The Saga of Tarod the Nine-Fingered: The Saga of Tarod the Nine-Fingered, #1

By Steven E. Wedel

Collected into one volume, the first four adventures of Tarod the Nine-Fingered, with the never-before-published essay "Writing Tarod."

 

THE WAR LORD
Young Tarod wins a tournament and joins the court of King Damen of the wealthy, peaceful country of Minnea. But when the king and queen are killed the night of his victory celebration, Tarod must find the murderer and bring him to justice.

THE PUPPET KING
Succeeding King Damen on the throne of Minnea, Tarod must do the bidding of Selith, the sorcerer who holds a mighty secret that could condemn Tarod to death. The young king must battle the wizard and his own boredom as he tries to learn to govern a civilized nation.

THE NINE-FINGERED
Escaping Minnea with his life and weapons and little else, the wounded Tarod finds unexpected sanctuary in the home of an enemy's son. Healed and refocused, Tarod sets out to help the victims of his follies by rescuing travelers captured along the United Road. The quest takes him to the ancient city of Eun Sarns, where he must face horrors beyond his imagination.

THE DEATH MERCHANT
When he kills a poet singing a song mocking Tarod the Puppet-King, Minnea's former ruler is arrested and sentenced to hang. He meets new friends in prison who have a plan to escape, but the greater danger is the sword of Bolkar the Death Merchant, a bounty hunter who never brings anyone back alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MoonHowler Press
• Release date: Jun 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223899617

Steven E. Wedel

Steven E. Wedel lives with his dogs, Bear and Sweet Pea, and his cat, Cleo. A lifelong Oklahoman, he grew up in Enid and now lives in Midwest City, with numerous addresses in between. He is the author of over 35 books under his name and two pseudonyms, but still has to rely on his day job of teaching high school English to keep himself and his furry dependents eating in air-conditioned comfort. Steven has four grown children and three grandsons. Be sure to visit him online and sign up for his newsletter.

Book preview

The Saga of Tarod the Nine-Fingered

Volume One

Steven E. Wedel

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MoonHowler Press

Copyright © 2023 by Steven E. Wedel

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Cover designed by GetCovers.

Contents

The War Lord

1. Conversation in the Inn

2. Desires and Plans

3. The Fox and the Bear

4. Feast of Food and Flesh

5. The War Lord's Treachery

6. The Fugitive Discovered

7. A Bargain is Struck

8. I'll Kill You Someday

9. A Hero's Welcome

10. The Council Decides

The Puppet King

11. The Master and His Puppet

12. The Funerals

13. A Coronation

14. Storm in the Tower

15. Dismissal

16. Tidings of War

17. The Troops Ride Out

18. Selith's Plans

19. A Marriage

20. Selith's Response

21. Escape

22. Flight

The Nine-Fingered

23. Blood and Cravings

24. Preparing to Meet the Gods

25. Another Council

26. Falling

27. In the Presence of Gods

28. Healing

29. Recovery

30. The Nine-Fingered

31. Journey to Eun-Sarns

32. The First Encounter

33. Seth in Eun-Sarns

34. Inside the Cursed City

35. What Seth Saw

36. Seth in the Tower

37. Blades, Claws, and Fangs

38. Terror at the Gate

39. I Know Who You Are

The Death Merchant

40. A Compact is Made

41. Ballad of the Fool King

42. A Clash of Steel

43. Sentenced to Death

44. Brotherhood of Swords

45. On the Gallows

46. Noose or Sword

47. Escape

48. The Death Merchant

49. A Raven's Visit

Afterword

About the Author

Also By Steven E. Wedel

The War Lord

Book 1

Conversation in the Inn

Tarod watched the innkeeper across the room as the man filled a plate with meat, beans, and bread. The innkeeper was a round man with a bushy brown beard and a shiny scalp. His eyes twinkled when he spoke, and his words often whistled through a gap where two upper teeth had been lost breaking up a fight in his business establishment in the days when he used his fists more than a stout club of hickory. The innkeeper’s name was Belen. During the time he’d been staying in Belen’s inn, Tarod had come to think kindly of the man. Belen set the plate of food on the table and dropped himself into the chair across from Tarod with a deep sigh.

Congratulations on living another day, young sir, Belen said. I hear it told that you killed two men today and that one of them was that wiry fellow from Philan. He was a big talker, he was. I was surprised he made it so far into the tournament. I can’t say I’ll miss his business here.

Tarod looked up from the plate of bleeding beef and dry bread to study the innkeeper’s ruddy face. All around him was the din of the inn’s common room – people eating, talking, drinking, singing, and gambling. Tarod blocked it out as he’d tried to do all week. Tonight, he thought he’d wanted only to be left alone, but now he found he craved company. He missed his mother’s cooking and his father’s words of advice. He tried to smile.

I’ve learned that most of the men in the tournament have more skill with their mouths than with their blades, Tarod said.

I don’t doubt it, Belen said, nodding. What surprised me was the number of winners who dropped out after the first round.

Most of them won by luck, Tarod said as he chewed a moist chunk of the beef. I doubt those men had seen real battle before. They didn’t know what it was like to have sharpened weapons aimed at them. They had never killed anyone before, either.

The innkeeper’s look was sad as he scrutinized his guest. It’s a bad business, killing. We don’t have much of that here in Nevara. Not in all of Minnea, for that matter, Belen said. We’re a peaceful people.

You say that, but you choose your new war lord with a tournament that kills dozens of men, Tarod said as he cut another bite from the steak. Warm blood ran across the plate.

Mostly foreigners, like yourself, Belen answered. We’ve been at peace so long that our own men are no longer battle-ready.

So I’ve noticed, Tarod said, grinning. The boys of my village could have beaten most of the men in the tournament that first day.

I heard it said that news of the tournament was more popular outside the borders of Minnea than within, Belen continued, his voice sibilant through the hole in his teeth. King Damen said it would bring in the best fighters from neighboring lands and they would kill each other in our capitol city, giving us a new war lord and eliminating our neighbors’ best warriors without a war. He said our war lords should die in hunting accidents more often because choosing a new one provides such a nice public spectacle. And it’s mighty good for business, I might add.

Tarod laughed. It sounds like your king is a clever one.

He’s a good king, as was his father before him, Belen said. But tell me, young sir, if you win tomorrow and are named war lord of Minnea, what will you do? Why do you want such a worthless title? Minnea has not gone to war in generations. The war lord does little more than organize the palace guard and lead parades. I would think a young man like you would seek more adventure.

Tarod chewed and swallowed, his eyes fixed on the rotund man sitting across the table from him. Why do none of the soldiers participate in the tournament? he asked. I expected to see many of them, but there have been none.

They are not permitted, Belen said. The war lord is a political post. The army is controlled by generals. Every soldier is a trained fighter. The king spends a great deal of gold to be sure they are well trained and armed. He won’t risk them turning on each other or dying in the arena.

The bread was dry and Tarod had to force it down his throat. His mother’s bread was light as air and flavored with herbs she gathered herself. He swallowed some ale, licked his lips, and said, This title I’m fighting for sounds more worthless with every word you speak.

Belen laughed, the gap in his teeth wide and comical. So I ask you again, young sir, why do you fight for it?

I would ask the king to help my people, Tarod said. My folk in the Urlung Mountains are taken as slaves. They are captured from their villages to work on the plantations of the Obsidian Plains. A nation as strong as Minnea could help us defeat the lords of the Plains.

You will never convince King Damen to go to war, especially with the Plainsfolk. Belen stroked his mustache. We depend on the grain and cotton they provide.

We’ll see, Tarod said. If he won’t help my people, I’ll leave Minnea and you’ll have to have another tournament.

Ah, that’s if you win tomorrow. That Cormath fellow is a good fighter and comes from somewhere east of the Malatia Forest. He is no stranger to killing. And he seems to have an appetite for it, I’ve noticed.

I’ve been fighting for my life since I was old enough to hold my sword, Tarod said. I expect to live through tomorrow.

Aye. Belen nodded. Still, Cormath has many years of experience on you. And, if you don’t mind my saying, he is a bigger fellow, and stronger.

Are you wagering on tomorrow’s battle? Tarod asked.

Oh, well, perhaps a small sum, Belen said, blushing furiously beneath his beard.

Are you putting your money on me or the strong old bear Cormath?

My heart tells me to put the money on you, but my head says I would be a fool to do so.

My father once told me a story about a fox that killed a bear, Tarod said. The bear believed he couldn’t be killed because he was the biggest animal in the mountains, with the longest teeth and sharpest claws. Then, one day after the bear killed a goat, he stood roaring in pride over his deed. The fox ran in and jumped on the bear, tearing open his throat as he roared. The bear died and the fox ate him and his goat.

Belen threw back his head and laughed. Everyone in the inn’s common room stopped what they were doing and looked at the man and his young guest. Some smiled, some shook their heads, and some grumbled about the lack of service they were getting. Finally, Belen wiped his eyes and stood up. I will put my money on you, young sir, but forgive me if it is not a great amount. The fox may be faster and smarter, but the bear easily could have swatted off his little head.

Tarod didn’t laugh, for he knew the truth of the statement. He ate his meal and went upstairs to his room. For a time, he sat on the wood floor, his legs crossed as he slowly sharpened the blades of his curved scimitar and his straight dagger. The steady scraping sound created a monotonous rhythm that seemed to blend with the flicker of the flame dancing atop the tallow candle. Tarod paused a moment, then lay the blade of his scimitar across his lap. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.

Dagra, god of all things, I do not pray to you through fear or weakness. My steel and my wits must win me the victory. I only ask that you give me the wisdom to help my people if I am still alive when the sun sets tomorrow.

He sheathed his weapons, doused his candle, and lay down on the straw mattress for a fitful night’s rest. The dagger rested under his pillow and his hands kept a loose grip on the sheath of the curved sword.

Desires and Plans

Queen Letha of Minnea gazed into a mirror of polished silver and pulled a brush through her long blonde hair. The oil lamps hanging in the royal bedchamber cast unfavorable shadows in all the wrong places, making the thirty-year-old woman appear at least ten years older. She turned her face this way and that, rearranging her hair in an effort to destroy the illusion. The bedroom door opened to her left and her husband, King Damon, stormed into the chamber. Letha let her hair fall back onto her shoulders.

What is wrong? she asked, turning to face the king. Damon’s face was set in a grimace, his dark eyes smoldering under his brows. Twenty years older than his wife, Damon’s dark hair was showing stark swaths of gray. In his youth, Damon had been a renowned athlete, feared in wrestling matches and a champion archer. His mother died of an infection when he was ten, and a decade later his father died from a disease given to him by a concubine he kept at court. Since taking the throne, Damon had not maintained his physical gifts.

It’s that accursed farmer, Damon said. Jamoth. The very name is like a bone in my throat.

What has he done this time? Letha asked.

He’s trying to convince other farmers not to pay their taxes. Damon paced the room, pausing before the boar’s head mounted on the wall across from the bed. He looked at the open mouth of the head as he spoke. I’ve ignored him far too long. He should have been arrested months ago.

You’ve been so busy, Letha said mechanically, turning back to her mirror and her brush.

Yes, and now he’s stirring up all his friends, telling them my taxes are too high. Why, he asks, must farmers pay taxes so that the people in the capital city can have parties and paved roads? The man needs to be whipped.

What will you do? Letha paused with the brush mid-pull and tilted her head to see if the shadows under her eyes were only tricks of the light.

Ah, the first task of our new war lord will be to go and arrest Jamoth. A good whipping and a few months in prison, away from his family, should silence him, Damon said.

You would send the war lord to do that? Letha asked, turning to look at her husband. It seems a menial task for a member of the court.

Bah! A stranger, Damon nearly spat. He’ll have to earn my trust. Why did Ellis have to step in the way of that spear? He shook his head, still mourning and angry over the death of his friend, the previous war lord. I should have promoted a general.

The war lord has always been chosen this way, Letha said. It was your grandfather who forbade Minnean soldiers from participating. The people love the spectacle.

The king moved to stand behind her and Letha watched him in her mirror. You tell me things I already know, he said, and bent to kiss the top of her head. You enjoy the spectacle?

I do, she admitted.

Then it is worth it, he said. But the winner will still do these things to show me he is loyal. She saw him look at his own reflection in her mirror for a moment, then he turned away and spoke as if disgusted with himself. I am not yet ready to see another man in Ellis’s place.

Who do you think will be our new war lord? Letha asked.

Don’t be daft, woman, Damon said with a smile. The big man, Cormath, will win the day. That little boy from the mountains has made it this far through luck. Cormath will crush him like an ogre with a chicken.

Ogre is a fair description of him, Letha said. She caught herself smiling into the mirror as she thought of the younger man, Tarod. She doubted the lad had seen more than seventeen summers. He was tall and lean, with long blond hair filled with hints of red. He was quick as a cat in the arena, slicing with a curved sword and poking with a short dagger.

Why does Tarod fight with a curved sword? she asked. I thought the mountain barbarians used straight edges.

Damon went to a tray of fruit that had been brought to the chamber for Letha sometime earlier. He popped one crimson berry, then another into his mouth as he looked at his wife. I have heard that some ancestor of his was a traveler and brought the blade home with him. I suspect the boy stole it. He shrugged. It doesn’t matter. His voice was dismissive. He picked through the fruit and ate several dark purple grapes.

Letha thought more about the lithe young man in the crude leather leggings and tunic. He was like a panther in the arena, quick, silent, and lethal. When he fought, his face was set, his gray eyes like a frozen sea, his lips pressed firmly together. Those lips … Letha pinched color into her cheeks as she thought about the young fighter.

Cormath would have no trouble bringing Jamoth to prison, Damon said behind her.

If he lives through tomorrow, Letha reminded. She left her chair, her long white night shift swishing around her ankles as she crossed the room to her husband. She wrapped her bare arms around his waist and raised herself on her toes to kiss his neck.

I don’t have time for your games, Damon said, shrugging out of her grasp. He returned to pacing the room. I must tell the Council my plans. They should know my thoughts on the matter.

Those old men will be deep in their beds at this hour, Letha argued. Come, stay here with me. She sat on one side of the bed and began to motion to the empty side, but Damon was already opening the chamber door. It slammed behind him.

Go to your old men and your ale then, you old sot, she muttered.

She crawled up the bed and fell onto the pillows. Her thoughts were still on the final round of the tournament to decide who would be war lord of the realm. She couldn’t bear the thought that the ugly, uncouth Cormath might defeat and kill the boy from the mountains. Her mind lingered on the way Tarod moved, remembering his confident posture as he entered the arena, the way he crouched and lunged like a young lion, his single braid of hair flying behind him, his sword flashing and his breeches flexing and relaxing with every movement. It was not the first night her own hand did the work of the king.

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In a secret passage so long neglected that even the king’s eldest councilman had forgotten its existence, Selith, the court wizard, looked through the glassy eyes of the boar’s head mounted on the wall of the royal bedchamber. He wrapped a lock of his long white hair around his index finger, tugging it and smiling as he watched the queen.

So, my young queen, you like the young one? Perhaps he will be yours when the king is dead.

Selith closed the panel behind the boar’s head and shuffled along the passage toward his own private chamber. For years, he had looked for a way to disrupt the peace of the nations in the Seren River Valley. A gullible young war lord and an infatuated queen might be just the catalyst he needed to plunge the region into war.

War and chaos. Aeshma will be pleased.

As he entered his chamber behind a tapestry, he could hear the angry king pounding on his door, announcing a meeting of his Council.

I hear you, Sire, Selith called, then added in a lower voice. Make your noise now, old fool. You’ll know the silence of the grave soon enough.

The Fox and the Bear

The shadow on the sundial was nearly at its apex.

Tarod judged the time more by the tone of the crowd than by the iron instrument and the ceremonial-robed timekeeper. The crowd’s voice swelled to a tumult as final bets were placed. Then came sudden silence. All around him, Tarod could feel the eyes of the spectators watching him, gauging him, and comparing him to his opponent. Many of the people in the stands of the arena expected to see his life end today. The thought added to Tarod’s excitement.

He checked the edge on his curved scimitar and the blade of his long double‑edged dagger one last time. The steel of both was sharp enough to shave hair off his bare legs. His shield, a small disk covered in leather made from the hides of goats, bound in brass with a steel hub, was strapped tightly to his left arm.

Tarod rolled his shoulders to adjust his leather tunic, already damp from sweat. He felt the eyes of the crowd follow his hand as he lifted it to adjust the leather-and-steel skullcap he wore over his reddish-blond hair. He tugged at the tail of his hair, pulled through a hole in his cap, and touched the feathers of hawks and eagles woven into the braid.

Give me your strength, speed, and sight, he murmured.

His opponent strutted before the spectators on the other side of the arena. The man – Cormath – was a huge, bulky monster with matted black hair and the remnants of last night’s feast still clinging to his beard. His tunic of chain mail dazzled in the sun. In one meaty hand he held a long broadsword; a triangular shield was attached to his other forearm. His eyes sparkled with mirth, and he grinned when he finally turned to face Tarod.

Tarod wished for the protection of a chain mail tunic. The heavy mail would slow him down, however, and he knew speed was his best weapon.

If I win today, I’ll have chain mail if I want it. And a horse, nice clothes, and the power to help my own people.

If he lost … Death.

A fortnight of fighting and killing men like the one facing him – and other young hopefuls like himself – had led Tarod to this final tournament in the arena today. He felt the gaze of King Damen on him, a stare that could be felt separate from the rest of the crowd. Tarod wondered if the king cared who won.

Noon! the timekeeper called from his post beside the sundial.

The old king stood and took his young wife’s hand to help her to her feet. He spoke a word to her, and she lifted her right arm. A red cloth flapped from the queen’s fingers. Her hand dropped. The cloth fluttered to the ground like a wounded bird.

Tarod’s ears filled first with the roar of his opponent’s battle cry and then with the bloodlust of the audience. The hairy beast charged him, sword held above his head and shield held before him. Tarod believed he heard the clinking of Cormath’s chain mail. He crouched and waited.

When the bigger man’s shadow engulfed him, Tarod stepped to the right and forward, jabbing his long dagger in behind the man’s shield. The knife could not penetrate the tight links of the mail tunic. Cormath swung his sword down the moment Tarod moved. He was carried forward by the force of his own blow, knocking Tarod’s hand away. The blade of Tarod’s dagger slashed deeply across the big man’s bicep.

Cormath howled and turned on Tarod. Spittle flew from his mouth and madness danced in his eyes. Tarod fixed his gaze on his opponent’s wild eyes and waited for them to betray the man’s next move. The broadsword rose again. Tarod lifted his scimitar. The two men faced each other, an arm’s length separating them. Cormath slashed with his sword. Tarod jumped back and lunged forward when the blade had arced past him. He jabbed with his own weapon, but the other man blocked with his shield and pushed him backward. Tarod stumbled and fell.

A shadow like a storm cloud flooded over Tarod where he lay. A roar like thunder came from the people filling