Smoke and Blood: A Spellbreather Novel

By Richard Fierce

Ancient magic. A mysterious boy. War at the border.

The hard-won peace of a fragile kingdom is about to crumble. Threatened with invasion, the nobles of Avar must find a way to defend their border and keep their freedom. Unfortunately, the king has died without an heir.

Lord Ewan Brennan, the closest relative by blood, had declared his right to the throne – but not everyone agrees. Ewan’s hated enemy, Lord Gerard Healy, has declared his own bid for the crown.

Ewan must find a way to secure the throne before a civil war fractures the kingdom, while somehow keeping the invaders at bay long enough to muster the army.

An ancient legend gives him hope. An abandoned monastery on a far island might hold the answer to both his problems: wizard magic. Wizards have long been a myth, but Ewan is out of options.

Dodging assassins and dark dangers, Ewan must reach the monastery and find its secrets before he loses his kingdom – or dies trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dragonfire Press
• Release date: Mar 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781947329140

Richard Fierce

Richard Fierce is a fantasy author best known for his novella The Last Page. He's been writing since childhood, but became seriously vested in it in 2007. Since then, he's written several novels and a few short stories. In 2000, Richard won Poet of the Year for his poem The Darkness. He's also one of the creative brains behind the Allatoona Book Festival, a literary event in Acworth, Georgia. A recovering retail worker, he now works in the tech industry when he's not busy writing. He has three step-daughters, three huskies and two cats. His love affair with fantasy was born in high school when a friend's mother gave him a copy of Dragons of Spring Dawning by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman.  

Book preview

Smoke

and

Blood

A Spellbreather Novel

RICHARD FIERCE

Smoke and Blood © 2019 by Richard Fierce

This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.

Cover design by germancreative

Cover art by Rosauro Ugang

Dragonfire Press

e-Book ISBN: 978-1-947329-14-0

Print ISBN: 978-1-947329-15-7

First Edition: 2019

MAP

TABLE OF CONTENTS

MAP

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THANK YOU

OTHER BOOKS

1

The End of the Rope

—————————

A

top the jagged and wind-swept crags of the Clarion Mountains stood the imposing fortress-turned-prison known as Fangram Hold. It was home to the worst members of society, hardened criminals and murderers.

Drith was of the latter association. He sat in the corner of his cell, huddled in a ball and shivering miserably. The air this high was thinned to almost nothing and the cold pervaded every crack and crevice of the place. Drith could hear the bitter wind shrieking outside. He looked to the window, a barred rectangular slot in the stone wall. A foot wide and half a foot tall, it didn’t make for much of a window. Not that Drith cared anyway. The only things one could witness were the dark sky and the serrated peaks of the mountain tops.

It was so cold Drith could see his breath. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, and he tried to hunch down further. It had been at least a month since his capture and imprisonment, though he had lost count of the exact number of days. The only sign of time passing consisted of the delivery of his meals—meager portions of stale, moldy bread and slop that tried to pass itself off as soup—and the sunlight that brightened and eventually faded from his window.

Drith heard footsteps outside his door. The rattling of keys, followed by the screeching of the locking mechanism, then the heavy metal door swung open. An armored guard stepped in and set a wooden tray on the floor. Ignoring Drith, the guard left and re-locked the door.

Drith crawled along the hard floor to the tray and devoured the paltry meal, lapping at the soup with his tongue like a dog. The liquid was cold and bitter tasting, but he finished every drop and licked the bowl clean. It wasn’t enough to fill his belly, but it was enough to tide him over to the next meal. He assumed the guards fed him and the other prisoners that way intentionally.

He stood and stretched. He needed to get warm. As much as he wanted to lay down and try to sleep, he forced himself to exercise. Drith went through various stretches, then jogged in place for a few minutes. Eventually, feeling returned to his toes and fingers. He worked his muscles until he started to feel a warmth spread through his body, then stopped. He didn’t want to work up a sweat. He’d likely die of hyperthermia during the night. And that simply would not do.

As Drith moved to sit on the floor, a clink caught his attention. Assuming it was the door, he waited for it to swing open. When it didn’t, he glanced around the room. Something on the floor grabbed his eye. Drith scooted over and picked it up.

It was an arrow.

Its metal tip glinted in the pale light of the window as he turned it in his hands. The shaft was wood, as expected, but a piece of parchment was wrapped around it. Drith used his grimy nail to pry the corner up and unrolled it. It read:

There’s a job and a pile of gold for you if you can escape.

-K

Drith read it a few times. Who was K? A pile of gold? He wondered how much a pile was. A small pile, like five or six solidi? Or five or six hundred? He hoped the latter, but he had a more important question to answer. How was he going to escape? Escaping a cell typically wasn’t hard, especially in small towns. But this was Fangram Hold—an isolated bastion high in the mountains. Even if he found some way to escape his cell, which was impossible, as he’d already tried, he had no idea how many guards there were. Not to mention surviving the harsh climate outside the walls.

Death, it seemed, was inevitable. As an assassin, he knew this to be true. Many men had lost their lives to his blade. Yet as he pondered those things, a plan began to grow in his mind. Perhaps plan was the wrong word, considering Drith didn’t plan anything. He usually did things haphazardly, which is the reason he got caught in the first place. An idea, then. Drith had an idea.

When the guard returned and opened the door, Drith attacked him with the arrow. Not thinking about the armor, the arrowhead slid across the guard’s breastplate and the shaft snapped in half. The guard, momentarily surprised, quickly collected his wits and fought back.

Drith stepped to the side as the guard rushed him. He shoved the guard from behind and watched as the man fell face first, sliding across the floor. The guard’s armor scraped across the stones, screeching in protest. Drith climbed onto the man’s back and wrapped his left arm around the guard’s helmet, jerking it back to expose his neck to the open air.

Gripping the broken shaft with his right hand, Drith stabbed the end with the arrow into the guard’s neck, spraying a torrent of blood across the floor. The man’s fighting stopped with the suddenness of death. Adrenaline pumped through Drith’s veins and made his vision bleary. Standing over the guard’s corpse, his own body heaving, the rush faded.

Drith slipped over to the door and pushed it almost closed. Slightly ajar, Drith peered through the thin slit of space and waited. Certain nobody heard the commotion, Drith relieved the corpse of its armor and put it on. He ripped off a patch from his tattered shirt to clean the blood off the armor, then tucked the broken arrow shaft up his sleeve. Satisfied he looked the part, he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

A few weak torches flickered in sconces on the walls. The sparse light did little to illuminate the darkness, but Drith had grown accustomed to it over the last few weeks. He didn’t see anyone, so he made his way cautiously toward the end of the hall. Drith hoped the darkness would aide his escape. So long as no one looked at him for too long, he felt confident his charade would hold.

He navigated the dark hallways, trying to find a way out. He passed one door that was cracked open. Drith paused and peered inside. Two guards dozed at a table laden with food. Drith’s stomach rumbled at the sight. Ignoring his hunger, which he had become accustomed to, he continued on. A short distance later, the hall opened into an antechamber. Two windowless steel doors stood barred and locked.

That’s what I wanted to see, Drith said sarcastically. He walked to the doors and tried lifting the beam off the metal hooks that held it in place. He positioned his shoulder under one side and heaved with his arms. It was ungodly heavy, but after a few minutes of struggling, he managed to remove one side of the beam. The other side was easier since he had some leverage.

Drith tried to stand the beam upright, but he pushed too hard and the heavy beam toppled over, crashing to the stone floor with a mighty clang. Shouts echoed from the hall. He had to think of something, and quick. There was nowhere to hide. Maybe he could bluff his way out of trouble?

Before Drith could actually come up with any ideas that weren’t completely terrible, two guards came rushing into the chamber.

What the hell is going on? one of them demanded.

Gods, Tarn, what are you doing? the other chimed in.

I was, uh … Drith stammered for a response, any response.

Trying to cut your shift early? said the first guard. Yeah, nice try. You don’t have the keys. The commander left me in charge. So, put that beam back up and finish your rounds.

Yes, sir, Drith answered.

Are you getting smart with me? the guard asked, taking a step forward menacingly.

Screw this guy, Drith thought to himself. He pulled the arrow shaft from his sleeve and leaped forward, grabbing the guard and stabbing the arrow into the slit of his helm. The steel tip ripped into the guard’s eye, spurting blood everywhere. The other guard drew his sword and rushed to his fellow’s aid.

Drith yanked the arrow free and pushed the maimed guard into the second man, buying himself a few seconds. The other guard tried to move out of the way but ended up staggering back from the force of his comrade as they collided. Drith charged the guard and latched onto his sword arm, trying to wrestle the weapon from the man’s grasp.

The first guard fell to the ground screaming in agony, his blood making the floor slick. Drith managed to twist the second guard’s arm enough that his grip loosened on the hilt. Not yet ready to give in to defeat, the guard stubbornly held on and swung at Drith with his free hand, slapping Drith’s helm. A jarring ring echoed in Drith’s ears and his face scrunched in pain.

Blast it! Drith yelled. Placing the guard’s arm under his armpit, Drith used his free hand to stab the arrow into guard’s unprotected wrist. Drith felt flesh and tendons rive as the arrow sliced through, stopping violently when it hit bone. The guard released his sword, but not willingly. Drith grabbed the blade in mid-air, then snatched the keys from the first guard who now lay unnaturally still.

Drith fumbled with the keys, trying to figure out which one fit the keyhole. Finally triumphant, he pushed the doors open and was greeted by a freezing blast of wind. Cursing under his breath, he jogged down the winding, narrow path that led down the mountain. Snow, hail, and ice pummeled and blinded him. It was by far the worst experience he’d ever been through.

Two days later, starved and parched beyond anything he’d ever known, he made it back to familiar scenery. He’d lost his small toe and one finger to frostbite, but he knew he was lucky to have made it down the mountain alive. And now that he had his freedom back, it was time to find this ‘K’ person. It didn’t take long, because K found him first.

2

A Traitor Unveiled

—————————

L

ord Ewan Brennan was going to kill the Marquess of Tramore.

Of course, it was an order from the King himself. Odeir Lantes, Marquess of the city of Tramore—or Tramore’s Mark as it was more widely known—was a traitor to the crown. With a mass of rumors being relayed back to the castle by Tramore’s spies, Ewan had been sent to the borderland mark a week ago to investigate fully.

His boots clacked against the stone floor as he strode through the massive hall that led to the Marquess’s meeting chamber. Ewan took note of the various expensive—and foreign—tapestries that hung from the walls. Several of them depicted Nico, the king of Morland—Avar’s hated enemy. Disgust filled him as he passed more trinkets, likely gifts, that clearly had their origins from the foreign country.