Will of a Warrior

By Kenneth McDonald

In the third volume of "Daran’s Journey," the rival baronies of Evros and Aldrem continue their headlong rush toward war. Drafted into the army of Evros, Daran finds himself trapped in the role of reluctant warrior on the front lines of that brewing conflict. Against him and his fellow soldiers stand the rising power of Aldrem and the enigmatic Lord Harzan, who like Daran has a dark secret. Daran’s few friends are scattered and unable to offer him help. The Arunite priestess Arla finds herself an outcast among the Evrosians, while her colleague Jaros is held prisoner by the Aldremish. And the wizard Albrizar has joined forces with Harzan, in pursuit of his own dreams of power and revenge. As the war begins, each of those unlikely heroes must find within themselves the will to survive, and to fight against an enemy that wants more than their lives, their very souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: May 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476068640

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

Will of a Warrior

Book Three 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 The Spirit of War (1851) by Jasper Francis Cropsey. 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

Courage of a Champion (2012)

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Home. He was home.

Jaros looked down from the parapets of Edeberon. It was quiet, quieter than he’d ever remembered. There wasn’t a soul in sight, not even a bird fluttering through the air. In front of him the familiar buildings of the monastery spread out in their familiar array, the Main Hall directly ahead, the Old Tower to his left, the squat outline of the Armory just visible behind it. Off to the right, beyond the main gate, a line of structures extended along the wall that included the stables, the Workshop, the Novitiate, then the bathhouse and storehouses. The angular edge of the Initiates’ Quarters was just visible behind the mass of the Main Hall, backed up into the far corner of the complex. Even deserted as it was now, without a single servant or priest in view, the sight of the place stirred a flood of memories. He’d spent four years here, and while they’d been difficult at times, he’d been content, even happy.

He glanced back over his shoulder, looked over the edge of the wall. The town spread out below the bluff, its buildings scattered under the canopies of ancient trees. His eyes followed the steep course of the road that led down from the monastery to the town. He’d walked that road dozens if not hundreds of times, usually on some errand for the elders. The Khel’arun believed in training their noviates through the virtues of hard work. He’d never been physically imposing, lacking Arla’s strength and skill, but he’d gone through the same labors as all of the other noviates, and had struggled through the basic training at arms that was required of all students regardless of sect. That part of his education had not been pleasant, he thought, recalling the bruises and sore muscles.

The thought of Arla awakened another memory, along with a feeling of disquiet that disturbed his sense of equanimity. The empty courtyard that had seemed to peaceful just a moment ago now seemed foreboding, and he looked around, suddenly uncertain.

Only the Main Hall and the Old Tower extended above the level of the outer wall, so he could see almost the entirety of the parapet that ran along its length. He saw someone walking along the wall to his right, just above the Novitiate. The priest blinked in surprise—there hadn’t been anyone there a moment before—and started walking in that direction.

Hello? Hello! His own voice sounded overly loud in the unnatural silence, echoing up from the courtyard below. The figure was walking away from him, and didn’t turn at his call. He hurried to the small bastion that stood at the point where the walls met, then ran toward the stranger. He was clad in the simple white robe of a noviate, and had dark brown hair, close cropped, but Jaros couldn’t tell anything more even as he came up behind him. His hands were folded into the sleeves of his robe. Jaros’s sandals flapped against the bare stone of the parapet, but the other man either didn’t hear or didn’t pay any heed.

Jaros came to a stop behind him. He reached out an arm to grab his shoulder, but hesitated. Hello? he said again.

The figure stopped, and turned to face him. The face was familiar.

Daran!

The other man was even younger than Jaros, barely out of adolescence, but had the look of someone who had gotten a lot of wear out of his years. There was an old scar around his throat, a rough band of skin like a tight collar, and his left ear was a mangled wreck, the result of a mauling by a dog in his childhood. His skin was fair but weathered by long exposure to the outdoors. There was more, Jaros knew. The priest was one of the few people who knew Daran’s secret, that the otherwise common-looking youth in front of him had the power to return from beyond the veil of death. Jaros had witnessed the use of that gift several times himself, when Daran had traveled north with him and Arla to deal with the goblin raiders threatening the mining outposts of Thusk, in northern Evros. Neither Daran nor the priests knew anything about the source of his talent. Each time he’d returned he’d had no memory of what had happened since he’d died, just a ravenous hunger and a lingering physical weakness that passed quickly with time.

Daran’s presence here wasn’t unexpected. After their return from Thusk, he and Arla had arranged for Daran to be given sanctuary here, at Edeberon, at the monastery where Jaros had underwent his final training and eventual ordination into the Order of the Heart. But Daran wasn’t a noviate of the Khel’arun, and shouldn’t have been wearing the white robe. That discordance added to the overall feeling of dread that Jaros had felt building since he’d thought of Arla just a few moments ago.

Daran, he said. It’s good to see you. I’ve thought about you often over the last few months.

Daran regarded him with a calm, sad look. I’m sorry, Jaros, he said, touching the priest’s arm.

Sorry? He blinked in surprise. You haven’t done anything to me to justify an apology, Daran.

Daran held his arm a moment later, and then turned toward the outer edge of the parapet. I’m not really here, Jaros, he said. He looked back, with that same sad expression. Neither are you.

Jaros leaned against the outer edge of the wall. Edeberon wasn’t a fortress, and didn’t have battlements or crenellations on its walls, but the heavy stone blocks that fronted the parapet were high and thick enough that he would have had to stretch to touch the outer face. Is this a dream? he asked.

No, not a dream. Your mind has created this place as a sanctuary. It created me.

I don’t understand.

You are being held prisoner, by the Aldremish. They have been torturing you. Do you remember?

Jaros sagged heavily against the wall. He felt a sick clenching in his gut, a sudden pulsing in his chest as his heart picked up its pace. Keffan, he said, the name torn from his throat.

Daran’s expression was sympathetic. I’m sorry, he said again. But you cannot think about him now.

I loved him, Jaros said. He put his life at risk for me.

Daran leaned in closer, grasping Jaros by the arms. You are in great danger, he said. There is more going on here than it seems. You have to be strong.

They will kill me, Jaros said.

It is not death you need to fear, Daran said. They want something from you, something more than intelligence about Evros, or the Khel’arun. You have to confront them, and find out what it is.

I’m afraid, Daran.

I know. But you are an initiate of the Order of the Heart, a servant of Khel. You have to do this, for Keffan, for all of them.

Jaros nodded. He leaned into Daran’s arms, embraced him. I wish this was real.

I know.

What… what if I’m not strong enough?

Trust in the Light, Daran whispered. The words brought with them a glow like the rising of the sun, which brightened until Jaros could no longer see. He tried to hold onto Daran, but the other vanished into that brilliance, until all of his senses were washed out in it.

He’s awake.

The words were harsh, and with them came pain. Jaros blinked against another blinding light, one that seared his eyes, but after a few moments the bright spots cleared enough for him to see.

He was in a small stone room, littered with filth, the stones covered in a patina of old bloodstains and other unpleasant slicks. He was held against a wall by manacles that were affixed to a hook high above, yanking his arms high above his body, so that only his toes touched the floor. His shoulders felt as though hot knives had been stabbed into the joints, and that was only one part in a litany of pains that crossed the map of his body.

The man who had spoken was a squat, ugly figure, clad in a leather apron over a tunic and trousers of soiled wool. He came over to Jaros, looking him over with a professional interest that did not acknowledge any common humanity. He reached out with a grimy paw and twisted Jaros’s head back and forth. Satisfied, he grunted and withdrew.

The only other figure in the room stood near the heavy iron-bound door, deep in shadow. But Jaros didn’t need to see his face to know who it was. He could feel the malevolence that radiated from him like the heat from a brazier.

As if drawn by Jaros’s attention, that shadowed figure came forward. He was a short, bent figure of a man, clad in a plain robe that was just better than threadbare. He wore an iron sigil of a burning torch on a leather throng around his neck, and his eyes shone with a furious intensity.

So, you are back with us, Tovram said. The Vidran priest nodded to the man in the apron, who turned to a rack of unpleasant-looking iron tools that stood nearby. Let us speak again about why you were sent here, servant of the false path.

I was sent to prevent a war, Jaros said, though it didn’t matter, not any more.

Tovram’s lips twisted into a grim parody of a smile. You lie, he said. You are a spy, caught in the act, along with your… accomplice. Lord Hayne was quite distraught to learn of his son’s treason, but to be honest, I expected nothing less from a man of his… inclinations.

Jaros did not respond; whatever he said, it would only give the man satisfaction. After a moment Tovram’s weak smile faded; a sour look seemed more at place on his face. He leaned in close, so close that Jaros could smell the taint upon his breath, the stale odor of his sweat. You failed, he said. And soon the rest of your false prophets will share your fate. The righteous armies of the true way are already on the march, bringing with them… purification.

You’re mad, Jaros said. You’re truly mad.

Tovram retreated back to the shadows, but Jaros could still feel the hunger in the stare that fixed upon him from within the darkness. The hot iron this time, I think, Tovram said.

The man in the apron turned to a small iron brazier that stood in the adjacent corner. With a fold of leather, he took hold of one of the irons that had been left resting in the coals. As he raised it, Jaros could see the ruddy glow that shone from its end.

Grant me strength, Jaros prayed, as the jailor brought the hot iron closer. He glanced back at the priest, but Tovram said nothing.

They did not ask him any questions. The only sound was the screams that were torn from the captive Arunite, screams that failed to penetrate far beyond the prison of stone and wood and iron that held him.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Arla, priestess of the Khel’arun and Initiate of the Order of the Sword, dressed quietly in the near-darkness of her room.

The quarters were better than the ones she’d stayed in for most of the time since she’d first arrived in Vildenford, a few weeks back. Wooden walls and an actual roof had replaced canvas and poles. There was no hearth, and it was cold, with a distinct draft that made it through the cracks in the frame surrounding the single window. But the room was bigger than the one that she’d had back at the monastery in Evros, and it had a proper bed, covered in heaped blankets and even a padded quilt.

The girl sleeping in the bed stirred and let out a gentle moan. Arla paused in dressing, stepped over to the bed. But Caylen slept on. Arla pulled the quilt up to cover the girl’s shoulder, and then stepped back to the table. She took up her sword belt, put it on over her tunic, fastening it tight.

Caylen had been through a rough time, but there was a bravery inherent in her that Arla could not help but admire. The priestess had met her in the aftermath of a riot in Vildenford’s market square that her patrol had helped break up. The girl was the companion of a wizard that Arla had known from an earlier mission against the goblin tribe that had been menacing the mining camps at Thusk, a few months back. But Albrizar hadn’t been able to protect her. His illusions and tricks hadn’t been enough to protect himself.

Arla checked her sword in its scabbard and adjusted her withe, dangling from its throng on the hip opposite the blade. It was a ritual, something familiar to steady her nerves. The weight of her mail shirt was a reassurance. She took up her helmet, a leather cap with a wide flap that protected the sides of her head and her neck. She ran her fingers along the metal band that circled it, touched the starburst worked in iron upon the brow. The helmet fit perfectly, pressing down her close-cropped hair against her skull. She’d cut it again just a few days ago.

She crossed to the door but paused there, and glanced back at the bed where the girl slept an uneasy sleep. Caylen had seen murder done in front of her, first when her wagon train had come under attack by bandit raiders, then again when she’d led Arla and a small company of soldiers to the camp of the perpetrators. They hadn’t found Albrizar there, but they’d found plenty of violence. Arla still had nightmares about the raiders and the desperate madness with which they’d fought. She couldn’t imagine how the girl felt. When Arla had been her age, she’d just started her training with the Khel’arun. It hadn’t been an easy life for her, or a peaceful one, but she hadn’t seen people killed in front of her, or lost the only people she’d cared about.

At that thought an image of Jaros appeared in her mind. She shook her head; he was far away, and could not help her now.

She closed the door carefully, muffling her steps until she was well clear of the room. If she’d been able to see inside the room she would have known not to bother; as soon as the door closed Caylen rose in the bed. The girl stared at the door, holding the quilt close against her body.

The sun hadn’t yet risen over the crest of the eastern wall of the town when Arla stepped out of the inn into the street. Vildenford’s dominant color was brown, from the brown of the mud that choked its streets, to the brown of its mostly-wooden buildings, to the brown of the woolens worn by its population. That early there was only scattered traffic on the street, but the looks on the faces of those people already out and about were easy to read. Vildenford was a town afraid.

The priestess made her way along the wooden walkway toward the town’s River Gate. It was there that the garrison had its headquarters, there that she would find the most unwelcome appointment that had brought her out that morning.

A few of the people she passed murmured an invocation, or bowed to her. She had nothing reassuring to offer them in return. Elder Turin had told her that the Swords provided solace to the people through their example, through the way that they carried themselves, the confidence they presented in the face of adversity. Arla didn’t feel very confident. She would have accepted being exiled from the garrison camp; neither Captain Beyren nor Lieutenant Neskar had ever accepted her, treating her mission there with bemused tolerance at best. But in defying Beyren’s orders she’d put herself into direct conflict with him. From his point of view, she’d challenged his authority, weakening his position with the men under his command. She could understand that, and could accept it as well, save for the fact that her choices had led to the death of two good men. Boys, really… but they’d proven themselves, had fought like men against the raiders.

She could hear the beat of a military drum ahead, and hastened her steps. The guards at the gate stood to attention as she approached the barracks compound. Under ordinary circumstances she would not have been allowed to pass, but they stepped aside. Beyren would not have wanted her to miss this.

The courtyard seemed smaller than it was. The recruits were already gathered, three lines of men forming the better part of a square around the open space in the center. A wooden frame had been erected there, just a few beams lashed together with leather throngs. There were more than a hundred men now, the small core of original recruits augmented by the new levy that Beyren had ordered. They’d scraped up a generous serving of townsmen between the ages of sixteen and forty who hadn’t been able to prove employment in an important profession. The definition of important had been flexible, and Arla suspected that many men in the town’s middle class of merchants and craftsmen had simply bought off their obligation to serve. It did not take a genius in mathematics to determine that a town of nearly five thousand residents should have been able to contribute a larger portion of men to its defense. But perhaps it didn’t matter; they could barely train and equip the recruits they had now.

The barracks building against the outer wall was nearly finished, the final stages of construction rushed under Beyren’s orders. Two new buildings had already been started, the frames nearly complete, and the wreckage of the old tower had been partially cleared away, presumably to make space for more construction. After Arla’s return and the bandit raid on Lieutenant Neskar’s patrol, Beyren had ordered the temporary training camp outside the town’s walls abandoned and the entire garrison moved inside. The new barracks wasn’t big enough to hold all of the recruits, but they still had tents, and since the most recent attack there had been more vacancies elsewhere in Vildenford. As talk of war grew, more people were leaving the town, heading west or south to places that weren’t on the front lines between the rival baronies of Evros and Aldrem.

Beyren was there, in full uniform, with Neskar at his side. The only acknowledgement Arla got was a quick glance, then they ignored her as she took her place, separated from the officers by a clear gap. She saw her recruits scattered throughout the gathering, and felt a fresh surge of guilt.

The drummer ceased his playing, and a sudden silence fell over the courtyard. Bring him out, Beyren ordered.

The drummer started up again with a slow, steady beat. Two soldiers emerged from one of the tents that faced the open part of the square. One held the flap open as a man stepped into the chill morning air. He was clad in a sleeveless tunic over trousers, plain wool that contrasted with the uniforms worn by the other men present. He took a long look around the gathering. As his eyes met Arla’s he nodded, but when he finally reached Beyren he only stood there, stiff. At a gesture from the Captain one of the soldiers moved to prod him, but he ignored the man and walked forward into the square. He went up to the frame before turning back to face the officers.

Ghel Harand, Beyren said, You have been found guilty by a military tribunal of disobeying lawful orders from your superior, an action that directly led to the deaths of two of your men. As a result, you have been reduced to the rank of soldier, and furthermore to the administration of twenty lashes before the men whose lives you placed at risk with your actions. Have you anything to say?

Harand did not speak, he merely turned toward the wooden frame.

Administer the punishment.

Several men came forward. One took Harand’s tunic, leaving his upper body bare. Another brought cords to fasten Harand’s wrists to the frame, but he waved him off, and firmly grasped the wooden spars that had been set into the frame. The soldier looked back at Beyren, who waved his hand impatiently. Another man came forward, a big beefy figure of a recruit, who trailed a length of braided cord, which uncoiled out to a length of almost fifteen feet. He too looked back at Beyren, who nodded.

The whip lashed out and cracked across Harand’s back. The first blow did not split his skin, but by the fifth blood was trailing down his back, and by the tenth there was a mess of overlapping gashes. Harand clutched onto the support of the frame, and cried out as the blows continued, though he did not try to evade the whip.

Finally the sequence ended. The soldier with the whip withdrew. Harand straightened, though it took obvious effort, and turned back to face the officers.

Sergeant Dombur, Beyren said.

The ruddy-faced sergeant stepped forward. Sir.

Assist Soldier Harand to the infirmary tent.

Yes, sir. Harand did his best to stand straight, but he clearly needed Dombur’s help to make it across the encampment. The men gave way in front of him, forming an aisle through which the two headed to the tent in the rear of the base.

Company, dismissed! Neskar said. The assembly broke up, the men either returning to their tents or gathering into groups for the day’s assignments. Arla was no longer involved with the training, but she had heard that Neskar was setting a hard pace, with sparring drills as well as physical training. They were no longer sending out patrols beyond sight of the walls, but she’d seen and heard columns that headed out in full kit in the early morning, to return at sunset dirty and exhausted. Other teams had been set to the work of constructing the new barracks, or repairing the ancient wall that protected Vildenford from attack.

Arla saw some of the men she knew milling about, but knew better than to go and talk to them here. She started to turn away, but Beyren stepped over to interrupt her escape. Lady Priestess, there is word from Evros.

She met his eyes, not surprised to see contempt there. What news, Captain?

Reinforcements are on their way. It seems that there will be contingent from the Khel’arun accompanying him.

She glanced at Neskar, whose expression may as well have belonged to a statue. Ever since his patrol had been all but wiped out on the road north of Vildenford, he had seemed like Arla to be like a bowstring pulled too taut. She looked back at Beyren. Any help will be welcome, I’m sure.

Beyren’s mouth tightened; he’d probably hoped that the news would nettle her. She had received no letters herself from her superiors, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask Beyren if he’d received any mail addressed to her. Not waiting to be dismissed, she said, Good day, Captain. Lieutenant. She snapped her head in a slight imitation of a bow, and walked past them. She could feel their eyes on her back as she made her way to the gate.

It was going to be another long day.

* * *

A beam shifted and fell with a heavy groan. Bits of debris rained down from above, dropping with a light clatter.

Hey, watch it! one of the men laboring in the ruin warned. He dodged back, peering warily up into the remaining wreckage above. Do you want to bring this whole place down on our heads?

Sorry, Daran mumbled. Like the other workers he was clad in an old tunic, dirty from their labors in the old tower. Stone dust covered his bare arms, and continued to filter down from above, hanging thick in the air. The ground was sodden from the recent rains, and footing was treacherous.

Come on, Daran, help me with these beams, Braskar said. The man was phenomenally ugly, his face marred by scars from a childhood bout with pox, but he