The Lords Of The Immoral Land

By Sebastian H. Alive

A prince consumed by darkness and grief returns to his homeland fuelled by his desire for revenge against the tyrannical leadership of King Delgado, the ruler of the vast territory of Corshan. Protecting the king are the brotherhood, an elite unit of warriors fiercely loyal to the kingdom and its people and once lauded as great heroes, protectors of the realm but now divided as a group confused by loyalties.
But the prince does not travel alone. Along the way he is accompanied by Balik, whose renown and skill with the sword had generated him widespread fame and notoriety but his weakness for gambling had cost him his livelihood and has now become a sword for hire recruited by the prince. Together they form an unlikely alliance to end Delgado's reign, brought together by a mutual bond of friendship but will the prince's dark turbulent past and thirst for retribution threaten to destroy everything they set out to do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sebastian H. Alive
• Release date: Oct 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301445769

Sebastian H. Alive

Sebastian H. Alive is a Purchasing Manager by day, controlling and manipulating the world’s economy while brainwashing the gullible masses. By evening he is father to two demonic minions that the devil is too embarrassed to be associated with and by night he writes stories.

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Lords of the immoral land

The Corshan Quadrilogy - Book 1

By Sebastian H. Alive

Published by Sebastian H. Alive

License Notes

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright 2015 Sebastian H. Alive

Prologue

City of Krillia

That night he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong as he left the tavern penniless and melancholy.

It was late and the streets look deserted, but torches on iron brackets just about kept the narrow cobbled roads lit.  It was only after he had crossed a few streets that he had seen the shadows following him, and he had broken into a run, his feet hitting the ground running as fast as he could.

The moon shone brightly on the darkened street and he'd only managed to make it a few blocks before realizing he was lost.  Even over his own frantic pant, he could hear the steadfast muffled sounds of voices and the pounding of their feet as they searched for him.

Cursing angrily, he began running again through the streets of Krillia.

Fool, he had said to himself.

The gods hadn't favored him tonight and the toss of the knucklebones had seen him lose his sword in a wager, and without his sword he was in trouble.

Suddenly a figure burst from the shadows and barged Balik, sending him crashing to the floor.  His forehead beat the ground and he saw stars momentarily and then the man was on top of him, grabbing his leg and screaming to his accomplices.

Panicking, he kicked out as hard as he could with his boot and the hand slipped, but then snaked back out after him.  He lifted his foot again and kicked the man in the back of the thigh.  The man yelled with his face twisted in pain as he scrambled to his feet, but he dragged him back to the ground and they were sent sprawling to the floor.

This time Balik ended up on top of the assailant and he lifted his foot to stamp on his face, but as he brought his foot down, the man spun out of the way.  He could hear the shouts coming from behind him, drawing closer with every heartbeat and he quickly changed direction and sprinted away.

He's gone that way, shouted a voice.

 The road led straight ahead with many alleyways and Balik darted down one, skidding around the corner of the passage and straight into a dead end.  He spun round but it was too late; they had cornered him.

His eyes scanned the blind alley looking for a possible escape route but there was none and he edged away slowly, eyes narrowing as four men stepped into the narrow street with walls on both sides.  He felt the sharp clicking of his boot heels as he backed into the far wall and his hand reached out, scrambling against the smooth stone wall searching for purchase.

You owe money, one man hissed. 

Balik's face darkened and his hand glanced instinctively downward to where the hilt of his sword should have been.

The man’s laugh echoed off the stone walls and one of his partners stepped beside him, towering well over the man and carrying a huge crude studded bat which he hefted menacingly.  He vaguely heard the rasp of a sword being pulled from a sheath and a third man pulled alongside the other two.  The fourth man stood in the darkness, barely visible and watching with interest.

Tell Krygious I will get him his money!

It is too late for that now, young warrior.  You are quick on your feet, let’s see if you are as quick with your screams, spat the man bearing the sword.

Balik bunched his fist ready to take at least one of the men down and fixed his steely eyes on the first man who had laughed.

Who needs intelligence when you have a big sword, hey?  Come then, earn your pay brigand,

They advanced forward slowly, cautiously, when suddenly a sword spun through the air over their heads and skittered across the stones a few yards away from him.

The three men spun in surprise at the fourth man watching behind them from the shadows, humor glinting in his dark grey eyes.

What are you doing? shouted the first man, spittle flying from his mouth in anger.

Balik darted towards the blade and grabbed the weapon smoothly.  He swished the sword through the air a couple of times with a flick of his wrist, testing the balance of the sword and smiled grimly.

I am the Sword of Krillia and I have never been beaten with the blade, he said.

The words were spoken softly yet he knew they had heard him because he could see well enough to detect fear in their eyes and they were hesitant, suddenly unsure what to do.

Get him! the first man roared.

They rushed forward but he kicked away from the wall propelling his body forward, meeting them head on.

Ducking under a clumsy swing he dropped to his knee and thrust his blade up at the exposed stomach, sinking it into the man’s tender flesh and wrenching it clear savagely.  The man screamed and fell forward, desperately trying to stem the lifeblood streaming through his fingers. Balik rolled to the side just as a bat whizzed by his ear and hit the wall with a thud.  He jumped up fast and ducked again as another thunderous swing sliced through the air where his head had been seconds before.

Before the man could set himself for another, Balik hacked at his arm with his sword and the man uttered an agonized howl as his arm was severed, the sound echoing down the passageway.  As the man stumbled to his knee he spun round on the balls of his feet and buried the blade into the man’s neck, feeling warm blood splatter across his face.

The man was dead before his body hit the floor.

Balik heard a low groan from the first man with the mortal stomach wound and he looked down at the man with a savage glint in his eyes.

Help me! he croaked, reaching out with bloodied fingers.

You are already dead, said Balik turning his head to face the third attacker, and smiling broadly.

The man’s mouth opened and closed in silent terror and he turned and began to run away, but Balik hurled the sword through the night air and it caught the man square between the shoulder blades and he sank to his knees.  Walking over to him he twisted the blade and kicked the man in the small of his back, then wiped his weapon on the man’s trousers.

It is a fine blade, he said looking at the fourth man in the shadows.  Why did you help me?

I wanted to see how good you really are, said the man stepping forward.

His dark eyes glowed in the dim light cast by the moon and Balik felt the hackles rise on his neck as though the man’s stare was delving into his very soul.

I am the best,

Indeed you are, young Balik,

You know who I am! he said sounding surprised.

I do.  I am in need of your services,

My services come at a high cost, replied Balik licking his dry lips.

As does my request, but you will be paid handsomely,

Who are you?

I am Darmathion,

Chapter 1

Corshan

Caught by a gentle easterly wind the lightly woven curtains on either side of the balcony window moved slowly as the shadowed man gazed with sadness at his glorious estate sprawled out before him.

Tiny fingers of cold air caressed the lightly stubbled cheek of Kelleher as his emerald eyes soaked in the vast green pastures full of grazing livestock and laborers tending to his paddocks and farmland.

From his vantage point everything below looked serene yet at the same time busy with activity amongst the hustle and bustle of the workers. Everyone was rushing and no one had the time to pause, gaze up and marvel at the crisp blue and white skies or see the leaves falling majestically to the floor beckoning the onset of winter.

Preparations had begun and Kelleher had already organized the purchase of enough feed to see his animals through the harsh coming months to avoid the high prices that inevitably came with the winter solstice. Work had already started on clearing the existing ditches and drainage channels as well as remedial patching work on the barns to protect the animals against heavy drafts that occurred in the winter blizzards.

He enjoyed the challenge of winter. Man against the elements with the age old problem of maintaining some means of protection against the cold and lifeless stranglehold of the bitter seasonal chill.

‘Life indeed was a beautiful thing,’ thought Kelleher morosely as he closed his eyes against the land before him, but that beauty for him had faded a long time ago.

Sighing he moved away from the balcony to the open hearth where a huge log fire was burning, filling the room with dancing shadows that weaved and swirled a shadowy dance on the walls of his chamber. It spat and crackled as he approached and he shivered against the envelope of warmth that engulfed him.

From his deep robe he pulled out a rolled parchment and kneeled down against the fire, his steely eyes focusing on the wax seal of the 'brotherhood' embossed with the image of a pentagon that bound the document together. Breaking the seal and unrolling the parchment he quickly read the hand scripted words inked onto the paper, his face masked of emotion.

It read simply;

The shadows are gathering and the brotherhood await

We will find you and hunt you down. Your time is limited

Clayton

Slowly he lowered the paper and dropped it into the fire, watching as the flames licked round the parchment hungrily, destroying the transcription which he had received into ashes.

There was a light knock at the door disturbing Kelleher's thoughts as his servant Artenius entered the room slowly carrying a jug of warm mulled wine on a tray with two goblets.

Shuffling over to the table he placed it down slowly and turned, about to leave.

Artenius, come join me for a refreshment. commanded Kelleher.

Striding over to the table he poured himself a drink, draining the goblet in one mouthful. He was starting to feel the warmth of the mulled wine as it filled his body and quickly refilled his goblet, breathing in the scent of spice and citrus slowly.

Master. acknowledged Artenius humbly.

The old man ambled to the table, his wispy white and grey hair hanging lankly to his shoulders and resting loosely over his stick thin frame.

Do you know the happiest years of my life were my childhood, Artenius?

His servant shook his head, reaching for a goblet with trembling hands.

Here, let me old friend. Kelleher said brushing his arm away gently and pouring a generous amount of wine into the cup.

Artenius sipped the drink slowly.

I remember my parent’s farm here in Corshan; it was only a small holding with few animals. Mother used to scold me because I used to climb the fruit trees in the summer, eating up as much of the fruit as I could.

A brief smile played about Kelleher's face. I recall running barefoot in the snow in winter having all the freedom in the world, I could do whatever I wanted, go where I desired.

Artenius looked up with rheumy-watery blue eyes.

Master, is everything ok?

His voice was like a distant echo in Kelleher's mind and he dismissed the question absently with a wave of his hand.

I have decided I am leaving the brotherhood for a while.

If the statement had intended to shock his servant he hid it well, but Kelleher seemed barely to notice. His green eyes flicked un-noticed to the fire where the flames were moving in unison seemingly alive in the hearth.

I have long pondered this decision my friend, and the time is right. I have left detailed instruction on how the estate is to be handled in my absence and I expect you to honor my wishes until my return.

Master, enquired Artenius with wide eyes. Where are you going?

South I think....back home, or what remains of home. I'm going to go back to where I started, where it all began all those years ago and this starts with one single step.

But master, what about the brotherhood? stammered Artenius.

Kelleher gave a menacing chuckle, his gaze fixed intently on his servant.

They know, and you will betray me, Artenius, he said his eyes cold and clear as ice. And you will tell them everything. I'm tired of people dying for no reason, killing for no reason, tired of the hatred and the evil that I have become in this life. When we die we become dust and bones returning to the earth and I don't want my soul to be tainted any more with a legacy of blood and fire.

Master, when will you be back?

When the time is right, Artenius, when the time is right.

They shared a look in silence and everything was understood.

***

The evening air was wonderfully still and calm and every leaf hung quiet on the motionless trees flanking the dirt path as the cart rumbled loudly up the beaten track.

A chestnut pony not more than fourteen hands high paused at the crest of the hill snorting loudly amidst the clouds of dust kicked up along the trail. Snorting again the pony lurched along the uneven track, continuing its labored journey hauling the driver and his cargo to his destination.

Four hooded men hunched behind the withered remains of a large oak tree watching grimly as the cart passed slowly by, yards from their vantage point along the dirt path.

The driver sat almost bent double in his wooden seat, his face a map of wrinkles timeworn around world weary eyes seemingly lost in thought. The cart listed heavily to one side in a pothole, and with a flick of the reins held loosely in the drivers rough hands the pony righted itself and began to amble and pick up pace.

Raphael jerked the reins lightly again and clucked. Licking his lips he took a long drink from a silver flask at his side winching as the fiery liquid bathed his throat like hot embers.

Suddenly the pony stopped, lowered its head and began to eat some thin grass growing amongst the foliage. Sighing, Raphael climbed down from the cart, rubbing his bruised buttocks and cursed loudly to the heavens.

Amongst the trees wild winterberries grew, hanging like clusters of delicious juicy black beads surrounded by gnarled and twisted branches. The old man felt his stomach tighten in hunger and began to pick some of the sweet fruits, cursing occasionally again as his arthritic fingers let slip some of the fatter ones which rolled onto the baked trail.

Sorry I've run out of treats, Hebbie, he whispered to his pony. I'll find something for you when we reach Arros.

He gave Hebbie a quick rub under the chin, and pulled himself back onto the cart seat with a large groan. As he did so, four hooded strangers emerged from the trees, fanning out slowly and surrounding the cart.

Raphael swallowed hard as he scanned the hard faces of the men, noting their tattered, dirty and threadbare attire. His heart began hammering against his rib cage as the one of the men with a scar running the length of his chin planted his hands on his hips, staring Raphael up and down.

Good day, sir. the man said, his eyes grey as storm-clouds and devoid of life.

Raphael nodded, his eyes trying to gauge the man and read his intentions. Circling high in the sky a hawk squawked loudly, seemingly mocking the fear emanating from the old man. Clearing his throat Raphael straightened his back, pushing out his chest. Suddenly he felt all his years bearing down on his frail shoulders, almost overpowering him.

I am Garash and these are my men. he said waving a hand to his three accomplices.

I am Raphael.

Garash nodded, his cold eyes resting on Hebbie and a knot of oily fear wormed itself slowly in the old man’s chest.

She is a beautiful animal! he acknowledged. What is her name?

She don’t got a name. said Raphael, hawking and spitting to the ground.

Garash gave the waggoneer a surprised look. Then what do you call her?

I call her pony.

A dry chuckle broke out behind him and Garash looked on with a smile playing about his lips, giving a crooked grin. Walking slowly toward the pony he stepped under the shafts of the cart running his hands over the skin of the animal whispering softly.

She is thirsty and is looking for water. Garash said without looking up.

Raphael blinked, eyes shifting nervously between the men.

The atmosphere was pregnant with tension, and the old man could almost taste the sweetness of fear in the air so much so he didn't want to lick his dry lips for worry of letting the tension outside take hold.

Garash patted the collar of the pony, eyes roaming over the cart and dancing over the shafts each side of the animal that supported the forward-balance load in the cart. Nodding in appreciation, his eyes furtively looked at the large spokes of the wheels, and then rested on the large saddle bags.

My men are hungry and in need of food. he said nodding his men forward.

The three hooded men whooped in excitement and began tearing at the straps holding the saddlebags to the cart.

Raphael's eyes narrowed, never leaving the gaze of Garash as a tiny flicker of anger flamed into life in his stomach, fanning into a raging fire licking and tugging at every nerve ending in the old man’s body.

You can rob me...and you can beat me, just don't bore me.

Anger flashed across the face of Garash and he lunged at Raphael, hurling the old man to the ground with a snarl.

The sensation of fear, like an intense drug, was now flowing through the old man’s veins, heightening all his senses. Raphael called loudly for help, but no-one heard his cries as his possessions were unloaded, being thrown haphazardly to the floor and ripped open fervently as they looked for valuables and food.

He thought he could taste blood but then realized he could taste the salt of tears flowing down his face and into his mouth.

Then there was a figure, a man walking slowly over the crest of the hill, followed slowly by another, taller man.

Raphael's heart leapt and he screamed out, but if the newcomers had heard him they didn't acknowledge or hasten their pace. The old man crawled on his knees, edging away from the cart, his voice barely a croak now. The two newcomers carried on their casual walk and had now drawn the attention of Garash and his men, who had slowed their looting, unsure what to do. Raphael could now make out the broad flat features of the first man, noting the cold hard eyes and his heart sank.

They approached the cart slowly; the taller man appeared to have a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Good evening. Garash said harshly.

There seemed to be an edge of something in his voice, but Raphael couldn't quite place it.

The shorter mans cold dark eyes shifted to Raphael's, expressionless. They bore into the soul of the old man and suddenly he felt even more terrified than he had been. The gaze held for a moment then shifted to Garash.

You can die today. he said simply.

The words hung in the air and Garash smiled nervously shifting from one foot to the other as his men silently gathered behind him.

Everyone dies one day. he replied.

True, the man said. I am Darmathion. You have two choices, my friend. Live or die. Choose wisely.

The air crackled with tension and hostility and Raphael could sense Garash's men were looking with expectancy at their leader for direction. He could either fight or back down. One decision would show a weakness in leadership and loss of face, and the other could result in death.

Garash’s hand curled around the hilt of his sword, resting reassuringly on the cool of the metal, the touch alone clearing the brigand leader’s head of any mounting fears.

He was Garash, feared throughout the land and had killed more men along this dusty trail than he cared to remember. These were his roads and he alone decided if any blood would be shed on his land.

Allow me. said the taller man, stepping forward and flashing a smile.

The man moved graceful, almost like a dancer observed Raphael as he pushed himself to his feet rubbing his arthritic knees – no not a dancer, an animal, like a cat.

And who are you? snarled Garash.

The sword had been partially drawn from its scabbard and the tall man read the intent with mocking eyes.

I am Balik from Krillia.

I have heard of you, whispered Garash.

The color drained from the robbers face and he took a faltering step back.

It happens, shrugged Balik dropping his pack to the floor rolling his shoulders and loosening his neck muscles.

Suddenly one of the robbers screamed and lunged forward with a snarl. Time seemed to slow for Raphael as he witnessed something that he would never forget for the rest of his life.

Wait… screamed Garash with arms raised but it was too late.

In one smooth motion Balik reached over his shoulders bringing over two blades of exquisite silver which almost sung as they cut through the air in a murderous arc. Blood sprayed the air like a crimson rainbow and the attacker crumpled to the floor, his leg twitching violently in the dirt of the path.

Garash shouted something inaudible, running over to the man and staring into his vacant lifeless eyes. The wound to his neck was still pumping blood and he vainly tried to stem the flow with trembling hands but to no avail as the fluid snaked out from underneath his fingers drenching his dirty clothes.

He is dead. said Balik simply.

He stepped forward and wiped the edges of the blades against the dead man’s trousers as the brigand leader looked up with tears in his eyes, his lips curled back almost feral like a dog.

He was but a boy, you murderous whoreson!

Balik shrugged and inspected the blades before sheathing the swords and moving over to his pack, hefting the weight back onto his shoulders with a grunt.

The shorter man, Darmathion, gazed down at the kneeling Garash with cold, dark eyes.

You leave now. I see your face again, or that of your men, you all die.

The words were spoken softly but with conviction. Garash nodded numbly with his head bowed as the two strangers walked by, followed slowly by the rumbling wheels of the pony cart and Raphael, who was staring grimly ahead.

They traveled cautiously, gradually angling away from the narrow dusty track to a wider trail flanked by dense trees, stopping several times to rest along the trail.

Raphael remained silent, lost in his own thoughts as the cart trundled slowly along the rugged path with the rhythmic fall of Hebbie's hooves reassuring as he bounced and listed in the wagon seat.

He wasn't really one for companionable silence. Man has to keep the conversation flowing in a light and steady way he always thought, but he was depressed this evening and was haunted by what he had witnessed earlier on the trail.

The old man could still see the lifeless eyes of the young boy staring up at him and shuddered inwardly, taking a sip from his flask quickly.

‘He was someone's son,’ he thought with a sigh. ‘Yet he chose a path and it was the wrong one, and ultimately paid for the crimes he had committed with his life.’

Stupid child, muttered Raphael under his breath.

Clearing his throat he craned his neck over his shoulder, staring back down the trail at the following men.  There was only the tall young man behind the cart and he nodded his head and smiled brightly at Raphael.  He nodded back, gazing at the young warrior as he strode graceful and sure-footed behind the wagon.  He moved effortlessly and carried himself with an aura of confidence or arrogance, but Raphael couldn't differentiate between the two in the man.  He had the type of face the village women would go weak at