Lord of Death and Life

By Robert E. Vardeman

Lord of Death and Life
And you think you've got problems. Brion Rouwen has lost everything. In the blink of an eye. His occupation, his honor, and the woman he loves have been replaced with a curse far beyond even his darkest reckoning: not only can he not die, a cruel antecedent to the blistering pain inflicted upon him by his wrongdoers, but -- as he finds out -- everyone he loves will perish immediately upon contact with him.

So begins The Lord of Death and Life, the first installment in Robert E. Vardeman's epic fantasy trilogy The Accursed. From riveting battles upon high clifftops to vast oceans infested with slimy beasts, Vardeman's exhilarating page-turner cuts straight to the action and never lets go. These are the sorts of characters and scenarios one always hopes to encounter in fantasy novels, but so rarely come about. The crafty way Vardeman weaves the disparate elements of his stories into a fun, fast-paced adventure make this a must for any fantasy fan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Cenotaph Corporation
• Release date: Mar 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370824687

Book preview

Magicks of the Air!

Glancing toward the Isle of Passing, he saw a pair of the Lord's cyclones whipping around on the distant shore. The two columns of air whirled over the water and came toward him. As the cyclones approached, the grimoire grew so warm that Rouwen almost dropped it. Seeing that the heat did not affect cloth as it did his flesh, he slung it in his tunic pocket once more. He opened the pocket a little and saw the grimoire glowing feverishly but felt no heat.

The twin whirlwinds approached the beach. Rouwen nervously touched the spell casket hidden inside his tunic and put his hand over the grimoire, then prepared to do battle with the wind warriors.

The Lord of Death and Life

The Accursed #1

by

Robert E. Vardeman

The Lord of Death and Life

©1994 Robert E Vardeman

The Lord of Death and Life originally published by

New English Library (ISBN: 0-450-58840-8)

This Smashwords edition published by

The Cenotaph Press © 2017

ISBN: 9781370824687

Cover © 2012 by Robert E Vardeman

illustration

dreamstime.com

If you’d like to learn more about the author, please visit the website at

CenotaphRoad.com

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.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Book Sample Legion of the Air

Book author biography

Chapter 1

The Hour of Treachery

Brion Rouwen, Captain of the Intrepid Guard and Deputy Defender of the Realm, walked slowly along the castle's lofty battlements. He frowned until his handsome face contorted into a furrowed parody of itself, as he worried about discharging his duties effectively. Castle Gan had successfully withstood sieges, major battles and minor skirmishes, for more than four hundred years. Rouwen took his office seriously, even if others under his command seemed to think only minimal effort was required from them.

It might be that his ambitions knew no bounds. He was a commoner, but it was assumed widely he would be elevated to Third Baron of Gan at the Spring Festivals in a week's time. It might be ambition to title that drove him, or it might be Rouwen's total allegiance to his king. Those under him debated this endlessly, but only Rouwen knew for certain which it was and he saw no reason to enlighten the soldiers prone to barracks gossip. Keeping them guessing also kept them alert.

Brion Rouwen stopped at the highest point along the battlements hewn from shining white stone and stared at the simple wood plank extending two paces into thin air. Almost two paces, he mused. He had sent more than one of his subordinates along this plank a full two paces to their deaths for crimes as varied as treason and insubordination. If his platoon of spies working in the castle's lowest levels were right in their accusations, more would step to their death before the Spring Festivals, affirming to King Priowe his captain's devotion and unstinting vigilance in defense of the realm.

On impulse, Rouwen stepped onto the sturdy oak board. It swayed slightly, as much from his weight as the wind whipping down off the distant, dark Shield Mountains. His gray eyes stared straight ahead as he placed both booted feet on the plank. Rouwen settled his rapier and looked at the tallest peak in the ring of mountains completely encircling Valley Gan.

Mount Glid, he muttered, thinking this might be the last sight of anyone he condemned to death. Tonight the peak was crowned with the feeble light from the Lesser Moon. The Greater Moon would not rise for another two hours, signalling the hour of treachery. Souls travel to your peak and from there to Paradise. Glid stood half again the height of neighboring peaks. It was only fitting that those about to die were confronted with their destination and the promise of either eternal prosperity or poverty. If he made a mistake and wrongly sentenced one to die, powers greater than his would rectify it atop Mount Glid.

But was that what the condemned really saw? Cold gusts of wind caused Rouwen to widen his stance slightly. His lank, dark hair became mussed; Rouwen should have worn his guard captain's cap. He blinked and edged forward a half-pace, his boots on the brink of the drop into the jagged spires of granite known as the Fingers of Providence. What thoughts went through a traitor's mind during those twenty long seconds before impalement on the stony needles?

Repentance? Brion Rouwen wondered aloud. Or are they cursing me and King Priowe and the Empire of Gan?

Twenty seconds to death alongside the huge stony spire holding Castle Gan. A short enough time that might seem an eternity to the guilty.

Another blast of wind tugged at Rouwen's crimson and gold cloak and sent it snapping behind him like a battle pennant. He kept his balance and looked downward into impenetrable darkness, trying to imagine the kind of man—or woman—who would betray king and kingdom and risk such a death. Rouwen could not see the Fingers below, but small puddles of lava bubbled around them and lit the gloom of the pit with murky orange and yellow flames. His nose wrinkled at the imagined smell of the sulfur rising from those small, intensely hot fumaroles, though he could not possibly catch any scent this high in the castle.

Even the rotting flesh from the traitors' bodies was beyond his ability to detect.

Rouwen took a deep breath of the pure night air, then turned to retreat along the plank. A dark figure blocked his way back to the safety of Castle Gan's battlements. Cloak whipping around his muscular body, Rouwen fought to keep his balance. He reached for the silver wire-wrapped handle of his rapier. To fight here was the height of folly. He could never hope to win.

He had been foolish to indulge his whim to see the last sights of the condemned. Now he might never live to serve King Priowe and Queen Diarra—and never again would he share Princess Sorinne's bed. Rouwen moved so that his heel touched the edge of the plank; beyond this point he dared not retreat. He worked to free his rapier from its sheath. A quick charge might be enough to bowl over his darkness-shrouded foe.

You live dangerously, Captain, came a soft voice.

Rouwen did not relax his stance, but he knew there was no need to fight. Although he did not know the man's identity, the spy worked for the betterment of Gan.

You bring proof of the plot? he asked.

I do, the shadowy figure said, but I will not give it to you there. You must accept it here. A scrap of paper fluttered whitely in the breeze as the informant held up the evidence he had unearthed. Rouwen took a quick, sliding step that brought him to the battlements, then jumped down to the castle's solid white stone. He tried not to look too relieved at the solidity under his boots. Showing betraying emotion weakened his position of authority.

What have you found? Rouwen asked, reaching for the sheet of paper. It was snatched from his grip at the last possible instant and held as an enticing morsel.

Captain, please. I am not the patriot you are. This is not a matter of treason and punishment for me. I need motivation for my betrayals. The dark figure turned slightly and Rouwen saw the jut of the man's long, sharp nose. This was the most he had ever seen of his informant's face. Any other he would have mistrusted, but his spy's details had always proven accurate.

The usual, Rouwen said. "Full pardon for any crime committed obtaining the evidence.

And? teased his informant. What else is there for me to risk life and limb exposing this terrible conspiracy against the Empire of Gan? A thank you and fare-thee-well is polite and virtuous, but I am neither. I need more than thanks to fill both belly and treasure chest.

Land? suggested Rouwen. Or something more portable? He fished for information beyond what the man was likely to give. There was so little land available within Valley Gan that any man would be a fool to turn down such a munificent offer. But Rouwen was not surprised when his spy rejected the chance for growing food and becoming one of the prosperous landed gentry.

Fifty pieces of silver might be recompense enough, the shadowy figure said in his soft, mocking voice. He turned and watched as the Lesser Moon rose high above Mount Glid. Witch light danced over the mountain's rim, making it appear to be a silvered dagger ready to gut the sky. The Greater Moon had yet to launch itself across the star-studded dome of the night.

Forty, bargained Rouwen. He still sought additional information. Whatever was brewing in the castle's lower levels was enough to frighten this rat into leaving the safety of both castle and valley.

Fifty is fair. Fifty pieces of gold would be even more to my liking.

This musing demand rocked Rouwen. Prices for betrayal seldom rose once dickering began. He fingered the hilt of his rapier, wondering if threats might lower the price or loosen the man's tongue. It was obvious that this spy's utility was at an end.

Fifty pieces of silver, the tall captain said, coming to a quick decision. And safe passage through the Demon's Throat. Rouwen kept his gaze squarely on his spy, but the dark figure turned and looked toward the narrow ravine, the only public exit from the Empire of Gan. Huge armies had smashed like the ocean's waves against a distant shore attempting to flow inward and had been turned back.

By the time those huge armies fought through the Demon's Throat, they were smaller armies. And then they had the mile-high column of rock balancing Castle Gan on its tip to surmount. After fighting up the twisting, turning road with all its clever entrapments, only then did they face the foot-thick steel doors and stalwart stone walls of the castle proper.

For more than four hundred years, no conqueror had added Castle Gan to his tally of victories. None would breach the castle's gates while Brion Rouwen was Captain of the Intrepid Guard.

Watch the kitchens closely, came the softly spoken warning. All the nobles are slated for poisoning, even your precious Sorinne.

Do not speak ill of the princess, snapped Rouwen. His fingers tightened on the wired grip of his sword.

A mocking laugh met his order. I never disparage those who pay my wages. But it is not the princess they seek to destroy. The king and queen are their first targets. Only then do they consider the lesser nobles. The dark figure flipped the hem of his hooded cloak about one arm. He made a strange gesture in the air as he added, Sorinne is more likely to be their prey than Prince Sped.

Rouwen almost laughed. He held his tongue. This spy knew too much about his assignations with the princess. He need not know Rouwen's contempt for Sorinne's brother, though few in Gan had a high opinion. Sped lived for his bizarre foods and peculiar hobbies. Where Sorinne had inherited the queen's beauty and the king's sharp intelligence, Sped had his father's ill-favored countenance and his mother's petulant, petty conceits. There was even talk of a wizard's spell on the younger son of King Priowe, but Rouwen discounted this. Into the finest of lineages there came genetic blundering.

Even a noble of Priowe's stature and attainment was sometimes cursed by cruel fate to make him the stronger. Sped certainly accomplished this vexation with his immoderate choices in life and love.

So they will use poison? asked Rouwen. Who is responsible?

Ah, there are many petty conspirators. Two cooks are included, perhaps as much through incompetence as intent.

Rouwen grew impatient. He had no desire to listen to a catalogue of the realm's culinary deficiencies. He wanted names, he wanted methods, and he wanted them now.

I understand your eagerness to be about the executions, the spy said, motioning in the direction of the oaken plank. "Cook's apprentice Zeegon and master chef Clanna Beg-Nonn await their orders to place ground thouse beak in the king and queen's soup. The spy chuckled. It would only improve the taste. Have you sampled the master chef's leek soup? No? Count yourself among the lucky. She poisons out of hand, from poor preparation and implementation."

You say they await orders. From whom? Rouwen did not miss the small turn as his hidden informant glanced toward the Demon's Throat. This threat to the realm came from without, not from within Gan's roster of restless nobles.

King Nishor has long gazed down the Demon's Throat and wondered what it would be like to sit high atop this rocky column. He finally takes this longing and translates it into action.

You have done a service for the empire, Rouwen said. He let out the deep breath he had been holding. Even in times of peace, there was a silent war raging. Nishor had neither the army nor the magicks needed for a successful assault on Castle Gan. Those impoverished of soldiers, money and wizardry always resorted to subterfuge and assassination. A response worthy of such perfidy would have to be composed.

Do not begin your campaigns until I have departed this uneasy land, the spy said. And, of course, after you have given me my due. A mocking bow accompanied this. Rouwen caught his breath again and tensed. His anger mounted. A plot to kill the king could not be tolerated, and this shadow agent made light of the assassination. Indeed, the spy was no patriot.

The money is in the usual place, Rouwen said. He never carried coin with him. The jangling while he patrolled defeated any attempt at silent movement. Awakening sleeping guards wasn't his intent; preventing them from sleeping on duty was better served when he could discipline the malingerers. There will be no action against Nishor for a few days, either.

"Of course not, my dear Deputy Defender of the Realm. Without Duke Sosler's cooperation, no troops can be used outside the valley. The spy cleared his throat, then laughed outright. Without the good duke, no troops can be used—ever. Or will you retaliate in kind, with poisons and slender daggers in the back?"

Rouwen seethed. The spy put him in his place. He was only a commoner, in charge of the king's castle guard but not authorized to deploy the army. Only the Empire's Lord Protector commanded troops beyond the castle's walls.

Go. It is best if you never return to Gan.

I am no fool, Captain. Again the mocking bow. A soft rustle of the expansive dark cloak marked the spy's exit. Rouwen paused a moment and swallowed his anger. There was something more in the spy's words, a hint, a promise, something known but not shared, that gnawed at Rouwen. He pushed it aside. Such gossip mongers always maneuvered for the edge to gain an extra coin or two for their information.

Rouwen looked around and found himself alone on the parapet. The sentry was nowhere to be seen, and the informant had melted back into the shadows with the cockroaches where he belonged. Rouwen walked slowly, hands clasped behind his back, as he considered his best course of action. Two cooks entrusted with preparing food for the king and queen plotted with King Nishor of Mion to seize control of Castle Gan. Knowing little of politics outside the castle, Rouwen wasn't sure if this was a realistic attack. What he did know was that any such endeavor had to fail. That was his duty.

And if he was to prove worthy of elevation to the rank of third baron, he had to bring this to Duke Sosler's attention to prepare for any possible armed invasion by Nishor's army. It did no good assassinating Priowe without an armed invasion following the royal death. Rouwen and the duke had never been anything more than formally polite to each other, because of their different backgrounds. In truth, Rouwen admitted he had done as much to create tension between them because of his insistence on iron control of the castle guard, with no advice sought or accepted from Duke Sosler.

Rouwen stopped on his patrol and stared toward the Demon's Throat. The narrow pass had withstood more attacks than Rouwen could count. He knelt and fumbled out the magic window stored in a box at this sentry point. It took several minutes for the captain to settle the magical device on its tripod and aim it at the Throat.

The smooth silver tube hummed with magical energy as Rouwen bent over and stared into the dark chamber. The hair on his head began to rise and flutter about wildly. The long, dark hair stood on end, turning his head into a spiked ball as Rouwen began to discern a faint outline that turned into dancing red and green lines. A few more seconds passed and the night evaporated, allowing Rouwen to see the defensive positions along the Demon's Throat.

Fires wavered in green and red outlines showing soldiers moving restlessly. The longer he stared through the magic window, the more distinct the images became. Careful examination of the distant positions showed nothing unusual. All was well at the empire's periphery. The only decay came from within Castle Gan.

Two cooks, muttered Rouwen. He had two of the castle staff to send to the Fingers of Providence, but first there were other considerations. Rouwen started to put away the magic window, then hesitated. He looked toward Mount Glid. Illumination from the Lesser Moon caused the dancing, gauzy, pale witch light to leap far into the sky from the rock, making it seem that the mountain itself had turned to liquid ivory flame. Rouwen started to turn the magic window toward Glid, then stopped. He had been warned against such foolish surveys. He knew nothing of the magicks locked within the silver tube but more than one wizard told him he would be blinded if he should ever look at Mount Glid and the souls leaping from the rocky surface to Paradise.

Rouwen wasn't certain if they told the truth. Wizards sought to defend their arcane knowledge and weren't above lying or sowing the seeds of fear to do it. Souls might depart from the slopes of Mount Glid, but he wasn't certain the burning witch fires were the physical manifestation and that he would go blind if he tried to view them. He wasn't sure if the witch fires weren't some trick of light from the Lesser Moon, but he didn't turn the magic window in Glid's direction. Rouwen carefully dismantled the silver tube and tripod and stored it in the special compartment. Now was not the time to test his own theories of soul and death and magic.

Rouwen continued his deliberate pacing along the battlements, checking the few soldiers on duty and finding them comfortingly alert. They knew better than to sleep when their captain might check their vigilance at any time, night or day.

Anything out of the ordinary to report? Rouwen demanded of the sergeant of the watch. He glanced toward Mount Glid. The Greater Moon rose. The hour of treachery was upon Gan.

Some activity lower in the castle, Captain, came the answer. The sergeant was old, battered and had endured more commanders than battles. Still, Rouwen trusted the man's judgment. A buzz among the scullery workers.

Rouwen blinked. He had not found out from his spy when the assassination attempt was to be made. The informant had distracted him with mention of Princess Sorinne. Was this deliberate? The spy knew of Rouwen's affair and so much more.

Sergeant, snapped Rouwen, coming to an immediate decision. Continue my watch. There is trouble brewing.

Do you want the guard roused, Captain?

No, let the Intrepids sleep, Rouwen said. This isn't the time to show force. Subtlety is needed.

As you wish, Captain, the sergeant said, his expression sour. The machinations of the nobles—and those longing to be noble—did not interest him.

Rouwen hurried to the tower and took the steps down the tightly turning staircase as quickly as he could. His rapier banged against the steps as he raced to lower levels, found the trap-step and jumped over it, then came to a halt at the base of the stairs. Two sentries should have been stationed here. Rouwen saw no trace of them. He considered following the sergeant's suggestion and calling out the guard. Assassins moved through the castle at will, and he had only learned small parts of the plan.

What if the poisoning was to be a diversion from the real crime? he mused. Too many details went unreported and Rouwen felt a growing sense of limited time.

You spoke, Captain? came the question from down the corridor. Rouwen spun, hand on his sword hilt. He saw a pair of guardsmen pacing slowly in his direction.

You left your post, he accused. Why?

We heard noises down the hall. It was—nothing, the guardsman said. He swallowed hard and his eyes darted away for a split second. Rouwen didn't know what the man hid, but it bothered him. He did not want to believe any of his Intrepids were involved in Nishor's plot to kill the king and queen.

Near the Princess Sorinne's quarters? he asked, trying not to sound overly concerned.

It was nothing, the guard said with more determination. The princess is secure in her quarters.

You saw her?

Of course not, Captain, the other guard said with some irritation. We spoke with her servants. Her dresser assured us the princess went to her sleeping chambers more than an hour ago.

Rouwen remembered how the Greater Moon had risen, Mount Glid between it and the Lesser Moon. The hour of treachery. Poisoners in the castle's kitchen. King Nishor deciding he coveted the Kingdom of Gan more than he did peace. And Sorinne was in her chambers asleep, or so said her servants. Rouwen knew them all and trusted their devotion to their mistress, but he also knew apprentice cook Zeegon and master chef Clanna Beg-Nonn and had personally approved their employment. What inducement had been offered Beg-Nonn? Rouwen couldn't tell. He had thought the woman to be above mere bribery. If anything, the master chef's devotion to her craft had seemed to transcend political manipulation.

Rouwen felt as if he had walked into a pleasant glade dotted with fragrant yellow and red spring flowers and covered with gently swaying grass and found only quicksand beneath his feet.

Continue your rounds, but be alert. Betrayal stalks everyone in Castle Gan tonight.

Yes, Captain Rouwen, the guards responded in unison. They waited for their commander to rush off in the direction of Princess Sorinne's chambers. Only then did they proceed along their watch, both whispering at the same time about their captain's infatuation.

Rouwen stopped in front of the carved wooden door festooned with bright brass studs. How many times had