Knights of the Martyr. Book One of the Martyrs Children Series

By Daniel R. Beaton

The Northern Kingdom was founded on pain and battle. Pain from years of persecution for their religious beliefs at the hands of the Justican Empire. Then Battle when they followed a lone El back through uncharted mountains to a harsh land populated by the fecund Barrow Kin where they had to win their place in the world through 25 years of hard fought war. But win it they did.
For 50 years they have known peace, and Justice was handed down by the Knights of the Martyr. However, with the end of the centuries of wars in the South their former masters, the Justican Empire with their God like Emperors have once again set their eyes on them.
A giant of a knight who has grown jaded in his faith. A young boy with powers he can’t explain. A young girl who has more secrets than dreams. And a novice Duke trying to fill the shoes of his murdered father. These are the people ready to do what they think is best for the Northern Kingdom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365155901

Book preview

Knights of the Martyr. Book One of the Martyrs Children Series

Knights of the Martyr

By Daniel R. Beaton.

Book one of the Martyr's Children series.

First Edition.

Copyright 2016 All rights reserved.

Daniel R. Beaton Publisher.

Distributed by lulu.com

No part of this work may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher with the exception of brief quotations for review purposes.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real charaters, places or events is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Daniel Beaton

Artwork by

http://gilgamesh-art-iq.deviantart.com/art/Fire-Flames-HD-PSD-AND-PNG-For-Free-562518106

ISBN 978-1-365-03572-2

Acknowledgment

For my wife and my son for allowing me the time to cross one off my bucket list, and to Mike who kicked me in the bum.

Introduction.

Axeshaker moved with all the caution and quickness years of tracking and destroying his ungodly prey had given him. In the dark, he silently positioned himself in an unobstructed corner so he would have a clear shot when his foe scurried into sight. He went deep into himself to control his breathing lest any noise give him away or mask the subtle sound of the approaching target.

Tightly, he grasped his weapon, making it an extension of his arm. His wrists remained loose so he could swing it freely in whatever direction he needed in order to get it by his foe's defenses. His concentration was locked, all other things were beyond his perception at this point. The stocky old Dwarve didn’t feel the inordinate heat from the burning fires.  He didn’t feel the single bead of sweat roll down his nose to get lost in his scraggly beard.

Then, from the depth of the room came the slightest sound, just barely louder than the breath of a ghost. Just the slightest scrabbling scratch on the floor, and Axeshaker knew it was there. His senses, heightened by years of this battle, knew instantly where the target was located and his battle hardened reflexes went into action before he could think.

Axeshaker brought the broom down with all his might, just narrowly missing the rat poking its head out of the wood box next to the forge. The rat scurried back to its hole before the wily old veteran could adjust and attack again.

Axeshaker cursed silently to himself and then went back to work, plying his trade. In the decades since his last campaign he had become an adequate blacksmith, but that in no way filled the empty part of his soul. How he longed for the war cries and blood of his youth. The sound of steel hitting bone and the rush of blood in his ears. The sight of a man's last breath leaving him in the cold morning light. A scant fifty years had gone by since the last time his clan had engaged in war.

Battle is the birthing ground of warriors, but peace will always be their grave. Even now as he looked around he could see young lads of fifty years and more who had never held an axe in anger, never split even so much as a goblin skull. Soft they were, all of them. And how they looked down on Axeshaker. An adequate Dwarven smith… Might as well be a eunuch priest. Useless to anyone but the Humans. They didn’t know that Axeshaker was born for violence and mayhem, not the soft life of a merchant. He was a priest in the temple of war, but for some reason he couldn’t understand, after 100 years of service to the causes of the Dwarven people, they ran out of enemies. What good is a warrior without a war? He was a weapon, not a tool.

So he set blandly to his task of making a few more horse shoes to sell to merchants who would take them and trade them for the soft cloth so valued by the young. Silks and cottons to clothe their soft sensitive skin. Foppish suits to replace the coarse wools and leather commonly worn when he was young. Axeshaker shook his head in disgust, both at the Human-like youth of the new generation, and at himself for what he had become. Soft… he muttered to himself, Everything is so soft now…

Chapter 1.

Ahdio was hungry. But that wasn’t anything new. Hunger was always gnawing at him somehow. Not the rumbly tummy of a fat merchants son that had gone an hour without a snack, but the deep seated hunger of a youth who had been without enough to eat all his life. His mother had tried. She had done unthinkable things in order to keep him from dying. She tried. Harlot they called her Whore…

Every time Ahdio thought about her he wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. He had already shed every tear he would in this lifetime. Now all he could do was let his anger and frustration bleed out of his heart into the world. Sometimes it made him cold, sometimes it made him cruel… but those times passed.

Whore… he thought to himself. How could they call her that? Ahdio thought about her in a reverent kind of way. Truth be told, he could barely remember her face. He had been all of seven when she died. But he had watched it.

They had been walking down the street, she had used her body to get a few coppers so they could buy a meal. It wasn’t her fault. No one would hire or marry a woman with a bastard son. She didn’t do it willingly, or often, but she did it out of love for her son. Never once did he remember her telling him anything cruel. She never blamed him for her station in life. Neither did she blame his father. She never spoke of his father. Never.

Down the busy street they walked as vendors sold their wares and performers gave shows for coins. They didn’t have enough money for meat, so his mother was headed to Urgoth the vegetable seller. He sold farmers seconds to the poor for prices they still couldn’t afford, but he kept them alive.

Ahdio was distracted for a moment by the sound of children laughing, and broke his mother's grasp on his hand. He headed for the sound of children being entertained by a puppet and his mother called to him in her sing song voice Ahdio, be good, I’ll be at Urgoths.

Ahdio was safe in the market. Everyone was. No one could remember the last time a murder had happened in broad daylight. The peace had been kept for fifty years. The city guards had grown fat and lazy, but were capable of breaking up any dispute in Tanagril. The city walls were in a bit of disrepair, but who needed them? The gallows had fallen over last year from disuse and rot, so benevolent was the rule of Relldam, son of Herweises Whitespear. The prisons were full to bursting, but he refrained from executing all but the most heinous and unrepentant of criminals. And to his credit, he always did it in private in his capital. He ruled well and benevolently. His son, Ansel, was of a like nature. He was strong and kind, benevolent and fair like his mother.

So it was under this long banner of peace that the unthinkable happened. Ahdio watched the puppet show from a distance as the other kids would pick on him if he got too close. The act ended and Ahdio went back to find his mother. He spotted her not far from Urgoths, standing with a tall man in fancy black clothing. Ahdio had no idea who it was, but they were talking strangely. Ahdio knew not to approach his mother when she was with a potential customer, so he hung back and watched from a shadowy corner. His mother turned to look at him for a brief second and he could tell something was wrong. She had a strained and scared look on her face. Ahdio moved to go to her but before he could close even half the distance, his mother screamed in pain and fell. The regal man ran away before anyone could stop him, not that anyone would have. Despite Relldam’s benevolence, it was still a crime for a commoner to lay hands on a noble.

Ahdio went to his mother, but it was too late. He held her hand and watched until the last bit of blood oozed from the wound in her chest. She watched his face until her eyes glazed in death. Then he was alone. A senseless, unsolved death and no one really cared. Serves that Whore right people would say, always trying to act like respectable folk. Raising a bastard as if it were a normal child. Now she’ll burn for it.

If they had slain him on the spot it would have been less cruel, or so he thought.

The guards gathered him up and took him to the church orphanage. He was to be cheap labor for the friars in the Vineyards, toiling all day in the hot sun for two sparse meals a day. He was there for five years before, on a crisp fall morning, one of the brothers took note of him scrawling shapes his mother had taught him in the dirt.

Brother Nam was one of the nicer monks. He rarely beat the kids, and mostly only did it when they deserved it. He never used them for other things, which by most standards in the orphanage made him a rather excellent monk. 

Ahdio saw the ascetic monk approach and stopped what he was doing. Nam was tall and skinny to the point of being nearly skeletal, but unlike Ahdio who was skinny because he didn’t eat enough, Nam was skinny because he was training his flesh to reject greed and sin. He was tonsured like the other monks, but what hair he did have was stark white and wildly messy. Too many hours spent in prayer instead of looking the part. He was everything Brother Rienious wasn’t.

Rienous was fat and foul and smelled of rot and corruption, and he preyed on the youngest boys and used them to satisfy his needs. Then when he had slaked his disgusting lusts, he rewarded them with a carrot or an apple or some other such treat. All the children feared and loathed him, but none fought him, as he was quick to beat the boys. Rumor had it he had gone too far on more than one occasion.

Boy… Nam said, as the kids rarely had names in this place.  What is that you are scrawling there?

Ahdio looked up at the monk. Not wanting to get a beating for being slow to answer he blurted out, My mother taught me letters… then flinched while he waited for the inevitable beating for doing something other than what was required.

Nam looked down at the peculiar looking boy. He didn’t resemble the farmers children usually brought here. He wasn’t as squat and muscular as they normally were. He was taller, and even skinnier than most of the starving lads here, but he had a peculiar wiry strength about him. His light brown hair was a roughly cut stubble and his eyes were a deep dark brown that almost bordered on black. They were intense, and at the same time scared.

Ahdio looked up at a perplexed Brother Nam when the pain never came.

Can you read at all? Brother Nam asked quietly.

A little, but I forget a lot… it’s been a while.

Nam took the sharp toe of his shoe and scrawled a few letters in the dirt. What does that say boy?

It says ‘Sit’ Brother… Ahdio said.

The ascetic monk frowned his thin frown then scrawled a couple of more letters.

That says ‘God’ Ahdio said with reverence.

Frowning again, Nam crossed out what he had written and scrawled more letters. Ahdio stared at them puzzled. He knew all the letters but couldn’t puzzle out the meaning of them. I don’t know…

He wasn’t sure how it was possible, but the frown on Nams pinched thin face got even worse. He looked at Ahdio sternly and said Don’t do that anymore. then kicked the dirt over what he had written. Nam turned so quickly on his heels that his frock kept moving in a circle after he was done and almost tripped him.  Brother Nam walked quickly away.

If the toil in the summer was hard and hot, it was far better than the winter toil. In the winter you worked in the wine cellars. Cool, damp… If you saw the sun you were lucky. But at least he wasn’t freezing in the street. And even if he was constantly hungry, at least he got some food. Not as much as some of the fat monks got, not nearly, but it was enough to keep him alive and working. The brothers considered this a virtue. Turn your hunger for food into a hunger for God! they would say. Only God can take away your hunger and weariness. Look at us, we barely eat anything at all and God keeps us full. Why we eat even less than you do… Ahdio had heard from one of the kitchen boys that this wasn’t true. Most of the monks didn’t even follow the required fasting on 6th day in order to prepare for 7th day services.

A month after his encounter with brother Nam found Ahdio settling into his winter duties. Being cold and hungry and sore, moving kegs and cleaning vats. He was 12 now, old enough to work, but not old enough to be beyond the lecherous desires of the less reputable brothers. He had mostly avoided them for the last five years. Mostly… He had a knack for melting into the shadows when he needed to, or moving silently away when they approached.

He was toiling away at cleaning out the yeast vat, where the brothers kept the culture of yeast that was the trademark of their fine wines, alive for over a century. It was wet, cold, miserable work that had to be done twice a year by a smallish, skinny kid. The hatch to enter was too small for even a teenager to fit. So he drew the short lot that day. At least until Brother Nam came along. The brother stuck his head in the vat and shouted, Boy… Get out here. The Bishop wishes to talk to you…

Ahdio’s heart sank. A visit to the Bishop meant one of two things. Either he was being removed from the orphanage, or the Bishop wanted a ‘friend’ for the evening. Some boys went to see the Bishop and never came back. The Friars would tell them that a relative had come to take them in. They always hoped that was the truth, but some of the boys said that something darker was happening. There were rumors of sacrifice to one of the Pagan gods. Blood spilled to get the old gods to return. As silly as that seemed to Ahdio, he had to admit that it still concerned him deeply. So deeply he had to concentrate hard to keep from wetting himself.

Brother Nam led him out of the vineyard that had been his home for five years, past the monastery where he worked occasionally and up to the big house by the cathedral, commonly known as The Bishops Mansion. He had never been in it before; only the best of the older orphans got to work there. They would never allow a demon spawn bastard to work there. Most likely they were tossing him out because he wasn’t fit to be around Good Christian orphans.

Being the child of a whore who had no idea of the identity of his father wasn’t a good thing. Ahdio dreamed of getting away from there. Of going somewhere they had no idea who his mother was or who he is. But that was always far off; somewhere in the future. He wasn’t sure how far, just far. He wouldn’t know what to do or how to feed himself. He had nowhere to go.

They didn’t go in by the front door. Instead, Nam brought him around to the door by the kitchen. They walked through the kitchen where a couple of dour looking priests were overseeing some young waifish girls cooking and cleaning. They walked out of the kitchen and through an opulent dining room. Ahdio instantly became aware of his current condition. He hadn’t been allowed a bath in over a month and had just climbed out of a dirty yeast vat. He smelled like a fine mixture of dirt, sweat, and bread. He looked even worse. Nam led him through a receiving hall which was equally, if not even more, opulent. But even in the midst of the opulence and his own smell, he still felt a trickle of fear. Would they lay him screaming on a table and cut his guts out with a knife caked with the blood of a thousand previous victims? Or would he be forced to submit to the Bishops ‘needs’?

They walked through another door into what looked like an office suite where several monks and priests labored away hunched over desks. Ahdio noted that at least 2 were counting coins. One was counting the coppers of the poor, donated to assure that their suffering would end when this life did. The other was counting the silver sovereigns and gold talents of the rich buying off God so they could continue indulging in whatever sin they currently enjoyed. Indulgences they were called. Buying your relatives out of purgatory was possible too. Ahdio didn’t understand how worshipers of God the Martyr, who died for them, could say one thing and do another. How they could preach that the Martyr told them to give up all their possessions and follow him while his church hoarded cash like a miser king.

He didn’t think about these things too much. He was too busy being hungry and tired and scared and lonely. He missed his mother, the only person in life who had ever showed him kindness or compassion. He missed her deeply on a level only an orphan can really understand. They walked into a large office with a little bald man sitting at an ornate desk.

Ahdio didn’t recognize the man at first, he was thin and wrinkled with small, keen eyes that darted about the paper he was reading. His skin was so thin it seemed almost translucent. Ahdio could see the veins beneath that skin, and the man's lips were thin and drawn in a straight line that was neither a frown or a smile. He had seen him somewhere before, at a distance with a big silly hat on. Then it dawned on him, this was the Bishop. Ahdio’s knees felt weak when the old man fixed him with a withering gaze. He studied Ahdio for a moment then moved his glance to Brother Nam. And who might this scraggly lad be, Brother Nam? he asked.

Brother Nam answered even more stiffly than he usually did, Your Grace, it is the boy I told you about.

Ahh, said the sprightly Bishop, He’s the young genius bastard that knows how to write.

Ahdio winced at the word. No matter how many times he heard it, bastard always made him feel like less than a Human thing. The Bishop noticed the wince and looked back to him. What’s your name, Boy?

Ahdio was stunned for a second; no one had asked him his name in a couple of years. The brothers didn’t care about any of their names, and the other orphans wouldn’t have called an orphaned whore's son by any name other than bastard anyway. Brother Nam cuffed him in the back of the head and told him Answer His Grace!

Ahdio looked at the Bishop and stammered Ah.. Ah… Ahdio sir… I mean… Your Grace.

The Bishop smiled. Fitting… he said. Do you know what your name means boy?

No sir… I mean Your Grace.

The old man looked at Ahdio then looked to a corner behind him and said Tell him what the name means Callayx.

Ahdio spun around expecting a wild priest coming at him with a blood caked dagger. Instead he saw what he had at first assumed was a fat statue sitting quietly in the corner, but quickly realized was a man in armor. The man was of middling years, with wild, red, greying hair sticking out from under an ornate helm that was perched on his ponderously large head. His face was reddish, like a man long into drink and his eyes were a curious bloodshot green. He stood up, which only made his prodigious size even more pronounced. His ill cared for, but obviously functioning armor creaked at the joints as he moved. Ahdio was sure this was it for him. This huge, fat, behemoth was going to cave his skull in with the large hammer that was leaned casually against the chair.

The giant spoke, and his voice was deep as a bear's, but somehow soft and soothing at the same time. Ahdio, he said is from the old language of the Justican Empire. It means ‘Of God’. Ah Dio. Of God. Then the giant, whom appeared to Ahdio to be at least nine feet tall, but was really only a little over six feet, sat down and adjusted his large shield next to the chair.

The Bishop choose this time to speak up again Of God young man. Apparently your mother knew what you would end up doing with your life my young fellow. No one will ever call you a bastard again. Your father is God the Martyr, just like all of us. And you are going into the priesthood.

Ahdio was stunned. He heard the words, but couldn’t quite put them together coherently. What? was all he could muster.

GODS BALLS the behemoth shouted Are you giving me a daft boy? How can I instruct a boy who’s daft?

Ahdio was sure at that point that his knees would start knocking, and he noticed how the bishop got his dander up at the words. Bishop Carillion rose quickly to his feet and fixed a steely gaze on the monster. Callayx, I’ll forgive your casual blasphemy this once, but I’m not so sure the Martyr will. Brother Nam has a knack for finding bright boys to work in the cathedral and the house. He tells me this lad only has to be told one time how to do things and he does them right. He also tells me he already knows his letters and simple words. So you’re already getting one of the easiest squires we’ve ever handed out from this parish.  Although why we’d do it for a fat old beggar like you is beyond me. I don’t really like you or your order at all, you Temple Knights. All your spell crafting and traveling over all God’s creation doesn’t sound like proper priest work to me. Take your new boy and get out of here. Go over to that decrepit shack you Temple Knights call a church and quit bothering me. I have work for you to do later this week. Now stop bothering me and get out.

Callayx rose from the chair and grabbed his hammer and shield. He thrust the shield roughly at Ahdio and said This is the first job of a Warrior Priest Squire. Carry my shield for me and always keep near. Guard my back and I will make sure you live long enough to learn something from me. Now come.

Ahdio could barely lift the shield. He was hungry and scared and confused. He was leaving the only home he had known for the last five years, and following a man who scared the crap out of him

Chapter 2.

Axeshaker was angry. But he was always angry. He wasn’t sure what he was angry about at that particular moment in time. He just knew he was angry and whatever he was angry at was sure to present itself at any given moment. This one was going to be a doozy too, because he was far more angry than usual. He didn’t really have any friends, most of them died in the wars a good fifty years ago and any that remained had given up on him long ago. He was a warrior with no war. A sub-par Dwarven smith from a clan renowned for their abilities as weapon-smiths. Axes and hammers once prized for their ability to kill and maim were now prized the world over for their ability to pound nails and cut down trees. The Wounded Gull clan had degraded from a family of the best, hardest warriors and weapon-smiths in the world, to some of the smartest, fattest merchants in the kingdom.

He set about the business of firing up his forge. He wasn’t a fine steel smelter like most of the Dwarves from his clan. He was merely an iron monger. Turning pig iron into petty things like horseshoes and coat hooks. Mind you, a bad Dwarven smith is still better than the best Human smith in the world. And he did have a knack for smelting iron into fine, fine steel, which earned him what little respect he had from his Dwarven kin. He just couldn’t work it very well once he had it. So to put food in his belly and keep his halls from falling apart he made things for the Humans that merchants would buy from him and sell at a healthy profit to the Humans. He was paid a base 2 coppers for a shoe. Ten coat hooks for a copper. There were a few other things he made as well. But mostly it was just horse shoes.

The funny thing was, he’d never even ridden a horse in his life, or gotten close to one by choice. He’d stood in the vanguard of the Dwarven army when they were charged by a thousand heavy Horsemen from the Southern lands of man. That had been enough for him. He had killed every horse he came across that day so he wouldn’t have to face that gut quaking, earth shaking force again. They had lost a tenth of their army in that one charge and that taught him to fear horses. He had picked up a shoe that day and wore it around his neck as a reminder of what he had faced.

Later on when he was learning to smith, he decided to see if he could copy that horseshoe. And he did, and improved it. He added a cross bar with small points on them to give the horse more traction on rock, which only made sense to a Dwarve. To a Human it was mostly useless because roads were made of dirt for the most part, the exception being the stone roads built by the Human king, and cities. They started buying his shoes first. Far too many guards had been injured by horses stumbling on cobblestones. Then travelers that used the kings roads sought them out. Then everyone wanted them, so he earned a good living. But living was all he was doing.

It wasn’t long before he knew why he was angry. A particularly fat, ugly Dwarve was waddling up to his stall at the Forge area of Gauramon. A merchant named Gemholder of the Bard Crippler Clan. He was a fat, miserable rich wretch of a Dwarve who, he was sure, had never seen battle in his life. He wasn’t a Dwarve anymore as far as Axeshaker was concerned. He lived above ground in a ‘House’ made of soft stuff like Humans used. Wood and the like. Only elves and Humans lived in wood things. And even rich Humans preferred stone castles and such. He often wondered if maybe Gemholder's family had an elf or something in the woodshed. He knew it wasn’t likely. Even though Humans and Elves could intermix, the very idea was repulsive to a Dwarve. There had never been in instance in all of the Dwarven history where a Dwarve mixed with another race and a child resulted. Except for once, when there were still Orcs. They would rape Dwarven women and the resulting beasts were called Darnocs. The Dwarves wiped them out when they destroyed the last of the Orc clans.

Damned Orcs… Axeshaker muttered under his breath.

What? Gemholder said as he limped in. ‘What's that you say?"

Nothing you need to mind Gemholder Bardcrippler. To what do I owe this auspicious visit? Get a splinter from your house? Need me to make some tweezers for you?

Gemholder stared at Axeshaker with a bit of barely contained disgust. The day I’d use some of the clumsy lumps you make on my body willingly is far away from me, Axeshaker Woundedbear.

Thusly they performed the formal greeting part of the visit and got down to the meat and potatoes of the meeting. But now to business. I have a sizable order for you. I’m sure you can’t meet it, but there it is.

Well, how many do you need, Gemholder. I have somewhere near a thousand shoes in my stock room right now.

Oh, that just won’t do Axeshaker. I need far more than that. How many can you make a day?

On a good day I can knock out fifty, sixty or seventy if I push it. Axeshaker responded.

Well, let me see. By that estimate if you work hard every day… It will take you two years to fill my order. That just won’t do.

Axeshaker was a little taken aback by this. How many do you need? he asked, his one good eye catching Gemholder like a trap.

"Forty thousand, with a contract to provide 10,000 every three months for at least three years.

Axeshaker shook with laughter. Yer a fool Gemholder if you signed that contract. I can’t give you the 10,000 every three months let alone 40,000 up front. I’d have to train a team of these slow witted, soft kids that travel around here like fops in order to meet that.

Well said Gemholder, then I have a proposal for you. The fat piggy eyes of the Merchant sharpened like the point of an arrow. Axeshaker could see the wobbly jowls of the greedy obese merchant quivering with anticipation.

Normally I would pay you 70 gold talents for that many shoes.

Axeshaker was quick to interrupt with You mean 80 gold talents of course…

Yes of course, Gemholder responded 80, however… The noble who wanted these horseshoes has offered me 1,000 talents if I bring him someone to train his men in smithing and turning Pig into Steel. If you come with me I could see fit to giving you say, 400 talents of that.

Axeshaker was rocked. Four hundred talents was more than he had ever made in the last fifty years. It was a princely sum, more than the entire clan made in a year. It would make him one of the richest Wounded Gulls in history. But Axe’s sharp wit wasn’t long figuring a few things out. He fixed his one good eye on Gemholder and squinted in his fiercest manner. If you’re telling me a thousand talents, then he offered you 2,000 talents. I’ll do it for 1,500 talents. Not a dime less.

Gemholder looked like he was about to have a heart attack. but Axeshaker had seen this act many times before. Gods! shouted Gemholder. "How on Earth could you ever expect me to pay you more than I will make! I’d be in debt for a thousand years if I had to borrow the money