Resistance, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Resistance (Chaos - Tol's Bane, #1)
CHAPTER ONE Occupation
CHAPTER TWO Recruitment
CHAPTER THREE Pursuit
CHAPTER FOUR Nordinium
CHAPTER FIVE The Seven
CHAPTER SIX Melee
CHAPTER SEVEN Respite
CHAPTER EIGHT Allies
CHAPTER NINE Sudhemere
CHAPTER TEN Red
CHAPTER ELEVEN The Ancients
CHAPTER TWELVE Hunter
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Wilder
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Challenge
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Possibilities
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Hunted
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Pathfinders
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Moot
CHAPTER NINETEEN Aayla
CHAPTER TWENTY Du Tek
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Rescue
About the Author
SHAUN KEELEY IS A DEBUT fantasy author whose first novel, Resistance, showcases his deep passion for the genre. As an avid reader and father of three daughters (his Gargoyles), Shaun draws inspiration from his family, infusing his female characters with their strength and spirit. Beyond his literary pursuits, Shaun is a dedicated motor racing participant with a background in the motorsport industry. This unique blend of interests enriches his storytelling, combining the excitement of racing with the imaginative worlds of fantasy. Shaun’s diverse experiences and interests shape his writing, promising readers engaging and dynamic adventures.
NORDINIUM
THE SOUTHLANDS
ISBN: 978-0-6458837-3-2 (pback)
ISBN: 978-0-6458837-2-5 (ebook)
Published by Shaun Keeley
Copyright © Shaun Keeley 2024
The right of Shaun Keeley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All versions of this book are subject to the condition that they shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Dear Reader,
Although my name appears on the cover of this book, I am merely the chronicler of this story. The characters you will meet control the narrative of their part in the eternal battle of light against dark or good versus evil. Themes spread throughout the tale may offend some readers. Torture, murder, assassination, slavery and assaults against women are interwoven throughout. Some of the more genteel and educated characters may couch these themes in a more palatable way but some of those less refined do not have the luxury of an education and call a spade exactly what it is. Please join them in their quest to save their world and bring balance to their existence.
C.S.R. Keeley.
CHAPTER ONE
Occupation
In deep gloaming, chaos takes form
As blackness creeps, light will cease.
PERRIN OMHOLT SAT OUTSIDE the lean-to shelter gazing down the high mountain valley. His hands idly shredding long stalks of the alpine grass, releasing the rich aroma of a freshly scythed meadow. His thoughts meandered to the subdued solstice celebrations that neared, and particularly the lack of any eligible girls in the village. Dancing with a matron or young one was just not the same. The travel restrictions forced upon them by the invaders meant no visitors again this turn.
Looking over the valley, his eyes wandered the almost-circular rim of the old volcano crater. The steep walls of the remnant created a perfect barrier to keep sheep and goats safe and secure. Swaying green grasses spotted with patches of wildflowers provided the stock with rich grazing. Its bounty was nourished by the volcanic soil and plenty of seasonal rains.
Behind him, the incline steepened and connected the valley to the range of ancient mountains that reached with grandeur to snowy heights. The sun was falling towards the peak of the valley’s rim. The chill Perrin felt was a result of the winds flowing off the mountain slopes.
As the shadows crept across the valley floor, Perrin suddenly realised the time. Where was Bren? His younger cousin should have arrived by now. Easily distracted by a covey of grouse or a deer sighting, his short attention span was always a worry. Perrin dare not be late for roll call again. That bloody-minded Brocken sergeant may just take it upon himself to make his life even more miserable.
Soon, the goats and sheep under Perrin’s charge would head for the safety of the pens. The deepening twilight in the valley would fool them into thinking night was falling. Perrin knew that on the western side of the valley walls, the village would still have sunlight and was looking forward to a jack or two of ale and one of Gram’s suppers after compulsory basic drill.
A local ballad echoing off the hills announced his cousin’s arrival. Perrin collected his backpack, hat, staff, and the very precious axe and he bounded straight down the slope to meet him. Bren came through the small pass that hid the valley, well above the small village of Hightop.
‘Bren, where have you been?’ Perrin asked. ‘You know I have to be in the square before the bells have rung.’
Perrin loved his cousin, but it was always a gamble on whether he would be punctual or pay attention to detail. The boy would reach manhood at the next solstice but he was still considered just a lad by all in the village. Hightop nestled in the elm, oak, and ash forests of the foothills in the shadow of the imposing Red Range mountains. Although only four or five suns travel from the capital of the Duchy of Sudhem the village was largely self-sufficient and well off any major trading route.
Perrin studied the boy he often wondered how he and his cousin could be related. Bren was willowy and long of limb with light hair that hung beyond his collar in waves. His slightly pointed chin and green, almond-shaped eyes contrasted with Perrin’s own square jaw and round, brown eyes. Perrin was the stockier of the two and wide shoulders made him very powerful. In his fading memories of his mother and father, they had called him their ‘little bull’.
‘Now, Bren, here is the axe. Please take good care of it, and don’t leave it out overnight,’ Perrin instructed. ‘Have you got your supper and a loaf for breakfast?’ Perrin asked, secretly checking Bren’s pack to ensure nothing had been forgotten. Perrin received a nod in answer. ‘Good. Now, I will be back just after sunrise. You make sure you keep a close watch on the stock tonight. I heard a pack hunting up beyond the snow line last night, so be extra careful.’
Bren nodded and hugged his cousin. He picked his song up in mid-verse, shouldered the axe, and trudged towards the stout shelter they used while on herding duties.
Not one for words, Perrin thought. Unless it was a song he had learned by repetition.
The Omholts had never been considered a leading family in the small village. Their cabin set apart under the eaves of the forest had always been there, even if the resident was absent for periods. No villager could accurately determine the family’s lineage in the history of Hightop. Normally not a difficult task as every other resident could be traced back to a dozen or so ancestors. The village forgave the obscurity as the Omholts held the important position of herders, but their real skills and vocation lay in the art of herb law and healing that they shared graciously with all in need.
Perrin broke into an easy loping run he knew he could keep up for easily half a sun. He had to be on time. The scenery seemed to flow past as he steadied his breathing to ensure his endurance. His stocky frame and strong legs made the downhill run easy. Just as Perrin reached the garden plots on the fringe of the village, he heard the first of five bell tolls. It indicated the end of the working sun to all residents and the start of a gruelling drill session for the young men of the village. The drill was overseen by the resident squad of occupation soldiers. Perrin made it to muster just as the last toll peeled away, echoing into the mountains.
‘That was close, Per,’ a squad mate whispered. ‘Here comes that bloody Brocken three striper.’
Their sergeant marched to the stump he used as a podium. While he mounted the stump, his corporal marched up and down the rank of young men, counting heads and checking off the roll. He occasionally cracked one or another of those in line with his baton for no apparent reason or for fidgeting while standing at attention. After being presented with the roll, the sergeant nodded to his man, pulled himself up to his full height, took a breath, and began to bellow.
‘A sorrier-looking squad of soldiers of the empire I have never seen. You will all be pulling double drills for the next week until I am satisfied with your performance. Corporal, begin!’
The entire squad groaned, giving the corporal another excuse to liberally use his baton upon those unfortunate enough to be within his reach. During the mind-numbing drill, Perrin thought that this increased effort and added cruelty by the occupiers could only mean one thing: a forced recruitment muster was near at hand.
That evening, as the men gathered in the village inn, the main topic of discussion was the recruitment muster and which of the young men would be taken away to the north. Every turn since the occupation, a large squad of regular soldiers would tour the controlled lands and net up any lad who had reached the age of sixteen. They would be marched north for basic training and assimilation instruction. Those such as Perrin—who had already undergone the pa in of the full-turn-long torture—knew it was nothing more than a poor excuse to provide the Nordinium Empire with a free company of forced labourers.
Of the ten boys taken from Hightop over the last five turns, only Perrin and six others had returned. Each of the families in the village had suffered the anguish of a son or cousin being forcefully recruited. Of the others, no word had ever been heard again. Their parents had received notification from the Brocken, congratulating them for raising a son who had chosen to join the empire’s regular forces.
Perrin knew this was a falsehood, as he had witnessed young men dying from beatings or thinly veiled accidents. In his nightmares, he still relived and suffered the pain endured at the hands of the instructors, whose beatings and sadism broke many a young man. Scars on his back from the whips were nothing compared to the scars in his memories. Perrin’s mind wandered back to that time as he randomly doodled spirals on the tabletop, using the spilled froth of the group’s ale as his medium.
‘Perrin, does not your cousin turn sixteen at the next solstice celebration?’ Belen asked. The smith was the head of the village council. ‘They cannot possibly consider taking him as a recruit.’
‘Bren can’t be considered a candidate. I know he’s coming of age, but I always think of him as younger with his singing and child-like wonder,’ said Mitchum, the tavern keeper, delivering a round of tankards and taking up tokens in payment.
Perrin was shocked back to the present and considered the implications of their discussion. Like the others, he had forgotten Bren’s eligibility due to his cousin’s simplistic outlook on life. The villagers had considered Bren a little touched since he arrived to live with Perrin and his grandmother over four turns earlier.
‘By Tyr,’ Perrin said. ‘I best be off and let Grams know about the muster. She will know what to do with Bren. Maybe we just leave him up at the top meadows when the soldiers come and hope that out of sight is out of mind.’
Those at the table nodded their agreement. All in the village respected the views of the old woman, who was known to all as Gram. This was an honorific to a lady who had done so much for each of them. Either as midwives to their mothers or wives or directly dispensing remedies and nursing injuries.
Perrin downed his ale, gathered his gear, and rushed out the door, followed by the words of the smith.
‘Arf ya luck,’ Belen called.
Perrin wandered through the village, deep in thought as the light bled from the skies. Bren was as close to his heart as any brother would be. Many of the inhabitants of the occupied lands had suffered badly during the invasion and continued to be hampered by the ever-increasing tithes levied by the empire. Perrin and Bren had both lost their respective parents, and Perrin had also suffered the disappearance of his older brother. At the time, Perrin had not understood how or why his life suffered such a gut-wrenching upheaval.
When he considered the treatment Bren would endure at the hands of the assimilation officers, he was almost physically sick. Chills crept up his backbone as his own memories rushed to the fore. By the time he came in sight of his grandmother’s humble cabin, he had determined that the soldiers could not be allowed to take his cousin.
‘Gram, where are you?’ Perrin called.
He stooped under the thatch and through the low doorway. Perrin looked about the sparse cabin and figured his grandmother must still be tending her herb beds in the garden behind the cabin. ‘Gram?’ Perrin called, slipping out the back door. ‘What are you still doing out here?’
‘Per, there you are. Come and help me with these. Gather those bunches. You know that senna root is best harvested at dusk to enhance its properties. We must set these to dry in the racks,’ replied a small, wizened woman. Perrin surveyed the herb beds and wondered yet again how the old woman produced such an abundance and variety of vegetables and herbs enough to feed the whole village if it ever came to that. Yet there never seemed to be more than what was needed.
No one knew how long Gram had lived in Hightop, and she certainly wasn’t letting anyone in on her secrets. The old lady only came up to Perrin’s chest, but throughout the surrounding hills, she was highly regarded as a healer and midwife. She tended not only the citizens but all manner of beasts as well. Her most startling feature was that her long, still-brown hair, which she wore in a bun, was only marred with one or two strands of grey, which many younger grey-haired mothers envied. Her unlined features and strong hands belied her age.
Perrin collected the large baskets of foliage his Gram had prepared and took them into the drying shed he had built for her in the previous season of the long moon. The chill, winds and snows of that season were a time when most of Hightop’s residents were kept close to home.
As she shuffled in behind him, she asked, ‘Now what has got you all riled up that you come home with not even a kiss for your old Gram?’
Perrin hugged the dear old lady and apologised for his distraction. ‘Gram, the Brocken are coming, and I am afraid for Bren.’ he said. Perrin used the term the citizens of the south had coined for the occupation soldiers. ‘The local squad are prancing around the village, puffing out their chests, and making life even more difficult.’
Those suffering under the yoke of occupation had named the regular soldiers of the northern invaders the Brocken based on the grey colour of their uniforms and the fact they fashioned their strategies on early morning attacks. Their raids were often aided by the mists and fogs yet to be burnt off by the sun.
‘Well, that’s certainly an indication that something is afoot,’ Gram said. The old lady led Perrin into the neat one-roomed cabin. ‘Sit down, and I will brew some tea, and we can decide on the implications of these latest happenings.’
Gram’s answer to any problem was a cup of tea and careful dissection of the facts. As she pottered about with the kettle and tea fixings, Perrin’s grandmother muttered to herself while taking sidelong glances at the grandson she so loved.
‘Gram, something smells good. What have you got brewing over the coals?’
‘You will know soon enough. Set the table for supper.’
He carefully placed his Gram’s favourite cups on the table and took his place at the head of the table. This position was always insisted upon as his right as the oldest male of the household. Gram always adhered to the old ways and had drilled manners into Perrin and Bren, although the latter seemed a lost cause when it came to the correct etiquette for teatime.
‘Bren would never survive the march north, let alone the punishment meted out by those sadistic bastards and their assimilation lessons. We can’t let them have Bren,’ Perrin said.
Gram continued carefully preparing the tea while she ruminated over the news Perrin had brought her. They had known this sun was coming, yet they had hoped to have more time to enjoy raising the young cousin who was taken in during the invasion and the resistance that followed. While Gram served the meal and poured the tea, she questioned Perrin about Bren’s arrival at the high meadows.
‘Did you make sure Bren had his supper and the mushroom nut loaf for his breakfast?’
Perrin was exasperated that Gram did not seem as concerned as he was over the danger the muster posed to his cousin. Did she not remember the scars, both physical and mental, he carried from his own experiences, from which he had returned almost two full turns ago in the season of the birth and growth?
‘Yes, Gram. Bren had his pannikin and the loaf wrapped in one of your red napkins. What about the muster?’ Perrin insisted.
Gram sat and sipped her tea while taking a good, long look at her boy. ‘Per,’ she began, ‘Hightop is fortunate that it is far from the centre of the empire’s influences and the depredations inflicted on the plains people. We deliver our tithes on time and are seen to follow the empire’s directives without undue complaint. We do not draw attention to ourselves for a very good reason. If we cause no trouble, we are not scrutinized too closely. We will have Bren stay in the high meadow and hope whoever they send does not look too closely into the records or that the local squad does not consider that Bren is old enough for muster.’
‘But, Gram, we must prepare for the worst. We must not take the chance.’
