the Acquisition of Swords (the New Age Saga Book 1) Read online

  the

  Acquisition

  of

  Swords

  Book 1 of the New Age Saga

  Timothy Ray

  Also by Timothy Ray

  The New Age Saga:

  The Acquisition of Swords

  Pure of Heart

  Phoenix Rising

  Prophecy

  Coalescence

  Rotting Souls:

  Charon’s Blight: Day One

  Charon’s Blight: Day Two

  Charon’s Debt

  The Acquisition of Swords

  A Ray Publishing Book/ May 2017

  Published by

  Ray Publishing

  Tucson, AZ

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2017 by Timothy Ray

  Do not do it to me,

  It is horrible.

  I said I would do it,

  I was not being serious.

  I tried to stop it.

  I encouraged people

  To do it the other way,

  But they did it the easier way.

  They destroyed it!

  Said I to the Old Ones,

  Out there,

  In what was left of the Earth.

  -Samantha Millan

  “Who is to Blame?

  for Mandy

  Prologue

  “Ye cannae keep me haur forever! If ye dornt free me, yoo’ll die!” screamed the angry dwarf, spit flying, drool dripping down the corners of his mouth. He had long oily brown hair, most of which was dangling in his face, eyes darting between strands to glare at his captors.

  Three men hovered outside the door to his cell, one of them nursing a wound on his right arm. They had once again tried to force wine down his throat in an attempt to sedate him and he had bitten one of the guards who had stupidly come too close. The pleasure he felt when his teeth sank into the man’s flesh was exquisite; he wanted more. Delight danced in the prisoner’s wild eyes at the sight of blood trickling onto the floor.

  He inhaled, prepared to let loose a horde of new obscenities, but the air suddenly rushed out of him in a cloud of putrid funk; an unscheduled reprieve for his fellow captors. His mouth hung loose, as if words were still coming, but there was no voice issuing forth. A long sliver of drool broke free and fell to the puddle below. The short man’s face contorted as the corners of his mouth lifted into a devilish grin.

  The door had opened at last.

  Through it walked an enormous guard smacking a club against his palm, eyes shifting to the prisoner dangling from the dungeon wall. The man grinned at him, an eyebrow raised.

  “Is ‘at fur me?” the dwarf grinned happily. The lunatic broke into laughter, his eyes darting from side to side. Madness made him cunning and dangerous, a rabid animal on a tenuous leash. He waited for the guard to enter, so he might get a taste of him as well, feet pounding the stone wall behind him, propelling his hips forward in a ghastly display of sexual arousal. His tongue licked the blood off his lips in anticipation.

  “The club is for after,” sneered the guard, as he slowly walked to the bars of the cell, hand upon one, the club swinging softly at the man’s side.

  The mad dwarf stopped and stared in confusion. Why did he have to wait?

  The guard’s face broke into a wider smile. “After all, we can’t have anyone recognizing what’s left of you.”

  The dwarf’s heart beat harder in his chest, face flushing, eyes nearly bulging out of his eye sockets as he struggled against his chains. “Ah daur ye tae try it, I’ll eat whit wee brains ye hae in ‘at thick skull ay yoors, an’ jobby ye it fur a week!”

  Footfalls could be heard from the stairway beyond as Clint came into view, his long brown hair bouncing with every step. He held himself stiff, as if he himself were royalty about to pronounce sentence. “I hear that you have been stirring up the rats,” the newcomer sneered, glaring at those imprisoned in the adjacent cells. The man wore a dark maroon shirt and a belt that held up a pair of black pants. A black cloak with maroon trim was draped across the man’s shoulders, his dark brown eyes sweeping the criminals pressed against the cell bars in the adjacent cells, eyes on the scene unraveling before them.

  They cowered and retreated into the shadows under the man’s glare.

  “Aam nae afraid ay ye! If ye kill me, she’ll fin’ ye an’ torture ye! Yoo’ll be far waur than me! Yoo’ll hae wished yoo’d died in mah place!” roared the madness within; spit flying anew as the lunatic struggled against the shackles holding him in place.

  The guard swung the door open and Clint stepped through it with a silent grace, coming face to face with the dwarf hanging on the wall. “Is that right?” he glared at the filthy creature, nose twitching at the smell; an insane light burning in his eyes.

  “She will fin’ ye, cuik ye, an’ ‘en feed ye tae th’ Jackyls! They hae micht appetites an’ loove th’ taste ay asshole in th’ morn!” The dwarf exclaimed, breaking into fresh cackles.

  Clint’s eyes twinkled. “What makes you think she gives a rat’s ass about you?” Quicker than the eye could track, a dagger had appeared in his hand and had flashed across the dwarf’s throat, slicing it cleanly.

  With a flick of his wrist, it disappeared as if never existed.

  He remained before the dying prisoner, watching the life slowly leak from the precise wound. The crazy little man was unable to rant and rave any longer. True fear had finally snaked its way into the dwarf’s mind and the short stumpy legs began to convulse in their final death throes. Confused that his life was ending, that her promise to come for him would not be fulfilled, he sagged and went into oblivion.

  A leg still twitched and Clint let him hang there a moment longer, watching the eyes dull as life departed. He took a deep breath; enjoying the moment.

  Then he straightened, reminded that there was an audience. “After you finish with it, burn it,” he told the guard with the club.

  Taking pleasure in the newfound silence. Clint gave the corpse one last glance, then turned towards the steps leading to the keep above. “And dispose of the witnesses, we don’t need any more of that dwarf’s madness infecting the populace. They are riled up enough as it is.”

  The prisoners in the other cells exclaimed in fear, their limbs trembling as they backed against the walls, eyes wide, mouths quivering.

  “Gladly,” the guard answered and stepped towards the dwarf’s corpse; club raised high.

  Chapter 1

  Dark Tidings

  I

  A sudden flash of daylight snapped him back to reality. Tristan had been lost in thought, his feet automatically following the trail before him. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was nearing the forest’s edge. He threw up his right hand in an attempt to block the searing rays, but it only made things worse. The light, focused into daggers, pierced the space between his outstretched fingers and speared his mind. His eyes had been adjusted to the gloom of the forest and stung like hell as his irises raced to cut off the flood of light that had instantly blinded him to his surroundings. Closing them didn’t help, the pulsing sun left an orange afterglow that caused his head to ache even more.

  “Son of a…,” he gasped in pain.

  His foot caught on something and he pitched forward. He struggled to regain his footing, right hand shooting out to brace for impact. Luck was with him, as he managed to come to a stop and slowly regained his balance. His wrist was sore from slamming into a tree, but if it kept him from going headfirst into the hard foot-worn path…

  He took a breath, steadied himself, and then started forward once more.

  Gratefully, a tree cut the afternoon light from
his sight and allowed his mind the chance to recover from the vicious assault it had suffered. He absent-mindedly reached out and patted it as he walked past. Though, there was a setback to the relief the tree had provided; it had virtually blinded him, as once more, his eyes strained to adjust to the world around him.

  He sighed and shook his head. Best to make the best out of the quick respite and prepare for another onslaught he knew was coming.

  He had traveled this well-worn path many times over the years while hunting with his brother and his subconscious altered course as needed while he recovered his sight. He ducked as a familiar branch came at his already pounding head. No need to make things worse than they already were.

  He enjoyed the quiet that accompanied these hunting trips—but little else.

  His father had been taking John hunting since he was a little boy, but the older man’s declining health made it hard for him to get out of bed, much less go hunting with his sons. He had insisted that John go, and as his brother had grown accustomed to having an audience, Tristan had been drafted to go along as well.

  He went through the motions, but his heart wasn’t in it. Hunting had never appealed to him. He preferred a good book to a sword and rarely used the bow he had strapped to his back. Still, as much as he hated it, it was preferable to the chaos that surrounded the palace lately.

  He had needed a break.

  Enjoying the serenity of the world around him, he took a deep breath and listened to the soft wind flowing through the trees. There was a stream nearby and the sound of water trickling by had a soothing effect on his soul. Given enough time, he might have gotten his headache to abate, but unfortunately, his relief was short-lived.

  John’s voice thundered from a short distance ahead, shattering the inner calm he had been reaching for. Birds stopped their song at the intrusion and he was ripped from his drifting thoughts instantly. His older brother was impatient to get home; Tristan was holding him up.

  He chanced a glance in his brother’s direction and found that his eyes had already begun adjusting to the lighter surroundings. The sight of the forests’ edge startled him. How long had he been spacing out? He emerged from the trees and stepped into the warm dying light of dusk; wondering where the day had gone.

  The setting sun tinted the surrounding countryside in dark orange, warning that its presence was at an end. The encroaching shadows fought the weakening light for ground, spreading its dark tendrils greedily upon the Earth’s surface. Yet, there was still enough light to see the glower on his brother’s face, making him wince. John stood on the incline ahead, his imposing figure towering over the younger sibling; impatience self-evident in the older boy’s stance.

  In contrast, the two couldn’t be more different. They had similar facial features that distinguished them as brothers, but that was where the resemblance ended. John had taken after their father. His hardened face had been stripped of its youth by the duties and responsibilities as the first-born Prince of Lancaster. The older boy’s long brown hair was loose upon his shoulders and it flowed freely in the soft afternoon breeze. John’s brow was prominent, lips stern, and he bore a square chin. The cheekbones were pronounced before the piercing brown eyes. He wore a black vest, brown jerkin, and dark green shorts that barely hid his soiled knees. The elder prince was over six-feet tall, broad shouldered, and the well-toned muscular arms glistened in the fading light. It was a ragged appearance, but the elder’s stance exuded pride and confidence. A deer was draped over one shoulder, having already been cleaned before their journey home.

  The dead creature’s glassy eyes stared at him in silent accusation; forcing the youth to lower his gaze in remorse.

  He felt tiny in his older brother’s presence. Tristan was of average height and scrawny. His own brown hair was cut short on top with a long ponytail hanging down his back. He bore no facial hair; he didn’t have the need to shave yet. His own brown eyes were a window into his soul; one of the many things he had inherited from his mother. He had her slender face and jawline, as well as her quiet disposition. He wore similar attire; but it was filled with a withdrawn intellect and not carried off as efficiently. The innocence within was apparent and he felt withered under his brother’s glare. They both wore quivers with sheaved bows, and John fingered the shaft of an arrow absently as they faced off in silence.

  After a moment, his brother growled, making him wince once more, then turned to the path they’d been following. “Quit dragging ass! You can go back to daydreaming when we get home!”

  “You’re the one that wanted me to come along,” he muttered under his breath as he took a step to follow after.

  “What was that?” John asked, glaring in his direction.

  He almost missed a step as he stuttered, “nothing.”

  “That’s what I thought,” his brother snapped, eyes boring into him. Then he shook his head and began his steady march down the path once more; not looking to see if Tristan was following after. The path snaked around the occasional boulder, but would soon even out as it joined the road east towards the fortress of Lancaster; their home.

  There was no point in arguing; his brother would not be slowed. He was determined to keep a brisk pace, as if this were a forced infantry march, rather than a pleasurable hunting trip. He could try and explain that he wasn’t ready to reenter the chaos that was the palace, but to what end? John would readily drag him back into the turmoil, even if it meant throwing him over the other shoulder and carrying him next to the bloodied deer carcass.

  He shuddered at the thought.

  Movement caught his eye and his legs ground to a halt. He turned his head and tried to spy the source of the distraction, eyes searching their barely lit surroundings. He looked along the path to the adjacent boulders on both sides, but he couldn’t pinpoint anything out of the ordinary. The only sound he could distinguish over the thundering footfalls of his brother was the rustling of tall grass in the wind.

  Yet, he felt eyes on him, watching from the encroaching darkness, and a shudder ran up his spine.

  “Let’s go! I’m hungry and dinner will be cold by the time we get there!” came the familiar boom of his brother’s voice.

  He jerked at the sudden outburst, looked for a second more, then shook his head and continued forward. He still felt like he was being watched, but he tried to shrug it off by forcing a smirk and diverting his thoughts.

  “Like there’s any chance of that!” he snapped before he could stop himself. “If it was me, I’d be eating cold food at the cook’s table. But if you’re late, the entire palace will wait with bated breath for your return before even putting potatoes to boil!”

  “Want some cheese to go with that whine?” his brother returned, barely within earshot.

  He wrinkled his nose as he yelled, “I would, actually, but all the wine gets drank celebrating your return and the rest of us are stuck with that nasty Grog the Dwarves make!”

  As the second born prince of Lancaster, he had grown accustomed to the neglect that came from not being the heir to the throne. He was invisible to most, able to blend into his surroundings with quiet ease, and unless he did something completely stupid; was completely ignored. And while it could be a pain at times, the feeling of being so insignificant that you had to scream at the top of your lungs to get noticed, it was also a blessing in that he had freedom and less responsibilities than his brother had to deal with.

  John’s birthday was a holiday; celebrated yearly by the populace of the castle. Whereas his own birth had brought a gasp of despair. The kingdom had experienced a civil war during his father’s early reign and the entire kingdom had feared that another was on the horizon. They just didn’t realize that he had no aspirations for the life his brother would lead.

  He knew the history quite well; his tutors constantly drilled in him the horrors that the previous war had wrought. Two boys had been born to his grandfather William. They had been raised as equals, neither shown preference as to who would someday
rule in their father’s stead.

  It was a mistake his father would always regret and refused to repeat.

  When his grandfather had passed, his father Constantine had assumed the throne as the rightful heir. His uncle Richard, though a year younger than his brother, put forth his own claim and split the kingdom in two. Both had their supporters and soon open conflict over the crown ensued.

  After an ugly and devastating war, Richard had been defeated. Against the advice of his father’s supporters, who wanted his brother executed, his father exiled Richard from his ancestral home for the remainder of his days. It was a mercy that everyone knew that Constantine wouldn’t have received had the roles been reversed. Richard had been thrown out on his ass while the men that had followed him were sent to the gallows in his place.

  The pain was still fresh in the minds of the common folk when Tristan emerged from his mother’s womb, and they had watched him with wary eyes ever since. As a result, he had no formal training like John in how to run a kingdom, had no influence at court, and was rarely schooled in the ways of war. Instead, he had retreated into his books and tried to stay out of the glaring eyes of the populace.

  It had lightened a bit with his early betrothal to a princess from the neighboring kingdom of Griedlok. His father had been able to soothe the fears of his people by providing the promise of his eventual “exile” as well. It seemed like a strong way to view it, but that was exactly what it amounted to. He had awaited his first meeting with his betrothed filled with dread, feeling like it was an enforced prison sentence.

  He was not prepared for what came next.

  When the little elven girl drew back her cowl, he was taken aback by how beautiful and exotic she was, even at a young age. Her soft-spoken demeanor combined with the intelligent wit flaring in her eyes, won him over instantly. The kingdom had sighed with relief when it became evident to all that he had fallen hopelessly in love with her.