I started my third book like a year ago, but have only visited it every now-and-then. I'm pressing to finish it soon. This story is burning in my mind, and needs to be put down on paper. Here's the first chapter.
Chapter 1
Boom.
Fayern sat in
front of his father’s massive, freshly sealed tomb thinking.
Boom.
Why had his father
left him to this awful fate? He had been
forced to live away from the dwarves for centuries. Forced to live with the humans. To eat with them. To breathe their air. Forced to learn their language. To learn their history. To study in their schools. Forced to learn their culture. To lose his own heritage, and assimilate himself
into their society.
Boom.
And for what? So he could come home and have his birthright
given to one of them.
Boom.
With his father’s
dying breath he proclaimed that he had no heir, no son, no one to whom he could
pass the age old, royal dwarven magic.
No one worthy to carry the Bromheider line of magic to the next
generation. Instead, he gave the magic
to that boy.
Boom.
That
cursed boy!
How could he, after
all Fayern had sacrificed? Fayern didn’t
want to be away from his people all those years, his father had ordered it. He was, in fact, the first dwarf to do so as
far as history had told. He lived the
cursed life to make his father happy. He
had said fare-well to a love, left his brigade, and set off all alone in the
world just to make his father happy.
Boom.
Curse
his father!
Boom.
Curse
the boy!
“Prince
Fayern! Dey be almost through.”
“I
told you never again to address me that way!”
The
captain’s face reddened instantly.
“Pardon, General Fayern. But dem
blasted orcs is almost through da inner gate.”
Boom.
“Captain,
this stronghold has held for over ten thousand years. I will be very displeased if it fell today.”
The
captain blanched at the rebuke. “Aye,
General. No orc will soil dis sacred
hall whilst I still be standin’.” With a
smart salute of clapped fist to his heart, the captain was away. Away to stop the inevitable. Away to die.
“Ancestors
be cursed,” Fayern said, under his breath.
Boom.
Little
pebbles were raining down from the cavern ceiling, the ceiling which was made
thousands of years ago by the most skilled craftsmen among the dwarves. The columns alone held more detail than any
human had ever dreamed of carving into stone.
The ceiling was a tribute to the god Roagsnor; a beautiful landscape of
how he would see the world from atop his cloud in the heavens. Each tree, each animal, each blade of grass
carved to exact replica of the real world.
It was like looking down at the world from a high mountain top.
Boom.
The
statue hastily carved to mark his father’s tomb was a rugged mess in
comparison. The orcs had not ceased
their attack for pyre rites, nor gave they time to allow the dwarves to honor
their fallen king. Fayern’s father was
not burned as his ancestors, atop the great volcanic mountain. Instead, he was hastily entombed, and though
two days was plenty of time for any dwarf to carve a magnificent sculpture
which would outshine anything the wretched humans had managed to whittle out of
stone, it was nowhere near what his father deserved. King Weyburn had ruled over the dwarven
people for almost two thousand years. The
old man deserved much better, even if he had sent Fayern away.
Boom.
Even
if he had given away the Fayern’s birthright to that boy.
Why had his father
acted so foolishly? To trust a
human? It was unheard of. The Bromheider line was one of the last pure
lines among the dwarves. Fayern should
have been given the death weapon from his father. It was the way things were supposed to
be. It was the way it had always been
since the dawn of dwarves; father passed his wisdom, and the wisdom of all his
fathers before him, to son by breathing his last breath of magic into a weapon
only his son could wield. Fayern’s
father had given his death weapon to that boy, to that human boy, thus ending
the Bromheider line. Fayern would never
gain back the millennia of battle knowledge experienced by his ancestral
line. He would never wield the family’s
magic crest. He would not be able to
pass that knowledge to his own son.
Boom.
Who
was he kidding? There would be no more
Bromheiders. There would be no more dwarves. Fayern’s father had thrown away his
birthright, and in so doing, he had condemned the dwarves to failure. The boy didn’t even last one battle with
those magnificent weapons. The Phantom
Lord had taken him in his very first battle with those swords. And now, they were in the hands of that
treacherous elven princess. Only she and
the boy were keyed to the blades. Fayern
would never be able to lift his father’s swords. To him, they would be as heavy as
horses. It was the magic’s way of
protecting the family line. The line
which was now destroyed.
Boom.
As
if summoned by the thought of her, the elven princess came storming through the
doors at the other side of the vast hall.
She had his father’s swords strapped crisscrossed across her back: twin
blades as wicked as anyone could imagine.
The woman was so small and dainty, the two massive broadswords appeared
comical protruding so high above her shoulders.
If it weren’t for the magic, she would never be able to lift one, let
alone wield it in battle.
At least the magic
had not been wasted on her. After the
boy had fallen to the Phantom Lord she had retrieved the weapons and wreaked
havoc on the dark hoard. Truth be told,
it was by her efforts alone that the rest of the dwarves were even able to fall
back to the inner sanctum. She was like
death itself let loosed on the orcs.
Powered by her anger at losing the boy, she had cut them down in a wake
of destruction unlike anything Fayern had ever seen. The elven princess had killed thousands, forcing
the black clan back enough to allow the dwarves to retreat to their stronghold.
The
outer hall was now swarming with dark creatures. And Fayern was stuck in the inner sanctum with
her, and her… dark mood.
“General
Fayern,” Princess Erroyle said in a haughty tone as she came to a poignantly
stop scant inches away from the disinherited dwaven prince.
Fayern groaned
inwardly at having to have the same conversation with her, yet again.
“I demand to be
let out to face the enemy!”
“Princess,
we can’t have you throwing your life away for nothing.”
“That’s
what you said last time. I don’t recall
you complaining when I slaughtered the foul beasts in your main hall, allowing
you and your men to fall back, a second time… in one day.”
Fayern’s
ears burned at the rebuke. She had held
them back not once, but twice as the dwarves were forced to fall back again and
again. Now they were in their final
stronghold, the inner sanctum, there would be no more falling back.
She was tapping
her foot impatiently. He was tempted to
let her have her wish, to let her throw her life away in a suicidal heroic
stand against the dark hoard, but he knew that allowing her out would invite
them in. He didn’t want to risk it. Not that it would matter much. From the sound of the creaking wood, he
guessed it would be mere minutes before the enemy broke through the inner gate.
Boom.
“Princess,
I can’t afford to let the Dark Clan know about the side entrances. If any of them were to see you go out, they
would bring their mages to find a way in through the magic shields. The caves only appear to be solid walls. They are not.
The hoard would swarm around our gates, and slaughter my people. We could not retreat fast enough to save a
single dwarf. Would you want that blood on
your hands?”
Erroyle
seemed to lose some of her smolder. She
looked around at the battered dwarves trying desperately to tend to the
wounded, gather their families, and not panic in the process. Her shoulders slunk and her face contorted as
she tried to hold back desperate tears.
“You don’t understand, General. I
must get to him. You have no idea what
the Phantom Lord will do to him. I must
get to him. I’ve waited nine thousand
years for that boy. I’d given up hope on
ever having a man in my life. I can’t
let him slip through my fingers just when I found him.” Her emotions got the better of her, and the
tears started streaming down her face.
“I can’t lose him. I can’t!”
Fayern
was a little taken aback by the princess’s show of emotion. By the way she slaughtered the Dark Clan, and
her malcontent even among the dwarves, he thought her a heartless wench. Now he saw the true desperation that drove
her. Love. It was worse than he’d thought. Love had blinded her and was driving her
insane notion of saving the boy.
Fayern
gently placed a meaty hand on the beautiful elven woman’s shoulder. “Princess, you’ll be no good to him
dead. Going out there now, like this,
will only get you killed. Then who will
save him?”
She
sniffed back the tears, and straightened her posture to her full powerful
form. The firm muscles under the
skin-tight armor flexed. The woman was
like a coiled viper, ready to lash out at anything standing in her way. Fayern suddenly remembered his father’s wise
words, “Da most beautiful are da most deadly.
You can rest o’sure o’ dat, lad.”
If there were a more beautiful woman alive, Fayern hadn’t ever seen
her.
Erroyle
was unlike any living creature. She had
stunning purple eyes which seemed to see right into the souls of everyone with
whom they locked. Her auburn hair ran to
the small of her back, and that was even in the intricate braid that elvish women
were wont to wear. Undone, it must hang below her hind-quarters. Her lithe, muscular body
was alluring beyond even the dwarven prince’s ability to ignore. No man alive could resist stopping and
staring as she walked by. Her face was
painfully perfect, accented by those purple eyes and ripe red lips. Porcelain skin, almost the color of ivory,
shown through her delicate golden armor, but only her hands and face were
visible. The woman was a goddess among
men.
“General,
your gates are failing. I lived through
the first Great War. I watched as the
Minotaurs lost their stronghold to the north.
I fought alongside the Kinders as their mountain pass was overrun. I’ve battered down the gates of countless
enemy cities.” Her demeanor grew
cold. “Your gates will fall within the
hour. You need to get your people out of
here. I will fight the enemy. I have nothing to live for if I don’t have
Cal. You need to get your people to
safety.”
Fayern
knew all too well that she was right. If
only fleeing were an option. His
ancestors were too proud to admit that the great gates would fall, let alone
the inner sanctum. They didn’t bother
building a back door, as it were. They
were trapped, hopelessly trapped.
Running was not an option. The
dwarves would have to fight to the last man, woman, or child if their race
wanted to survive to the next generation.
Curse the
ancestors!
If only they had
escaped when the first inner gate fell.
There were passages to the volcano top in the main hall. If only…
“Erroyle,
we are dwarves. We will fight. That is what we do. That is what we’ve always
done. The gods have blessed us with
superior strength and superior fighting skills to protect the weaker humans to
the north. It is by our iron arms that
they enjoy their freedom from the Dark Clan.
That is how it has always been.
That is how it will always be.”
Boom.
Erroyle’s eyes
grew colder, if that were even possible.
“Ignore my warning at your own peril.
I will not be responsible for the death of your people. But I will also not stand by as the enemy
takes my love away to be tortured. It
has been two days. Do you have any idea
what the Phantom Lord can do in two days?”
Fayern could only imagine. The
thought made him physically shudder. “I
know what he can do. He held me prisoner
for centuries. I endured torture and
tests that would make even your stomach turn.
I will not allow it to happen to Cal!”
Fayern
shook his head sadly. What did it matter
anyway? If they were to swarm the
tunnels instead of working relentlessly on the doors, perhaps he and his
brothers could bottle-neck them in the narrow passageway and give those battle
weary a chance to rest before the final stand.
Perhaps they could then turn them back.
Perhaps they could push them back enough for a few women and children to
escape through the main hall. Of course,
he knew that was only wishful thinking.
Millions of Dark Clan lay waiting outside the inner sanctum gates. There couldn’t have been more than a few
thousand dwarves left alive. They were
going to be slaughtered in the tombs of their ancestors.
Boom.
“Okay,
princess. If you want to throw your life
away, I can’t stop you. I don’t think your
Cal would be happy if you committed suicide here, though.”
The
princess seemed to pause for a moment, but her mind was made up. “I will get away from the opening before I
attack. The Dark Clan will not know
where I came from.”
Boom. Crack!
Fayern
jumped to his feet. The door was giving
in. No!
It was too soon.
Boom,
crack, boom, crack!
The
battering team sped up their assault in excited anticipation.
Erroyle looked in
the direction of the gate, and then sadly back at the general. “I’m sorry Fayern. I take no pleasure in being right. I will stand with your people against the
hoard. Together we will cut through the
Dark Clan. Together we will push them
back out of the caves. Then I will be
free to find my Cal.”
Fayern
smiled to himself. Dangerous
indeed. The woman would fight the Keeper
of the Underworld himself to get to this boy.
“Okay, Princess. Together then.”
Boom!
Crack! Crack!
“They’re
almost through,” Erroyle shouted as she turned and ran towards the gates.
Curse
you father! I am but one man. Why did you give the knowledge of our
ancestors to that boy?
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