The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 2

  ‘Get out! Leave us alone!’ Godwen cried.

  Laughter resounded as the intruders delighted in the woman’s pleas.

  ‘What do you think, boys? Should we do as the woman asks?’ the leader mocked, his black tongue licking his lips.

  ‘And miss out on all the fun? I don’t think so,’ a sallow-faced warrior cackled, as he chewed on what appeared to be a leg of lamb from the feast table.

  Scarface lunged towards Godwen. She screamed and threw the statue, which bounced harmlessly off his armour with a clang before it crashed to the ground. He laughed harder and grasped her tightly around the wrist, pulling her to him, then grabbed a fistful of her hair. Taking a big sniff, he moaned with pleasure as he drew her face close to his. He flicked his dark, leathery tongue up and down her face and she writhed and turned away in disgust. Scarface laughed louder, his head thrown back in glee.

  However, his laughter did not last long as a puzzled expression suddenly spread across his face. A trickle of blood emerged from his mouth and ran down his jaw.

  ‘You bitch!’ he mouthed and promptly flopped to his knees before his eyes glazed over. Green blood pumped from a slit in his neck, and he fell dead, face first. A pool of blood formed around him as the only sign of his swift demise.

  Godwen stood there and shook, with a small knife in her hand that dripped with blood. She had snatched the weapon from the belt of Scarface and had struck him in a heartbeat.

  Sallowface took a few moments to work out what had happened, then he wasted no time. He drew his sword and struck Godwen with a roar of anger.

  She stood there a moment, her mouth gaped, and her eyes widened. The light left her eyes, and she too slumped to the floor.

  Marrok’s scream was bloodcurdling, and he stretched to pick up his father’s sword. With no thought for his own safety, he thrust it into the midriff of his mother’s assailant who had turned at the sound of the boy’s cry. The warrior fell without a word.

  A growl more animal than human broke the silence, and then a howl which could be heard clear into Madorine ripped through the valley. Ædelmær, ferocious and full of death, with eyes like that of a wolf, leapt at the third intruder and bowled him over backwards into the compound. Terrified screams filled the air and then there was silence.

  Coinin padded softly over to Godwen’s corpse and gently prodded her. ‘Mummy, wake up, Mummy,’ he said tearfully. ‘Why won’t you wake up?’

  Marrok painfully lifted himself to his feet and wrapped an arm around his brother. ‘She’s dead, Coinin. She’s with the gods now,’ he said, as tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Coinin burst into fresh wails. The sobs shook his body.

  Marrok picked up his smaller brother and wanting to spare him the pain of his mother’s death, carried him out of the farmhouse and into the night, dragging his father’s bloodied sword behind him.

  He gently dropped Coinin onto the grass outside and clutched his painful shoulder. Thankfully, the tip of the arrow had exited the other side cleanly, and Marrok knew it had a good chance of healing well.

  The air was filled with smoke from the burning village. Their father was shirtless, and on all fours, panting with his head bowed low. A mutilated body of a Madorine warrior lay dead several feet away, and a young black wolfhound sat with Ædelmær and licked blood from his face.

  ‘Jip!’ Coinin called and rushed to the animal. He wrapped his arms around it, and the wolfhound responded with a whimper of delight.

  ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he wailed and buried his head deep into its fur.

  Marrok knelt by his father’s side and took a blood-soaked hand in his.

  ‘Da, they killed her,’ Marrok cried.

  ‘I know. I know. Nevertheless, Marrok, be certain, you will see her again someday.’ Ædelmær tried to comfort him, yet in doing so, his eyes filled with tears.

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’ Ædelmær choked. ‘Marrok, I have something very important for you to do. I need you to take care of Coinin for me. Now I must send you away.’

  ‘No, you can’t! I won’t let you. You can’t leave me too.’

  ‘I am mortally wounded, Marrok, and you know what that means. I must send you away for your safety. You will go to your Uncle Draken, and he will show you many wonders and teach you many things. Promise me you will do all that he asks without question.’ Ædelmær suppressed a coughing fit though failed to hide the blood that splattered from his mouth.

  The tearstained boy wiped away the blood from his father’s lips. ‘I promise,’ he said and gripped the hilt of Ædelmær’s sword.

  Ædelmær forced a smile. ‘May the gods protect you, my son. I will love you always.’ He raised his head and stretched to kiss Marrok on the forehead, a single tear cutting a path down his bloodstained cheek. ‘Now go. Run as fast as you can to your uncle’s house and don’t look back.’

  Marrok gritted his teeth and choked back tears as Ædelmær’s eyes closed in pain. He lay there in the dark for a little while, cradling his father and tracing a finger over the familiar scars on his father’s back, shining silver in the moonlight. He studied them carefully for the very first time. What he’d thought had been battle wounds appeared to be claw marks, interspersed with soft indented paw prints. He’d never seen the like of them before and wished his father had divulged their secret during the many times he had asked.

  ‘Go, now!’ Ædelmær ordered sharply. ‘Please, before it’s too late,’ he finished softly.

  With a heavy heart, Marrok did as his father asked. He took his seven-year-old brother by the hand and ignoring the small boy’s protestations, silently led him away.

  UNCLE DRAKEN

  Ædelmær chuckled to himself at the sight of his two boys as they swung their arms in unison and skipped behind him.

  ‘Come on, you two, we have things to do,’ he said, gently pushing the boys ahead of him and into the forest surrounding Arrom.

  The clearing before them permitted practice in the art of swordplay out of sight of Godwen, and if they practised well, he would reward them with tales of glorious battle between witches and wizards, of dragons, and most importantly of the gods, the former to be kept strictly between them of course.

  ‘Right boys, if you recall, I told you that our ancestors date back to when time began, to when the gods created man and all the other races and creatures, aside from the trolls, goblins and orcs, that is,’ Ædelmær began. ‘You will remember that I told you that the gods favoured our family, among several others, and blessed them with certain magical gifts to be called upon by the gods for use as they saw fit.’

  ‘Oh, you mean like when Coinin can find me with just his mind?’ Marrok asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly right.’ Ædelmær beamed. ‘I want to prepare you for a time when the gods may call and request your help. As we do not yet know what your gift is, Marrok, I have a game in mind. We know Coinin can find you with his thoughts, though can you find Coinin with just your mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried,’ Marrok replied.

  ‘Well, there’s no time like the present,’ Ædelmær said. ‘Coinin, go and hide somewhere and make sure that you cannot be seen. Think hard about where you are. Marrok, I want you to focus your mind only on Coinin. Really think about him, and only him.’

  Ædelmær looked up and saw Coinin still standing there and picking his nose. ‘Why are you still here, boy? Get off with you and hide. And how many times have I told you not to do that?’

  Coinin stuck his tongue out and ran into the trees.

  ‘All right, Marrok, close your eyes, make your mind go blank just as I have taught Coinin. Now, really focus on your brother, imagine in your mind’s eye that he has left you a trail to follow and that you need to flush him out.’

  Marrok closed his bright blue eyes and tried to make his mind go blank.

  After a minute he slapped his sides in frustration and opened them again. ‘It’s not working.’

 
; ‘It won’t work if you keep talking,’ Ædelmær whispered into his ear.

  Marrok jumped in shock at the proximity of his father and shut his eyes tight. He was determined to make it work so his father might allow him to play with the swords. He thought hard on the location of his brother and tried to picture him, what he looked like, that silly expression he wore. Almost immediately the depiction of a stone footpath appeared in front of him, strangely lit and yet inviting. The image rushed at him and nearly overwhelmed him. He fought back the urge to open his eyes. He decided to follow the footpath and set off. As he walked with his eyes still closed, the path led him true.

  ‘That’s it; you’re doing well, concentrate,’ said Ædelmær proudly.

  ‘I can’t concentrate if you keep telling me to concentrate,’ said Marrok through gritted teeth.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just so exciting to see your gift on display.’

  Marrok again closed his eyes and permitted the sensation of rushing water to envelop him. Moments later, the image of the footpath rushed up to meet him once again. The path, however, had changed from one of stone to a gleaming white marble. He was again compelled to walk along the pathway. Outside of the vision, Ædelmær merely followed his son along the forest floor, unaware they were headed along a set path.

  Marrok never set a foot wrong; his eyes were closed, yet he avoided many obstacles and the odd fallen tree trunk with ease. The vision provided not only a path to Coinin but also one that skirted flora and fauna within the forest.

  A new impression flashed before him. It was almost like he was looking through the eyes of his brother. However, the image was blurred, and he had the sense he was underwater and began to gasp for air in panic. His brother was in the lake alone. He woke from his vision with a start and his arms flailed as if drowning.

  ‘Da, he’s at the lake. I think he’s in the water,’ said Marrok worriedly.

  Ædelmær took a sharp intake of breath and checked his bearings. ‘Marrok, this way, quickly.’

  Both he and Marrok tore through the undergrowth and took the shortest path possible back to the lake. Shortly after they broke through the trees directly opposite it.

  They both scanned the water for signs of the small boy. Worryingly he was nowhere to be found.

  ‘Marrok, you go left, I’ll go right. Find him!’.

  Marrok sprinted along the lakeshore, eager to spot signs of his brother, though not even a ripple from a light breeze seemed to disturb the surface.

  Ædelmær began to tear off his boots to jump into the lake when a small voice behind him stopped him dead.

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you see.’

  Ædelmær whirled around and scooped Coinin into his arms, and with a hug, crushed the air from the small boy’s lungs. After several moments he gently lowered him to the floor and knelt before him.

  ‘Never, ever do that to me again. I thought you had drowned,’ Ædelmær scolded.

  Coinin was close to tears. ‘I was joking.’

  ‘It is no joke to make your brother believe you are in danger.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Coinin. His head hung low, and tears flowed.

  Ædelmær could not stay angry with the boy for too long, and his heart melted at the sight of his tears. ‘I should think so. I have half a mind not to allow you to visit the feast tonight,’ he said more softly.

  ‘No, please, I must go. All my friends will be there,’ Coinin pleaded.

  Ædelmær relented at his son’s anguish. ‘Fine, you may go, though, you have not heard the last of this.’

  ❖

  Coinin awoke with a yell and sweat poured from his brow. He panted uncontrollably and clasped his head in sweaty hands as his body shook. He looked to where his brother lay and heard him snore soundly. The dreams had grown stronger each day, more detailed, yet, always the same dream. It described the nightmare of events that occurred just hours before his parents’ deaths.

  Coinin clambered out of his cot and stumbled to the small window through which a soft moonlight bathed the room. He gazed out at the night sky, comforted by the presence of Er’ath’s sisters Rol’as and Tal in the vast darkness, aware that the gods looked down on him.

  His features had changed this last year and had taken on a more manly shape. Coinin, now seventeen years old, had lived with his Uncle Draken since the deaths of his parents some ten years previous. He and Marrok had arrived at their uncle’s house in the dead of night while their uncle slept. Draken had barely batted an eyelid before welcoming them.

  He had questioned their arrival and learnt of the attack on the village while he dressed Marrok’s wound, and without further hesitation, he had ordered the boys to stay put and set out on horseback to Arrom.

  Draken had ridden hard and arrived quickly. He was shocked at the scene that met him. Survivors of the assault by the Madorine had laid out the dead in long rows to bury them en masse.

  After speaking with several people, he was told by a gravedigger that the Madorine had attacked over Elder Rangsan’s failure to supply the clans with fish as agreed, in return for their assistance the winter before.

  Over half of the dwellings in the village were now smoking piles of rubble, and orphaned children scoured the remains in a vain search for loved ones.

  He raced to his brother’s farmhouse and noticed the lifeless body of Ædelmær immediately. He reined in the horse outside of the enclosure and dismounted quickly. He rushed to his brother and knew before he even got there that it was too late. Sinking to his knees, he cradled the lifeless body in his arms and wept.

  He buried the bodies of Ædelmær and Godwen beneath a large oak tree they would play under with their children, and spoke nothing of this to Coinin or Marrok. Even though they asked repeatedly, his answer was always the same. ‘Your parents are dead, now leave it.’

  Life throughout the years had been tough yet fair. Uncle Draken had, of course, welcomed them to his home only to promptly set them backbreaking chores. The boys, however, did not complain; as a treat, Draken would work them hard in the art of swordsmanship, and like their father, he taught them basic magical arts. They were both well spoken and educated to a high degree.

  Every day they spent upwards of four hours learning to thrust and parry, slice and dodge, without a break, and the rest of the time was spent in study, much to Marrok’s annoyance.

  Marrok, Draken noted, was adept at swordplay and would astound him with his feats of cunning. Often Draken would find himself, to his chagrin, pinned to the ground, a sword point at his throat.

  Not all was pleasant in their new home, however, as Draken would punish them severely for any wrongdoing, or if they failed a task he had set. Marrok and Coinin were no strangers to the lash. The past week had thankfully seen no such punishment, as their uncle seemed distracted.

  Coinin felt a connection to his brother Marrok, one stronger than any he had ever felt. He sensed the feelings of his brother and knew in his heart that Marrok screamed for revenge, his bloodlust high since the murder of his parents. Marrok did not know from whom to exact his retribution, so he blamed the only being he could: Rindor, the King of the Gods, to the dismay of the devout Coinin.

  A light flickered in the distance and caught Coinin’s attention as he stared out of the window. A figure dressed in black headed towards the house carrying a fiery torch.

  Coinin expected danger and was immediately on guard. However, as the man drew close and removed the hood of his cloak, Coinin recognised his uncle. The stoop and cruel face gave him away.

  He was tall, yet stooped with age, and wiry with dark sunken eyes. He had grey hair tied in a ponytail, though, what set him apart from most men were his long pointed nails that he often used as a punishment.

  Where had his uncle been at this hour? It was at least three in the morning, judging by the moon’s position. Coinin quickly returned to his cot and pretended to sleep just moments before his uncle opened the cottage door. The boy sensed there was something unusual i
n his uncle’s actions and peeked between his eyelids to try and get a better idea of why Draken had acted so oddly this past week. He saw the dark shape of Draken approach a locked cupboard, take a key from a string around his neck and unlock it. He placed a small round object wrapped in cloth inside, and then carefully locked the cupboard once more.

  Draken took a quick look around at the sleeping boys to make sure they had not moved or observed his actions and then lay down on his own cot. Minutes later he added to the snores in the room and slept soundly until cockcrow.

  ❖

  Coinin awoke the next morning to Jip the wolfhound licking his face with a big slobbery tongue and breath so foul it could knock a man dead at three paces.

  ‘Get off me, you beast,’ laughed Coinin, as he attempted to push the mighty hound off him.

  Jip immediately thought this a game and leapt on the boy with his crushing weight. Coinin struggled with the dog until Marrok sat up bleary-eyed and saw that Jip was squashing his younger brother. He smiled with a shake of his head and came to the rescue. He lifted the large animal off the small boy who had very nearly turned blue.

  Marrok had grown into a strong man of twenty, muscular and tanned from hours of practising sword techniques in the open air. Coinin, on the other hand, was naturally thin and pale. He practised like his brother, though Draken’s teachings for him focused more on the magical arts and study of religion and culture.

  ‘Go on, get out of it, you smelly oaf,’ Marrok ordered as he opened the cottage door.

  Jip lifted a leg and let a warm stream of urine splatter the doorframe. Despite his advanced age, he was ill-trained and still behaved like a pup.

  Marrok turned to his brother. ‘You’d better clean that before Draken sees it.’

  ‘But it’s your turn,’ Coinin retorted.