The Princess of Malik'Dar (Warriors of Sword & Sorcery, #1)

By Lawrence Caldwell

Captured by giants and nearly killed as a sacrifice in the bedchambers of a sorceress, Falinor, a mercenary swordsman with some small skill in the magical arts, is rescued by Harrkania’Dar, a princess among the giants. To repay his debt, Falinor agrees to accompany Harrkania on a dangerous quest to obtain an item guarded by her father’s minions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lawrence Caldwell
• Release date: Feb 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005275006

Lawrence Caldwell

Lawrence Caldwell is believed by some to be a wandering samurai, or a vagrant, or possibly a ninja—though perhaps in his infinite mystery, he’s none of these things. Whichever the case, he wanders home as Odysseus did after the great Trojan War in some realm unbeknownst to our world. And—by direct theft of a quote from a certain dwarf named Varric Tethras—he "occasionally writes books."

Book preview

Chapter 1: Skulls in the Sand

Mage and swordsman, Falinor Serdrin, stood in the rowboat on his haunches while the rowers grunted with every effort of the oars. He was no slouch at the sword, but in his mage training, he was no disciple in the schools of magic, for he had failed his training and was cast out of his place of learning.

The cool spray of the deep blue waters off the cost of the Giant Isles of Malik’Xor put a chill down his spine, but Falinor reacted very little. His jaw was set, his sword honed to the point where he could shave a hair in half without bending it.

The swordsman and mage, if mage he could even be called, held his scabbarded blade before him, the cross guard gleaming in the sunlight. He was a tall man, lean but muscular and corded, the muscles in his arms easily pronounced as if he had been carved from the finest marbles. The warrior kept his hair tied at the nape of his neck, and a braided thread wrapped about his temples to keep loose strands of his long red-brown hair from his eyes.

Upon his corded forearms he wore leather vambraces studded in silver. His tunic was of a dark green suede, threaded in silver. The breaches he wore had clearly at a time been of high quality, polished and lacquered, but now they showed the wear of use and of age, though they were well-kept and tied to his calves by cords of hempen rope. For armor—true plate armor, he wore none, save for silver plates that he wore over his shins. They protected his legs and covered the lacings of his high boots.

The warrior glanced out over the waters, at the half-dozen other boats loaded with swordsmen, archers and mages. At the head of each boat, a lead man who had been selected by the king himself, stood, watchful and alert.

The salty tang of the sea air filled his nostrils and the stink of fish was on the wind. Falinor set his jaw as he glanced over the blue waters and the chop of the waves at the island before them. The beach was unmistakably the Isle of Giants, with its jagged rocks that appeared like shattered bone, yellowed and marbled in pink, the shore a collection of flat and warn stones of a similar hue.

Those rocks foretold a future, should they fail to save the princess, their own bones would be added to those rocks, a graveyard of a battle past and a quest failed.

But…

Narrowing his eyes, Falinor saw no sign of the giants who had taken the kings daughter.

He nodded.

Their landing, as each of the lead men in the rowboats had suspected, as told to the rest of the small army before setting forth, was and still is a secret.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction and mild relief, Falinor gripped his leather scabbard tighter. Bravery was not the mark of a man without fear—it was the mark of a man willing to row to an island where men did not go, in the hopes that his landing would be unnoticed, but willing to fight should he be discovered.

When the boat scraped onto the rocky shore, the lead man, Lord Eiver, jumped out first and gave orders for the rest of the men to move. The towers set down their oars and picked up their weapons.

With a splash, Falinor landed in the water behind a dozen other men and made his way up the shore, but not forgetful of the rowboat, his only way off the Giant Isles of Malik’Xor.

The trees ahead loomed large—far larger than he was used to. How was it that even the trees in the land of giants were bigger?

Seabirds cawed, and in the forest even larger creatures squawked and called, their cried echoing through the darkness of the trees that climbed high like bulwarks of protection against outsiders.

A shiver passed over Falinor then, one not of the cold. But of foreboding, for the forest glowered at him, warning him not to enter its dark recesses.

The warrior stepped forward, the first among the many men on the shore now to move toward that forest.

When his boot hit a rock, he jerked forward and caught his balance. Looking down at that rock, Falinor saw it for what it truly was.

It was the half-buried skull of a man.

Chapter 2: Sentries and Scouts

The warrior mage, if mage he could be called, buckled his sword belt around his waist and, putting his hand on the scabbard, angled the weapon so that he could draw the blade easily with a single movement if need be.

Did you see the skulls on the beach? a man behind him said to another in astonishment.

Falinor ignored them mostly, though he could hear them from behind as he stepped over leaves and rocks, their armor and leather jerkins scraping and making the subtle noises expected of such armor.

Downright foreboding, that is, said another.

Evil tidings, I tell you, a third said, his tone nasal and critical in character. Falinor knew the type—not the type he suffered for long.

He narrowed his eyes and pressed forward at the command of Lord Eiver, who wanted a line of sentries on the ridge. More footsteps hurried behind him—these heavier and meaning to catch up with him.

What do you think? said Joros in his deeper.

Falinor turned slightly to address Joros. He was a swordsman Falinor had met on the ship, but other than the man’s clear want of a close comrade to watch his back in battle, he was little more.

The warrior mage took in a deep breath. The air was stiff and clean and the smells of fish from the beach were gone here under the trees. I am wary.

Joros Blent, an altogether more muscled man than Falinor, stepped faster, leading the way to the ridge. Then he glanced about quickly. You don’t think we can fight giants?

We can fight giants, said Falinor, affirming the other man’s wrong assumption. Can we win battles on their turf? That is another matter entirely. But only time will tell, Joros.

The other man smiled as if brushing off his concerns, then he turned and led Falinor to the ridge atop the hill where there were several of the pallid rocks with pink vanes of marble jutting up from the land. They were covered with leaves and largely undisturbed.

A good sign, he thought.

Did the giants truly not have lookouts? Were they unprepared for this landing? Even after taking Princess Kindren away, they had not seemed to prepare.

Did that speak to their arrogance, or their confidence? And if the ladder, to what confidence? Men did not venture to the Giant Isles for a reason. They rarely returned. Those that did had false stories of slaying harrowing monsters with horns and fur, while in truth, Falinor believed they may have touched land for a spell before returning to their boats—if they even did that.

Glancing to his left and to his right, he saw the picket of sentries. Some of them were archers, some of them swordsmen. The dedicated scouts scurried down the hill and further into the forest, their hoods covering their heads and their short bows in their hands as dirks bobbed at their belts.

Most of the men in King Kindren’s fleet were mercenaries, but some small few were loyal king’s men—soldiers who would die for their leader. These men were generally skilled and highly dangerous in a scrap.

Many of the archers rushing headlong into the forest were just such men. Archers that could cut the sword strap off Falinor’s waist.

For the trees, it was difficult to get a look deeper into the forest.

They did not have enough scouts.

That much Falinor could see immediately. The giants could surprise them here easily, especially once they began to venture further into the woods.

Time would tell if their landing was truly secret, and the scouts would soon report back with anything they saw once returned.

It was not Falinor’s concern. His concern was to fight if need be—and his sword would be needed. The coin king Kindren was paying would line his pockets well and allow him to live in relative luxury for some months.

Or he could save that coin, put it away—possibly buy a ship and become a merchant. Falinor could hang up his sword for good.

But did he want to?

You seem thoughtful, friend, said Joros with a nod of his chin. What are you thinking about?

The coin, Falinor said. He glanced down at the damp and loamy earth at his feet. There was little if any grass under the dark canopy of red-barked trees. What will you do with yours?

Joros’ skin tone was somewhat darker than Falinor’s, his hair black and cropped short. He smiled. Whores and drink. I’m going to travel to Aricosa and spend every copper.

Falinor could not help but sniff with amusement.

And you, friend?

We are not friends…

I have not yet decided.

At that, Joros made somewhat of a mildly disappointed face. Perhaps the bigger man wanted him to go wenching his way to Aricosa with him. For some, that would not be a bad idea.

But for Falinor, he wanted more than to remain an adventuring mercenary to the end of his days. For in truth, there were few adventuring mercenaries who were old—just pretenders who bought drink with the coin made by way of telling tales in taverns.

No, he wanted to be comfortable—possibly rich.

That was not to say that he didn’t enjoy fighting.

Because he did.

Despite his apprehensions currently, sitting on a hilltop was boring. He saw a beetle crawling in the leaves at his feet. He kicked it away.

Just as he moved, something groused above him, its maw uttering something between a growl and a hiss.

Glancing up, the form of something large and monstrous moved. A thrill of fear and excitement coursed through his core as he ducked, drawing his blade as he shuffled away. Look out! he called.

Joros backed away as he unsheathed his own blade with a hiss of leather against steel. The creature detached from the trunk of the tree and spread its brown leathery wings. The scales on its underbelly and the curving beak, like that of an old cannibal’s nose, were not typical of the animals of the kingdoms of men.

His heart hammered inside his chest.

Falinor had almost hurled a fireball at creature. But then, now seeing that they were both safe, he and Joros looked at each other and laughed, though their humor was relief more than it was anything else.

We will never kill giants if birds find us first.

That was no bird, said Falinor.

Did you see that?! a man called from below the hill. It was Weslin, a scrappy little archer that carried multiple daggers he used for throwing.

We saw it, Joros said as he glanced that way. Why did you not call out to us? Surely its motions drew your eye first, yes?

As he climbed the hill to them, he came up short and shook his head. I’m sorry. I didn’t see it.

Weslin was younger than them both, but between the three, he was the only man with a beard. Though the red stubble on Weslin’s face could hardly be called a beard. It was more like unkempt growth of three to five days.

You’re one of the archers! Joros said, his tone somewhat stern. You and yours are supposed to keep an eye for things to shoot. He said the words while gesturing with a forceful hand of impatience.

Falinor said nothing as Weslin scratched his head. Next time, he said with a nod. I’m certain, as the gods are my witness, that next time I’ll see it.

Good.

Leave off, Joros, Said Falinor. None of us saw the beast—and neither did the other archers.

And there were plenty of them nearby.

I suppose we have bigger things to worry about, relented Joros.

Just then their archer friend seemed to spot something deeper in the forest. They all turned and watched as one of the scouts came running from behind the trees, his pace hurried and frantic.

What is it, man? someone on the line asked when he came up the hill.

Yes, said another. What did you see?

The archer, breathing heavily and frantically, turned halfway and pointed his finger. Co—coming. The Giants! They’re coming!

Heads swiveled.

Looking sharply to the trees, Falinor grasped his sword hilt as his heart started pumping faster. For a moment he saw nothing, then he regarded his companions. Joros had his blade half-bared and Weslin glanced about like a shifty thief looking for somewhere to run.

Another man came sprinting from behind—the direction from where the beach lay just outside of the forest. Falinor turned and glanced at the figure. It was Lord Eiver’s right-hand man. Lord Eiver bids you return to the beach.

All of us? Joros asked.

The man nodded. We are forming our lines.

Here we go, said Joros.

I was not expecting to battle so soon, said Falinor. He heard his own disappointment in those words. It was one thing to be a mercenary, and it was another thing entirely to go looking for battles to fight.

Neither did I, said Joros with a nod.

Weslin said nothing, he simply moved and started making his way down the hill. He flailed his arms jerkily as he kept balance.

Falinor’s steps were more measured, his swordsman’s balance perfect, even on the uneven terrain. That he had nearly tripped upon a skull on the beach earlier forespoke of an oddity—an oddity that he did not want to read into very deeply.

Even so, he could not help but swallow as he picked up his pace at the bottom of the hill. He made his way through the trees with Joros and Weslin as dozens of other sentries from the hilltop hurried back to find their positions in the small army king Kindren had landed with the hopes of rescuing his daughter.

Only the gods know what sort of trouble the princess is in, he thought.

Chapter 3: Thunder in the Sun

The wind blew onto the beach from the sea in cold, choppy gusts, but because he kept his hair tied back with a thread, his hair remained in place. Falinor glanced about the lines. He was on the front with Joros beside him.

Where is Weslin? the bigger man asked.

With the archers.

Why Joros had asked such an obvious question was clear to Falinor. He was nervous, and indeed as the swordsman who could hardly call himself a mage glanced about the straight battle lines that had been formed as part of king Kindrin’s army sent to the Giant Isles, he saw fear and apprehension.

One man turned around completely and glanced back further down the beach, at the ships in the water, where king Kindrin no doubt watched from afar—from a position of safety.

That safety loomed in the minds of all the men, he was certain—including himself. But had he truly needed to scape, Falinor knew how to swim—and swim well. But as if Joros was reading his mind, the muscled man spoke.

Do you believe the giants can swim?

Of course they can swim, said Falinor, his tone holding an edge. Not because he was annoyed with Joros, but because of his own apprehension. Did you not hear of the Raid of Scodgran?

No.

Nevermind, said Falinor, deciding not to instill fear in the other man. Put your attentions on the battle.

No, said Joros. Fal—tell me.

He groaned slightly. To be quick, he cut the story to its bare bones. Giants swam across the Strait of the Leviathan’s Eyes and attacked the village of Scodgran, then swam back with their loot and hostages.

The other man let out a heavy breath. I knew I should have stayed in the South.

His mouth twisting wryly, Falinor said, You damn foreigners.

What is that? said a soldier as a general murmur went into the air.

Steady men, Lord Eiver said from atop his horse. He had his sword in his left hand and behind him his small honor guard waited, men heavily armed and armored who would protect him in the battle. In his other hand rested his silver helmet.

Is it thunder?

There’s a storm, you ninny!

"No it’s not!

Shhh!

They’re all wrong, said Falinor in a breath.

What do you mean? Joros asked.

Just then Lord Eiver called, Archers!

Their captain then called similarly and the archers filed through the general ranks, formed up in a thunder of boots farther on the beach, though Weslin was nowhere to be seen. Surely he was in that group. There were at least two-hundred men.

That storm, said Falinor. Listen. It’s moving.

As the archers’ column moved up to the lines of dunes on their left flank further down the beach, Falinor continued to listen, the din of the rumble on the horizon distinguishable from the thunder of the archer columns advancing.

That’s… Joros began, but his tone carried confusion. The giants do not ride horses.

Perhaps another beast of burden, Falinor suggested.

Yes, Joros said, as if that brought him comfort.

But I do not believe that is what we are hearing.

What? Joros’ eyes were wide. Tell me, Falinor. Please.

You are greener than the grass in spring.

They are giants, friend.

Joros swallowed visibly.

As the man did so, that thunder on the horizon separated and moved in two directions. Yes, beasts of burden or not, the heavy footfalls of hundreds of giants would indeed sound like thunder on the horizon—or a large host of horse-mounted warriors.

They are coming, said Falinor.

More commands were given and the archers moved, splitting to the flanks of the army. A pinion appeared ahead as a mounted scout came back from further up the beach with half a dozen scouts on foot.

Falinor was no scout, but even so, the hurried nature of their pace, and the direction they came from—from where the thunder of giant’s footfalls came on the left flank… Even he knew that was a terrible sign.

He would have never admitted it to Joros, but Falinor’s heart was hammering the inside of his chest as imaginings flickered within his head. He saw the terrible battle playing out before him, the snarling giants and their dirty bodies, their heavy feet stamping the heads of the men into chunky pulp as the death knells of men filled the air—the screams of warriors crying for their mothers.

You’re shaking?! Joros exclaimed.

Shut the hells up, man, snapped Falinor. Not because he was embarrassed, but this army needed every scrap of morale it could get, and panic in the lines would not help.

So he lied.

I am going to grind them to a pulp, he snarled, making fists with his hands. For taking the princess!

Joros looked at him, but he said nothing.

*

Two lines from the very front, the archer Weslin Forgost could see nothing over the swiveling heads of his comrades. Even had he been able to, the dunes would have obscured his view.

Ahead, scouts watched the giants approaching, gave distance signals to the captain behind the column.

The rumble of thunder coming toward them was so near, he could feel it in the sand. It made him shake like a leaf as he lost control of himself.

The warmth running down his leg was not a comfort.

Dammit! Godsdammit!

With a running nose and a wet spot in the sand at his feet, Weslin moved to wipe at his face with the back of his hand, but he had very little control over his own arms.

Through the blur, he could barely make out the faces of the others around him. Had the army had a chance in the upcoming battle, the men would have laughed at him.

They should have laughed at him.

Fuckfuck! Fuck!

They didn’t laugh.

Fuck!

Fuck is right! the line captain said. We will fuck them all up, boys!

No one responded to their captain.

Chapter 4: Storm Wind

The forward scouts arrived to meet the commander. It seemed quick words were exchanged and a general call to readiness was issued from the column captains.

Lord Eiver approached the front of the column and road across lengthwise. The enemy approaches! he shouted. He slowed, placed his helmet on his head with one hand and added, Prepare for battle! His horse turned nervously in the sand, prancing this way and that and kicking up a disturbance before he booted his animal and road to the back of the column.

A horn was blown as a flag from the archer columns went up, indicating enemy contact.

I don’t see any giants! Joros said.

They’re here, Falinor assured. If they’re smart, they won’t attack us directly. Not at first.

Shouting of orders and calls between the flag bearers went up. Most of them Falinor couldn’t see from his position.

LOOSE! a voice bellowed from a distance. The thrum of hundreds of bows went up as the archers released shafts into the sky and over the dunes. LOOSE! Another pause. LOOSE!

We’re hailing them with arrows! said Joros excitedly as he glanced to Falinor.

Won’t do no good, said another man beside him.

What, why not?

Our shafts are like twigs to their tough giant hides—don’t you know?

They are?

In truth, the giants were much the same as any man, just far larger and more powerful. At least, that was what he had heard from warriors who had fought them. One man he had met in a tavern a time ago even claimed fighting with giants.

I am still uncertain that story is even true.

Ahead in the archer lines, shouting erupted. It was different—not the bellow of orders. Men screamed and behind the general line of swordsmen and mages, the commanders kicked their horses.

Another