The Earthrin Stones 1 of 3: Inheritance of a Sword and a Path Read online

  The Earthrin Stones

  Book 1 of 3

  Inheritance of a Sword and a Path

  (A novel set in the realm of Dhea Loral)

  Douglas Van Dyke Jr.

  “If I ever meet my time, I want you to take care of my sword for me.”

  Trestan turned towards the tents and saw that the closest man had been alerted. The mercenary grabbed his scimitar and moved to attack. He looked to be close to Trestan’s father’s age. A patch covered one eye, giving him a tough appearance. Trestan had to reach for his other weapon, though he had never hoped to actually have a need for it when it became his to wield.

  He drew the Sword of the Spirit from its scabbard, holding the elvish blade of Sir Wilhelm before him in both hands. The bastard sword gleamed in the morning light, though the sun had yet to rise. The hilt accommodated both hands easily. The other man weaved his scimitar back and forth as they faced each other. Trestan accepted the challenge with a bit of fear, but fully accepting of whatever destiny chose. It was time to find out what kind of a swordsman he really was.

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to thank all those who have helped me, not only in the making of this book, but also in shaping me into the person I am today.

  I’m grateful to my mother and father, for their support and trust in me.

  I’m thankful to have such a great brother as Brian, who has supported me. My sister-in-law Carrie as well, for the journal she gave me that helped my work. I’ve also enjoyed the companionship of those who walked the roads of Epos Goth with us.

  My expressions of gratitude go out to Joshua Scott for the time and effort put into designing the cover.

  To those people at October Skies who helped me with internet advice and are hosting my website, your work and time is greatly appreciated.

  I have been blessed to know many friends who have enjoyed role-playing games with me, and offered their support in my endeavors.

  And my most profound thanks to the woman who believes in me, and makes me feel like the most wonderful man in the world…my wife, Jennifer.

  PROLOGUE

  Dhea Loral is an ancient phrase meaning “Hero’s Table”. Once magic was very commonplace in the realm. Empires ruled continents amidst large armies. The bounty of the land was enough to feed the masses, and the gods blessed the soil of their worshippers. But these same gods stood by as demigods and immortals worked to change the lands in their own ways. These lesser powers threatened the balance of nature and order while struggling for power or dominion. Though the gods sensed a danger in the continuing spread of battles, they could not help but interfere to favor a champion or defeat a rival. At times the common people were flowing in gifts, and other times they were oppressed under the onslaught of wars.

  Over time, war and hatred further generated more chaos. The divine powers became more interested in revenge and dominance than the balance of the world. Pacts between deities were called into play, expanding their involvement in the ongoing conflict. The world fell from its pinnacle of prosperity. At last it raged so wildly that the gods themselves sundered continents and cast down cities in their destruction. When events were at their most cataclysmic…the gods realized in a shock what their disputes had wrought.

  Great cities were lost, empires broken, continents torn and reformed, small villages clung to whatever scraps they could foster out of the wounded ground. The balance of things natural had been tipped to the point of making some species extinct. The gods had been so consumed in petty disputes that they had forgotten their role as caretakers.

  The major divine powers assembled to bring a peace and balance back to the world. They caused miracles to bring back some growth where it was needed, saving some civilizations from the brink of death. They agreed to sign a binding Covenant, so that future wars would never reach that scale of destruction again. On the first of Primus, in the year now called 1 AC, (After Covenant), the gods and demigods sealed a pact regarding the involvement of the deities in the future of the world. Restrictions were placed and honored by all. In that way they voluntarily gave up several privileges, and bound their oaths. Even the most chaotic of gods can never break the Covenant.

  This was the beginning of the modern priests and clerics. They now became their gods’ influence in the world. The gods controlled their dominions from farther away, being careful not to touch the new balance of the realm. Those mortals they favored carried the strength of their power, but only enough to assist in small ways. Though demigods and immortals still walked the realms, they were limited in what they could do. Nevertheless, the major heavenly powers now became more of a watchdog over minor powers. Any divine mandates for the world of mortals were now carried out exclusively by mortals who worshipped them.

  The year is 1250 AC, (After Covenant). The oldest elves are too young to remember the time of the Covenant, and the races are still recovering from that dark time. The first few centuries were simply an attempt at survival. Cities slowly rose across the landscape once again, carved by hearty folk. Ships ventured into the water exploring nearby lands and discovering lost ones. Barbarians and raiders proved to be common in the vast stretches of wilderness and sea. Old ways of magic are being uncovered. Many are the mage who goes on expeditions to lost cities in search of forgotten lore. Legendary cities have faded into the mists of time, waiting to be discovered and their secrets opened for all to see. The races of the world once again fight wars and struggle, as well as grow and prosper, but the gods stay aloft in the heavens. Only their clerics and paladins interfere in the lands. Now that the dark years are hopefully in the past, nations and cities once again struggle to realize their potential.

  But deities have long memories, and much patience. Some gods have not forgotten old rivalries or deeds inflicted upon them during the Godswars. Some feel the world has recovered enough to set forth plans into motion once again, testing the limits of the Covenant. As they are forbidden to enter the world of Dhea Loral directly, they begin to whisper into the dreams of those mortals who serve them. Agents of the gods set forth secretively, working in subtle ways to once again participate in the gods’ struggle for power.

  One does not have to go far for adventure; sometimes it is thrust upon the most unlikely of heroes…

  CHAPTER 1

  The planting season was old enough to see the green forests alive and mostly recovered from the winter season on the 24th day of Florum. Common folk across the continent of Quoros pursued their interests in fishing, agriculture, brewing, needlework, or simply a lazy day. Lifestyles were better than the dark years old ones spoke of during evening fireside chats. Elders lectured of days when farmland was not as developed, caravans between lands were seldom seen, and food had been scarce during many a winter night. Life seemed so calm and serene in most small villages, a far cry from the tales of war in other parts of the realms. One might expect to find a young man collecting firewood, going about his farm chores, or collecting wild flowers for the maiden of choice. The day sparkled with the promise of sunshine and the soft wind brought forth the fragrance of the early flowers.

  Outside of one these many small hamlets, morning sunlight filtered down through a cover of leaves into the waiting ferns and plants below. A place of serene beauty existed in those woods, blessed by a goddess. This quiet morning found a young man standing in that sacred garden, next to a humble shrine. While others enjoyed the weather and calm tidings that the morning brought, this man had peaceful thoughts far from his mind.

  “You dare interrupt my prayers and defile this place of worship? Have you nay respect? Or do y
ou have nay good conscience to guide your blades except some vague treasure that will not save your souls in the next life?”

  The young man stood defiant, blade in hands, and legs spread slightly. He held his sword in a two-handed grip that allowed strength and control. His legs balanced to move in whatever direction need would guide him once his opponents moved menacingly. Three silent attackers would test him this day. The young man looked back angrily on their impassive visages: fire staring down ice. The odds weren’t good, but the man steadied his resolve. His only option: to fight bravely for his ideals and hope to survive the battle with more than his morals intact. Like a coiled spring ready to pounce, he stood ready and balanced. His brown eyes measured his foes to determine where the first threat would come. They issued forth no answer to offer an explanation for their aggression…but made their aggression clear through bared blades. The young man decided it was time to force a move he could react to, and pray for the best. He picked the one most eager, (one with a sword cocked back for a swing), and intentionally turned part of his back towards the attacker. In doing so, he seemed to be diverting his attention and offering a chance for the impetuous one to try an attack.

  The attacker fell for the bait, seeing an opportunity to strike at the back. Expecting the attack, the young man spun off to the side and parried the sword strike. He caught and pushed the attacker’s sword away. The young man went to continue the motion, keeping the arc constant as he used both hands on the hilt to try a swing of his own, but the opponent’s shield blocked the counterstrike. The easy feint and strike had missed, and now the young man worked his sword fast as the action exploded around him. He had to ready his sword for the other two opponents. They advanced and attempted to once again surround him in their circle of blades. Right and left the young man swung to parry the swords coming at him. With no shield at hand, his sword became both offense and defense. Not relying solely on strength alone, he controlled the momentum of his sword with the counterbalances of his wrists and forearms. What it lacked in hitting power it made up for in speed and control. His spinning blade circles deterred any opening, while his feet kept moving to avoid getting encircled. In the initial lunges from his attackers, none of their blades could penetrate past the blocking sword.

  One attacker brushed against the young man. Shafts of light streaming from above outlined the tall frame of his closest threat. Aware of the trap closing, the young man reversed his direction of travel. He swung his sword up and yet ducked low to run his body between the middle of his opponents. Spinning his blade as he went, he blocked a couple attacks but also sliced at the side of one aggressor. The young man felt the blade skim along an opponent’s torso. Slipping behind them, he continued another swing from the reverse direction to strike the same foe. The two hits from his sword struck hard and drew wounds, but were mostly absorbed by the attacker’s armor. The young man paid for the move, feeling a sword slide along his side as well. Too occupied to worry about any wound, he pushed the attack against the two remaining opponents before they could reorganize. The third stumbled a bit apart from after getting wounded. There seemed to be no break in the fighting despite the momentary gain. Left and right and spinning from side to side he blocked two enemy swords as they pressed at him again. The sounds of clashing weapons mixed with hard breathing, while dust kicked up to obscure parts of the wood.

  Bad chance struck. As the young man moved around to one side, his foot caught a root and sent him off balance and down to his knees. The sword came loose from his hands and tumbled a few feet away. Trying to quickly dive for it, he felt another sword slide into his back as he moved. There he lay after the strike, sword still out of reach but two opponents standing above him quietly.

  “Cursed tree root! If this had been in the open I feel I would have fared much better. As it is, I swear I bravely outfought you three!”

  The young man slowly regained his feet, for the most part unhindered. One offending tree limb, (which played the part of a sword in his imagination), brushed him as he stood, a reminder he had lost this one. He staggered past his unmoving attackers to retrieve the short wooden pole which served as his practice sword. Turning back, he once again looked over his three opponents. They mutely stood, soaking in the sun’s light and the soil’s nutrients, unmoving as the trees they had always been. Those three formed a nice triangle, with low branches serving as swords or shields to the youth’s imagination. He worked to catch his breath even as he relaxed the cool morning air. The small glade remained a peaceful place, where a young man could imagine himself a knight or warrior such as in legends and stories.

  Trestan tucked the practice stick into the simple rope-belt that held up his trousers. He inspected himself where one branch had brushed him, and was glad to see that he hadn’t scratched himself up before the day’s work had started. He had few enough tunics and couldn’t afford to tear them. He had a handsome, compassionate face, with dark hair atop his head. His mustache had been meticulously trimmed, even though it could be called a thick collection of whiskers, and the rest was clean-shaven. Trestan was muscular, and solidly built. The young man was energetic, easy to smile, and not afraid of some hard work at his father’s smithy. Some who looked at only the rest of his appearance might overlook these good traits. There was nothing he could do about the black, sooty areas on his hands, face and garb. He washed, but a hot day at the forge replaced everything he tried to clean off. Patches covered the loose fitting simple shirt and trousers. He only had three tunics to his name: the good one, the work one, and the other one. A length of old rope was the only belt he ever needed. His shoes were black and sooty; each sporting a hole or two in them. A wooden stick served as a practice sword. Trestan’s only weapon was a quarterstaff; the chief weapon of choice to most peasants, as it was all they could afford. Simple and humble, he went about many days dreaming of other worlds and other places he could be in…if only he had the chance.

  As he stood there contemplating his fight, he heard someone coming down the path towards the beautiful glade. Not many came to this out-of-the-way place, especially not many in these parts who wore enough metal armor to be heard some distance away. The clinking steel plates and jostling leather accouterments heralded the approach and identified the owner. Trestan took the time to have a final talk with his opponents. He gave the impassive stand of trees a firm glare as he spoke. “I suppose you were going to gloat over your victory the minute I was out of sight. Not a fair fight. I’d easily beat any of you one-on-one. I don’t care if you spent a hundred years growing a root right there to trip me. It’s a rather dirty way to win. I’ll been more watchful. Next time will be different.”

  The armored man’s deep voice offered some comments for the young man. “Well young knight, I assume evil has won the day and some fair maiden in some distant castle will be crying for her lost lord. I shall grieve in your memory, good sir. Gods curse the sneaky, yet immobile, root.”

  Trestan turned around and smiled at his longtime friend. Sir Wilhelm Jareth’s brown/gray mix of hair extended to his mustache and well-trimmed beard, announcing his fifty-plus years. The retired adventurer easily surpassed Trestan’s perceived handsomeness, with experience and confidence adding charm to his persona. The old warrior wore plate armor in a good state of care, decorated with religious symbols. Polished and battle ready, some scratches proved it had seen more than its share of battles. Armor seemed out of place in this quiet countryside, as there had been no calls to war or defense of the nearby hamlet in more years than many could remember. Sir Wilhelm carried a bastard sword, (known as a hand-and-a-half sword), by his side. His was specially made and when unsheathed showed remarkable craftsmanship. The hilt was actually extended so that a person could easily fit two hands on it, but the weapon obviously had not been designed as a big, cleaving two-hander. Sir Wilhelm had shown he could easily wield it skillfully in just one hand if he chose to do so. The aging warrior had a certain wit and personality about him as well. They had spent many ti
mes at this very shrine discussing philosophy and matters that one would think a smith’s boy would have no interest studying.

  They exchanged a handshake in greeting. The young man commented to the older man’s observation. “Nay, the pity is nay fair maiden awaits me. More is the pity if I don’t find one before I die valiantly defending anything. But I’ll gladly die in peace if I ever find such a lady worth championing.”

  Sir Wilhelm looked upon the young man and smiled at some old memories that he kept to himself, “My boy, the pursuit of women is a dangerous hobby. The right one will find you when you aren’t looking. Until then, better to live your life in the pursuit of something greater for yourself and others. Look to the heavens when dying and exclaim, ‘Thank thee gods for the wonderful gift of this life which you have given me.’ Such has been my pursuit. I shall tend some prayers and thanks to Abriana now so that I might properly start the day.”

  The old warrior kneeled in prayer at the shrine. The young man stood to the side quietly, bowing his head in silent reverence. Built by Sir Wilhelm’s own hands, the shrine stood in a quiet spot in the woods not far from the village. He had built up stones and wood planks to create a tiered garden with benches for sitting on during quiet reflections. Plants and flowers from some local gardeners and farmers added colors to it. The Goddess of Love and Healing, Abriana offered friendship and comfort to the lonely, a focus for those wanting to work for their fellow men, and the healing powers of the mind and body to cure all ills. Trestan knew of paladins and other such holy warriors in the world that fought with devotion to their chosen gods, but he couldn’t be sure if Sir Wilhelm was among such men. After all, in Trestan’s limited exposure to the world, he had no way to tell for sure.