Fallen Embers (The Alterra Histories) Read online

  Fallen

  Embers

  BY

  C.S. MARKS

  Fallen Embers

  The characters and events this book are entirely fictional. No similarity between any of the names, characters, persons, and/or institutions in this book with those of any living or dead person or institutions is intended, and any such similarity which may exist is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by C. S. Marks, Iron Elf, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photo-copying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

  Published by Parthian Press, all rights reserved

  ParthianPress.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9859182-6-2

  Edited by Leslie Wainger

  Cover art by Hope Hoover

  Interior Illustrations by Hope Hoover, C.S. Marks, John Connell

  Interior designed by Carie Nixon

  The Author’s Website CSMarks.com

  Facebook.com/Alterra.CSMarks

  Twitter.com/CSMarks_Alterra

  Amazon.com/C.S.-Marks/e/B002CHYQR2/

  Goodreads.com/author/show/521676.C_S_Marks

  Foreword

  The wonderful thing about the Alterra Histories is that I have the chance to develop and explore Alterran characters and events—whenever and whatever I desire.

  It’s also a wondrous thing to have an editor. I’m not speaking of a proofreader, though they are also essential to the production of a quality book. No, I refer to a developmental editor—one who finds plot holes, inconsistencies, characters acting out of character...that sort of thing. An editor who tells you which of your babies you must kill.

  I have such an editor--the inimitable Leslie Wainger—a thirty-year veteran of the romance biz. But her abilities extend far beyond genre; she is a woman with whom I have learned NOT to disagree, no matter how painful.

  When she returned the Elfhunter manuscript to me, I was dismayed to see that she had recommended removing one of my favorite chapters. Not chapter seventeen! There must be some mistake! Naturally, I called her right away.

  “But, Leslie...I love this chapter. The readers love it...well, most of them love it. Why must I kill it?”

  “You don’t have to kill it...just take it out of the book.”

  “That’s the same as killing it!”

  “It disrupts the flow of the story.”

  “But, the readers love it!”

  “I don’t care...it doesn’t belong there.”

  Well, Harrumph! I love chapter seventeen. Darn it, it’s my book, and I don’t have to get rid of one of my favorite chapters just because Leslie tells me to.

  But then I remembered a couple of reviewers’ reactions to that chapter. They wondered why it was there. It disrupted the flow of the main storyline. I realized that Leslie was right, darn it. Chapter seventeen was an indulgence on my part. With a heavy sigh, I took it out. I think I might have actually spent a couple of days in mourning.

  I called Leslie. “Hey...I realized you were right, and I (snif!) took out chapter seventeen. (Snif!)

  “Well, good for you. And remember...you can put it in a later edition as bonus material.”

  Ohhhhh yeahhhhh!

  When the Alterra Histories came to be, I knew I had found the perfect solution to my chapterseventeenectomy. Not only could I resurrect it, I could expand it—tell the back-story, the whole story, complete and unabridged! I was ecstatic. I could hardly wait to put my fingers on the keyboard.

  Here, dear readers, is your revised, enhanced, director’s cut of our grand old chapter: “Gaelen and the King.” The new title, Fallen Embers, is a bit catchier, and certainly rolls off the tongue better than “Take away MY Chapter Seventeen, Will You!”

  Enjoy.

  —CSM

  FALLEN EMBERS

  PROLOGUE

  Shandor the Mighty seldom shed tears, even in the depths of his grief. Yet he shed them now, gazing into the crystal, searching the silvery multitude of planes and angles for the one that could make his pain subside. His ice-blue eyes flickered briefly, then darkened again, passing over vision after vision until at last they lit upon the one they sought—the day Liathwyn told him she would love him until the end of time. She said it many times thereafter, but this time was special—it was the first.

  His grip on the Stone tightened in anticipation as her lovely face swam into focus. Her voice soothed his wounded heart as nothing else could. Yet beneath it all, he knew it was only a memory, an illusion of passion long grown cold and dead. She was beyond his reach now—forever beyond his reach.

  Dardis, who had made the Stone, had warned against doing what Shandor was doing now. “The Stone is meant to heal the pain of grief, not to deny it. You must not gaze into it too long or too often, for it cannot restore life to those we have lost. It is only a reflection—a shadow—but it may gladden the hearts of those left behind, reminding them that one day they will see their loved ones again.”

  Except for me. I won’t see her again. Where she has gone, I cannot follow.

  Dardis had given good advice, but Dardis was dead and gone, and no one whispered warnings in Shandor’s ear. Liathwyn had left him months ago, and his pain had not diminished. He spent nearly all his time with the Stone now, reliving the moments he most cherished; the moments they had both cherished. He wondered whether her heart yearned for him. He supposed it did, but she was in paradise now, re-united with those who had gone before—mother, father, brother, friend. Shandor had no friends. Not anymore.

  His only happiness now lay within the depths of an enormous, magical rock. He had not eaten in weeks, and he never slept, anyway, as he had no such need. But Shandor was literally wasting away in the darkness of the Chamber of the Stone—he needed the feel of the air and the light of the sun and stars on his face. Yet they brought him no joy, and he would not leave the darkened Chamber. The Stone shed all the light he needed, or so he thought.

  He raised his eyes to the darkened vault above him, crying out to the One who had made him. “How could You have done this? It is by Your decree that we are forever parted...how could You have let me give my heart to her?” And the answer came from deep within him: I knew better. I have always known better, and still I loved her.

  He concentrated on the Stone again, his vision wavering and blurring as his eyes filled with hopeless tears. I will not be made helpless, he thought, his cold gaze riveted on the Stone. I will remain here forever if need be. If I focus my will long enough and hard enough, she will return to me...our memories will be made real again, and we will be together for all time.

  He watched her day and night, thrilling to the sound of her voice, comforted by the depths of love reflected in her dark blue eyes. But he could not touch her, could not hold her. He longed for the feel of her flesh against his—the softness of her hair, the warmth of her skin. He longed to walk beside her on the grass. Just one last time...just one time, and I will be content.

  Liathwyn remained distant, beyond his reach, and he clutched at the crystal, grinding his teeth and moaning in frustration, until at last he resolved that, somehow, he would go to her. He did not know whether he would succeed, or whether he could ever return, but he didn’t care. He focused all his will, threw his head back, and roared with effort. His heart pounded so hard and fast that he felt it might burst from his chest. Every nerve was on fire, every scrap of strength focused on t
he task.

  The Chamber fell silent as Shandor’s body crumpled to the ground like an unstrung puppet. He did not feel it—instead he was falling, tumbling end over end, rushing past light and sound and scent and feeling, until at last he landed painfully in a tangle of arms and legs, disoriented and in pain. For a moment, his vision went dark.

  “My love?”

  He looked up, his head still spinning, but everything came into focus when he saw her, dressed in silver-grey silk, her hair woven with blue and white flowers, a bundle of green willow under her arm. I gave her that gown. I remember this day! I...I am here, now, within the Stone. It is as I willed it to be.

  Shandor’s body lay cold and lifeless on the stone floor of the Chamber, barely visible in the now-ominous light of the Stone of Léir, which had been forever changed. Only the bravest of souls would dare gaze into it now, for it housed the spirit of the mightiest being ever to roam the world of Alterra. Shandor dwelled within, together with all that remained of his only love.

  He knew she was only a memory, but neither war, nor famine, nor any plea from those outside would ever make him leave her.

  I

  Tarfion of the Greatwood settled back against a moss-covered boulder and waited for his only daughter, Gaelen, to arrive. He had sent forth his favorite falcon, Giron, to fetch her, though he knew she would not be easy to find. He drew a deep sigh, lulled by the sound of the nearby river, and settled in for a long wait—this matter was too important to delay.

  His thoughts strayed to the upcoming journey to Mountain-home, for he was to accompany the King as part of his personal guard. This great honor was usually bestowed on the realm’s most decorated warriors, not common hunter-scouts, but as the most fabled archer in the Greatwood realm Tarfion was anything but common. He had become the King’s favorite, a fact which both delighted and frustrated his two brothers.

  I didn’t ask to be the King’s favorite, he thought, reflecting on the incident that had assured his status for the rest of his life—the day he had saved the King’s only son from death. It had only been twenty years since, but he remembered it as though it had happened yesterday.

  He had been scouting with his twin brother Tarmagil near the eastern borders of the realm, and had selected a tall pine as a watch-tower. Unlike his brother, who had settled into an accommodating maple some distance away, Tarfion never really thought about comfort. He could see better in this ancient pine, and that made up for the sticky sap on his worn leather breeches.

  He drew a deep sigh, shook an errant lock of reddish-brown hair from his eyes, and thought about his brother, whom he could hear rustling and crackling around even from this distance. We came into the world at the same time, yet we are nothing alike, he thought. Tarmagil stood both taller and broader, and he was an inept archer, though he was almost phenomenal with a broadsword. He tended toward impatience, and he made more noise than most, especially when climbing trees. In fact, he was not in the least bit stealthy.

  He might have been an inept hunter, but when enemies threatened the borders of the forest Tarmagil would put his considerable talents to good use. He fought without equal as long as he could use a blade, hence Tarfion wondered about the wisdom of placing one of the Greatwood’s best swordsmen up in a tall tree. An archer was well positioned to end the misbegotten lives of any Ulcas who wandered by, but what was Tarmagil supposed to do, hurl his sword at them?

  Well, no one forced him to be a hunter-scout. And I know how disappointed he is to be missing the greatest chase of the year—terrible hunter or not. Tarfion understood that disappointment, for he felt it himself. Nearly every Elf in the Greatwood loved the chase, to fly across the open lands on a good horse in pursuit of something swift, wild, and dangerous.

  There would not likely be a chase more dangerous than the one presently underway, for the King’s hunters pursued the great tusker known as “Turoc,” the Black Boar. Turoc was known to have killed perhaps sixty Elves in his life, but the number was probably far greater. Almost six feet tall at the shoulder, he weighed nearly a ton. Though well over a hundred years old, he was still strong enough to bring down a mounted rider by first ambushing and crashing into the horse, then attacking the fallen Elf or man as he lay dazed on the ground. Once dead, the rider would be eaten. Turoc had displayed an unsettling fondness for the brains and livers of his victims, who would be found with skulls crushed and bellies ripped open. A crafty beast, he studied the habits of his future prey so that he knew their daily comings and goings. He also learned to lurk along hunting trails, ambushing the last rider in the line. With the chase in full cry, the others were unlikely to notice the fallen one until it was too late.

  Tarfion recalled the sad tale of the last great boar-hunt. Nearly two months ago, one of the realm’s best hunters, a tall, strong fellow named Quanto, had vowed not to return without Turoc’s head. Quanto had killed hundreds of wild boar for the King’s tables, and he was as wise in their ways as anyone, but he was far too sure of himself in Tarfion’s opinion.

  Turoc seemed to know when his welcome had worn out, for he disappeared without a trace as soon as anyone came looking for him. Apparently he had many hunting-grounds, but he seemed to prefer the lands near the eastern borders of the forest, and eventually he would resurface. He would prowl there day and night, a silent shadow, alone and hungry.

  Quanto had returned empty-handed, having lost the other four members of his hunting party, all but one of the horses, and his right arm at the elbow. Tarfion remembered the haunted look in his eyes, and shuddered. He doubted Quanto would ever hunt again.

  Now the great boar’s hour would come, for the King had called out every rider who could wield a bow or a spear. Quanto had wounded Turoc—the shaft of a great spear still protruded from behind the top of the shoulder on the left side. According to one of the few folk ever to see Turoc and live to tell about it, it was finally taking its toll. The boar had lost condition and his gait indicated discomfort. Now was the time to take him down.

  Tarfion imagined the thrill of chasing down a creature that weighed as much as two smallish horses, foot-long tusks cracked and stained from many battles, tiny eyes filled with malice. He wondered if Tarmagil was imagining the same thing. He probably sees himself mounted on his favorite war-horse, drawing abreast of the charging boar and leaping onto it, or something equally absurd.

  Distant hunting-horns to the east interrupted Tarfion’s reverie. By the sound, he could tell that quarry had been sighted and the hunters were giving chase. This would be a sight to see, even if he couldn’t be part of it, but he was at his post and could not leave it. Alone and on foot there would be little he could do anyway, other than let them ride past him.

  Then he heard a series of whistles and hoots coming from Tarmagil’s direction. Apparently his brother had decided that abandoning his post was acceptable behavior, as he appeared to be heading toward the sound of the hunting-horns.

  Stop! Don’t you dare! Tarfion hooted back, fully expecting to be ignored—this was exactly the sort of circumstance in which Tarmagil would mysteriously lose his hearing. When no response came, he knew that his headstrong brother had given in to temptation. “Oh, fine. And I suppose he’ll have made up some excellent excuse, some urgent threat that demanded his attention elsewhere.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Tarfion prepared to climb down from the tall tree, just in case.

  Prince Aruin, only son and heir of the King, lay dazed where he had fallen. He had begged his father to allow him to be in charge of one of the hunting parties, and Osgar had relented, but only on the condition that three of the realm’s best archers accompany him. In addition, he was to stay with the main group of mounted horsemen until the horns signaled that the beast had been found. Aruin, desperate to prove himself, had elected to disobey his father’s orders and had split off from the main group.

  To his delight, he had been t
he first to spot Turoc’s great, limping form, head down, pulling at the tender herbs growing near a thicket of thorn-bushes. He sounded his royal hunting-horn and charged toward the boar with his three companions, all of whom had arrows already nocked.

  Turoc raised his huge head in alarm, gave a great, startled squeal that sounded more like a bellow, and ran into the thicket, disappearing from view. Undaunted, Aruin urged his horse forward, using the trampled vegetation to guide him. His powerful bow was ready, and his companions were close behind.

  He knew how dangerous Turoc was, and he slowed to a more cautious pace, looking all around for his quarry. His heart was racing now, and not just with the thrill of the hunt. Come on, you ugly nightmare! Show yourself, he thought, just before a flurry of alarmed cries and frantic, irregular hoof-beats told him that Turoc had charged in from behind. Aruin cursed his carelessness—this tactic was well known.

  He wheeled his horse about in time to witness the disarray behind him as three panicked horses reared and plunged, screaming, while the massive bulk of Turoc rooted and lurched among them, swinging his massive head back and forth. Two of the archers were unhorsed already, though one had managed to place an arrow in the great snout before the crushing weight of one of Turoc’s massive hooves silenced him forever. Turoc gored one of the horses, who fell, thrashing, on top of the other unfortunate archer. The third was nowhere to be seen; apparently she had been borne away by her terrified mount.

  Aruin drew his powerful bow, knowing that his best chance at killing the beast was a shot to the eye, but his horse was so distressed that it jostled him, spoiling his aim. The shaft went wide, grazing the boar’s cheek to lodge in the left forearm. With an outraged squeal, Turoc slammed into Aruin’s mount, throwing both horse and rider hard onto the ground.