The Eastlander Chronicles

By Rick Nichols

Civil war is brewing in the Korrin Empire. The noble houses are sharpening their swords and preparing armies. Into this land comes a stranger with a black sword, as dark and mysterious as the land from which he hails. On a mission of revenge, the Blademaster known as Cain finds himself in a strange land where the women are beautiful and the enemies just as deadly.

THE EASTLANDER CHRONICLES contains three novellas of the adventures of Cain as he battles with barbarian raiders, soldiers, creatures of the frozen wastes, assassins, thieves, a beautiful sword-for-hire whose charms may be too much for the warrior to resist, and an old enemy whose trail of betrayal and death is only beginning. THE EASTLANDER CHRONICLES by Rick Nichols (Author of the John Logan thriller series). From Pro Se Productions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: May 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370508402

Rick Nichols

RICK NICHOLS has held a deep fascination for Feudal Japan and the code of bushido that guide the samurai since childhood. For Rick, writing was always just a hobby until college, when he got the idea for a character named John Logan—an ex-spy turned private detective. That spurred him to begin to really learn the craft of storytelling. Rick has served in the U.S. Army as a Military Policeman, and is a graduate of Glenville State College, the Ft Leonard Wood Law Enforcement Academy, and a couple of things that he can’t talk about. He holds a belt in Ko Setumi Sei Kan karate and has also studied Aikido, Judo, Kung Fu, and even aki-bujutsu—the original unarmed combat taught to the ancient samurai.

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THE EASTLANDER CHRONICLES

By

Rick Nichols

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

THE EASTLANDER CHRONICLES

A Pro Se Productions Publication

All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This book is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Written by Rick Nichols

Editing by Braden Steele, Pete Hicks, Rebecca Fox

Cover by Kent Holloway

Book Design by Antonino Lo Iacono & Marzia Marina

www.prose-press.com

THE EASTLANDER CHRONICLES

Copyright © 2017 Rick Nichols

Table of Contents

PART ONE: WINTERTOME

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

PART TWO: WINTERWALL

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

PART THREE: THE HOUNDS OF WINTER

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Thanks to Pete Hicks and Candace Bowen for their editorial help.

In memory of Robert E. Howard who lit the spark and Robert Jordan who fanned it brighter.

And as always, to my family, for putting up with me.

From the East he will come; a warrior wielding a black sword. And legions will fall before him.

--From the Scrolls of the Chosen

Revenge requires the patience of a hunter, the ferocity of a dragon, and the coldness of ice.

--Eastland proverb

PART ONE:

WINTERTOME

ONE

Trouble finds you without the need to look for it.

---Eastland Proverb

Patience is the warrior’s greatest virtue.

It had been his first lesson, taught to him before he ever held a sword in his hand and before he took his first steps to learn the kana-bandu, the ancient unarmed combat taught to those who had preceded him as far back as the tomes recorded. The years of training had swallowed his childhood and created the foundation for what he now was.

He was minutes off of the boat that had been his home for three weeks. The eternal rolling pitch of the sea, the cramped quarters, the stench of sweat and death had not bothered him as much as the moment that he had set foot on foreign soil. The sun was low in the West. He needed to find shelter for the night. He’d just landed here, two days behind schedule thanks to a sudden storm that had torn sails and broke off the yards to throw a sailor into the churning waters. The man had disappeared before anyone could even get a line to him, his cries forever silenced in the angry waves.

He looked at the crowds debarking from the docks and walked on a broad cobblestone path toward a set of towering gates. Karthia, the captain had called the city. It sat on the edge of the Great Sea, its polished walls rising so high that you could not hear the snap of the banners in the wind. The walls were topped by guard towers and walkways and even holes for archers to rain arrows down upon invaders.

They would not build it so if it weren’t eventually needed.

He walked with the masses through the broad city gates onto a wide boulevard, past makeshift markets where peddlers hawked rugs and fowl and cheap beads in tongues that he did not know. Wagons and carriages pulled by horses, oxen, or braying donkeys intermingled with pedestrians in a tangled mix of traffic, which the local soldiers tried bravely to straighten.

He made his way off the main thoroughfare onto a smaller side street. A wooden sign bore an etching of an owl, the once bright colors faded, and the words OWL’S NEST INN. He put his hand on the door latch.

Trouble finds you without the need to look for it.

It was the second lesson and it popped into his thoughts uninvited. An omen? He turned the latch and walked in.

***

There were reasons why Bransom Kalil was called the greatest thief this side of Karthia. The first was that Kalil had made that very boast on more than one drunken occasion. That could be a dangerous habit, especially for one whose very profession demanded that he keep quiet and out of sight, but Kalil thought little of it. The places where he drank harbored those of the dark professions; indeed, they were home to him, if the swarthy fellow could claim to have one. Another reason was the fact that Kalil had long been rumored to be the man who could go anywhere and steal anything if the price was right. Indeed, there were many stories told around the hidden fires of Kalil performing daring and extraordinary feats to procure a valuable bauble. Whether or not Kalil had started these rumors remained something of a debate; the thief had never said that he did, but he had made no efforts to correct any errors in the telling of them.

Flames spat and crackled in a stone fireplace on the far wall where a fat merchant sat under the watchful gaze of two towering bodyguards in polished Jhandian armor and wielding curved Eberian scimitars. A half-naked slave girl who’d born terse orders with appropriate bows and supplications knelt by the hearth, her eyes droopy in fatigue, but Kalil knew she dare not fall asleep before her master. The fire threw harsh light upon her dark skin, accenting breasts barely contained in her flimsy sleeveless tunic.

A rough-hewn wooden bar occupied one wall of the room but it was at the table beside him that sat the object of Kalil’s interest.

The young man wore a plain tunic and doeskin breeches tucked into boots of soft leather. A wide belt adorned with flat metallic discs encircled his waist and the hilt of a sword protruded from a polished scabbard that hung across his broad back. A sheathed dagger rode on his left hip and a keen observer would notice the hilts of more blades tucked into slits in the boots as well. His hair was black and straight, falling past his shoulders and tied in a ponytail. A platter of meat and steamed vegetables sat on the table in front of him, completed by a basket of thickly sliced bread, rich Goninan cheese, and a goblet of wine.

At the end of the bar were three Toishian mercenaries; large men who carried broadswords and battle-axes as easily as Kalil carried a dirk. They’d spent the day drinking and pinching the serving girls, and their manner grew increasingly aggressive with each bottle of wine. The innkeeper eyed the trio with glances of concern. He wanted no trouble in his place but the men’s gold was a welcome thing. From the moment the young man had walked in, the Toishians’ glances had increased to that end of the bar. Kalil noticed the increased whispers among the trio.

Kalil left his corner table and approached the young man, and sat down on the bench beside him. Read your fortune, sir?

The young man looked over and, for the first time, Kalil got a good look at him.

He could have been fifteen or thirty; his face gave no hint of his age. A thin white scar ran down his left cheek. Almond-shaped icy gray eyes locked onto the thief.

Aren’t you a little young to be a seer? A trace of an accent peppered his words.

In spite of himself, the thief startled. You’re an Eastlander.

Is there a problem?

No, no, Kalil assured, It’s just that we don’t see many of your kind.

I see.

What brings you to Karthia?

The Eastlander returned his gaze to his goblet of wine. That’s none of your concern.

I can tell your fortune, he insisted.

I do not believe in such things, the Eastlander said. He placed a slice of cheese onto the bread.

Perhaps you’d like to try your luck at the dice or a game of cards?

No, thanks.

I am more than a seer, Kalil’s voice lowered. I am also the greatest thief in Karthia.

Good for you. I’ll save you the trouble. I have few coin and what I have I need. In my land, we deal severely with thieves.

I suppose you cut off a hand?

No, the young man said. We kill them. Slowly. Or could you foresee that?

Loud chuckles from the end of bar now. Kalil eased his hands closer to his own body. Those men are interested in you.

Yes.

Toishian mercenaries, fresh from the northern campaigns, I bet. Ill-tempered men.

Few men drink that much and become otherwise. He glanced at Kalil. Best go back to your table. I sense trouble coming soon.

Perhaps I could help. There are three of them.

I’ll be fine.

It’s your death, Eastlander.

I think not, thief.

Kalil nodded and went back to his table. The serving girl brought the thief more ale while Kalil watched one of the Toishians get up from his seat and walk over to the Eastlander.

You’re an Eastlander, the man said, his words thick. He was a tall man, thick chested, and sporting a cuirass of polished armor. A pale scar cut ran from the bottom of his right eye down and across the cheek to slice into the unkempt bushy black beard.

Such skilled observers around here, the Eastlander remarked in a low voice.

I don’t like your kind.

Sorry.

The Toishian’s lips formed a sneer as his body weaved slightly and he stared at the object of his derision. I think I shall gut you like a trout.

The Eastlander did not look up from his meal as he spoke. Wine has made you foolish. Go home and sleep it off. I’ve no wish for trouble.

Behind the bearded man, his two companions, similarly dressed in armor and sporting short double-edged blades, watched their friend’s antics with amusement.

Few noticed the merchant’s guards inch their hands closer to the hilt of those scimitars and take a protective step closer to their master. Even the slave girl moved closer to the merchant’s feet.

The innkeeper came from behind the bar, a dirty apron tied around his scrawny middle. Everyone relax, eh? Have a drink, Nador, on the house. You’ve no wish to start anything here. The city watch would be in here and close me down for hours while they snoop!

The bearded man—Nador—turned to glare at the barman. He pointed to a twisted and puckered scar on the inside of his left forearm. Twenty years ago, Gallus, I got that from an Eastland wench. Almost cost me my arm! He waved the innkeeper away. Go back behind the bar or into the kitchen.

Gallus glanced at the young Eastlander who merely held up a hand in a reassuring gesture. It is all right, my friend. Go rest yourself.

The innkeeper hesitated, unwilling to trust the security of his property with a stranger facing three Toishian mercenaries. However, he went and it was not until the innkeeper had vanished into the recesses of the kitchen did the Eastlander turn to fix those icy gray eyes on Nador. Most Eastlander’s eyes were black or a dark brown, like the color of Eberian coffee, but these were different. There was something in the Eastlander’s eyes that made even the drunk man pause. Nador had stared into many a man’s eyes in battle, registered the fear and hatred in all of them, but the man in front of him held no such emotion. No hatred, no enjoyment of the fight; his eyes were gray pools of emotionless nothing, an unfeeling soul. The thought made a shiver crawl through the mercenary, but pride and wine made him stand his ground, convincing himself that it was simply his imagination run amok that made the Eastlander appear so…cold.

Are you planning to gut me, or merely bore me with your tongue until I can stand no more and gut my own self?

A few chuckles rippled through the common room before being quickly stifled. Nador’s eyes glared around before his attention made it back to the Eastlander who still sat calmly. Most men, anticipating trouble, would have gotten to their feet by now.

Perhaps he doubts your sincerity, Nador thought.

A broad bladed knife with a keen edge appeared in Nador’s hand, gleaming and held high enough to ensure the Eastlander could see it. You should have stayed in your homeland. I’m going to enjoy killing you.

Kill me or sit down. I grow bored with your drunken prattle.

Witnesses later would differ on their accounts as to what happened next. Some said Nador struck with the knife while others claimed that the he never got the chance. What is known is that the young man grabbed Nador’ knife arm in a trapping motion. The other hand caught the man on the back of the neck, and slammed Nador face first into the edge of the bar. There was a sickening snap that made many patrons wince, and a fountain of blood splattered into the air. Nador sunk to his knees, blood running over his mouth and chin and dripping onto the polished breastplate, one hand holding his shattered nose.

Murmurs rippled through the room:

—speed of his movements…

---never saw it coming…

The mischievous grins vanished from the faces of Nador’s companions and they both left their stools, glancing first at their fallen comrade, then to the Eastlander who now stood calmly before them.

Pick your friend up and get him to a healer, if you have any such thing in this cursed land, the Eastlander said. It seems he is done for the night.

Nador staggered to his feet, blood pouring from his broken nose. I’m not done with you, Eastland son of a— The rest of the curse was cut off by the sharp rasp of steel as Nador drew a double edged sword from the scabbard on his hip.

In my country, you pull a sword on another man, it is always to the death, the Eastlander said. Are you so willing to die tonight? He drew his own sword from the scabbard, although several patrons would later state that the Eastlander did not actually draw the sword, but rather the blade leapt from of the scabbard into his waiting hand.

Another gasp rippled through the room and Nador felt another icy finger trickle down his spine. If the Eastlander’s eyes had given him pause before, the sword made the mercenary’s bowels want to loosen.

It was double-edged, but of black steel, as dark as the ninth level of the Abyss. Strange runes unlike anything Nador had ever seen were etched into the blade and the Eastlander held it as though the weapon weighed nothing.

Nador charged, mouth bellowing a battle cry. The Eastlander met him without even backing up a step. Steel rang against steel and the momentum of Nador’s charge took him three steps past the Eastlander. The Toishian took another step, staggered, then looked down at the deep crimson line burned across the lower part of his armor.

Something came to Nador’s mind, something he had heard in his travels in the east and he realized the truth before collapsing face down onto the sawdust floor.

Instantly, Nador’s two companions drew their own blades and approached the Eastlander cautiously, splitting up, making it harder for the Eastlander to keep track of both of them simultaneously.

Enough blood has been shed, the Eastlander remarked. Get your friend and go. I did not want this.

You will die for killing our friend, the second one said. What is your name, dog, so that we may sing it tonight around the victory fire?

I am Cain, the Eastlander said.

They attacked from both sides, a difficult thing to defend, even for a master, but the Eastlander called Cain simply pivoted away, his blade parrying the nearest sword in a rapid motion. He blocked another strike that allowed him to get inside the third man’s defenses; his foot licked out with the speed of a cobra and caught the man beneath the chin. The soldier’s back arched as the force behind the blow shoved him up and backward, nearly propelling the man over the bar. Cain blocked his remaining opponent’s thrust and the black blade flicked out in a blow toward the second man that, to most eyes, missed.

The soldier stepped back smiling, until he lifted a hand to his chin. It came away red. A thin line cut across it.

Three regained his feet, recovered his sword, and came into Cain’s blindside. The Eastlander seemed to sense the man’s presence, ducked beneath a blow that would have caught him in the back; the black blade flickered out, severing the man’s leg just below the knee. The soldier screamed and dropped to the floor, the stump gushing blood. Before he hit the floor, Cain’s blade sunk into the man’s cuirass and out again in the blink of an eye.

More murmurs through the room now. The merchant watched the contest with particular interest.

How you three have managed to live so long with such poor sword skills is remarkable, Cain said. Any Eastland woman would have gutted you by now. Kill me. Or leave.

The surviving mercenary stared at his fallen comrade. The sword went through his armor as though it were paper! Doubt flickered across the soldier’s mind. He had his honor to defend and the lives of his two comrades, but the man before him was an unfeeling specter of death itself. This man Cain stood there, having dispatched two armed men, as though he’d done nothing.

By Mala, he isn’t even breathing hard! Kalil thought.

TWO

If an enemy is strong, divide him. If he is weak, destroy him.

--From the scrolls of Gen. Szu-Ti-Man

The soldier stared at the corpses of his two friends. He lowered his sword and bolted out the door. Cain watched him go. He wiped his blade on Nador’s body and some said later that he mumbled something as he did so. A prayer to the gods perhaps, if Eastlanders worshiped gods. The sword returned to the scabbard and the Eastlander sat back down, even as Gallus’ servants came out to drag the bodies away.

Gallus hurried over. You killed two men.

The third one apparently had no stomach for the fight his friend started. Cain drank and spread a thick slab of butter across the last slice of bread. They were going to cause you even more trouble had fate not intervened.

You can have a room tonight at half the cost for your trouble.

A generous offer to be sure. Cain bowed his head slightly. Thank you. But will the city watch not be looking into the deaths of these two men?

I will take care of them, Gallus said. The Karthian guard cares little for the Toishians.

I will consider your offer, Cain said.

I can show you now, Gallus persisted. It is no trouble.

Later, perhaps.

Gallus frowned. Tell my girl if you want it. She’ll be able to show you. He turned and glanced around the room. The fight over, the patrons had resumed their conversations.

Cain turned back to his wine when he sensed Kalil back again. The thief sat down with a grin.

That was amazing.

It is not amazing to kill a man, Cain said.

And that sword. I bet that would be worth something in the market.

The sword is not for sale. And don’t think of stealing it or I will use it to slice your head off of your worthless carcass.

Kalil raised his hands. No, no, I wouldn’t. But, listen, with your skill, you could make a fortune in the fighting pits.

You mean I’d make you a fortune, Cain said. Is money all you think of?

What else is there?

A cackling sound interrupted them. Kalil turned to see a wizened old man with a crooked walking stick and a faded worn tunic hobbling up to the Eastlander’s side. The man was so thin that one might think a strong hug would have snapped him in two. In spite of his frail appearance, his voice was strong when he spoke. Fortune read, young man? I charge nothing if my words fail to please.

Seems as though you have competition for your fortune telling, thief, Cain remarked with a smirk.

Kalil snorted. Lenox, what are you doing bothering him?

To see that fight I would have paid a Korrin crown in a Verani fight-pit, Lenox cackled. Looking at Cain, he wet his lips. Well, Eastlander?

I don’t believe in such things, old man.

Then what is the harm?

Cain looked at Kalil. You know him?

Kalil nodded.

Cain shrugged and the old man hobbled onto the stool beside him.

Give me your hand, Lenox said. He studied Cain’s palm closely and the wry smile he wore faded slightly.

Well, old man?

Lenox wet his lips again. You seek someone. Someone very evil.

Go on.

This man is here, in these lands.

Where?

That is hidden from me. I just know he is here.

Will I find him?

The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out a deck of cards with writings on them unlike any ones Cain had ever seen. Lenox shuffled them quickly and began to lay them face up on the bar top.

Well? Will I find him?

Lenox glanced over the cards. You will find him, Eastlander, though not right away. Hmmm, yes, there are many roads for you to travel until that time.

Roads? What kind of roads. What do you see?

The old man glanced up from his cards. Death, Eastlander. I see much death.

II

The old man picked up his cards and shuffled off while mumbling softly under his breath. Cain watched him go for a minute.

Don’t pay him any mind, Kalil said. "He is just a crazy