The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Map of Rosthagaar

  Map of The New World

  Scribe Vinchenza Aduramis

  VOLUME I

  Destiny's Assault

  Uncle Draken

  Paradise Found

  The Golden Temple

  The Battle

  A Bigger Problem

  The Black Tower

  Mort's Plan

  Enlightenment

  The Wayward Matron

  Trails and Tribulations

  The God of Love

  Initiations

  Decisions, Decisions

  Recovery

  Coinin's Woe

  VOLUME II

  Beginnings

  The Quintet

  Preparations

  The First Leg

  The Other Menin

  Sewer Rats

  The Ice Breaker

  The Black Tower Revisited

  The Pirate Stronghold

  A Dangerous Game

  The Nick of Time

  Farewell & Revelations

  Marrok's Tale

  Northbound

  City of the Damned

  Underworld

  VOLUME III

  The Landing Party

  Hatching The Plan

  Confessions

  Drunk & Disorderly

  Sonny Lav'er

  The Archmage Calls

  A Fishy Tale

  A Little Conspiracy

  Final Preparations

  Infiltration

  Distractions

  Departing Rodine

  An Unlikely Companionship

  Underworld Revisited

  Sins Laid Bare

  Rodine Bound

  The Long Way (Part 1)

  The Dwarven Dell

  Relief & Grief

  Black Shiel Citadel

  Now Is The Time

  Plotting & Planning

  Lordich Strikes

  To Rodine

  The Golden Temple

  Rostha

  The Unthinkable ...

  Seeking Answers

  The Elves

  The Long Way (Part 2)

  At Long last!

  Seeking Help

  Rescue

  Awakening

  The Early Bird

  Old friends

  The Final Battle

  The Ritual

  Family

  Pronunciations

  Web Links

  by

  Harrison Davies

  First edition published by Harrison Davies, and distributed in the UK and Worldwide 2017.

  Copyright © Harrison Davies 2017

  Edited by Elaine Denning. TNW Proofread by Scott Lumsden.

  The right of Harrison Davies to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher/author. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  SCRIBE VINCHENZA ADURAMIS

  (Born 607 Minas R, 2 - Died 1141 Su’nn S, 17)

  This, among others, is a tale penned by a wise old scribe named Vinchenza Aduramis, who began to chronicle the history of his home and surrounding planets known locally as Rinoch’s Belt.

  He began to observe events at the age of twelve thanks to a rare gift as a seer. In his mid-teens, he joined the world’s foremost scholastic academy as an apprentice scribe.

  By age twenty his works became famous, and by age two hundred, fellow scholars lauded them as the beginnings of the most comprehensive historical account conceived.

  Even now, after the death of Aduramis, aged five hundred and thirty-four, eager scribes continue to chart the course of events as they unfold, in his honour.

  This volume is a morsel of that which he wrote concerning his home world Er’ath, as witnessed during turbulent times.

  DESTINY’S ASSAULT

  The village of Arrom, with its prominent stone hall and ring of wooden houses, rang out with music, laughter, and singing. Torches lit the square and a fire, crackling at its centre, cast shadows that mimicked festival-goers dancing around the flames.

  Colour adorned everything and everyone; greens, blues, and reds blurred into a myriad of hues. All the while, the smell of delicious food wafted in the air and excited the senses.

  The village hall was a hive of activity and heaved with villagers eager to hear the speeches and taste the delights laid before them. A high table sat at the far end with three highly decorative chairs behind it, reserved for the elders. A fireplace smoked at the centre of the hall and three large boars roasted on a spit, each turned by a small boy. At either side of the building, a dozen high-backed chairs carved with family crests sat in long rows, used by the heads of each of the village’s families. Perpendicular to these ran several long benches in front of oak tables, now occupied by the children and visitors.

  Elder Rangsan, a tall, thin man dressed in fine furs, rose from his central chair high on the podium and raised a hand for silence. A hush fell inside the hall, and the only sound came from those who enjoyed the carnival outside.

  ‘Friends and invited guests, I welcome you to Arrom and our celebrations. We have had a difficult few years, however this year has seen our deliverance. I urge you all to enjoy tonight’s feast and thank the gods for providing us with a fine bounty. Enjoy, eat, and be merry!’ He raised a cup of wine to a rousing cheer.

  It had been a good year, except it hadn’t always been that way. For two years previously, the villagers had barely survived the winter. Food had been scarce, and the few fish that managed to make their way to Lake Arrom failed to spawn.

  The village elders had discovered a colony of beavers that had built a dam further up the river that supplied the lake. It was torn down immediately, and a guard was placed near its former location deep in the great forest to ensure that the like would not occur again, but not before the damage had been done.

  Lushan, home to the Dwarves, was itself in a state of famine, and Astanoth, land of Elves, had suffered in battle with the Giants of the Northern Wastes, and so were unable to offer aid. Westeroe, peopled by self-serving humans, outright refused to help, their leader claiming that they sought independence from Rosthagaar and that any assistance would have shown weakness.

  The capital Rostha stated on parchment that, as sorry as they were, they would not help.

  Dear subjects of Arrom,

  Due to an oversight on your part, and due to your failure to return a tax record, the Treasury is not currently taxing you. We thank you for your interest in Rostha; however, we cannot offer assistance at this time.

  Yours fervently,

  Milanus Horinch.

  Rosthagaar High Treasurer.

  P.S. Please find enclosed your tax bill for the past twenty years. M.H.

  That left Madorine, home to Orcs and Trolls, as the only means of support, and the elders were forced to negotiate a trade with the much-feared Madorine warrior chiefs.

  Certainly, the Warriors
of Madorine had a right to be feared. They were bred to kill from childhood, and theirs was a civilisation bent on its own destruction. Civil wars between the clans were rife in this land that lay on the far side of the great forest.

  Arrom Forest grew at the entrance of the valley and afforded shelter to the residents of the village within. Through the forest lay a high mountainous pass, accessible only in good weather, unless someone was a fool or desperate enough to venture that way in mid-winter. Beyond lay a waterway that surrounded the island of Rosthagaar, which led to Madorine.

  The elders had been desperate enough to send a delegation of emissaries across this pass in search of food. Fortunately, the last such ambassador sent returned with enough supplies to last the winter, however, unfortunately along with the heads of his companions. These deadly negotiations with the clan chiefs eventually secured food supplies. However, the elders of the village had failed to fulfil their end of the bargain and had not provided the Madorine with their share of the catch at the end of this year’s fishing season.

  As a celebration of the village’s good fortune, the festival had been organised, and neighbouring townspeople had been invited to attend, none of them aware of Elder Rangsan’s betrayal.

  ❖

  Coinin and Marrok had fallen asleep early during the feast and slumbered on sheepskins laid behind their father’s chair at the side of the stone hall. They’d spent the morning fishing on Lake Arrom, and after a few hours of lazing by the water’s edge and listening to the waves lap the shore, they’d practised their swordplay in the forest. It had been a hot day, with the sun beating down from a cloudless sky, and both brothers were exhausted from the heat.

  As the feast slowly wound down, Godwen and Ædelmær picked up the small boys in their arms and walked the moonlit way home towards a small farm situated on the outskirts of the village. The familiar discs of Er’ath’s sister planets, almost as bright as the moon, reflected their own light onto the scene. The family crossed a rickety wooden bridge spanning a river that supplied the lake and made their way up the hill. They had just reached the farm enclosure when the village bell pealed a warning.

  To arms! It cried. To arms!

  A young rabbit that grazed nearby looked up in alarm and scurried to its burrow, while Marrok awoke with a start and gazed up at his father with sleepy eyes. Ædelmær put his son down and immediately checked for danger. ‘Fetch my sword, boy,’ he demanded.

  It took a moment for the request to sink through Marrok’s tiredness and then he turned on his heels and sprinted to the farmhouse, his wild brown hair billowing in the breeze. He slammed the door aside, retrieved his father’s sword from its setting above the fireplace and returned quickly to his father, to see that a runner from the village had joined him.

  ‘Ædelmær, it’s a raiding party from Madorine; I don’t know if we can hold them off,’ he panted. ‘It’s not safe. You should get your family to the village hall.’

  ‘There’s no time,’ Ædelmær replied. ‘They’ll be safe here.’

  Marrok pressed the sword into his father’s outstretched hand.

  ‘All of you, indoors now. I’ll be back soon.’

  Godwen grabbed her husband by the hand, pulling him back. ‘Be safe,’ she said.

  His piercing blue eyes softened. ‘Godwen,’ he said, tucking a long blonde strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Carve me some bread, and perhaps a little of that fish from supper. I’ll be back soon, I promise.’ He leant towards her and kissed her forehead, then rushed off towards the village.

  Coinin and his mother immediately retreated to the rundown, ivy-covered farmhouse, while Marrok watched his father disappear out of sight. When he heard Coinin scream, he raced inside.

  ‘Where is he? Where is Jip? I can’t find him anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t know. Now be quiet, we have to be very quiet,’ his mother replied the sparkle of her green eyes now nothing but a flat, worried stare. She thrust a sheepskin over each of them and anxiously paced the floor.

  ‘Ma, what do we do?’ Marrok asked.

  ‘We need a place to hide.’

  Coinin stood transfixed at the kitchen window. ‘Ma, it’s burning!’ he gasped.

  ‘What’s burning?’

  ‘The village, the whole village is burning.’

  Godwen pushed her sons aside and pulled back the gauze in the window, peering out and covering her mouth in horror. The village hall was surrounded by dark figures silhouetted against an orange glow, and she watched as several fiery torches were hurled through the windows. Almost instantly, balls of flames erupted from within, the rush flooring undoubtedly aiding the fire’s intensity. She knew the enemy would block the hall’s entrance and whoever was inside would be met with a most horrific death.

  ‘We have to hide,’ she urged.

  Marrok moved quickly. Although he was just ten years old, his strength and steadfastness were ingrained, and she watched with pride as he dragged sacks of grain across the floor to expose the trapdoor in the corner.

  ❖

  Ædelmær ran as fast as his legs would carry him, and he left the runner behind. He headed straight for the nearest house and crashed through the doorway. Terrified screams had brought him there. By instinct, he plunged his sword deep into the spine of his opponent who had raised an axe to strike a child who cowered in the corner of the room. The steel exited the chest with a crunch and a splatter of blood upon the opposite wall. He withdrew his sword and thrust the body aside.

  He did not bat an eyelid in the knowledge that he had just killed a female. She was Madorine, and that was all that mattered. Defend the village at all costs, that was the duty of every man.

  He briefly checked the child was well and wiped the blood from her face.

  ‘Run and hide,’ he told her.

  He scanned the room for more intruders then left the house. He looked to the square, and his heart skipped a beat. The village hall was ablaze and screams ripped through the air, and yet there was nothing he could do to save the poor souls now. Here and there, people fortunate not to have made it into the Hall ran screaming, looking for places to hide. Several mounted Madorine cut them down like rag dolls.

  A Madorine warrior kicked heels into his horse and charged towards Ædelmær. Swiftly, he swung a long spear horizontally and gripped it in the crook of his arm, then roared and aimed at Ædelmær’s heart as he bore down. Ædelmær aimed and flung his sword. It whistled through the air and struck the astonished orc in the chest, who fell lifeless to the ground.

  Ædelmær collected his sword and raced after the orc’s terrified horse. He reined it in, then hoisted his large frame upon it.

  He galloped to the village square and pulled up short as a horde of Madorine warriors gave a roar and charged him. He barely had time to turn the horse and make his escape back to the farmhouse.

  Seconds later he was at the village exit when he felt a powerful blow to his side. He fell heavily from the ride and rolled down the incline into the river.

  ❖

  Godwen had almost lowered Coinin into the cellar when a crash from behind made them freeze. She hoisted him back up and whirled to see a silhouette of a man in the doorway. The man stumbled and groaned, and as he fell, the sword he carried skidded across the floor to land at Marrok’s feet. Sounds from the village filled the room: yells of agony interspersed with screams and shouts of distress. Marrok ran forward to catch his father and found that he was not strong enough to hold him, and he sank limply to the floor. He heaved at his father’s arm, desperate to turn him over, and after much effort succeeded in doing so, only to find a large wound across his torso. Blood flowed heavily and left a sticky, dark stain on the wooden floor.

  ‘Da, talk to me. What happened?’ Marrok pleaded.

  The only response was a groan, and his father’s eyes screwed up in pain.

  Marrok heard movement and looked out of the open doorway. As he did so, a blinding pain seared his left shoulder, and he fell back. His mother screamed
in terror and darted to her child’s aid. An arrow had pierced the tissue and sinew of the small boy. Coinin screamed and stood transfixed, his eyes wide with fear.

  Loud shouts and whoops of joy erupted in the yard outside. Instinctively, Godwen jumped up and slammed the door to the yard, and then fastened the bolt.

  Moments later, the whole room shook as something crashed into the door. Dust fell from the ceiling joists as the door cracked and creaked. Again, a heavy object hit it and the hinges began to give way. A pot that had been sat in an alcove to the left of the door crashed to the floor and splintered into a dozen pieces.

  In the full knowledge that she was the only adult left to protect her children, Godwen reached out for a weapon she could wield. A statue from the family shrine was the first thing she grasped. Seconds later, splinters of wood flew at the small group in the farmhouse as the door gave way to brute force. A silent scream masked Godwen’s face as three Madorine warriors blocked the doorway. As tall as the tallest of men, dark brown and green, with rippling muscle, they snarled at the occupants of the farmhouse.

  ‘Ha-ha! You got him good, and the boy too. Nicely done, Meroth.’

  ‘Yeah, and my reward is the female,’ Meroth snarled.

  ‘Who says it’s your turn? You had those twins last time.’

  ‘I say so, that’s why. So be quiet, there’s a good boy, or I’ll cut your tongue out.’

  The leader of the group pushed aside his comrades and moved further into the room. He wore tight-fitting, well-worn leather armour, and across his breast and stomach sat six crude iron plates. Strapped to his waist, a curved sword hung with its blade cruel and jagged.

  He had a scar across his left cheek and hunger in his eyes, and the room already began to reek of his foul breath. He looked terrifying, with eyes that were almost black, and long thin fingers that ended in talon-like nails. His sharp canines accentuated a broad, lustful smile.