Coren

By Morgun Wolf

Ages have passed into time immemorial since the Ancient Ones displaced the Old Magic of the Dragons with their New Magic. But the New Magic fostered enmity between factions, who warred until they were myth and legend - now nearly forgotten. And the New Magic faded. But there was a time to come, a time for healing and renewal. And there were those chosen to protect the relics from generation to generation until the time of prophecy should be fulfilled, until the time of Coren.
It is the story of Ben, the chosen of the descendants of the Aldimahr, as well as the culmination and rediscovery of the fate and stewardship of Finaerhlann of Hailitheone. Ben is destined to return the balance to Talamhsaol almost three thousand years after the land was shaken by the vast destruction caused in the last days of the Aldimahr and King Aeraethel. He must do so by not only finding and claiming the six talismans used in the High King’s final betrayal, but also by harnessing the last of the New Magic which resides within them to seal the rift between the Dream World and this one. In the process his potential is fully realized as he struggles to discover the truth about the importance of healing the rift between Talamhsaol and the Dream World, and his role in the events that unfold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgun Wolf
• Release date: Oct 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983861812

Morgun Wolf

S. Scott Dean self publishes his books. Coren, an epic fantasy co-authored by Morgun Wolf (S Scott Dean) and Heyden Redding (David Dean) first appeared in 2012. Other works of fiction are in the works. In 2023, an autobiography has been published.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

When the Dreaming Fire sleeps

And in the lost Dark Fire abides,

A Fire shall rise to break or keep

The Elder Song the darkness hides.

A Chosen’s blood upon the Bone

Of Elder finds the wood and stone

A rest for those that ever roam

To call the Second Child back home.

CHAPTER ONE

The last strains of orange light melted into twilight on the undulating savannah. At the base of one of the rock outcroppings that dotted the land a rider stood beside two grazing horses.

The other rider climbed up the jagged stone for a better view. He stood for a few moments, framed by the deepening blue beyond. His vibrant azure eyes and light blond hair, pulled back and tied with a red leather cord, hinted at his northern ancestry. Attired in the armor of the town’s watch, he could see the faint glow of lantern light from a handful of cottages; the peaceful village of Embrien lay to the south.

T’Lantha! Get up here! He called down, crouching at the edge of the precipice.

What is it?

I’m not sure. I need your eyes up here.

As his desert elf companion crested the top, Ben pointed.

Out there, beyond the village. I thought I saw a pack of animals or something. They were moving towards town.

Probably not travelers, T’Lantha demurred, they’re too far from the road.

The peostrian’s sharp, almond-shaped eyes narrowed, contrasting their pale golden hues against his deep red-brown skin. A wispy breeze tousled his long silver hair.

Are you sure that… wait, are those wolves?

A chill went up Ben’s spine. Something’s not right, T’Lan, I can feel it.

Scrambling down to their horses, they mounted and galloped off. About half way back to town, T’Lantha pulled up. Ben stopped next to him.

I lost them. We’d better go tell the Captain.

Ben and T’Lantha rode hard for the village. As they approached, they could see the tall wooden gates opened wide.

Gemard! Olbur! Ben called out for the guards who were on duty for the night. But there was no answer.

Swinging out of his saddle between the gates, T’Lantha drew his short sword and headed up the inner stairway to the top of the rampart. Ben tethered their horses. When he came up to where his friend was, he inhaled and then let out a low whistle. There, as if tossed like a rag doll against the wall was the lifeless form of Gemard; his throat and upper chest ripped open.

I found Gemard, T’Lantha looked up from where he was crouching next to the dead guard. And I’m sure he wasn’t killed by wolves.

Then they found Olbur. A long, dark smear ended with his body sprawled on the bloody ground. The last two guards were nearby, weapons lying next to their hands.

Come on! We need to raise the alarm.

Ben sprinted down the steps. Behind him he could hear T’Lantha following, cursing in peostrian. They raced down the abandoned road towards the village square.

Then a metallic clang broke the silence of the night. Shouts and a pained cry came from somewhere nearby, accompanied by a loud crash and the glow of flames in the next street over. He hesitated a moment and T’Lantha barreled past him.

Through here, the desert elf called over his shoulder.

Ben followed him, ducking through the alleyway and into the conjoining street. They had to jump over a guard’s body as they spilled out to complete chaos. The tailor’s shop across from the tavern had somehow caught fire; yellow tongues of heat and flame crackled and roared, spilling out of the windows and door-frame in a burst of flying embers.

Silhouetted by the burning light were the attackers, engaged by several of the town’s guard. Captain Alevhar was with them, shouting orders.

Nearly seven feet in height and bristling with coarse, thick fur, the three gnolls each wielded bladed clubs of surprising size. Ben saw a man thrown, body half torn, through the air and into a charred beam of the conflagration. The brutality shocked him, his hand frozen on the hilt of his sword.

T’Lantha let out a fierce yell and charged forward in a sprint, his blade blazing with reflected firelight. A split second later, Ben joined the left flank of the other men. They were spread in a half-circle around the massive gnolls.

He dropped flat, avoiding decapitation from a gnoll’s deep swing. Clambering back up and away, he saw a man he didn’t recognize dart in and thrust forward with a long sword. The blade bit into the surprised gnoll’s throat and it stumbled back, flailing and choking. Blood splattered onto the dirt and the man stepped in to finish his foe.

Too late the man saw the crude bone dagger. No sooner had he plunged his sword through the enemy’s chest than his own was torn open by the dying gnoll’s final strike. The stranger fell back, narrowly missed by the swing of another gnoll. Three guards leapt forward to take the wounded stranger’s place, shielding his fall.

Ben! T’Lantha! Captain Alevhar was pointing at the man. Get him out of here! Now!

Nodding, Ben rushed to the side of the wounded stranger. T’Lantha joined him, levering himself under the man’s other arm and grunting as they lifted. To their right, a guard doubled over, clutching his midsection. Then a swarm of guards overpowered one of the two remaining gnolls.

Ben and T’Lantha made their way to the tavern. Shouts erupted behind them as Captain Alevhar and the remainder of the guards gave chase to the last gnoll as it fled.

Entering, Ben stumbled over a displaced tankard and kicked it out of the way. A serving girl screamed and the tavern keeper took her from the room. They set the man down on the nearest table.

T’Lantha rushed over and began rummaging behind the bar – there would be rags to staunch the bleeding and alcohol to clean the wound. They would have to work quickly if the stranger had any chance at all of surviving.

Ben turned to the wounded man, who caught his gaze. Several painful emotions crossed the man’s soot-streaked face. His feverish eyes were intense. All of a sudden he reached out and grabbed Ben’s wrist, pulling the younger man close.

You. It’s you, the man coughed, spraying flecks of blood and then grimaced. Please, you must . . .

You shouldn’t talk, Ben advised, his wrist still clamped in the man’s strong grip. You’re wounded. It’s a deep cut. We’ll try to help, but you’re losing blood.

Listen! Listen to me. Not much time. Shaking fingers grasped the bloodied pouch at his side. He pushed it into Ben’s captured hand, closing his fingers around it. Take it!

Sir . . .

No time. Listen. Listen to me, please. It must reach the Order. Find one of the seven – they will know what to do. Protect it with your life. You hold the key; the key to everything. Do not let it fall into his hands! You are the one, the only one. Promise…

A wretched cough escaped the man’s lips. More blood flecked onto Ben’s bare hand and the small satchel it held, but the man’s eyes stayed locked on him.

I promise.

The man’s face relaxed and he closed his eyes for a moment.

T’Lantha returned and anxiously tried to stop the heavy bleeding from the man’s chest. Ben frowned in concern at the flow from the deep wound.

What’s your name, stranger?

Sadness slipped over the man’s face and his eyes focused dully on something only he could see. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye and down his temple, clearing a thin trail through the filth.

Naerian, he whispered. I was Naerian.

Ben nodded, a lump rising in his throat. Good to meet you, Naerian.

The man’s gaze snapped back onto Ben’s face, his sapphire eyes now clear and focused. I am sorry I wasn’t there. It was my fault… what happened to you. I’m sorry.

For a moment he stared into Ben’s eyes, then his face relaxed, and his eyes lost focus. A shuddering breath crept out from his lips and he closed his eyes.

The stranger was dead.

Confusion swirled in Ben’s mind as he tried to understand what the man had just said.

T’Lantha swore, spinning away and hurling the handful of blood-soaked rags. They landed with a wet thud on the tavern floor. Then he walked over to the bar and leaned against it, trembling with frustration and the after-effects of the chaos.

Ben let out a ragged breath and shook his head, trying to clear it. Naerian’s lifeless hand still clutched his wrist. Even in death the man would not let go of the hand that now held his precious package. Ben stared at the pouch for a moment, and then, with some effort, pulled his arm free.

Outside, the sounds of battle had been replaced by shouting as townsfolk and members of the watch tried to subdue the fire.

In through the tavern door marched Captain Alevhar, his uniform appearing to have missed most of the night’s battle. Behind him, two bedraggled guards followed. They had obviously not missed the battle.

Cursed gnolls! I just lost six good men, and for what? He let the question hang in the air, before he answered it himself. That, gentlemen, will be your task on the morrow.

His two aides nodded their understanding, but said nothing.

And how is he? Captain Alevahr approached the man Ben and T’Lantha had brought in.

Setting the pouch on the edge of the table near the man’s head, Ben rubbed his tingling wrist.

Dead, sir.

Dead? I see, he responded as he and his aides came up next to Ben at the table. T’Lantha joined them.

Were you able to learn anything before he passed away? Who he was or why he was in town?

His name was Naerian, Ben reported. But before he died, he charged me with protecting this pouch and getting it to one of the seven in the Order. He said it was a key.

The Order, you say? I see. The captain’s demeanor changed. He turned to the two men who had followed him. Gibrant. Starnus. Go see that the fire is out and the wounded are taken to the infirmary. Then report back to me.

Yes, sir, the two answered in unison and exited the tavern, leaving the captain alone with Ben, T’Lantha and the dead stranger.

Reaching across the body before them, Alevahr removed a ring from the man’s finger. Rubbing the soot and blood from it, he inhaled.

Do you know what this is?

No, sir, Ben replied, resisting the urge to state the obvious.

This man belonged to the Order of the White Dragon, Alevhar explained in a less formal manner. See these three white stones set across the crown? He held a very high position in the Order.

But how do you know? Ben asked.

Sir, T’Lantha added.

Captain Alevhar looked at T’Lantha and then at Ben. A smile appeared, disrupting his stern visage. It was the first time Ben had seen the man relax since they had arrived.

Come, we need to talk.

The three men moved over to a booth farther away from the entrance. After they were seated, Captain Alevhar placed the ring on the table between them.

Gentlemen, this ring represents a commitment. It is worn by those who have sworn allegiance to the Order of the White Dragon. The Order stands for peace among all peoples and seeks to do good by righting wrongs and preventing discord among the nations.

Calmly he removed the shiny black glove on his left hand. On his little finger was a ring that was similar to the one that Naerian had worn, except it had one white stone instead of three.

I, too, am of this great Order. But as you can see, a finger pointed at the single stone, I am of a lesser position. Whoever this fellow was, he was held in high esteem.

He looked over at the body for a moment.

You must do as he instructed. I will see that he gets a proper funeral. Tomorrow morning you two will be given new orders. Come see me at dawn.

Captain Alevhar stood up to leave, but then hesitated. And take the ring with you.

Ben and T’Lantha watched the officer leave, closing the door behind him. Ben picked up the ring and studied its features.

I’ll get the pouch, T’Lantha offered, standing. Ben nodded distractedly.

Something banged on the floor, startling Ben.

The desert elf yelped, jumping back and clutching his right hand. It… it bit me… or stung me… or something, He pointed at a weapon on the ground. That dagger is cursed!

Beside the torn pouch on the dirty wooden floor of the tavern lay an exquisite dagger with intricate designs etched into its unusual curved blade. The pommel was angular and the grip was bound in worn leather.

T’Lantha was clutching his right arm close against his chest. I swear that dagger is cursed!

What? Ben slid the ring onto his finger. He stepped over to where the dagger lay on the rough wood floor and crouched down.

Don’t touch it! T’Lantha warned. Pain shot through my fingers and my hand; all the way up my arm.

Ben found a square of leather and laid it over the dagger. Then, he pressed two fingers against the dagger through the leather. Nothing. So he grasped it, enfolding it, and placed it back in its pouch.

T’Lantha stared at Ben in disbelief.

Didn’t that hurt?

No. It tingled a bit, but it didn’t hurt.

That doesn’t make sense. I can still feel something odd, he replied, flexing his sore hand. I must be tired.

Tucking the pouch in his belt, he helped T’Lantha up to his feet and they headed for the door. They were met by four guards carrying two poles and a thick blanket.

We’re here for the dead man, one of them said.

Ben nodded and pointed at the body. Take good care of him.

The fire across the way was retreating from the buckets of water the townspeople kept hurling at it. Ben and T’Lantha walked slowly away from the noise.

What a night. I never thought anything like this would happen in this dreary little place.

Ben didn’t respond, so T’Lantha slapped him on the back.

What’s wrong?

I’m just thinking. Doesn’t it seem odd that gnolls would attack Embrien?

Yes, but remember, gnolls are never predictable, T’Lantha quoted the phrase they had been taught over and over.

Ben couldn’t help but look up and smile. Oh, yes, drillmaster. Thank you!

They both laughed. It felt good to laugh.

Still, it does seem odd, Ben continued.

Odd or not, it got us out of a double shift. Maybe we should thank the gnolls.

Be sure to remind Alevhar in the morning.

They reached the barracks and found it empty. Within the bell, they were asleep. At dawn they met with Captain Alevhar and received their new orders. He was more cordial and Ben found himself reconsidering his judgment of the man.

You are to report to the Council of Tor Sklarad. They are to be informed of the gnoll attack and our success in defeating them. But do not speak of the stranger’s possessions or his instructions before the Council. Not everyone can be trusted, he instructed. Then he looked at T’Lantha. However, you can trust your uncle.

Yes, sir.

After you finish with the Council, you must go to Belgurand. It is an ancient library to the north, near the village of Gurand. There you should find a man named Crassus. Or if he is not available, find an elf named Peryn. Both are members of the Order and can be trusted. They can help you. Now, here are two letters of introduction for you. The longer one is for the Council. The other is for Crassus.

Thank you, sir.

Ride well and be careful.

Yes, sir. We will.

They saluted Captain Alevhar and left his quarters. When they arrived at the stables, they found their horses ready for the journey. Ben placed the pouch and letter in his bag. He was about to mount when he noticed T’Lantha leaning against his horse, holding onto the saddle horn and reins. His head was lowered.

What is it, T’Lantha?

I’m not feeling well this morning. That’s all. I must be exhausted from last night’s excitement. I didn’t sleep well.

Neither did I. Too many thoughts kept me awake, Ben concurred. That, and the noise of the others coming back.

After helping T’Lantha up into the saddle, Ben mounted his own steed. They rode through the gate and left the village far behind. Their journey was uneventful, except that T’Lantha required a few stops to rest. He seemed tired; more so than Ben expected.

That evening they found a secluded glen away from the road and set up a simple camp – there would be no fire.

Ben was exhausted, but T’Lantha seemed to be especially weak and did not sleep well. The sky was cloudy with a slight breeze as Ben lay down near his friend and drifted off to sleep.

Somewhere a wolf howled. Ben awoke with a start and sat up. Moments later, a second howl answered the first. He could hear his own breathing and his heart beat faster. But there were no more howls.

Ben sensed that something was not right. T’Lantha slept close by. He didn’t seem to have a fever, but small beads of cold sweat glistened on his forehead. His eyes flicked about beneath his eyelids.

Opening his pack, Ben removed the pouch and shook its contents onto his blanket. A folded packet of leather tumbled out with the strange dagger and ring. But there was no key.

The folded packet held a square parchment, aged and marked with various letters and symbols. Perhaps this was the key to something; a map or instructions of sorts. He placed it back in the pouch.

Next he slid the ring onto his finger and admired the twinkling white gems. It felt good on his hand. He removed it and placed it back in the pouch.

Only the dagger remained, lying on his blanket next to the leather scrap he used for holding it. Its blade glistened in the pale light. He risked extending his free hand towards the dagger. The tingling came the instant his fingers touched it. But it did not hurt. The sensation was inviting. Puzzled, he grasped the dagger by its handle and held it up before his face. The tingling felt good now. He waved the dagger in the air, admiring its blade in the faint moonlight. He had the odd sensation that the blade was now his.

What are you? What am I to do with you?

He half expected to hear an answer.

I must be tired, he muttered after a few moments, shaking his head. Or losing my mind.

He lay the old weapon down, wrapped it in the leather square and returned it to his pack. Ben lay back down on his thick blanket and cradled his head in his hands.

Above him, the night sky was brilliant with a thousand stars. It was the most peaceful place he knew.

But tonight was different. Memories of the stranger’s words kept dancing across his mind, teasing him, taunting him. What did he mean by a key? And why did the man’s name sound so familiar? Naerian. It was a name he had heard before. But where? When? His weary mind tried to sort it all out, but to no avail. Sleep crept in.

When he next awoke, a new day was dawning. Ben arose, prepared a meal and waited for T’Lantha. It wasn’t until mid-morning that the peostrian stirred.

Oh, my head, T’Lantha muttered, and my stomach… He winced as he finished sitting up, crossing his legs for support.

Here, have some of this. Ben held out a cup, steam rising.

T’Lantha took it in trembling hands and brought it to his lips. Draining the herbal tea, he returned the empty cup to Ben.

Thanks.

When you feel well enough, we need to get moving again. We have about a week of steady riding before we reach your uncle’s home in Tor Sklarad. Do you think you can be ready to travel soon?

To get home? T’Lantha’s drawn face allowed a slight grin to appear. I’ve never been more ready. Help me up onto my horse, will you?

Ben helped his friend and then picked up the last of the camp. Riding his own horse, he led them back to the road and headed north. It was going to be a long, difficult journey.

CHAPTER TWO

Within the majestic city of Emmargold, not far from the seat of power, a sculpted stone manor towered over meticulous gardens of desert plants and rock mosaics. In addition to providing shade from the sun’s intense heat, the high stone wall surrounding the estate ensured privacy. The main gate was bordered by somber guards trained to repel any who might approach uninvited. And although its owner was respected and well to do, a gentleman and advisor to some, and a generous patron of the arts, he was, nonetheless, a foreigner.

Within the bastion, a gaunt, elderly man paced in front of a massive gold-trimmed obsidian fireplace; dying embers evidence of the night’s late hour. A shrouded vulture, his gnarled hands were clasped behind his crooked spine. He did not like to be kept waiting. His impatience was interrupted as the grand mahogany doors parted.

A well proportioned woman entered the elegantly furnished chamber. Clothed in tailored travelling clothes, she crossed the burnished floor.

Late, once again, was all the balding man said. His tone was neither friendly nor hostile, but delivered a rebuke nonetheless.

The woman’s proud look fled; replaced by a grave demeanor. Her step slowed as he turned to face her; a practiced smile appearing. He did not look at her as his sightless eyes could not.

My apologies, Grandfather. She bobbed her head and spoke the words, but without much sincerity. If you would rather that I return at another time…

She let the words linger in the empty space between them.

Grandfather, as she had addressed him, wore elegant robes of burgundy and black. A cowl that usually concealed his features was thrown back, revealing his beardless, hollow cheeks and broad chin. He looked small against the backdrop of the fireplace with the imposing tapestry hanging above it. The room’s ceiling was high enough to be lost in pitch black. A single pewter candlestick with a flickering flame struggled to push back the impending gloom.

What news do you bring me? His inquiry was quiet yet penetrating.

Good news, Grandfather. While my cousins stumble over their own hands, my perseverance has yielded far riper fruit, she brightened somewhat.

Yes, so I have heard, he interjected. Pray, however, that your fruit is sweeter to my lips than simple good news; it would not do to taunt my tongue. But I have already tasted your victory – yes, even before you crossed the Saici.

Then you are pleased? I came in advance to report our success. Kradimok is on his way with the dagger. The last of the Chosen had it. He tried to escape us, but we tracked him down. My cousin should be arriving in a day or two with the relic and the map.

So you enjoyed your little adventure, a wicked grin formed on his thin lips before a grim line replaced it. However, I do wonder how it is that I am now absent of my little pack of hounds… Someone as clever as you would not lose such a valuable resource.

She could not suppress the surprise and confusion that swept across her face.

Your pack of hounds, Grandfather? she ventured. When I left Kradimok he assured me that…

The old man’s visage was as unreadable as weathered stone. Palm up, his left hand rose up between them.

I shall know of your success when you have placed the blade in my hand.

The room chilled for a moment of silence as the muscles in the woman’s jaw twitched, clenching and unclenching. Embarrassment replaced confusion. Her stunning eyes flicked to his palm.

How can this be? After we found the heirloom, Kradimok insisted that he be allowed to finish off the one protecting the blade in his own way.

She paused to ensure that what was next said would place blame where it belonged.

I disagreed with him, but could not persuade him otherwise. You know how arrogant the fool can be. And you know my distrust of the gnolls, she asserted.

There was no response.

She straightened herself. Grandfather, you will have your precious heirloom soon. I will find it and bring it to you myself. You have my word.

Your word? he sneered, his impatient hand still extended. You seem to have a great many words and yet my hand remains empty. What is your word to me? It is worthless beyond measure if not fulfilled. And for you, my child, an unfulfilled word can be deadly.

She stiffened as he turned his back to her. Walking to his high-back leather chair near the fireplace, he sat down as if ending the conversation.

But the messenger remained; she knew there was more to come. She would not leave and then be called back, chagrined, groveling at the next request of her grandfather. So she waited. After a while, the attractive woman cleared her throat.

The old man remained seated, not even bothering to look at her.

Find your cousin, the mongrel. I have written instructions for him. You need not concern yourself with their contents. Know only that he will obey. He will aid us or feel my fury.

He motioned with his hand at a nearby table. Upon its shiny surface sat two scrolls, tied with thin black cord. Carmine wax seals ensured the privacy of