The Hemunarth

By Phillip O Stanley

Half-human and an outcast from birth, Elirah Encathla finds life amongst the elves of the Aluaundi tribe insufferable, especially after the death of her beloved foster-father. Heeding the call of her human side, the beautiful Elirah sets out, leaving the only home and the only love she has ever known to make a new life for herself beyond Aluedra Valley, the great vale of the elves—what Elirah finds is adventure! Journey to the mythical world of Erath, a world filled with monsters, magic, war and romance; discover a young woman, who despite what others say of her learns that she is so much more—she is The Death-Flower, The Battle-Queen of the Elves—she is The Blackrose! The Hemunarth is the first novel in The Blackrose fantasy-adventure series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781611606447

Book preview

THE HEMUNARTH

THE BLACKROSE, A CHRONICLE OF THE ELVES BOOK 1

by

P. STANLEY

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2013 by Philip O. Stanley II

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

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.

ISBN: 978-1-61160-644-7

Cover Artist: Gemini Judson

Editor: Richard Reisinger

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

-- For my mother Patricia who, over thirty years ago created the first incarnation of The Blackrose and for my daughter Miranda who inspired her tenacity.

Acknowledgments

A grateful thank you goes to the publisher and editors of this book and to the fans who have read it. I’d also like to thank the strong and important women in my life for inspiring me.

My mother always encouraged me to read, (whether I wanted to or not), and in an effort to do so, she introduced me to a certain popular fantasy-roleplaying game where fantastical creatures, heroic warriors and unbelievable magic existed. Although my mother’s ploy did actually work, she herself did not enjoy the myriad of rule books in which the game existed—she played this game with me exactly one time.

Although the particulars of this one-time-only gaming-session elude my memory, I was always touched that my mother, who pretty-much despises the whole fantasy-genre altogether, took the time to play the game with me. My mother’s game character was a half-elf archer that she named The Blackrose and just as my mother’s, The Blackrose’s hair was dark as the night.

Of The Blackrose I recall little-else and I doubt there was little more to be remembered as she only existed for perhaps a couple hours. In the many decades since, however, I often thought that The Blackrose was the beginnings of a great character and I longed to place her within a book.

Time marched on and I married a beautiful woman whose keen-wit far exceeds my own and whose eyes are as green as grass. My wife, just as her mother, is also one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.

As more time passed my wife and I were gifted with a beautiful daughter who is bright, enduringly-tenacious and possesses a wonderfully-dry, (and often dark), sense of humor—she got that from me.

All the various traits of these women, most of which I find admirable in any person, I have endeavored to place within the psyche of a young, half-elf woman named Elirah, who despite what others say or think of her, learns that she is so much more.

From my mother-in-law Elirah receives her kindness and from my wife her green eyes and eagerness to learn. It is from my daughter that Elirah is gifted with a tenacious spirit who even when she wants to give up on things—doesn’t. And it is from my mother, that Elirah inherits her raven hair, her love of reading and her namesake from over thirty-years ago—The Blackrose.

Table of Contents

Prologue: The Blackrose

Chapter 1: Aethiel-Dor

Chapter 2: Kahneal

Chapter 3: Mortune

Chapter 4: The Death Flower

Chapter 5: Ulersa’s Tears

Chapter 6: Ulersa’s Crown

Chapter 7: Land of the Elk-Riders

Chapter 8: The Vyle Arrow

Chapter 9: The Lair of the Booska

Chapter 10: Toes and Soap

Chapter 11: Buthor

Chapter 12: The Bow and the Envelope

Chapter 13: Issar

Chapter 14: Ressamyr

Chapter 15: The Throne of the Issalu

Chapter 16: Jumanis

Chapter 17: Someone’s Niece

Chapter 18: I Shall Try

Chapter 19: An Elk-Rider Escort

Chapter 20: The Library of Issar

Chapter 21: The Cry of War

Chapter 22: Pick a Weapon

Chapter 23: Epiphany

Chapter 24: Revelations of the Past and Future

Chapter 25: Arubis

Chapter 26: A Voice in the Night

Chapter 27: The Contest

Chapter 28: A Roll in the Hay

Chapter 29: A Warrior’s Advice

Chapter 30: Werper Strongback

Chapter 31: The Council of Ressamyr

Chapter 32: The Task

Chapter 33: A Backpack

Chapter 34: All This and a Pig

Chapter 35: The Trance

Chapter 36: Ulersa Reborn

Chapter 37: A Duel by Moonlight

Chapter 38: Off into the Moon-lit-Night

Epilogue: The Letter

Appendices

Glossary

Prologue: The Blackrose

My name is Elirah, but I am known as the Blackrose—I’ll soon enlighten you as to why, but first let me tell you something of my world.

My world is called Erath, and it is a world filled with wondrous adventure and magic. On Erath there are two great races that continually vie for dominance—the Imps and the fayes.

Of the Impish races there are the cruel goblin hordes that rage like a pestilence over the lands. Also, there are brutish ogres that terrorize the countryside, as well as vile trolls who single-handedly pillage entire villages. There are many other impish-races, such as the filthy ratmen whose vast numbers are beyond count.

Although some imps are more clever than others, all are fiendish and hateful creatures—it is said that they are so vile that they even despise themselves.

There also exist fayes, who, while not as numerous, are far more fair to look upon. Unlike many of the imps, all fayes love to create things of usefulness and beauty.

Among the fayes are humans: a tall, strong and proud people. Humans dominate much of the coastlands of the known world, and are masters of both commerce and war.

The great mountain ranges are the dominion of the stout-hearted dwarves. Long-lived and long-bearded, dwarves are lovers of precious ore and their stonework is without equal. Of the dwarves it is said that none can have a fiercer friend—or enemy.

Being less than half the size of a man, gnomes are a small but vibrant race of beings that make the fertile, flat plains of our world their home. Gnomes are wondrous gardeners and delve into the earth to lair themselves amongst the roots of trees.

Then there are my people—or at least who I have always known as my own—the elves.

Elves are a reclusive, tribal-folk who comfort themselves in the deep forests and misty valleys of Erath. Slender and graceful, elves are quick in body and mind. Our keen-sighted archers are without peer, and our hunters are amongst the greatest in all the realms of Erath.

Of all the fayes, elves tend to be the most controlled in their emotions—this is a blessing because, when emotion, whether for good or for ill, does get the better of them, it is usually with an intensity rarely-felt by the other races.

Fair of skin and hair, with eyes of sapphire, elves are a beautiful people and above all things; value the purity of their kind. As such, elves tend to shy away from the other sentient races of the world, they keep to themselves—that is, when they can.

* * * *

The most ancient and revered custom among the elves is Aluth-Na, or The Bond. The bond is everywhere and unites all that are cherished. The sun to the sky, the moon to the stars, the trees to the soil and the sea to the earth—the bond is the very basis of life—and death.

In the scrutinous eyes of the elves, all things that are good and right in the world are united in the bond—even the most personal aspects of our lives. Families are bonded to their tribes, tribes to their chieftains; males are bonded to females, husbands to wives, elves to elves.

I, however, am something of an oddity, and to the elves, oddities are never a good thing and, more than often, lie outside the bond.

Although the elvish way of life is all that I have ever known, I am not an elf—at least not wholly-so. I am Hemunarth—a half-elf, which also means that I am half-human, for no other foreign creature can seed life within an elvish womb.

I was not conceived out of love, however; it was a forced and un-bonded union which also makes me something else that is foul to the elves—Nal-Jalmatta—or as you humans so kindly put it—a bastard.

I have never seen or known anything of my father other than the fact that he was a green-eyed brigand of the most fiendish caliber. About my mother—well they say that my mother was the most beautiful of the chieftain’s daughters—and that she died of shame the very moment I was born.

My tribal-chieftain and great-sire, Vauthnir, decreed that my life was not within the bond. I was ill-conceived and inherently tainted by the human blood that coursed through my veins.

By Vauthnir’s will, I was to be taken into the deepest recesses of the forest and abandoned to be consumed by whatever beasts would have me.

However, an elderly-elf named Honnel who had lost his family during the chieftain’s needless war against a neighboring tribe, pleaded for permission to take me in and raise me as his own. With certain conditions stipulated, the chieftain reluctantly conceded to the elder-elf’s wishes.

The next evening, the body of my mother was put upon a pyre, and the residue of her form was spread to the elements over the very glade in which I was born.

A year later, I was given a name, as is elvish custom. It was a proper female-bonded name—Elirah. Even though I had this name, it was rare that I was ever actually referred to by it.

Throughout my life within the Aluaundi tribe, I was looked down upon and scornfully-referred to as Hemunarth or Nal-Jalmatta. Most often, however, due to my pitch-black hair and all too human green eyes, I was called after the thorny-dark flowers that began to spread throughout the same glade nourished by the ashes of my mother—Aethiel-Dor, the flower of ill-omen, a symbol of death, what you humans call the Blackrose.

Chapter 1: Aethiel-Dor

In the depths of a vast pine forest, the people of an elvish village gawked as a green-cloaked, hooded-figure walked softly but purposefully over the path leading to the open market.

Bearing a fruit-laden basket, the lithe figure was female in form and, although barefoot, was still taller than any elf-woman in the village of Vussar—and more than most of the elf-men.

Her cloak fluttered wildly in the pine-scented breeze, exposing the long, pale-fleshed legs that carried the woman over the ground with almost ethereal grace—her well-toned calves were streaked with dirt and mud; the hallmark of a gardener.

Elf children stopped playing and stared at the woman as she walked by. A few elvish mothers even gathered their elflings protectively in their arms until the cloaked form whisked past them.

Speedily, the figure walked beneath the manicured tree canopy that sheltered the village market. The low murmur of elvish bartering gave noise to the market and, as the cloaked woman entered, several adolescent boys gawked lewdly at her—they usually did.

Although elvish girls were fair to look upon, this woman’s shapely body held for the adolescents a rare and exotic appeal. It was even rumored amongst the villagers that behind the dark-veil that the woman was made to wear in the presence of others lay an alluring beauty that no elf-woman could match. Those were just rumors; besides, relations with the Aethiel-Dor were forbidden by tradition as well as the chieftain’s decree—or at least officially so.

Hemunarth! one of the adolescents jeered as the cloaked figure walked past.

Now, elvish-ears can glean a whisper in a wind-storm, and the ears of the Hemunarth or half-elves are no less attuned. Matter-of-factly, half-elves typically combine the best traits of both races—the physical strength and endurance of a human combined with the reflexes, agility and senses inherent of the elves.

The cloaked figure obviously heard this insulting jeer but gave no outward sign of it. She resolved to continue about her way in peace—that is until the same adolescent knocked the fruit basket from her grasp.

The basket and all its contents spilt upon the ground, bruising much of the fruit and covering all of it with dirt.

The cloaked figure clenched a fist but quickly relaxed it. She bowed her head in submissive-reverence to the young elves, and knelt to the ground to return the damaged and dirty fruit to the basket.

"It must be all the human blood in her that makes her so clumsy!" Another adolescent laughed as they watched the downcast figure gather the fruit.

The girl stood and quickly removed herself from the vicinity of the adolescents. Once away, she cleaned and polished the produce as best she could with the cloth of her cloak.

She then moved amongst the people of the elvish market, offering each of them her wares. She did this without uttering a word—for Aethiel-Dor, speaking in public was forbidden as well.

No one would barter for her fruit, not even when she offered to nearly give it away. It wasn’t because her fruit was so damaged that it was inedible, it was because she was—

Nal-Jalmatta! a haughty-male voice called out.

The market went silent, and the cloaked figure turned to see a male elf bearing a spear and wearing the armored garb of a warrior approach. Mortune was his name, and he was a feared high-guardsman from a well-respected family of the elf-tribe.

The cloaked figure respectfully bowed its head as the warrior drew near.

"What are you doing here, Nal-Jalmatta? What business do you have?"

Silent, the girl lifted her basket of fruit and motioned her free hand about the market area in explanation.

The elf-warrior lifted one of the fruits from the basket and took a large bite of its flesh. While chewing he continued to speak:

"No, I think the evening market is better suited to you, Nal-Jalmatta. Now leave here, and return to your hovel; come back when it is near-dark to peddle your rotten wares!"

The warrior tossed the once-bitten fruit to the ground and stood eye to veiled-eye with the cloaked woman. The warrior’s expression was stern, and the woman, relenting to his wishes, turned with a billowing cloak and walked away.

Humiliated, (and not for the first time), the cloaked figure hurriedly left the market, barely taking notice when the same tormenting-lout of adolescents made it a point to spit upon her path of travel.

From the market she hurried past the rows of huts and gardens until finally she was just outside the bounds of the elf-village and free from the looming canopy of the forest.

The woman stood silent upon the dirt path leading away from Vussar, perhaps just a league’s distance from her home. She unfastened one side of her dark veil of elvish-lace, letting it fall away from her countenance before removing her hood to reveal long-tassels of gleaming-black hair that reached nearly halfway down her back.

Her hair flowed in the wind, exposing her tapered ears. She drew a deep breath, and for a long moment stared unblinking into the sun’s brilliant glow; the brilliance did not harm her sight, for the eyes of the elves cannot be blinded by any light nor dimmed by even the darkest of shadows.

After a long moment the Hemunarth spoke—her voice, although hushed, was alluring and hypnotically-lyrical.

"Nal-Sola, my sun-father, please forgive me and take pity upon me—for I hate them all!"

Chapter 2: Kahneal

Kahneal was a young elf, far from a child yet not quite of age—about six summers younger than the half-elf he sought by his reckoning. He had a lightly-freckled face, an unusual trait for an elf, and he wore his long blond hair in a tight braid. Kahneal was the son of a brewer and he definitely looked the part. His off-white shirt was marked with multiple stains, as were his brown leather boots and breeches.

Kahneal had heard from the talk in the village that Aethiel-Dor had once again come to the Vussar market and once again, was made to leave without trade. However, it was only now, more than a week later, that he was able to get away from both his chores and his father long enough to visit her. He was her friend after all—he was her only friend.

Kahneal had met the half-elf seven summers ago while seeking a nearby hazelnut grove described to him by his father. Needing the ingredients to concoct a potent and popular liquor, his father had tasked him with gathering