Exiled: Winter's Curse: Chronicles of Caleath

By Rosalie Skinner

Alone, Caleath rides south to kill the Tarack queen in her dormant colony, and thus, ensure the safety of the people. His ‘kill or be killed’ mission is not altruistic. Although he justifies his motive, saving the people, gaining his own freedom and acceptance, deep within his soul he battles a yearning for Tarack stim crystal. However, a small child's plea for help dissolves Caleath's simple plan.
His new quest takes him on a desperate path traversed by bandits, dragons, bloody battles, danger, and death. No longer is Caleath alone.
Meanwhile Nasith travels south with Lachlan, Gwilt, and a band of soldiers prepared for the battle with the Tarack. As they travel, Gwilt voices his concern about the malevolence surrounding a newcomer to the group. Convinced his doubts have fallen on deaf ears, he remains alert and wary. His attitude leads to a confrontation from which neither he nor Nasith emerge unscathed.
Winter allows the people of Allorn time to prepare, while other nefarious schemes rise to destroy them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MuseItUp Publishing
• Release date: Oct 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781927085783

Book preview

Back Cover

A Sci-Fi Fantasy Novel by Rosalie Skinner

Alone, Caleath rides south to kill the Tarack queen in her dormant colony, and thus, ensure the safety of the people. His ‘kill or be killed’ mission is not altruistic. Although he justifies his motive, saving the people, gaining his own freedom and acceptance, deep within his soul he battles a yearning for Tarack stim crystal. However, a small child's plea for help dissolves Caleath's simple plan.

His new quest takes him on a desperate path traversed by bandits, dragons, bloody battles, danger, and death. No longer is Caleath alone.

Meanwhile Nasith travels south with Lachlan, Gwilt, and a band of soldiers prepared for the battle with the Tarack. As they travel, Gwilt voices his concern about the malevolence surrounding a newcomer to the group. Convinced his doubts have fallen on deaf ears, he remains alert and wary. His attitude leads to a confrontation from which neither he nor Nasith emerge unscathed.

Winter allows the people of Allorn time to prepare, while other nefarious schemes rise to destroy them.

Exiled: Winter’s Curse© 2011 by Rosalie Skinner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

MuseItUp Publishing

14878 James, Pierrefonds, Quebec, Canada, H9H 1P5

http://www.museituppublishing.com

Cover Art © 2011 by Delilah K. Stephans

Edited by Lea Schizas

Copyedited by Christine I. Speakman

Layout and Book Production by Lea Schizas

eBook ISBN: 978-1-927085-78-3

First eBook Edition *October 2011

Production by MuseItUp Publishing

EXILED: WINTER’S CURSE

The Chronicles of Caleath

Exiled: Autumn’s Peril

Exiled: Winter’s Curse

Exiled: The Legacy of Lathraine’s Pledge

Exiled: The Battle for Enderseer Hold

Invaded: The Darkest Day

Underground: The Day of the Sun

Adrift: In Search of Memory

Adrift: The Fragile Sun

ROSALIE SKINNER

MuseItUp Publishing

www.museituppublishing.com

Dedication

To Steve and Lisa Skinner.

Hold my hand...and I will take you into my dreams. Cailyn, July 2011.

Acknowledgements

Thanks go to all the people who continue to support my writing. To my family, for their patience and enthusiasm. To Wendy Laharnar, Ruth Williams, and John Llewellyn  for their loyalty and patience. To Matt Bryant and Rachel Lewis Photography for the photos used in promotion and as basis for the cover designs. Mick Pollock, Tim St Clair, and Trisha, for support, advice and for creating my website. To Lea Schizas and Chris Speakman for your editing skills. Finally, to the team at Museitup Publishing for making the dream come true.

Prologue

Caleath curled one gloved hand around the hilt of the Karadorian sword. His finger traced the outline of two missing jewels, used to purchase a pack horse and supplies before leaving Sheldarc. Cold leached through the fabric of the spare blanket draped around his shoulders as he tried to encourage sleep. Deep within the sheltered cowl of his hood, his eyes closed.

Caleath cocked his head to listen. Well beyond the horses resting with their tails to the wind, he heard a wolf’s howl disturb the quiet of the night. The baying stirred a well of loneliness. Gwilt and Nasith traveled elsewhere. They probably spent the cold, dismal night indoors, sleeping on warm beds with full bellies.

Thoughts of Nasith warmed Caleath’s blood, but he quelled them before they ruined his hope for sleep. He cherished the memory of moments spent in her company. They had been desperate moments. Survival dominated his thoughts then, preventing him from savoring her presence. Now assassins no longer hunted him, nor did ghosts haunt his nights. Nor did Nasith ride with him. He rode alone, south toward the growing threat, in a desperate quest to prove his worth to the old mage Penwryt.

With his chance of returning home destroyed, Caleath fought the despair of homesickness. Cold made his inner arm scar tissue ache. Anger warmed him, banishing thoughts of Nasith. Instead, rage focused on Ephraim, the man who manipulated Caleath’s exile. Although Ephraim managed to delay Caleath’s plans for revenge, they fermented even now. Left without galactic citizenship, or a means to get off the planet, Caleath cursed his enemy with every breath.

Outrageous plans and fading memories blurred as slumber edged past dreams of vengeance. Drifting into an uneasy sleep, Caleath’s guard lowered.

A taint of corruption carried on the cold night air.

Adrenaline pumped, boosting barriers within his mind. Caleath flinched. Sleep dulled the alarm, but instinct reacted to the touch of sorcery. Dragged from a dreamlike state, Caleath braced, rousing to repel the probing of another mind against the defenses inside his head.

His fingers clasped the Karadorian blade, already drawn beneath Caleath’s heavy cloak. Caution saw the sword bared against the threat of ice forming in the sheath and preventing the weapon’s release. Despite his precautions, the sword could not protect him from magic. The effort needed to prevent the persistent intrusion caused his heart to pound and his head to ache.

The barriers in his mind loomed as intangible walls, protecting the detritus of dark magic left by dire conjurations. The threat of incursion into the morass of unfathomed magic terrified Caleath. He recognized his feeble efforts, compared to the power ranged against him.

A trickle of dampness spreading along his spine became a river of cold sweat. Fully awake, Caleath trembled as he fought a silent battle against an invasive and invisible foe.

 The horses shuffled, as if they too sensed the desperate conflict. Caleath didn’t open his eyes, his focus turned inward. Neither cold, nor the scent of corruption, nor the sudden quiet in the forest seemed important as he fought to keep his mind free from manipulation. He called upon all the ways and means of constructing and maintaining barriers, learnt during three years as the source for Karadorian dread lords.

Even so, his efforts seemed futile. Nothing he offered prevented the aggressive sorcery from broaching his wards.

He dragged cold air into his lungs, clamped his jaws shut, and clenched white-knuckled fists around the hilt of the sword. His sense of futility spread, though he refused to capitulate. He tasted blood, smelt bitter corruption and heard Death’s dark humor in the cascade of a nearby creek.

Between one heartbeat and the next, an explosion of burning flame rampaged behind Caleath’s eyelids. He gasped, opening his eyes when the image of a dragon rampart burned into his vision. He sensed a presence; human, insubstantial, but carrying dread potential. Before he could react to the awe-inspiring presence of the dragon, all three apparent threats; dragon, human, and the touch of sorcery dispersed. No longer under attack, Caleath shuddered.

Both horses snorted, shying as Caleath staggered to his feet. Blinded by the sudden light, it took another heartbeat before vision adjusted to the darkness before dawn. Caleath stumbled against Enigma’s flank, his sword flailing toward two unseen foes.

The forest remained quiet. A white owl winged silently into the gloom. No dragon or sorcerer disturbed the peaceful tableau.

Balls of a hairy goat. Caleath rammed the sword into its scabbard and tried to shake off the feeling of impending doom. He took time to settle his racing heart, fill his lungs with sweet air and relish his continued freedom.

In the distance the wolf yowled as the morning light crept across the forest floor. Shrugging off the cloak, Caleath adjusted his shirt where damp fabric chilled warm flesh. The cheerful chatter of crickets, birds greeting the dawn, and the innocent babbling brook mocked Caleath’s rank fear. Again thoughts of Gwilt and his wolf rose to provoke his loneliness. Cursing his penchant to dwell on their plight, Caleath savored a moment wondering how Nasith greeted the dawn.

* * * *

Music filtered through the smoke filled room. Children turned from their play to gather around the mysterious minstrel where she strummed the strings of her lute. The mutter of conversation dulled as her fingers danced. When she began to speak, her audience stilled, as though compelled to listen.

The hero of our tale arrived on our shores before winter last. An exile from the stars, this stranger searched for freedom and one chance to escape. We know him as Caleath, lithe, good looking, and more than a little dangerous. Hounded by assassins, he made a terrible mistake and abducted the Ferran Il’thane, Nasith. Together they fled toward the fallen beacon that would set him free. He hoped to use the beacon to summon exterminators who could eradicate the Tarack, the threat we will face when spring arrives. He found the beacon sabotaged and to survive he removed his alien implant. By doing this he forfeited his off world citizenship.

The minstrel paused for effect.

There will be no rescue from the stars. The exterminators are not coming to save us. The only way we can rid ourselves of the Tarack, the giant ant that spreads across the south, is by combat. Winter should be a time to gather resources against the threat. Already the Tarack have ravaged villages and forests and force our people to flee north, seeking sanctuary. Human, Vergöttern, Nomad, Ferran, and Druid must form an Alliance against the insects. While we look to neighbors for aid, we must prepare to fight the creatures ourselves. Soon every man and woman who can carry a weapon will be called upon.

A wave of tension washed across the room. The children clutched each other and a baby cried. Before the mother could shush the infant, the minstrel lifted her voice and continued.

There is one man among us who could change the future. He is the stranger, Caleath the hero far from home, who searches for a means to escape back to the stars. Death follows him. Ghosts haunt him. Sorcerers seek to use his strange skills. Other men plot his demise. Pray he chooses to help us. Pray he can prevail. He is our last, best, hope.

Against the Tarack? A hesitant voice lifted through the crowd.

For our future. The minstrel let her music fade. Her cheeks, flushed by firelight, cooled to alabaster. Muttered comments drowned her next words until a ripple of music again drew the audience’s obedient attention. While winter’s curse is upon us, we must not rest idle. Death stalks our darkening skies. Her footsteps mark unblemished snow. What can we do? Watch and pray and give succor to those in need. There is more afoot than you may yet understand. Never lose hope.

Chapter One

Caleath has gone. Lachlan slammed the inn door, tossing his cloak onto a rack before he strode across the room to where Mykael, Travis, Penwryt, and Nasith took their time finishing morning victuals. The smell of bacon and fresh bread overpowered the scent of stale beer and tobacco. Outside, sunlight barely permeated clouds that carried the threat of snow.

Penwryt arched his eyebrows. He seemed aware of Lachlan’s concern as he filled his pipe with loving care. Lachlan met the old mage’s guarded expression with curiosity. He knew the look from old and sensed the mage would not discuss his part in the topic. Swallowing impatience Lachlan looked to the others. Nasith’s reaction interested him. Her attempt to cover initial shock told him she hadn’t expected the sudden departure of their companion.

Gwilt says he saw him about midnight. He prepared to ride south. The boy didn’t think to share his information. Lachlan did not blame Gwilt for his discretion.

Well. Mykael Trasson shrugged. I don’t see a problem with his leaving. The man is a liability. We are better off without him.

Penwryt’s gaze rested on the exiled prince, although any reaction to his words remained well concealed. Travis’ gaze rested on Nasith. The ranger watched her struggle to keep emotion in check.

You are too generous, highness, she said with forced civility. So quick to judge, but I don’t see how you can justify your enmity. What did Caleath actually do to you, that you provoke him so?

You were the injured party, lady. You should not need to ask. We all know what sort of corruption he has been party to. Why is it that you are so interested in the felon?

In his place you would have behaved differently? Even in exile, you have more than most. Your suffering is tempered by the knowledge that one day you will have your revenge. She glared at the prince as though she blamed him for Caleath’s departure.

Then you support seeking revenge? Your troublemaker is responsible for Travis’ exile without the possibility of return or vengeance. Do you question his right in wanting the miscreant dead? With or without his compulsion?

Leave me out of this conversation, Travis said. I know what Caleath sacrificed to stay alive. I wonder if I would have mustered the same resolve. The ranger showed his characteristic patience. I don’t envy him the hardship of traveling alone and I do not wish him dead, Mykael. Let the man live, he could still be useful. He does have knowledge of the Tarack and the ability to change the course of our battle with them, if he so wills.

If he is prepared to pay the price? Lachlan nodded. He hasn’t been given any reason to help us has he, highness? He challenged the prince’s unaffected glance with a wry smile.

I don’t see Caleath playing the hero, Lachlan. What do you want to wager he’ll keep a low profile until his misdeeds are forgotten? Mykael spoke with annoying confidence.

I probably know as much as he does about the Tarack, Travis said, ignoring Mykael’s suggestion. Lachlan is right though, Mykael, we have given him no leniency. Allow him the benefit of doubt. After all, he made a mammoth effort to reach the beacon. It wasn’t his fault Harrigan destroyed the transmitter. I don’t see him turning away from the need of this world just because he’s narked.

We can debate the whys and wherefores of Caleath’s disposition until the snow melts and winter thaws. Penwryt drummed the table with his smoking pipe. But now we have more important issues at hand. We have a way to go this day. We need another mount.

I’ll organize that, Lachlan offered, rising. It looks like more snow. We’ll want to move soon to put a few hours travel under our belt before the weather closes in. Before he left the warmth of the fire, the inn door opened.

Gwilt’s tousled head appeared as he fought to close the door against the wind.

Nasith, I have a message for you. The young man dropped into the chair opposite the Il’thane.

Caleath said to give you this. He passed a small bundle wrapped in clean fabric across the table. Nasith accepted the token with a smile. He said to say… Gwilt indicated the parcel resting across the palm of the Il’thane’s hand. That is for your archives. Nasith closed her hand around the object. Lachlan recognized the shape and density of a crossbow barb. He bought provisions and a pack horse, and has ridden south.

Thank you. Nasith’s bottom lip trembled. How did he pay for supplies?

Surely that does not matter? Mykael’s patience dissolved. We really must leave now, Nasith.

The innkeeper’s daughter… Gwilt’s cheeks turned bright red. Lachlan suppressed a smile. He had seen the lovely Larissa talking to the young man. Said he paid and was more than generous.

How did he pay? Nasith’s arched eyebrows lowered over dark eyes. He had no coin.

Nasith, why do you care? Mykael scowled.

Larissa said he took a gem from the hilt of his sword. Gwilt affected an accent and avoided Mykael’s gaze. A fine blade, like none she had seen before.

Mykael flinched. Lachlan stifled a laugh. He knew Mykael took pains to keep Caleath’s weapons in his care. When the prince leapt to his feet and left the room without a word, Lachlan chuckled.

Sweetly done, Gwilt, ‘how to annoy a prince’, in one easy lesson. Lachlan enjoyed Mykael’s discomfort. If Caleath retrieved his weapons with so little effort now, how often had the same opportunity been available? Lachlan offered Nasith a hand when she rose from the table. Before they reached the stairs Mykael returned in a rush.

Your concern for the felon does not befit your status, Il’thane. Mykael slammed a white-knuckled fist into the wall. The fiend stole my coat.

My status? Nasith turned an enquiring eye toward Penwryt. Penwryt, you gave Caleath leave to go. If he has his freedom by your hand surely he is not an outlaw?

I have no argument with your logic, Il’thane. Penwryt gathered his pipe and stepped toward the stairs.

He took his weapons and my jacket. Mykael again slammed his fist onto the banister. Shouldn’t he be held in custody awaiting judgment from your Council? How will Archimage Firkin receive your news?

Penwryt’s bushy eyebrows knotted with affront. That is my business, prince, and mine alone. It is as well that our friend is well provisioned if he is going to be of any use.

Our ‘friend’? Muscles rippled along Mykael’s jaw. Rybolt and Rufus were our friends. Their deaths need avenging. Caleath is nothing more than a common criminal with a penchant for longevity. Consider your actions, mage.

That’s enough, Mykael. Lachlan moved to stand beside the old mage. You have no authority here but that which Penwryt grants you. It is a point you should remember.

You must not dwell on their deaths. Travis scowled. Powerful magic influenced their fate which no one could control. He prepared to leave. Penwryt is right though. We have business to attend to now. It is vital we focus on other matters.

* * * *

The pinnacle of Sharyac’s Tor rose above a snow-covered forest. The oldest known human settlement on the southern continent, the ancient town pierced the clouds. Built of granite and sculpted marble the whole town merged onto the needle-like peak. With the tenacity of time, settlement spread from the base of the Tor. A walled town grew to shelter men from all corners of the continent. Among those finding employment within the walls were Vergöttern, Nomads, and Ferran. Orwin’s Retreat, the archimage’s residence, nestled at the foot of the town’s central tower.

After days of facing snow and sleet, the welcoming silhouette of the Tor beckoned. Once past the garrison gates, the five companions climbed through cobbled streets to the Retreat. There they took lodgings and found stabling for weary mounts.

Leaving the others, Penwryt climbed to the Retreat’s main hall. He waited with patience for an audience with Firkin, the resident archimage. Already Renwick and Thorn, two of the old mage’s colleagues, arrived from the east and the southeastern realms. With each passing day, more representatives of the Council arrived from distant regions.

Firkin peered out the window and Penwryt glanced over the archimage’s shoulder. He shared the archimage’s perception, seeing the landscape as an interwoven pattern of life forces and arcane energies disturbing the past and future. For a few moments, heavy clouds and gray green distances blurred with the vision of time and life energy. Standing irresolutely beside the archimage, Penwryt waited until the sorcerer drew breath.

I am worried, my old friend. Firkin turned away from the window. Penwryt nodded, recognizing the archimage’s reticence.

The air in the tower remained charged with remnants of dissipating energy unleashed by the archimage during hours of conjuration.

How can I help? Penwryt accepted the archimage’s gesture to take a seat.

Penwryt removed a pile of parchment from the nearest chair. Taking care not to disturb the covering of dust and candle wax, he placed the papers atop a bundle of books and oddments on the cluttered table. He dusted off a threadbare cushion and sat. With his ancient frame supported against the oak table, he regarded the archimage’s furrowed brow with patience.

This troublemaker you released in Sheldarc, do you know anything useful about him?

All I know I have shared with you. How he altered my compulsion? Perhaps we have an untried mage on our hands. He shrugged. I doubt he will trouble us further. He may be able to help with the use of his alien immortality potion. Despite his reluctance, he may change his mind.

Or it may be changed for him?

I would not suggest such an action, Penwryt warned. He is a confused, angry young man. He has unusual skills of which we are not fully aware. We do not want to antagonize him.

I have been watching the world, as is my job. Firkin looked for a seat. He removed a sleeping gray cat from an uncluttered chair before sitting down. Are you aware of Azriel’s return?

Penwryt’s expression hardened. He watched the archimage’s dark eyes glimmer when the light of a dozen candles found depths echoed through time.

Already? His voice escaped as a whisper. It is only twelve summers since the Vergöttern destroyed her last incarnation.

Firkin pursed his lips and nodded.

"Do you know she has tracked your