Lost gods, p.1
Lost Gods, page 1
Lost Gods
The Brotherhood of the Eagle Book 3
Tim Hardie
TJH Publications UK
Copyright © 2022 Tim Hardie
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-8381824-4-1
Cover design by Anne Hudson
For May Stapleton
Map Of Laskar
Author's Note
Welcome to the third instalment of The Brotherhood of the Eagle series and the adventure set in the disputed lands of Laskar. At the back of this book you'll find a list, summarising the major and minor characters of the story, as well as their houses and their relationship to one another, which you may find useful.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map Of Laskar
Author's Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Epilogue
Character List
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Hardly able to sleep with excitement that night, I woke early and rushed to the window, where I was greeted by the morning sun glittering off the flat waters of the Redfars Sea. Father kept his promise and Brunn Fourwinds, captain of Marl’s Pride, welcomed us warmly on board. His crew scurried around him, making the ship ready. The great longship of fifty oars had been built by my father for one purpose – to strike fear and wage war on our rival clans. As its sail, emblazoned with the eagle of the Reavesburg Clan, unfurled and caught the wind we seemed to fly over the waves with each beat of the oars. We headed east down the widening estuary of the River Jelt, Reavesburg’s wooden walls and the stone towers of Ulfkell’s Keep rapidly receding from view.
“You’ve lived up to your name this morning, Brunn!” Father remarked.
“Aye, Culdaff favours us, and no mistake,” said Brunn, a wide white-toothed, amiable grin splitting his beard. The laws of Reave clearly stated the Laskan Clans turn their backs on the gods, following their failure that led to the War of the Avatars. However, sailors like Brunn still offered up their traditional prayers to Culdaff, avatar of the air and winds, and Nanquido, avatar of the waters and the seas. “So, what’ll it be? The north coast to Kalamar or south to Romsdahl?”
“Neither,” my father laughed. “Let’s take her out into the open water and show the boy real seamanship.”
I ran freely about the deck with my friend Bram, Brunn’s son, both of us as at home on the water as on dry land. Brunn Fourwinds bellowed orders and his crew swiftly ran to obey his commands. My father looked on with satisfaction as the shore receded behind us and soon we were surrounded by the Redfars Sea, with only a few noisy crows wheeling about high in the sky for company.
“Which way lies Riltbalt, Son?” my father asked as he clapped a cold hand on my shoulder. The question was an easy one and I grinned as I pointed east across the blue sea, imagining a distant coast I had never seen where the rival Riltbalt Clan’s territory lay. I could see from the look Brunn exchanged with his son Bram that I was right. My father nodded in approval. “So you’ll have no trouble telling me where Vorund lies.”
“South,” I laughed, though I felt a little uneasy. The Vorund Clan were our fiercest enemies, frequently raiding on our shores. “Father, you don’t mean to set sail that far south, do you?” Seeing my worried expression, my father smiled.
“It’s too late for that, Son. The Vorund Clan serve Adalrikr Asmarrson, Kinslayer and King of the North. He’s a fearsome foe and not one to trifle with.”
Brunn nodded in agreement. “Aye, but that didn’t stop your thick-skulled brother attacking Viskanir, did it? If he’d only done the sensible thing and sworn fealty to Adalrikr then Tyrfingr Blackeyes would never have attacked Noln in revenge for his defiance. My son would still be alive.”
Bram stepped forwards, his sandy head bowed. When he looked up at me he was older and I saw him as a young man in his teens, freckles standing out on his pale face, eyes staring blankly from the death mask he wore when I found him on the beaches of Noln in the aftermath of the battle. I gasped, taking a step backwards and turned to look at my father. His face was distorted, slack on one side, just as it had been in the weeks before his death. He was stretched out on the decks of Marl’s Pride, his broken body wrapped in thick furs.
“I left you too soon,” he mumbled, words slow and half-formed. “Left you and Jorik as boys with a man’s burdens and troubles. And look where it led you.”
“Cost me my head,” added Brunn, pulling back the collar on his tunic to reveal the red cut encircling his neck, dark blood pouring from the wound.
“You traded my life for yours, by a hair’s breadth,” accused Bram, words cold and rimed with frost.
My eyes filled with tears as my hand moved to my neck, fingertips tracing the thin scar left by the fletching of Tyrfingr Blackeyes’ arrow. He had missed his mark at Noln and found Bram instead, leaving him dying in front of me as he bled out over the yellow sand. I backed away from the scene, drawing my cloak around me. The wind had died, Marl’s Pride becalmed on the Redfars Sea beneath the bright blue sky. The oarsmen all sat idle on their benches, heads bowed in silence. A powerfully-built man turned slowly and fixed his gaze upon me and I looked into the face of my late brother, Jorik, his eyes red with grief.
“My wife and son are dead,” he whispered, blood dripping onto the deck from the stab wounds covering his body. Next to Jorik his wife Reesha sat nursing their murdered boy, Kolfinnar, blood soaking into Reesha’s clothes from where Blackeyes had opened her throat.
“I’m sorry.” It was all I could think to say.
“Tyrfingr told me you betrayed us,” said Jorik. “You confessed as much in the Great Hall before the elders. Why? Why did you betray me? I loved you, Rothgar. You were my brother and this is how you repay me?”
I shook my head, retreating from their accusing eyes. “That’s not true. I only confessed under torture – you have to believe me, I never betrayed my family.”
Another of the oarsmen looked up and my grizzled old weapons master, Olfridor, spoke. “You had the makings of a great warrior, Rothgar. You would have been a fine jarl, serving your brother wisely when the time came for Finnvidor Einarrson to step aside.”
Finnvidor, solemn-faced and serious as ever, even in death, shook his head. “No, you’re wrong. Where this young man walks, death follows.”
The rest of the crew turned to stare at me and I found myself looking into the faces of all the fallen members of the Brotherhood of the Eagle. Rugga and Patrick, amiable Ragni, Old Gunnar, the Flint cousins. When I looked at Brandr I could hear the sounds of his widow, Maeva, weeping as she mourned. And there were more, the rows of dead oarsmen stretching back as far as I could see – a host of half-forgotten faces of those who had fallen for our cause. I wanted to run but there was nowhere to go, the still waters of the Redfars Sea encircling Marl’s Pride. The crew of the dead began to murmur, their breath smoking cold as it chilled the air.
“Traitor.”
“Arrogant fool.”
“Murderer.”
At the stern of the longship one man remained slumped over the oar across his knees, wrapped in a dark cloak. I took a hesitant step, trying to block out the growing noise of the crew as I approached. I recognised him even before he lifted his head.
“I’m no traitor,” I said. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
The Weeping Warrior, the shade of Sinarr left behind when his life was stolen by the durath, stood and reached out his hand, placing it on my shoulder. Tears ran down his face from his blind eyes and I realised he would mourn those slain by Adalrikr’s treachery until the River of Time ceased its flow.
“These words come from your heart, not theirs. Your doubts cloud the truth of what is happening in the realm of the Real and beyond. You need to set your misgivings aside and hear what I need to tell you, before it’s too late.”
Silence. I turned and the longship was empty except for a figure standing next to the dragon-shaped prow. The sun was in my eyes and I held up my hand to shield them, bringing the dark shape of Tyrfingr Blackeyes into sharp relief. Adalrikr’s jarl, the man now sitting in Reave’s Chair in my old family home, swept his long, dark hair away from his face and drew a black-fletched arrow from the quiver by his side. He raised his bow and levelled it at me, drawing the string tight.
“I won’t miss a second time,” Tyrfingr said moments before releasing the arrow, sending it hissing through the air, unerringly towards my heart.
Chapter 1
I cried out in the darkness. Something was wrapped around me, pinning my arms to my chest. I thrashed from side to side, struggling to free myself and fell, landing hard. I lay there for a few moments, trying to gather my thoughts, my face pressed into the rush matting on the floor. I wrestled free of the blankets and ran a hand across my face, which was wet with tears. I could still see the faces of the dead. I missed my family so much and another sob wrenched itself free, a ripple of pain running up my back as I involuntarily moved my aching muscles.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark of my bed chambers in Romsdahl Castle I could make out the glowing red embers of the fire. Even though it was summer I shivered as I moved carefully towards the light until my bare feet felt the soft Oomrhani rug in front of the fireplace. I squatted down, hugging my bony knees against my chest, ignoring my body’s protests as I rolled my shoulders to free up the knots and ease the pain running down my back. I placed another log onto the fire and watched as flames began to greedily lick around the wood. I stretched out my hands towards the glow, the welcome warmth touching my fingers. I still felt cold, a chill nestling in my heart and I rubbed the place where Tyrfingr’s arrow would have struck had I not woken. I sat there, watching the log burn and the dream slowly began to fade, leaving me alone in the darkness.
***
At dawn one of the servants in Gautarr Falrufson’s household brought food to break my fast. I ate the warm black bread and porridge with little enthusiasm, hardly tasting my meal as I washed it down with weak, watered wine. I was exhausted, a sense of dread settling over me as I thought about the day ahead. Joldir had once told me that when he forged a runeblade a piece of his soul went into each one. There was always a price for using magic. Now Joldir lay in the hospital, weak with fever as Arissa tended to his broken hands and, in his absence, Johan had appointed me as his artificer. I was a poor replacement but I knew the runes of warding and imprisonment by heart, so I had been put to use painting them inside Romsdahl Castle. After a week of work those symbols were all I could see by the end of the day, the black script swirling before me, even when I closed my eyes.
Outside I was met by Faraldr and Svafa, two warriors of the Brotherhood of the Eagle. After the battle of Romsdahl Johan had scoured the battlefield to find the weapons belonging to the fallen members of the Brotherhood. Joldir had worked tirelessly in the days leading up to the confrontation with Vorund’s army, ensuring each blade carried by the Brotherhood bore at least three runes of power, making them too valuable to lose. Johan gifted some of the runeblades they recovered to Gautarr’s warriors, a gesture that united the houses of the Reavesburg Clan still defying Adalrikr Kinslayer.
“Rothgar. You look tired,” Faraldr said by way of greeting. The young warrior was one of the few surviving men from Johan Jokellsward’s house of Kalamar, long since destroyed by Adalrikr’s forces.
I nodded, glancing at Svafa, the runeblade of Old Gunnar hanging at his side. The Romsdahl warrior smiled, his crooked nose bent to one side of his face. Through the Sight I’d shared his experiences in the recent battle and felt a connection with the warrior, although the young man was completely unaware he possessed the gift.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I replied. “Let’s get started.”
Clutching my brushes and paint we made our way towards Gautarr’s feasting hall. Johan insisted two of the Brotherhood guarded me day and night. With Joldir injured I was the only person who could ward the castle and keep its occupants safe from the shadow spirits. After witnessing the dark magic wielded by the Vorund Clan, Gautarr insisted his family and warriors were protected. Johan had brought the portable runestones used to shield our camp during the long journey to the castle. However, Romsdahl Castle was far harder to secure and, when it became clear Joldir’s recovery would take time, Johan asked for my help.
I had carefully painted the runes onto the main gates and doorways of the castle and I was now halfway through creating the intricate inscriptions around the doors and windows of the feasting hall. The durath had made no move against us since the battle, though I had no doubt they were present in the city of Romsdahl. Warding the castle to protect the Brotherhood was a necessary precaution. However, the work took its toll, sapping more of my energy each day.
As the morning wore on I could sense Svafa and Faraldr’s frustration at my slow progress. I cursed under my breath at yet another mistake, taking a damp cloth and wiping away the paint, getting ready to inscribe the warding runes perfectly once more. Faraldr and Svafa glanced at each other as they watched me start again – this was the least desirable duty for the members of the Brotherhood. Magic and religion were distrusted by the Reavesburg Clan, so people were naturally suspicious after seeing how I’d used those arts to slay Sinarr the Cold One on the battlefield. With my broken body and stooped frame I no longer carried myself as a warrior, and cripples were despised in the clan, regardless of their mighty deeds.
Laughter rang out from the far side of the hall and I looked up, welcoming the distraction. Bandor entered arm in arm with his new bride, Freydja while his father, Johan, the Reavesburg Clan battle chief, followed in his footsteps, deep in conversation with Gautarr. Behind them came Damona, Johan’s wife, and Jora, the wife of Gautarr. They were guarded by more warriors of the Brotherhood, including Svan and Jolinn, their eyes watchful. Last night’s dream about my lost childhood home stirred my memories as I looked at the newly-wedded couple. As the chief’s son I’d been betrothed to Freydja, Gautarr’s niece, since childhood. It was a strange thought that, had I not been tortured and broken at the hands of Tyrfingr Blackeyes after Ulfkell’s Keep fell, I might now be looking at my wife. I reflected on how the life I once imagined for myself was gone forever and, distracted, black paint dripped from my paintbrush onto the stonework, also spattering the knees of my woollen breeches. A cornerstone of the treaty between the rival houses of Romsdahl and Kalamar was Gautarr’s agreement Johan could claim Ulfkell’s Keep, my former home, when the Vorund Clan were defeated and driven from our lands. Bandor saw me for the first time and smiled, running his hands through his bright red hair as the group approached.
“I’m not sure I like it,” commented Gautarr, twisting his thick neck as he appraised the dark, flowing script decorating his hall. “This is my ancestral home – now one look at these wards is enough to turn my stomach.”
I knew what Gautarr meant, though his words stung. When finished the runes took on a life of their own, their forms twisting and swirling as if alive when seen from the corner of your eye. If I spent too long in the hall I felt sick, so I tended to take most of my meals in my chambers, where the single ward on the outside of my door was tolerable enough.
“A necessity if your family is to be protected,” Johan replied.
