about it, especially in contrast to the dingier structures prevalent in the rest of the village. A few animals were visible in the side paddock, looking unhappy in the late afternoon heat. A laborer clad in overalls emerged from around the right side of the building, saw them, and hurried off in the opposite direction.

What’s this about, anyway? Daran asked, his first words since being captured. His only reply was a rough tug on his arm as Garath led them up to the side door, although he thought he heard a faint snicker from Tobbs behind him.

The farmer did not follow them inside. Garath led him—dragged him, really—efficiently through the kitchen, along the edge of a foyer with polished hardwood floors, through a small study, down a narrow hallway, and then up a set of stairs up to the second level of the main wing. At the top of the stairs, Daran tried another escape, hoping that the man-at-arms would not be too violent in his master’s house. But Daran must have felt him tense, for he grabbed onto him with both hands, giving him