Eurue- The Forgotten World Read online

  E U R U E

  THE FORGOTTEN WORLD

  ANCIENT TERRA

  Book I

  By

  Elaina J. Davidson

  Published 2019

  Copyright Elaina J Davidson 2018

  First Edition

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organisations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover designed by Fox Creative Solutions

  BLURB

  THE UNIVERSE IS populated and many worlds are far-flung, forgotten. Until the day Gabryl, a man both alive and dead, his body reposing in a sarcophagus, his spirit roaming as a shifting being, bellows a call to arms. Eurue, as world and civilisation, after ages of isolation, will now step into the ultimate arena.

  Tristan and Alusin of the Kaval hasten to answer the summons to where tentacled miasmas are consuming people body and soul. Savier, as Keeper of the sarcophagus, sheds light on an ancient legend. Tianoman, Vallorin of the Valleur, brings the Valleur host to Eurue, and Emperor Teighlar of Grinwallin pledges his army.

  But how does one fight miasma?

  Who is the true enemy?

  Meanwhile, as the spaces become frantic, a woman in a turret somewhere, elsewhere, plans her revenge. The schism between what went before and the reality of the present presents to her the power to control the fate of all.

  Who will stop her?

  For my LORE fans

  You wanted to know about Tristan and Alusin

  and here it is!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part I – Gabryl’s Chateau

  Part II – Alusin’s Fortress

  Part III – Tristan’s Song

  Part IV – Cathian’s Turret

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  Akhavar

  A Century Ago

  TRISTAN LEFT THE mountain citadel for a mark on an ancient map.

  Sabian, Master Historian, once told him about the mythical Lake of Swords and showed him a map. A small ink dot in a vastly empty space on parchment. The Legend of the Lake was no more than a tale, but it was one that spoke to Tristan. It contained resonance.

  He would now employ it.

  Shortly after dawn he stood alone and waiting upon a level plain where the dry season had created cracks in the earth. A few hardy weeds pushed through, but plant life was otherwise absent.

  Was this the place? It felt abandoned. It seemed unlikely.

  Two guards brought his duelling opponent, Halon, bowed and left. The traitorous and dispossessed Elder turned round and around, and smiled. The lacerations on his face had dried into scabs. A few were infected. Caballa had marked him well before this monster murdered her.

  The sight set Tristan’s gut to churning. Whether the Lake appeared or not, this man would die this day.

  Beloved Caballa deserved to be avenged.

  As he formed the resolution, the Lake of Swords shimmered into being. A shallow body of water arrived and the cracks in the earth pulled together into hard packed ground. Beyond the lake trees formed and thereafter they spread to encompass the entire region, an ethereal forest to hide the nefarious actions of the living. As the legend told, the Lake appeared only when death was the intention of the day.

  Halon lost his smile.

  Tristan peered into the water. He saw no swords. It did not mean there were none. Shrugging, he faced Halon.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Halon glared at him.

  “Here is no one now to hear your words,” Tristan said. “Tell me.”

  “She offered me a position and then retracted.”

  “Why would Caballa retract?”

  Fury erupted. “I was not right for the position!”

  Tristan stared at him. Caballa saw his true nature and thus died for it. Yet this man would have exacted something from her first, before killing her.

  “What did you force her to give you?”

  Halon grinned. “Her signature. I have prepared a document using her mark. I will kill you and then I will accept the position as offered in that document.”

  Ah. “And you trust that Caballa signed accurately?”

  The man’s face froze. An instant later he spat. “We shall see.”

  Caballa died for her mark on a piece of parchment. This was an affront to the spaces.

  Tristan withdrew his sword. “Prepare yourself.”

  Perhaps the man had a deal prepared, one to change his fate, for his eyes moved shiftily and he did not reach for his blade. Unfortunately Halon’s duelling companion was not remotely interested in dealing; that was obvious when Tristan smirked. Clearly there would be no twisted route out from under the lover of a murdered woman’s intent.

  Swearing, Halon jerked his sword free.

  He hurtled forward.

  Metal pealed as bells of doom across the water.

  Halon was Valleur. He was a sorcerer and had been training with swords since young. This was the Valleur way. Rage and desperation caused him to fight like a maniac as well, increased his strength and lent him the euphoria of self-belief.

  He fought hard.

  Tristan as frequently defended as he attacked, astonished by the man’s will. This was indeed a duel worthy of ancient time.

  Grunts filled the air with otherworldly intimidation. Boots thudded upon the earth, splashed occasionally at the water’s edge. Blade hit blade and slid with peculiar whispers, and metallic melodies danced into the trees.

  Tristan went low when an attack threatened to take his head, and thrust upward.

  Gargling, Halon fell to his knees, skewered through his groin. Tristan stepped back, and swiped. Halon fell back.

  He was dead.

  KNEELING IN THE mud with tears streaking over bloodied cheeks, ignoring the body behind him, Tristan understood how it felt to finally lose hope.

  What life was there without Caballa? Killing her murderer would not bring her back.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he swayed drunkenly. He had no more to give. Throwing his head back, he screamed his grief.

  He tossed Halon’s blade into the water. As it splashed in, other swords were revealed. Many. By all gods, how many had died in this place?

  Tristan then convulsively fiddled at his waist.

  When he had his sword belt loose, he gripped the whole, drew his arm back and threw it with all his might into the lake, screaming again. It splashed briefly as it landed and wallowed there in mute accusation, the depth too shallow for it to disappear.

  For a long time Tristan stared at it, his blood dripping into his soaked tunic.

  Finally he turned away, uncaring. He strode into the trees. Fuck everything. No one would ever again mistake him for Torrullin, his illustrious grandfather, not with the new scars he now wore upon his face.

  For those he would never seek healing.

  FROM BEYOND THE shallow body of water a man stepped to the lapping edge. White hair lifted in the breeze and dark blue eyes tracked the form vanishing into the trees.

  He sighed and waded into the water to retrieve the discarded sword and scabbard. Holding it, he wrapped the belt around it, and then unhurriedly set off after.

  The forging of Tristan Skyler Valla was over.
>
  It was time to introduce him to a different future.

  The Lake of Swords vanished.

  Elsewhere

  SMILING, THE WOMAN watched the diminutive figure of the white-haired man leave the waters with the Valleur sword in hand.

  How right she had been about him. Such compassion in that particular soul. She saw it in him when he was but a boy, and the man did not disappoint either. Soon he would stand forth to declare his truth, and if he did not, she would force him into admission. Those of an empathetic nature tended to see all sides, and that often served as a leash to decisive action.

  Hearing her gaoler approach, his footsteps shuddering through the stone of the passage beyond her door, she waved a dirt-encrusted hand over the water in the bowl, obscuring the seer’s mirror she had summoned.

  Until she was ready, he could not know she intended to eviscerate him.

  Part I

  GABRYL’S CHATEAU

  Chapter 1

  Like white powder upon the hazy dunes, light drifts without direction, shedding spurious glows

  ~ Cullin of Balconaru ~

  Petunya

  Sunrise

  The Present

  ALUSIN SQUINTED ALONG the path, moving his head from north to south and back. Reverberations in the soles of his feet revealed to him someone on horseback approached, perhaps two horses, but the trail remained clear in both directions.

  “Do you feel that?” he asked, hunkering to touch fingertips to cold and damp gravel.

  Tristan stared back the way they had come, his shoulder length fair hair wafting in the strengthening breeze. No sign of anyone behind them. The morning mist further obscured view. He too sensed something on approach.

  Facing north, he murmured, “Difficult to say where it’s coming from, and this lack of decent light will aid whoever it is.”

  Straightening, Alusin gestured to a nearby copse of denuded trees. Winter’s presence was everywhere, evident in bare branches and the renewed promise of ice by nightfall in the air currents. “I suggest we conceal ourselves.”

  Nodding, his companion moved in his long-legged manner towards the grey boles, a hand silencing his sword against his thigh. Metallic sounds carried in cold air. His dark green tunic and leather breeches matched their surrounds. Alusin fell into step beside him, tucking white hair behind his ears. He wore grey, the camouflage kind that was both light and dark patches.

  Goddamn it, a fire would be welcome right now, he thought as he hastened for cover.

  Hoof beats sounded, closing in, and they hurried to concealment, dragging their dark, somewhat besmirched cloaks tighter, lifting the cowls to hide their fairness.

  Shadowed and in shadows, they hunkered, scrutinising the path.

  As the white sun sent its first tendrils onto the land, two forms on horseback wandered around the far bend further along, seemingly unhurried. Both were swathed against the cold, in the drab colours of the region. Old woollen tunics covered burly frames, while filthy scarves wrapped around their faces, leaving only eyes clear. What colour those orbs were remained invisible, which had more to do with distance than subterfuge. Fingerless gloves adorned rough hands and knee-high leather boots rested in dull stirrups. It was difficult to tell skin colour also.

  The men did not speak; they simply ambled by, looking neither right nor left. A definite sense of tension surrounded them, however. Unhurried was therefore not entirely relaxed. Either they chose the slow pace to minimise noise, or they hoped their apparent unconcern would mask them.

  Eyes appeared to scrutinise every bush and bole, the actions evident now that they were closer.

  That screamed the concept fear.

  What were they afraid of?

  Unmoving, Tristan studied them. Alusin’s eyes narrowed.

  The horses were strong and in good health, although the tack and saddles had seen better times. Nothing seemed amiss. Two men on their mounts were on their way home or heading towards the labour of the day, and yet …

  Tristan covertly gave a hand signal. It is a trap.

  Indeed, but a trap for who or what? Were the two men prey or distraction? Lure or victims? No one knew he and Tristan were in the area, other than the one who dispatched the messenger, and he or she had not yet been informed of their arrival. In fact, they deliberately chose to commence this journey to the meet from an added distance in order to garner a feel for the situation, whatever that was. No one therefore knew of their presence, and thus the trap could not be about them.

  Who, then, was meant to draw what out into the open?

  That answer was not long in coming.

  BEYOND THE COPPICE, opposite the path, a field slumbered in winter’s guise. Vapour tendrils lifted from the cold earth as the weak sunlight arrived. Seed pods, summer’s husks, adorned scraggly bushes.

  More than morning mist arose from the deserted field, however.

  Tristan gripped Alusin’s forearm, and pointed.

  The miasmas swiftly took on form.

  Eight-legged - no, tentacled - creatures waddled in an ungainly yet horrifying fashion towards the two men on horseback and, even from the distance they watched from, Tristan and Alusin discerned the dreadful hunger prevalent in the nightmare beings. There was also the faintest sense of despair.

  “Fight?” Alusin whispered.

  “We have no idea what they are,” Tristan denied him. “We watch.”

  The horses were more aware of danger than the men were. Neighs echoed through the still morning air, and one reared on hind legs, pawing in desperation. Cursing, the men attempted to control their suddenly skittish mounts, seemingly giving no thought to what caused the panic, although that was more the perception of the watchers, for the men soon screamed as loudly as their horses did, as terribly aware.

  Ethereal octopi clambered over and into the melee of horses and men.

  Seconds later, nothing remained.

  Not horse. Not man.

  And no otherworldly miasmas either.

  “What the fuck just happened?” Alusin demanded after many minutes had passed without further sign of danger.

  Tristan cautiously stood. His hands trembled and his gaze probed every shadow. “All gods, this is why we are summoned to Petunya.”

  Alusin released an explosive breath. “Have you seen these before?”

  “These, no. Something teases at the edge of my subconscious, but right now the closest comparison I have is the Mysor from the Forbidden Zone,” Tristan murmured. “They were real, though, according to the stories. Massive harvestmen with eight legs, but easily dealt with. Not this.”

  Standing, Alusin asked, “What do we know?”

  “Belun said the summons came via a third party. A messenger collared Jonas while he oversaw the raising of grain silos on Lax, said there was trouble here. Wasn’t too specific.”

  “I am aware of all that; what else do we know of this place?”

  Tristan gave him a sidelong grin. “Worried, are we?”

  “Damn right, I am. Those creatures were waiting for warm blood. It could have been us that went poof. The messenger should have given proper warning.”

  Nodding, Tristan stared across the field. “Our cloaks masked our warmth, thank Aaru. What do we know? Well, Petunya is rural, but not without allies. This world of farmers feeds many out there. I’m guessing folk didn’t want to talk about this, for it would put trade in jeopardy. Therefore the single messenger and the lack of detail.”

  “Or most here are dead already. This place feels emptied.”

  “Bloody hell, I hope not.” Tristan swiped at his hair. “Someone lives, and sent an envoy, and where have we been focusing recently? Lax. A messenger was bound to bump into one of the Kaval at some stage, and Jonas got that prize.”

  “Therefore that someone has some clout. Has to, to send a man on a space flight to pass on a message, cryptic and less than forthcoming than it was.”

  “That worries me,” Tristan frowned. “And clearly that means no one
here is able to communicate as we do across distance, or able to transport either. Maybe those able to transport were taken first. If misty monsters are eating the locals, they are prey wherever they are. There’s no magic here, but what we just witnessed is sorcery.”

  “This may also be an elaborate trap for the Kaval.” Alusin moved openly yet cautiously towards the path. “Or you. If so, someone messes with the wrong people.”

  Following, hand on hilt, Tristan muttered, “Indeed.”

  JONAS REVEALED THAT the messenger - nondescript, no accent speaking in the common tongue - gave a location for a meeting, and requested minimal Kaval presence.

  In itself that was suspicious.

  If murdering miasmas with eight appendages decimated the local population, surely one would summon the entire Kaval in?

  Tristan ruminated on the situation as he walked beside Alusin. The messenger asked for one, no more than two, when it was already clear to him he would need his full team on site to quell whatever this was. The man, according to Jonas, then vanished amid Lax’s populace.

  Was the trap for him, Tristan, as Alusin suggested? Even those unaware of space politics knew the Kaval engaged in succour on Lax after massive flooding virtually drowned all crops there. If anyone was to follow a call for aid elsewhere, it was him. His team was engaged, but he was able to answer a summons. Anyone with half a mind would know that. He would leave his team to go on doing what they were meant for - succour - while personally reconnoitring a potential new threat.