Soul of a Coward

By Kenneth McDonald

Gifted—or cursed—with a unique ability to cheat death, Daran’s life has followed a tumultuous course since he was forced to flee the village of his birth. In this sequel to “Heart of a Hero,” Daran is living under the protection of the Khel’arun, working as a servant at the monastery of Edeberon. But darker events are stirring beyond the wall of Daran’s sanctuary. War is brewing between the baronies of Evros and Aldrem. While the Arunite priests Arla and Jaros each try to forestall the coming conflict in their own way, Daran’s bad luck and bad choices continue to lead him into danger. Sought by men who would kill for his secret, Daran learns that staying alive is more complicated than just avoiding death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: Mar 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465842824

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

Soul of a Coward

Book Two of Daran’s Journey

Kenneth McDonald

[e-mail]

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Kenneth McDonald

Cover Credit: The cover illustration is taken from the painting Olevano (1857) by Albert Bierstadt. The image is in the public domain.

* * * * *

Works by Kenneth McDonald

The Labyrinth

Of Spells and Demons

Wizard’s Shield

The Godswar Trilogy

Paths of the Chosen

Choice of the Fallen

Fall of Creation

Daran’s Journey

Heart of a Hero

Soul of a Coward

Will of a Warrior (2012)

* * * * *

BOOK 1

Chapter 1

For someone so young, you certainly have a talent for finding trouble, the wizard said.

Daran didn’t respond. He was lying on a wooden table, bound by iron shackles that held his wrists and ankles. He was naked, his skin slick with sweat. A small towel had been draped over him, but it lay askance over a leg, dropped casually rather than placed to preserve the captive’s modesty.

The wizard walked around the end of the table. His fine robes hung on a hook near the room’s solitary door, leaving him in simple working clothes with a long leather apron worn over them. There was sweat upon his brow as well; the room lacked windows, and the coals in the iron brazier along the wall glowed cherry red, filling the place with their heat.

The wizard’s steps took him around to the far side of the table, where a smaller table adjoined the one holding the prisoner. That one was covered with an assortment of grim-looking tools that were spread out upon a flap of leather. Daran flinched back as the wizard stopped next to that table, but his bonds offered him no escape.

Don’t worry, the wizard told him. I think we’re done with that stage of the investigation. We understand each other now, correct? No more secrets, no lies?

Daran nodded, but the wizard said, Say it.

No secrets, High Wizard Khaltos.

Good. The mage lifted a hand and stroked his neatly-trimmed beard in a contemplative gesture. So, let me see if I understand fully. You are an orphan, a young man of unfortunate fate from a village of no consequence in the western reaches of Evros. Upon being accused falsely of impregnating the daughter of the local notable, you fled the humble place of your birth, killing a man in the process.

I didn’t mean… Daran began, but he stopped immediately when the wizard raised a finger. No interruptions, please. I will let you know when I need your input.

He turned slightly and started walking again. The room was only big enough for him to manage a few paces before he had to turn and start back. The walls were unadorned stone, as was the floor. A faintly musty smell rose from a small iron grate in a corner, but the wizard paid it no heed.

In your flight, you encountered a solitary nobleman, who turned out to be no less than the son of the baron himself. The meeting would have been of no consequence, but a small party of goblin raiders chooses that moment to attack. The baron’s son is struck by an arrow and falls; you manage to escape, with the young lord’s horse, some clothes, and a ring.

Daran closed his eyes tightly. He looked justifiably miserable, but said nothing.

Clad in the raiment of the late Dalren Thargus, you proceed to Vimbros, where you run into yet more trouble, this time with a few merchants who do not appreciate the failure of their scheme to bilk you of the contents of your purse in a game of cards. You escape them, only to be arrested by the baron’s men. It was foolish to sell Dalren’s saddle, by the way. The wisest course would have been to burn everything that bore the baron’s mark, or could be traced back to his son.

The story should have ended there. Brought to Evros, tried for murder, you are executed by hanging. Yet the story does not end there.

The wizard stopped again beside the table. He extended an arm over Daran, tracing with his finger the line of a faint scar that ran down the length of his torso. I would not have believed it, if I had not seen it myself. The power to defeat death itself…

Khaltos drew back abruptly, and the covetous look that had passed across his face was replaced again by benign control as he resumed his summary. You wake upon a garbage heap behind the Baron’s keep, little the worse for wear for having your neck snapped. But as you are making your way out of the city, you are spotted by someone who knows you, a retainer of the same lord whose honor you violated back in your little village. During the chase you are struck by a wagon and flung into the river gorge, where you are once again presumed dead.

But you did not die, of course. Or rather, you did, but once again that fate did not bring your account to an end. I know this, because it is at this point that I took a personal interest in your story, young Daran. I tracked you north, to Thusk. Unfortunately, my agent did not deliver you to me, and I lost track of you briefly, when the Khel’arun took you under their protection.

"You are a very unique individual, Daran. There is a power in you, but it defies any common understanding. It is not the magic ring you took from Dalren—its power was trivial, though I have confirmed quite exhaustively that it is not still located within your body cavity. Though I admit, I had never before heard of a case where someone swallowed such an artifact, and on purpose!"

It seemed like a good idea at the time, Daran said. He swallowed as the wizard’s cold eyes shifted to meet his, but after a moment Khaltos only laughed. It is possible that the ring awakened something in you, some latent power. But I believe that whatever it is that is causing you to cheat death, it is something inherent to you, some special trait. I have set into motion more detailed investigations into the histories of your parents, though nothing you have told me thus far indicates any clue as to the source of your unique… talent.

My curse… Daran whispered.

The look that the wizard gave him looked almost pitying, though it was belied by the surroundings and their respective positions. But when he leaned closer, so close that Daran could not turn his gaze away from the wizard, there was nothing but a cold sharpness in the wizard’s eyes. "I will have your secret, Daran. Mark me, I will."

He drew back quickly, his neutral mask falling into place with the ease of long practice. Now, tell me what happened after you returned south, after that unpleasantness with the goblins near Thusk.

Daran swallowed. Can I… can I have some water?

Khaltos’s controlled expression briefly betrayed annoyance, but he reached under the table and drew out a flask with a long, narrow neck. Daran drank deeply, and then swallowed several times as the wizard replaced the flask to its place. When Khaltos’s eyes were turned he strained once, desperately, against his bonds, but the shackles were bolted into the table, and they did not so much as creak against his effort.

When he rose again the wizard allowed a bit of mirth into his eyes, as if perfectly aware of his captive’s futile attempt. Now. Continue your recounting, he commanded. Tell me what happened after you were brought to Edeberon. Leave out no details; I will determine what is important and what is trivial.

Unable to do anything else, Daran complied.

* * *

The power of Khel is in all life, the old priest said. It shelters us and preserves us. We can see it each day in the sun, without which no life could exist. It is so pure and strong that we cannot even look upon it directly. He lifted his face and closed his eyes, letting the sunlight shine upon his wrinkled and weathered features. There was a chill in the air, as the winter had not quite yet fully given way to spring, but the sky above was clear, and the wind coming down off the hills was just a gentle breeze. It barely rustled his robe, a long and thick drape of gray wool with a starburst sigil traced upon the breast in faint silver thread.

Elder Kevarus, if the power of Khel is so great, where is there so much evil in the world?

The speaker was the youngest of those gathered to listen to the old priest, a boy of maybe ten or eleven years. The others ranged in age up to about sixteen, boys and girls alike clad in simple robes of bleached wool without adornment.

The old priest lowered his gaze to the boy and smiled. You have touched upon the conundrum of free choice, young Sirak, he said. The solitary mystics of the Khel’nadar spend their entire lives considering such questions. We of the Khel’arun can only do our best to honor Khel, and in doing so earn the gift of life that he has given us.

You haven’t answered his question, another voice interrupted. If the god is good, why are there evil men who rise to become rich and powerful, while others who do good stay at the bottom, no matter how hard they strive?

A dozen pairs of eyes turned to regard the speaker. He was older then the students, though not by many years, just on the other side of the boundary that separated youth from adulthood. And unlike them he looked hard used. His left ear was a mangled mess, half of it torn away, and there was a faded scar around his throat, just a vague outline that he nevertheless covered by pulling his black robe, of a coarser weave than those worn by the priest and his students, more tightly around his body. He carried a bundle of folded cloths under his arm, and had to shift to avoid dropping them as he fidgeted with his robe.

Everyone, from the highest lord to the humblest servant, has a role to play, and can honor Khel in his own way, Kevarus said. And while I appreciate your desire for knowledge, Daran, I believe that Mistress Karilin is waiting for those linens.

One of the boys whispered something to his neighbor, and both laughed. Daran turned, his cheeks coloring slightly, as he resumed his march from the washhouse to the large central building that dominated the abbey at Edeberon. Behind him, he could hear the priest resume his lecture. He still thought that the old man had dodged the questions he and Sirak had asked, but he was getting used to the clever rhetoric of the Khel’arun.

He passed another two students as he entered the front doors of the hulking three-story Main Hall. He reflexively stepped aside for them; they didn’t even notice him, engaged in an animated conversation about some detail of doctrine. His eyes lingered on them even after they were well past.

He wasn’t stupid, and he had to admit that being a servant for the Khel’arun wasn’t the worst of all possible lives. It was certainly better than being a fugitive, and the high walls of the abbey were reassuring. There was still a murder charge over his head, and while Jaros had insisted that the Arunites would protect him, there were powerful people who would be after his head, if they found out that he was still alive.

Those conditions combined to make for a lot of sleepless nights. But for now he was at least relatively safe, well-fed, and alive.

Alive. The word stuck in his head as he passed the broad staircase that led up to the upper levels of the Hall, heading instead for the narrower back stair used by the servants. The threat of death still hung over his head, but it was definitely of a different timbre than the mortal dread that most people shared. Most people weren’t him. Most people didn’t come back from the dead when they were killed.

It wasn’t exactly something he could talk about with the Arunite priests. Arla and Jaros had promised to keep his secret, but they’d also promised to protect him, and while they’d seen him placed here, he hadn’t seen either of them for months.

Excuse me.

Daran started; he realized he’d let his mind wander in his thoughts of the past, and he’d forgotten where he was. A servant woman wearing a black robe was standing on the narrow staircase, holding a large jug in her arms. The faint smell told of its purpose; oil for the abbey’s lamps. The abbey had so many people working for the Khel’arun that he didn’t know the woman by name, though her face was familiar.

Ah, sorry, he said, flushing slightly as he stepped aside. She shot him a stern look, then ignored him as she walked past and continued about her business. It reminded him of his own duty, though, so he hurried up the stairs to the top level of the Hall. It wasn’t as if he needed to worry about slipping and breaking his neck, after all.

The top level of the Hall was quiet. Most of it was given over to quarters for the Arunites who lived at the abbey; most of them would have been out studying, working, or praying at that hour. A series of slit windows let in narrow shafts of afternoon sunlight. He paused as he came to the first, drawn by familiar sounds that drifted up from below.

The window provided a narrow view of the courtyard below, crowded into the narrow space between the Hall and the abbey’s outer wall. There were about two dozen people gathered down there. Most were noviates, their white robes replaced with simple training gear, padded tunics and breeches with leather helmets to protect their skulls from damage. Those precautions seemed to be needed as the young noviates went at each other with training weapons: wooden swords, staves, and clubs. Along the wall several youths were firing bows at practice butts set up against the stables, with a tall stack of hay bales behind them to provide security against clumsy misses. The youths were almost equally divided between boys and girls; the Khel’arun provided all of their novices with basic training in arms, but only a handful of girls went beyond that, to undergo the advanced training in fighting that was practiced by the Order of the Sword.

Leaning into the narrow casement of the window, he looked around for Seija, but didn’t see her. He did see Osirin, however. Edeberon’s Master of Arms was not a big man, but his plain tunic, unadorned by any decoration or frippery, could not conceal the muscled outline of his body. He walked through the sparring pairs, pausing occasionally to offer a curt word or two of direction. Some of the parried strokes and errant swings by the students swept close by him, but he never seemed to make any move to evade or dodge. It was as if the weapons just avoided him.

The armsmaster suddenly looked up, as if he could feel the weight of Daran’s eyes upon him. He would have been nearly invisible within the deep sill of the window, but he drew back quickly anyway. Osirin had a certain presence about him that warned against idle trifling.

He turned back to the hallway just in time to see Karilin emerge from a doorway near its end, trailed by a young girl in black.

Daran!

Karilin had a way of making a simple statement of a name both a query and an accusation. Daran knew it all too well, so he just stood his ground as the woman strode forward to meet him. She had the swarthy southern features of an Amarian, and she ruled the servants of Edeberon with the sheer force of her will. Even the Abbot trod lightly around her, it was said.

Your head, it is always in the clouds, boy, she said. He didn’t take offense; every male from the youngest of apprentices to the old men who assisted the priests in the chapel was boy to Karilin, as long as he wore a black robe. She yanked the linens from his arms and handed them to the girl. There is a mess in the novitiate, told him. There was leak in one of the pipes that bring water down from roof, nobody noticed until water come in through wall, all sudden, like whoosh! You go now, no dallying! Bring mop and bucket and rags! I send others to help. Likely carpets ruined, but maybe we can save some. Why you still standing here! Go, boy, run!

Daran ran, though his pace slowed once he was back on the steps and outside of Karilin’s view. He stopped at a closet on the ground floor to fetch the tools he would need, and then headed back out into the courtyard through one of the small side doors.

The novitiate was a long low building next to the stables, its whitewashed walls shining brightly in the afternoon sunshine. A few noviates were coming out in as he went in, and they were quick to point him in the right direction. The room that had flooded was a small commons; someone had already pushed aside the tables and chairs, and two servants in black were already working with two noviates in white to rescue the rugs covering the floor. Clearly they hadn’t been quite in time; he came in just as they were heaving up a rug that trailed a small deluge of water.

Daran started forward with his mop, but one of the noviates stopped him. Better hit the library first, he said, gesturing toward an open doorway. Elder Kevarus will have a fit if any of the books get damaged.

Daran left them to their work as he headed through the door into a tiny side room that was only modestly brightened by the window high along its far wall. Daran was no scholar, but even to him the title library seemed generous; the place consisted of a trio of chairs whose cloth padding looked older than he was, a pair of brass candle stands, and a few wall-mounted shelves that together held maybe two dozen books.

The problem had begun here, it looked like. He couldn’t see where the leak had started, but the surface of the outside wall glistened wetly, and the floor was covered with water, enough of it that his shoes sent ripples across the room as he walked in. He put down the wooden bucket he’d brought, and started in with the mop.

He’d barely started when he heard someone come in behind him. He turned around and saw Seija.

She looked a lot like Arla, down to the withe she wore on her hip, a constant presence that indicated her chosen order more clearly than any badge or insignia could have. Like Arla her hair was cut short, though hers was dark instead of fair. She must have just come in from the practice yards, for she was sweaty, and her rugged training clothes were dirty. Osirin did not spare his Swords any more than he did the younger students. Although technically Seija was still a noviate, the talk around the abbey was that there would be little difficulty for her in taking the next step forward.

Oh, hello, Daran! she said, with a warm smile. She was definitely unlike Arla in her personality; Seija was nice to everyone, and unlike some of the noviates did not look down on the servants. From Daran’s perspective there was no reason for such an elitist attitude; the noviates were assigned nearly as many chores as the servants, and in addition had to complete their training and the other work related to their orders.

What a mess! Seija said, coming into the room, looking up at the wall that had spawned the leak. Despite her disheveled appearance, Daran had to turn away to keep from staring at her. She was half a head shorter than he was, and her short-cropped hair and plain features hardly fit into the traditional ideal of feminine beauty, but there was something about her that drew him like a moth to a candle’s flame. Her bulky clothes couldn’t conceal the interesting curves of her body, accented by the muscles she’d built in her training.

If she was aware of his discomfort, she didn’t show it. Well, at least the books haven’t gotten wet, though they’ll take mildew for sure if we leave them in here long. Here, help me carry them out. Ah, careful, don’t drop that, she said, wincing as he reached for the closest shelf. "There are only two copies of Talto’s Burning of the Flame in the whole monastery. It’ll break Elder Kevarus’s heart if we let this one get damaged."

Daran didn’t give a fig for Kevarus, but under Seija’s watchful