Fury Of The Sword: Chronicles Of Arkadia Vol 3

By J. Jones

Remada is burning!

The once proud nation lies in ruins, its people scattered and broken.

Hordes of Narmidians have invaded sweeping all before them.

As the war threatens to engulf the whole continent, Arlen Meric heads home to warn his people of the impending invasion.

But things in the north are not what they were and Arlen finds his country is now a cauldron of simmering resentment ready to boil over.

Meanwhile to the south, after escaping the Salandori slave camps, one time war hero Teren Rad, wants nothing more than to find his son and protect what’s left of his family. But a lifetime of war and blood is hard to suppress. Once more the cry of battle calls to him and Teren soon finds himself the focal point of Remada’s resistance.

In a world turned upside down where lifelong enemies now fight by your side against the common foe, Teren finds himself leading a last stand against the invaders.

Victory is glory. Defeat unthinkable.

"'Redemption' is, at times, brutal and it’s refreshing to read a Fantasy book where the heroes aren't perfectly good. The story hurtles along ... It’s a great fantasy book, and anyone looking for something with a little bite to it should look no further. Oh, and I cried at the end, which is always a plus..." Sam Leeves author of Endless Tides

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirador Publishing
• Release date: Oct 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781909224681

J. Jones

Julian R. Jones is a Royal Academy of Engineering/EPRSC Research Fellow in the Department of Materials, Imperial College London. In 2004 he was awarded the Silver Medal for outstanding achievement by a young researcher in materials science by the UK Institute of Materials, Minerals and Mining.

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FURY OF THE SWORD

THE CHRONICLES OF ARKADIA

VOL. THREE

J. JONES

First Published by Mirador Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 by J. Jones

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First edition: 2013

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflect the reality of any locations involved.

A copy of this work is available though the British Library.

IBSN : 978-1-909224-68-1

Also available through Netherworld Books

The Chronicles Of Arkadia Series:

Destiny Of The Sword

Redemption Of The Sword

Anthologies:

Tales of Terror For A Dark Night

Chapter 1

Starik Vesla, Sultan of the Narmidian tribes and self-proclaimed king of kings, watched impassively from the back of his magnificent white stallion as another two prisoners were deprived of their heads. Their kneeling bodies remained upright for a few seconds before finally toppling forward onto the once lush green grass that was now slick with blood. The sight used to excite him but having presided over hundreds if not thousands of similar executions, they now held little interest for him. Still, they were necessary he realised, if only to ferment terror in those who continued to resist. The cold kiss of the executioner’s sword was often a powerful deterrent.

Starik glanced up at the cloudless azure sky and squinted, irritated that his eyes were not being adequately protected from the fierce sun. It was only mid-morning but already it was beating relentlessly down on the mass of men outside the city. Attuned to his king’s every facial expression, his attendant immediately started beating the two slaves holding the shades behind Starik, with the cane he carried, shouting at them to move. The slaves quickly re-positioned themselves so that the king was completely in the shade.

The king smirked to himself. Even after all these years it still gratified him to see the sheer terror a mere displeased expression could instil in those around him. Nothing could surpass the knowledge that you held the lives of those around you in the palm of your hand and could dispose of them with a click of the fingers. Nothing that is, except the look of fear in their eyes when they realised it too.

Starik watched as another prisoner was dragged in front of him. Unlike the others this was no ordinary soldier but someone of note judging by their clothes and the proud set to their jaw, even though they knew their position was hopeless. The prisoner was forced to his knees and despite repeated beatings from the guards every time he dared to lift his head and look at Starik, he continued to do so.

Starik smiled. Finally, here was someone with true courage; someone worthy of killing.

Who is this? Starik asked no one in particular, whilst continuing to stare at the prisoner.

This is Balith Rocar, my King. Cousin to King Viktus of Remada, replied one of his aides sat on a horse a respectful distance behind Starik.

Except Viktus is no longer king of Remada is he? He was deposed by a group of his own generals was he not? said Starik, his tone one of contempt.

No, my King, I mean yes, my King, replied the aide clearly terrified.

Well which is it; yes or no?

No, my King as always you are correct; Viktus no longer sits upon the throne. He was removed in a coup of his own generals.

Then why are you giving me false information; you’re supposed to be my adviser? If I can’t rely on you to provide me with correct intelligence, what use are you to me? Starik didn’t have to look behind him to know that the man had probably turned white with fear and was shaking in his saddle.

I am truly sorry, my King; it won’t happen again.

I know, replied Starik raising his right hand slightly. There was a faint hissing noise as a sword was eased from its scabbard and then a soft squelching sound as the bodyguard’s sword was thrust deep into the aide’s abdomen. Then without uttering another sound, the aide’s lifeless body toppled from his saddle and hit the grass with a muffled thud. Doras? Another of the king’s advisers edged his horse nearer to Starik, carefully side-stepping the body lying beneath him, its glistening entrails starting to slowly slide out of the gaping wound and onto the ground.

Yes, my King?

It seems, Doras, that there is an opening for the position of chief adviser to which you have just been promoted.

Thank you, my King. You do me great honour, said Doras startled.

Serve me well, Doras and the rewards will be great and varied. Fail me and behold your future spilling out onto the ground before you. Starik gave it a moment or two to let his words sink in before continuing. Now what can you tell me about this wretch before me, Doras?

Even though the king had not once turned round to face him, Doras found himself forcing his posture upright before replying. He took a second to consider his response knowing full well that his very life depended on the answer he was about to give. His friend, Lupelis, the aide who had just been killed in front of him, had once told him that sometimes it was better to tell the king what he wanted to hear rather than the truth; it was all about gauging the man’s erratic moods.

His name is Balith Rocar, my King. He is cousin to Viktus Rocar, the recently deposed usurper of the throne that is yours through birthright. He led the Remadan troops defending this town and was captured along with twenty-two of his men after they sought to make a last stand outside the governor’s residence. His men have all been executed and only this man remains alive from those who dared to resist your greatness. You have only to give the word and his name along with his life will be expunged for good.

There was a deafening silence that seemed to drag on for minutes as the king considered his new chief adviser’s words, before Starik suddenly started to laugh.

Very good, Doras, it seems you learn quickly. Starik edged his horse forward until it was standing right in front of the kneeling Remadan nobleman, the slaves moving with him to ensure he remained shielded from the sun’s glare. Although the Remadan was unarmed, Starik could sense his bodyguards tense at the proximity of the prisoner to their king. Starik had no doubt that if the man even blinked in a threatening manner he would suddenly find himself skewered on half a dozen lance points.

Starik looked down and met the nobleman’s fierce gaze. Normally any act of disrespect like that would have warranted instant retribution, but the man’s life expectancy could be measured in minutes anyway, so Starik decided to indulge him. Have you any last words you wish to utter before my executioner sends you onto whatever fate awaits you in the afterlife, Remadan?

You should know, King Vesla, this country will never be yours, not whilst a single Remadan able to bear arms still draws breath. We will fight you until you are vanquished or Remada can bleed no more.

Starik felt the men around him bridle at the insolent way he had spoken to their king, but instead of ordering the man’s instant death as they expected, he merely smiled, though the smile was cold and didn’t reach his eyes.

I expected no less. Sadly for you I have no intention of returning to the desert any time soon so it looks like we’ll be taking the bloody route.

Then you will pay a high price indeed, said Balith.

Perhaps, but the arrogance of you Remadans astounds me. Delarite has fallen, Lydia is overrun, most of Remada is under my control and my armies fan out in all directions conquering as they go, yet still you think you can resist.

The people of Arkadia will never accept you as their ruler; they will unite and throw you back regardless of the cost, said Balith.

Firstly, I do not care whether your mongrel people accept me; it is irrelevant. Secondly, the nations of Arkadia are so fractured by petty squabbles and disputes that there isn’t a hope in Kaden of them ever uniting against me and even if by some miracle of Sulat they did, their combined strength would not be enough to defeat me.

If that is…

Enough! roared Starik. I weary of your whining and posturing. I have only indulged you thus far out of respect for your so-called royal status, but now I am bored. Pray to whatever deity you believe in Balith Rocar as you are about to meet him."

Starik nudged his horse back a couple of paces and nodded towards his executioner who was waiting patiently nearby. The executioner stepped forward and took up position next to the Remadan nobleman, his bloody sword poised to strike. After the briefest of pauses Starik gave another almost imperceptible nod of the head and the executioner swiftly performed his duty. In a spray of blood, Balith’s head flew from his shoulders. It bounced on the ground and rolled to a stop just a few feet away from Starik’s horse. Starik stared down at the man’s head dispassionately. The man had met his death with dignity and for that he admired him. Although he had acted as if he didn’t care, in truth Starik was a little concerned. The plan to conquer Arkadia was behind schedule and whilst it was true that Delarite and Lydia had fallen and that most of Remada was occupied, none of those countries were truly pacified.

Whilst every army that had presented itself for battle had either been routed or utterly destroyed, he knew that others had withdrawn further to the west or fled north. If they were able to overcome their differences and unite against him, his plan to free his people’s ancestral homeland would be in doubt. His people were without equal when it came to fast moving battles on open plains where his cavalry could be brought to bear, but they did not fare so well in sieges or pitched battles on unfavourable ground; it was a discomforting thought. Their continued success depended on chasing these remaining armies down and keeping a lance point in the small of their backs until they submitted or were destroyed.

It was to the north that he knew this war would be won or lost. The Remadans and Delarites were worthy foes, both proud militaristic countries, but both were weak from fighting each other and had not been as formidable as he had feared. It was to the north though that his thoughts were always drawn. The ancestors of the people who now inhabited Arkadia had arrived from lands that lay far to the north across the ocean. They had been a tough and hardy people. Starik did not know whether the people of the north remained in contact with their ancestral homelands after all this time or whether help would be forthcoming from them should they ask for it, but it was his greatest fear.

Nor did he have much intelligence about the peoples of the north and that concerned him. Knowledge was power and power was victory. He had heard rumours and stories about the mysterious people who inhabited Lotar and Silevia, but he had no idea whether they were true. But it was the warlike people of Breland and the far north that he feared the most.

Starik shook his head. What was he thinking letting these negative thoughts cloud his judgement? He was Starik Vesla, king of kings and all would tremble and fall before him. He had dreamed of this glorious conquest for most of his life and he could not afford to let children’s stories about these peasants in the north dissuade him from his life’s ambition. Besides, if he began to show doubt the lesser kings who followed him might start to lose heart and then his own position might become vulnerable.

General Nelix!

Yes, my King? replied a grizzled old general sat on a chestnut horse off to Starik’s right.

We make camp here tonight and in the morning we move north to crush what little resistance is left in this pathetic nation.

Very good, my King, I will give the orders, and after waiting for Starik to dismiss him, the general rode away to brief his subordinates.

Doras, do you know where Queen Surita is?

She awaits you back at the former governor’s residence, my King.

Then that is where I shall be, and without another glance at the twenty-three headless bodies lying around him, Starik turned and galloped away towards the conquered town and a reunion with his favourite wife.

As he rode back escorted by a dozen of his most trusted bodyguards, Starik’s thoughts turned to Surita and the strange way she had been behaving lately. Just as Starik had been about to launch his invasion of Arkadia, word had reached him that the Ventari to their south, were mustering near their border. Whilst Starik knew full well that normally any Ventari incursion could easily be repulsed as they had been countless times before, that same result could not be guaranteed if the bulk of his army was away in Arkadia. He had no idea whether it was simple coincidence or whether the Ventari had a mole inside his camp who had alerted them to the fact that the king’s army would soon be absent from the country, but either way the threat had to be addressed.

Distasteful as he had found it, it had therefore become necessary to approach the Salandori tribes who occupied the lands immediately to the west of Narmidia, to act as protectors of their border. The Salandori shared a common heritage with their richer and more powerful neighbours, but there was no great love between the two peoples. After the northern invaders had driven the Narmidians out of Arkadia hundreds of years ago, some of them had settled in the mostly desert and inhospitable region now known as Salandor, whilst most had continued to flee east before establishing the new country of Narmidia. Whilst the Narmidians had unified and flourished, becoming rich along the way, the Salandori as their former kinsmen were now known, had disintegrated into a mishmash of bickering and fractured tribes, barely able to scratch out an existence in the harsh terrain.

This had resulted in the majority of the Salandori becoming bitter and jealous of their rich neighbours, although there were exceptions. The tribes who lived near the border with the Narmidians fared better than those who didn’t, as they were able to trade with their neighbours. However, because the Narmidians were so powerful and the Salandori so splintered, there was nothing the disgruntled majority could do.

It would have been too degrading for Starik to have approached the Salandori for help in guarding their border against the Ventari, so instead Starik had sent his queen, Surita.

She had arrived back at Starik’s camp a little over a week later accompanied by just two bodyguards. Thinking that she had been attacked by the Salandori, Starik had flown into a rage and swore to annihilate every Salandori he came across as they traversed their lands en route to Arkadia. Surita had assured him, however, that the manner of her return was not down to the Salandori, at least not directly.

Instead she had told him how whilst she was there asking the Salandori for their help, a slave revolt had broken out and that most of the Salandori had been slaughtered as had her personal bodyguard. Despite his wife’s reassurance that the men responsible had been butchered by their former captives, Starik had still sworn vengeance on the Salandori. Their incompetence had put a member of the Narmidian royal household in danger and that could not go unpunished. For now, however, it served his purpose that the other Salandori they had approached, continued to do his bidding and guarded their southern border. Starik made himself a promise that when the conquest of the west was over, he would despatch another army to wipe the Salandori from the face of Chell, if the Ventari had not already done so. For now though vengeance would have to wait.

Starik reined in his horse outside the former Remadan governor’s house and immediately two men ran forward; one took the horse’s reins whilst the other crouched on all fours and acted as a step for the king as he climbed off his horse. Starik wrinkled his nose at the stench of death that clung to the still air and glanced around. Dead bodies littered the ground everywhere and although his men were already forcing the city’s inhabitants to start disposing of them, it was going to take some time. He longed to be indoors and out of the oppressive heat and away from the stench.

As he waited for two of his bodyguards to enter the house and check that the way ahead was safe, Starik forced himself to consider what had been troubling him ever since Surita had returned. She had been aloof, distant and perhaps even cold towards him on occasion. If one of his other wives had behaved in such a fashion he would have had her flogged and replaced, but Surita held a special place in his heart and her demeanour towards him was troubling. At first he put it down to her being frightened after the events at the Salandori camp; a close brush with death can do that, but Surita had assured him that she was fine. When he had broached the subject of her aloofness she had merely apologised and said that she was distracted by what she had seen in the Salandori camp. What she had not told him, however, was the cause of her distraction. It had all happened so quickly that she could not be sure, but as her bodyguards had ushered her away from the Salandori camp during the uprising, she had thought that she’d seen her former husband, Teren Rad, a man she had not seen in seven years.

In the days since, Starik had continued to press her on the matter, but she just smiled and told him not to worry, as there was nothing wrong. He knew better, however. He had smiled and told her that he was pleased, but deep down inside he was seething. There was something she was not telling him. Had she seen something or perhaps someone from her past that had disturbed her? He needed to find out or there’d be no peace between them.

All clear, my King, said one of the bodyguards as he re-emerged from the former governor’s residence. Still preoccupied with thoughts of Surita, Starik just stared at the bodyguard for a few moments making the man feel uncomfortable. The bodyguard was considering repeating what he had just said, when the king suddenly nodded and barged past him. The bodyguard exhaled noisily, not relishing the prospect of repeating his findings for fear that the king thought he was treating him like an idiot. Many had suffered a most unpleasant death for much less.

Chapter 2

But I’m telling you the truth, shouted Eryn pounding his fist into the wooden desk with frustration. It hurt a lot more than he had imagined and it took all of his resolve to mask the pain from the men watching him with various degrees of amusement.

So you want us to believe that the king of Narmidia is coming this way at the head of a host, many tens of thousands strong? said General Asher glaring at the young man opposite him.

I want you to believe it because it’s true; I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

Ah, yes, tell me again, what exactly were you doing in Salandor?

Eryn sighed, not attempting to mask his annoyance; how many times was he going to have to tell this fool the same things? I was trying to find my fiancée who had been abducted from our village, replied Eryn.

The young lady waiting outside? asked the general.

No, that’s Lily; she’s from Ederik. Tayla died of some disease shortly after I found her. Eryn swallowed hard trying to control his emotions. Tayla’s death had hurt him deeply and his grief was still very raw. He imagined that it would be for some time to come; maybe he’d never get over it. Still, it wouldn’t look good to break down and cry in front of these men, especially as he had such important news for them, not that they were paying him much attention.

I see, said the general, but Eryn wasn’t convinced. And you undertook this rescue mission all on your own did you?

No, I had a friend who was killed at Vangor, said Eryn his thoughts briefly turning to Tav Rhem. How much more was this damn war going to take from him?

You were at Vangor? asked another officer standing to the general’s right.

Eryn turned to face the officer who had spoken. He was a few years younger than his father, with a friendly face and alert eyes that suggested a keen intelligence. He also had a scar running the length of his left cheek. This was a man who had seen action, unlike the fool sat on the other side of the desk to Eryn. Yes, I was at Vangor. Once the immediate danger to the city had passed, my father and I continued the search for Tayla.

Your father? asked the general. I thought that it was just you and your friend; where does your father come into all of this?

It’s a long story, General and I really don’t have the time to tell it. Nor do you have the time to listen, not if you want to be ready for the Narmidians. Instead of interrogating me your time would be better spent preparing your defences.

When I need advice on military matters from a wet-behind-the-ears-pup, I’ll ask for it, snapped the general fixing Eryn with a cold stare. To his disappointment the boy didn’t flinch or even quiver.

Suit yourself; I’ve done my duty in all good conscience, and with that Eryn turned on his heel and made to walk away. Inside he was seething with anger and indignation, though he hoped that the general hadn’t noticed.

One last thing before you go, the general called after him.

Taking a deep breath to try and calm his anger, Eryn slowly turned to once again face the general. And what’s that?

How come Teren Rad let you leave Vangor; as acting commanding officer I would have thought that he’d need to keep every available fighting man?

Perhaps he didn’t think he’d need a wet-behind-the-ears-pup. The general fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair at the rebuke, whilst the officer with the scar smirked. Besides, I already told you my father came with me. Smiling, Eryn turned and left as the last bit of news slowly sunk in to the men around the small desk.

The officers watched Eryn walk away and leave the tent before any spoke.

If he is truly Teren’s son then perhaps we should be taking what he says a little more seriously, General, said Major Koker, the officer with the scar. He had been a career soldier who had been recalled to the colours when the Delarites invaded and reluctantly found himself attached to the young general’s staff. He did not like General Asher and not just because he was about half his age and had clearly had his commission purchased for him. The man was an arrogant fool who wasn’t prepared to heed the advice of the more seasoned officers on his staff and that made him dangerous.

Even if he is Rad’s son, why should that make a difference? Rad’s just another old man trying to relive past glories. He should have stayed in the mountains with his goats and sheep and left real soldiers to deal with the Delarites. If I’d been in charge of Vangor we wouldn’t have suffered such horrendous losses and we would have sent the Delarites running, said the general glancing around at the faces of the men stood next to him.

Teren Rad and Captain Aryk led a heroic defence of the city, General. They bled the enemy and delayed them for several days allowing other men to retreat in good order, said Major Koker outraged by the general’s bland and deliberate misinterpretation of how the defence of Vangor actually panned out.

Wars are not won by retreats, Koker, you should know that. Rad, Tae and people like you, Koker, are stuck in the old ways. War has moved on; now is the time of younger, more tactically astute officers like me.

Whilst one or two of the younger officers nodded dutifully at their commanding officer’s comments, Major Koker and some of the other officers exchanged exasperated looks.

That being so, sir, would you be as kind as to share with us lesser men your plans for the defence of this town should young Master Rad’s information be true?

I can’t say that I care for your tone, Koker. The general tried to stare down the older officer but instead found that he was unable to hold the man’s stony face and glanced away pretending to study the map spread out on the desk in front of him. You know I didn’t want you on my staff, Koker, don’t you? The Council, however, insisted that I needed someone with experience to aid me, but all you’ve done is moan like an old woman. The general kept his eyes focussed on the map in front of him which was just as well because if he’d looked up he would have seen the murderous look in the major’s eyes. Now let me tell you all how I plan to repel the 4th Delarite Army, should it continue on its present course towards us. This is a real enemy, Koker, not one dreamed up by a boy who may or may not have been at Vangor.

The huddle of officers instinctively shuffled forward to get a better look at the map spread out before them, but before the general could begin his debrief, a soldier stepped into the tent and snapped smartly to attention.

Yes, what is it? asked the general unable to mask his irritation at being interrupted again.

A messenger from the 2nd Ligara is waiting outside to see you, sir.

The 2nd Ligara; they’re meant to be some distance to our east are they not? the general asked a captain standing to his left. The captain nodded. Well don’t just stand there, send him in, man.

The messenger saluted and exited the tent and a few seconds later a soldier wearing the uniform of a lieutenant of the 2nd Ligara, stepped in and saluted. His uniform was dusty suggesting that the rider had travelled fast and hard for some distance. The man himself looked tired and haggard Koker noted. The lieutenant glanced nervously around unsure whom he should address until eventually his gaze settled on Major Koker. He snapped to attention.

Sir, I come with urgent news from… began the lieutenant.

"Lieutenant! If you have a report to make, make it to