Lor Banesmith: A Story of Phinea

By Al Leigh

Welcome to Phinea, a world where three Suns keep night at bay. Most people have one name and an ordinary life, but a select few have a Name, a Bloodline, and a Fate. Trathe is a warrior beyond legend, but he is unaware of this until the age of nineteen. On the journey to fulfill his destiny, Trathe, led by his father, encounter lands and powers beyond anything he could have imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483692302

Al Leigh

Allyson Roberson is an educator from the southern Bay Area in California. Her passion is for art of all forms and developing creative thinking skills in the upcoming generations. The concept of Phinea spawned during college, and has blossomed into the first of many novels; Lor Banesmith. Her desire is to unpack the human condition through a familiar and loved genre.

Book preview

Prologue

A chill wind swam around Roathe lor Banesmith as he wove his way through the trees, carefully protecting the tiny bundle he sheltered among the folds of his cloak; its edges whipped sharply by the frigid wind. The tightly woven goat hair lining kept the warrior’s charge well shielded. A trickle of sweat crept its way down Roathe’s forehead, betraying tense nerves stretched thin from the journey.

I can’t keep running forever. It is time to draw them out and hope all is well with my plan, such as it is. He must not be found; I cannot keep my son protected while pursuing his would-be assassin. Light, protect my son from those who would do him harm; blind those who would seek him out of malice in this dark time. The silent prayer came as he approached a long, narrow clearing.

Sensing the impending arrival of his foes, he stopped suddenly at the far edge of the open expanse in the middle of the forest. With a gentle but firm hand, Roathe secured his infant son in the shield formed by roots bulging from the earth beneath a Giant Red. Tall burgundy trunks were bare until the tops. A translucent brown umbrella of large fan-like leaves shielded the warrior and his son from prying eyes overhead. The fallen leaves of the trunk were strong as leather. They concealed the infant and kept the harsh chill of the wind at bay. Once Roathe had his vulnerable son secured among the thick roots of the Giant Red, his eyes focused on the far side of the clearing as he turned his head. Roathe shifted his posture slightly, a more favorable angle to receive his enemies. His back shielded by the same Giant Red that protected his son, he stood silently intent in the direction of his approaching adversaries. His left hand instinctively reached for a silver hilt attached to his hip. His sword, now exposed without the bronze cloak to conceal it, openly displayed his heritage; the Name of a legendary Bloodline in the world of Phinea: lor Banesmith. His once dull plate armor now shone as intensely as Bright One began to shed brilliant white streams of light into the clearing. Nearing the center of the glade, Roathe’s sword sang a more complicated melody, which only Roathe could hear, signaling the rapid approach of his enemies.

Now it begins.

Out of the far end of the clearing came a band of humanoid creatures crashing through the thick forest. Their deep black complexion shimmered in Bright One’s light. Their blood-red eyes and sharp, yellow-green incisors stood out in sharp contrast. Most of the creatures stumbled through the tree line armed with shining foot-long talons protruding from jointless appendages. A few scattered among them brandished a blade-edged whip instead of talons. The hoard ran with singular purpose towards their prey and the child he protected.

As the minions approached Roathe, his sword began to shine supernaturally. The light emanating from the sword blinded the charging creatures causing some to halt their steps and disturb the fluidity of their attack. Like a wave breaking against a cliff, the minions were hacked down by the mighty blows of the warrior, falling before those behind them were even aware of their enemy’s presence. The triumphant singing of the white blazing sword, became audible by the minions and spread panic among the hoard. Their dark natures and black souls made the melodious ring of the sword like hot nails to their ears, throwing them into confusion. Soon two large piles grew around the unscathed warrior. A glimmer began in Roathe lor Banesmith’s eyes as he charged into the remaining enemies. The sword moved effortlessly with his powerful arms, a blanket of black and green growing beneath his feet. Before the Bright One had finished her descent beyond the edges of the forest some time later, Roathe was walking back to the Giant Red that had been his son’s cradle during the battle.

It looks like we have the night together. I had not expected the battle this early. He must have been desperate to have attacked us during the time of day when his power is weakest. Rest well my son. I am sorry I cannot care for you myself, but these people will do well in my stead. With that he tucked his sleepy son in the crook of his arm, dwarfing the child with his imposing figure. The warrior, exhausted but otherwise unscathed, fell into a half-sleep; his usual form of vigilant rest. Still aware of his surroundings and alert for an enemy’s presence, the warrior took a much needed respite as he waited for the Bright One to light the clearing again before completing his plan.

The battlefield looked barren in comparison to the previous day. The corpses were now dry husks covered in the remains of their powdery green blood. There was a sizable pile of corpses facing the direction the warrior needed to catch the eyes of his son’s caregivers.

Be strong, my son. Know that I will always be watching and guarding over your life, even though you don’t know me. May the Light shield you when Darkness closes in, and may you come to understand and accept what our Bloodline has called you to do. Roathe took a deep breath to dry his eyes before closing his blessing on the child. I regret that I cannot be there for your childhood, but that is the way of our Line. I send you my blessings and will come back for you when the time is right.

Roathe gently unwrapped the infant and placed his son among the dusty remains of the hoard. Without the warmth and security of the cloak, the baby immediately began to fuss. Roathe took some cloth from beneath his armor and wrapped the child lightly. He placed him in the green ruins of a dark battle that now served as a cradle, so that its cries would not put him in danger. Once assured of his son’s temporary comfort, the warrior donned the cloak and moved silently to the forest edge. Concealed at the far edge of the clearing, Roathe stood guard from a distance to ensure the boy would be safe until his chosen parents arrived.

~     ~     ~

In the warmth of the Bright One’s zenith, accompanied by the early ascent of the Little Sister, a middle-aged couple casually trekked through the deep reds and transparent blues of the leaves high above. Ross and Lia had often taken this route on the return trip from selling the rare blueroot that they grew beside their solitary lakeside cabin just beyond the wood. The town of Lucarin was a half day’s walk from the cottage; still close enough to easily obtain the necessities they couldn’t provide for themselves. Nearing the far edge of the forest, the couple stopped abruptly when they heard a wail coming from the woods behind them. Confused, they turned toward the source of the wailing that was growing steadily louder. Strangely drawn to the innocent cry for help, the wail served as a beacon that pulled the couple toward it, unable to resist its pull.

Hearing the crunching leaves that alerted Roathe of the awaited arrivals’ approach, he retreated further into the brush, invisible except to the keenest of eyes. He had seen to it that the child was safe, but had removed enough swaddling to make the infant cold enough to start calling for warmth; the call that would bring in his new parents. From his vantage point behind the dense foliage, Roathe watched. Ross and Lia stepped into the clearing, awed at the sight of a large dry pile of carcasses. Cradled among the ruins of the inhuman bodies lay a wailing child with deep brown hair and a face red with distress. Lia, ignoring caution, ran for the baby, scooped it up, held it close, and rearranged his blankets to make him warmer and more secure. Ross held back, watching the scene unfold in front of him before coming up to the battle ruins as stealthily as possible. His eyes scanned the dense shadows of the clearing’s edges.

Seeing the sparkle of joy in Lia’s eyes as she held the distressed infant, Roathe knew his son would be well taken care of. The ever-vigilant warrior sighed relief, though still awaiting the approval of the new father. Roathe’s relief left just as quickly as it had come when Ross discovered the parchment among the folds of cloth. When the seal was broken Roathe could almost feel the disappointment in the man’s voice as he read the letter to his wife. The letter explained their duty and fate if they took the child in a short, vague statement. Lia just held the child more tightly as she walked out of the clearing, toward her cottage and her son’s new home.

Chapter 1

Trathe awoke feeling anything but rested, staring at the predawn glow flooding through the loft’s wooden ceiling. In the dawning hour, Bright One not yet visible, Little Sister cast a low light onto the lakeside cottage. Lore abounds that Little Sister, Bright One, and Big Brother were once stars, or perhaps moons, in Phinea’s orbit when the original Sun went out, though the details of how three stars became the light source of the planet have been lost over the millennia. Trathe vaguely remembered his parents telling him something about that when he was a young boy. He quickly discarded the passing thought as he plodded out of the cottage to do the same thing he had done every morning as far back as he could remember.

The morning chores were a well-rehearsed routine for the young man. Much as he resented having to do them day after day, the work honed his large frame to a solid, chiseled body causing him to stand out from his much smaller parents. Each morning he set out without complaint, knowing that the harvests were more plentiful because of him and that his parents were grateful for the increase in production. Despite his usefulness, Trathe often wondered why Ross and Lia had kept him after his seventeenth birthday. It was custom to be considered an adult and allowed to leave, or be forced out, around that time. Now here he was at almost nineteen, still keeping the serpents in the garden under control.

His first task in the morning was to remove all the four-legged serpents from under the broad leaves growing along the ground. As skilled as he was at locating them and pulling their bodies out of their burrows in the ground, Trathe still managed to get bitten from time to time. The poison from their ragged teeth used to put him out for the day, but now his hand felt numb around the bite briefly before returning to normal. Once the blueroot crop was free of the scaly pests and checked lightly for any signs of disease, Trathe walked over to the lake. He followed its edge until he came to a shallow cove that served as the northwestern border of his family’s land. He came to this spot regularly to be alone by the crystalline blue-green water. This was the perfect spot for him, since it was nearly impossible to find.

They’re planning something, I can feel it. This was the first morning Lia wasn’t already up when I left to do the chores. They have kept me much longer than is considered usual, and it’s time I left. Granted I have no idea where I would go or what I would do. Being a gardener somehow doesn’t seem like the life I was meant to live, but it’s all I know. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m supposed to do something bigger. Why is this?

The thought left as a slim, rounded pebble skipped a dozen times across the cove into the lake. His usually bright green eyes lost their vibrancy as he continued to ponder his unremarkable life, and his sense of unfulfilled purpose. He knew the day was fast approaching when he would leave and make a life for himself. He could sense his parents preparing for the parting gradually as was typical of the calm, reserved couple. Stripping off the leather band that kept his long, wavy locks out of his face, he hung his head to protect his eyes from Bright One’s rays, that had begun penetrating the cove with an overwhelming brilliance. His chestnut waves shone in response to the sun’s invitation. The thick, light air filled Trathe with strength as he breathed it in. Soon his shoulders didn’t slouch as much and his mind quieted.

It has to do with how they found me. There’s something they aren’t telling me, and I think it has to do with that story, which they have been avoiding. When they do decide it’s time for me to go, I will search for that elusive truth. I don’t know how I will survive, but I hope they believe I am grown enough to understand and accept whatever secret they have kept from me.

~     ~     ~

Ross and Lia were Trathe’s foster parents. They treated him with respect and love, while trying not to get too attached. Their lives had been spent raising a stranger’s child with an understanding of their world, Phinea, and a respect for the life upon it. The responsibility they carried was both lightened and burdened by the ease of the task; the child was very compliant, though plenty headstrong, and grew up to be of great use to them in the maintenance and expansion of their small patch of lakeside land. The past few months, however, had been far more difficult than usual; they knew that the warrior would arrive at any moment for his son, and their work would be complete. It was a bittersweet heaviness that slowed their steps and silenced their tongues.

Today the couple huddled closely in the morning glow around an aging but well cared for, folded piece of parchment. Leaning on the edge of the table in the large front room, the couple reread the letter they found folded among their son’s swaddling nineteen Turns ago. Their thoughtful and confused expressions betrayed the fact that even after spending almost two decades in possession of both the note and the child, they still were not certain what to make of it. The answers, however, were obvious, if out of the ordinary:

I leave this child in your care.

You have been chosen for the task

Of raising the next of a rare Bloodline.

From as far back as the days of One Sun,

My Line has protected Phinea

From the evil that plagues our world.

I will come when he is of age

And show him the destiny in his Name.

May Light shine upon you and guide your steps,

Roathe lor Banesmith

Trathe walked in, confused at the strange tension in the room as he saw his parents crouching secretively in the dim morning light. When they turned at his approach, he saw plainly the sadness and severity of their expressions. This look he knew all too well, instinctively looking at the cause of their distress: the folded parchment. He was only able to get a glimpse of the firm and graceful hand that penned the letter before Ross thrust it into his trousers.

Did you see that? Lia asked with a hesitant, desperate hope that Trathe would answer in the negative.

Yes, replied Trathe casually, it was a letter from someone I don’t recognize. It seemed old. His parents let out their breath with his forthright response, his perception of the letter kept their relief at bay.

Did you get a chance to read any of the letter? Ross asked tentatively.

Not really. I did see the signature, though; Roathe lor Banesmith, whoever that is. Trathe was oddly calm about the whole thing, and it crossed his mind that he ought to be more reactive, though he couldn’t figure out why. Who is he, anyway?

An uncomfortable silence followed as Trathe recalled the rules of how Names function on Phinea. Most people, especially those he had met, didn’t have Surnames, because of the power they held. If a family without a Name wanted to continue their lineage, their given name was passed down to the eldest of the same sex as the parent. This method of name inheritance usually does not survive longer than three or four generations; the given names have nothing binding about them. Proper surnames, known as Names, not only described your occupation, but were binding with Phinea itself and inescapable. The Name is also referred to as a Bloodline, or Line for short, and is passed on to the offspring of the same gender as the Named parent. Every Name is comprised of two words; the three-letter first word of the Name determined its prestige or length of existence. In this case, for Trathe, lor meant legendary, of mythological proportions, which meant the general populace doubted their existence. Even more incredible to the young man was Banesmith. Every Name in Phinea ends in smith. Because Bane means enemies of, this meant that the man who wrote the letter was a legendary warrior whose Line had existed longer than any could recall. The idea seemed far-fetched to Trathe, but it was the logical conclusion based on the rules.

After having given his adopted son ample time to unravel the mystery for himself, Ross began in a sober tone, I have never met the man, though I believe we will all meet him soon enough. I have never heard of the Name or the Bloodline aside from this letter, and though the idea of his existence is hard for me to believe, I am still inclined to believe the letter is genuine.

Alright, so we’ve established the fact that this letter is from a legendary warrior who may or may not exist. Trathe was starting to get a bit annoyed at the way his parents were behaving and allowed the sarcasm to leak