The Fall of Daoradh

By John Montgomery

Daoradh means more to his son Seth than the pride a warrior's legend can generate. Daoradh is his son's protector and mentor-everything an eight-year-old child could ever hope for in a father. But when Daoradh mysteriously falls during a fierce battle with monstrous Inferiors, the House of Daoradh is devastated, and Seth's future is uncertain.

After spending the majority of his twenty-six years in the solitude of Highwood forest, Seth has become haunted by visions of his father, driving him to seek solace from his childhood friend, Michael Herder. Their rekindled comradery leads the two young men to search for answers and adventure in the lands east of The Wall. The journey inadvertently reawakens a centuries-old war that has divided the once immortal race of Watchers, as mankind's strongholds brace for the resulting onslaught of Inferiors, foes they thought were long-extinct.

Seth and Michael, the Seven Stewards, King Acar, and a secret sect known only as the Rion Guard are brought to the brink of destruction as evil and sorcery, sacrifice and love clash against the richly exotic setting of the world of Erathe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 25, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595853038

Book preview

Copyright (c) 2007 by John Montgomery

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-40944-0 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-88411-7 (cloth)|

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-85303-8 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-40944-X (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-88411-3 (cloth)

ISBN-10: 0-595-85303-X (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

For Bobbi

Contents

List of Illustrations

Acknowledgments

P R O L O G U E

C H A P T E R 1

C H A P T E R 2

C H A P T E R 3

C H A P T E R 4

C H A P T E R 5

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 7

C H A P T E R 8

C H A P T E R 9

C H A P T E R 10

C H A P T E R 11

C H A P T E R 12

C H A P T E R 13

C H A P T E R 14

C H A P T E R 15

C H A P T E R 16

C H A P T E R 17

C H A P T E R 18

C H A P T E R 19

C H A P T E R 20

C H A P T E R 21

C H A P T E R 22

About the Author

List of Illustrations

The Known Continent of Etharath

The Erathian Solar System and Calendar

Rionese Phonemes

Reunion

Acar

Mategaladh

The Mire Creature

Inferior Soldier

Rion

The Hall of the Seven Stewards

Moonledge Peak

Inferior General

Amphileph

Acknowledgments

My sincere thanks to Dr. John Howard Wink--the selfless sacrifice of your time to review my work and share your insights kept The Fall of Daoradh alive lo these many years. I am forever grateful.

To Teddie Fae Raines--your inspirational teaching style is the foundation of my love of story and of the telling.

To Tim Park--I offer my sincere appreciation for your wonderful artwork.

To my family--without your love and support, this book would not have been possible.

Image413.JPGImage420.JPGImage429.JPGImage437.JPG

P R O L O G U E

The smoky winds fanned the pages of the manuscript just inches from his pale, outstretched hand as the sounds of battle raged all about his lifeless body. The scrawl was hurried, but legible:

I, Atan, scribe of the Western Kingdom, write to those who will read when this great Kingdom falls, if any shall remain. The Inferiors have taken the outer walls, yet we give praise to the Creator! Though the enemy has destroyed the Great Library, I have preserved the Creation Scroll, though sadly, the ensuing fire has claimed much of it. I record here what I can:

When the Creator finished the logical arrangement of His universe, He began creating the orbiting spheres around The Light. In their order, they were Denf, with its one moon; Sapath, which had no moons; La, which man called The Dark Planet; and Erathe, and its one moon. Before time itself, the Creator looked upon Erathe's continent of Etharath and blessed it, bringing man into existence using nothing more than a thought....

For many thousands of years, the Creator dwelt with His creations, tending to them with infinite care and patience....

... and there came one, Evliit, a holy man ... took among him twenty men ... ways and were delivered back into the Third Domain, and for nearly eight hundred years, they guided the people.

But it was at that time Amphileph, one of Evliit's followers, found fault with His creation

... Amphileph was convinced and kept even unto himself his wickedness He learned to conjure and make spells, truly believing he could become like the Creator himself.

... the Spellmakers brought about a spell of deep sleep on Evliit. So it was done, and Citanth went to kill him. But Evliit was made aware of Amphileph 's evil in a dream and the ... Galbard, a faithful, stouthearted man was given it without ... in fear of Amphileph's wrath ... was burnt away past muscle and sinew to bare bone.

With the last of our strength, by our Pact of Ten, we have bound them, Evliit asserted. There is no life left in us, and our maker calls to us to come home. Etharath itself mourned the Watchers' departure, tearing open to its very soul.

Recorded from The Creation, Western Kingdom--1506 AF

Image444.JPG

C H A P T E R 1

REUNION

Three months before ...

The house lay in utter disarray. Simed Herder had asked some friends around Hinan Fields to come over for a few ales and a game of darts. There was a putrid smell of day-old ale, spilt by the quart and trodden many times by stumbling feet. Darts sparsely peppered the wall, and one had even managed to stick in the mantelpiece, a good ten feet from the dartboard. The partygoers had forced the rugs into corners and up against furniture as the night continued, for there had been much dancing and merry-making until Master Longthumb from Creeks End had run into the door facing and, as some thought, had broken his nose.

The following morning, Master and Mistress Herder were in bed just before dawn. He lay with his pillow in his face and his mouth opened like the ale had frozen a yawn. She had slept soundly through it all, being used to Simed Herder's behavior in a marriage of fifty-eight years. He was spry for seventy-nine, especially for a fieldman. Most Candrians lived around one hundred twenty years, though some more prudent in their younger days managed to live even a decade longer. For Simed Herder's lifestyle--ale and darts and as little work as possible--age eighty would be old and gray, and he dreaded each year more than the last, for he was very afraid to die.

The sun had risen bright and early. Michael Herder had slept in their small barn with their one cow, Tarry, because their mud-brick house had only the one large room. Michael had no chance of sleeping during his father's fiasco, and the barn afforded him silence and peace. As the sunlight started to creep through the spaces in the barn wall's wooden slats, Redtail, the sole rooster on the farm, lit atop the hayloft and crowed. Michael sprang up and yelled, shooing the bird away midcall. Michael then jumped out of the loft into the hay that lay on the floor of the barn and went ahead toward the house. Upon entering, he sat down at the table.

Mistress Herder had arisen and fixed breakfast and now proceeded to drum Master Herder, who was still in bed, on the head with a wooden spoon. He rolled over and, in his groggy state, slid sideways from the bed onto the floor.

Get up! Breakfast is ready! she yelled.

Herder muttered some obscenity under his breath and then squinted his eyes and held his hands over his ears. Can you be quiet, woman? Your screaming sounds like the Braywolfe's howl! He stumbled forward toward the fireplace and cried out again as he stubbed his toe on the corner leg of the table, the one massive piece of furniture in the house. Grabbing his toe, Simed fell back into his chair as Michael steadied his own plate and cup on the table.

Don't you shush me, you hole-dweller! she screamed back. Eat! she said as she tossed his plate on the table in front of him. His eggs were burnt and brown, and much of them flew into his lap from the force of the throw.

Michael cut his eyes once to his mother and then back to his father. May I be excused? he asked.

No! said Master Herder. Not unless I can have your eggs.

You may have them, Father, Michael said as he offered up his plate.

The morning after a party was always a time of walking on eggshells, trying not to do anything that might set off his father's anger. Michael especially disliked breakfast on those days because there was such nervousness between them all. He could remember a thousand short breakfast discussions that all ended in a tightening silence.

Michael was the first to speak, if for no other reason than to end their misery. I want to go out into the Valley, near Highwood, he said, rising from his seat in an attempt to discourage further discussion. I can be back before supper. He reached out for the door lock, his eyes never reconnecting with theirs.

What about noon meat? his mother asked, turning too late. The latch had closed silently behind him.

Michael walked through the early morning mists that surrounded the family's potato field. They had taken up the crop the week before, and even now, grass had infiltrated the soil, ready to become a new source of toil in the coming season.

The Herder farm had had another prosperous year, but as usual, Master Herder was soon using the profit for more kegs and business meetings, as he called them. He often liked to drain a good keg with friends before starting a series of speeches about the farming methods employed to gain a good crop. Usually, one or more friends--more than slightly liquored--would start to argue this technique or that until challenges of physical strength began. This quickly led to arm wrestling, bowling, darts, or fights--not always in that order. Michael had learned much from the group, sometimes at a forced pace, sometimes painfully. It was the tough folly of men who knew field labor like corn, cotton, and potatoes, who knew the long days of plowing the ground, planting the seed, and watching the earth.

Michael walked southeast until he could see the arm of the Candra Mountains, green and vibrant, flexed in the angle they had held since the beginning of time. The trees fought for their place in the angled terrain that climbed to the North Peak, never rooting very deeply, as if the mountain would at any moment stretch out that arm and shake them off. His eyes followed the mountain's elbow until at the hand, the fingers splayed out into Highwood.

The sheer density of the Highwood tree line was in ominous opposition to the open fields of farming. Summer breezes brought the aroma of the forest's dark greenery to the attention of Michael's nose. The soft movement of the leaves in the Erathian wind almost hypnotized him.

As Michael continued southward, Highwood seemed to wrap around him, engulfing him in its rhythmic sway. Soon, the mists of the valley quilted Candra Valley behind him from view.

Looking to the south reminded Michael of Seth's birthplace, the homestead where honor and pageantry once had flourished. Brush and vines blocked the old road that led that way, decay and ruin surely at the road's end. It was almost unfathomable that all that had been the House of Daoradh was now gone.

Seth's father had been the talk of the town, their hero, and the stories of his strength and endurance in battle were the stuff of Candrian myth. Daoradh, they said, would stand firm in the onslaught of battle, his swordplay and strategy legendary for turning the tide. His disappearance at The Wall had caused uproar in Candra's small village--the townspeople created search parties, dispatched soldiers, and buzzed with the day-to-day news, or hope for it. However, as the searchers returned without a sign and the soldiers reported no progress, the surge of mourners and well-wishers who had sought to soothe his wife and child dwindled and then simply faded away.

Seth's mother had never been the same; pining for her lost husband sapped her joy, her strength, her life force. At her death, Seth was taken away to foster care in Candra Valley, and the House of Daoradh, its fame depleted, was no more.

While Michael looked in that direction, he saw, or thought he saw, something moving across the plain. He paused a moment, straining his eyes in the billowing heat. It was something white, possibly a stray cow. My guess--it's Old Tom 's, he thought.

He walked briskly up the rolling hill about a quarter-league to where he could see the object more clearly. It was no cow, but a white horse, and from the distance, it looked tall and proud, though he could see little detail. He ran, thinking to catch the horse, not taking into account that it might be wild.

There's all kind of queer things in the valley west of The Wall, his father would say. Best to leave 'em be. Yet after Michael had run a full half-league, the horse had not stirred, but stood still and watchful, craning his neck this way and that, keeping Michael in sight at all times.

His heart starting to pound in his chest and his side burning, Michael closed the distance between them.

Here, old fellow, come here, Michael coaxed as he tried to slow his breathing. He placed his hands on his knees while sweat poured from his face, a standoff ensuing in the final thirty paces.

He crossed this final bit of ground between them very slowly. You'd be a nice addition to the Herder Farm, wouldn't you? he said. Cautiously, he extended his arm and reached toward the horse's mane.

Visions of grandeur filled his mind, and his eyes widened with anticipation. A horse would open the world to him, allow him to see places he would not dare attempt on foot.

Michael looked into the horse's deep, black eyes. The horse's ears darted once and then a second time as he raised one leg to paw the ground. His hindquarters turned slightly, as though he might bolt and run.

At just a few paces away, Michael sprang for the mane, hoping to get some hold by which he might mount the horse, and in the same instant, the creature bolted so quickly that Michael's hands grasped only air, and he came crashing down on a stone. Pain ran through his body like an electric shock. His trousers torn and his knee bleeding, he rolled over in the grass and cried out, grasping his knee.

The realization that he must walk home on a bruised and cut leg made him cross with himself, and in retrospect, the try at catching that great animal felt more foolish to him with each passing moment. He was about to curse aloud when something cold and wet touched his ear. He jerked back and turned to see the horse standing over him, and Michael's hand instinctively went to his ear as though he thought he'd been horse-bitten.

The horse shrugged and shuddered in disapproval. He tossed his mane in a way that made Michael think of a tavern wench he had seen in Candra.

Michael staggered as he rose and reached out slowly to touch the horse's mane a second time; the horse stood tense, glaring into Michael's eyes.

If you kick me, Michael began, but stopped as he noticed a look more of strength than wildness in the animal's eyes. Michael stepped again to mount, but his knee gave way, and he caught himself with hands on his thighs, eyes squinted with pain.

Defeated, he looked in disgust at the throbbing cut that had not clotted. He pushed himself up as the horse circled him slowly, and then he reached a third time, falling against the great animal. He paused and waited with tightened eyelids for the animal to bolt or jump, but nothing happened save the sway of the horse's tail that half-swatted him across the shoulder.

They met eyes again, and something--some unsaid communication--passed between them, and Michael became confident that the animal would allow him to mount. With much effort, he managed to lift his bruised leg over the horse's girth, pulling on his mane for support as he mounted him.

Well, old fellow, he said between gritted teeth. If you would be so kind as to help this poor soul homeward, you may eat heartily in his stable tonight. With that and a light spur, the horse moved forward at what Michael perceived as a trained gait, even and smooth. Though he was unsure of the horse's age, he was sure of his physical strength. He could sense the storm of quivering muscles beneath his hands as he clutched the horse's neck and mane.

After some time, he realized he had gone too far northwest and now turned north toward the farm. Darkness had fallen, and he was long overdue for supper. As he looked ahead, his eyes caught the glimmer of the horse's white mane, damp with sweat, glistening with reflecting moon and stars.

Gannon, he said, taking it upon himself to name the horse. Fair-skinned and gentle you are indeed. Then he smiled to himself at the poetic ability he had while talking with a horse.

Around the tenth hour after noon meat, Michael dismounted painfully at the house. The cut had since mended itself to the point of being an annoyance more than a hindrance, but it remained tender to the touch.

He led Gannon to the extra stall beside the sleeping Tarry and slowly closed the stall door and set the latch. He turned to leave, but remembering his promise, stopped and threw in an extra helping of hay. Leaning to the horse's ear, he said, Stay quiet, boy, or else the master will have us both in shackles.

He walked out of the barn, closed the latch, and then crossed the yard. He opened the door carefully so as not to make a sound. He entered slowly and quietly, but as he turned to go to bed, he ran nose to nose into his father, who had been standing behind the door.

Where you been, boy? Master Herder yelled, his breath reeking of ale. Mistress Herder rose from her sleep and saw Simed grasping Michael by the collar, shaking him violently.

I asked you where you be-- Master Herder's words were cut short by the abrupt noise of metal on bone, and Michael felt his father's grip loosen and release. Suddenly, his father lay at his feet, clutching his head.

You witch! he said between groans.

Michael's mother was standing over her husband, wielding a blackened skillet. She was shaking all over, eyes stretched wide as if with drawstrings. Don't you ever touch that boy again! she yelled as she slowly swung the pan near Master Herder's face. If you do, I'll break your skull!

Michael's gaze fell to the floor as shame reddened his face. The thought of his mother rescuing him, the anger of his father--it all mired together into a knot in the pit of his stomach. He closed his eyes tightly, desperately holding back the rim of tears.

Go to bed, Michael, his mother said, her voice shaking. It will be morning before you know it.

Yes, Mother, he said, but his eyes could not meet hers.

He quickly crawled into his bed and pulled his covers close. The evening's events replayed repeatedly in his head, ending with that terrible sound of metal and bone. The more he wished it to stop, the more it seemed to linger until fatigue mercifully overtook him, and it all faded to blackness.

Redtail sounded the morning at the break of dawn. Michael rose, filled the washing bowl with water, and washed his face. He allowed the cool water to clear thoughts from his mind, replacing them with the memory of Gannon and the ride homeward. How gallant he had felt while daydreaming of riding onward across battle plains in deep night. He knew he could have ridden all night, for his pain had disappeared in the thrill of the ride. Yet the daydream ended the moment his thoughts returned to the house, father and all.

Mistress Herder saw pain in her son's expression. Oh, Michael, she said, while you were out yesterday, Mr. Oleane brought you a letter!

Michael's knitted brow relaxed. Old Tom--I mean Mr. Oleane--brought a letter for me?

Yes, yes, she answered. It says it's from 'Seth of Candra.'

Michael was barely able to contain his excitement. Seth of Candra? he asked.

Yes, that's right, she said as she proudly pulled the letter from her apron.

Thanks, Mother! said Michael as he took the letter and plopped down on his bed, unfolding it with great care. He read it with some difficulty, given that it had been many years since he had had the need to read anything.

My dear friend Michael, the letter began, I have been thinking quite a lot about you lately and hope to visit with you on the seventeenth of Belaridh. If the fieldwork is finished by then, maybe we will have some time to visit. Hope to see you then. The letter was signed, Sincerely, Seth of Candra.

What's today? Michael asked.

Well, let me see, Mistress Herder replied. She rummaged through a cabinet and produced a pegboard that she studied for a moment. All right then, that's fourteen, so that's fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen. Today is the seventeenth.

Are you sure, Mother? said Michael.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen--yes, I'm sure.

It's the seventeenth already? Michael exclaimed, jumping up from his bed, his excitement more than he could contain.

Master Herder was skeptical. What news do you have? he said.

Seth is going to be here today! he said, ignoring his father's tone, his mind racing. He had to show Seth his great prize, his Gannon, and he wanted to listen to stories of wood life and wild animals. He remembered how much he had loved Seth's tales of the Younger Days, The Wall, and the First Union. Seth could talk, sing, and joke about so many things. He was happy, Michael thought, happier than anyone Michael had ever seen. He was so full of life, so contented with who and what he was. Seth could cry at the sparrow's death, and yet he could be tough as a wood spike when the need arose. Michael threw on his shirt and started outside.

Where do you think you're going, boy? Master Herder asked pointedly, still lying in bed with a wet towel on his bruised head.

I'm going to try to see Seth today. I--

Seth, Seth, who cares about some blasted Seth! his father raged. Who is this boy, anyway?

Seth of Candra, son of Daoradh! Michael said.

Master Herder squinted at him when he said Daoradh. So the great hero's son lives alone in the woods, he laughed. Got some kind of castle out there, does he?

Seth's got no family left, so he lives in Highwood, that's all.

Well, we ain't having his likes around here frequent, you hear? Folks that live out in them woods just ain't right!

Michael wanted to scream inside. All he could think about was getting away, running away as far as he could. It would be better if he did not have a family. He looked at his mother and then at the floor.

Can't give the boy any happiness, can you, Herder? she snapped.

It's all right, mother, Michael said as he grabbed up some dried meat and walked outside.

At noon meat, Michael was still standing outside, watching to the southeast for Seth. He remembered long, long ago (or so it seemed) when he had first met Seth of Candra. Michael guessed that he had been four or five and that Seth had probably been seven or eight when the Teachers of Letters had taught the children the language of the Western Kingdom.

Michael remembered how he had struggled with the lessons, while Seth seemed to absorb everything with ease. The Teachers were amazed at Seth's learning ability at his early age, but were distraught with his love of mock-war games. Michael laughed when he thought of the venerable Teachers' faces blanching at Seth teaching the war games to the other children. He had been right there at Seth's feet with the other children of the Valley, listening to his lectures on the kingdom's defense until one of the Teachers would catch them and scold them. Then the Teachers would take Seth aside and talk to him about his parents, but Seth would say nothing, wriggling incessantly until the Teachers became discouraged and let him go.

Michael had taken the subject of Seth's father no farther in all the years they had known each other, seeing how it seemed to torment Seth so. After graduating at the top of his class, Seth had shocked them all by taking his famous name and walking off into the sunset, and they had never heard from him again. Every year as Michael worked the Hinan Fields' eastern end, he looked toward Highwood and thought of searching Seth out, but something or someone had always intervened. Ironically, after eight years, Seth was coming to him.

As he looked eastward, he tried to imagine what Seth must be doing at that moment, but his mental image would not mate with the thought of Seth living in the forest, no matter what he had told his father. Considering Seth's heritage, he seemed destined for greatness, not a life of such solitude.

Resolving to dismiss the paradox, Michael turned to go to the barn, remembering he had to feed Gannon before morning got away from him and his father came out of the house.

Far beyond Michael's gaze, Seth had finished eating breakfast at dawn and was walking through Highwood's lower end toward a creek branch of the Highborne River to wash his mess plates. He rubbed his hair, thick and brown, and decided to wash it upstream when he finished with the plates.

He had a sense of oneness with the fiber that made up the forest. As he took in the scent of the leaves, the breath of it pulled his frame outward and left his spirit bare.

Seth believed that people in the villages had a tendency to lose themselves in their busywork. Here, when a person was alone in the forest, time, conscience, and the five senses eroded away illusions one might have of himself. Seth walked back to camp and finished the rabbit he had started for breakfast, thankful for the richness of life he had found in Highwood.

For all his dislike of the outside, he could not wait to see Michael Herder. He wondered what Michael looked like after all these years (eight, he thought, but he wasn't sure, for he rarely kept count). He was sure Michael would have changed greatly.

He pondered years gone by, an act that was usually distasteful to Seth, his past having included much sorrow and hardship that he would rather forget. He reverted to figuring his and Michael's ages, and after long thought, he concluded that Michael was twenty-two, making him about twenty-six, just youngsters in the lifespan of the Candrians. Then he laughed, for he cared so little about his age.

Dawn illuminated the beauty of the forest. Seth's home was deep in High-wood, where dawn had to filter through the trees, racing around limb and bough until finally reaching its inhabitants a full hour later. It was a beautiful thing to watch as tree bough on tree bough, like giant lenses, caught the morning sun and focused their many shades of green on the forest floor. This morning was no exception, and Seth smiled happily.

He started packing before midmorning and finished quickly. All his worldly possessions fit neatly into his old leather pack, and as he tossed the pack over one shoulder, he headed westward to Hinan Fields.

Entertainment filled the day. Squirrels were out and playful, carrying nuts back and forth in their usual frenzied pace.

Hello, young fieldmen!