Spirit of a Hero

By Ken R Van De Walle

The Realms: a vast and endless collection of worlds suspended in the infinite blackness of the Void, each unique and filled with life, adventures, and legends.

Blaise had always dreamed of joining the Heroes' Guild, warriors and explorers without peer, who protect a vast myriad of worlds. When danger comes to his home, he finds himself thrust into the Guild and into the middle of a conspiracy that seeks to destroy not only the heroes, but all the Realms as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jul 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228856313

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Ken R Van De Walle

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-5630-6 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-5631-3 (eBook)

Dedicated to all those who have read me stories and planted the seeds of inspiration and possibilities.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 1

Bandits!

Blaise jolted awake, the loud wail of warning rousing him from his sweet dreams. Just his luck, of course. He was woken up right before the beautiful maid, with lovely blue eyes and hair that reminded him of a summer field, had stepped into the hot spring with him. Why was it that one always woke up from a dream right before it got to the best part, regardless of when or how they woke up?

Blaise sat up and rubbed his eyes, still half-closed. He yawned and stretched. Why was he awake again? It was still dark out. It couldn’t be time to wake up yet.

Bandits!

The young man’s eyes snapped open. That was why. He was now fully awake; the memories of the beautiful maid now faint in his mind. He pushed his covers off and ran over to his window, throwing the shutters open and peering out into the night. He heard some faint noises coming from outside, the rustling of bushes and hushed whispers, and saw the light of the moon betraying the position of figures moving about under cover of darkness.

The sight of moon-illuminated strangers was not wholly uncommon in these parts. His family’s farm existed outside the protective walls of the nearby city of Zuhan, but bandits venturing this far into settled areas were still rare. He had hoped it was instead just a group of clumsy thieves who accidentally showed themselves before they were able to make off into the night with their ill-gotten gains.

Blaise ran towards his bedroom door, stopping just long enough to grab a sword propped up in the corner of his room, a gift from his often-travelling father. Blaise looked at the sword in his hand. His father gave him the blade in hopes Blaise would one day join him in his adventures, but tonight he would use it instead for defending his home. Blaise gripped the hilt of his sword. He couldn’t let his father down. Blaise hoped that the people he saw trundling around outside were just cowardly thieves, who would run in fear when they saw the glint of a blade in the moonlight, but if they were actual bandits . . .

Well, actual bandits tended to be a lot more bloodthirsty, wielding wicked and brutal-looking weapons for hacking and slashing and torches for lighting everything in their way ablaze. Blaise often thought people chose to become bandits just so that they had an excuse to kill and burn whatever they wished, rather than as a legitimate career choice. There were much less violent ways to relieve a person of their possessions. Many methods were more legal too.

Blaise ran out of the house, the cold night air blowing through his short, fiery red hair and making his soft, white linen shirt flap in the wind behind him. He kept a tight grip on his sword with both hands, one on the handle and one on the leather sheath. Moving silently, he made his way towards where he had heard the initial cry of warning.

That scream. Who had been the one yelling? He was still half asleep when it had happened and had not heard anything since, which gave him a challenging time trying to match the voice to a face. It was something he had difficulty with even under ideal circumstances. He started to get increasingly worried. He had hoped that the initial yelling had scared off the thieves, who were now running off through fields of corn, fleeing before being apprehended by local guards or a furious farmhand with a heavy and deadly tool. Still, he was beginning to feel less and less sure that these were just simple cattle rustlers.

Blaise faced his growing fears in the worst way as he tripped over something on the ground that he failed to see in his rush. He landed face down in the tall grass, his breath escaping his chest as he made impact. After lying in pain and embarrassment for a few moments, the young man rolled over onto his back, the peaceful night sky filling his view before he continued to roll over to find out what had tripped him. He soon wished that he hadn’t.

It was a body.

He gasped in horror and pulled away, letting go of his sword with one hand so he could clasp it over his gaping mouth. He recognized the face, twisted in a look of horror, frozen forever in his final moment. The body was Jack, one of the farmhands who worked for Blaise’s family. The young man tightened his grip on his sword and crept back closer to inspect Jack’s body. He seemed in mostly pristine condition, despite being dead, of course, with one glaring flaw: there was a single bolt, the kind fired from a crossbow, sticking out from Jack’s throat. Blaise gulped.

Jack had already gotten off his warning, so the bolt wasn’t to hide the robber’s presence, and Jack didn’t pose any kind of threat to the bandits. Jack didn’t even pose a threat to a newborn kitten. He was a gentle soul. These people were out to kill, and it was evident that they were quite skilled at it too.

He heard rustling and strange, hushed voices coming from nearby. Blaise quietly crawled towards the noise, trying his best to stay unnoticed, like litter blowing in the streets, but litter armed with a sword. He crept closer and closer to the noise, hearing more whispers and the creaking of an old wooden gate.

Blaise gritted his teeth. They were after their livestock, the heart of the farm. Their very livelihood! Those . . . those . . . jerks! Blaise had a hard time finding the right insult for these bandits, the adrenaline pumping through his body making it hard to think. They were jerks, of course, but it didn’t feel strong enough. Rapscallions? Would that work?

Blaise shook his head, knocking those thoughts out of his mind. As his father would often say, now was the time for action! Blaise narrowed his eyes. He could see three bandits. They were all busy trying to wrangle the cattle, who did not very much like being handled by strangers and had yet to notice him. If he could come up from behind, perhaps he could take one out by surprise, strike another down before they knew what was happening, and then maybe he could . . .

While Blaise was busy trying to figure out his best course of action, he noticed that his body was already moving towards the closest bandit. The adrenaline and adventurer’s blood in his veins was carrying him closer and faster than he would have ever wanted. He raised his sword, and with a scream of anger, vengeance, and complete and total fear, he slashed the bandit, who he now realized was a good foot taller than him, down his back and leg.

The bandit yelled out in pain and surprise as he collapsed to the ground, clutching the deep flesh wound in the back of his leg. The other two, alerted by all the yelling, turned their attention towards the shivering and armed Blaise standing above their downed ally. So much for his element of surprise.

Well, well, well, sneered one of them, raising a hand crossbow from his hip and pointing it towards Blaise. Blaise froze. Not only did he now have a weapon pointed right at him, the very same weapon he assumed brought Jack to his brutal end, but the way the criminal spoke, his accent also gave him a reason for concern. Giren. The man spoke in the Realms’ common language, a language with a storied history stretching back centuries, back to the Portals’ founding and the first contact of many species, but the way he hissed his words gave him away. The Giren were well known for being a brutal and violent people. Their empire once ruled with an iron fist over most of the known Realms, where they had enslaved and brutalized those whom they had conquered, and now one was staring him down, the bolt in his crossbow glinting in the moonlight. The Giren hissed at him, showing his long tongue and sharp fangs. Blaise gripped his sword with both hands and held it in front of him in a defensive act, trying his best not to pay attention to how much he was probably trembling and sweating.

Looks like we have a little boy wanting to play hero, the Giren spat, like the word hero made a bitter taste in his mouth. Let me show you what happens to heroes who mess with us.

The Giren gestured towards the other bandit and then pointed at Blaise, ordering his comrade to go on the offensive. The bandit hefted a heavy wooden club and made his way towards the young man. Blaise, partially out of bravery but mostly out of paralyzing terror, stood his ground, keeping his sword gripped tightly in his hands. The big mound of muscle in front of him laughed—a deep, horrible belly laugh that made Blaise’s skin almost jump off of his body and run away—and raised his club over his head. Blaise jumped and rolled to the side as the club impacted the recently vacated space. A tower of dust and dirt sprang up from where the club landed, the power of the swing forcing the ground itself to leap into the air.

The brute hefted his club again to ready a second swing at Blaise. Blaise took his opportunity and leaped closer, swinging his sword, aiming for the brute’s legs to try and take him down as he did with the other bandit, who was still lying on the ground. The brute, however, took a step back, the sword swing missing by a hair’s breadth, and then brought his knee up into Blaise’s chest with a loud and heavy thud. Blaise yelped, the wind knocked out of him, and pain rippled its way through his chest. He fell to the ground, gasping for air, while the bandit hoisted his club, preparing to pound Blaise into the ground. He braced himself, knowing he was very well about to be turned into a fine red mist.

Suddenly, a flash of light came from the darkness, crackling its way through the air like a bolt of lightning. In fact, it was a bolt of lightning, or at least something very similar to it, but travelling sideways instead of falling from the heavens. It struck the bandit in the side and seared his flesh, knocking him over and causing a scream of pain to escape from his mouth. Blaise scrambled to his feet as the brute struggled to his, clutching his wounded hip. With a hard and quick slash to the back of the leg from Blaise’s sword, the bandit collapsed again, this time unable to stand.

The Giren swore and spun around, trying to get a bead on the source of the lightning, swinging his crossbow around wildly. Suddenly, another figure entered the fray, standing in front of the bandit leader, seemingly melding out of the shadows. Blaise noticed a subtle and sudden but deliberate movement from the figure and a flash of flame, which briefly illuminated the Giren’s bright pink skin. He then saw the crossbow quickly and elegantly sliced in two, the front end tumbling through the air and landing in the dirt. The Giren stepped back, his anger replaced with fear as the remains of his weapon fell from his hand. Another quick movement from the mysterious figure and the bandit fell, the fight being over as quickly as the newcomer had appeared.

Blaise kept his sword in his hand, still wary about the new arrival, but hey, the enemy of his enemy is his friend, right? Though someone this powerful demanded a measure of caution. The figure made its way gracefully over to Blaise, and something on its chest shined in the moonlight. A small metal crest, one that Blaise recognized instantly. Three swords crossed over a shield. The symbol of the Heroes’ Guild.

The figure stepped up to Blaise, and now in the closeness, he could make out more about them. She was a human woman, tall, with short-cut black hair, golden yellow eyes, and pale white skin. She had a strong jaw and nose, the kind of face that showed strength, the kind Blaise would willingly follow into battle, even against all odds, but with kindness and gentleness in her eyes that said she would never lead Blaise to his death. On her hip, he noticed a long and slender sword resting in its sheath, probably what she had used to cut down the bandit so quickly. She was wearing sky blue robes, not precisely what Blaise expected to see clinging to the body of a sword fighter, but he couldn’t argue with how effective she was in a fight, so she could wear whatever she wanted as far as Blaise was concerned.

Are you doing all right, kid? she asked, her eyes giving Blaise a once-over. Blaise dusted himself off. He seemed all right, other than the pain in his chest, but nothing seemed broken. Of course, Blaise had never broken a bone in his life, so as far as the young man knew, his ribcage had shattered entirely, but he felt all right. He just looked up at the woman and nodded.

The woman turned and looked to the side. Out of the darkness came another person, this one short, with dark skin, almost pitch-black, and completely red eyes that glowed slightly in the night. It was a Kronker. Blaise had seen them in the city from time to time. Despite being in Cygen, one of the three Human Kingdoms, it didn’t mean that all citizens needed to be human. The Kronker had a large staff, glowing white in the darkness, and robes that dragged on the ground, trailing slightly behind him, completely covering his feet. He was bald on top of his head, typical of magic users, with a short and scraggly beard. His face was almost like stone, sharp features frozen in a look that betrayed no emotions. The kind of face you would hate to sit across from at a card table.

I have searched the perimeter, the Kronker stated in a very matter-of-fact way, like he was reading historical facts out of a textbook. We seem to have dispatched all of the members of this raiding party.

The woman nodded. Thanks, Tharrun. Want to see if you can talk to any of the bandits our young friend here cut down? See if you can get any information from them—if they’re still awake, of course.

Tharrun nodded and made his way towards the collapsed bandits, muttering something under his breath as he did. Both Blaise and the woman watched as he wandered off but soon turned their attention back towards each other. Blaise saw him starting to prod the bandits’ unconscious bodies with the end of his staff.

So, what’s your name, kid? the woman asked. Blaise found himself standing in silence for a bit, his mind still in a haze after all the action. What was his name again? Blake? Blair? . . . Barry?

Uh, Blaise, uh, ma’am. Blaise Cresthallow, he stammered. To be in the presence of a member of the Heroes’ Guild was quite a lot for him to handle. Ever since he was a child, he wanted to join the Guild. And who didn’t? It was one of the most cliché answers children would give when asked what they wished to do when they grew up. Warriors without peer! Travelling through all the Realms, regardless of Empire or Kingdom, fighting evil, slaying monsters, exploring the vastness of the Void . . . who could resist such an adventure? And now, here were two Guild members, and he got to fight alongside them! Sure, they more rescued him from being pounded into jelly rather than fighting as his equal, but still, it was quite the honour!

Well, Blaise Cresthallow, you can call me Summer. Just Summer, she said and smiled. Blaise smiled back and noticed that Tharrun was making his way back towards the two of them.

It is of no use, Summer, Tharrun commented, in the same tone of voice as before, They have both passed out from the wounds delivered by this young lad. Blaise noticed something in the Kronker’s voice when he spoke those words. Was he impressed? Proud? Scared? Blaise wasn’t sure. Tharrun was almost impossible to read.

Well, he certainly put up a fight. Tharrun, meet Blaise Cresthallow, Summer introduced the two. The Kronker stepped up to Blaise and offered a hand. Blaise took it and shook.

A pleasure to meet you, Mister Cresthallow, he said before introducing himself. I am Nek’thar’rundo of the Heroes’ Guild, but you may call me Tharrun if you wish.

Blaise nodded. Yeah, I noticed the crests you two are wearing, he replied, gesturing to the symbol the two of them were wearing upon their chests.

Nek’thar’rundo nodded back. And your family name. Would you perhaps be related to one Adrien Cresthallow?

Blaise brightened up and nodded. Yeah! He beamed. That’s my dad! He’s an explorer with the Guild! He certainly was very proud of his father and loved to talk about him as much as he could. He wished his dad could have seen him, fighting bandits and joining other Guild members. His father dreamed that Blaise would join the Guild just as much as Blaise did.

Summer smiled and nodded. Explains your sword and your . . . eagerness to get into a fight. She fumbled for the right words, gesturing towards the bandits. But I do have to let you know, not even members of the Guild run out in the middle of the night in their pajamas.

Blaise nodded and blushed. Yeah, sorry about that. These bandits were after our animals, and they even killed— A lump got caught in his throat. Jack. In all the excitement, he had forgotten about Jack. He turned quickly without another word and ran back to where he found the body. The two Heroes followed close behind, their hands on their weapons and ready for another scrap.

As Blaise approached where he remembered tripping, he saw a woman standing there. Although the darkness obscured her, Blaise recognized her instantly. They looked at each other, and he threw himself into her arms.

Blaise! the woman exclaimed, in happiness and relief. Oh, when I saw what happened to Jack, I was afraid they had gotten to you too!

Safe in the loving embrace of his mother, tears started to well up in Blaise’s eyes. I’m so sorry, Mom. I found Jack, and I just . . . I just . . . His voice started to crack. All he could do was cry, standing there in the darkness.

Blaise’s mother raised her gaze from her son towards Summer and Tharrun, the latter of whom had finally caught up with the rest of the group, his short legs not the best for offering incredible speed.

It seems like we got here too late, said Summer somberly. We’ve been tracking this bandit clan for a while but only got to them now. I am so sorry.

Blaise’s mother shook her head. Oh no, don’t go blaming yourself for this. You’re not the one who fired that shot. Besides,—she looked down at Blaise, who was starting to calm down a bit—you came just in time to save my son. That’s not nothing.

Tharrun stepped forward and bowed his head. Still ma’am, as members of the Heroes’ Guild, we are servants of the people. It would be our duty and honour to provide the proper burial for this poor soul.

Blaise’s mom nodded. That would be lovely.

It was over quickly. Tharrun had used his magic to help dig the hole, while Blaise and his mother had worked on a grave marker. They both said a few words but mostly stood in silence. Jack was a good man, and his death hung heavily on Blaise. He looked over at the two Heroes. They were both stone-faced; obviously, they had seen death before and would see it again. But Blaise couldn’t help but wonder, did they blame themselves for Jack’s death? If they were just a little bit faster, would they all be standing here over a grave? It couldn’t be a good feeling. He hoped the two of them didn’t blame themselves. His mom was right: they did come soon enough to save his life at least, and it was the bandit who pulled the trigger, not them.

After what seemed like hours standing in silence but couldn’t have been longer than fifteen minutes, Blaise’s mom eventually spoke. It’s late; we should all be getting to bed. I request that you two stay with us for the night, she said to the two Heroes.

Tharrun raised a hand and opened his mouth to speak, but Summer brought her hand down in front of his face to silence him. We would love to stay for the night. It would be good to sleep in a real bed again.

Blaise smiled. He would sleep well tonight knowing they were under the same roof, and maybe he would be able to talk to them about the Guild in the morning. If Blaise joined them one day, he would need to know everything he could! He hoped he wouldn’t bother them too much with his questions. They had already done so much for him.

They walked back towards the house, Summer and Tharrun speaking quickly to each other in whispers. It sounded like some argument from the tone, but Blaise couldn’t quite make out exactly the reason for it.

Blaise stepped into his home, and only now, with things calming down and the adrenaline finally wearing off, he realized how tired he was. He lazily trudged up the stairs and barely made it to the foot of his bed before collapsing onto it, the covers enveloping him in a warm, soft hug. The hot spring and the beautiful maid awaited him once again, and hopefully, this time, he wouldn’t be woken up too soon.

Chapter 2

Blaise groggily walked down the stairs the next morning, his eyes barely open, but his legs still carrying him swiftly through the house on memory alone. He arrived at the breakfast table, before completely opening his eyes, and saw Summer and Tharrun sitting at the table, enjoying some delicious-looking food with his mother. There were grilled sausages, toasted bread with his mother’s homemade jam, and other delicious delicacies that only a mother could make. His mouth started to water.

The two Heroes were wearing the same robes they had worn the night before. Summer had a mug of some hot, brown liquid clasped between her hands, while Tharrun was munching on a piece of bread, dry with nothing on it. Tharrun was perched upon a stool, like some sort of roosting owl, his robes still flowing down and covering up his feet, making it so Blaise couldn’t tell if Tharrun was sitting or standing on the stool. For all Blaise knew, he was floating and had been this entire time.

Good to see you’re doing all right, kid, said Summer, nodding at the new arrival. Tharrun nodded in agreement.

Yes, it is most agreeable to see you again, Mister Cresthallow, the Kronker noted, before taking another bite of his bread. I was wondering if I could bother you for something.

Blaise looked at Tharrun, then at Summer, who shrugged back at him and then at his mother, who nodded eagerly, and then back at Tharrun, who was waiting for an answer.

Uh, yeah, sure, I guess, Blaise answered awkwardly. The stone-faced mage nodded.

May I see your sword please, Mister Cresthallow? asked Tharrun, stretching out his one hand, still holding bread with the other. Blaise tilted his head.

My . . . sword? he asked, confused as to what the Kronker’s plan was. Tharrun just nodded, as if what he was asking for was utterly ordinary, and to him, it may have been.

Yes, your sword please, he repeated, a little louder this time but with the same lack of emotion and flair, apparently assuming that Blaise had simply not heard him. Blaise just nodded silently and hurried back up to his room and found his sword, which sat a little closer to his bed than usual. He grabbed it and went back to the table, placing it gently and carefully into the mage’s hand, which had remained outstretched the entire time.

Well, Tharrun, what do you think? asked Summer, her own eyes giving the sword a once-over.

After a few moments of silence, Tharrun flipped the sword over in his hand and offered it back to Blaise, who took it back, still very confused as to what was going on. It is very expertly crafted; one could even mistake it for Kronker work if not for a few small oddities, he noted, pointing at some areas at the sword’s hilt. Enchantments upon it are simple but useful. Durability, sharpness—about standard for what you will find on a weapon meant for constant combat.

Blaise held up his sword and looked at it. Expert craftsmanship? Enchantments? Blaise had no idea. He thought it was just a regular old sword, but it turned out that his dad had brought him something that had some hidden secrets to it. Did his dad know about all of this? Blaise would have to assume that he did. His father always wanted him to join the Guild one day, making sense to give him an appropriate weapon.

As if reading his thoughts, Summer spoke. Sounds to me like an adequate weapon for a new Hero then! she exclaimed, downing the rest of her drink. Blaise’s mom nodded in approval. Blaise looked between the two women, his mind slowly putting the pieces together.

Wait, new Hero? he asked, the truth dawning on him, like an old hermit finally achieving illumination while on top of a mountain in the far-flung corners of existence itself. Was he being recruited? Was his dream finally coming true?

His mother nodded. Well, son, I was talking with Summer. Apparently, you handled yourself very well last night, she said, smiling, but Blaise could tell she was struggling to keep her composure, and I know I can’t keep you here forever, it has always been your dream.

His mother then turned to the two Heroes to keep speaking. When he was little, he would chase after his dad every time he would go out for a mission, and last night was hardly the first time Blaise grabbed that sword of his and ran out when he heard something going on. I remember this one time when . . .

Blaise stood in stunned silence as his mother entertained the Heroes with embarrassing stories from his youth. A hundred thoughts were running through his head all at once. He was utterly frozen, his brain working overtime to process everything. If one were looking close