Grudgebearer
Authors: J.F. Lewis
Published 2014 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books
Grudgebearer
. Copyright © 2014 by J. F. Lewis. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover image © Todd Lockwood
Cover design by Jacqueline Nasso Cooke
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Lewis, J. F. (Jeremy F.) author.
Grudgebearer : Book one of the Grudgebearer trilogy / By J.F. Lewis.
pages cm. â (Grudgebearer trilogy; Book One)
ISBN 978-1-61614-984-0 (pbk.) â ISBN 978-1-61614-985-7 (ebook)
1. RevengeâFiction. 2. War stories. 3. Fantasy fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.E9648G78 2014
813'.6âdc23
2014012141
Printed in the United States of America
For Jonathan and Justin
CONTENTS
PART ONE: THE AERN AS DEVOURERS
Chapter 4: The Laundry Council
PART TWO: THIRTEEN YEARS LATER
Chapter 24: Death in the Museum
Chapter 26: Blood and Black Powder
Chapter 31: The Hundred-Year Oath
Chapter 32: No Sign of the Zaur
Chapter 35: Guild City Good-Bye
Chapter 36: Crossing the Bridge
Chapter 39: The Garden of Divinity
Chapter 43: Figures in the Clouds
Chapter 44: The Three Races of Elves
Chapter 46: Chains of the Zaur
Chapter 47: Harvester of Souls
Chapter 49: Never Trust a Pirate
Chapter 50: Ill Met by Boomlight
Chapter 53: The Battle of As You Please
Chapter 58: A Hate That Burns Forever
Chapter 59: In Death All Oaths
Chapter 60: My Father, My Kholster
Chapter 62: Changing of the Gods
Chapter 63: Where Lies the Harvester
PART ONE
PART ONE: THE AERN AS DEVOURERS
“The most frustrated rants contained within my father's notes and journals pertaining to his creation of the Aern deal with the unexpected side effects of their unique skeletal composition and the link existing between the Aern and the items they in turn created. While Uled never solved the riddle of the various tokens, bonded weapons, and warsuits fashioned by his most celebrated creations, I believe that near the end of Uled's life, he began to suspect the Aern were hiding the depths of their connection from their maker and their masters.
One wonders why he did not ask those questions of Kholster himself, the Firstborn of Uled's race of servant warriors. At the time, Kholster, like his brother and sister Aern, was soul bound and would have been compelled to answer. It is my firm belief Uled feared that answer more than he desired it.
When he sealed away the Life Forge, it was therefore not to protect it as our history books tell but rather to prevent the death knell of his own people.
Certainly, any action taken at that time was already too late. From the first hammer blow purposed with the creation of Kholster and his first one hundred Armored brethren, the deed was done. The blow was struck. Some might call it folly, but I see it as the most protracted suicide attempt ever conceived by mortal artifice. I think my father knew exactly what he was doing but was simply too proud of the idea to let it go unexpressed . . . Even the later destruction of the Life Forge could not undo what Uled had done.”
An excerpt from
The Patrimonial Scar: Uled's Legacy of Death
by Sargus
CHAPTER 1
OATH BROKEN
A crack split the silence of six hundred years. Wood surrendered to iron followed by the steady golden light of a vow close to breaking. A globe of mystic flame hung pendulously in the air, a fist-sized bead like burning oil scattering the dark and casting jagged shadows of splintered wood along the interior of the long sealed chamber. The intruder caught a flash of metal, a gleam of red. He spied the half-seen outline of an armored boot. This had to be it. There was nowhere else to check. It had to be.
Crowbar and axe worked together: a symphony of opening and rendingâthe clarion call of discovery and doom. As the breach widened, light filled the stone chamber, banishing shadows and picking out spikes of color. Smears of crimson gleamed like the eyes of predatory animals lurking in the atramentous gloom as pair after pair of red crystals lit up within the ancient barracks. Five thousand pair, if the historical records were to be believed. Dolvek didn't think that they could be. The records had been kept by the Aern; who knew if they'd been accurate? The Aern were little more than animals, after all.
“Yes.” Dolvek leaned forward, the tip of his pale nose twitching as he sniffed the air. “I think this room was the command barracks. Not that the Aern were kind enough to leave a map.”
Suits of armor, like animal-headed statues, stood in even rows. Each loomed tall and imposing, a warpick at its side, each weapon a work of art. The stylized helms seemed to glare out at the prince, their gazes an accusation.
I half expect to hear them shouting “intruder,”
he thought to himself.
Though to call me an intruder anywhere in my own kingdom . . . ha.
“No cobwebs, Prince Dolvek,” said the squat man wielding the crowbar and wearing rough-spun workman's attire. He peered into the room, sweat standing out on his brow and running down his face in thin rivulets.
A larger man, bald and burly with a lantern jaw and a twitchy eye, made the sign of the Four Square in front of him with the head of the axe he held. “No dust neither.” He chewed his lower lip and drew blood without noticing. “This is dangerous fruit, your highness. Red berries on dead lips, this is.”
“You prove a positively poetic coward, Bran.” The globe of fire drifted farther into the room, swelling to the size of a skull, illuminating the undecorated stone walls and floor, eliciting a startled gasp from the man with the crowbar. He dropped the length of iron, turned, and ran.
“Begging your pardon,” Bran said as he lowered his axe and left it in the doorway. He backed out of the room, eyes locked with the gaze of the most prominent warsuit. “N-no-no disrespect.”
“Idiots.” Dolvek stepped fully into the chamber. The swish of his blue robes seemed to echo like a threat. A simple golden circlet adorned his brow in stark contrast to the raven tresses which touched his shoulders. “Empty armor can't harm you.”
Even so, Prince Dolvek had to admit that, as the illumination grew even stronger, those archaic artifacts which had frightened his human workers proved an intimidating presence; the fearsome specimen directly in front of him in particular. Licking his lips in anticipation, Prince Dolvek smiled triumphantly.
“Bloodmane's armor,” he mouthed, stepping closer.
I've found it!
More a work of art to the prince's eyes than an implement of war, the full suit of Aernese plate armor showed no sign of the centuries which had passed since its interment. Astonishing detail work covered its surface, yet as he traced the amber-colored lines with an outstretched finger, the metal felt smooth and unmarked.
Functional, too, then
, he thought.
Enameled in some way?
“I can see why the sight of you running into battle would strike fear into the hearts of those rutting lizards.”
Not that anyone had been troubled by the Zaur for a hundred years despite how fervently General Wylant might argue to the contrary. She never had been the same after the defeat of the Aern at the Sundering. The shattering of the Life Forge had twisted Eldrennai magic itself. Who knew what it had done to Wylant, who had, according to all the records, been the one standing over it, the one whose weapon had unmade it? Dolvek could hear her voice in the back of his head.
“Build whatever exhibit you have in mind, majesty,” she had argued, “but do not tamper with arms and armor of the Aern. If Kholster finds out you've so much as touched themâ”
“Your concern is noted, General,” Dolvek recalled saying. He couldn't remember if he'd even looked up at her. He didn't think so. The sight of her bald head offended him. “And your caution is appreciated. But the exhibit will be closed to the public . . .”
The general had opened her mouth to say something, or he imagined she had, but he'd raised his voice and bulled on. “âand I see no reason any of the royals would ever send a tattletale message to any Aern, much less Kholster himself,
or
why Kholster would even deign to read such a message, if he, as you say, hates us so much and
if
, indeed, he can read.”