Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 2 Read online

  Tales of the Two Rings

  Volume 2

  By

  Ben Cassidy

  Copyright 2013 by Ben Cassidy

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2013

  Books in the Chronicles of Zanthora:

  Ghostwalker

  Throne of Llewyllan

  Soulbinder

  Demonbane

  Oracle

  Redemption

  The Raven in the Sea (Coming Soon)

  Tales of the Two Rings

  Daughter of Llathe: A Tale of the Two Rings

  Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 1

  Tales of the Two Rings Volume 2

  Tales of the Two Rings Volume 3 (Coming Soon)

  To join an email update listserv for future releases, contact:

  [email protected]

  Dedicated to Rob,

  For a lot of amazing covers

  Contents

  Moon of Sorrows

  Clerical Error

  The Rule of Two

  Moon of Sorrows

  It was coming to a fight. There was no doubt about that now. The only question was whether anyone was going to die.

  Ulaav braced his booted feet on the snow-covered steps of Jalar Kron Farlaav’s mead hall. His hand clenched the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  One of the two Hearthguard that stood before the doors to the hall stepped forward. He spat contemptuously on the top stair.

  The spittle froze on the stone almost immediately.

  “Anhaga,” the Hearthguard cursed at Ulaav. He waved his gloved hand. “Go eat where you belong, suckling at the tits of a frost boar.”

  The second Hearthguard gave a hearty chuckle at his companion’s jest.

  Ulaav eyed them both carefully, his hand still on his sword. His gray cape, made from the fur of a dire wolf, whipped in the icy wind that battered the hill.

  “Didn’t you hear me, Anhaga?” The first Hearthguard half-drew his own sword. There was no more jest in his eyes. “There’s no place for you here. Move along before my blade grows thirsty.”

  Anhaga. Wanderer.

  Ulaav had been called by that name for far too long.

  “My business is with your Jalar,” Ulaav said. “I will pass whether you will it or not.”

  Both Hearthguard tensed and moved forward.

  Ulaav sized them up.

  They were muscular and light of foot. No mere beardlings, but seasoned warriors. Each wore the heavy leather and chain armor of a sworn Hearthguard, the private bodyguards of an Oresian Jalar. Like Ulaav and all Oresians, they each had blue skin and full beards, the first of fiery orange and the second of pearl white.

  Ulaav had to strike fast and hard. Earn respect without killing, show that he was tough without angering the Jalar by slaying one of his Hearthguard.

  “What did you say to me, Anhaga?” Orange-beard stepped onto the top step. The starmetal of his half-drawn sword glinted coldly.

  “Stand aside,” Ulaav said. “I have the right to seek audience.” He was growing tired of these word games. One of the Hearthguard needed to draw their sword before Ulaav could. If he drew first, he would be seen as the aggressor.

  “Perhaps,” the man said slowly, “you need to be taught your place, eh?”

  Ulaav watched him carefully.

  The Hearthguard smiled, showing yellowed and broken teeth.

  The cold wind tore over the steps, scattering tufts of snow and bringing the smell of woodsmoke from the surrounding village.

  No one moved.

  Ulaav took a step forward.

  White-beard whipped out his sword and lunged at Ulaav.

  Ulaav’s sword was already in his hand. The starmetal glowed with the rage of battle, shimmering and shining.

  Orange-beard drew his own sword. His face transformed into a snarl.

  Ulaav stepped to one side and White-beard tumbled past.

  The Hearthguard twisted and gave a violent swing of his blade.

  Ulaav caught the blow with his own sword.

  The two blades rang out as starmetal met starmetal. The sound was almost musical in its crystallic tones.

  Orange-beard came at Ulaav too, sword in hand.

  Ulaav took a step back. He flipped his shield up by its strap into his hand.

  This was it. There was no turning back now. He had to win or die.

  With a shout White-beard brought his sword down in a two-handed chop.

  Ulaav swung his circular shield up to block.

  The guard’s starmetal sword cracked down hard.

  Ulaav’s shield, plated with orichalcum, rang like a bell from the impact.

  White-beard stumbled back, off-balance from his attack.

  Orange-beard came at Ulaav from the other side, seeking an opening.

  He didn’t find it.

  Ulaav moved his shield to block Orange-beard. He swiped out with his sword at White-beard.

  Orange-beard’s sword slammed hard into Ulaav’s shield. The blow was powerful enough to bruise Ulaav’s arm.

  White-beard leapt back from Ulaav’s blow with a curse. He slid on the icy steps and almost lost his balance.

  Ulaav swung around and slashed his sword at Orange-beard.

  The man parried Ulaav’s blow. He tripped back up a step.

  Ulaav moved back. His breath puffed white as he panted.

  Two against one, and the Hearthguard still had the uphill advantage. Not good odds.

  The two Hearthguard held back a moment, realizing they had misjudged their opponent. White-beard unstrapped a shield from his back and readied it.

  Ulaav glanced behind him. A small but growing crowd of Oresian townsfolk was forming, drawn to the flash of starmetal and the sound of fighting.

  “I come in peace,” Ulaav said. “Let me pass.”

  “Dog,” Orange-beard snarled. He gripped his sword with both hands and came at Ulaav again.

  Ulaav pushed forward suddenly with his shield and slammed the flat of it against the man’s chest.

  Surprised, the Hearthguard stumbled off balance.

  With a cry White-beard rushed at Ulaav.

  The song of battle was in Ulaav’s heart, the fire of combat in his blood. It had been long, far too long. It was hard to hold himself back. But he couldn’t kill these men, however much they might deserve it.

  Ulaav stepped nimbly to the side and lashed out a foot.

  White-beard swung his sword through empty space. As he passed he tripped over Ulaav’s outstretched foot and crashed down the flight of stairs.

  There was no time for Ulaav to celebrate. Orange-beard was back on his feet with death in his eyes. He screamed and launched a pummeling strike at Ulaav.

  Ulaav barely managed to get his shield around in time to block the blow. The impact jarred his arm and rattled his bones.

  The Hearthguard screamed again like a berserker and smashed his sword repeatedly into Ulaav’s shield. Sparks flashed and flew as the starmetal rang against the dented orichalcum surface. Orange-beard seemed determined to break the shield in two.

  At the bottom of the steps White-beard regained his feet. He snatched his sword up from the ground, his face flushing in shame.

  “Anhaga,” Orange-beard cursed.

  Something snapped inside of Ulaav.

  He struck out with his sword and banged aside the Hearthguard’s weapon.

  Surprised, the man tried to recover.

  He wasn’t fast enou
gh. Ulaav crashed into him and forced him back up the steps with a flurry of blows.

  Orange-beard was skilled, if surprised. He blocked each blow in rapid succession, but was forced back up the steps until he crashed back against a pillar on the portico. He whipped his sword down in a desperate two-handed strike.

  The blade caught Ulaav’s shield and twisted aside.

  Ulaav stepped in and slammed the pommel of his own sword into Orange-beard’s face.

  The Hearthguard crashed to the ground. His nose spurted dark blue blood.

  Below, White-beard came running back up the steps with a cry. His sword and shield were both back in hand.

  Overcome with battle lust, Ulaav kicked Orange-beard hard in the stomach. He lifted his sword for a killing blow.

  “Stop!” a voice roared.

  White-beard froze on the steps of the mead hall.

  Orange-beard scrambled to his feet, leaving his fallen sword where it lay. He wiped the blood from his face with the sleeve of his tunic.

  Ulaav turned and lowered his sword.

  The Jalar stood just in front of the hall’s doors, dressed in an embroidered woolen robe with a massive cape made of frost bear fur. On his head and arms were bands of hammered gold. On either side of him were Hearthguard with drawn swords.

  Ulaav bowed. “Jalar Farlaav,” he said stiffly, “I came to seek an audience with you, as is my right. These men refused to let me pass.”

  Jalar Farlaav eyed the bloodied Hearthguard for a moment, then raised a hand.

  The two Hearthguard beside him fell back.

  “You may speak,” Farlaav said.

  Ulaav felt suddenly weary. He had wandered for long, too long. But the little fire of hope always burned just inside him, taunting him and driving him almost to despair.

  Ulaav knelt before the Jalar. He extended the rune-covered blade of his sword across the palms of his hands. “I am Ulaav, son of Onov, hearthless these five cycles,” he said simply. “I seek a Jalar and protector. I have heard that you are an honorable man, skilled in battle, generous to those who follow you. I ask that I may join the ranks of your Hearthguard. I will perform any task you might require of me to demonstrate my skill and loyalty.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, broken only by the howling wind and the dancing snowflakes.

  “I have no doubt that you are a brave warrior, Ulaav,” Farlaav said quietly. “But I have no room in my Hearthguard for you. I am sorry.”

  The words cut into Ulaav’s heart like a cold dagger. Without a sound he stood back up and sheathed his sword.

  Farlaav put a hand on Ulaav’s shoulder. “There is no room in my Hearthguard for you, but there is room in my hall for you tonight, if you would have it. There is food, drink, and bedding. Come.”

  “He is Anhanga,” the bloodied Orange-beard behind Ulaav warned.

  The Jalar looked Ulaav up and down carefully. “Perhaps. But he has shown he can fight like a warrior of Oro. That is enough to earn him a place at our mead table tonight, I think.”

  Orange-beard stood aside and glared at Ulaav sullenly.

  Jalar Farlaav held out a ringed hand to Ulaav. “You are welcome in my hall until the end of the watch,” he said. “Set your sword in peace, or your safety will be forfeit.”

  Ulaav leaned forward and kissed the jeweled ring on Farlaav’s forefinger. “You are gracious, Jalar.”

  The two Hearthguard beside the Jalar sheathed their swords.

  The Jalar turned towards the open door to the mead hall.

  Orange-beard glowered darkly at Ulaav.

  Ulaav ignored him and followed the Jalar into the hall.

  The haunting chords of the water harp blended perfectly with the chanted song of the skaald. The bloody and violent deeds of the ancient heroes of House Kron echoed off the wooden walls and columns of the mead hall.

  Ulaav tore off a large bite of black bread and washed it down with a gulp of mead. He set the stone mug back down on the wooden table and wiped the foam off his beard with his arm.

  It was a good meal, the best Ulaav had had in weeks. Here in the hall, with the sound of the skaald’s water harp and the blazing warmth of the hearth, the roar and laughter of warriors and the howling of the war hounds…it almost felt like he was back in Garok’Ran, feasting with his comrades-in-arms and toasting the deeds of their Jalar.

  Almost.

  Ulaav looked up towards the front of the hall at the elevated table where Jalar Farlaav and his Hearthguard sat. The flames of the massive central hearth flickered off the painted wooden walls and wooden pillars that supported the mead hall’s roof. Over the fire itself two huge frost boars turned slowly on a spit. The smell of savory meat filled the room.

  Servants brought an endless supply of foam-topped mugs to the waiting guests. War hounds snarled at each other and fought for scraps tossed to them under the table. Children of the Hearthguard played with wooden swords and shields along the sides of the halls, laughing and shouting.

  Ulaav was at the lowest table, the one nearest the front doors of the mead hall. It was far away from the light and warmth of the hearth, and the chill wind from the night outside whistled in through the cracks of the plank walls and underneath the doors. Ulaav was glad of his dire wolf cape, and pulled it around himself.

  His dinner companions were the least of the hall. Craftsmen from the surrounding town of Molok’Ran, teenaged sons of the Hearthguard, some of the household staff, a travelling Beast-Slayer in his leather armor and two purple-skinned Sageeran merchants who looked quite ill-at-ease in the bawdy hall.

  It was a far cry from where Ulaav would have been feasting just five cycles ago, up at the central table reserved for the bodyguard of the Jalar, the Hearthguard, the men sworn to protect their leader and chieftain to death and onwards to the Eternal Halls.

  That is where Ulaav should have been now. Dead and feasting in the Eternal Halls of the High Father. Not living out this wasted existence wandering the face of the Valley in perpetual exile.

  A man brushed past Ulaav’s stool and crashed heavily into the back of him.

  Ulaav lurched forward onto the table and spilled his mead. He whirled in anger.

  “Watch yourself, Anhanga,” the Hearthguard said with a mocking smile. It was the same man Ulaav had fought outside on the steps of the hall. Orange-beard.

  Ulaav controlled his anger, resisting the urge to tear his sword from his scabbard. The man was trying to bait him, hoping to get him to do something stupid while the flush of the mead was on him.

  The Hearthguard sniggered and walked towards the central table. He was greeted with cheers and raised mugs by his companions.

  Ulaav watched him in brooding silence, feeling the heat of his shame on his face. He picked up his mead mug and clenched his fist on the table before him.

  It burned him like a hot iron to watch a man like that receiving the honor of his comrades, the kind of honor that used to be Ulaav’s.

  Ulaav turned back to his bread, but his appetite had vanished. All the warmth and merriment of the mead hall, the camaraderie and songs of valor…it was a bitter taste in his mouth.

  The doors to the hall flung open, and a cold gust swirled inside, bringing with it a flurry of snowflakes.

  Ulaav shivered and glanced towards the open doors.

  One of Jalar Falaav’s Hearthguard stepped inside and raised his voice above the raucous din of the hall. “Jalar Utros Carlon!” he thundered.

  The hall quieted at once. Even the dogs and the children ceased their bickering and playing.

  A young man stepped inside the hall, dressed in fine coppery-red orichalcum mail and leather armor. From his shoulders hung the shimmering scaled cloak of a Frost Wyrm’s hide. He removed his conical helmet and tucked it under his arm, then strode forward past the line of tables.

  Ulaav watched him carefully as he passed. He was young, very young. His blue skin was pale, his black beard a mere scraggly mass of curls.

  Fifteen, si
xteen cycles, as the Ardelans reckoned. The lad couldn’t have been much older than that.

  Jalar Falaav rose to his feet and lifted a mug. “Jalar Carlon,” he said in a deep gravelly voice, “you grace my hall with your presence. Come and sit beside me. My hearth and my table are yours.”

  The boy stopped near the blazing hearth and looked around at the assembled people.

  All eyes were still fixed on him. The servants were rooted in place, their curiosity overwhelming for the moment their duties.

  “High Father bless you, Jalar Falaav,” Carlon said. His voice was high and squeaked, lacking the grip of full puberty. “But I have not come here to share ale and meat. I have come to seek vengeance on behalf of my father, and to find those who would stand with me for the sake of honor.”

  One of the teenage boys at the table with Ulaav snickered softly.

  Carlon turned and faced the room. The flickering flames of the hearth cast his shadow over the tables. “Seven cycles ago my home was attacked and destroyed by a tribe of Jutaans,” he said, raising his voice for all to hear. “Akran’Ran was a jewel of the Valley. My father was a noble warrior, and fought many battles with honor and courage.” His face flinched from the pain of the memory. “The Jutaans came in the night and attacked. They spared none. My father, Jalar Utros Ekaron, died with his Hearthguard on the steps of his mead hall, even as it burned around them.”

  There was absolute silence in the hall, save for the whimpering of one of the war hounds.

  Ulaav leaned forward.

  “I was a boy at the time,” Carlon continued. He looked around from face to face, his dark blue eyes fixing each man in turn. “My mother fled with me and my sister. I wished to fight, to stand alongside my father, but she forbade it, and I was young.” He raised a fist before him and clenched it tightly. “Now I am come to manhood, and I have come to avenge my father and the loss of my house. Akran’Ran remains nothing but overgrown ruins and rotted timbers, covered in snow. The other Houses of Oro have forgotten. But I have not.”

  Jalar Farlaav shifted uncomfortably. “Jalar Carlon—”