Sword and Scion 03: The Reign of Delusion

By Jackson E. Graham

WHERE FEAR WALKS, WAR FOLLOWS IN ITS SHADOW.

“Change is difficult for one to attain when the mind is addled with the despairing words of liars.”                          &nb

• Language: English
• Publisher: Young Oak Publishing LLC
• Release date: Apr 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780999605967

Book preview

12th of Biarron, 2204 SE

The hard-hearted winds of Norgalok seized the breath from Baron Ednor’s lungs. The cold tore at his sore ears. Pain raced across his exposed face as the blinding snow obscured his vision. Shielding his eyes with his gloved hand, he pressed on, stumbling through the thick mountain snow impeding his progress. The chill wind nipped his nostrils as he inhaled. Although grateful for the protection his thick fur cloak offered against the ruthless climate of his homeland, he longed for the comforting warmth of a fire.

Ednor pulled the wrapped bundle tighter under his arm, the contours of the hidden item pressing uncomfortably against his side. Reminded of his repulsive burden, the baron curled his lip and spat into the snow. Nausea compelled him to retch. Clearing his mind of fear and disgust, Ednor furrowed his brow.

I must sever the bonds of this abomination. It will be safe under the mountain’s watch. I have nothing to lose since that sorcerer murdered my wife.

Even as he assured himself, Baron Ednor glanced around, an unnerving blanket of white impeding his sight. His chest tightened. Shaking, he fled. The blizzard tossed his greying hair, exposing his forehead to the snow’s onslaught.

As he strained with all his might, the snow pulled at him. The many years he had spent in the frozen South told him he was in a dangerous predicament. The weather fought against his advance as much as the silent hunter pursuing him. It was only a matter of which enemy he would succumb to first. Ednor shook his head with violence and repeated his commitment under his breath.

I must press further on! The Kòakran must never be found!

He stopped. An unseen presence arrested him, holding him to the spot, muscles seizing. Tremors shook him. Gasping for air, Baron Ednor felt eyes scrutinizing him, concealed behind the blizzard’s blanket. He clenched his jaw, eyes wide and stinging from the sleet. Forcing himself to face the terror, Ednor turned.

A sudden coldness crept into his heart like the tendrils of the blizzard itself, wrapping around his heart and freezing him from within. His heartbeat slowed as spikes of ice spread through his chest, the intensity of the pain robbing him of breath. The cold gripped him. He raked his chest with clawed fingers. Dropping to his knees, he writhed in agony.

Footsteps crunched beside him as a looming figure circled to watch his quarry die. I know what you carry, the figure shouted. As his voice fused with the blizzard’s roar, the storm itself stood before Baron Ednor embodied as a fearsome guardian.

Gritting his teeth, Ednor looked up. He knew who challenged him. His heart slowed further under the cold, invisible hand that clutched it.

Two hollow black eyes were set in a gaunt face. Wiry black hair hung loosely from the figure’s head, dyed with streaks of red and gold. His long, pointed ears were coated in snow. An elaborate tunic covered his body, at odds with the rest of his plain adornment. The elf needed no shelter from the blizzard’s torment. His deep, calm breaths relished the frigid air. He squinted harshly at the dying baron, apathetic to his suffering.

Trembling with each small breath, Baron Ednor made a valiant attempt to rise. He knew his fate, yet embraced his conviction. This effigy you worship is a deception! It must meet its end—I regret nothing I have sworn to do, he stated boldly, his terror subsiding.

Ednor fell to his knees again as the grip around his heart intensified. The wrapped bundle slipped from underneath his arm. Shaklun clenched his extended fist, his glare slowly sapping the baron’s courage. "The gods have entrusted it to me alone!" he exclaimed.

Grabbing at his chest, the baron stared at the elf.

The ferocity of his wrath is like an avalanche. How can I stand?

Spots of black flashed before Baron Ednor’s eyes, pulling him further into the abyss of death. Fighting it, he shook his head, impulsively reaching out to Shaklun to beg for mercy. Disgusted at his weakness, Ednor yanked his hand back, huddling under the comforting warmth of his fur cloak. I may have failed to destroy the Kòakran, but another will rise up to challenge you, he gasped.

Baring his teeth, Shaklun tightened his fist. The baron’s heart twitched in a vain attempt to spark itself back to life. Darkness obscured Ednor’s vision, and the overwhelming deluge of suffocation sent panic into his eyes.

The howling winds screamed.

17th of Yílor, 2204 SE

The gust of wind from Gibusil’s wings scattered the oak leaves in his wake. Birds fled from their perches, chirping wildly at the unexpected intrusion. Noon sunlight coursed through the branches above, casting shadows upon the tree trunks. Squirrels fled to their dens as the immense shadow of the griffin passed over the grasses like a storm cloud.

Upon Gibusil’s saddle, Eyoés ducked low, feeling the soothing wind brush his face and toss his hair. Breathless and beaming with excitement, he embraced the freedom of flight. Gibusil’s golden feathers gleamed in the sun like blades. Ahead, a copse of trees challenged Gibusil’s advance, branches entwining in an impassible barrier. Eyoés lingered, a thrill racing through his veins as the obstacle grew ever nearer, waiting to bring their gripping ride to a violent end. The griffin’s strength filled him in the boldness of the moment.

He heaved back on Gibusil’s reins and the griffin burst upwards, wings gliding through the sparse branches with ease. Leaves scattered behind them.

The blank canvas of sky opened above them, and the calls of nearby birds welcomed their arrival. Eyes sparkling, Eyoés laughed and ruffled the griffin’s feathers playfully. Gibusil cocked his head backward and let out a chirp of delight.

Sitting upright in the saddle, Eyoés inhaled a deep draught of fresh air. His mind appreciated the break from the everyday worries of the Baronship. Since his return from Rehillon two years previous, he had learned much. Many of the administrative duties he had once found difficult had now become habit.

Yet, lurking in the back of his mind, a growing unease picked away at him. Eyoés sighed, his smile lessening as the roots of an unresolved matter spread into his thoughts. Wistfully, he took up Gibusil’s reins. As much as he wished to remain in the skies with his companion, he knew responsibilities awaited him.

Sighing, he patted the griffin’s neck, the fur and feathers brushing and tickling his fingertips. The beast sensed his master’s will, and let out a low chirp of disappointment. Eyoés gave a faint smile. Another time, Gibusil, he said, steering the griffin to the fields below. Even as the joyful ride neared its end, Eyoés clung to the sense of freedom and clarity it provided. As the griffin glided over Asdale, Eyoés beheld the beauty of his home.

Standing tall amid the grassy plains, Castle Asdale awaited his return. Hamlets and farms dotted the perimeter of the castle, and roads twisted about between them. Upon the ramparts of the outer wall, guards surveyed the land for sign of danger or need. The sounds of civilization carried on the wind, and Eyoés observed the townsfolk entering the main gate with baskets of goods. Behind the outer wall, a large courtyard boasted cabins and shops, where tradesmen labored at their crafts to produce fine products. The towering keep overlooked the castle grounds, bringing to mind the weight Eyoés carried on his shoulders and the security his people depended on.

Although the sight had become familiar, Eyoés beamed at his restored home and the peaceful community he loved. Warmth filled his chest as he recalled the heap of rubble and ashes once strewn there.

Our home is restored! Castle Asdale stands strong for its King and its people.

As Eyoés flew over the outer wall, the garrison gave shouts of welcome. They stilled at the sight of Gibusil’s magnificence, weapons dangling loosely in their hands. Pausing in their work, tradesmen stepped out from their stalls, watching the griffin’s immense shadow pass over the ground, heralding the arrival of their baron. Eyoés guided Gibusil to the stables below the keep, startling a flock of birds from the ramparts.

The griffin pulled back, coming to a smooth landing before one large stable, claws scratching against the cobblestone. Eyoés dismounted and removed the reins and straps from the griffin’s body. He led Gibusil through the two open doors.

Hay was strewn about the floor, crunching underneath his boot. Streams of sunlight pierced through the gaps in the roof above. Four wood arches held the building together. Extra sets of riding gear hung from pegs in the walls. In the middle of the space, a penned area provided sanctuary.

Unlocking the gate, Eyoés pushed it inward and stepped inside the enclosure, leading Gibusil in behind him. The griffin lowered its head, nudging its master and giving a solemn chirp. Eyoés stroked Gibusil’s black beak. You’ll be fine, my old friend. Karetha will bring your noon meal soon, he assured, eyes distant as the troubles of the Baronship returned to mind. I may need another ride in the near future.

Eyoés stepped back, placing the tack on a nearby hook. Nearly twice the height of an average man, Gibusil had grown much since their first meeting in the mountains of Iostan. The griffin’s muscled limbs were as thick as a small tree trunk, and his wings rivaled the size of the dragons of Nubaroz. As Gibusil sat amid the soft hay, Eyoés slid the saddle from his back. Due to the creature’s large size, a custom saddle had been fabricated, allowing for three riders to be seated comfortably. Eyoés grunted in exertion, hoisting the saddle upon his shoulders and setting it at the edge of the enclosure.

He shrugged his tight shoulders and turned back toward his faithful steed. Patting Gibusil on the chest, Eyoés flashed a parting smile and slipped out of the enclosure, shutting the gate behind him. It was time to face the matter he had sought solace from.

Climbing the final set of stairs, Eyoés approached his personal chamber, absentmindedly twisting his signet ring. Although physically present in the comforting walls of his familiar home, his mind churned with worry. He rubbed an eyebrow and cleared his throat.

I cannot stand idly by, waiting for an emissary while my people are left vulnerable.

Down the corridor, the door to his chamber awaited his arrival. Amber inlays traced a beautiful design on the door’s exterior, surrounding the emblem of a golden flame. The sight of the amber warmed Eyoés’ heart with fond memories of his time in Rehillon. He smiled, trying to hold onto the distraction.

I will not be consumed by anxiety. There is more to my life than a trade agreement.

Despite this resolution, Eyoés found himself slipping deeper into matters beyond his control. Muttering to himself, he seized the door handle and pushed the door open.

The noon sunlight streamed through the window of his chamber. Eyoés stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Hanging from the wall, the ornate tapestry of emerald and gold rippled in the wind. Below it, his desk awaited him—stacked with letters and official documents.

Leaning against the window frame, Ayleril turned to face Eyoés. He adjusted his light golden tunic and leather vest—but could not hide the obvious repair to his clothing. Eyoés nodded and stifled a smile to spare his advisor’s dignity.

Thank the King that Ayleril was not injured when his horse threw him!

Leading the people of Taekohar without the steadfast, trustworthy counsel of his friend was unthinkable. Ayleril glanced out the window, to the endless, open sky. Welcome back, Baron Eyoés, he said with a smile. I trust your excursion was a welcome rest from your duties.

Eyoés rubbed the back of his neck and waved the comment aside. No need to speak to me so highly, Ayleril. Riding Gibusil does lift the burden from my shoulders, but only for a short time. I wish things were simpler, he sighed, coming to stand by the window. Looking out over the castle grounds, he watched the garrison keep their posts. They seemed to wait alongside their baron, sharing in his anticipation and worry. The thought comforted him. He shifted his position, restless.

At least I am not alone in my expectation.

Ayleril eyed his friend. I know what troubles you, he said in an empathetic tone. Nodding slightly to affirm he had heard his advisor’s words, Eyoés stepped away from the window and moved to his desk. Sitting beside the stacks of papers and missives was a cup of steaming, fresh tea. Eyoés took the cup in hand and sipped, glancing at Ayleril with an unspoken gratitude. The drink soothed him, and the herbal aroma reminded him of the mountains of his home territory.

Eyoés swallowed and gathered his thoughts. Any word of the emissary from Norgalok? He promised that he would be here by now, he noted, biting his tongue in an effort to dissuade his restlessness. A growing hope began to rise in Eyoés’ chest.

Perhaps the emissary came while I was out with Gibusil.

Eyoés cast aside the hopeful thought.

Had he arrived, he would have been in my quarters with Ayleril, awaiting my return.

Ayleril shook his head, clasping his hands behind his back. No. It is possible he may have been delayed, he said, trying to hearten his friend. Perhaps a few more days?

Eyoés muttered under his breath and took another sip of his tea. Sighing, he wandered to the window. The suggestion was reasonable, despite his concern.

May the Guide ease my troubled mind—there are lives that could depend on this trade agreement.

Drinking the last of his tea, Eyoés looked to his aide. You know illness has spread across Alithell, Ayleril. As baron, it is my duty to protect my people—I had hoped Blueherb would be the key to fulfilling that duty, he confessed.

Several months earlier, peddlers had come to Taekohar, heralding the wonders of Blueherb, a plant native to Norgalok. They touted its powers to heal and build resistance to infectious diseases. Intrigued by their claims, Eyoés had decreed the herb be tested, bringing a sick child from one of the villages of Taekohar. After three days, the child had shown marked improvement, and continued to recover in the following week.

Eyoés’ heart sank as he recalled the eagerness with which he had summoned the Lords of Taekohar to discuss the possibility of a Blueherb trade. Witnessing the impressive results in the sick child, the Lords agreed, and an emissary was sent to Norgalok to reach an agreement with Baron Ednor Montsnow. Eyoés scrubbed his face with his hand.

Ayleril took the empty cup from the baron’s hand. There is still a chance the emissary will come with news, he said.

Eyoés clenched his jaw. And if he does not? he replied.

Ayleril grasped Eyoés firmly by the shoulder, regarding him intensely. Until we are sure, you must turn your attention away from the unforeseeable and focus on the present. As the Proverbs say—‘Each day brings its own unique troubles’, he insisted. Gazing at his advisor, Eyoés said nothing, struggling silently with his worry.

Releasing the baron’s shoulder, Ayleril sighed. I will take my leave, he said, gesturing to the pile of letters on Eyoés’ desk. The overseers of the southern spice farms have requested an increase of funds for their administration.

Ayleril strode to the door and left Eyoés to his work.

Gwyndel ducked behind a rotten stump and nocked an arrow to her bow. All was silent. No bird sang, and the creatures of the forest lay still, awaiting the outcome. Only the steady wind continued to stir, its breath tossing Gwyndel’s curly red hair.

Peeking over the stump’s protective cover, the Forester elf searched for any sign of movement—any indication of the foe. Behind her, the quiet footfalls of the Foresters ceased as they took their positions, blending into the cover of trees and underbrush. The sun trickled through the canopy above, dotting the leaves and ground.

Gwyndel’s stomach churned with the excitement of pursuit. Her eyes narrowed to focus in on the trees ahead. The fear of ambush demanded she glance behind, yet she resisted, gripping her bow tighter.

The others will assure we are not surprised.

A quick movement among a copse of conifer saplings attracted her eye. She recognized the distinguished figure of a man, a quarterstaff clutched in his hands. As quick as he had appeared, the figure vanished, his disappearance evidenced only by the light movement of the brush in his wake.

Gwyndel slipped around the rotten stump and gestured for the group to follow. The Foresters issued from behind cover, materializing from the trees and undergrowth. Gwyndel gave chase, gliding through the trees with silent steps. She heard her companions follow behind at a short distance, slowed by the presence of the wounded. Luckily, none had sustained lethal wounds. Pressing her lips together in determination, she thanked the Guide for their good fortune.

The cover of trees thinned, giving way to more open ground. Boulders dotted the terrain along with stray oaks and maples. Unsettled by their exposure, Gwyndel ducked behind a boulder. The Foresters emerged and immediately scattered, choosing suitable cover to hide their approach. Two hurried to where Gwyndel hid, weapons at the ready.

Gwyndel nodded at Fychan as he kneeled beside her. He brushed his long, greying hair aside, and pressed up against the rock surface. Since resigning his post as Commander of the Foresters, he had aged, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes and on his face. Gwyndel still saw the surrogate father she had come to know as a child. She patted his back lightly.

She grinned as Fychan massaged his legs in mock pain. I’m not growing old—my legs are! he jested. Gwyndel shook her head and looked to the other man beside her.

Commander Ranull scrutinized the forest with piercing eyes. His braided brown hair kept his vision clear, and his neat beard displayed his downturned mouth. Long, pointed ears were tucked tightly under his bound hair. As Commander of the Foresters, Ranull was displeased the enemy had bested them thus far.

Pulling back, Ranull regarded Gwyndel and Fychan. Wrontell Cave lies directly ahead of us, he whispered, gesturing for the two to see for themselves. The ground sloped upward not far ahead. Trees hid whatever might lay in wait.

Fychan looked to Ranull. What do you suggest? he asked, keeping his voice low. Attacking such an easily defendable position was out of the question. No sound or movement issued from inside, yet the trail leading into the cave’s gaping entrance indicated the enemy lay inside. Ranull paused, considering a feasible strategy.

Looking across to where the remainder of the Foresters hid, Gwyndel clenched her jaw. One of the wounded sat propped up against an uneven stone, his face twisted in silent suffering. Kneeling by his side, one of his comrades bandaged his wounds, occasionally casting wary looks to the cave. The man reached into a pouch dangling from his belt and retrieved a small bottle.

At the sight of the medicinal bottle, Gwyndel forcefully looked away. Chills ran up her back at memories of the agony of her Everwheat withdrawal. Her heart thundered. The concerned voices of her friends echoed again in her ears. Gwyndel held her breath, head swimming.

A friendly hand touched her shoulder. She looked up to meet Fychan’s concerned eyes. Are you alright? he inquired, quietly. Gwyndel felt the heat rush to her face. Pushing Fychan’s hand away, she nodded and looked away, embarrassed.

I must fight to keep them away—bury the pain and horror so it will never come alive again.

Gwyndel took a deep breath and turned her attention to Ranull. Nodding to himself, the Commander decided upon his strategy. We split into two groups. Fychan, you and I will assault the outlaws directly, he said under his breath. Gwyndel, take several men and circle about out of view. There is an opening further up the hill wide enough to slip through, surrounded by a cluster of three bushes. It leads into the back of the cave.

Gwyndel nodded and turned to face the remaining Foresters. She lifted her hands to her mouth, and mimicked the call of a thrush—signaling for a small contingent to break off under her leadership.

A number of them crossed the open ground with unprecedented speed, hastening to Gwyndel’s side. Rising to a crouch, she left Fychan and Commander Ranull to their objective, racing off into the forest with her small troop.

At the crest of the hill, the terrain was thick with thorny undergrowth and small trees. Gwyndel signaled for her men to halt and took cover. Tense with the anticipation, she inspected the land ahead for the triangulation of shrubbery.

Spotting the unusual landmark, she pushed one bush aside and nearly fell into the gaping hole. Sounding the thrush’s call, Gwyndel kneeled beside the opening and frowned. Probing about, she sought secure anchor points for their descent.

A fall from an unknown height is not a mistake we can afford.

As her troops rallied behind her, she noticed a sizable boulder not far from the bushes. Rope, she whispered. One of the men slipped a loop of rough farmer’s rope from over his shoulder. In the forest, such simple—yet vital—tools often decided the fate of an expedition. The Foresters had made it a habit to carry as many necessary supplies as they could, without compromising the light-footedness of their members.

Taking the rope in hand, Gwyndel looped it around the rock anchor and pulled the both ends even. She stepped between the two lengths, crossing the ropes behind her back and pulling them down through her legs and back up each side. With a satisfied nod, she slipped into the hidden entrance with her bow and quiver upon her shoulder. As she walked down a section of rock, she scratched her knuckles on the tree roots intertwining through the stone walls. Steady drops of water echoed in the cavern below. The daylight faded into a thick darkness. Her knees and feet knocked against the stone.

She sensed a cool breeze, and the walls dropped away into an immeasurable void, choked with a gloom that robbed all vision. A quiet splash broke the deafening silence as she landed in a puddle on the damp stone floor. Hastily, she undid the makeshift harness around her body and yanked twice on it to signal her men. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the light from the hole above.

Gwyndel stepped away from the dangling rope and leaned against the wet walls of the cave. Venturing a few hesitant steps forward, she waited as the rest of her men descended. All knew the importance of silence. Staring off into the darkness ahead, Gwyndel caught a faint trace of voices echoing off the cavern walls. The Forester elf felt her way along the wet stone wall, led by the voices of the enemy. The others followed on her heels rather than risk getting lost in the blackness. The voices grew louder and rays of daylight illuminated patches of the cave.

Gwyndel halted suddenly as the entrance to the cave came into full view. She observed four huddled forms framed within the cavern’s opening. In their hands, bows were held at the ready. At the front of the group, their leader rallied them, his quarterstaff clutched in hand. Shouts from outside echoed across the stone, and the outlaws let fly, hurriedly nocking arrows for another volley.

Gwyndel readied her bow. She held her breath at the chance of skittering a rock that would cost her the element of surprise. Her men advanced slowly behind her, weapons drawn. A sudden shriek jolted her as one of the outlaws fell, stricken by an arrow from the Foresters outside. The outlaw band turned to comfort their wounded friend and came face to face with Gwyndel.

Unable to make out the figures lurking in the darkness, the outlaws lashed out