Telmuth's Flame: The Old Fiddler's Tale, #1

By Ariel Rose Danus

Arethan, one of the Jahaimen, flees into the wilderness with the last of his kinsmen. From the peaceful gardens of Resdell to the twisting paths of the Barog Swamps, the Jahaimen track their enemy, the Gagneders. Yet, an unknown evil lurks in the shadows. As they race against time to unravel the mystery, it strikes. Now separated from his brother-warriors, Arethan begins a frantic race toward his homelands of Jahai'a.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ariel Rose Danus
• Release date: Aug 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885290128

Book preview

Telmuth’s Flame

TELMUTH’S FLAME

THE OLD FIDDLER’S TALE

BOOK ONE

ARIEL ROSE DANUS

KYRUN PUBLISHING

Copyright © 2022 by Ariel Rose Danus

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Design by: Miblart

Edited by: Carol Thompson

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For my Family, especially my Mamma

Thank you. :)

I couldn’t have done this without you. :)

Love

PROLOGUE

THE OUTERLANDS, THIRD PROVINCE.

The winds of the Outerlands blew.

The frosty breeze moved across the small village nestled in the Third Province. Shifting right, then left, the gust turned into the town square. Villagers hurried down the street, trying to escape the cold. Very few stopped, turned, and glanced at the old man playing a fiddle next to the stone fountain. Music filled the streets. Its notes seeped into the cobblestone pathways and the ancient rock that made up the buildings.

On the side of the road, Bermond listened to the music played by the old fiddler. The melody took on a life of its own, drifting in the air like a cloud. It was difficult to believe a man so old with gnarled, weathered hands could play that strong, producing such glorious vibrancies of tone.

As Bermond listened to the concert, his heart pulsed with the beat. He clasped his sweaty palms together, and leaning closer, peered into the main square. He frowned and stared at the stranger. The old fiddler wore simple, dusky gray traveling clothes. A leather cord belted the older man's plain tunic, and his loose slacks disappeared into muddy shoes. A wool cloak protected the old man from the bitter chill.

Bermond blew on his hands, feeling the warmth of his breath. He shook his head. Where did he come from? In the Outerlands, traveling musicians were scarce. If any of the villagers wanted to listen to music, they would eat and drink at the local pub.

His music is unbelievable, Bermond said under his breath.

A sudden gust picked up again. Leaves swirled. A door banged shut. Glancing to his right, Bermond winced. Beside the young man stood the tailor of the town, Master Nuawn. The older man tugged his cloak around his plump body. The jeweled rings on every fat finger disappeared into heavy wool gloves. As the music whispered over the town square, he glanced at the old man and scoffed.

Get out of here, you rangy mut! yelled Master Nuawn. We don't want panhandlers here! Go back to where you came from!

The tailor muttered under his breath, his fist shaking in the air, and shoved past the younger man. Bermond flinched and glanced behind his shoulder. The tailor sprinted down the street.

Good riddance, the young man muttered.

The music deepened. Turning, Bermond looked back at the old fiddler, a tingling sensation running down his spine. The melody washed over everything. With all the richness of the old fiddler's offering, most villagers passed by silently and self-absorbed, not stopping to hear the sweet music. Occasionally, one would glance his way or toss a copper coin in the bucket beside the fiddler. The old man would whisper a quiet thank you through ancient, cracked lips.

The fiddler had played on that corner for such a long time that most villagers took him for granted, a fixture like a fountain in the town square. From dawn to dusk, the old man played. His song, restless as the wind, seemed to soar to the heavens and descend to the depths of the earth. Though the melodies differed, they blended into one song, the fiddler's song that defined his skill, heart, and being.

Dusk fell, and the sky ignited into fiery shades of reds and oranges. The cold winds died down into a gentle nippy breeze. Bermond shook his head. He glanced at the sky, frowning. It was getting late, and his wife would wonder where he had gone. What possesses me?

Who's this?

Blinking, the young man turned around. His eyes widened; he tried to swallow but couldn’t. The Warden of the Third Province, Donom, stood beside him and stared at the traveler. The Warden, a dark-haired man about fifty, had served the Third Province for over thirty years. Once or twice over the years, Donom had kicked a few rowdy travelers out of town.

He's not doing anything, Bermond said quickly. Just playing his instrument.

Donom nodded. Sounds nice, doesn't it? It's nothing like what you would listen to at the pub.

The young man turned to the fiddler. I've never listened to anything like it. Isn't it remarkable?

Huh, the Warden said. He scratched his chin. Well, he's not hurting anyone.

Bermond glanced at the Warden again. Did someone complain?

What do you think? Donom said with a smile. Well, goodnight. I'm off to eat. He tipped his hat. Say a 'hello' to the misses for me.

Bermond waved to the Warden, then turned to the stranger. The old fiddler played on. As the early twilight grew and darkness descended upon the village, the music faded, and the concert ended.

Coughing, Bermond rolled his shoulders. He walked up to the old fiddler, who was preparing to leave. All around him, the street lay silent in the setting sun. The village children were tucked into bed while their parents sat by the fire, enjoying the luxury of the quiet. The young man beamed. I find it strange that no one else wanted to stay and listen. As he neared the old man, Bermond's heart pounded in rhythm with each step. Why am I acting this way? It's as if I'm approaching a king adorned in rich attire rather than a poor beggar dressed in dusty rags.

Bermond cleared his throat as he stopped near the fiddler.

Can I help you? the old man asked.

What a marvelous talent you possess, my good man. The young man gestured to the fiddle. Your ability exceeds anything I have witnessed, and my travels have been extensive. Where, may I ask, did you learn your skill?

The old man laughed. Many, many years ago in a land far, far away, my boy, in a land so distant, I am sure you've never heard its name.

Falling silent, the traveler turned back to his fiddle. Bermond waved a hand.

What is the name of the land you speak of, fiddler? I must know it. The young man cleared his throat. I am particularly knowledgeable about lands that have had wars. Any war tales?

The fiddler nodded but said nothing. Bending down, he picked up his bag.

Can you tell me a story about this place? My father was a marvelous storyteller. I am sure he would have known of your land if the minstrels sang of it. He would have mentioned the place to me, for he spent years telling me tales.

The fiddler paused. Yes, there are many stories about the land I speak of.

Please, will you tell me more?

The old man searched Bermond's face. Tilting his head, the fiddler's mouth pressed into a taut line. What sort of stories did your father tell you?

Bermond laughed. Lots. He was a mapmaker and taught me the trade.

The old fiddler stilled. A light glimmered in his eyes. What kind of maps?

The young man ran a hand through his hair. All kinds. He even drew a couple of mythical ones. Places that only exist in dreams and tales traded by firelight.

Like what?

The young man shrugged. Anwyn. Dalburyn. New London. Someplace called Grimm. Lots of places. He loved telling me stories. The young man offered his hand. My name's Bermond, by the way.

Chuckling, the fiddler reached out and shook his hand. Very well, young man. Seat yourself here beside me while I tell you a tale. Listen carefully, and you will learn much. A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. Once, there was a young warrior. It was in the time when your father's father's father's father walked the land, and the warrior's name was Arethan...

High Navigator,

There is a saying among the Jahaimen.

You know it. It is: honor is my life, for without honor, there is nothing.

- Letter III from Sparrow to the High Navigator

1

THE WESTERN WOODS

Two lights glimmered in the forest's shadows—a golden fire flickering in the gloom and the real moon rising in vanilla white from the dark east.

Far to the west of the once green lands of Jahai'a, the Western Woods lay bathed in the two gleaming lights. As the murkiness of the woods darkened, the cool winds of Kyrun swept over the face of the forest and blew over the Jahaimen's camp. Shivering, the eight warriors pulled their cloaks around them tighter and leaned closer to the roar of the fire. Miles away from their homeland, Jahai'a, the warriors had grown used to the wandering roads of the world of Kyrun. For three years, the men had journeyed from one village to another and one kingdom to another as they made their way to the Western Woods. The rest of the Jahaiman clan had died and journeyed to Varhalon, their afterworld, where the righteous lived forever.

Several paces away from where the warriors sat by the fire, Arethan, a Jahai'a boy, stood watching the glowing orb ascending into the night sky. The wind picked up and, with it, brought the sounds of the camp.

For heaven's sake, one of them said. Put another log on the fire.

Another man grumbled, Our enemy is after us, brother.

Good. Let the Gagneders come, the first one said. Then they can freeze in these woods.

Only fools come here.

The other warriors laughed. Peering over his shoulder, Arethan glanced at them. Sachen, the High Jeddeck, sat opposite of the fire. Shaking his head, the older man removed the pipe from his mouth and blew a ring of smoke.

Would you like to hear a story? the High Jeddeck said with a small smile.

A loud chorus of ayes filled the air. Two warriors slapped their hands on their knees and shouted. Sachen gestured for them to quiet down. Several of the warriors chuckled and glanced at one another.

All around, the Western Woods darkened. Night drew in. Up above, the cold light of the stars winked. The winds of Kyrun blew colder, and the iciness seeped into Arethan's undergarments. He shivered and blew on his hands. A story would do them all good. Stories were what they needed.

Is the boy coming over?

Arethan winced. Why do they have to call me that? The word boy sounded like it should belong to an eight-year-old who had never been to the Academy or set foot in the Vedereck, the First Flame, where the High Jeddecks' had held the Sun Seat for generations. Back home, Arethan had done both. Home, though, was back behind him, somewhere past the wretched woods and the jagged mountain peaks. Shaking his head, the boy turned away from his brothers and glanced at the woodlands.

Leave Arethan alone for now, the Jeddeck said quietly. He's good. He's a lot like Reainmore when our brother was his age.

A few warriors grumbled. Arethan moved to hunch his shoulders and stopped himself. He braced and breathed in. At fifteen years old, Arethan was an orphan and warrior apprentice. Most boys his age had already been sworn into the ranks of the Jahaimen warriors. Someday, I'll be like my father and brothers. I'll join them and swear my oath. Even as he told himself that, Arethan wondered if the warriors would ever let him in. Already there was talk among his brothers that he was too weak. Not strong enough to take the Black. Not clever enough to become a warrior. Too much a boy and not enough of a man.

Boys don't belong in wars.

The High Jeddeck chuckled. Let's move on with a story about our ancestors. That's what we need. Stories so we won't forget about Jahai'a.

Arethan closed his eyes. Images of the green hills of his homeland and the cool blue of the rivers rose in his mind. A small smile tugged on his lips and his throat constricted. Someday, I'll see it again.

Opening his eyes, Arethan glanced at the glimmering constellations. Thousands of bright dots shimmered. There! Those were the Seven Sisters! Right? Squinting, the boy studied the pinpricks of light. It was.

He turned, eyes searching the heavens. Over there hung the Spinning Wheel! The boy turned and followed several glowing pinpricks leading upward. There! That was where Telmuth's torch had been thrown into the sky. A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. Standing straighter, he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet and continued to stare upward. These are the woods where it all began. Those stars are the same stars Telmuth, the First Warrior and Light Bearer, gazed at. This air is the same air he had breathed. Closing his eyes, the boy sucked in a breath of the forest air. His nose became full of the smell of pine needles and the wet earth.

I wonder if Telmuth stood here--right here--just like me. Arethan's eyes opened, gazing at the rough canopy of leaves. The stars winked back at him. Someday, I'll be just like Telmuth. I'll become a warrior.

The winds picked up again and whispered through the creaky branches. The Western Woods moaned around the Jahai'a boy. Arethan searched the treeline. I'll leave my mark here. It'll be a sign of my sworn oath to become a warrior. It will be just like what my father did when he was a boy.

Candidates at the Academy often carved a symbol of Telmuth's Flame as an outward sign that they wanted the First Warrior's aid. The boy peered over his shoulder. Seated next to the glowing fire were his brother warriors. Elemen, one of the youngest of the warriors, leaned closer to the High Jeddeck. Sachen glanced at him and reached out and tussled the man's hair. Laughing, the older warrior turned back to his brothers and whispered.

Long ago, there was darkness, and darkness cloaked the world, and that was fine because that's all the world knew.

A yearning filled the Jahai'a boy. His legs ached, his hands twitched, and his mouth grew dry. As he moved to join them, he stopped and pulled himself away from the glow of the fire. Good. No one was watching. Just find the tree, and then go back. You must get Telmuth's help.

Rounding his shoulders, Arethan turned back to the line of the trees. He stepped farther into the shadows and away from their camp. I don't want any of them to say I'm acting like a boy, even though most of them probably carved an oath when they were my age or younger. I'll show them. I'll prove my worth.

Bending down, his hand reached for a small knife concealed in his boot. Gripping the hilt, Arethan smiled and rose to his feet. It quickly disappeared. Better not let Mortar or any of the others see it. Then, I'll be in trouble. Just find the tree. Glancing around, Arethan searched for the woods.

Most of the trees were too tall, gnarled, and bent like an old hag. Some stood straight, with their branches reaching up high into the sky. Arethan frowned. The trees of the Western Woods stood closer together, their limbs entangled, and little light from the heavens poured through. As he wove in and out through the trees, the Jahai'a boy's stomach clenched. Too tall. Too short. Moving farther, Arethan stepped deeper off the path. Looking around, the boy froze. There!

In a patch of moonlight, a small pine tree grew. Taller trees surrounded it. Their branches partially blocked the sky. The littler tree stood tall, its trunk not bent, and its arms raised up high into the air. A fighter.

Perfect.

Walking toward it, the boy's heart hammered in his chest. His sweaty palms gripped the hilt of the dagger. Reaching the tree, Arethan sucked in a deep breath and fingered the rough wood. He quickly swiped at it with his knife and carved the sign into the rough bark. There! That'll be my oath to Telmuth. Anyone seeing the mark would understand that a Jahaiman warrior was here. His thumb traced the deep outlining of the sun with a flame inside of it. Someday, somehow, someway, he'd return and look at it. Arethan sheathed his blade. The wind tugged at his cloak. Thank you, Telmuth. I'll prove my worth, so I can one day sit at your table.

A twig snapped. Arethan spun around and froze. A shiver ran down his spine. In the shadows of the trees, Mortar, a tall red-haired warrior with a long scruffy beard, stared at him. Tilting his head to the side, the older man stepped out of the dark and into the moonlight. The boy swallowed, straightened to his full height, and held his head high.

Mortar's eyes flashed. Is that how you show respect to a warrior?

Arethan flinched. His stomach twisted into a knot of ice, and he adverted his eyes and stared at the ground. Just breathe. Forgive me, sir.

The older warrior smacked his lips. I've been watching you these past few days.

Oh?

Yes, the man said. I have to admit, I am very curious.

Arethan coughed. Curious? About what?

You.

Why?

Stepping closer to the Jahai'a boy, the warrior chuckled. Our Jeddeck should have left you with that fisherman.

Warriors do not serve fishermen.

Mortar's eyes flashed. You? Do you call yourself a warrior? You who have never taken the Black? You who have never pledged your loyalty to our Jeddeck? Yet, you call yourself a warrior. By the Nine Hells, why our brothers put up with you, I will never understand.

Arethan's body tensed, and his hands curled into fists. I'd gladly swear that oath to our Jeddeck. The Gagneders and the Treebearers burned our homelands before I could complete my tests to become a warrior. I never graduated from the Academy.

Oh?

The boy turned away, drawing a long, slow, steady breath. Why did I say that? Footsteps drew nearer. Mortar stood only half-a-foot away.

The older warrior chuckled. You don't know the first thing about taking the Black. You think you've earned the right to become a warrior because our Jeddeck raised you, and your father was a warrior and the High Jeddeck before our current one. Besides, after our brothers learn what you did to Rano, they will agree to have cast out of our Circle. The man's voice grew quieter. You'll be Shunned. Then what will you do? Commit the Haja? Telmuth wouldn’t even accept you then.

Arethan flinched. His mind raced to previous Shunnings he witnessed years ago. If a warrior, or any citizen of Jahai'a, were cast from the Circle, they would never be welcomed in Varhalen. Telmuth, the Light Bearer and First Warrior, never greet them in the afterlife. The only thing that would be left for him was the fire--the burning kind—and the dust and ash. Those who betrayed their kin were damned.

Mortar snickered. I know about Rano.

What about him?

I know about how he died and what you did. Mortar's smile grew. What do you think our Jeddeck will do when he finds out?

Arethan swallowed the lump in his throat. What proof do you have?

The older warrior's smile widened. You're a boy, Arethan. We all can see that. Remember, I was almost successful at getting you left with that fisherman.

Rounding his shoulders, Arethan glanced at the ground and kicked a stone into the woods. The memory of fish guts and salty waters filled his nose. His stomach churned.

A Jahaiman warrior wasn't meant to serve another man.

The boy's eyes narrowed. His breath caught in his throat. What proof did Mortar have? There can't be any proof because I had nothing to do with Rano's death. But... how can I change the older man's mind? It didn't matter. Some Jahaimen warriors would side with Mortar no matter what proof he had or didn't have. Some loyalties ran too deep.

I never betrayed Rano.

You're the reason he's dead.

Arethan coughed. The Immortals are the reason our brother, Rano, is dead. Don't you remember? You and our Jeddeck found me with Rano. I was outside the walls of Resdell. The Immortals could have saved him. The boy waved a hand in the air. But they refused. I tried.

The older warrior turned away, hand gripping the hilt of his sword. A smudge of moonlight glinted on the handle of the Haja dagger protruding from the warrior's boot. Arethan’s insides twisted. Shunned Warriors usually committed the Haja, death by a blade, hoping they would be forgiven by Telmuth.

What happened before you found him near to death? Mortar spun around, his eyes narrowing into slits. Were you daydreaming again? Dreaming of glory? Did you get scared? Abandon him? What happened?

The boy stumbled back. His heart hammered in his chest like a funeral drum. Mortar...

I know what you told our Jeddeck. The two of you became separated in battle, and you don't remember everything that happened, but I don't believe that.

Arethan's throat was dry, and his mind turned to that day with the Immortals and the Gagneders. He squeezed his eyes shut. I