Galgarim the Age of Gathering: Book One the Tome of the King

By K. Allen Bowden

"Something has happened. One of the Zupha'ar has made it out of the Netherness. He is here in the Galgarim."

This one event sends the mighty Omega, a frightened farmer, a young hero, and Ira the Wiggerwerk on an epic quest to find a mysterious book belonging to a mysterious king. The group is joined by the conflicted Norianna and pursued by the evil Hisselvain and his followers as they struggle to survive and overcome their differences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359485314

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Galgarim the Age of Gathering: Book One the Tome of the King

GALGARIM - THE AGE OF GATHERING: BOOK ONE

THE TOME OF THE KING

K. Allen Bowden

Copyright © 2018 K. Allen Bowden

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-359-48531-4

DEDICATION

To my son Robbie, who inspired the stories and helped me achieve the dream.

PROLOGUE: LADY NORIANNA

THE AGE OF GATHERING, YEAR ONE. THE FIRST DAY OF THE MONTH OF ABOR. BENEATH THE CITY OF YEVVEL RAYVV IN THE LABYRINTH KNOWN AS THE SHADOWCOMBS.

Norianna looked at herself in the cracked and faded mirror that was propped in the southwest corner of her dimly lit bedroom. Her hair was long and dark, and still seemed to shimmer, despite the infrequency with which Norianna chose to wash it. A thin strip of blue cloth held the hair back out of Norianna's thin face. Her skin was on the pale side, the result of living the majority of her most recent years underground in the Shadowcombs, away from the sun. Her eyes were green and tired. Her nose was small, pierced, and adorned with a simple stone that matched her headband in color. She was dressed in plain clothing -- a pair of baggy pants, somewhere between brown and tan in color, with plenty of deep pockets; a pair of boots, laced tight, darker than the pants that were tucked into them; a black tank top; a rope belt.

While most of the men that Norianna had encountered in the six years since she had fled the orphanage had gone out of their way to tell her how pretty she was, Norianna simply could not see it. She considered herself ugly. She felt ugly. Surely that meant that she was ugly. Ugly to the extent that Norianna hated nearly everything about her appearance.

Because of the comments made by these obviously misguided men in her life calling her pretty, Norianna had concluded that most of the men she had encountered since leaving the orphanage were liars. Or stupid. Or after something.

All of the men except for Hisselvain.

Hisselvain was different. He always made Norianna feel special. He always looked her in the eyes and called her Nori. He would always touch her on the hand, or face, or shoulder in such a manner that Norianna would always feel comforted. Hisselvain was the one that had stopped the disease, the Phever, from killing her. Hisselvain was the only one who would always be there for her. And Norianna knew this because Hisselvain told her so over and over and over.

And, yet, Hisselvain had not made it to Norianna's Ceremony.

After all of her years of training Norianna had finally graduated. She had finally passed all of the tests...all of the trials. Norianna was finally part of the inner circle of the Council of Shadow. She had become a Lady. It was possibly the greatest moment of Norianna's pathetic life. And Hisselvain had missed it.

Something must have happened. Surely, he would have been there, if he could have been there.

Yes, Norianna convinced herself. Surely, Hisselvain would have.

Norianna shook her head in disgust. She wasn’t disgusted with Hisselvain for not showing. It was almost unthinkable to be disgusted with him. Everything he was and did, Norianna admired. Or, at least, tried to. No, she wasn’t disgusted with him at all.

Norianna was disgusted with herself. She was disgusted with how disappointed she felt that Hisselvain hadn’t made it. She was stronger than that wasn’t she? After all, she had certainly been disappointed before.

Norianna turned her body slightly, so that her left arm was more clearly reflected in the mirror. Unlike her right arm, which was white and bare, Norianna's left arm was a mosaic of tattoos from shoulder to wrist -- tattoos that she had painstakingly inked upon herself. Among the numerous colorful displays were a handful of standouts: a yellow and red serpent that coiled the entire length of Norianna's arm; the word KING in black capital letters followed by a question mark; an eye with long lashes and a teardrop pooling in the corner; a burning flower; a blue dress. Norianna smiled, but only slightly. Hisselvain liked her tattoos. And, therefore, Norianna liked her tattoos as well.

It is so, so beautiful, Nori, Hisselvain had told her as he traced the body of the ink serpent with his index finger. It's almost as if you are making a second skin for yourself. A second, more beautiful skin. A new skin to replace the old. Your true skin, perhaps. It's like you're transforming yourself into something...better. So, so beautiful.

A knock on the door roused Norianna from her thoughts. She spun about quickly, that slight hint of a smile fading away.

Who is it? she asked, hoping -- foolishly hoping -- that it might have been Hisselvain. Foolishly hoping, but knowing that Hisselvain it certainly was not.

Hisselvain never knocked. He always entered a room silently. Sometimes, he would just seem to appear out of nowhere. Like a long buried memory.

It is me.

The voice was chillingly recognizable. The words were gargled and choked, like the speech of a drowning man or -- more accurately -- the speech of drowning men; dozens of them crying out in anguish, communicating from a very deep, dark, and lonely place. It was the voice of Arc-Lord Leezhun, Hisselvain's right hand, current leader of the Council of Shadow.

Come in, Norianna invited, trying to sound sincere, even though she found the concept of having Leezhun in her bedroom extremely distasteful.

The door of her bedroom was old, wooden, and heavy. The door was unequally hung on the frame causing it to scrape the not-quite clean bedroom floor as it opened. Arc-Lord Leezhun stood at the threshold. He remained there for what seemed to be a moment or two too long. It was as if Leezhun was trying to get his bearings.

As she looked upon the Arc-Lord, Norianna had to force off a shudder.

Even after all this time, Leezhun was still an absolute horror to look upon.

Leezhun's above average height was masked somewhat by a permanent slouch -- his upper torso leaned slightly forward and a little to his right at all times. He wore only a pair of black sandals and blacker pants held up with a red belt, in which were tucked six daggers of varying styles and sizes -- three on the Arc-Lord's left hip; three on his right. His skin was sickly green, like a three-day old corpse. His chest and shoulders were covered with purplish sores and scabs that would often ooze and drip. Leezhun's ribs were all too visible beneath his flesh, as one who was underfed. Norianna had never seen the Arc-Lord eat and wondered what it was that sustained him.

Leezhun's hair was gray and thin, and appeared to have been yanked from his scalp in at least four places. His eyes were, perhaps, his most disturbing feature -- the pupils were as white as snow; the eyeballs dark as midnight. And both eyes continuously spun and shifted within Leezhun's deep sockets, never quite focusing on anything. Perched on the Arc-Lord's left shoulder was a furry white raggle, with its beady pink eyes and long, pink tail. With its jagged teeth, the raggle was gnawing on Leezhun's ear lobe as if it were the chew toy of a pet. Leezhun, however, did not seem to notice, even though the raggle was drawing blood.

Arc-Lord Leezhun stepped forward into Norianna's bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

His mouth contorted into what was, presumably, the Arc-Lord's version of a grin.

This time, Norianna lost the fight with her shudder.

The grin was the grin of evil and death.

I never thought you would make it, you know, Leezhun said.

Norianna watched as the raggle on Leezhun's shoulder sank its teeth into a particular stingy piece of the Arc-Lord's ear-flesh. The animal tugged a few times until the chunk pulled away. Leezhun did not flinch. He just continued to talk.

I never voiced my doubts to Hisselvain, he said. but I'm sure that he was aware of them. You were just this thirteen-year-old girl on the streets when we found you. I never thought you would make it.

Norianna made her way to the edge of her bed and sat. The bed was a little too small and a lot too low to the ground. It may have been comfortable for somebody at one time, but that somebody was certainly not Norianna. She grabbed her stained pillow and held it in her lap, doing her absolute best to avoid looking at her visitor.

Why are you here, Leezhun? Norianna asked.

I never thought you would make it, the Arc-Lord said.

Norianna, along with everyone else in the Council, knew that Leezhun frequently repeated himself. It was almost as if he would lose track of the conversation he was having, like his thoughts were someplace else, and Leezhun would have to use the repetition of particular phrases to bring himself back.

I never thought you would make it.

Norianna looked down at the wooden floor, her nose crinkling up as the smell of Arc-Lord Leezhun wafted its way to her nostrils. The Arc-Lord had a hideous stench. Like old meat left in the hot sun long enough for the worms to get at it.

But here you are, Leezhun continued. Little girl Norianna is now Lady Norianna. Lady Norianna. Lady Norianna.

It was like the Arc-Lord was trying to get his mouth use to saying the phrase.

The youngest woman to ever make Councilor, he continued. I guess I was wrong about you. Here you are.

Leezhun turned his back to Norianna. The movement caused her to look up. Leezhun's raggle had ceased from its chewing, she noticed, and had curled up on the Arc-Lord's shoulder preparing to go to sleep. Leezhun folded his arms behind his back.

You were just this thirteen-year-old girl on the streets when we found you, he said...

THE AGE OF SHADOWS RISING, YEAR ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-FOUR, THE SEVENTEENTH DAY OF THE MONTH OF ITHNIK. IN AN ALLEY OUTSIDE THE NINGALOO TAVERN IN THE PORT CITY OF KUVVIX.

It wasn't the rain that most concerned thirteen-year-old Norianna. It wasn't the harsh, coastal winds. Neither was it the fact that she had spent the previous four nights sleeping behind the garbage at the far end of the alley, nor the fact that she hadn't eaten a cooked meal in more than a week. For the moment, these things were all secondary.

Norianna's top concern was the excruciating pain kicking and screaming in her gut.

Norianna had been diagnosed with the Phever when she was only four years old.

The Phever was a very rare and horrible disease for which there was no known cause or cure. People were either born with it or they weren't, and everyone that had the Phever died in a slow and painful manner. Most physicians agreed that the Phever always began in the stomach. It would, essentially, devour the stomach a little at a time, until the stomach was no longer capable of doing the things that a stomach should do.

Norianna was slumped against the wall of the alley, face contorted in agony, arms hugging her own middle. Tears flowed from her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks, mixing with drops of rain. Norianna screamed. Her stomach burning, as if on fire, Norianna believed she was about to die.

Well, well, well. Isn't this a sorry sight. Such a pretty, pretty girl out here in this mess. Watcha doin' out here, pretty girl?

Norianna had neither seen nor heard the man come out of the Ningaloo Tavern, and approach her. She cocked her head sideways, taking in as many details as she could give her current physical circumstances.

The man's voice was deep. He was fairly short and stout. He was wearing a dark robe. Norianna tried to look up into his face, but the pain kept her from doing so. Norianna wanted to scream again, but refused to do so. There was no way she was going to allow this stranger -- this male stranger -- to hear her scream. He was already seeing her at her weakest. That was humiliating enough.

Are...are you sick, sweetie? the man asked.

The man had stopped a step or two away from Norianna, uncertain if he should go any closer.

Norianna nodded, and tried to say the word 'Phever.' All she managed was a 'Ph...ph' followed by a grunt that she pushed through her clenched teeth.

Okay, okay. Take it easy, sweetie. The name's Geevis. Lord Geevis if you like. I just want to help. the man said. Can I get you inside?

Norianna hesitated.

Don't worry, sweetie, the man continued. This is my tavern here. The Ningaloo Tavern. I own this place, sweetie. I just want to take you inside, get you dry. I might know some folks who can help you.

Norianna nodded again. It was apparently the extent of her communication for the evening.

She felt the man -- Geevis...his name was Geevis, she reminded herself -- put his arm around her shoulder and gently persuade her in the direction of the tavern door.

There, there, there, she could hear him say. Easy now. Let's get you inside, in out of the rain. I have some friends, pretty girl. Councilors, like myself. Some of them are physicians, sweetie. If you're sick, they might be able to help you.

The man from the Ningaloo Tavern pushed the door open in front of Norianna and she stepped into the warm room beyond.

The pain from the Phever was diminishing, albeit slightly. She could almost focus again. Almost, but not quite.

Have a seat on the couch, sweetie, Lord Geevis said. The fire's low, but it should still do the trick. I am a big fan of fire. It’s a wonderful, wonderful thing. Have a seat. Get warm.

Norianna did as she was instructed.

You... Norianna's words began to return, although it took her full concentration to string them properly together. You have friends who are doctors? she managed.

It was Geevis' turn to nod.

Indeed I do, pretty girl. Indeed, I do, the man said. And if they can't help you, sweetie, I'm pretty sure that Hisselvain can...

THE AGE OF GATHERING, YEAR ONE. THE FIRST DAY OF THE MONTH OF ABOR. BENEATH THE CITY OF YEVVEL RAYVV IN THE LABYRINTH KNOWN AS THE SHADOWCOMBS.

Hisselvain sent me a message, Leezhun said, his back still to Norianna.

She sat up straight at the sound of Hisselvain's name. Hisselvain had sent a message!

The concept excited Norianna more than she cared to admit.

Perhaps Hisselvain had told the Arc-Lord why he had not been able to attend her Ceremony. Perhaps he had told Leezhun that he would soon be arriving. Perhaps Hisselvain was already here! Maybe Leezhun was here to bring Norianna to Hisselvain's secret chamber.

What was the message? Norianna asked, trying in vain to keep her emotions from touching her voice.

Leezhun began to stroke the back of the resting raggle. The raggle responded to the touch with a raspy wheeze. Raggles made only two sounds: wheezing and chittering.

Hisselvain sent me a message, the Arc-Lord said again. Something has happened. One of the Zupha'ar has made it out of the Netherness. He is here in the Galgarim. One of the Zupha'ar had made it out of the Netherness.

Norianna stood up. She was unsure if she had heard Leezhun correctly. A Zupha'ar escaping? It was unheard of.

What did you just say? A Zupha'ar escaped? she asked. But, how? Is that why Hisselvain wasn't at the Ceremony?

Leezhun turned about slowly, his eyes dancing crazily, his voice still gurgling and choking.

Little girl Norianna is now Lady Norianna. The youngest woman to ever make Councilor, he said. "One of the Zupha'ar made it out of the Netherness. Hisselvain says we all have work to do. I never voiced my doubts to Hisselvain, but I'm sure he was aware of them. We will gather in

the Great Hall first thing in the morning..."

CHAPTER ONE: MORNING ON THE WIGGERWERK FARM

THE AGE OF GATHERING, YEAR ONE. THE SECOND DAY OF THE MONTH OF ABOR. ON A LARGE WIGGERWERK FARM IN THE NORTHWEST PART OF THE COMMON LANDS.

Asis was seventeen, the oldest of four brothers with a fifth sibling on the way. Being the oldest, according to his Dad, it was Asis's duty to be first in everything. He was to be the first one up; the first one dressed; the first one to get outside and start his chores. It was called responsibility, according to his Dad, and Asis really enjoyed having it.

One of Asis's daily tasks (and there were many, being the oldest son of a farmer) was to feed the animals, and it was that very task that Asis was currently performing.

Asis was tall, but would probably still add another couple of inches to his height before he was finished growing. He was tan and muscular, a farmer's physique. His hands were rough and calloused. In one of them, Asis held a bucket of fruit that was three days beyond ripe -- the animals' food. In the other, he held a knotted staff of gray wood which he used mostly as a walking stick but had, on at least three occasions, used as a weapon to protect the livestock from predators that got a little too close.

His eyes were dark green and always looked determined. His hair was brown. His Mom and Dad wanted him to get it cut, but Asis preferred a bit of a shaggy look. He wore working boots and working pants with plenty of pockets to hold whatever needed to be held. His shirt was gray and dirty. His gloves were gray and dirtier.

The redness of the morning sun was just