The Age of War, page 1
part #2 of Warsworn Series
The Age of
War
By Ben Hale
Text Copyright © 2015 Ben Hale
All Rights Reserved
To my family and friends,
who believed
And to my wife,
who is perfect
The Chronicles of Lumineia
By Ben Hale
—The Warsworn—
The Flesh of War
The Age of War
The Heart of War
—The Second Draeken War—
Elseerian
The Gathering
Seven Days
The List Unseen
—The White Mage Saga—
Assassin's Blade (Short story prequel)
The Last Oracle
The Sword of Elseerian
Descent Unto Dark
Impact of the Fallen
The Forge of Light
Table of Contents
Map of Lumineia
Prologue: Loyalty
Part I - King
Chapter 1: Without Foe
Chapter 2: Redemption
Chapter 3: Divided
Chapter 4: The Challenges
Chapter 5: Warshard
Chapter 6: A Daughter Taken
Chapter 7: Augmented
Chapter 8: Allies
Chapter 9: The Strange Spies
Chapter 10: The Legendary Blade
Chapter 11: Answers
Chapter 12: The Loyal Few
Chapter 13: Brothers
Chapter 14: Tryton's Secret
Part II - Exile
Chapter 15: The Hunter
Chapter 16: A Violent Sea
Chapter 17: Freedom
Chapter 18: A Daughter Returned
Chapter 19: The Moordraug
Chapter 20: The Pack
Chapter 21: The Helmsman
Chapter 22: Talinor
Chapter 23: The Dark Wood
Chapter 24: The Young Oracle
Chapter 25: The Moordraug's Lair
Chapter 26: Alpha
Chapter 27: Crossroads
Chapter 28: Gallow
Chapter 29: The Assassin's Guild
Chapter 30: The Enemy Within
Chapter 31: Hated
Chapter 32: King Talfar
Chapter 33: Hunted
Chapter 34: The Evermist
Chapter 35: The Ancient Island
Chapter 36: The Construct
Part III - Construct
Chapter 37: Torridin
Chapter 38: Empowered
Chapter 39: Caged
Chapter 40: Seeking Answers
Chapter 41: Irilian
Chapter 42: Sandstorm
Chapter 43: Out of Time
Chapter 44: United
Chapter 45: Fallen
Chapter 46: Ally
Chapter 47: Home
Epilogue: Visions of War
The Chronicles of Lumineia
Author Bio
Map of Lumineia
Prologue: Loyalty
Tryton raised his greatsword to block and then leapt to the side. Accelerating into a spin, he flicked his blade outward, nicking his opponent’s arm. A grin crossed his features as he spun out of reach.
"Your skill improves by the day," Geranaut said, and retaliated with his own weapon.
Slimmer and more compact, Geranaut's blade streaked toward him. Tryton parried, but Geranaut twirled his sword with expert balance, magnifying its speed until it blurred through the air, then he reversed the motion and swept it toward Tryton's feet.
As a rock troll trained from birth, Tryton had endured thousands of hours of training and survived hundreds of battles. His reflexes honed to perfection, he twisted and leapt over the blade to land on his feet again. Geranaut grunted in approval and then charged. Tryton nearly bent over backwards as Geranaut's blade swept across his frame. Then he smashed his sword into the larger troll and leapt out of the trap.
"Excellent," Geranaut exclaimed, and a trace of a smile crossed his face. "But where is your focus? You are a high captain now. You cannot afford to let it slip."
"I know," Tryton said, his chest tightening at the reminder.
At just fifteen years of age, Tryton was the youngest high captain in their clan's history. The achievement had come by defeating a troll more than twice his age. Many marveled over his unparalleled talent, but their comments were tempered by his defiance of troll tradition.
Tryton saw it in their posture and eyes, the doubt as to his intentions. Trolls were taught that the sole purpose of the other races was to die by their hand. Tryton had rejected the tradition of slaughter. If he had been weak his people would have simply exiled him, but his sheer talent commanded attention. It had only been a week since he'd become a high captain, and the tension within the clan continued to mount as trolls quietly chose sides.
Tryton blocked Geranaut's attack and slashed at his flank, but his mind drifted to the dragon bounty. It had begun before his birth, and for fourteen years the other races had hunted them. Thousands of his people had been killed before the trolls finally slew the dragons. King Utoric and one of his Warshards were among the dead, allowing Tryton's older brother Sybrik to inherit the throne by right.
Geranaut's sword nicked Tryton's knee, drawing a spot of blood and forcing him to focus on his opponent. Irritated at his lapse, Tryton flipped his greatsword behind his back and struck at Geranaut's unprotected flank. Geranaut just managed to block it, but the jarring impact caused him to retreat a step.
"Don't allow future battles to distract you," Geranaut warned.
Tryton came to a halt and shook his head. "Actually, I was remembering King Utoric."
Geranaut strode to the water skins that had been filled by porgrin slaves. Snagging two from the wall, he tossed one to Tryton. Taking a long pull from his own, he used his sword to point at Tryton.
"He would have been proud to see who you've become."
"The Bounty Wars ended over a year ago," Tryton replied, "yet I find myself still wanting to speak with him."
"Perhaps that is more due to the one who took his place on the throne," Geranaut replied.
Tryton looked away, annoyed that the statement rang true. Sybrik was his brother, but the resemblance ended at their level of skill. Utoric had sought battle because of tradition, but had ultimately recognized that trollkind was dying. Before his death he'd admitted to Tryton the regret he felt, and his desires to change their people's ways. Sybrik was the opposite. His quest for war went beyond tradition and he relished every kill.
"Can I beat him?" Tryton asked, his voice quiet.
Geranaut shook his head. "Not yet. His skill rivals yours—but he has eight years of experience and size that you lack.”
Tryton sighed at the truth to his words. He was large for his age, his body layered in muscle and his skin like toughened leather. But it would be years before he could match his brother in size and strength, years in which Sybrik would incite their neighbors to endless bloodshed.
"Time is an asset we do not possess," Tryton said.
"You must be patient," Geranaut said. "In six months’ time, you can challenge one of the Warshards. Only then may you challenge your brother for the throne. The traditions of our people have endured for thousands of years. They will not change quickly."
His words were treasonous, causing Tryton to instinctively look about the private training room. Small and round, the chamber contained an assortment of weapons on the walls and a training circle embedded in the floor. There were many such rooms throughout Astaroth, but this one was reserved for the Blademaster. As the principal teacher of the whelps, Geranaut had trained rock troll children for over three decades, including Tryton and his brother.
"The other races already hate and fear us," Tryton said, a flicker of anger seeping into his voice. "The more Sybrik kills the harder it will be to turn their fury aside." To his surprise, Geranaut laughed.
"When you were born, our whole race was like him—but you changed us. You may have been quiet, but your actions spoke for you. Now many of our people believe as you do. I have no doubt that in time the other races will come to trust you as well."
Tryton released an explosive breath. "It still takes time."
"Time is a tool," Geranaut said. "Use it properly and victory comes—"
"—before a blade is even drawn," Tryton finished. "I remember."
Geranaut grinned and tossed the empty water skin aside. "You have learned much, but there remain lessons to be taught."
He raised his sword and spun it in a slow circle. Recognizing the invitation, Tryton did the same and they closed the gap in a rush. For several moments there was only the ring of striking blades. The blur of noise obscured the sound of the door swinging open.
"High Captain Tryton!" a voice called.
Tryton and Geranaut turned to find Warshard Kaber leaning against the doorframe, a slight sneer on his face. His expression and posture caused Tryton's gut to tighten with worry. Normally, naifblade youths were used as messengers within Astaroth. To merit a personal visit from a Warshard indicated something was amiss.
"King Sybrik wishes to see you on the summit."
"Inform him I'll be there in a moment," Tryton said.
"Now," Kaber replied, and his gaze flicked to Geranaut. "You as well, Blademaster. In fact, everyone has been summoned."
Tryton's worry exploded into fear, but he forced a nod and returned his sword to his back. Then he fell into step behind Kaber as they ascended through Astaroth. Ge
A natural tower of stone, the fortress of Astaroth contained training halls, sleeping quarters, and meal chambers throughout its interior. Corridors sloped up and down, and were bordered by doors cunningly inset in the walls. In many respects the fortress resembled a barracks for an army, rather than the last city of their race.
Banners from thousands of fallen foes adorned the walls. Great weapons and shields were placed beside them. Rather than decorative, the weapons were as sharp as the day they were forged. Along with the shields, they bore the scars of countless battles.
At every step Tryton felt the tension continue to mount. The hallways thickened with trolls headed toward the summit of Astaroth, the only place in the citadel that could accommodate the whole clan. Many cast glances at Tryton, their eyes laced with worry and confusion.
Tryton realized they had felt a growing fissure within the clan that had begun long before he'd become high captain. More and more were choosing to follow Tryton. The division had not come to bloodshed, but there was a growing sentiment that the clan needed to change. The summons of the clan indicated that Sybrik had decided to resolve the matter, and the trolls sensed the impending conflict.
Tryton stepped onto the summit of Astaroth and felt a chill trickle across his skin. The natural battlements were packed with trolls, indicating that Sybrik had waited until most of the clan was gathered before sending for Tryton.
Trolls packed the space between war machines and weapon stands, and lined the top of the battlements. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they looked to the king at the center of the summit. As if unaware of the scrutiny, Sybrik stood with his arms folded, his giant thundering maul in his hands. His lips twitched as he caught sight of Tryton.
Like all trolls, Sybrik's skin was tattooed with every kill, displaying his Sundering for all to see. Thousands of marks spiked and curved across his upper body and face, culminating in twin dragons on his cheek and forehead. The sheer volume revealed a vicious and bloodthirsty troll, powerful enough to slay even the mightiest of beasts.
Tryton's Sundering paled in comparison. His chest contained fewer than most his age, demonstrating a reluctance to kill standard foes. In contrast, his right arm and face contained an abundance of marks, revealing he did not waver against strong or mighty enemies. Unique among his people, Tryton's left arm remained empty, marking him as unwilling to kill the weak.
Sybrik’s smile widened when Tryton entered, and he motioned him forward. A hush fell on the gathered trolls as Tryton approached the king, and Tryton swept his gaze across the crowd. It didn't take him long to spot his closest friends.
Kythira stood on the front row beside her mother, high cleric of their clan. Warshard Destrier and a pair of hulking trolls stood around them, their proximity suggesting intent. Nearby were Solus, Ryphon, and the twins, Alkon and Arkon. Tryton had grown up with them as a whelp, and they were among his strongest captains. No less than a score of Sybrik's loyal trolls stood within striking distance. Tryton's friends appeared uncertain and angry.
Tryton came to a halt at the striking limit of Sybrik's thundering maul. Sybrik smirked at Tryton's choice and motioned to him.
"Do you know why you are here, High Captain Tryton?"
"I do not know your purpose," Tryton said, choosing to feign ignorance.
Sybrik's smirk became a sneer, and he turned to the gathered trolls. Raising his voice, he called to them.
"Tryton stands accused of treason against our people. On countless occasions he has defied orders and refused to slay women, children, and other weaker enemies. Now it has come to my attention that he has gone further, and seeks to undermine the very foundation of our people's traditions."
His words elicited a growing disturbance among the trolls, and several weapons were casually drawn. Well versed in battle, all of them could sense an impending conflict, and were preparing the only way they knew how. Tryton glanced at Kythira to find her hands so tight they were turning white, and her magic buzzing across her arms. Solus and the others were no less enraged, and only the presence of Sybrik's trolls kept them in check.
"What is your intent, brother?" Tryton asked quietly.
Sybrik's features hardened. "You think you can plan to take this throne without me learning of it? Or do you deny your designs to end our quest for war?" He raised his hammer and began to stalk toward him. "Or you can defeat me now and prove your intentions are honorable."
Tryton recognized the moment for what it was, a reckoning. Sybrik wanted Tryton to seize the moment and attempt to defeat him. To do so would divide the clan in a battle that Tryton's friends could not win. At nearly ten feet tall, Sybrik stood a head taller than Tryton. The contrast caused Sybrik’s lips to curl into a triumphant smile.
"You never did care for our ways," Sybrik murmured. "Now is your chance to change them."
The moment seemed to slow them as Tryton stared into his eyes. He sensed that Sybrik had planned this moment with great care, forcing Tryton into a position from which he could not escape unscathed. If he fought he would die, as would all those that followed him. If he backed down he would lose the confidence of many, including the trolls that had yet to decide who to follow.
Tryton released a long breath, wishing there was another way. He wondered if he should be angry, but instead it was resignation that filled his heart. Then he raised his voice so all could hear him.
"Sybrik speaks the truth . . . and so I accept my fate."
Sybrik blinked, his expression shifting to confusion and uncertainty, and then anger as he realized Tryton's intention.
"You would choose exile?" Sybrik demanded.
"Over the death of my family?" Tryton asked. "Always."
Rage flitted across Sybrik's features. "As is my right," he growled, "I exile Tryton from our clan."
His words caused an eruption of sound as trolls argued or shouted. Tryton half expected it to come to blows, and he tensed for a conflict. Sybrik ignored them all and stared at Tryton until a slow smile split his lips.
"As is our tradition," he said. "I give you a redemption. When our eastern border is without foe, you may rejoin the clan and claim your honor."
Tryton's heart sank. Infested with goblins, giants, and great beasts, the unclaimed lands bordered the human kingdom of Griffin as well. All hated the trolls. The exile would endure for the rest of his life, and Sybrik's reign over their clan would continue unchecked. Tryton swallowed his pride and bowed his head.
"I accept," he said, and turned to leave.
"No!" Kythira screamed from the side.
The sheer intensity to her voice was sufficient to silence the clan. Stepping free of the crowd, she strode to Tryton's side and came to a halt. Sybrik rotated to face her, but she stood defiant.
"You must allow any that desire it to join him in exile," she said.
Sybrik released a mocking laugh and gestured in dismissal. "As you will. Any who wish to join Tryton's exile may do so now."
The words had barely left his lips when Solus and Ryphon stepped from the crowd. Tryton caught the twins gaze and shook his head, causing them to remain in place. Then others stepped forward and strode to join Tryton. High Captain Delandrik and Geranaut led the way, and the trickle quickly became a flood. Ten became fifty, and still they came.
Tryton's heart stilled as he watched nearly everyone he'd fought with step to his side. In silence they came, and with each one Sybrik's eyes widened in disbelief. When it became clear that more than three hundred were choosing exile over Sybrik, Tryton realized his redemption would not be impossible. Sybrik seemed to realize the same thing, and spoke to Tryton through clenched teeth.
"You may not return to our lands until your redemption is complete."
"As you will," Tryton said.
Standing before the army that had chosen to follow him, Tryton knew it was only a matter of time before he returned. He inclined his head to his brother and then left amidst a whirlwind of shocked whispers. Angry or hopeful, their voices carried the same tone.
Anticipation.
Part I
King
