The Ghost's Legacy

By R.J. Redmond

The Ghost's Legacy ~

The old world has died.

In the frozen wastes of a new ice age, a boy must become a man. Having forgotten who he is, this youth must accept his destiny to lead, fight, and die if necessary for what he believes . . . or a magic from a lost era will destroy them all.
As a tyrannical empire rises, he and his childhood companions must band together as warriors to battle against savage creatures, an army of zealots, and an evil they are only just beginning to understand . . .

Heirs of BjornsGaard ~

A thousand years ago, on the Day of Cataclysm, the world changed. Mountains rose from plains, continents fell into oceans, colossal tempests obliterated civilizations, and jotun, creatures of legend and superstition, rose up. The New Ice Age began, blanketing the world in snow and an army of draugr, dead warriors, walked the earth destroying every remnant of the old age.

From the ashes, the Church and the Clan BjornsGaard united humanity behind their banners, rallying knights and heroes to face this new world. Under their leadership, mankind overthrew the draugr and retook control of its destiny.

In the centuries since, the Church grew into an empire, controlling most of the continent. Though its origins were noble, the Church State grew based on greed, racism, and slavery. Only two militant orders of knights, the Hospitalars and the Tau, allied with the islands of the BjornsGaard Commonwealth stood against the Church States expanding pogroms. But during the intervening years, the Kings of BjornsGaard had grown corrupt and weak. In one night, the entire family was assassinated, opening the way for the Church to expand spreading its suppression and holocaust.

But in BjornsGaard's farthest northern island, hope is dawning. In the Hospitalar's Northern Compound five orphans, physically and intellectually gifted and trained by the Hospitalar knights to fight, to heal, and to reason, grow up together. With a bond tighter than normal siblings and forged stronger by pain and loss, these five will grow to challenge the Church State and accept their destiny as leaders in this new age.


*Disclaimer*
Heirs of BjornsGaard is a clean fantasy adventure series, meaning that there is no sexual content, nudity, or language. However, it does contain some violence and mature subject matter that may not be suitable for younger readers. Discretion is advised.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098358464

Book preview

cover.jpg

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN 978-1-09835-845-7 | eBook ISBN 978-1-09835-846-4

For Rob

You battled until the very end,

And at the finish, you showed us all what grace looks like.

Thank you for always believing in me.

I love you brother,

Rest in peace.

Contents

I. DHRUMVELT ABBEY

II. VALARHEIM ISLAND

III. BJORNSGAARD CITY

I

DHRUMVELT ABBEY

CHAPTER ONE

Coast Road near Dhrumvelt Abbey

Freyja’s fingers bled as she continued to pry on the loose sliver of wood planking. Her hands and feet were bound to the floor by tight leather straps, her body bruised and gashed by the abuse she’d suffered. She shivered uncontrollably against the frigid air, and her body shrieked in agony as she forced her atrophied muscles to move against her bonds. She had no idea how long she’d been captive inside the windowless carriage. The only hint of daylight she’d seen were glimpses of the road captured through the hole in the floor as they traveled day and night down an ill-kept dirt track.

She paused from her work for a moment, clutching her raw torn fingers to her chest and wrapping the cloth of the thin shirt they’d left on her around them to dull the pain. Making an Oooo shape with her mouth, she blew down towards her fingertips. The bands that strapped her to the carriage floor didn’t allow her hands to move any closer than mid-chest toward her mouth, but, at least, psychologically, she believed that the air eased the pain. Her stomach growled loudly again, reminding her of the empty chasm in her belly. She hadn’t eaten well in the weeks before her captivity and hadn’t eaten at all since she was taken. The only water she’d procured was through licking the planks of the carriage as the near-constant downpour dripped water through the wagon’s leaky roof. The rain had only recently stopped, allowing Freyja to hear muffled sounds of conversation from her captors and the sound of the oxen pulling the cart.

The noise from the road changed, first the sound of the oxen’s feet clopping suddenly against stone, then the rumble of the carriage wheels transitioning onto the cobblestone. The wagon shook, sending more tremors of pain through Freyja’s stiff appendages. Freyja grabbed for the planking again, found the knothole, and pried feverishly. They were traveling over stone roads now. She surmised this meant they were in a town, and they would stop soon.

Trejak, the leader of her captors, was the only one who had spoken to her. Between the beatings and abuse he’d dealt her as she lay tied to the floor, he’d whispered his long term plans regarding her treatment when he had the chance. His detailed, filthy thoughts graphically left nothing to the imagination. Freyja pried up on the plank, snapping, scratching, and pinching her fingertips as they bled anew. Finally, the plank snapped, releasing a thin, triangular shaft of wood nearly a foot long. Freyja clutched the stick close to her chest. Freyja smiled slightly with her victory. She’d been working on the plank for days since she’d found the weakness in the wood.

The carriage wove its way through cobbled streets until it slowed slightly. Then over the slow clop of the oxen’s hoofs, she heard the shriek of metal scraping against metal and the clanking roar of chains moving along with steady repetition powered by some unknown machinery. She listened for a moment recognizing the sounds of a portcullis rising. As the sound died down, she heard the carriage driver click with his tongue and felt the wagon move as the oxen surged forward. Her heart pounded, and her stomach tightened. She held the wood shaft closer to her. It wouldn’t be long now.

The rhythm and feel of the cobbles changed, the frequent rattle of many smaller stones adjusted to the steady spaced out raps of large flagstones as they entered a courtyard. The carriage turned tightly sideways before it stopped firmly and engaged the brake. Freyja set her jaw and closed her eyes tight. She heard Trejak’s loud, coarse voice beside the wagon. It seemed to have a strange capitulate tone she’d never heard from it before, but she could not make out his words. Suddenly he bellowed, Get her out!

Freyja took a deep breath in and slowly exhaled. She relaxed her tightened muscles, closed her eyes, and waited – tightly hiding the long sliver of wood between her forearm and her chest, hidden from others view. The carriage door was unlocked and slammed open. Rough hands grabbed her bare arms and legs, heaving her up while the cart driver cut her bonds. Then two men jerked her toward the door and tossed her out of the carriage. She collapsed at Trejak’s feet, the fall knocking the wind out of her and smacking her head against the flagstone. She tasted blood, but she lay motionless.

Get up! Trejak ordered, kicking her hard in the side with his booted foot. Freyja kept her eyes shut and didn’t move. Trejak leaned down and grabbed her left arm, hauling her upward, I said, get up you . . .

He never finished his statement. Utilizing the upward momentum he provided, Freyja spun, planted her feet on the ground, and shoved upward with her whole body sliding the wood sliver through him, under the rib cage into his heart. For a moment, they stood eye-to-eye. His confused expression meeting her defiant one. Then he fell backward.

Freyja stood for a moment staring at her captors. Trejak’s men gaped at the fallen corpse of their leader in confusion, held back from action by the upheld hand of a hooded man dressed in robes and flanked by two armored men with helmets that obscured their faces. She could see high castle walls surrounding them, a small stone chapel, and other servants skulking around in the courtyard shadows, but she focused solely on the hooded man. Though the shade from the hood darkened his features, he looked impossibly old, his skin gray, white hair thin with bloodshot eyes that stared back at her with a feline quality of both curiosity and indifference. Freyja met his gaze a moment. Blood from her head wound running into her eyes as the rain started again, then she collapsed as the adrenaline wore off. Overcome by fatigue and her injuries, Freyja lay her head against the courtyard stones and cried, her bloody hands moving slowly up to cover her face as the rain soaked through the thin fabric of her tunic.

My dear, the old man spoke in an icy tone, It seems you’ve been mistreated.

Freeport

The young man trudged along a deserted road, new snow crunching beneath his booted feet as a southerly wind blew sideways against the fabric of his tattered, long, wool airman’s coat, spattering flakes along his tall form covering half his body with white. He wore a ratty, hole-pocked scarf wrapped around his face, a knit wool stocking cap, and a canvas sack slung across his back framed with lashed tree branches. Strapped to his pack hung a broad woodsman’s axe and pair of snowshoes built from tied pine branches. Around him, a snow-covered boreal forest of pine, spruce, and larch spread smattered by evidence of dilapidated homesteads long since abandoned.

The figure slogged onward down the hills moving westward, happy to find a road after following woodland paths for months through the mountains. He’d followed his instincts steadily northwest until a massive inland sea stopped his progress. Then he followed the course of that reservoir west, knowing it, or a waterway from it, would eventually reach the sea. The young man glanced northward into the forest at the thought of the enormous lake hidden behind a few forested hills. His trek was steadily losing elevation, and he felt sure he’d reach the ocean by nightfall.

The snow fell faster, flakes growing larger as he reached a level portion of road. He paused and stared for a moment at an aging, rusted metal sign posted on the side of the road. Through years of grime and staining, the sign read, POSTED: YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A CONTROLLED ZONE. PLEASE REPORT TO FREEPORT CONSTABULARY AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE. The sign stood lonely next to a field which, at one point, had been cleared for some sort of agricultural use but sat long since deserted. A score of smaller young pines sprouted up through the snow throughout the cleared area, with the forest rising steadily as it retreated from the road. In the center of the field lay a stone structure – more than likely a house at one time. Most of the thatched roof had collapsed, leaving only the skeletal remains of rafters to hint at its former shape, most of the windows had been broken or stolen, but a few panes glinted back the morning light.

He turned back towards the west and continued onward, more slowly now, cautiously. He listened behind him to an odd pulsing rumble, which crescendoed as it grew closer. His heartbeat picked up, and he felt the blood rushing out to his limbs, reflexively he slowed his breathing and shook his arms slightly to keep them limber. The sound approached. He could tell it was some sort of a machine making its way down the road. As it steadily closed in on him, he moved to the side of the road keeping his back towards the noise as the glare of magnified kerosene lamps illuminated his surroundings. The rumbling portion of the noise stopped suddenly, leaving only the rhythmic chatter of an engine followed by a sudden bang and a screech of pressurized steam as the machine stopped just feet behind him.

Then the illumination changed, the steady yellow light from the kerosene lanterns adjusted to rotating panes of red and blue. The flashing light reflecting against the falling snow and the mist of warm steam hissing out of the machine seemed to change the air itself into mixed red and blue luminescence. The young man stopped and raised his arms slowly outward, away from his body. This combination of colors was the universal sign of constabulary.

There was the sharp sound of clanking metal as a hatch opened. Cold morning for a constitutional. A deep voice called from behind him. The former scream of escaping air was now merely a steady hiss, but the rhythmic throbbing noise pressed on. Turn around slowly.

The young man slowly moved his body around until he faced the voice’s owner, keeping his arms far from his sides. The voice belonged to a broad, muscular man who stood nearly a half foot taller than him. The man only wore baggy wool pants with multiple pockets and a short-sleeved shirt that stuck to his muscular chest and was soaked through with perspiration. Despite the cold, sweat beaded and dripped from his shaved head down his dark brown skin before catching in his grizzled gray and black beard. His left arm bore a small round metal shield, which showed the scratches and marks of heavy use. In his left hand, he held a heavy crossbow aimed, for now, towards the snow-covered ground. The man’s eyes were nearly black and shined, intelligent, and hyper-aware, leaving the younger man with no doubts regarding how quickly the crossbow would be put to work if he made an inappropriate maneuver. As he studied the darker man, he felt the distant pang of recognition toward him but controlled his reactions and concealed the remembrance.

Of even greater interest than the man was the machine; the young man was positive he’d never seen anything like it before. A massive metal contraption shaped like a carriage sized metal brick with huge metal wheels attached to each corner, steam hissed out vents on the sides, and smoke poured out of a short pipe jutting from the center of the roof. Hatches, serving as doors and windows, were scattered about its walls. All the hatches were closed, except for the door the man with the crossbow had exited, and a single opening smaller than a man’s head which faced forward from the craft. The young man correctly assumed this last one was used to see out of the vehicle while driving it.

What’s your name? The man called over the throbbing noises of the engine.

The young man grimaced for a moment behind his scarf, then slowly shrugged his shoulders.

The larger man’s muscles tightened slightly, and the tip of the crossbow raised almost imperceptibly higher. The young man noticed, but didn’t move, staring intently at the dark eyes of his counterpart. The young man could tell by his posture that the machine’s driver was exceptionally well trained, combat experienced, and dangerous. Not a man to provoke.

I’m a constable of this jurisdiction . . . What does that, he shrugged his shoulders mimicking the younger man, mean?

The young man spoke clearly and politely, It means I don’t know, Constable.

The constable raised an eyebrow. The voice he heard was younger than he had expected. Take off the headgear . . . slowly please. He raised the crossbow casually to cover the young man but kept his finger off the trigger.

Keeping his arms wide, the vagrant untangled his scarf and removed the knit hat. The constable squinted quizzically in the ever-changing light and stared. The man was around twenty years old with unique, incredibly bright red-orange hair that hung matted, filthy, and uncut from his head. A caked covering of grime and dirt stained his fair skin and smattering of freckles on his upper cheeks though his skin had been worn rugged by weather and exposure. A thick beard, even brighter than his hair, sheltered his lower cheeks and chin and a pronounced scar split his left eyebrow before shooting upward into his hairline. The continuing snowflakes landed and stuck to his hair as he waited in the officer’s gaze. Though his looks were youthful, the muscular cut of his chin and neck combined with his broad, rugged posture and authoritative eyes advertised strength and assertiveness. At the same time, the constancy of his gaze spoke of confidence and command. The young man was an enigma.

The constable locked his eyes on the other man’s hair for a moment. A flash of memory passing through him before he shook it off. Your name? The man asked in a softer tone.

The young man looked calmly back in silence for a moment, If I knew, I’d tell you.

Dhrumvelt Abbey

Freyja awoke to the sound of morning rain splattering against a stone balcony and tears in her eyes. She’d dreamed of him again, him and the compound. She rolled onto her side, laying her head against a soft down pillow, and studied her surroundings. She was in a large open apartment, broad flagstones constructing the floor and massive wooden beams holding up a high stone ceiling. The rock walls were adorned with vivid tapestries depicting woodland and religious scenes. The furniture was rich with large cushions and heavily carved, dark stained, hard-woods. She’d have described the setting as elegant if she weren’t keenly aware that the door was locked, and she was a prisoner.

She wondered how long she’d been sleeping and guessed it was greater than a day. Her stomach growled, and she shook her head at it and replayed what she remembered from before passing out. The men had stared at her as she lay sobbing from exhaustion, rain pelting her in the courtyard. She’d heard voices, but, at that point, she didn’t care. Three women had finally come, women wearing loose robes and hoods. They’d silently lifted her and brought her inside. Over the next several hours, the women had quietly cleaned, wrapped, and dressed her wounds before adorning her in the delicate soft fabric gown she wore now. They’d given her food, and she’d fallen upon it ravenously – mindlessly devouring it until her body rebelled, and she vomited it all back out. Without a noise, the women had cleaned up the mess she’d made and allowed her to eat again. This time Freyja had eaten slowly and carefully chose bland foods to allow her stomach to recover from her confinement. Afterward, as sleep fell upon her, they’d helped her into this room, covered her with heavy blankets, and left her – careful to lock the door behind them.

Freyja sighed and gingerly rolled onto her back. Though the wounds were stitched and mending, they were still tender, and she estimated it would be more than a week before the bruising subsided and disappeared. She’d dreamed of him. Not the content happy dream of fantasy or one of her wistful memories of a happy day lost – but her memory of them leaving one another, the memory of the fire, the memory of death. She kept reliving that night over and over. The night she’d left everything she knew behind.

Erec had approached her as she walked from the girl’s dormitories toward the Commons for dinner. The compound consisted of five massive longhouses built in a semi-circle around a single larger longhouse, the Commons, which they used for training, schooling, worship, and meals. The rest of the buildings were dormitories, housing the girls, boys, ordained knights of the Hospitalar Order, and refugee families, respectively. The compound sat nestled against an ocean bay facing south with tall evergreen trees circling close behind it. Though the snow had come late that year, the cold had come early, and the white frozen ocean waters spread out in front of the compound like a massive white plain connecting the neighboring islands of the BjornsGaard Commonwealth to the island.

Freyja had pulled her cloak tightly about her against the chill as she’d walked the shoveled path through the snow. Over a foot of white already fallen, making the shoveled paths stand out like roadways on a massive map. Though Erec had carried a long bedroll by a strap over his arm, he wasn’t appropriately dressed for the cold, wearing only a thick wool sweater with no jacket or cloak, his bright orange hair uncovered. She was preparing to say something snide to him about it before she saw his eyes. Erec’s pale blue eyes, generally playful regardless of his near-silent nature, flashed intensely. There was concern, intensity, and fear behind them, she could tell, but he was firmly in control of those emotions.

What is it? She’d asked as he took her arm and turned her back away from the longhouse. He’d guided her silently into the shadows near the door to the girl’s dormitories. Once out of the flickering torchlight, he turned her towards him, leaning down so closely that their noses nearly touched in the dark. Freyja looked up at him in the barely able to make out the shape of his face through the ambient torchlight. His right hand held her left forearm uncomfortably tight, and his mouth kept moving slightly as if he were trying to say something but couldn’t force it out. Freyja’s heart pounded in her chest and throat, and her face flushed as his mouth came close to hers. She smiled as her lips parted, and she tilted her head to the right, closing her eyes. ABOUT TIME! She’d thought to herself.

But he didn’t close the gap. After a moment, she re-opened her eyes, which adjusted to the dark as he stared back, still unmoving, a look of remorse and regret overtaking his face. I’m so sorry, Freyja. You’re the only one I can trust, he whispered, the mist from his breath brushing her face. His eyes teared up as he spoke.

Freyja was taken aback but recovered quickly. What do you need? she asked, her voice barely audible in the night air. Erec glanced toward the Commons. Across from them, confused children’s voices were being raised in commotion. She heard adult voices speaking over them – trying to calm and organize the group. The compound in winter was ordinarily quiet, but something had changed.

I need you to leave here and never come back. Freyja’s jaw dropped. It felt like a cruel joke, but Erec would never joke in that manner. She started to reply, but he put his finger to her lips. Go back to the dorm and get what you need for an overland trek: provisions, gear . . . everything. He slipped the bedroll off his arm. Take this, do NOT look inside! Never open it. He emphasized. Leave immediately . . . Take the Eastern Peninsula Pass to the beach where Derek broke his arm, then cross the ice to another island. ANY island, he emphasized. Freyja stared aghast at Erec’s eyes – the intensity, passion, and regret behind them scared her while at the same time inspiring her to act. Hide the roll on one of the islands, cross to the mainland, and make your way south, down the coast to Freeport. I will find you there.

Freyja’s head ached with the pounding throbs from her heart. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. The journey he described was over a hundred miles over frozen wilderness on foot. With winter coming, it meant death. She knew the mission he asked her to serve was suicide.

Seeming to sense what she was thinking, he put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her against him. She buried her face in his chest, feeling his head rest softly against her head. She breathed in his scent and embraced him. They held each other close for a moment, his tears dripping down on her hair before he shifted his mouth down next to her ears. His voice barely sounded in her ear, I am so sorry. If I had anyone else to ask, I’d keep you safe. But you are the only one I can trust to do this.

She pulled back slightly, leaving her hands resting on his sides as he smoothly slid the strap from the bedroll over her neck to hang across her back. She was startled as the weight settled on her shoulder. The bedroll hid a broadsword, she was certain, but out of loyalty for him, she didn’t allow her mind to fixate on whatever else it contained.

What’s happening, Erec. She whispered, looking up at his rugged, powerful face.

He looked over her head around at the compound, By morning, this will all be gone. Freyja gasped quietly, and her stomach sank. And this, he continued setting his hand purposefully on the bedroll slung over her back, will be all that matters.

Freyja shook her head at the memory and stood slowly, reflexively kneeling stiffly to pray before making the holy sign against her forehead and kissing the back of her hand. She was stiff and sore but still alive – she glanced around her apartment again. Nothing had changed, but something was nagging at her, and she wasn’t sure exactly what. She felt like she was being watched but couldn’t tell from where or how it would be possible for anyone to be spying on her. She limped over to her room’s balcony and peeked outside. Rain quickly doused her hair and the front of her gown with splatter from the patio floor. The balcony was small and secluded, perched a little over halfway up the corner of a walled fortress sitting on a cliff over a coastline. There were no other balconies visible and no apparent means of escape. The fortresses walls jutted straight up from the rocky cliff against which ceaseless ocean waves hammered. Her view was obscured by dense fog in all directions, but to the North and West, she glimpsed hints of massive evergreen trees more enormous than any tree she’d ever imagined. But due to the shifting fog, it was only moments before they’d disappear again.

She bit her lip and looked down at her hands. She’d subconsciously clenched them in front of her while looking over the view. She released her grip and watched as the skin on her hands shifted back to its regular color. She should never have looked back that night.

The night she left the compound, she’d turned back for one last look, a last look she’d regretted. She’d reached the peak of the Eastern Peninsula Pass well after midnight. She couldn’t count how many times she’d turned around on the trek, wishing to see Erec or someone else rushing to catch up with her, to tell her this was all a joke, or at least offer her some company. But she knew that wasn’t to be. At the peak, she dropped her bedroll, provision bag, shield, crossbow, and sword on the side of the trail. She kept Erec’s laden bedroll with her as she left the larger trail and snow-shoed to a lookout point nearby.

The snow had stopped, and the clouds had cleared. Millions of stars and the light of the half-moon reflected off the sea of white stretching beneath her. On the edge of the hill next to the iced-over ocean, she could clearly make out the compound sitting silently beneath the moonlight. She squinted and almost fooled herself into thinking that she could see her own tracks coming East and the trail left by the children and families who were evacuated to the West as she was leaving. In the chaos of the evacuation, no one had noticed her departure. No one seemed to know why the children and refugees were being sent away suddenly and on such a cold night. No one seemed to know much of anything except orders were being given, and they needed to leave.

Freyja lowered the wrapped scarf from her face and slid the hood of her bearskin cloak back to her shoulders. That was when she heard it—a quiet hum from the sky. Freyja looked up as four full-sized airships glided, single file, and nearly silent over the mountain, leaving trails of smoke and steam from their engines billowing behind them. Massive hydrogen-filled, tube-shaped balloons carrying gondolas attached tightly beneath them nearly the length of the entire balloon. The ships themselves were bigger than any building Freyja had seen outside BjornsGaard City. They passed so close to her vantage that she could make out the outline of the structural beams holding the balloon’s shape.

Time felt like it stood still for Freyja as she watched the four airships descend and bank before finally landing on the frozen seawater, maybe 1,000 yards away from the compound. Freyja gasped, stripped her snow-covered gloves off her hands, and groped through her clothing frantically before producing a brass and leather telescope. Dropping to a prone position, she balanced the telescope with one hand while focusing with the other.

Men were spreading out in groups from the airships – moving quickly. At this distance, even with the telescope, Freyja couldn’t tell if they were armed, but her training and education assured her that these were military maneuvers. She scanned back and forth between the organizing force and the compound. The compound lay peacefully – no alarm sounded by the watch. The buildings sat silently as if they were as asleep as their occupants.

The airship’s force approached cautiously and in large numbers. Freyja estimated hundreds of men spread out across the ice creeping up on the silent compound. Then something changed. The men started running and moving outside the formation. She scanned the crowd frantically, trying to figure out what was happening. Then she saw it, groups of Hospitalar Knights hidden by the snow emerged from various hiding places and charged into the attackers. Freyja watched them fighting furiously in the Hospitalar style: axe in one hand, sword in the other. The aggressors fought primarily in the standard chivalric manner: chevron-shaped shield on one arm and sword in the opposite hand except for their crossbowman who stayed safely back from the fighting, firing on the Hospitalars as they were distracted by the fray.

No . . . no . . . no. She repeated as she watched. Her people fought skillfully but were outrageously outnumbered, and the battle ended swiftly. The defeated Hospitalars were cutdown by the numbers and tactics of their attackers. Freyja stared awestruck as the knights were slaughtered, and the compound set ablaze. The attackers drug their dead and wounded back to the airships leaving the other knight’s corpses littering the battlefield.

The airships lifted and turned Southeast. Freyja set the telescope down in the snow and stared