Son of Ereubus Read online

  SON OF EREUBUS

  GUARDIANS OF LEGEND

  BOOK ONE

  BY J. S. CHANCELLOR

  RHEMALDA PUBLISHING

  Rhemalda Publishing

  Rhemalda Publishing, Inc. (USA)

  P.O. Box 2912, Wenatchee, WA 98807, USA

  First American Paperback Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright ©2010 by J.S. Chancellor.

  Editing by Kara Klotz.

  Text design by Rhemalda Publishing.

  Cover art by Oliver Wetter of Fantasio Fine Arts http://fantasio.info Cover design by Rhemalda Publishing.

  Author photo by John Pyle Photography, http://www.johnpylephotography.com/

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9827437-4-4

  ePUB ISBN 13: 978-0-9827437-5-1

  ePDF ISBN 13: 978-0-9827437-7-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010932949

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard of Information Services - Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ASNI Z39.48-1992.

  Visit J.S. Chancellor at her author website http://www.jschancellor.com/.

  Visit Rhemalda Publishing at http://www.rhemalda.com.

  For Bettie Jones and Grace Jordan

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  B

  ehind every imagined creature, every fantastic race, or castle or invented world, there is a very real one composed of those very special individuals who have influenced, encouraged and inspired. To those who have done so for me, I have more gratitude in my heart than can be rightly expressed through mere words.

  To Jeff Groen, who said to me in the most ordinary conversation (on the way to unlock a tanning bed for him), “Think of all the stories that have shaped your life — that you’ve loved. What if, by never sharing your work, you’re keeping us from falling in love with your stories, your worlds.” You gave me permission to write with that simple sentence and unknowingly to you at the time, unlocked a door for me as well. I went home that night and pulled out my old notebooks and decided that this story had been in wait long enough. Simply put—you changed my life that day.

  To Bettie Jones, who read every word of every draft, more than twice. Had it not been for your persistence in those early days, this book would not be in existence. You were able to see beyond my beginner’s prose to the story beneath. Thank you for your honesty, your criticism and your praise and for being my first true fan. Know that your love has taken me from being a girl who wished to write someday, to a woman who is and has and will until I am no longer able.

  To Grace Jordan, for believing in me and for never giving up on my work. Thank you for providing the opportunity for me to learn, through Carolyn Smoot, what I so desperately needed to in order to succeed as an author. Thank you for being proud of me and never being shy about saying so.

  To Eric Longworth and Robert Grawburg, who both spent hours in my office discussing plot and characterization and battle scenes. Thank you for reading those early drafts and for always telling me that it would be published one day. Whether I believed you at the time or not, I needed to hear it.

  To Robyn Watson, my own personal cheerleader. You are the human embodiment of selfless love and loyalty. Thank you for telling me, with more enthusiasm than I could have conjured on my best of days back then, that you loved my work, my characters and for talking about them of your own accord, simply because you wanted to. Thank you also to Ben Watson, namely for helping me with the logistics of more than one fighting sequence; and of course for aiding me in the naming of one small, plum-chested, dragon.

  To Justin Elswick of Sleepthief. Thank you for generously allowing me to use your music on my website and for helping me through more than one mental block.

  To Vin Jensen, how can I even begin to thank you? You found me right after I’d left my job and was just about as discouraged as an author can get. You encouraged my blog, helped shape it, taught me what it meant to socially network with other authors and ultimately you gave me the confidence to submit this novel for publication. Though you were unaware of it at the time, you helped fortify my foundation as a writer, reminded who I was and why I started writing in the first place. You were a teacher when I needed one the most. I am eternally grateful.

  To my parents, John and Carolee Rowe — for more things than I can name, but thank you specifically for cultivating a wild imagination and a life of limitless dreams.

  To my husband, Benjamin, who is the most patient man I’ve ever known, and the most giving. Thank you for supporting this burdgeoning career, this second love of mine, for listening to me read dialog aloud like a madwoman, for putting up with my nocturnal habits, and for loving not just me, but the worlds I create. You mean more to me than you’ll ever know — you are my Irial.

  To Diana Best Harbour, for being a kindred soul and providing much needed laughter and wisdom and support. If I didn’t know better I’d say we’re two halves of a whole.

  Thank you to Rhett Hoffmeister, Kara Klotz and the staff at Rhemalda Publishing for taking a chance on an unknown, untried author. I hope to prove that your faith has not been placed in vain.

  Thanks also goes to a variety of people who have aided in one way or another; Lyn Barfield Ritchie, Jenner Jordan, Micah Green, Josh Harbour, Kristin and Rantz Walters, Lara Adrian, Doug Brown, Kara Ferhman Young, Sharon Walters, Jay Palmer, John Pyle, and many, many soldiers at Ft. Benning who patiently answered my questions about battle strategy and ancient fighting methods and what it’s like to come home from war. God bless you and all of our troops!

  And certainly not least, a huge thanks to Mr. Fletcher. You’re loved and missed. I’d hoped to bring this to you in person, but you’ll just have to wait now. Thank you for pushing me, for insisting on my very best and for being the most crotchety, grumpy, awesome English teacher ever. Here’s to a box of salt for the slugs.

  SON OF EREUBUS

  GUARDIANS OF LEGEND

  BOOK ONE

  BY J. S. CHANCELLOR

  RHEMALDA PUBLISHING

  THE PROPHECY

  H

  ow small the world has become. How dark the days of man have grown. Each passing moment is steeped in vile, wicked, and corrupt things that once whispered of power, only to betray. What was once overflowing with life has diminished to a threadbare existence. It was not always this way.

  For years, the realm of man, called Middengard, has waged war against the forces of the Laionai. Once human, the Laionai speak as one consciousness — a collective in which nothing of mortality remains. Gifted by the Dark Goddess Ciara with the ability to steal the souls of other men, their purpose is to enslave all who live and breathe in her name.

  In the beginning, Middengard was successful in defending its people. But as the first age of war came to an end, its people began to weaken in their resolve, and a fable began to take shape; first in whispers heard at battle’s end, then in legends passed down from one generation to the next. Soon, myth became prayer and an unswerving faith in an unseen realm was born.
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  For thousands of years, that fable fueled the vitality of the human heart, but as the free lands waned and Eidolon’s rule overshadowed the few who subsisted on their own, faith faltered. As the last stronghold of man celebrated what little light still existed in the world, few held to the promise of such a fantasy.

  There were some among man who would not let die what they knew in their hearts to be true. As they ended their day, they whispered their regards to the winged guardians whose plight was to stand in the stead of mortal man. As they woke, they recited long-held praises for those they had to thank for their freedom.

  Though the faith prevailed in some, man was not alone, for among those born into the lineage of Ereubus — the ones who served the Laionai — a prophecy was told:

  “Among the souls there is a chosen one, the Oni. Carrying the fate of mortal man, he shall through blood procure their end. He shall be the bearer of all things, bridging the divide between life and death. Through mortal fate eluded, he shall bear witness to those who embody light. This will be the first sign of his coming. One who has slumbered long shall arise, bringing the Oni the seal that shall forge the final strength of the dark one. This will be the second sign. The son of light shall fall from great heights, spilling innocent blood upon the steps of Eidolon. This will be the third and final sign. All things in alignment, the Oni will then sit at the right hand of darkness.”

  With faith placed in things unknown, both Middengard and Eidolon await the future — the Ereubinians, sitting in a throne of power, await the one who will secure their place of sovereignty while man, through the listless eyes of a soulless vessel, awaits the one who will deliver them.

  PROLOGUE

  The city reeked of sweat and grime. Eidolon’s citizens gathered in the chilly, dank air of the commons, their eyes turned to the cloaked figure standing tethered to a post on the center platform. The crowd was boisterous, pushing to gain a better view, all the while musing over the prisoner’s identity and the offense he’d committed.

  Micah rested against the rain-soaked stone of the far wall, his cloak held tightly to him, trying to ward off the cold he’d felt coming on for weeks. He was tall for his age and could wield a sword better than any of his peers, which was the main reason he was allowed to skip this day’s lessons. The other boys would ask and he’d already concocted a dozen exaggerations to relay if the event turned out duller than his imagination.

  The prisoner had arrived two days earlier, hood already in place, hands already bound, and apparently gagged, for his only responses to questioning were muffled cries. No one dared touch the hood or even come close enough to examine the undecorated linen shift he wore. Most were content to conjure their own guesses, some stating they knew but had been sworn to secrecy. Micah didn’t believe a word of it. They seemed far too interested in what they supposedly already knew.

  Urine stained the prisoner’s clothing; when the breeze shifted direction, the scent of it and where he’d shat himself filled Micah’s nostrils, his congestion doing very little to dull its potency. He coughed and spat, willing away the urge to vomit.

  Some had already grown impatient and left, mumbling that the rumor of a public lashing had been just that. He considered leaving, but was too curious. Besides, the crowd alone was more interesting than his studies.

  A hush fell over the crowd, every knee bending in reverence as Garren, the High Lord, ascended the shaded stairs beneath the platform. He smiled and walked with a casual stride across the creaking boards, each step echoing in the sudden stillness. He motioned with a turn of his hand for all to rise.

  “I see that my display has captured your attention.” He clenched the black hood of the prisoner in his fist and jerked it away, revealing the raw, tear-streaked face of Vallor, ruler of the northern realm of Lycus.

  A collective gasp was drawn as the magnitude of the prisoner’s identity set in. Micah couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Had it not been last week that the nobles of the greater houses were singing Vallor’s praises?

  “Before you,” Garren said, “is a reminder that nothing goes unseen. All is laid bare before the eyes of the Laionai and the Dark Goddess — even such trivial matters as paying Eidolon what is rightly due.”

  Taxes? That’s what this is about? Micah was stunned.

  Vallor moaned and pulled against his bindings. Dried blood stained his mouth from wrestling with the gag, giving him a maddened appearance. The humiliation seemed rather gratuitous to Micah — surely a simple chastisement or financial penalty would have sufficed.

  Garren dipped his head in mock sympathy and placed a hand on Vallor’s head. “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. Lycus has been prosperous …”

  As he spoke, a shrill and terrifying cry sounded just beyond the commons. That lone cry became a chorus so dark it sent shivers racing down Micah’s skin. Moriors. This wasn’t a lashing — it was an execution.

  Garren continued speaking as though it were nothing more than the wind they were hearing. “Yet, my generous gifts of land and privilege are not enough for him.”

  The Moriors had black scales and fleshy wings that extended twice the breadth of their body, their man-like countenance complemented by a tall, skeletal torso and long talons that extended from deceivingly frail hands. Their feet were hooved like cattle. Shrieking still, they circled the platform before landing.

  Garren pulled his sword and Vallor’s eyes washed in relief. When the blade sliced through his gag, rather than mercifully beheading him, Vallor lost what little composure he had.

  “If I take your head how will I hear you scream?” Garren asked.

  “Lord, be merciful!” Vallor’s wailing died against the sound of rushing wings and gnashing teeth, but Micah could read his lips and the words chilled him to his core.

  Micah wanted to look away — wanted to sink back into the stone of the wall, or retire to his chambers to read a book, or practice his swordplay — but he could not tear his gaze from the platform as the Moriors ripped flesh from Vallor’s bones, eating him alive.

  The gruesome scene silenced all who witnessed it, magnifying the sounds of the carnage. Eventually, only bones remained, gleaming eerily white in the waning light of day.

  Garren, jaws clenched, eyed the crowd. For several minutes, he flexed his hands at his sides and paced. The Moriors stood sentinel behind him, their heads hung in obedience, though it was not Garren who commanded them, but the Laionai, and none present questioned it.

  Micah had never seen them, nor had any ordinary Ereubinian — only the higher ranks had seen the Laionai, and even then selectively, but he’d heard their description more times than he cared to.

  The Laionai, their eminence, had eyes that were solid black orbs deeply set into pallid skin. Their hair, thin and white, swept the ground behind them, blending with their robes of the same color. They stood much taller than a man, nearly eight feet. Though they stood as six individuals, they were one consciousness, their words spoken in unison. Once men, they now ruled over Middengard in the name of the Dark Goddess Ciara. Anything decreed from the High Lord’s mouth came straight from their eminence.

  Garren’s laughter shook Micah from his musings.

  “Do you take me for a witless fool?” Garren asked.

  No one dared answer him.

  “Truly, there is not one among you who will admit to flawed judgment? Come, speak openly. Who thought even one small share would go unnoticed?”

  Micah looked around at the shocked faces. Some were visibly shaken, others deathly still in their fear. There was not a single heart that didn’t flutter with Garren’s dangerous questioning.

  Garren leapt from the high platform, an unnatural act, and landed on the cobbled street. The crowd parted only to fall again to its knees once out of his way.

  He walked up to a portly gentleman with a sandy beard and a bright blue tailored cloak. Tucking his sword under the man’s chin, he leaned into his face, laughing low. “And what about you?”

&
nbsp; Sweat rolled down the man’s face and into his eyes. The cold weather certainly did not make him swelter so.

  “My Lord, I have the utmost faith in the Goddess and their eminence. I beg you not question my loyalty,” he pleaded.

  Garren removed the sword and nodded once. “By your own admission then, you are not guilty of treason.” He turned on his left foot and, just as Micah had convinced himself that Garren was going to return to the platform, the High Lord gripped his sword in both hands and with a swift stroke severed the man’s head from his body.

  Garren snatched the cloak from the ground and wiped the blood from his blade before addressing the crowd again. “Let this be a warning. The lack of faith, and thereby obedience, that once went unnoticed will no longer be so; no matter the nature of the betrayal nor how slight. All will pay for the sins of one, innocent and guilty alike.

  One last human stronghold remains, and nothing will keep Palingard from the Goddess’ rightful reign.”

  It was long into the night, well after the High Lord and his forces had departed for Palingard, that Micah no longer heard Garren’s words resounding in his head. All will pay for the sins of one.

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOT HUMAN

  F

  or years, she’d risen before the sun would even consider it and yet, on the day she was relying upon an unnoticed departure, Ariana overslept. She rolled out of bed, groaning, and reached one hand under the night table to snatch the packed satchel she’d tucked there. She’d changed the night before from her thin evening shift into a well-worn linen tunic and pants that were in an even worse state of disrepair. Her intention was to slip out before daybreak, but sunlight blistered the horizon, washing the room in shades of bright pink and red.

  Koen, her canine companion, looked up from where he rested on the floor and sniffed his disapproval.

  “I’m not interested in your opinion Koen. You’re only in it for the food,” she whispered. Shaking her head, Ariana turned to the window and pushed open the weathered wood. Three days and the winter festival will be over, everything will return to the ordinary and mundane.