Broken Souls

By Troy Calkins

Broken Souls

Bothvar Beorcolsson:
Through fire and ice I will fight to find honor. Whether it be giants or creatures of the night, I’ll fight. Pain is my comfort, and sorrow is my companion. Death follows wherever I go. Even the sun hides from my sight.

Bothvar they call me. My journey isn’t an easy one. It follows a long and broken road full of the bones of those who I couldn’t save and those who got in my way. My blades are soaked in the blood of my enemies, but my heart is left in shattered pieces, broken by the costs of my actions. All for what? Honor? Glory? I don’t know anymore.

Maybe I have gained honor, but all I have to show for it is pain. yet I must carry on. I must earn my place among the halls of the gods so I can see my loved ones again. That is why I carry on to fight again. And I will not stop until I am reunited with them.

Whether it be giants or the gods themselves, I will always fight on.

Lura Syllana:
I will do whatever it takes to save my family. Afterall, it is my fault they were enslaved. If I had only listened to my father. If I heeded his words and did what was right instead of what was easy they wouldn't have had to pay for my mistakes with their freedom. Now it is up to me to do whatever it takes to find a way to free them.

Even if it means sacrificing myself and my own freedom. I don’t care what happens to me. I’ll gladly pay any price to save them.

Of course, I said that, but I had no idea what was going to be asked of me. What price I’d have to pay. I didn’t know what I’d have to do to save them. Even so, I’d sacrifice everything to see them free. Even my own freedom. Even my own soul. Which I will soon find out is the very price I must pay.

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Join Bothvar and Lura as they go through pain and sorrow and climb mountains and cross seas, all to save and protect the ones they love. Follow their journey as they discover true love, honor, and glory.

The Broken Soul also includes the prequels: The Damaged Soul and the Bound Soul interwoven in Book 1 of the Seasons of the Cycle series. The Series is a Dark Fantasy with a bit of romance. It’s inspired by Viking culture, but it is in no way an accurate portrayal of historical Viking culture. It takes place within a fantasy world that’s heavily influenced by ancient mythology and lore of many different cultures among other things. That being said, this book contains some pretty graphic and controversial topics such as slavery, sexual assault, death, war, violence, blood, mental health, drug addiction, and many other controversial topics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troy Calkins
• Release date: Sep 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005794057

Book preview

Part 1 and 2: The Damaged Soul/The Bound Soul

Part 1 and Part 2 are presented in separate books that are samples and are made free. Part 1: The Damaged Soul tells the story of Bodvar’s journey through The Longest Night, covering his childhood and some of the hardest and most tragic moments of his life. In Part 2: The Bound Soul, we follow Lura’s journey through her childhood, up until she’s arrested and put in chains. Part 3: the Broken Souls combines both part 1 and part 2 along with part 3 into the book 1, interweaving them into one big story while continuing their journey until they meet, which will be continued in part 4. If you’ve read either part 1 or part 2, you can feel free to skip Bothvar or Lura’s chapters until you reach the end of Part 1 or Part 2. Since Bothvar’s journey is a bit longer in Part 1, his journey will start up later in part 3 while Lura’s journey will start earlier in the book in Part 3.

1

Chapter: 1

Bothvar Beorcolsson

It was a hard season when my father and his men returned from the war defeated. Vandil, the Southern Tyrant king, defeated and killed our King Teowulf. He marched upon his throne in Chillshore and captured it, leaving it in the hands of the Southern Tyrants. They’re usurpers. My father and the rest of the clans fled back to their Strongholds and villages, hidden from the Southerners and preparing for an attack that never came.

Our town spent the entire summer season building up our defenses and looking out for a battle that never came. We lacked the resources we normally have that never came to be. Walls were built by the Builder clan with spikes and towers for archers. Father had a barricade and armory built.

By the time winter arrived, without raiding we didn’t have the resources we needed and many people died because of it. Fortunately, my family and friends all survived. We were blessed by the gods. Our clan has always been faithful servants of the gods. When spring finally came, my father and his men were eager to get out to sea, leaving my mother in charge. All of us - my older brother, Thorkel, my younger brother, Thormar, and myself - were free to do as we pleased without the rigorous routines my father enforces on us, as long as we continue to learn our crafts. My younger sister, Svala, and my youngest brother, Bodvar, are far too young to join us, and this would be my older brother’s last summer as a boy before he joins my father on raids as he becomes a man. He’s excited about it, but I will miss having Thorkel around.

Father makes us spend much of our free time learning crafts. He tells us we’ll never know when we need to know it, for it could save our lives. Most crafts seem to be tedious and time-consuming. Some are not quite manly, but we’re forced to learn it anyway. Like how to stitch clothing. Or how to weave and to cook. Women’s tasks if you ask me. We also learn how to fletch, chop trees and split wood, build fires and houses, and gather herbs, which is far more difficult than I ever imagined. So many herbs. And it’s hard to tell which ones will kill you and which ones will cure some strange illness. My Aunt Sigvor, my mother’s older sister, was quite thorough in teaching us what to look for in herbs and how to test whether they are poisonous or actually help with sickness. Most of the time, she just uses them on animals to see what happens. She is our town’s Wise One. The one everyone goes to for their illnesses, sicknesses, or any other herbal remedy or concoction. I’ve even seen a man come to her needing something for his wife’s bum because he stuck… Well, I don’t need to go into detail about that. Some things I will never understand.

We spend a lot of time chopping wood. I think it’s slave work and I don’t like it, but regardless, father won’t budge. Eventually, he tells us that chopping wood is a good way to develop our swing with an ax and build our strength. Same with cutting trees. However, father is always criticizing the way we swing our axes. Always telling us we’re doing it wrong and we need to use our legs more. I don’t understand. How can you swing an ax with your legs? Eventually, he explains that the power behind the swing comes from our legs. It starts in our legs and moves up our body to our arms. You bend your knees to start, but as you bring your ax above your shoulder, you straighten your legs out in a stretch. Then, when you bring the ax down, you bring it with the full force of your body and end in a crouch position. Like a squat, not as much as if you were taking a shit, but with your knees should be slightly bent. If done right, your full body should be used.

By far my favorite skills are those we learn from the dwarf, Aldam Bronzehammer. He’s a grumpy, bald dwarf with a thick, long, braided, auburn beard that hangs down to his belt and stays tucked under his apron. The dwarf is thick with muscle, which he has forged with his hammer and pickaxe. He’s got dark iron skin that looks like metal. He teaches us many skills. How to prospect ore, how to mine it, how to smelt it, and how to forge it into tools and weapons. Of course, to a dwarf, weapons are just tools of the killing sort. The body is the true weapon. And I find swinging a pickaxe is much like swinging a wood chopping ax. You do the same motion, and Aldam is quick to criticize.

We spend much of our youth with the dwarf. He grumbles much of the time, complaining about our efforts, but I can tell he enjoys our company. We travel with him up the mountains, finding coal and iron. There’s plenty of it, along with some strange glowing mushrooms and glowing ore. Aldam tells us we are not ready for the glowing ore, it’s too heavy for us. That ore is for experts, and the mushrooms will turn your skin dark but have many benefits such as healing and increasing your senses. It is hard work, mining the raw materials we need, and it takes all three of us to push and pull the cart down the mountain full of the ore. Once we get back to his little shop, we have to refine it and get all the crude from it. We run it through water several times to get the dirt off, and then we heat it up with charcoal and pound it with a hammer to get rid of the slag.

Put your balls into it. Swing that bloody hammer with all your body, the dwarf yells as we beat on the heated metal. We spend much of our time pounding the iron with our hammers. He makes us switch hands so we don’t make one side too much stronger than the other.

After we’ve refined it, then we get to make something out of it. Of course, it’s not always the stuff we want to make, like weapons. Most of the time, its nails, hammers and ax heads, knives, cooking pots and pans, horseshoes, belt buckles, chisels, and other boring tools. He shows us how to make moldings for them, which is hard in and of itself. Thorkel always tries to engrave the same symbol on everything he works on and owns. I think it’s supposed to be a hammer, but I don’t know for sure. Why do you put that on everything? I ask scratching my head.

Thorkel looks at me with an eyebrow raised. Do you really have to ask? It’s Thunar’s hammer! You know… Mjolnir. It gives me protection.

Oooh. I see, I say, wide-eyed. The name Mjollnir and Thunar ring inside my head for some reason. As if I’ve heard those names many times before. I’m going to do it, too.

Now you’re just copying me, Thorkel says with a sigh.

Aldam sighs. You call that a hammer? Looks like a goat turd.

I laugh, and then Aldam looks at my work. Boy, do you not know your head from your arse? Because that ax head looks like you took a shit on the anvil and beat it into a bloody lump.

Both Thorkel and Thormar laugh. Aldam turns on both of them, and his eyes dart to Thormar’s work. What kind of horse hoof are you looking at? That shoe looks like it’d fit on a ram’s arse rather than the hoof of a horse.

Don’t even think about asking him a question to which he thinks you should know the answer, which is something Thormar does constantly.

Can iron be made any stronger? my annoying little brother asks.

Does a bear shit in the woods? the dwarf asks.

I suppose it does. But I guess it could also shit in a cave or a river. Or maybe in the mountains, Thormar replies.

And of course, Aldam drags his hand down his face. And without surprise, Thorkel slaps Thormar up on the backside of his head. Do you ever shut up, brother?

Hey! I was just asking, Thormar replies. I feel like we have this very same conversation three or four times a day.

You can make steel out of iron with coal that burns hot enough. We call it coke. There’s this stuff in the air we breathe that we need in order to live. They call it oxygen and then the stuff you breathe out that these plants need is called carbon dioxide. Which is made of carbon and oxygen. The carbon part is what we need to turn iron into steel. Fires breathe it as well. To make steel, bars of wrought iron are layered with powdered charcoal in stone boxes and heated. After about 168 hours, the iron would absorb the carbon in the charcoal. Repeated heating would distribute carbon more evenly and the result, after cooling, was blister steel. Of course, this method is archaic and old. We no longer use it. Of course, we don’t really use steel much either since we have Nedraetium and can purify it.

We dwarves are never content. We always find a way to better things, Aldam says, puffing out his chest. We found that the metal could be melted in clay crucibles and refined with a special flux to remove slag that the old process left behind. That’s how we came up with cast steel. Of course, that method is pig shit compared to the new method of making steel.

Thormar leans in as he hangs onto every word that comes out of Aldam’s mouth. What’s the new method?

Aldam just smiles. Well, one of my old ancestors discovered that iron could be heated while oxygen could be blown through the molten metal by a special furnace. As oxygen passed through the molten metal, it would react with the carbon, releasing carbon dioxide and producing a purer iron. The process was fast and inexpensive, removing carbon and some other substance from iron in a matter of minutes, but suffered from being too successful. Too much carbon was removed, and too much oxygen remained in the final product.

So, it’s just Iron, then? Thorkel asks, tilting his head.

Aldam nods. However, my great uncle began testing a compound of iron, carbon, and this thing called manganese. Manganese was known to remove oxygen from molten iron, and the carbon content in the compound, if added in the right quantities, would provide the solution to the problem my ancestor had.

So, you were able to make the steel in minutes? Thormar asks, rubbing his chin.

Aldam shrugs. There was just one problem. My uncle couldn’t remove an impurity that made the steel brittle from his end product.

I scratch my head. So, what did he do?

My other great uncle, his brother, discovered that if you use a certain stone, we’ve come to call limestone, it could draw out the impurity we’ve come to call phosphorus from the pig iron into the slag. Making good quality steel. Of course, I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s a dwarven secret we’ve kept for a long time in order to keep the price of steel up. That’s partially why our kingdom is so wealthy. That and the Nedraetium our builders use to fortify walls, since most people can’t use it for tools or weapons because it’s too heavy. Of course, not many people know that you can purify the Nedraetium and make it light as wood. That’s a little-known secret our family has kept. Of course, the process of purifying the metal is rather difficult. I don’t know why I’m telling you toads this. I guess you three have been the closest things to sons I’ve had, and I need someone to pass on my knowledge too. I’m not getting any younger… He tugs at his beard and looks off in the distance.

Thormar scratches his head. How do you know when it’s been 168 hours? That seems like an awfully long time.

We have tools for measuring time. You could use a sundial, but those are as accurate as a horse’s arse due to the difference in daylight from the seasons. Hopefully you fish brains realized that there is more daylight in the summer than in the winter. Daylight slowly increases from winter to summer and decreases from summer to winter. And in winter, especially up here in the north, there can be days without sunlight making the sundial all but useless. Fortunately, both the High Elves and us dwarves have created what is called an hourglass.

The dwarf puts an oddly shaped device before us. It’s as if someone took the upper halves of two elven wine bottles and stuck the openings together before building a frame of wood around it. There’s sand in it, and it’s all in the bottom bottle.

You see, there’s just enough sand in it so when you flip it, the sand will trickle down into the bottom half and what is called an hour will pass by the time all the sand sifts to the bottom half. There has been much debate about how many hours are in a full day. Some say thirty-four, others say thirty-eight. Most agree that thirty-six is correct. One of them high-elven wizards has used some kind of magic to keep count and make the thing flip automatically when all the sand reaches one end. He counted thirty-six times in one full day and night. Of course, it’s hard to get a good count when the sun won’t make up its mind on how long it wants to stay in the sky. But with magic, you can get the most accurate count. Aldam pauses a minute to scratch his beard as he considers something before, he continues. Of course, there’s been much debate about why the length of daylight changes between seasons. Many dwarven philosophers believe that the sun stays still and that our world, which is believed to be a big giant ball, spins like a top and circles around the sun. They believe the reason for the change in daylight is because our world is tilted to some degree to the side, so it spins more like a top at an angle. So, during winter, we’re at an angle where we wouldn’t get as much sunlight compared to summer on the opposite side of the sun since they believe our world revolves around it. But Nothing has been proven just yet.

That sounds like pig shit to me, Thorkel says with his usual stubbornness. Everyone knows the world is flat, and the sun starts at the east and arcs over the land to the west and resets every day.

I don’t know, Thormar says as he scratches his chin. It sorta makes sense. Haven’t you noticed that the sky changes throughout the night? It’s as if the world is spinning and we get to see different stars. I’ve also noticed that the stars are different in summer than they are in winter. That would certainly give credence to the dwarven philosophers’ claims. If we revolved around the sun, then we’d see different stars at different points in our revolution and even our rotation. Of course, what are stars, anyway?

Ahh, for asking a lot of annoying questions, you are an observant one. Some of my kin believe the stars are far away suns and our world is one of many. Some High Elves believe this too, the dwarf says.

I thought the dwarves and the elves didn’t like each other, Thormar says.

We don’t. But the High Elves are much more tolerable than those bloody bastard Wood Elves. Bunch of tree huggers, if you ask me. You try to cut down just one of their blasted trees and they’ll stick you full of arrows. I guess they’re the only ones allowed to cut down those trees, for how else do they get their arrows? Bunch of hypocrites, if you ask me. Can’t stand them. At least the High Elves don’t have sticks up their arses! The dwarf barks and makes himself laugh at his own joke. Now back to work, you lazy lot. We ain’t got all day and there’s plenty of tools to be made for the townsfolk.

When we’re not spending our time with the dwarf, learning other crafts, and sharpening our fighting skills, we do get time to have fun. And Thorkel always knows how to have the most fun, even when it usually gets us into trouble. And of course, Thormar is always the one to tell on us to our mother. That is why we always leave him behind. He spoils everything, and he hates being left behind. Especially since our only other siblings are too young. Our sister, Svala, may only be a cycle younger than Thormar, but she’s a girl and most girls are boring, and our younger brother Bodvar, only a cycle behind her, is young enough to be boring as well.

Like always, Thorkel and I sneak out, evading Thormar’s eyes. We meet up with the sisters, Asfrid and Arngunn Hrutdottir, whose parents raid with our father’s crew, and our close friends Solmund Sividson, who’s my age, and his older brother Griotgard, who’s a little younger than Thorkel. And of course, Skardi, who doesn’t have a father or a mother but stays with Varin, father of Sivid, who is father to Solmund and Griotgard along with their older sisters Hallgerd and Jofrid. Hallgerd married our cousin Veleif, and everyone thinks Jofrid will marry his younger brother, Gilli, since the two are always together. They also have a younger brother, Hosvir, and a younger sister Vigdis. Hosvir is Thormar’s good friend.

We think Skardi is the same age as Solmund and me, but no one really knows. He can be strange, but there’s no fun to be had without him. Sometimes our cousins Gilli and Tyrkir come, they are the younger brothers of Veleif, Svafar, and Saxi, who are all brothers to Frida, Greiland, Asfrid, Asgerd, and the youngest of their family, Yngvild. All sons and daughters of Koll Alriksson and his three wives, one being my mother’s younger sister, Ingithora. The other two are Svanhild Arnthordottir, Ingithora’s closest friend and lover, which is no secret, along with Arnora Saksisdottir, another close friend. The three of them grew up together, and all fell in love with Koll, my father’s closest friend.

Gilli and Tyrkir are around our age, as Veleif, Svafar, and Saxi are all much older than us. Well, not much, but they all have wives and kids. Their sons and daughters are as old as Thormar, Bodvar, and Svala.

Part of me wants three wives, but then I see how my father and mother argue and clash and it makes me second guess that. I know my mother and father love each other, but there are times when it seems like they want to kill each other. Everyone in town knows of my father’s bravery and courage, but I know the truth. If there is one thing he fears more than anything else, it’s our mother. We all share that fear. The woman can be a force of nature.

Anyway, today our cousins aren’t with us. Sometimes the oldest son of Koll’s brother, Einar, joins us on our adventures. His name is Vog. His first sister Thorgunna sometimes joins us, but never his second sister Gudfrid, she’s Svala’s friend. Nor does his little brother Eystein. He rarely ever comes out of the house and prefers the company of books over people. He’s odd. And then there’s the runt, Trandil, who faints at the sight of blood. He’ll never be a Viking. He lives with them, but he’s the son of Koll, Einar, and Skuf’s sister. I don’t remember her name because she died many cycles ago. Koll, Einar, and Skuf had another brother, but I know little about him.

Anyway, the seven of us love to sneak out of our town through a little side gate and explore the mountains just north of our town. The dark rocky mountains reach above the inky clouds that forever shroud the sky around the range of peaks far beyond sight. They say Chillshore, a once great Northerner city that was taken by the Southern Tyrants and turned into their fortress, lies somewhere within the mountains cloaked in clouds. It was rumored to be the first great Northerner city, or Norsemen city as we used to call ourselves when we came to these lands. It is written that we came from lands from a different realm. I don’t know about that, but I know this is our home.

Of course, these mountains are dangerous, but it wouldn’t be fun if it was safe. We’re not really allowed up here without Aldam, but no one listens. Today, like every day, we find ourselves at the same cave entrance we were at yesterday. It’s a secret hidden cave Thorkel found. The mouth of the cave sits beyond a little-known path hidden behind a small passageway that is nearly invisible to the eye. I do not know how Thorkel found it. Just like yesterday, we’re still trying to convince someone to go inside.

There could be a bear in there, or worse. What if there was a giant in there? Didn’t you hear about the giants who live in the clan in these mountains? They say they’re as tall as trees and they come from Jotunheim to the lands north of the Dead Sea, Arngunn says as she brushes her messy blonde hair out of her face.

I’ll believe it when I see it, Griotgard says as he puffs out his chest. I bet they’re lying. No way someone can be that tall.

If there was a bear in there, it’d probably smell us already and come out, Skardi says as he obsessively looks at a rock he found. His dark brown hair is always in a mess, sticking out like spikes. Everyone knows bears have great noses. They smell everything.

Screw it. I’m going in, Thorkel says.

Wait! Asfrid and I say at the same time.

He doesn’t listen and walks in without hesitating. He disappears into the darkness. We all stand there, shifting uncomfortably, trading nervous glances as we wait for him to run back. Instead, we hear a gasp echo out.

Thorkel! Are you okay? I ask as I take a step forward.

You guys won’t believe this. You have to see it for yourself. Come in here! His voice echoes out and we all look at each other. Finally, Skardi pockets the rock and heads inside. Reluctantly, everyone heads in one at a time until I’m standing there by myself. I look around, take a deep breath, and head in after them.

At first, I’m blinded by darkness and panic. I feel my way around, tripping over rocks and getting a face full of dirt. My knees scrape against the hard surface. I crawl and pick myself up off the ground and dust off the dirt. The wet, mossy scent fills my nose. Slowly, as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I follow the cave as the path veers to the right. A gasp escapes my lips as light appears in the distance.

I follow it until I’m led into a large, long cavern filled with those glowing rocks and mushrooms Aldam mentioned. They light up the water, which has a misty loom to it. Skardi picks a mushroom and sniffs it. He sticks his tongue out and licks it.

You’re seriously not going to eat that, are you? Asfrid asks, her face contorting into disgust.

Skardi shrugs and bites into it.

Eww gross! That could be poisonous. If you die, I’m telling everyone it was your own fault. Asfrid crosses her arms against her chest and sticks her nose up away from him.

It doesn’t taste half bad, Skardi says as he stuffs the whole mushroom into his mouth.

Aldam, the dwarf said it’s not poisonous. It just turns your skin dark among other things, I say.

I hear a crash and turn to find Solmund laying on the ground.

What are you doing? Arngunn asks as she crouches down to look at Solmund.

I was trying to take one of these glowing rocks back to our town. They won’t believe us otherwise, he says as he dusts himself off and tries again. But… they’re… too… heavy…

He finally relents and gives up. I can’t lift even this small one.

Aldam said they were too heavy. He said only experts mine those, I say.

Where’s Thorkel? Asfrid asks. We all look around and Griotgard spots him all the way at the end of the cavern, staring at something. As we walk up to him, it becomes clear what he’s looking at.

What a strange thing to find in a cave, Skardi says.

Who do you think left it here? Asfrid asks. Everyone shrugs.

I don’t care. It’s mine now, Thorkel says as he steps up to one of the biggest hammers I’ve ever seen. It’s no ordinary hammer. It’s taller than Arngunn, which may not seem like much since she’s the shortest one here, but it’s saying a lot for a hammer. Of course, I’m not much taller than Arni. My father is tall, and I want to be taller than him and Thorkel. It’s made out of a metal I’ve never seen before. A dark crimson metal with a golden trim around it. The handle is all gold. For some reason, I keep imagining wielding a hammer like this. It’s hard to push the thought out of my head.

With this hammer, I’ll be the strongest warrior there is and no one will be able to defeat me. I’ll be able to kill all of those Southerners. Thorkel steps up and wraps his hands around the long golden hilt. A loud grunt comes out of his mouth as he tries to lift the hammer. The thing doesn’t even budge. He tries to change up his stance and his grip. He heaves and pulls, but the hammer doesn’t move a finger’s length. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t move the hammer even a sliver.

Griotgard steps up. Let me try. I’m stronger. I want to be the strongest warrior and kill as many Southerners as I can.

Thorkel steps aside and glares at Griotgard. However, Griotgard can’t get it to move any more than Thorkel could.

If neither of them can move it, then none of us can, I say.

There’s some kind of writing on it, Skardi says as he walks up to get a better look at it.

What does it say? Asfrid asks.

How would I know? I can’t read, Skardi says.

Move aside, I can read, she says as she pushes past Skardi. She leans down to get a better look, but her face contorts in confusion. I have never seen runes like these before. If you can call them that. I have no idea what it is.

Maybe we should go, Arngunn says as she steps closer to me, looking around unsteadily.

Oooh, don’t be a frightened little cat, Arni, Griotgard says as he tries to imitate her voice.

Don’t say that to her, I say as I step up to him.

And what are you going to do about it? Griotgard asks as steps up to me.

Be careful, Griotgard. I consider you a close friend, but Bothvar is my brother, Thorkel says nonchalantly as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

She’s right, though. What if the person who put the hammer there comes back for it? Do you honestly think someone would just leave a hammer like that here in a place like this? And whoever left it there must be strong. Do you think any of us would be able to fight him? Skardi asks, then he snaps around and stares into the wall of the cavern. Did you hear that?

Everyone looks around quickly. Skardi walks up to the wall and pushes his ear up to it. Then he giggles.

Maybe you shouldn’t have eaten those mushrooms, Asfrid says, shaking her head.

Skardi just laughs at her and starts picking more of those strange, glowing mushrooms. No way. I feel fantastic right now. They make me… happy.

Well, I’m done here anyway. I’m hungry. Let’s go back and see if we can sneak into Thyri’s and find anything to eat. I wouldn’t mind some fresh baked bread, especially with that tazzle berry jam she makes, Thorkel says. That is one of many things Thorkel and I have in common, a love for anything with tazzle berries, especially pie. The fruit is rare; a delicacy only found in the land of the dwarves. Same with tingle fruit, which I’ve been told only grows in the blue-eyed elven land. Or maybe it was the green eyes. I can’t remember. If it weren’t for their eyes, I wouldn’t be able to tell one from the other. But either way, those two fruits are my favorite. While tazzle berries are nice and sweet and tingle fruit is rather tart, they both fizzle in your mouth. Tingle fruit makes for the best wine while tazzle berries make for an amazing pie.

Arngunn grabs my hand and I follow her out.

We make our way down the mountain before we realize Skardi isn’t with us. With groans, we turn back and find him picking at rocks and sniffing them. Thorkel grabs him and practically drags him back.

Did you see that? Skardi asks as we finally get back to the town walls. It was in the water. I swear I saw something out there.

We all look out onto the water, but nothing is there.

Probably those mushrooms, Asfrid says.

What are you lot doing outside the walls?

We stop dead as we turn to find Gorm Thorgilsson, a tall skinny boy, with his younger brother Moldof and their friends, Hring, Geitirgest, Sigmund, Ulfjot, and Gunnstein, waiting at the side gate.

Nothing you need to worry your little head about, Grom, Thorkel says, purposely butchering his name.

It’s Gorm! You may be the Earl’s son, but that doesn’t mean you’re better than me. Besides, your father’s days as Earl might be numbered the way he led us to defeat under the dead king.

Arngunn’s hand grips mine as she steps up close to me. I step up between them and her, but I’m more than afraid. They far outnumber us. And Gunnstein and Ulfjot are the biggest boys in the village. Thorkel forms a fist and steps up to Gorm. Better watch your tongue and keep my father’s name off it or I’ll cut it out.

Gorm’s friends step up between him and Thorkel. He only grins. I’d like to see you try.

Oh, aren’t you a brave warrior, hiding behind your friends, Asfrid says.

Watch your tongue, you stupid nissy twat! Gorm shouts.

Don’t talk to her like that! Thorkel shouts as he charges them, slamming his fist against Hring, sending him to the ground. Gunnstein and Ulfjot tackle him. Solmund and Griotgard hurl themselves at them.

Griotgard kicks Ulfjot right in the mouth, knocking teeth out. Get off my best friend!

Skardi stands there laughing hysterically. I just stand there frozen with Arngunn’s hand in my trembling fingers as my brother and our friends’ fight. Even Asfrid runs in kicking and screaming.

What’s going on here? Everyone stops what they’re doing as they look up to find our mother, Thorkatla, with our aunt, Sigvor, the wise one, along with several guards. My mom practically tugs at her long black hair. That’s when you know she’s really mad. Her eyes are as sharp as daggers. Her tall, thin frame towers over us. Our Aunt Sigvor is a lot like her in appearance, with the same beautiful, agile face, but with an auburn tinge to her hair. What they share in appearance is offset by how different their personalities are. Where my mother is hot-tempered, her sister is calm. I suppose their other sister, Ingithora, splits the difference, sharing their physical looks, but a personality just as hot as it is cold.

Nothing. We were just having a little fun, that’s all, my brother says as he pushes himself off Gunnstein, giving him a good kick as he gets up.

Ulfjot tries to push him, but one of the guards steps in. That’s enough!

Reluctantly, everyone breaks apart. Our mother steps up. Now all of you go home before I tan your hide. All of you except you two.

She points at Thorkel and me. We both look at each other as the others make their way into town. Both Asfrid and Arngunn look back at us before they head beyond the gate. Mother steps up and growls at us. What in the name of all the gods were you two doing outside the walls?

We were just… Thorkel goes to say, but mother doesn’t give him a chance.

Do you not understand that the Southerners could attack us at any time? Her glare is colder than a winter freeze.

But mot…

But nothing. You’ll be lucky I don’t hang you up by your ankles. Maybe then you’ll have enough blood in your head to think properly.

Thorkel goes pure white. Both of us know not to tempt our mother. Her wrath can be far harsher than father’s.

Her icy glare turns on me. I expected this out of Thorkel, but with you I thought better.

My eyes fall to the ground. Her disappointment hurts worse than any punishment. I’m sorry, mother.

You should be. Now both of you, come. You both will have enough work to do to keep you busy and out of trouble for the next few cycles of the seasons.

We reluctantly follow our mother and aunt into town. As we get to our house, Thormar’s waiting with Svala, Bothvar, and the slaves. He snickers at us. Thorkel brings his thumb to his throat, making a slicing motion. Thormar’s face goes white as snow.

I saw that! Mother snaps and the color in Thorkel’s drains, matching Thormar’s. I can’t help but feel ashamed of myself. Not only did we anger our mother, but I have proven that I am a coward. What kind of Viking doesn’t fight to protect his father’s honor and have his brother’s back? Even Thormar would have fought. But I stayed back and watched. What is wrong with me?

2

Chapter: 2

Lura Syllana

Another day in Tent City…

I let out a silent sigh as I climb up the wall, moving my hands and feet to the little divots and indents that act like a ladder for me to climb. I finally reach a narrow, cracked hole in the wall wide enough for me to squeeze through.

With a hood covering my face, I weave through the crowd of elves of Low Town as I head through the sandy main street on my way to the market. Every now and again, I’ll bump into someone and, purely by coincidence, my pocket becomes a little heavier after my clumsiness. I do not look at what is in my pocket, I just continue while the weight of my pocket grows.

I reach the market and use the little trick I learned to move objects from a distance. Of course, it’s magic, but it’s not enough to be traced by the enforcers. Just a trickle. My uncle taught it to me among other things. As Zeeno scrambles to pick up his fruit that, for some strange reason, falls from his stall, I sneak underneath and start piling my bag full of his fruit.

He calls his Stall, Zeeno’s Ripe Fruits and Vegetables, ripe being an understatement. Most are squishy and don’t smell right. Suddenly, Zeno’s thick, chubby, enormous nose and face with shabby eyebrows and rotting teeth ducks under the stall. My eyes go wide and I drop the tazzle fruit in my hand. His long, pointy, elven ears seem to droop on him. Hey! You lousy kid. Give me those!

I bolt out of there with the bag of fruit, darting down alleyways and zipping through the people. You bastard! Wait until I get my hands on you.

Even as I run away, my pocket still grows heavier as I bump into people. I bolt down an alleyway, only to cut back the opposite way. I climb up a pillar and jump on a ledge. Then I jump from building to building. I leap a distance longer than I’m comfortable with and barely grab the ledge, but I slip and hit the wooden balcony beneath it with a groan. The air feels like it’s been knocked out of my lungs. I roll onto my hands and knees, pushing myself forward as I scramble back up to the roof. A little dazed, but okay.

I jump and land on a cart of hay before sliding down and sprinting to the gap. I make it through and climb down the wall. Now that I’m in Tent City, I relax a bit and walk casually through the pathways between tents. I slip through Glimmer Alley, where all the glimmer zombies beg and plead for another hit of that poison. They look like skeletons with splotchy skin clinging to their bones.

After zig-zagging through the streets and alleys between tents, I slip into our tent. Father’s tinkering with some contraption he salvaged. He can get a few sand pieces for the parts, but those don’t last. Can’t even buy rotten fruit with that. That’s the problem; everything is overpriced. My mother is grounding up some kind of moss. Most people come to her for the tonics and tinctures she makes with what little herbs she can find. Most of the time, she trades her tinctures for other goods and that’s usually how we eat. But not tonight.

You’ll never guess what I got! I open my bag and I want to cry. All my fruit is smashed.

What’s that, hun? mother asks as she finally looks up.

My fruit. It’s… It’s smashed. It’s all mushy, I say as tears flood my cheeks.

Here, let me take a look, she says and I hand her the bag.

Oh, we can make a nice little jam with that, and since tomorrow is your special day, we can use the jam to make a little something nice to celebrate with. You’ll finally be an adult tomorrow, my mother says as she takes the smashed fruit out, dumping it into a wooden bowl.

How did you pay for the fruit, Lura? my father asks as he looks up at me with his gaunt face. His cheeks seem to cave into his face, and that truly saddens me. My family and I have been living in this arsehole slum for my entire life, all twenty-nine cycles of it so far. I’m a day short of becoming an adult. Zeno was generous today.

Lura, I have told you, we do not steal. It is not our way. We’re better than that, my father says as he stands up and has to lean on the table to remain on his feet.

Look at you, father, you can barely stand because of hunger. How is it fair that we have to scrap for food while the nobles fatten themselves? They let food go to waste while elves down here die of hunger. They impose their stupid laws and prohibit the poor from using magic all to keep us down. We slave and do their work while they reap all the benefits. Why shouldn’t I steal?

Because it would make us no better than them, he says, adjusting his broken glasses. We may live in the slums now, but we come from the honorable Syllana bloodline. A true saint.

Honor doesn’t put food in our bellies! I snap back.

He sighs and rubs his forehead. No, but hard work does.

Not when you only get paid with a few sand pieces that are worth as much as the sand it takes to make them. We can’t even afford the crumbs from the wealthy nobles’ scraps. I’m so sick of living this way! I shout. Then I see the looks on their faces and realize I have gone too far. A sigh escapes my lips. I’m sorry. I know it’s not your fault. Life is so unfair.

He gives a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He hobbles over to me and wraps me in a warm hug. I know, my child. I know. But I couldn’t bear it if you got caught. The cost is too high. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you were put in chains and sold as a slave.

That is another thing that makes little sense. How is it justified to be sold into slavery for stealing something that only costs less than a copper? I ask.

My father shrugs. I do not know, my dear. I don’t make the laws. But I suspect it’s because of how bad things have gotten. The slums have only grown since the Council of Nine has taken over the rule of our city. Ever since our great King Volodar Morric has left the throne, things have slowly grown worse.

Why did he do it? Why did he walk away? I ask.

My father only shrugs. I don’t know, my child.

Well, I just came to drop off the fruit. I gotta run, I say, and bolt out before my parents can argue.

I still hear my father shouting. You better not be heading off to Lethvelion. Your uncle isn’t a good influence!

I walk out of the tent to run into Sister Damaris, who pays us regular visits. Lura…

Sorry, sister, can’t stay, I say as I push past her, rushing through the lines of tents, heading to the underpass of the bridge to the gate to the Under City. That’s where I find a tunnel down to the path to the underground sewers. Of course, it stinks like dung and piss, but what would you expect from the sewers? Traveling below, I head through a maze of corridors and passageways. I find a secluded place and use a bit of magic Uncle Leth taught me, summoning a small ball of faint blue light. Lethvelion says that as long as I only use a trickle of magic, it can’t be detected. It’s illegal to use magic without a permit, and the only people who can afford permits are rich nobles. Of course, you could always borrow the money, but the banks would never lend money to tent trash like me. Maybe someone in Mid Town or even Low Town with a reputable line of work. Or someone who works for the Golden High Elf Trading Company. Although I hear they give scholarships to those with exceptional potential. But I suppose I’m not one of them.

I empty out my pockets, and I find a nice catch. Aside from the junk, which contained some kind of letter, a torn piece of parchment that looks like it came from a book, a vial of something dark, and some kind of token, I got a nice stash of jewelry and some coins. A little ruby, some silver coins, plenty of copper, and even a golden crown. There’s a nice little pearl bracelet, but I’m drawn to a beautiful golden ring with a bright, glimmering sapphire. It feels like it calls to me. I can’t tear my eyes away from the sea of glimmering blue within the sapphire. A clatter in the distance pulls me out of it. I shake my head and stuff everything inside my pocket besides my new ring. It looks perfect on my finger. Feels even better. As soon as I put it on, it feels like a surge of energy went through me. With a bit of magic I’ve learned here and there from Uncle Lev, I make the ring go invisible. No one will ever know it’s there.

I did quite well if I say so myself. I take a better look at the vial of dark liquid. Wonder what it could be… I put it in my pocket with another invisibility spell. Got to be careful using that too often. What about this letter? I open it and read what’s inside. It’s a letter from a man named Ba’theas Keenreaver addressed to Iolas Paynore of the Golden High Elf Trading Company. Sounds like he’s trying to bribe the man. I also unravel the parchment and it has some cryptic meaning. It reads as follows.

A hidden secret lies in a list at the back of this book.

That’s odd. Obviously, this note is useless without the book. I toss it aside. I pocket the letter and make my way through a maze of tunnels I know all too well until I reach my destination, a place we call The Gallows, the underground city.

Down a corridor lies an iron door. I knock once, then twice, then once, and wait a second before knocking three more times. The narrow sliding window shoots open. Oh, it’s you, Little Sparrow, the tinkerer’s daughter.

The sliding little window closes, and the door opens to the sight of a large, bald elf with pointy ears that have grown past his head. He’s got a gruff, long, black beard with a mustache to match. His arms are as thick as sewage pipes. Don’t tell me you’ve got more junk to haggle with.

Not junk, valuable treasure, I say with a smile.

Junk, Balbys grumbles as he lets me through.

Someone’s junk is another one’s treasure, I say.

You can paint a sandstone gold, but it’s still junk, he says.

I only shrug and skip by.

The Gallows is not the safest place in town, but it’s by far the only place you can sell stolen goods. It’s the city below the city within a huge open corridor that runs for at least a few elvish miles. There’s only one actual street down the middle with both sides packed with shacks, makeshift hob shops, run-down bars, stalls, and lots of shady alleys. This place makes Tent City look like a haven to live in which is laughable.

I make my way through the merchants, if you can call them that, and weave through my fellow thieves of all sorts. Everything from simple cutpurses to the most cunning burglars. And you can’t forget about the assassins, gangs, mercenary sell swords, and other shady people. Not just elves, either. Some dwarves and humans here and there. I even see an orc and one of the cat people called Kar. Someone’s even trying to sell a jar of sand they claim is from the deep desert with healing properties. What’s even crazier is that someone’s dumb enough to buy it.

I walk into a rundown, shabby bar made of stacked crates, tarps, and rotted wood that rests up against the sewer walls like so many of the other shacks. Inside are a few tables that are also made out of crates that make for stools. Several men and women take up the seats. A game of dice takes up one of the tables. The men are all the same kind, thieves. Not the shadiest bunch; in fact, you could call them honorable thieves if there is such a kind. Of course, I wouldn’t trust them with your coin purse, but they won’t stab you in the back.

Kid, haven’t you learned anything yet? the owner of the shack of a bar asks. A woman named Lesvhis that few would cross. She’s got some wrinkles on her copper-toned face, with unkempt, dark-black hair streaked with gray, and wears a constant scowl, but she’s fair. Cross her and you’ll find a dagger in your heart, but she’ll have your back if you show her proper respect.

Oh, come on, Lesvhis. You know this is the only way in the lower sects to make a decent coin. My family’s got to eat, I say with a smile.

Ain’t that the truth! I swear, thieves are becoming younger and younger. Or maybe it’s just that I’m getting older and older. I don’t know anymore. Just don’t sink too deep. You got that? She waves her finger at me with that constant scowl.

I nod. I’ll try. If only there were other ways to find work.

You sure got that right. The city is too crowded with too many mouths to feed and not enough food and work to go around, she says, blowing a string of her dark gray hair out of her face.

It don’t help with the council continuing to lay down all these harsh laws. Why did the King abandon us? He’s the one who led us to succession from the Woodland Realm and he left us in this desert to starve, I ask.

Oh, my dear child, it was the king who paid the ultimate price for our freedom from the Woodland Realm with his beloved wife. After she died in the war, he lost himself. But there are those of us still loyal to the rightful king. King Volodar will return someday when he finds himself. Mark my words. That or his children will finally gain the strength to take down the council, she says.

I nod. We can all hope, but in the meantime, I got some stuff to sell.

Just make sure you know when to walk away, child, she says as she lets me behind the bar counter and into a back room where there lies another enormous iron door hidden in the sewer wall. She opens it, and I head down the stairs into the darkness.

At the bottom is a light that leads into a big open corridor with several smaller rooms attached. The corridor itself is lined with crates, barrels, and boxes. A big open square is set in the middle with battered couches and chairs. Several men and women lounge around. Some playing dice, while others tell stories and barter over what little they have.

I walk down into the lounge.

Oh, look who it is, our Little Sparrow, Larongar says. An older elf with gray, frizzled hair, a shadow of a beard on his face, and plenty of scars. One prominent scar trails from one ear across his nose to the other. He’s never said what caused it.

Scarface, pleasant to see you too, I say with an exaggerated smile.

Haerzis, a bald, dark-chocolate skinned half-elf, snorts a laugh. I’ll never tire of you, girl.

Larongar shrugs. She tells it like it is.

Olaurae slams a cup on the table of crates and smirks at Filarion before he lifts the cup to reveal a pair of dice with snake eyes. Looks like I win again.

Filarion stabs his knife into the crate, splintering it. Damn you, Olaurae, you cheated. I know it! Let me see those dice.

For the love of the King, Filarion, I told you to stop doing that! Zaos says with a glare. The silver-haired elf with a big, fluffy beard is normally even-tempered but can snap when you push him far enough. This is the fifth crate you’ve sliced open in the last two days. Go replace it and stop ruining our tables.

Sorry, tell Olaurae to stop cheating. I don’t know how he does it, but there’s no way he can win five games in a row without cheating, Filarion grumbles as he gets up, and grabs the crate, tossing it over with the rest of the crates with holes in them and grabbing another.

He’s got a point, Olaurae, you do cheat. That’s why I’ll never play with you, Larongar says.

You never complained before. As I recall, you’ve made quite a bit of coin betting on me to win, Olaurae says with a grin.

Larongar shrugs. I’d be a fool not to. But that’s against those foolish sell swords. No one here is stupid enough to bet against you, besides maybe Filarion.

Hey! Filarion scowls. He’s a bit younger than Zaos, Olaurae, Larongar, and even Haerzis. But the scruff on his face makes him look older than he really is. Although he’s much older than me. Of course, age is a complicated issue. The elves who use magic are nearly ageless, but us lowlife sewer rats that aren’t allowed to use it or lack the ability age at a much faster rate. I’ve even heard some elves are over a thousand cycles old. That blows my mind.

The iron door opens and a bunch of boots clap their way down as Lethvelion, Minpireth, Renna, Valindra, Aimar, Akkar, Elas, Dakath, Haryk, Kesefeon, and a man that makes my stomach curdle, Phraan all walk in. Saevel, Erolith, and Delmuth nearly stumble down the stairs carrying three large chests.

Now that was one hell of a grab, Haryk says as he collapses on the couch next to Haerzis.

Those uppity pompous arses didn’t see it coming.

What happened? I ask.

Don’t worry Little Sparrow, I’ll tell ya all the details if you come by my bed later, Phraan says as his eyes travel down my body and make me want to take a bath.

Eww, gross, Renna says as she and Valindra both pretend to throw up. Phraan, the girl is young enough to be your granddaughter, ya perv.

Renna wraps her arm around my shoulder and steers me away from that gross man as she and Valindra head over to another couch and plop down. Minpireth sits on the armrest next to Renna.

Don’t listen to that perv, and if he tries anything, let me know and I’ll cut his hands off, she says with a wink.

I’ll cut his cock off, Valindra says. Her eyes stab daggers into Phraan as she uses her hands to demonstrate. Snip, snip.

Better be careful, Phraan. The girl is my niece, Lethvelion says, making Phraan stiffen.

I was only joking, Phraan says as his eyes travel over to me with a look that betrays his words. I shudder in disgust.

Mark my words, Phraan. Make more jokes like that and I’ll cut your tongue out. You may have the inside scoop with the dock schedules, but that won’t stop me from cutting your heart out if you even think about touching my niece, my uncle says. My father may not like me hanging out with him, but I know he wouldn’t let anything happen to me. I don’t know what caused the rift between the two of them, but my father won’t even talk to Lethvelion.

I would never, Phraan says, running a hand through his greasy, long, brown hair. One ear has the tip sliced off. A scar runs down his cheek and runs into his beard, leaving the skin bare.

Lethvelion gives him an icy stare before he turns away and brings his attention to the chests they brought down. My uncle has long, graying-brown hair with a beard to cover his face below the nose. His face is made hard, like many people down here. But there’re crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes from the genuine smiles he occasionally gives. Especially to me. He always knows how to get a laugh out of me.

Valindra braids my hair as my uncle opens the chests to reveal more gold than I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Some gemstones bigger than my fist are scattered amongst the gold coins along with silver chalices, beautiful golden gem necklaces, and other gorgeous trinkets.

What did I tell you? Kesefeon says as he claps my uncle on the shoulder. I knew the Golden Trading Company would bring in several shipments of gold from their sales with the slave shipments from Chillshore. This is only one of many. And all we had to do was row out to the ship and sneak on to grab a few chests.

You were right, my friend. I’ll give ya that. You get the first pick of it. Then the rest of you lot can take your share and the rest of it will be put in the coffers. This is cause for a little celebration. Let’s crack open that barrel of wine we stole from that greedy chairman… The one that looks like a weasel. What was his name again? My uncle asks.

Eldaerenth Heiris. The weasel face, Zaos says with a laugh.

That’s him. Weasel’s face. We’re going to have to get another barrel. The weasel knows excellent wine, my uncle says with a smirk.

That he does. I think he gets it from that human town. What’s it called? Zaos says, scratching his beard.

Wasn’t it… Lagan berries? Kesefeon asks, running a hand through his auburn hair.

It’s Lagoonbury, I say.

How do you know? Kasefeon asks.

I read it in a book, I say.

You can read? Larongar asks, getting a laugh from the rest. I stick my tongue out at him.

Of course, she can read, my brother used to be a scholar before… Well before it all changed. I’m sure he’s still got some books hidden away, my uncle says.

The Tinkerer was a scholar? Filarion asks, scratching his head. I didn’t know that.

You don’t know a lot of things, especially how to play dice, Zaos says.

I know how to play dice just fine, Olaurie just cheats, Filarion says with a glare.

Olaurie only shrugs. And yet you’re the fool who still plays me.

You don’t even deny it, Filarion says with a huff.

So, did you have luck today, Little Sparrow? Renna asks as she sharpens her long dagger. She and Valindra are by far the most beautiful elves I’ve ever seen. Both sisters with dark brown hair. Renna has one side braided while the other side hangs loose. Her eyes are as blue as they can get with a dim glow to them. Valindra shares the same eyes and hair color but keeps her hair short. Both have delicate ivory skin. If they didn’t dress like scoundrels with tight bridges, boots that come up to their knees, and dark brown hair, you’d mistake them for nobles or high-born with their smooth, ivory skin, unlike my copper tone. I may have golden