The Circle of the Chosen

By Alex Binkley

A simple-sounding request from his brother, the new king of Bernna, sends Dameron on what turns into a dangerous mission in the Lands south of the Great River. He needs his solider skills to survive encounters with treacherous priests, bandits, thugs and shapeshifters under the control of the Evil.

After gaining important texts for his brother, Dameron heads for home with people he has saved from marauding gangs. Among them is Lady Burska, who is trained to fight with a sword. His group encounters Giants on a mission to warn their clans about the return of the Evil that is once again trying to destroy all who live in the Lands of the Great River.

The Giants’ Elder realizes Dameron is the Champion of the Spirit and starts to prepare him for a battle with the Evil that will appear as a massive black cloud. Collaborating with brother Artorus and his cousin Yukul, Dameron plans to confront the Evil’s hordes who have besieged Compard, a walled city on the shores of the Great and Reddon Rivers. They hope that will draw the Evil into the open where Dameron can confront him using the power of the Spirit.

He knows from the ancient Credo of the Champion that he must tap into the power of the Circle of the Chosen to gain the full strength of the Spirit when he faces the Evil. How to do that is a mystery he must solve.

He has enough of the power to save a group of Protectors from the shapeshifters and they help prepare him. Then he employs it to destroy the Evil’s henchmen who control a powerful army sent by Haddonstone and they join his army on the way to Compard. Even with them and the warriors sent by the Giants, the Bernnaveld is badly outnumbered by the Evil’s forces. And Dameron doesn’t know how to combat the Evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CanamBooks
• Release date: Nov 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999491734

Alex Binkley

Alex Binkley is a freelance journalist, who after several decades reporting on the Canadian Parliament and government, became inspired to write science fiction and fantasy stories. He starts with a what-if scenario and explores where it might lead.

Book preview

Rescued by a Stranger

Graydon Tamerth shoved the bowl of greasy stew that had ruined his appetite to the far edge of the table. A slab of stale bread followed it.

His shoulders slumped as he peered about the common room of the Black Oak Inn that once was one of his favorite overnight stops. Now there were rancid smells in the building and smoke wafting through the common room from the poorly-drafted fireplace.

The light from the sputtering fire and too few candles cast shades of twilight gray over the room. A handful of shabbily-clad locals leaned on the bar shouting at each other between gulps of watery ale and bites of bread. The reek of their tobacco added to the foul atmosphere.

In the past, the Innkeeper welcomed Graydon’s regular visits and often ordered kitchen supplies and beverages from him. Now he stayed behind the bar or in the kitchen, barely speaking. His unwashed, ill-kempt appearance matched the drab wood paneled walls, dusty windows and litter covered floor.

Graydon leaned toward his daughter as she pushed her barely-tasted supper beside his. Everything about this place is wrong.

Gwendolyn nodded without looking him in the face.

He shuddered. It was a mistake to stop here. I should’ve kept riding like she wanted.

You would’ve liked how it used to be. He pointed at the stone fireplace. On cold nights, a roaring fire heated the Inn. You met merchants and traders from many lands and the meals and ales were superb. Laughter and storytelling filled the room. His voice faded.

Reminiscing about better days was another bad idea. His life had been turned upside down since his home in Morandon, a port on the Southern Sea, was attacked by a mob. His wife and younger son Michel were dead and he feared his eldest son Ernst would return home from his trading mission unaware of the madness in the city and be killed.

Gwendolyn, his youngest child, dressed as his servant boy to help with their escape. Usually calm and self-confident, she sat beside him. Her slim fingers traced the countless gouges and scrapes left in the table top by customers over the years. Tall and slender with short chestnut hair, she wore a small cap, baggy brown pants, a gray shirt and brown sweater. Her 18th birthday was days away and the elaborate celebration he had planned for the occasion was another bitter memory now.

Knowing the noisy behaviour of the locals would unsettle her, he touched his short sword. I can handle the fellas at the bar. The man at the back table is another matter.

The man sat with his back to the wall, face hidden in the hood of his robe. Only a highly trained soldier could wield the sword on his table. It’s a warning to stay away.

It worked on everyone but the serving girl who flirted with the swordsman when he placed his order. Although her blonde hair, pretty face and curves would garner plenty of male attention, she impressed Graydon by speaking in proper sentences.

She enunciated her words correctly when she took their order and delivered drinks and food. Her clothes appeared remarkably clean and, just as surprising, he could not smell her. She doesn’t belong here.

Graydon watched as she brought the swordsman extra candles, which made his table the brightest spot in the room. After speaking a few words to her, he unrolled a parchment and pulled the candles closer.

The serving girl pointed at the parchment and made a comment Graydon could not hear. Before the man could reply, the Innkeeper shouted, Polly, deliver these mugs.

Why would he come to a backwater like this to read? Graydon muttered.

Without looking, Gwendolyn whispered, We’ll soon find out. While her expression was blank, her voice sounded apprehensive.

Graydon stared at his daughter. Their abrupt flight from Morandon robbed Gwendolyn of time to grieve the deaths of her mother and brother. After the angry mob, mainly composed of people he knew, broke into their walled compound, she helped Graydon gather what they could as if their escape was just another business trip. During more than a week on the run, she only spoke to answer his questions. Now, her words puzzled him.

Although the locals leered and grabbed at Polly, she eluded their hands even with a loaded tray. When she finished, she returned to the swordsman’s table. He nodded at her without taking his gaze off the parchment.

Gwendolyn shot her father a quick smile, and then restored her blank, bored expression. Her hands still shook. Something more than the locals bothered her.

We should turn in early so we can get out of here… A loud crash drowned out the rest of Graydon’s words.

A heavyset man stood where the front door had been. It leaned against the wall, half off its hinges. If an objection to his method of entering came to the Innkeeper, it never got past his lips. The locals fell silent, barely daring to look at the ruffian.

He swaggered into the room followed by five scruffy men holding short swords. They wore an assortment of tattered dress jackets and pants that must have come from earlier victims. His eyes passed over the locals. Looks like slim pickings for us tonight, lads.

A nasty smirk crossed his face as he gazed in the direction of Graydon and Gwendolyn. Ah, maybe we’ll gain some coins after all. He lumbered toward their table.

Graydon scanned the room for an escape. A gang member entered by the back door and stood a few steps from the swordsman who continued to read as if unaware of the robbers.

Graydon slapped his money pouch on the table.

Better be plenty of coins in it or we’ll collect in another way. The thug loomed over their table with his gang right behind him. While they roared with laughter at his threat, Graydon was struck by their vacant expressions.

The stench wafting from the leader turned Graydon’s stomach and his heart sank because he could not take them all on.

What about this one? The bandit by the back door pointed to the stranger who continued to read the parchment.

If he doesn’t have a heavy purse, we’ll take turns with his tavern wench and make him watch. The gang grunted approval of the taunt.

The server moved behind the swordsman, putting her hands on his shoulders. His eyes remained on the parchment.

The robber hitched up his pants, drew a large knife from his belt and stepped to the swordsman’s table. Give me your money bag.

Get out of here. The snap in the swordsman’s voice rang through the room.

The robber laughed. When that drew no response, he tapped his knife on the table.

The man fixed the robber with a hard stare.

Grunting loudly, the robber thrust his knife at the swordsman’s chest. Without rising from his chair, the man grabbed the thug’s wrist to steer the blade past him, and then drove his other fist into the robber’s stomach. The breath exploded out of him as he reeled backward, frantically gasping for air.

Graydon sat back, his mouth wide open.

The swordsman remained in his chair as he stared at the rest of the bandits with a look that said who’s next. His sword still rested on the table.

Get him! the leader screamed. The bandits raised their swords and charged.

When Graydon reached for his weapon, Gwendolyn grabbed his arm. He doesn’t need your help. The assurance in her voice startled him. He’s here to save us.

In a fluid motion, the stranger lifted his sword from the table and sliced through the robber’s neck. Polly jumped back when blood gushed from the body as it toppled to the floor with a thud. The dead man’s knife clattered as it bounced under a table.

The stranger grabbed a chair and hurled it along the floor at the onrushing bandits. One tripped on it and the others slowed to dodge more chairs bouncing along the floor in their direction.

Graydon cheered. The tactic meant the stranger would face the robbers one at a time.

The man stepped sideway to avoid the thrust of an attacker and slammed the sword hilt into his face. The crunch of shattering bone rang through the room as the thug dropped like a stone.

Graydon fingered his own nose, imaging the pain of having it crushed.

The stranger feigned a strike at the next attacker before slashing his sword arm to the bone. The bandit dropped to the floor, howling in agony. The stranger ducked as another blade whistled over his head, and then rammed his weapon into that bandit’s chest. The robber clutched at the gushing blood as if he could hold it in. Graydon figured he was dead before he hit the floor.

The last two robbers glanced at their defeated comrades before stampeding toward the door. One tripped over a chair and the stranger sliced open his throat before he could regain his footing. The other hesitated as if to help his comrade. The pursuing stranger lunged at him and with a flick of his sword ripped open his side. He crashed to the floor.

Unnoticed in the fighting, the leader had backed away from Graydon’s table. Seeing the figure was too far away to slash with his weapon, the stranger picked up a short sword. As he did, the leader bolted for the door and the man threw the blade like a knife at him.

Graydon expected the weapon would wobble through the air like a hammer. Instead, it sliced into the outlaw just as he reached the door, propelling him into the wall with a loud thud. A few gurgled breaths and he went still.

Gwendolyn casually leaned toward her father. I told you he didn’t need your help. We’re safe. For now.

What is that supposed to mean? When she said we’ll soon find out why the stranger was here, did she know the robbers were coming?

Graydon stood for a better view of the leader’s body hanging from the wall like a trophy. It appeared to have shrunk in size and a yellow fluid oozed from it. What the hell is that?

He stepped toward the body until he heard a retching sound. He turned expecting Gwendolyn to be in distress and was surprised to see Polly leaning against the swordsman’s table with one hand covering her mouth.

Then he noticed the candles on the table still burned, but the parchment was gone. Did the stranger hide it before the attack?

The swordsman rolled over the bodies on the floor. When one groaned and another twitched, he shoved his blade into their throats. It was obvious that killing was not new to him.

After jabbering excitedly during the fight, the locals turned silent. Then one screamed, A Bernnaveld.

When the swordsman looked up, his shirt parted at the front to reveal a silvery tunic that shimmered in the dull light. Graydon collapsed into his chair. Grandpa had told him stories about the soldiers of Bernna and how nothing matched the resilience of Bernnaveld blades or the ominous shine of their uniforms.

Although the swordsman paid no attention to them, the locals were easing their chairs back and eyeing the doorway. While they were afraid of his presence, Graydon suspected they likely were unaware of the far greater danger he represented. The Bernnaveld only ventured into the Southern Lands from their distant home on the northern shore of the Great River when the Spirit summoned them to fight the Evil.

Then Graydon remembered Grandpa’s tale about whenever the Evil appeared, the Spirit bestowed some young men and women with the ability to treat the wounds and diseases it caused. These Healers could cure what the physicks and potion makers could not.

Much to Graydon’s dismay, many of his friends told him his daughter possessed the talents of the ancient Healers. He could no longer dismiss their talk as fables and felt anxious about Gwendolyn’s future. He now feared the attack on his home was intended to kill her and that the Evil would keep trying.

Graydon barely noticed Gwendolyn place her hands on his to stop him shaking the table. He did not want to admit all the ruin he had witnessed in the past weeks was evidence of the Evil’s return.

He took a deep breath to control his racing thoughts. As he did, he recalled a supper a month ago at which Gwendolyn warned him the Evil was on the rise. As much as he trusted her, he questioned how she could know of its threats and cautioned her against speaking to anyone about the old legends.

Now he feared a return to the upheaval of past wars against the Evil’s legions. He wrestled for control of the jumble of ideas tumbling in his head.

A Matter of Trust

Asurge of fury swept through Dameron urging him to keep killing as he reached for the blade pinning the leader’s body to the tavern wall. He resisted the impulse by gripping the hilt tightly and focusing on the mystery the body posed. It no longer looked like the man who threatened the merchant and his servant. Dameron tugged the sword free allowing the body to crumple to the floor.

The hairless head had slits where its eyes, ears, nose and mouth should be. At the top of its loose-fitting brown robe, the taunt skin was gray and stretched over a skeletal frame. How did it resemble a man before?

Examining it further, he realized it was one of the hideous monsters that had invaded his sleep during the last week. He spent hours every night reliving memories of happier times to banish the images of the ghoulish figures from his mind. Every morning he awoke more exhausted than the day before.

A yellowy liquid congealed on the sword blade. He rolled the body up against the wall with his foot to hide the face, and then dropped the weapon onto it.

He backed away, shaking his head. Why did the robbers ride with this creature? Surely it was not just chance that brought them to this dismal place. Could there be a purpose for me coming here as well?

Then his thoughts turned to why the fury injected him with the strength to fight for many hours when he had not broken into a sweat dispatching the bandits. How did I anticipate their strikes?

He stared at the merchant. He handed over his coins rather quickly just to protect his servant. Suddenly it became clear the servant emitted a glow and was actually a young woman disguised as a boy. While he did not understand how or why, he was certain he had been drawn to the Inn to protect her and the merchant.

Dameron reached down to pull at the shirt of a robber, tearing away a huge chunk of cloth to wipe the blood from his sword. When he looked up, the locals were glancing at the door, undoubtedly wondering if they could escape.

It’s over, he shouted.

Shifting the sword to his side, he stepped toward the merchant’s table. After a couple of steps, he realized the young woman radiated a force that calmed everyone in the room. It must be related to her glow.

Then he recalled his brother telling him of the ancient Healers who possessed much greater abilities than the physicks of Bernna and the Southern Lands. In addition to special potions, Artorus said the Healers could cure illnesses and mend wounds with their touch. If she is one of them, then the Spirit would want me to protect her. To do that, I must convince her to accompany me back to Bernna.

As his own money pouch was almost empty, he decided to take the robbers’ coins. He asked the serving girl, who had moved beside the merchant’s table, to search the thieves’ money sacks. When she did not respond to his request, he presumed she was distraught because of the killings. Polly, the thieves can’t hurt you now.

Carefully stepping around pools of blood, she checked the thug at the back of the room before moving to the other bodies. She hesitantly reached her hand into their pockets. After placing her collection on the table beside the merchant’s, she turned her attention to the leader.

She shuddered as she searched him and hurriedly returned to the table holding two full money pouches and a jewel-handled dagger. She piled her collection on the table.

Keep the knife, Dameron said. Even as he spoke, he puzzled over why he gave her the blade. That pouch belongs to this gentleman. After she handed it to Graydon, Dameron said, Empty the other one; let’s see what it contains.

Polly tucked the dagger into the pocket of her apron and emptied the pouch and bags onto the table beside the other coins.

Dameron looked around at the locals. Who knows about horses?

All eyes turned to a scrawny fellow sitting with three others near the bar. Ben, the Innkeeper said.

Dameron picked up two davits and tossed them to the shaggy-haired figure. Select the best two of the robbers’ mounts, and put them with the big black stallion and the three brown packhorses in the stable. My dogs won’t bite if you stick to looking after the horses. The others are yours.

Ben nodded and slipped from the room.

Dameron turned his attention back to the Innkeeper. How much for ale to help your patrons forget what they saw?

The Innkeeper surveyed the pile of coins. Five davits.

While one or two should have been enough, Dameron picked out the coins and gave them to Polly to pay the owner. No ale until they drag these bodies outside.

The locals scrambled to haul the robbers out the front door marking the floor with red streaks. They dumped them a few steps from the entrance and rushed back inside. Even the unusual appearance of the leader’s body did not slow them. Free ale was a motivating factor.

As Polly returned to the merchant’s table, Dameron wondered how she had known his parchment was written in the Old Words of the Lands of the Great River.

He put the remaining coins in his money pouch, and then introduced himself to Graydon. "The robbers must have worked this territory with the consent of the local lord. He’ll send his guards to pay me back for costing him a source of tribute.

You’re prosperous enough to gain their attention. I plan to leave early in the morning and you two should come with me. I’ll be in the stable before sunrise.

Then leaning forward so no one else could hear, he whispered, We must protect your companion because her Healer powers can counter the Evil’s wounds. All the violence she witnessed will have assailed her senses.

When he departed for the sleeping quarters, Polly slipped out of the room after him.

Graydon gripped the edge of the table with both hands for support. The Bernnaveld left before he could ask how he spotted Gwendolyn was a female when no one else had.

Gazing at the locals crowded around the bar, Graydon wondered if the Bernnaveld made a mistake in paying them off with ale. The drink would embolden them into reporting Dameron and himself to the local lord’s men hoping for another reward.

Graydon drained his mug while Gwendolyn remained face down on the table. Her occasional sob reminded him of what the swordsman said about how all the killings she just witnessed would upset her Healer powers. They probably would trigger her pent-up grief over the murders of her mother and brother as well.

She told him the attack on their residence by long-time neighbors was carried out at the Evil’s command and the madness it created was spreading across the Southern Lands. Since fleeing Morandon, most people they encountered behaved like simpletons, which Gwendolyn said showed the Evil controlled them. Other than the leader, the robbers displayed the same dimwittedness.

He decided to give her time to compose herself before returning to their room. As he waited, he thought about how the Bernnaveld tried not to attract attention and ignored Polly’s flirting.

Graydon ran his fingers through his hair as he searched for answers. Traders returning from Bernna never said anything about encountering Bernnaveld. In fact, they rarely talked about their time in the land that stretched as far north from the Great River as anyone knew. Yet they never refused to undertake another trip there despite warnings from the priests about its abundant dangers.

Certain he faced a restless night, Graydon rose from the table on unsteady legs. He held out his hand to assist his daughter to stand. He wanted to ask her how she knew the Bernnaveld would not need his help with the bandits.

One last glance at the drunks at the bar erased any doubts about departing early with the Bernnaveld.

The Riddle

Dameron suppressed a yawn after another night ruined by haunting visions of the creatures like the one he killed in the Inn. Now he knew they were the shapeshifters his brother said were the Evil’s enforcers. While he required more rest for the trek that lay ahead, he needed to deliver the texts his three packhorses were carrying to his brother and sister as soon as possible.

After more than a month of travel, his usually close-cut brown hair covered the tops of his ears and much of his neck. He also looked forward to shaving off his thick beard when he returned to Bernna.

Shaking his head to drive away the fatigue, he set out for the stable. As he picked his way around the Inn’s piles of broken furniture, kegs and jugs, his thoughts turned to the parchment he was reading when the robbers arrived.

Written in the Old Words, it was among the texts the priests gave him for his brother. When he finished translating it, he doubted the priests knowingly provided it because its eleven obscure lines contradicted their teachings that the Evil and the Spirit did not exist. Its complete meaning still eluded him.

The Evil comes; it steals its fill

Then retreats, its time to bide

Its strength regained, it returns

And will again

Until it holds the might

To enslave the Lands

Many Champions it will face

Strong of arm, fearless in battle

All will be taken

Until one faces the darkness

With the power of the Spirit’s Circle

To make him complete.

He was reading the parchment hoping to find its meaning when Polly spoke to him, and then the bandits arrived. After he killed them, pondering how their leader could be part of his nightmares and convincing the merchant and his daughter to accompany him pushed its message from his thoughts.

When he opened the stable door, the dogs rushed to greet him. Even in the dim glow of his oil lamp he could see the floor was well-swept and the stacks of hay and straw were arranged neatly. Wondering why he did not notice this yesterday, he realized the stable was tidier than the interior of the appalling Inn. He shook his head at this unusual situation.

He set out leftover meat from the kitchen for the dogs. The interior of the stable was too cramped to feed and tack up his mount Windrunner and load the three packhorses. He led them outside and tied them to a railing. As soon as they were ready, he brought out the two horses Ben selected for him the night before.

Even though he gave them more hay, the mares twitched and fidgeted as he picked out their hooves and brushed them. As the dirt caked on their coats fell off, their ribs stood out. They had been ridden a lot without much feed. The roan stood half a hand taller than the gray, which with sufficient brushing became closer to white with a dark mane and tail.

They would do well in my sister’s breeding herd. He found soft cloths to use as pads under their saddles. Only when he finished tacking up them did he wonder why he went to the trouble of putting their saddles back on them.

The bigger dog growled. Dameron immediately reached