The Halfblood King: Book 1 of the Chronicles of Aertu

THE HALFBLOOD KING

“I believe we are over nine hundred feet above the level of the sea.  As to your second question, we are about a day from Freemarket, the last settlement of men before we reach the Southern Kingdom.”  Just then, an arrow flew from the dark forest, straight at Aleron.  He barely raised his buckler in time to block and the bodkin neatly pierced the shield, vambrace and forearm together.  He froze, momentarily, at the sight of the bloody arrowhead sticking two inches out his inner forearm.  “Goblins!” Hadaras shouted.  His sword was already out and he chopped the black-fletched shaft from the boy’s buckler.  “Draw your blade, lad and be at the ready!”  He gestured and raised a dome of shimmering blue around them.  More arrows rained down upon them, but were incinerated upon contact with the dome of magical energy, as was the first goblin warrior to charge the pair.  The momentum of his charge carried him headlong into the blue light and they witnessed his body dissolve into gray ash, from front to back.  This stopped the others from charging and they surrounded the pair instead, shooting the occasional arrow and hurling the odd spear, only watch them flare against the dome.  “Leave the arrow in for now, boy; it plugs the hole.  Are you well enough to shoot your bow?”

“I think so, Grandfather,” Aleron answered.  “It really doesn’t hurt.”  He moved to retrieve his bow from his saddle, the quiver already on his hip.  The goblins had them completely encircled now.  There were nineteen in all, along with a half dozen of their half-tame wolf dogs.

“They know I can only maintain this for a little while and they will wait until I tire and falter.  Take out as many as you can before then.”

“I’ll do my best,” Aleron replied, as he dismounted with bow in hand.  He winced as the bow forced his forearm to twist against the shaft piercing it. 
I’ll have to remember not to do that again. 
Luckily, he was wearing a Chebek forearm buckler, with an arrow pass cutout, so he did not need to remove it to shoot.

The goblins jeered at him, one yelling, “What you gonna do, man-child, kill us all with your little bow.”  That one died with an arrow up one apelike nostril and a second one went down with a shaft through the eye.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied…

THE HALFBLOOD KING

Book 1 of the Chronicles of Aertu

By Julian E Benoit

This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance of characters in this work to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and is likely the product of an overactive imagination.  But hey, if there were no overactive imaginations, nothing much would be created, would it?

Copyright © 2014 by Julian E. Benoit

All Rights Reserved

The Bardiche Press

To Dawnna, Lucas, Tristan and Ethan

Your love and support mean everything to me.

And, to the wiener dogs,

who love us unconditionally

and protect us from all intruders

Prologue

Gurlachday, Day 7, Harvest Moon, 8747, Sudean Calendar

Valgier couldn’t imagine being more content than he was at this time of his life. His occupation as a woodsman and primarily, his charcoal making business, were providing well for his young family. He built them a modest home in the foothills of the Southwestern Blue Mountains, managing to finish it shortly before the birth of their son Aleron. His customers included not only the men of the local villages, but also the dwarvish smiths of the mountains, who preferred charcoal to the rock coal they mined, for the forging of their finest blades. They claimed rock coal would make the steel brittle, but charcoal was cleaner. It made for a booming business and Valgier put aside most of his other activities to devote enough time to keep up with the orders. He was happy that he could provide a good living for his wife and son.

The boy was growing well and at two years was handsome and tall for his age. In a few years, he would be able to help his father in the forest. The boy’s mother, Audina, insisted on the name Aleron for their son. Valgier, at first, thought it a bit pretentious to name their son after the ancient King of Sudea, but the name grew on him and it seemed to fit the boy well. His wife had a very persuasive way about her, as well as being the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He could never tell her “no”, but in return, she never asked for anything unreasonable. The name was a common enough one and had been for the millennia since the King gave his life in the final battle against the Nameless One. He was greatest of all the rulers of Sudea, bringing the kingdom to its pinnacle of power and influence. The trend may have continued indefinitely, if not for the decimation of the noble households from that brutal war.  His thoughts wandered back to Audina, as his footsteps followed the familiar path to their home. He remembered how they had met:

He just returned to the village from a fortnight working in the forest, filthy from the baker’s dozen charcoal heaps he left smoldering behind him. He brought his mule to the stables and carried his bag to the room he maintained above the tavern, requesting a couple pails of hot water from the publicans prior to climbing the stairs. Two years before, he sold his family’s homestead to the south after they, along with his betrothed, died of plague. At twenty years of age, he had nothing but the money from the farm and headed north to begin anew. 

About a half bell after entering his room, he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to the sight of the most stunningly beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon, her lustrous golden-brown hair framing features almost too perfect to be real. In her hands were two steaming pails of water. He stammered a thank you, as he quickly moved to relieve her of her burden. She smiled at that and it seemed as if the heavens opened up before him, so beautiful she was. In the days to follow, he learned that she also lost her family in the plague and moved here from the northwest coast, bordering the Elvish Colony. He sometimes suspected that she had some elvish blood in her veins, not unheard of in the border country, though she always denied it. They had been together nearly three years now and she was still as lovely as the day they met.

As he entered the house, he set his broadax by the door and called out to his wife; there was no answer. “Aleron!” he called to his son next, with still no answer. He could smell supper cooking and wondered if they might be out behind the house. The assassin’s blade slashed through his throat as he made his way past the kitchen, to the back door. His last vision was of oddly slanted eyes, so dark no pupils were visible, staring at him from a darkly tanned face. The straight black hair was tied back, out of the assailant’s face. He slumped to the floor, vision dimming as his life’s blood flowed across the front of his jerkin and realized in despair, that his family was most likely dead as well. Just like last time, he was powerless to save the ones he loved. It was with profound sadness that he slipped into unconsciousness and the life left his body.

The foreign killer left the man in the center hall, along with the dead woman in the kitchen and made his way to the bedroom, where the young boy lay drugged and unconscious. He picked the toddler up and slung him over his shoulder. His Master had been very clear in his instructions, that this boy would come to no harm, physically, or emotionally. The assassin made sure to render the lad unconscious before the killing of the parents. He had a good idea why this boy was important; his mother’s elvish features became apparent as whatever sorcery she used to conceal them died along with her. This child was likely one of the few half-elves alive and potentially of great value to the Master.

***

Hadaras rode hard down the wooded trail, the high peaks of the Blue Mountains occasionally visible through the trees over his left shoulder. The non-descript brown mare he rode was capable of impressive speed, as befitted its lineage of elvish warhorses. He rode since late morning, as soon as he sensed the malevolent presence closing upon his daughter’s family. He rarely strayed far from the family he secretly watched over. He sensed too, that he was too late to save her, or her human husband, but the boy still lived. He was close now. He slowed the mare to a trot and cast out with his senses.

***

The assassin rode northwest, a packhorse trailing behind with a small limp bundle secured across its back. The boy shouldn’t come around until well after he set camp for the night. Then he would tell the boy of the fire (since he had actually set the house ablaze upon departing) and how he was too late to save the boy’s parents. He would explain to the child how he would take him to a place where he would be cared for, just like his real parents would have. Some trauma was inevitable, but the boy was young enough that it wouldn’t cause any lasting damage. He was mulling over these thoughts when he came upon the lone horseman on the trail ahead. It was a damn elf, with no business in this territory other than with the assassin himself. Warded against elvish sorcery, he was confident in his ability in any one-on-one fight with conventional weapons.

“Give up the child and I may let you live Kolixtlani”, the old elf called out.

“Let me pass unhindered old man and I may allow you to live. I do not fear your elf magic.” The assassin replied, concealing his consternation at the elf’s knowledge of his nationality.

“Very well, have it your way.” The rider answered back. With a lazy wave of his fingers, a sliver of blue light projected from the elf’s hand and neatly sliced through the other’s neck. There was a look of shocked disbelief in the assassin’s eyes, right before his head toppled from his shoulders. The hands still gripped the reins tightly, as the body slowly slumped from the saddle, no blood flowing from the cauterized stump of the man’s neck.

Hadaras dismounted and made his way to the pair of horses. He recognized the pack animal as the horse belonging to his daughter’s mate. He laid a hand on the bundle that contained his grandson and sensed that the boy was unharmed. He then turned his attention to the other horse and its rider, prying the dead fingers from the reins and laying the body on its back. He picked up the head by its hair and looked into the still open eyes, saying, “Whoever you are, that sent this man, you have failed again.” He then threw the head to the side of the path. Examining the body revealed the warded sigils the killer assumed would fend off Hadaras’ sorcery. The sigils still glowed faintly red with the unsavory magic of the Adversary, activated by the touch of elvish magic. There was powerful magic invested in these, but a simple bend of his will dispelled it back to the source.
That will make someone flinch,
he thought to himself. Those wards must have been the reason the assassin was able to catch Audina at unawares. She had had some mastery of sorcery, but not on par with her father’s.