NexLord: Dark Prophecies

Book One

by

Philip F. Blood

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Version 3.0

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Philip Blood on Smashwords

Nexlord: Dark Prophecies

Copyright © 2010 by Philip Blood

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

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respecting the author's work.

* * * * *

Friends I’d like to thank.

This novel is about the bonds between
friends, and I have many to thank for their support.
Thanks,
Ron DeRuyter for all the editing and
suggestions, you’re always there when I need you. Thank
you,
Rhonda St. Laurent, my sister and
English teacher for your skills and understanding. I’d also like to
thank Phil R. Blood for encouraging me to write. Sadly, my father
did not live to see my books published, but he did get the chance
to read early versions of this novel series.

And last, but by no means least, thank
you, Marianne Wilhelm,
for living
with me and my main characters: Aerin, Gandarel, Dono, Lor,
Katek
and Mara, and putting up
with them as if they were family members. We all appreciate and
love you.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Chapter One

“…
and in this
vision,
I saw the return of evil twice
banished.  It was a strange vision where two go as one to
become the opposite faces of darkness and light.  But the
future blurred; for I saw a meeting in a far place where the
bleakness of hate met the fullness of friendship, and the future
was left in the Dreadmaster’s hands.  Yet it was the
NexLord who saved us all.”

-  From the Prophecies of
Gold  

Fear only strengthens the enemy.

Aerin’s father had told him this many times,
but right now the young boy was terrified.  He clutched
at the insides of the swaying canvas covered wagon as it hurtled
down the bumpy dirt road with reckless speed.  From the
front of the rumbling
wagon,
his
father’s voice rang out urging the two horse team to even greater
efforts. 

Their pursuers were gaining.

The boy's mother guided her twelve-year-old
son down onto the floor, wedging him in between the side of a large
clothing trunk and the corner of the wagon.  She pushed
his head down until it was below the top of the
rough
wooden sideboards.

The dull staccato of hurtling hoofs pounded
angrily against the hard packed dirt as a horrid guttural voice
barked out a war cry. That deep voice could not have issued from a
human throat, it seemed to vibrate the
very
air inside the wagon. 

Aerin tried to contain his terror, but it
seeped from his mind like sweat from the pores of his
skin.  With wide
eyes,
the frightened boy watched his mother scramble over fallen boxes
and clothes until she reached the back of the lurching
wagon.  Her slim hand grasped the edge of the canvas and
pulled it slightly open so that a thin blade of sunlight cut into
the shadowed interior of the wagon.   She peered out
and a gasp of dismay escaped before her hand came up to swiftly
stifled the involuntary sound of horror. She knew she must be
strong for the benefit of her son.

The sound of the pounding hoofs drew
closer.

Sariah released the canvas and turned to lock
desperate eyes on her young
son
as
if her gaze alone could protect him.  As their eyes met a
ray of light pierced the dim interior through a new hole in the
canvas and his mother lurched forward.  A red circle of
blood appeared
on
the left
shoulder of her cream colored dress.  Her hand lifted
toward her son, but then she fell forward revealing an ugly black
barbed shaft projecting from her upper back.

Aerin cried out and started to get up from
behind the crate, but Sariah gasped through her pain, "No, Aerin,
stay down!” She crawled her way toward her son, determined as only
a mother can be when protecting that which is most precious, her
child.

The hoofs grew louder and the boy could hear
them on either side of the hurtling wagon. An arrow struck the wood
near Aerin's head as three more of the ugly shafts penetrated the
canvas. Beams of sunlight stabbed the darkness emerging through the
new holes and crisscrossing the shadows like some crazy
nightmare. 

The wagon swayed wildly and the cutlery
drawer fell out crashing loudly to the floor near the boy's hand.
The noise,
violence,
and disorder
were akin to what was now happening to Aerin’s once peaceful life.
He reached out and picked up one of the small sharp knives.

The deep guttural voices barked from all
around them in a strange harsh language.  There was a
horrible wet thud from the front of the wagon, and the wagon began
to slow.

From the covering that hid the driver’s bench
at the front of the wagon, a hand fell in under the edge of the
canvas with a single trail of red blood winding down the wrist and
across the palm.  Aerin reached out tentatively for his
father's limp hand, fearing the truth it screamed.

But before his small shaking hand could
finish the journey the wagon slowed.  Sariah struggled to
her feet and took her son's reaching hand.  She used it
to pull Aerin out from the corner and led him to the back of the
wagon.  Quickly she pulled the stopper from their flask
of lantern oil and shook it out over the canvas wagon covering,
splashing the liquid around liberally.  
Next,
she opened the metal pot where she kept
the hot embers for a fire.   She gasped with pain as
her movement caused the embedded shaft in her shoulder to scrape
along the bone.  Working through her pain Sariah dropped
a light cloth across the coals.  She fanned the hot coals
with her good hand and the cloth burst into flame.  She
grabbed the edge and tossed the burning cloth across the
oil-soaked
canvas.  The
liquid caught fire and the dry canvas started burning within
seconds.

Low
barks
of
surprise came from outside as the flames were seen.

Sariah parted the canvas a crack at the back
of the wagon for a furtive glance at their enemy's
positions.   As the wagon rolled to a complete stop
she whispered to her son in a quiet voice of iron control, "Run for
the trees, and don't look back... ready?"

He nodded and she flung the canvas
aside.  As they jumped down to the hard road Sariah
stumbled from the
pain
but
recovered quickly.   They started running across a
small meadow toward the nearest portion of the thickly treed
forest. Aerin clutched his mother's hand as they
ran.  Behind
them,
a
curt
bark sounded in the strange
language.  It heralded a horrid wet, "thunk" of an arrow
striking flesh.  Sariah stumbled again and released Aerin's
hand as she fell skidding across the grass.

"Mother!"  Aerin cried out and
stopped, dropping to his knees by her fallen form.

A second black shaft now projected from the
small of her back.  Though weak she called softly to her
son, "Run... Aerin."

The scream started deep in Aerin's small
frame and grew as it found a voice, "Noooooo!” the young boy's grip
on the small cooking knife tightened as he stood and turned back
toward the burning wagon.  For the first time since the
terror
began,
Aerin saw the
creatures that had murdered his parents.  They were
horrible to behold, but the small boy stood his ground over his
mother’s body and prepared to defend her to the death.

Gandarel Trelic, the
twelve-year-old
heir to the Seat of Stone and future
Warlord of the Borderlands, hated his dress coat
collar.  For the twentieth time this day he hooked his
fingers into the offending material and pulled, hoping to gain some
slack.

When
Niler
Corbin, First Seat of the council, aimed his overly bushy eyebrows
at him with a stern look Gandarel desisted his tugging.

Gedin
strike
me down, I'm bored!
  Gandarel thought to himself
and was pleased; he loved getting away with a curse in the presence
of
Niler
, even if it had only been
in thought.

Mercifully the tithing report was finally
concluded and Gandarel was hustled off to his next appointment,
requiring yet another change of clothing.  As he pulled
on the stiff leather fencing armor Gandarel frowned as he gazed out
the nearby window.  The scene extended beyond the far
wall of the castle to where the towering buildings of Strakhelm
beckoned.  He longed to be out exploring the great city
instead of being 'safely' locked up in the musty old
castle. 

One of Councilman Corbin's underlings
escorted the twelve-year-old
heir
down to the arms courtyard where the new battle master,
Herus
, waited by the sword
rack.  Gandarel missed his father's battle master, but he
had been 'retired', as Councilman Enolive had
explained.   
Herus
beckoned him over, thick meaty hand waving and false smile showing
feigned encouragement. 

In his gravelly voice,
Herus
barked, "Good, you look fit today, young
man.  We will begin with hacking
practice.  Here is your broadsword," the
ox-like
man proclaimed, leaning the heavy sword
hilt toward the boy.

Gandarel scowled and took the grip with both
hands, then dragged the massive sword across the ground, letting
the tip dig a deep furrow from the forty pound
weight.  He eyed his destination with hatred, a large
wooden hacking post sunk upright in the
ground.  Countless sword hacks had worn it to roughly
circular proportions around the middle.  Arriving at the
post, with sweat already beading on his young brow, the boy used
all his strength to lift the heavy broadsword and clumsily swung it
at the wood.

"Again," Herus growled, "and put your back
into it, you'll never crush an enemy with a blow like that!"

Gandarel muttered under his breath, "I can
barely lift it, let alone crush anyone with it,
Fool."  But he knew better than to argue, or he would be
swinging the heavy blade until his arms fell off.

His thoughts went to his father, dead now six
months. 
 Father would never have allowed them to do
this to me, 
he thought and his anger and hatred seethed
beneath his skin. He managed a slightly better cut at the wood as
he pictured Herus' leg as the wooden beam.  He would have
wished this hard work over and done, but he knew what fate had in
store for him: Courtesy and Protocol class.