Vignar's Vengeance

By Byron Gordon

The Elven Terror ravaged the Kingdom of the Northmen for over a decade, nearly exterminating the people of the North before a desperate peace could be brokered.

Vignar Olafsson emerges from the war with the reputation of a hero, but despite all of his efforts, the Terror took both his mother and father. His oath of vengeance upon all of elven-kind is his only concern until he meets the enchanting elven agent, Mariel Gwindalin. When Vignar learns that his parents' is a particular elven assassin, he sets out at once to bring his hateful foe to justice.

Mariel Gwindalin has been a loyal servant of her house, even since she has come to know Vignar, but her lover's quest strikes at one of the most celebrated heroes of the Lun'Sil Clan. Traveling with her red-haired human has convinced her that strengthening the uneasy peace between their peoples is the right path forward for both kingdoms. But her affiliation with Vignar has made her suspect in her house and she has little faith that her people will surrender their hero to Vignar's justice without a fight.

Grakon Furiel, one-time hero of the Uruk'Sil Clan, seeks a sorcerer capable of restoring his missing foot. Outlawed by his chieftain and stripped of his titles and glory, Grak is willing to do anything to regain his former glory, including reaching out to a scheming human magician. Little does he realize that his simple request pulls him into an intrigue that is intended to topple kingdoms. With only one foot yet, Grak is no longer the fighter that he once was, but he still is not afraid of a good fight.

Join Vignar, Mariel, and Grak as they swashbuckle their way through danger and intrigue. Don't miss this astounding conclusion to Byron Gordon's epic Vignar Cycle, get your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Byron Gordon
• Release date: Dec 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310193149

Byron Gordon

Byron Gordon grew up in the rural Eastern Shore of Maryland, USA. One of six children, he soon discovered his love of reading, ranging from the clever humor of P.G. Wodehouse to the epic fantasy of Tolkien to the fast paced science fiction of Timothy Zahn. Fed on this widely varied diet, his imagination blossomed and he began to write, desiring to create worlds and adventures of his own.After realizing the bleak financial prospects of an aspiring writer trying to break into the fiction realm, Byron enlisted in the United States Coast Guard. He spent an extra week in Coast Guard Boot Camp (Cape May, NJ) for writing during the breaks between classes. After Boot Camp he traveled to California for training in radio communications. Following the completion of his training, he spent three years on a Coast Guard Cutter, interdicting and repatriating illegal migrants. He currently is still on active duty and plans search and rescue efforts on the east coast of the USA.Despite the intense, and often hectic, schedule that military life entails, Byron has continued to write in his free time. While writing a complete novel still proves elusive, he has composed multiple short stories and a small amount of poetry. In the spring of 2011, he started publishing his writings electronically and now has a fair number of short stories and poetry available online in a variety of formats.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Typing a story is frequently done alone (though some people do it in cafe's with headphones), but creating a story is a collaboration of many and the story you are about to read is no exception.

So here's to you, my friends:

- My loving wife, who supported my efforts and even read the finished manuscript, in spite of it being not her type of book.

- The Illustrious Cheese, who bolstered my resolve in moments of weakness, patiently listened to Vignar's failures and successes, and claimed that after reading the story there might be hope for me as a writer after all.

- John Wheatley, who wields the Red Pen of Corrections with keen skill and great insight. Don't be fooled by his false modesty, he's a far better editor than he claims to be.

- Peter Hartnett, who managed to convert my vague mumblings into the vivid artwork that graces the cover of this novel.

- Clinton McDonald, who loudly and regularly demanded the finished story in time for Christmas. Thank you for your enthusiasm and support.

- To all my family and friends who have continued to support me in pursuing this wild dream of telling stories.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Opening Chapter

Glossary

About the Author

Other Books

~ 1 ~

The Bilges were the slums of Marheim. Rife with rats, of both the two and four legged variety. The seagoing citizens of the town felt it poetic to name their dumping grounds after the lowest point of a ship. Vignar thought it stank. Literally. The cesspools and general uncleanliness of the quarter filled the warrior’s nose with a stifling odor. He missed the clean, crisp air of the mountains and tundras.

Still, the house of Syl Furch was here, not in the wilds. If it could be called a house. Before the Terror, Syl Furch had been a member of the Council, one of the great Wise Ones, and it was said that he might know something about the Elvish rune that was Vignar's only clue to the identity of his mother's killer. Now Furch was living out his end days in a ramshackle hovel on the edge of the Bilges. The planks for the walls were twisted and cracked, the door sagged on rotting hinges, and even Vignar could see, as he strode to the door, that the roof was in dire need of patching.

He knocked on the wall instead of the door, and his mighty fist seemed to make the entire hovel quiver and shake. The sound of shuffling steps and wheezing breath reached him, an old man answering the summons. The hair on the back of Vignar's neck raised; he glanced over his shoulder, eyes flicking up and down the street. Someone, somewhere, was watching him. Or more likely, they were watching Furch's door, as he had not noted any tails on his way there.

It seemed odd. What cause would anyone have for watching a used up old man's door?

A visitor? The ragged voice behind him made Vignar turn. Indeed! My ears heard true. A visitor! Come in, come in, please.

The old man shuffled out of the way, inviting Vignar in with a weary sweep of his arm. His face was wrinkled until the flaps of skin swallowed his eyebrows and drooped over his eyes. Only his chin stood out from the folds, jutting forward like the prow of a warship. He was completely bald and had no beard; the only hair on his head was the great white tufts that grew from both ears. The tufts stuck straight out, giving his head the appearance of being wider than it actually was. His robe was clean, but worn, and of an indiscriminate color that spoke of many years of laundering. It hung from his scrawny bowed shoulders like a scarecrow's garment and did not cover his bony wrists.

You are Syl Furch? Vignar asked, stepping inside the hovel.

I was once, yes. The old man smiled, revealing empty gums. Now I'm just another worthless old man. Waiting out my time. But you. I never get visitors. Who are you? Please, sit.

Vignar sat in the offered chair slowly. It was set beside a small table beside another chair. The bed in the corner was nothing more than a thin straw mattress laid on the ground, and there was no other furniture. The hovel was clean inside, tidy and well kept, the hearth well tended. It surprised him. To watch Furch shuffle about the room, one could scarcely believe he could muster the energy to be such a diligent housekeeper.

I'm afraid I only have water, the old man was saying. And a thin broth that has been simmering since yesterday. Gort the Butcher from down the way is kind some weeks and gives me the leftover bones. It isn't much, but it keeps this old body going.

No need, Vignar said. I am looking for wisdom, not food. For someone with knowledge of elvish runes. I heard a rumor you might be able to help.

Elvish runes? Furch was fumbling with a bowl and ladle by his hearth. I used to know about such things. Nasty creatures, elves. The world was once a beautiful place, before they smashed it with fire and plague. I cursed them all once, and I've never regretted it. Not once. No. I used to be someone. A man of strength and power. But the elves took that away, didn't they? And now I live here. Soup?

The speech was delivered in a wispy rasp as he fumbled with his utensils, then shuffled over to Vignar with a bowlful of steaming contents. The smell of it was nearly as foul as the stench of the Bilges, and Vignar shook his head.

Keep it for yourself, old father. I wouldn't take the food from your mouth.

A good man, yes, groaned Furch. Yes, a good man. A true Northman. Indeed. It warms my heart to know there are such as you left in this poor world. There used to be so many. Fatheed the Grim, Dwe Snowbound, Cuthel Haggarsson.

Furch eased himself into the second chair, setting the bowl on the table. His hands shook so much that some of the broth slopped over the side of the bowl, but he did not seem to notice, continuing his litany of dead heroes.

But they were all the first to die. Slain by elven assassins and wizards. What did you say your name was warrior?

I am Vignar Olafsson, Vignar said. My father was thane in the south before the Terror. He and my uncle were slain by elves, holding their soldiers back while we tried to escape.

Terrible business, terrible, terrible, muttered Furch. Olaf. Yes. And his brother, Fasnor. I remember. Your father made wine, did he not? And your uncle, he studied at court for a time.

I was just a boy, and my mother never spoke of our estate, Vignar said. It was not entirely true, but he felt little desire to share those memories with this old man.

Of course, of course. Such terrible memories. Why would she. A grimace twisted Furch's mouth. What did you say you wanted of me, Vignar Olafsson?

I need to decipher an elvish rune, Vignar said. He noted that Furch's eyes had become bright, peering from under the skin flaps with a sharpness that surprised him. I can draw it out, if you would be willing to help me. And I have a few gold pieces that I could give.

Ah, yes, Furch crooned. Nothing is free. Especially not knowledge. Knowledge cuts more truly than the finest sword. Put your gold on the table and draw your rune in the dirt there. I will tell you what I know.

Vignar laid three golden wolves upon the table and knelt on the dirt floor. Using his finger, he sketched out the rune that the Scry of Skein had shown him. The lines of the rune twisted and curled, but every single aspect of it was burned into his memory as clearly as if he had seen it yesterday. Fate was leading him forward on his quest for revenge, and he would never forget the mark of the elf responsible for slaying his mother.

When he was done, Vignar rose and turned to the old man.

Furch was peering through the gloom of the hovel at the marks in the dirt, making clucking noises under his breath. He stared and clucked and stared and clucked until Vignar grew impatient.

Well, do you know it?

Patience, young man, Furch said. He clucked again. I have the faintest glimmering of a memory. But my mind is not as sharp as it once was. It will take time to dust off this knowledge. Time and, if my glimmer is true, more than what you have on the table.

That is all the money I have to my name, Vignar said. He put his hand on the table, his massive paw covering the gold coins. What more would you have me give?

I'm just an old man, not long for this world, Furch said, But I'm not in a hurry to leave.

Vignar glared at him, his temper beginning to rise. Give me no riddles, old father. I have not the patience for them.

Furch looked up at Vignar's tone and blanched, as if noticing the warrior’s height and stature for the first time.

Peace, peace Vignar, son of Olaf. Peace. I will tell you. There is a man in this quarter of a rather unsavory nature. I had to borrow some gold from him last moon, to buy bread, and I have not been able to return it. He is threatening to throw me out of my house, to leave me bloodied in the streets. How is an old man like myself to survive that? I served my people for years. Have I not earned better than that?

You want a bodyguard for when this man comes? Vignar asked.

He would only return after you left, Furch said. I want you to kill him. Death absolves all debts.

Do you take me for an assassin? Vignar's hand clenched around the gold coins and his face went red.

I take you for a warrior, the old man said. His eyes and voice were both steady now. The man's name is Hakkar the Golden.

You do not even know the meaning of the rune, Vignar said. He put the coins back into his purse and stalked to the door.

I do know, Furch said. It is a marking rune that the elves use for their agents. Think on this, Vignar son of Olaf. Do this one small thing for me, and I will tell you which elves to look among.

For a moment, Vignar paused at the sagging door. Then he ducked under the lintel and stepped out into the street and the sun. He did not like the work, but he needed to know the meaning of that rune. And he liked even less the thought of torturing the information out of the old man. Besides, it was questionable if anyone that old would even survive long enough to talk.

As he walked down the street, away from the hovel, Vignar did not notice the stink of the Bilges anymore. In the past half hour it seemed to have seeped into his soul.

~ 2 ~

Grak leaned on his crutch, shrouded in the deep folds of his ragged and stained cloak, and watched as the room spun slowly. At first the spinning had disconcerted him, as had the blurred images his eyes reported, but now his distorted vision was normal and, in a way, comforting. A steady room and clear sight was a harsh sight; it forced him to regard the world as it actually was. Or how it used to be.

Grakon Furiel. Grak the Ghak. Troll Slayer. Warg Hunter. Uruk'Sil Champion. Winner of countless battles and tourneys. Pah.

No more. Now he was Grak the Footless. Grak the Cripple. Shunned by his kin and despised by his kind. Damn that dragon to the nine freezing hells.

He laid another coin on the table and called for more wine. His mug was empty. He did not need to look, the weight of it in his hand was indicator enough. The thought made him snort in disgust. Once the pre-eminent blade of the Uruk clan, now his hand was more accustomed to the feel of an empty wine-mug than a sword though he still had Ignatar. The longsword hung at his belt, concealed under his cloak.

They had taken his shield, and he had sold his armor to pay for wine. But nothing would part him from that blade. Despite what others might say or think, he would return. He would find a healer skilled enough and rise once more as a great Uruk Blade. And Ignatar would be the sword with which he would cut his way back to glory.

The tavern wench appeared and disappeared. His coin was gone, but in its place was a half-full flagon of wine. Grak could not remember if he had drunk from it or not. Everything was a blur. But it was of little matter, and he dismissed the thoughts as he refilled his mug.

The red liquid that he poured was sour and foul, nowhere near as sweet as the blood he used to spill.

He had nearly spilled blood again today. Only the age of the man had saved his life. Human's lived such short lives, grew small and weak within a few decades. As low as he had sunk, Grak refused to add 'Slayer of Old Men' to his collection of glorious titles.

Though he had wanted to. It would have been easy, even for a cripple like him. There was no call for the man's behavior. Grak drank more wine and watched the room spin. The tavern was full of sailors, all laughing and happy to be on land where there was wine to drink and whores to be had. Sailors. Dimly, Grak wondered what city he was in that there was a tavern full of human sailors. He could not even remember the name of the tavern.

The wine was empty again. Was there no kindness in the world? None with that old man, that had been for sure. Pure cruelty. Yes, the old hrrich had said. He had the power to regrow a foot. But it was costly. Very costly. Far more than a shunned one could ever afford.

Grak laid another coin upon the table. His purse was beginning to grow light again. Soon he would have to find work and further dishonor himself. The last time had not been so bad. He had been paid to stand in a field and frighten the crows away. The irony had made him smile. Once he had fed the birds with his slaughter, now he drove them away for a few coins.

The wench came and went. The coin vanished. He filled his cup and drank. Wine flagons must be made smaller in this pissant city. Whatever city it was. Grak no longer cared where he was, but he did care about the smaller flagons. He would need to leave in the morning and find a city that sold proper-sized wine flagons.

A city where he would not be tempted to kill old men. The cost was not the worst of it. Grak knew he would have gotten the money. Somehow. Someway. But then the old wizard had told him that even if he could pay, he would not work the magic. Not for a bloody-handed elf. The old man had told him that he was half tempted to take the other foot, just so he could watch Grak crawl through the filth in the street. He had said he would have stolen Grak's soul, if it did not please him so much to see the elf a worthless cripple and in such pain.

Grak's hand tightened around the neck of the wine flagon, imaging his fingers squeezing the life out of the old sorcerer’s gamey neck. He should draw Ignatar and go back and kill the old man. What did he have to lose. And where was the dishonor in killing a human sorcerer, even if he was old and frail?

The serving wench was in front of him and scolding him about something. Grak could barely understand her words. She was ugly anyway. Pale hair like dirty straw, enormous cow-like breasts. He had seen some of the sailors pinch her as she walked by and wondered why they would bother. He looked down and saw that he had squeezed the flagon until it shattered. That must be what she was yelling about. He gave her two coins and she left and brought him a new flagon.

He poured and drank.

The room was beginning to spin faster now. His will hardened. To the nine hells with honor, he would kill the old wizard. But he would have to leave soon. The flagon was empty, so Grak set his mug down and moved carefully out of his corner. He had to be careful. The crutch was clumsy, especially in a place as packed as the tavern. And in a room full of humans, once they realized he was an elf, even the smallest imagined slight would set them all against him.

It made the wine taste even more sour in his throat. Once he would not have feared them. Once he could have walked through this room openly and with pride. If these drunken slobs had attacked him, he could have killed them all. Once he was a warrior. Now he was just a cripple, creeping with his stumpy crutch through a mob, on his way to kill an old man.

No, an old wizard.

It made a difference. Grak could not remember why, but it did.

A man towered in front of him and Grak paused, waiting patiently for the oaf to move. But the man did not, instead he leaned down until his scarred face was only inches from Grak's own. The scars on the man's face were instantly recognizable to the Uruk. An ax had carved off half his nose. A dagger had punched through his left cheek. The stump of his right ear looked like the work of a sword.

What a miserable fighter, thought Grak. But he had to fear even one such as this.

The man was talking to him, Grak realized. Slowly and carefully, but the words made no sense. They were coming from far away. Probably best to say no. It usually made them go away. Grak shook his head.

The man spoke louder, but that only made the room spin faster. Grak shook his head again and the man grabbed him by the shoulders. Grak tried to keep his face fixed in a dumb stare as he fumbled beneath his cloak for his sword, but the man knew what he was doing. After giving him a shake, the man released Grak and stepped back laughing.

The whole tavern joined his laughter. They were all watching him now. The entire room, a spinning whirlwind of drunken, cruel eyes, was ringing with laughter and scorn. It burned, and Grak forgot everything. Forgot he was missing his foot, forgot he was going to kill the old man, forgot everything except his hatred of every man and woman in this tavern.

He grasped the hilt of his sword and tried to draw. He would kill them all and let them cook when he set the place ablaze. How dare they laugh, how dare they mock Grakon Furiel? He struggled to draw his sword, but the blade seemed to be caught in the scabbard. That only made the people laugh louder.

Grak began to scream at them, screaming curses in his own tongue, trying to remember the battle spells he used to know. The laughter was ebbing now, as the people began to realize what they had unleashed. Grak noted the beginnings of their fear with grim satisfaction and screamed louder.

Then something touched the back of his head and the floor whipped up to meet him. He tried to put out a hand to stop it, but the floor moved too fast and he moved too slow, and when it met his head the whole world went black.

~ 3 ~

The high seat of the Master of House Gwindal was an ancient castle, old, yes, but still strong and in good repair. It was said that its walls were built with the stones left over from the making of the world, and its builder had been the first man to ever imagine such a massive structure. Towers climbed upon towers, walls ran in a helterskelter fashion, twisting this way and that, pierced by the occasional open gap or iron gate. A haphazard design at first glance, but not indefensible. Five hundred elves had spilled their lifeblood on those stones before the small human garrison had been overwhelmed.

The entire structure was perched upon a rock hill. One great stone, the Mountain's Tooth, jutted upwards from the Summer Plain and lifted the castle above the surrounding farmlands. Corn, olives, and grapes were cultivated from dusk till dawn by human slaves under the watchful eyes of their Elvish overseers. During the day, the fields seemed idyllic and at peace.

It was through this warm, tranquil realm, that Mariel thundered. Her horse was a large gray stallion, a rough-mouthed brute that Vignar had claimed for her from a bounty hunter who had attacked them. At the warrior's insistence, Mariel named him: Troll. Normally she would not waste the time to name anything so fleeting as horseflesh, but she was growing fond of the beast and was beginning to understand the human custom.

She did not know what the bounty hunter who had once owned Troll had called him, but that was of little matter. The stallion responded to his new name with an ill temper, and Mariel had thought perhaps he resented it. Then she realized he was ill tempered about everything. Only running pleased Troll, so they had ridden south—faster than Mariel had ever dared hope. They had barely rested in the past week, but her Troll was still striding strong.

She could make out the guards above the first gate of the castle now and eased Troll into a quick walk. Perched on the stallion’s back she felt like she could see for miles around, at least once the dust from the road settled. She heard the gate horn sound, a single rosy note, announcing her approach to the castle at large, and her heart quickened.

Mountain's Tooth was not her childhood home, but it was her home in Ragnorak, and she had been long away. As she rode through the gates, memories as clear as crystal surged, training with her cousins in the courtyard, practicing stealth along the walls, stealing honey bread from the kitchens and using it to bribe the guards so she could sneak out and watch the hideous human slaves in the night.

The thought made her smile as she rode through the gate. She gave the hail and greetings to the guards and rode deeper within the castle, her mind returning to her thoughts. To her younger, naive self, the humans had seemed gargantuan and grotesque. Walking slabs of muscle that could easily crush you without even