Dynwarler the Daring

By Emory Skwara

After an entire lifetime of adventure, the legendary Dynwarler has come home, but not all is well in his hometown of Ruktuk. He will be faced with the decision of ignoring the problem and retiring or setting out once again to fix the home he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emory Skwara
• Release date: Mar 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507068564

Book preview

Note from the Author

Dynwarler the Daring is a short story and part of a much larger world detailed in my fantasy novel Numinous. It is a prequel of sorts, directly tied to Numinous, as a side story, long, long ago. For those who have read Numinous, this will be like a companion piece. And, for those who haven’t, it will be a door into a new world. If you’re the latter, and by the end you enjoyed this story and would like to go further into the world of Rood’ravil, then by all means please sign up to my newsletter to receive a FREE ebook copy of Numinous to continue in the journey.

A special thanks goes to Thomas Wievegg for allowing me to use his wonderful artwork for the book cover.

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Dynwarler

He half expected a hero's welcome. His ears were eager to hear the cheer of the crowds, the rain of confetti, the blasting of horns, and the swooning of women. He has returned! they would shout at the top of their lungs. What a glorious day! It would warm his heart and gladden his soul after two lifetimes of adventure. With a big grin on his face, he would grab the first beautiful woman he saw and give her a big kiss on the mouth. He'd shake men firmly by the hand. He'd pick up the little children raising their arms to him, and carry them on his big shoulders. After which, he'd climb the great steps of the Pygarthon, that glorious temple, lifting his hands in the air to quiet them down, greeting everyone with his deep voice. Once the roar of the crowd had subsided, he'd recite a short speech, the one he'd been memorizing for five years, lifting their spirits high with a message of hope and glad tidings. Beers on me! he'd proclaim at the end, telling them to meet him at Grund's Pub for hours and hours of tales by the fire.

But silence, and the whistle of the wind blowing his thick mane of black hair off to the side, was the only welcome he received. Even though it was summer in the Draxùn Mountains, the bitter chill stung nevertheless. It was cold and it was dark and he was alone. He trekked over the ridge; gazing out at his hometown Ruktuk nestled against the cliffs and the fjords. The sun was nowhere to be found, hidden behind the grey clouds.

He was a big Draxùn, taller than most, but certainly not the tallest, with large muscular arms and a strong, shaved jaw and face. He never went a day without shaving with the exception of the few times he was imprisoned, but even then his captors were kind enough to supply him with a blunt butter knife and cold water. His green eyes, his wife always said, were his best feature, but some women liked his smile, and others, his prominent sharp nose. If you asked him, he liked it all. He wore a dirty brown tunic with crimson sleeves and a black cloak draped down to his ankles. A long sword strapped to his back and his pack hanging to his side, he trudged down the slope. The crunch of his boots made imprints in the dirt with every step, leaving his trail behind, the footprints of a legend. Forgotten.

Did they not know I was returning? He thought.

He stood before the entrance to the Ruktuk Gates. It was a modest gate with the word Ruktuk above the arch, but the t had fallen off only leaving Ruk uk behind. That was a new development, and a sad state of things. In his mind, his hometown should be the best in all of the land of the Draxùn, not some filthy hole. He glared at the sign, taking a mental note to speak with the lord of the land first thing about it, not to mention the lack of welcome for their finest hero. He sighed and stepped forward through the gate.

Ruktuk had fallen on much harder times than he had anticipated. The buildings were eroding. The paint was chipping off the walls. The straw roofs on top of the cottages had large, gaping holes in them. The cobblestone roads were perhaps the only structure left remaining intact. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought marauders or dragons or some unsightly witch had attacked the town, but none of those things were true. The slow decay of time was the villain; he smelled it in the air.

Not many people were walking down the main street. Before he had left, which was