Satchel & Sword I: The Search for the Saluka Stone

By Claudette Marco

In the land of time and Queens, one young woman sought not greed, but justice!
Satchel & Sword I: The Search for The Saluka Stone is part one of a Young Adult Epic Fantasy trilogy chronicling the struggles and perseverance of Nevaline Scarcliff, a 15-year-old foot soldier living in the militarist, matriarchal territory of Amazonia. The greedy Amazonian Queen forces her army to march north to fight against Amazonia’s rival territory Hychester. They must march through the bewitched Blackbern Forest in order to conceal their attack. There, Nevaline and her best friend Cairine wield their Claymores in perilous battles against mercenaries, thieving Harpies, giant, human-eating Pophagi, enemy soldiers, and a group of malevolent sorcerers called the Sables. Nevaline also discovers her true destiny: she must destroy Micdian, the God of Verahain (Purgatory), who descended to earth to enslave all in the continent of Kordalis and the northern islands of the Caátlach Ocean. She must retrieve the Saluka Stone and use it to awaken him and destroy him. Will she recover the Saluka Stone? Will she claim justice and destroy Micdian?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Claudette Marco
• Release date: Nov 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311396723

Claudette Marco

Claudette Marco, scrivener of poetry and short stories since she was a child, earned a B.A. degree from Whittier College, soul budding in world wild. After many years of toil, soul searching for relief, she finally reclaimed path towards labor complete: writing. Home locates in Kingman, AZ.

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Satchel & Sword I:

The Search for the Saluka Stone

by

Claudette Marco

Smashwords edition. © 2013 Claudette Marco.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the expressed written consent of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-1492853770

ISBN-10:1492853771

Edited by Robert Yehling

www.wordjourneys.com

http://bobyehling.wordpress.com/

http://366writing.wordpress.com/

Cover Art by Trevor Smith

www.trevorsmithart.com

http://www.trevorsmithart.blogspot.com/

Treading path within the darkness of Blackbern Forest, only few, real and fantastical, have shed their beam of hope upon worn eyes. Such deserve dedication of this narrative.

"Door upon hinge opens at hand’s behest."

--Master Sjhong.

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

ONE

Training

Nevaline Scarcliff sprinted alongside her twenty-nine armored squad-mates around the worn dirt paths of the United Warriors’ Training Camp. The two dead trees marking the last Scots mile of the ten mile exercise run appeared. The mood changed. Squad-mates who, to that point, had claimed a normal pace began frantically weaving through each other. Nevaline unleashed her speed, gaining a couple of paces. She heard the huffs of some of her jealous squad-mates. Even after years of these runs, those huffs yet weaken my spirit. Nevertheless, she continued on.

No tangible prize awaited the winner, merely the glare of envy. She usually claimed that bitter victory.

At the finish line, she saw their scowling trainer, Vysariff Hector Trenier. Appreciations to the Goddess, this run is almost completed.

Despite not liking how the others treated her during the exercises, she enjoyed doing them because they gave her a welcome pause to reminisce over the many sayings of her beloved Mythics teacher, Master Sjhong: As discarded fruit rots upon the ground, so must the arrogant bear their hopeless hearts unto the Supreme Goddess Adamathia and be sent straightaway to rot in Socripham.

The brush of wind from a passing squad-mate stayed her momentary mental break. Nae. I shall not allow any to defeat me this day.

A grunt left her throat, spurring her speed.

Her squad turned the corner around a group of silver birch trees, prevalent in the cold, rainy, often cloudy, Amazonian Territory. The finish line drew near, close enough for her to distinguish the dreadful, perpetual glower on Trenier’s face. She raced down the last hill, its dirt idly drying from last night’s rain.

Nevaline regained her spot ahead of the others, save one: Sibli. Sibli’s black, jaw-length hair snapped like short whips as she glanced over her shoulder to look for any challengers. She exhaled short heaves of breath as she marked the pace at which Nevaline’s was gaining on her. She glared again to the side, acknowledging her challenger’s lock on her.

Steady, Nevie… only a few more yards.

With another grunt, she hastened her stride.

Finish!

She passed Sibli by about three strides.

Dashing past Vysariff Trenier, Nevaline welcomed the giant halting steps which concluded the day’s long distance run. She bent over as air raced from her lungs.

The Vysariff’s stare could have boiled her alive. Run’s victor today: Scarcliff, uttered the trainer. Turning his disgusted scowl towards Sibli, his face expressed the cruel words, my own daughter, absent talent, reeks of failure’s stench once again.

That man’s bitterness goes on towards infinity.

Her skills always surpassed those of his daughter in both sword fighting and physical training. They both hated her for it. Ignoring them proved Nevaline’s best defense, though their piercing words and mocking gestures at times proved too difficult for her to bear.

Her father imparted helpful words when dealing with such people: ‘coping with others is like caring for a sword, day after day it must see diligent sharpening and persistent polishing.’ In other words, dealing with people required a lot of work on one’s part, not to mention a lot of patience. Yet, if the wrong person wielded it, the cut of her or his blade ran deep; ‘wipe away the blood from your pride and continue on your own path absent return swing.’ A blacksmith by trade, her father liked to use weapons’ analogies.

She waited for the day in which the insults of Trenier and Sibli would dull and fade.

Nevaline and her squad walked for endurance exercises towards a large hill, one of many proliferating in Amazonia. She noticed other squads of younger girls practicing beginner sword fighting with their short, wooden swords. Innocent optimism chipped away with every blow, she muttered to herself.

She caught sight of the Confinement Sheds around the camp’s perimeter. Each randomly placed stone block was only the size of a small chicken coop. They stood as a painful reminder of the Amazonian military’s control over its trainees, a consequence for any order breached.

The trainees in the United Warriors’ Training Camp were split into five groups, or Halls, each assigned specific tasks. There was Adristai Hall, which was the cavalry of the Amazonian army, Ivora Hall, which was the archers, Acantha Hall, which dealt with agriculture, Paxus Hall, which encompassed the scribes and engineers, and Rodina Hall, Nevaline’s Hall, the sword-fighting infantry of the Amazonian army. The Halls were further split into many squads, or groups of thirty girls… and only girls. The boys labored in the kitchens, chopped wood, washed dishes, and performed most other chores in the camp. Every squad had a Vysariff, or a trainer responsible for training the girls. These trainers could be men because in Amazonian society, trainers and teachers held no standing when it came to military decisions.

After about a half hour of sprinting up and down the steep hills, they ran towards a flat field. There, they scampered sideways, feet interweaving back and forth for another half hour. The Vysariff instructed everyone to crouch down, causing further strain to their leg muscles. Afterwards, the squad slowly lay upon the ground face down, toes supporting their bodies. They pushed themselves up and lowered themselves back down. Up and down. One. Two. ...One hundred. …One hundred twenty, they counted in unison.

Two beads of sweat crept from Nevaline’s hair, which was the color of Scots Pine bark. The beads continued down both sides of her temples, met at the trough of her forehead, and dropped into the rain-soaked earth. The Vysariff urged everyone to move faster. Many more beads of sweat joined that drop on the ground.

Afterwards, the trainees grimaced as they returned to the finish line to strengthen their abdominal muscles. They leapt and clutched a strong tree branch. Clamping their legs together, they lifted their feet upwards, toes pointing towards the sky, knees remaining straight. The Vysariff urged them to go faster. Hammers and mace, what pain! She lost count after one hundred and twenty-five lifts.

They finished training exercises with sword practice. Nevaline stretched her hand above her head, unbuttoned the resin-hardened leather strap around the sword and crossguard, slid the sword from the slit down the side of the scabbard, and unsheathed her long, sharp Claymore. Nevaline stared at her sword. She smiled through her hurried breaths as the blade forced a shine against the dreary, cloudy day. Faint scratches adorned the top of the sharp blade. The smile fell from her face as her fingertips slid over the squatting blemishes. She would have to spend the night polishing it.

At twelve years of age, foot-soldiers-in-training were assigned a permanent sword with which to practice and, eventually, wield in battle. She felt pride in holding the sword, for she had practiced hard. With each swing, she felt more and more entrenched into her duty to the army. That was her lot in life. To defend herself in battle, to not die, meant mastering the sword.

Nevaline desired the forging of certain adornments on her Claymore. Master Sjhong bartered coins in exchange for her labor. She repaired cracked wooden boards in and around his cottage. She pulled weeds in his and the neighbor’s gardens, and mended his and the neighbors’ clothes. Eventually, she earned enough coins to engage a blacksmith to construct the sword’s hilt out of birch wood from a tree Master Sjhong had helped her cut down. They meditated for a fortnight to find this special tree. The wood possessed a mythical quality, Master Sjhong had said, and advised her to keep the wood and sword close. It would spark a bolt of strength when strength existed not. He also helped her sculpt knickknacks, jewelry boxes, and decorative statuettes. When she handed the blacksmith the wood, he graciously obliged. Surprisingly, the smithy knew her father well. Upon occasion, one would repair materials for the other. He carved quatrefoils on the ends of the slightly upturned crossguard at no additional barter to honor the memory of her father.

When she held her sword for the first time, she gazed upon the shiny, new blade with hope and confidence. However, when she brought the sword to physical training, she dropped the blade several times, her hands crippling under its gargantuan weight.

Vysariff Trenier’s words lacked dilution. "Your mind ignores the reality of your weaknesses. That sword is no more than a pat of butter in your childish hands."

His sharp tongue had cut too deep that day, calling her competence in using the vocation’s ultimate tool into question. She raced to her bedchamber, threw the sword on the floor, and vowed never to retrieve it.

Then she missed Master Sjhong’s class. He sent a squad-mate to find her. Nevaline walked to his cottage, trembling as she knocked on the door. When it opened, Master Sjhong stared at her. Did... nae... did he know what happened? His voice entered into her mind: Strength and patience should never stray from your hands, Hummingbird.

She wiped the tears of self-pity away and nodded. Words did not depart from his lips that night, nor did they need to. The next morning, much to Trenier’s chagrin, a newfound motivation tripled her efforts.

Coming back from her memory, a headless, wooden quintain stood in front of her. She spread her legs a little more than shoulder width apart and gripped her toes to the earth. She punished the wooden knight for the next hour, slicing and stabbing it with her Claymore. She imagined Trenier’s short, stocky thorax in the dummy’s stead.

Sparring followed. Every day, they were assigned a different sparring partner. Nevaline always prayed to the Goddess for Yesnina as her assigned partner. Her bunkmate since the previous year, they had developed a lasting friendship. One year younger than Nevaline, Yesnina had trained at the Camp for six years.

However, most of Nevaline’s squad-mates were different than Yesnina. Many attempted to distract her during sparring because they knew how hard she worked on her sword-fighting, and lacked in enthusiasm to practice themselves. A few times, she succumbed to these distractions. Those cuts ran deeper than any flesh wound.

Still, dealing with such tricky young women made her better at observing people’s actions and gaining cues in anticipating their next attack moves. She found that they often behaved quite predictably in their shoulder movements and sword swinging patterns; hence, she easily blocked every swing and thrown fist. Sibli was no exception. However, what Sibli lacked in spontaneity, she more than made up for in her frantic, slaughterous sword swinging. She knew that Sibli’s thirst for blood would only be quenched when one person was dead: herself.

On this day, Sibli was Nevaline’s sparring partner. The arrogant squad-mate trudged towards her, Sibli’s three toadies walking alongside, ensuring they did not stray too far from their leader. Nevaline tightened her grip on her sword’s hilt.

Acantha Hall should have been your rightful placement. Amazonia is deficient in its supply of goat milk maids, Sibli laughed, her toadies joining in. She pointed towards the ground. Here stand warriors of Rodina Hall, not pathetic blades of grass which sway with the wind. The rest of you cannot tell a longsword from a nail cutter. The four hens cackled.

Nevaline wrung her hilt in an attempt to control her anger. Sibli glanced at Yesnina, who was commencing her own sparring session. You twits shall lead the army towards its burial ground.

From not being able to outrun the enemy? Nevaline retorted.

The toadies moaned sarcastically. Their assigned sparring partners, eager to finish their own sparring sessions, stood a few paces behind them, annoyed.

Sibli’s top lip twitched. Weakling! Your mind has succumbed to madness. Her words burned Nevaline’s ears. "However, the fault lies not upon the student, but upon her lunatic teacher, Sjhong. Everyone, not just in Amazonia but in the entire continent of Kordalis, considers that fool the grandest charlatan ever to place a potion in her mouth. If to make up words and mumble unintelligible rubbish holds such high esteem within the territory, then the Ascendancy should grant a dirty vagrant his own plot of land as well." The lackeys cheered.

Anger coursed through Nevaline’s blood like a wind-swept gust of fire over a dried meadow. Master Sjhong is not a charlatan! she shouted.

"All trainees ‘chosen’ by that charlatan could neither perform enchantments nor tolerate his lunacy. That fool would claim success peddling counterfeit beauty potions to stupid Acantha cottage-maids... that fungus-wart jester!" shouted Sibli.

Nevaline wrung the hilt, imagining it was Sibli’s neck. She breathed in slowly and deeply, trying to slow her escalating anger.

Nevaline merely defends. Her will does not carry the pluck of a true warrior’s fight, uttered one of the toadies.

"Warriors are formed like a marble statue of the Goddess Kelsia, not babies who cry to their father after failing to run as fast as the others and failing once again at sparring." Nevaline spat out the last word.

The toadies moaned and chuckled. Sibli glared at her with the sharpness of a butcher’s cleaver and unsheathed her sword. The toadies dispersed to their respective sparring partners.

Nevaline and Sibli hunched into sword-fighting position, stalking from side to side, each awaiting the other’s first strike. Sibli gripped her golden-hilted longsword, which shone brightly despite the heavy cloud cover. The daughter of a Vysariff could afford such expensive alterations.

Staring at my beautiful sword? You orphans shall never earn enough to barter for a sword of such handsome quality, or anything of value, for that matter. Cherish the memory of such richness, for your dulled, chipped sword would not even suit a Chokunda beggar, Sibli said.

Nevaline exhaled as she chuckled. One gauges a sword’s quality by the hands wielding it. Judging by our past sparring sessions, that golden-hilted sword barters for less than the mud your feet prance on.

"Aaaaaahhh!"

Sibli charged at Nevaline with her sword lifted above her head. Nevaline lifted her sword upwards and crosswise to block the oncoming swing. The blades met like the first contentious head butt of two rams fighting on a boulder-laden cliff side.

Her brazen challenger lifted her sword over her right shoulder and swung again. Nevaline swung her sword towards her left side to block.

Balancing all her body weight on her back foot, Sibli brought her sword behind her right shoulder and swung with all of her might towards Nevaline’s left side. Nevaline blocked it.

With unrelenting hatred, Sibli generated an alternating series of right and left sword swings. Nevaline continued to block; she had no intentions to maim, or kill, any squad mate, no matter the extent of her attack or how deeply her words hurt. Sparring sessions made her practice tempering her emotions for battle. As anger escalates, accordingly do mistakes, Master Sjhong said.

Return fight, you white-livered waif! Sibli shouted. She swung her sword, each swing swifter and harder than the last. Nevaline patiently blocked, waiting for the opening to immobilize.

Their swords met and rested on each other. Each trainee wrestled the other for supremacy. Nevaline tightened her arm muscles, gripping her fingers over the hilt as firmly as possible. Her toes gripped the ground, burrowing into the dirt. Her opponent heaved her chest forward, attempting to gain leverage. Sibli’s bulging eyes, pursed lips, and flared nostrils provided an amusing sight.

Hehe, Nevaline chuckled accidentally.

"Does the faintness of your mind amuse thusly? Shall my opponent’s weak blade strike not sweat upon my brow? Hah! Fear of challenging anyone stays your hands. This is why your father abandoned you: you are a useless coward, hardly a daughter of any father’s pride."

Nevaline had tolerated her insults long enough. Before me stands an arrogant, imbecilic tavern wench lacking in every conceivable manner. You shall regret the moment those spiteful words departed from your insidious pig-mouth.

She pushed Sibli away and aimed her sword low, lunging towards her stomach.

Sibli maneuvered her sword into an underhanded side-sweeping motion towards her right side and swung, blocking the trajectory of Nevaline’s oncoming sword. As the swords made contact, Nevaline twirled her body around, continuing her swing. She aimed for her adversary’s left arm. Marking this attack from the corner of her eye, Sibli leapt sideways with quick, stumbling side steps. She cried out as the tip of Nevaline’s sword grazed her left shoulder. She tripped over her own feet and fell on the ground. She slowly rolled on her back to face Nevaline.

Nevaline ran after her fallen squad mate like an osprey swooping to pluck a fish from Lake Bonmara. Her right elbow lifted the pommel of her sword high towards her right shoulder. Her mouth slowly opened. A raging cry of heartbreak and resentment broke through her remaining self-restraint. She envisioned her sword drenched with Sibli’s blood as the blade displayed the victory of her silence.

Sibli’s cold, heartless expression changed to one of engrossed fear.

Scarcliff! The shout broke Nevaline’s pursuit. She slowed her running pace with a few large steps and lowered her sword. She glanced around, searching for the arresting voice. Vysariff Trenier stared directly at her. All other squad mates stopped their sparring and stared apprehensively. The Vysariff strutted his customary arrogance towards her as she gasped for air.

Madness! Her eyes turned entirely bluish purple. That beast bears bewitchment! shouted Sibli from the ground, pointing her shuddering longsword at her opponent.

The Vysariff ignored the ravings of his cowering daughter. What in Socripham explains such actions? Nevaline’s thoughts jumbled as guilt overwhelmed her lips. Sparring benefits everyone’s practice, not your personal war.

The angered trainer closed his eyes and sighed. "For countless seasons, I have been burdened with the unruly behavior of your insolence. Every single day requires constant effort to teach all you girls how to avoid the beating of your own tombstones upon your heads; yet you make a mockery of my instruction. Hence, you make a mockery of your squad mates’ lives. Troublemaking girls should be ousted from society and taken to the middle of Blackbern Forest to wallow and decay. Then would the value of your worth be measured. Another ten miles!"

But— Nevaline began to protest.

"If I requested a discussion, I would have summoned your parents. Oh, apologies. They are dead. You walk the earth bereft of anyone who cares. I alone save you from slumbering in the urine-soaked corners of the Amazonian marketplaces and rummaging for scraps of food through the dung of beggars. He adjusted his thickly lined, green vest. If this does not define my caring nature, then no such compassion has befallen the world. If you place any value upon your life, you shall act exactly as instructed. Start your run. While you are at it, practice for another hour at the quintain. Now, remove your pestilent visage from my sight."

Nevaline ground her teeth. She glanced at the rest of her squad mates. A couple of girls bestowed looks of pity. Most others donned smirks, basking in the delight of seeing their competitor punished. Vysariff Trenier glanced around. Gaze upon your own lack of quality and be gone! he shouted.

The others sheathed their swords and dispersed, concluding training exercises for that day. For Nevaline, that day began for a second time.

Sibli stood slowly and gazed at her, mouth ajar. Sibli’s insipid toadies snickered at their fallen leader. She sneered at them. Shut your swine mouths!

Disappointment filled Nevaline. Her actions proved that she could not control her temper. Before, her anger would have never escalated towards such blind thirst to relieve her pain. Her patience was as diminished as the cloud-obscured sun. She was exhausted from the camp and from seeing the same abhorrent people sunrise after sunrise. Master Sjhong had counseled her over such a matter on several occasions: Never surrender yourself unto others’ control; if this occurs, then you exist as an earthworm absent dirt, absent point… absent life, he said.

Nevaline’s growling stomach reminded her that she had missed lunch. She would not eat again until supper. Her stomach growled even louder.

She finished the last few lashes on the wooden knight as the next squad began their run. Trenier, sitting near her, ate from a metal plate brimming with roasted grouse meat, steaming potatoes, and lush green broccoli. He nonchalantly wagged his hand, ending her scolding.

Forcing her wearied legs forward, she hurried towards the Academics’ building. With her lungs squeezed of air, she panted as she walked into the chamber. Scarcliff, tardy. One demerit. And dare you enter an Academics’ chamber donning weapon and armor? Two demerits. Now sit, Mistress Borgach croaked.

The hairy wart underneath her bottom lip quivered as her mouth unfurled every Amazonian student’s worst nightmare: an hour’s worth of sweeping the Academics’ chamber floor, wiping the desks, and shining all of Mistress Borgach’s pointed brown ankle boots.

Since she missed lunch, she had no time to change out of her armor. Apologies, Mistress, said Nevaline, feigning contriteness. Borgach’s long, flat mouth pursed so tightly the gaping hole of her mouth engorged her thin lips.

Burdened with the entire class’s stare, she walked with heavy footsteps down the middle row of desks, eyeing her seat at the rear of the chamber. Yesnina, sitting in the neighboring desk, casually and slyly passed her an apple.

Finally, some food. She plopped her backside upon the wooden chair. Her armor made a loud sound as it plunked onto the wood. All the young women turned their heads, faces absent expression. Apologies…, she murmured.

Pupil perpetual…, said Mistress Borgach. "Continuing on… The last one hundred years have seen our army amass such profound wealth, making Amazonia the only territory able to afford schooling and physical training for all military trainees. No other territory can boast of such a fine, extremely well organized army.

"A prime example is the Mauteby territory. The Maute people traces their origins to the ancient Zoxicas of the islands north of Kordalis in the Caátlach Ocean. The Corumauk people, seeking control over the islands’ abundant natural resources, waged a naval war three centuries ago against the Zoxicas. Outnumbered, the Zoxicas lost poorly. The Corumauks claimed many men and most women and children from the islands as slaves. They remained there for two centuries until ousted by a new Zoxican emperor a century ago. In Corumauk, though, many generations of Zoxicas saw no end to the enslavement. Loss of hope sparked resentment. Zoxica traditions slowly escaped the minds of the angered captives. Once cherished traditions surrendered to a festering, usurping mentality.

"Autonomous criminal bands of Zoxica men and women began forming. This disillusioned people gained strength with the bands’ growing numbers. They thieved from others to acquire resources, and set their goal towards expelling the Corumauk army and the ruling class from the Mauteby territory. Decades passed absent any change. Then, about forty years ago, the once disjointed criminal bands united and successfully ousted the Corumauks. The newly freed people retitled the territory Mauteby, after their leader, Sol Mauteby, who united the bands. Unfortunately, the successful coup ended with the adored leader’s last breath. Several sought to replace his vacancy, causing battles amongst each other. Such battles yet cripple the territory.

The Maute Raiders, one of the largest gang of thieves and mercenaries in the Mauteby territory, hold horrid, embarrassing practices. One in particular is initiating their children by tattooing them with their insignia, Mistress Borgach concluded, looking directly at Yesnina.

Sibli and a couple of her toadies turned their heads and smirked at Yesnina. Embarrassed, Yesnina swished her long, dark brown, curly hair on her back, attempting to cover the tattoo of the capital ‘M’ on the back of her neck. Her parents were part of that gang. They arrived in Amazonia while fleeing from gang members they had robbed. However, the men caught up to them and killed them. Not wanting to take care of an eight year old little girl, they left Yesnina alone on Carlswald Passage. An Amazonian patrol found her crying near some trees and took her to the training camp.

Yesnina’s tattoo had spread and faded slightly as she had grown, yet, the inner, emotional scar remained. Yesnina did not embrace the Mauteby anger. Whenever Nevaline needed to talk about her problems, she was sensitive and gave her much needed empathy. Nevaline’s friend earned her respect for her thoughtfulness, which was what made Nevaline angry at this belittling of her friend. Worse, she could do nothing about it.

Mistress Borgach took a deep breath. However, one territory in Kordalis almost matches Amazonia’s wealth.…

Hychester, the students answered in a united, bored whisper.

A crunching sound echoed in the chamber.

Wh—What was that sound? Who produced such sound? Dare a student eat during my class? shouted the rotund teacher. She stomped her boots up and down the rows, popping her head between the desks and into every face.

The sound of more crunching skipped along the