Lost Eight

By Liam W H Young

Winter has come to Freylar, concealing the presence of an ancient evil now released from its shackles. This unseen force seeks a way back to its homeland. To realise its goal, it must first pass through the Ardent Gate, diligently defended by its venerable custodians, the secretive Order of the Knights Thranis. Investigating the mysterious disappearance of her lover, Knight Anika tenaciously pursues Xenia, the young Knight’s zeal steering her course beyond the southern lands, unwittingly following the path of malevolence.

A distraught mother desperately searches the vale for her missing daughter. Tormented by recent events, Nathanar – newly appointed Captain of The Blades – undertakes a quest to locate and bring back the missing Freylarkin. Aided by the powerful scrier Darlia, a repentant exile working to earn the acceptance of her kin, Nathanar’s investigation takes him beyond the vale, to the Ardent Gate. Reunited with his former charge, their paths intertwined, both he and Anika learn of the shadow infiltrating the Knights’ ranks. Accompanied by a pair of reluctant Knights, the unlikely group travel through the Ardent Gate into a new domain, far from the relatively safety of Freylar, in search of answers. Can they work together to discern the cause of the recent disappearances and uncover the mysteries trapping them in their new world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liam W H Young
• Release date: Jul 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005144227

Liam W H Young

The Chronicles of Freylar started life as a single manuscript titled project ‘Night-Night’; an endeavour which I commenced whilst sitting beside my son, who had great difficulty sleeping at night. My presence comforted Tristan, helping him to doze off, and whilst he slowly drifted away each night seeking fresh adventures within his dream world, I set myself the challenge of creating a world of my own.Born during the spring of 1979, I moved around a lot during my childhood and teen years, which brought me into contact with a lot of people throughout my life, all of whom have contributed to my rich life experiences; it is these experiences which have expanded my imagination, enabling me to embark on this project. The Chronicles of Freylar is a huge undertaking, one which I am fully committed to developing. I am no stranger to large scale projects; my extensive background in IT has allowed me to develop and implement a number of software and infrastructure innovations over the years. Though I enjoy my work, due to its seemingly endless fresh challenges, the IT industry is a continuously evolving beast where innovations are rapidly lost in time with the relentless advance of technology. Stories, however, are timeless. I have always wanted to create a written world of my own which I can leave behind for my son, and hopefully for others to enjoy too.

Book preview

LOST EIGHT

THE CHRONICLES OF FREYLAR

- VOLUME 5 -

by

Liam W H Young

Copyright © Liam William Hamilton Young 2021.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For further information, please contact the author.

Cover Illustration Copyright © Liam William Hamilton Young 2021, moral rights reserved by Hardy Fowler.

www.thechroniclesoffreylar.com

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Foremost, I would like to thank Hardy Fowler once again for the excellent cover art illustration for this book. Hardy is an absolute pleasure to work with, and really understands my vision for the world of Freylar.

Again, I would like to thank Matthew Webster for his enormous contribution to this book, and the series as a whole. Matt continues to be an amazing sounding board for this ongoing project, and I am extremely fortunate to have him along for the ride with his invaluable editing services.

My thanks also go to Craig Standen, for his experienced counsel regarding close-combat fighting. His background in MMA helped me to choreograph a number of the fight scenes in this book.

Lastly, thank you to Tibor Mórocz for proofreading this book. His keen perception continues to challenge me, giving me the impetus I need to complete my storytelling.

There were several times during the writing of this book that I began to doubt whether I would complete it. The impact of the global pandemic, along with moving house, meant that I struggled to find the time necessary to finish the story. These two life-changing events, especially home schooling our son whilst working full time, made completing this book incredibly challenging. I am delighted to have finally made it to the end of what was an extremely long tunnel and am proud of the finished story. Therefore, I dedicate this book to all those working parents who have struggled to hold everything together during what has been an extremely trying time.

Table of Contents

ONE Haunting

TWO Pride

THREE Loathing

FOUR Patience

FIVE Torment

SIX Suspicion

SEVEN Enquiry

EIGHT Worth

NINE Drowning

TEN Reprieve

ELEVEN Pulp

TWELVE Lost

THIRTEEN Family

FOURTEEN Plan

FIFTEEN Cohesion

SIXTEEN Haze

SEVENTEEN Run

EIGHTEEN Haste

NINETEEN Preparation

TWENTY Fuel

TWENTY ONE Target

TWENTY TWO Return

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ONE

Haunting

The wind howled outside, causing the thick shutters to rattle on their worn hinges. Cold air whistled through the gaps in the arched window’s defence, reminding him again of the cruel winter’s unwelcome presence. He rose from his bed and walked over to the window. Peering through the vertical slit between its venerable wooden protectors, his left eye immediately began to water, assaulted by the icy gale battering the length of the Tri-Spires. He wondered what it was like for those inhabiting the upper levels of the impressive granite construction, convinced that the wind’s aggression increased with every step the Freylarkai took towards the grey sky.

His futile attempt at meaningful sleep frustrated him. Throughout the night, he had lain awake, tossing and turning restlessly in his bed, courtesy of the wind’s incessant whining as it tried to force its way into his room. Outside, the darkened landscape remained covered with a thick layer of snow. Through the gloom, he could see dark lines crisscrossing the otherwise pristine white blanket below, signs that there we still those brave, or perhaps foolish, enough to oppose the harsh weather set upon the vale. In the distance, he could see a tiny flicker of light – probably one of his patrols – confirming that he was not the only one forgoing sleep. The light drifted slowly across the cold landscape, suggesting that whoever wielded it struggled with their footing. Use of one’s wraith wings was ill-advised in such conditions; lack of visibility at high speeds was the main cause for concern. His mind wandered as his keen eye lazily watched the light wax and wane during its slow passage across the uninviting landscape.

Eighteen cycles had passed since the tragic events in the arena that had seen so many of his kin released. Yet he still had nightmares of the miserable, shambling, possessed Freylarkai who had unwittingly assaulted them on that ill-fated cycle. He tried to bury the memory of his defiled kin, along with their abhorrent maker, the mutant shaper Krashnar. However, despite his efforts to rid his polluted mind of the unwanted thoughts, their dark twisted faces and black obsidian eyes continued to haunt him. Even without the distraction of the incessant howling of the wind, sleep was no longer something he was accustomed to. Too many nights he had lain awake, the awful visages of Krashnar’s victims tumbling through his mind, determined to rob him of any rest. Those he had released personally, in particular, continued to stalk him in his nightmares, the trauma worsened having witnessed their surviving family members grieve for the fallen in the wake of the harrowing event. Even now, he could see their ugly faces as his watery eye penetrated the darkness, desperately searching for something other than the spectres of his past.

The light in the distance continued to flicker in and out, the lone torch shining defiantly in the void, determined to endure the harsh winter that had befallen the vale. The Guardian had implemented the patrols to help quell the growing fear amongst the people, following Krashnar’s infiltration – for a second time – of the vale. The decision had been a welcome one, with the newly reformed ruling council ratifying Rayna’s course of action, agreeing that increased Blade presence was necessary whilst the Freylarkai sought to calm their nerves. However, no one had anticipated the prolonged adverse weather conditions that fate had in store for the inhabitants of the vale. The current situation required a review of that policy, but with The Guardian away on business concerning the security of the vale’s outlying communities, it fell to him – Captain of The Blades – to preside over the matter in Rayna’s stead.

He stepped back from the poorly shuttered window and released a long sigh. He had no desire to go trudging through the snow whilst those of a sane mind remained sound asleep, tucked up in their beds. Despite his personal desires, however, it was time to call the patrols back to the safety of the Tri-Spires – Freylar’s enemies would not be so foolish as to launch an assault whilst the adverse weather conditions ravaged the land. Besides, it was not as if he was going back to sleep anytime soon.

Reluctantly, he grabbed his winter gear and started changing his attire, ready for the unenviable task of braving the storm outside. It took him some time to fasten all the buckles and straps securing his furs, but eventually he was ready to face the blizzard conditions that continued to wreak havoc on the vale. Quietly, he made his way to the base of the Tri-Spires, ensuring that he did not disturb the Freylarkai sleeping in their quarters. He greeted the bleary-eyed guards on duty by the entrance to the structure as they saluted his passing.

‘I am going to recall the patrols outside.’

‘Nathanar, they have already returned, Captain, sir.’ replied one of the guards, clearly forgetting his newly appointed station.

The title felt strange. For as long as he could remember, Ragnar’s name had been synonymous with the rank. Now, in the wake of the former Captain’s release, and Rayna’s ascension to the head of their Order, he had been tasked with the lofty position. Despite his peers praising him for the speed with which he had settled into the role, his new rank still felt as fresh as the winter chill nipping at their heels.

‘Both were forced to return before dawn on account of the conditions – said it was freezing out there. They intend to report to you at first light.’ continued the guard, prompting him to turn around.

Interesting, he mused. If not the patrols, who else would dare to defy winter’s harsh caress?

‘I see.’ he said, before turning about, ready to resume his headstrong march towards the exit.

‘Captain, you should not leave the Tri-Spires – at least not alone.’

‘There is someone out there. I intend to bring them back.’

‘Sir, we will accompany you.’

‘Stay here. You are both tired, and besides, neither of you are dressed for the occasion. If I have not returned by dawn, inform the ruling council and send a patrol out to search for me.’

‘Yes sir.’ the guards barked in unison.

Putting the obedient sentinels behind him, he quickly steeled himself before stepping outside, bent on defying nature’s icy touch. Pulling his fur hood close to his face, he dipped his head and drove headlong into the bitter wind, adamant that he would not be returning alone.

She watched with interest as the Freylarkin drew back awkwardly on her bowstring; the young female was clearly struggling, her left hand shaking noticeably as she struggled to hold her weapon steady. She looked fit to burst, visible concentration engraved into her face like etched stone.

‘Relax, Leyla.’ said Natalya, who reached out to steady the young female’s trembling hand.

As the Valkyrie moved to aid the agitated Adept, Leyla suddenly lost her grip on the arrow nocked to her unsteady bow. The projectile shot across the barn, burying itself into the wall opposite. The penned Karlak nearby, brought inside due to the adverse weather, slowly lifted their heads in unison, acknowledging the arrow’s point of impact before resuming their lethargic grazing.

‘Damn it!’ said Leyla, before throwing her bow on the floor in anger.

‘Good, try it again.’

‘Rayna, how can you say that? I missed the target by over three paces – any further and we would have been eating Karlak for our next meal!’

‘The shot was poor, but you have passion.’ she replied, followed by one of her characteristic playful winks.

‘In time, anyone can be taught to shoot, but I cannot teach someone to care.’ said Natalya, bending down to pick up the discarded bow. ‘Try again.’

‘Shooting is clearly not for me – give me a good falchion and shield, so that I can release Freylar’s enemies once more.’

‘Your skill with a blade is already well known. Your Blade brothers and sisters hold you in high regard due to your martial prowess. However, it is time that you expanded your repertoire – a bow will serve you well out here. Also, we need to work on that temper of yours.’

The frustrated Adept took the bow from Natalya then nocked another arrow before taking aim.

‘Remember to relax this time.’ Natalya instructed, whilst she assessed Leyla’s forward archery stance. ‘Focus on breathing into the pit of your stomach.’

She could see renewed frustration rising in the Adept, whose face was awash with concentration once more.

‘Heed Natalya’s instruction. You are spending too much energy on aiming the damn thing.’

The bow in Leyla’s hand continued to shake due to the young Adept’s vice-like grip, although some colour had returned to her knuckles, suggesting that Leyla had reduced the tension in her fingers, albeit only slightly. Leyla released the arrow. The projectile flew towards its target, missing it by a good pace, firmly embedding itself into the side of the barn. The frustrated Adept stared menacingly at the unblemished target; no doubt, she would have obliterated it with her mind if she possessed telekinetic abilities.

‘Well, at least Karlak is off the menu.’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? Rayna, the shot was pathetic!’

‘Stop being overly critical of yourself.’ said Natalya. ‘You have been training for two cycles – it will take time.’

‘I am better than this. This should not be taking so long, nor should I be wasting your time like this.’

‘It’s not like we’re going anywhere.’ she replied, directing her attention towards the massive barn doors that continued to rattle against the growing storm outside.

‘It is late. We should all get some rest.’ said Natalya, sitting down on the floor beside her. ‘We will resume your training in the morning.’

‘This is a waste of time.’

‘Do not be so discouraged. You will hit the target, but not this cycle. Come sit with us.’

Leyla remained steadfast, her unwavering gaze still fixed on the distant target that continued to mock her with its unmarred presence. The defiant inanimate object was now renting space in the young Adept’s mind, preventing Leyla from moving forward. She recognised the condition well, having succumbed to its debilitating effects many times during her previous life, before her rebirth in Freylar.

‘Sit down with us Leyla. I have a story that might interest you.’

‘Oh no. Not story time with Rayna again.’ said Natalya mockingly.

She gave the Valkyrie a sidelong glance.

‘Leyla, do you have any idea how long these accounts go on for? We may need you to actually release one of the Karlak, else we could all starve here.’

‘You’re such a drama queen.’ she retorted playfully.

Natalya laughed, before lying back onto a pile of straw, hoping to make herself comfortable, ready for the alleged grand account.

‘Leyla, get over here. If I have to endure this, you will too.’

‘Is this part of my training?’ replied the Adept sardonically, reluctantly turning her attention from her nemesis.

‘It is now.’

Leyla tossed her bow onto a mound of straw before joining them. The Adept was clearly still annoyed, evidenced by the furrows etched across her forehead. The irritated Freylarkin sat down beside them and drew her knees to her chin, not unlike a moody child.

‘Are you both ready?’

‘No – I have not fallen asleep yet.’ said Natalya, who offered her a wide grin.

Leyla murmured something in response, though she failed to understand the Adept’s sulking babble.

‘Good. As you are probably aware by now, I was not born in Freylar. Indeed, I wasn’t born female either.’

‘We know this bit.’

‘You do, yes, but Leyla might not. Besides, I’m setting the scene, so pipe down and go to sleep.’

Natalya rolled onto one side to face her and fidgeted for a moment before making herself comfortable. The Valkyrie had a beaming smile on her face, one of over-exaggerated feigned interest. Even Leyla had shifted her eyes, suggesting that perhaps the angry Adept had begun to calm down. The stage was set and her audience ready. All she needed to do now was recount from the archives of her miserable past. Each grim tale had a lesson to impart – she just needed to select the right one.

The dying light of late summer still lingered on the horizon, refusing to lie down like a stubborn child reluctant to go to bed. He wandered aimlessly through the empty streets of the abandoned business district, bathed in the amber glow of the fleeting light. With little else to do, his sole objective had been to kill time before returning to his shared digs in one of the dilapidated buildings nearby. He loathed sharing his living space with others – they were always so messy – but space, let alone tolerance, for his ilk was limited in the metropolis. Their planet had been scorched beyond repair, and the Shadow class’ members were unwelcome in humanity’s final bastions against the apocalypse. The Apex classes viewed his kind as a cancer, slowly spreading throughout the metropolis. It was only a matter of time before the authorities ratified severing the Shadow class from their disapproving host. The others rejected his bleak outlook, but he saw it for what it was. The Shadow class came into being because of the government's inability to reduce the welfare gap between those with and those without – they were an unwanted by-product of failed policy, an unwanted reminder of humanity’s failings. It would not be long before the authorities reclaimed the condemned buildings making up the business district; with space limited in the metropolis, future redevelopment had to be on the table – at least, that was how he saw it. Beyond the supposed utopian paradise, a cage of pristine glass and metal walls, only the scavengers remained, still clinging to the abused landscape that was slowly dying around them. History’s doomsayers had predicted such an eventuality at the hands of life from across the stars, but instead, Armageddon had been self-inflicted through humanity’s own recklessness and arrogance.

Deciding to call it an evening, he turned right down a narrow side street, working his way back towards his shelter for the night. Partway down the alley was a group of young boys engaged in some kind of ruckus. Cautiously, he drew closer to the din, his insatiable curiosity compelling him to move towards the disturbance. The group – four young males in total – were involved in an altercation. Three of the boys had the fourth surrounded, and were tormenting and kicking their quarry. The victim of the malicious attacks crumpled to his knees due to a sudden violent kick from one of the assailants. The boy wailed in pain as he fell to the ground. Light glistened off the tears streaming down the beaten child’s grubby cheeks. Common sense told him to turn around and leave – after all, it was none of his business. Perhaps the child warranted such punishment, he mused. Acts of theft were rife amongst members of the Shadow class, and the martial justice that invariably followed was swift and harsh. Nevertheless, he had been in his fair share of backstreet brawls and experience had taught him to read such situations well. Besides, he was a sucker for an underdog.

A cursory assessment told him that he was close to twice their age and, in all likelihood, faster on his feet. Yet despite his superior physique, they had the numbers, and young boys were notoriously unpredictable, especially when roaming in packs. Knowing his type of opponent well, he singled out what looked like the group’s leader – the one nearest to him who had knocked the sobbing boy to the ground. His heart began to pound heavily, confirming that the decision to intervene had been made, be it consciously or otherwise. He turned his attention to the littered floor, hastily searching the detritus for something he could use. No one cared about those squatting in the abandoned business district; refuse lingered in the streets, ignored by the authorities, displaced solely by the occasional gust of wind. Scanning the debris littering the alley, he spotted a discarded metal shelf bracket. Although a poor choice of weapon, nonetheless, it would serve as a suitable deterrent and give his quarry something to consider – in a street fight, any advantage was a boon. Grabbing the worn metal bracket from the floor, he wrapped his fingers around one edge of the triangular object, likening them to brass knuckles. Gripping his makeshift weapon tightly in his right hand, he charged towards the unruly gang. The attackers barely noticed his noisy approach, preoccupied with the kicks and punches they enthusiastically rained down upon their victim. Offering them no mercy, he attempted to drive his left shoulder into the group’s apparent leader, with the intention of sending the youth hard to the ground. Instead, one of the young lad’s accomplices yelled out, causing his opponent to spin round on his heels.

‘Gav, watch it!’

The alarmed youth reached for his right pocket, in all likelihood attempting to draw some kind of weapon. He reacted instinctively to the boy’s hurried attempt to defend himself, by drawing back his right fist. Upon colliding, he jammed the bracket into his opponent’s belly. The blow to the stomach, coupled with the force of the impact, sent the boy reeling. The incapacitated youth stumbled backwards before inadvertently tripping over their wounded prey. The injured gang leader lay on his side gasping for air, with his legs drawn up into a fetal position. Having winded his opponent, he raised his right fist and glared at the remaining two boys whilst trying to compose himself; his breathing was rapid and he could feel adrenaline pumping through his body in the wake of his brazen attack. The taller of the two boys immediately turned tail and bolted down the alley, clearly wanting nothing more to do with their victim now that numbers on both sides were even. Despite the changed circumstances, the remaining attacker seemed conflicted, unsure whether to cut his losses and run, or instead to continue lingering by his fallen comrade’s side out of some misguided sense of loyalty. Regardless, the youth was obviously shaken by his abrupt attack, and stood before him visibly shaking.

‘Take your friend and go!’

The scared boy moved sheepishly towards his fallen comrade, before slowly and awkwardly dragging the prone attacker away from the scene. He fixed his steely gaze on the pair, ensuring that the able of the two continued his clumsy retreat whilst the other reflected upon his painful lesson. Eventually, after they had withdrawn to a safe distance, he turned his attention to the beaten lad still quietly sobbing on the floor before him. The boy was younger than the others, perhaps eight, or maybe nine years of age – he was terrible when it came to judging age. In any event, the young boy had numerous cuts and bruises. Some of the wounds were fresh, whilst others were clearly several days old. The nature of the injuries suggested that this was not the first time he had taken a beating. Regrettably, such malicious attacks were common amongst his kin. Indeed, he had been on the receiving end of a good kicking many times in his life. For the most part, the catalyst was money, or perhaps something you had that others had taken a shine to. Those members of the Shadow class with little or no morals would habitually oppress their fellow kin, seeking to better their lot with bullish tactics. However, there were others who hungered for power, and who sought to achieve such ends through fear and tyranny. These were the most dangerous breed, caring not whether their victims lived or died on the streets; a dead body served as a sobering reminder, perhaps more so than a beaten survivor spreading word of their unfortunate tale.

He knelt down and placed a reassuring hand on the child’s back, which he proceeded to rub slowly, hoping to calm the distraught boy’s jangled nerves. It was then that he realised just how young the child was, making the attack even more deplorable.

‘My name is Callum.’ he said calmly. ‘You must not fear me.’

TWO

Pride

Flecks of snow danced chaotically on the wind, as though invisible hands violently tore at them, pulling them in opposing directions. The gale sweeping across the vale caused the white carpet enveloping his feet to shift like sand. The bitter wind battered the length of his tall body, making it difficult to cut a path through the thick ankle-high snow. In the distance, he could still make out the faint light responsible for his current predicament. Like an insect to a flame, he pressed forwards, determined to discover the secret of the light. After much effort, he eventually reached the old wooden bridge, which spanned the width of the river – now partly frozen – that cut a winding path through the length of the vale.

He stepped cautiously onto the icy timber, before stamping his feet hard upon the venerable wooden structure, dislodging the compacted snow from his heavy boots. Despite the fur securely wrapping his feet, his toes were numb, having succumbed to the bite of winter. Taking a moment to relax his tired muscles, he fixed his gaze on the light ahead of him, which was much closer now. The weak glow appeared to be moving along the edge of the leafless treeline – home to the forest dwellers – on the opposite side of the river. The light juddered haphazardly close to the edge of the forest’s border, suggesting that whoever, or whatever, was responsible for it lacked conviction. He quickly regained his composure, before continuing to move towards his objective. The wet thud of his heavy tread died in the wind, the sound stolen by the gale bent on cleansing the vale.

The snowfall on the opposite bank was much lighter than he had expected, likely due to the ground’s proximity to the encroaching forest, which offered it a degree of shelter. In any event, his toes welcomed the changed landscape, showing their appreciation through vigorous tingling as their numbness abated. He forged a path towards the treeline, one that even a child could follow if tasked with tracking him. His movement became more cautious as he approached the dancing light, wary of the potential danger his target represented. Reaching for his double-handed sword, he drew the impressive blade from its sheath, holding it at mid-guard as he neared his quarry. Flecks of snow blew against the flat of the highly polished blade, adorning the steel surface like tiny frost spirits basking in the silvery light of the moon. Whatever was out there, it continued to go about its business, oblivious to the approach of his hulking silhouette. Though he was not as broad as The Blades’ previous Captain, his winter furs enhanced his already impressive build, and he was tall – very tall. Few Freylarkai could better his stature; aside from Ragnar, he could not remember a time when it had been the case.

‘Who goes there?’ he cried, trying his best to make himself heard over the wind’s incessant howling.

As a rule, he spoke softly, and he was keenly aware of the fact – thanks to Rayna’s constant jibes on the subject. Raising his voice, he cried out once more, hoping to garner the attention of whoever, or whatever, it was that lurked amidst the edge of the trees.

‘State your purpose!’

The bobbing light moved sharply, before coming to a complete standstill; his efforts to make himself known had apparently worked. The light remained fixed for a short while, before suddenly withdrawing from his position.

‘Please, stop!’ he cried, hoping in vain that his words would arrest the light’s hasty retreat.

It quickly became apparent that his quarry did not intend to heed his words.

‘Damn it!’ he muttered under his breath, before engaging in pursuit.

Using his long legs to his advantage, he bounded across the snow, which was much lighter in the wake of the neighbouring treeline. After approximately one hundred paces, the light abruptly turned north, dimming in its intensity as it moved into the forest. He veered left towards the leafless trees, using his sword to cut a path towards the fleeting light that faded in and out of sight as it moved deeper into the forest. Branches slapped at his face as he snaked his way between the venerable