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  OUTCASTE

  A Tale of Alterra: Undiscovered Realms

  by

  C.S. Marks

  Outcaste

  A Tale of Alterra: Undiscovered Realms

  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 © 2015 by C. S. Marks, Iron Elf, LLC

  Cover Art by John Connell

  Maps by Carie Nixon

  Edited by Leslie Wainger

  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: 978-0-9912351-7-9

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Where to Fine C.S. Marks

  CSMarks.com

  Facebook.com/Alterra.CSMarks

  Twitter.com/CSMarks_Alterra

  Foreword

  Outcaste is the first in a new series—Undiscovered Realms—sequel to the Elfhunter trilogy. To those who are new to the world of Alterra, welcome! I have included a number of features for your convenience, including a glossary, complete with pronunciation, as well as several fine maps to assist you in getting your bearings. To those who have taken that journey with me already, welcome back! Many of you expressed regret at the conclusion of Ravenshade, as you were not yet ready to say goodbye to the characters you had come to know so well. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to them, either.

  I’m excited about this new story line, though it is very different from Elfhunter. As before, it’s about choices and challenges, but this time we’re challenged with the very nature of what makes us human—perception, prejudice, empathy—wrapped up in a tale of conflict, treachery, heroism, sacrifice, judgment, and forgiveness. We will be taken to places we’ve never been, to walk among people we’ve never met. The world of Alterra is about to expand—a lot. I’m pleased that you will take this part of the journey with me.

  As with my previous works, this one is suitable for all ages. Though I cherish every reader, the younger ones hold a special place, and I have tried to avoid inappropriate content.

  I hope this first installment of the Undiscovered Realms will entertain, engage, and delight you. I’ll try not to keep you waiting too long for the next one.

  –C.S. Marks

  (I have returned. Resistance is futile.)

  Prologue

  It was always chilly in the forest at night. The encircling trees stood tall and skeletal around the tiny clearing, their trunks just visible in the light of the campfire. After sunset, trees were the enemy. The rustling of their wind-blown leaves masked the sounds of approaching feet, and they provided cover for the Hunters. There was no moon tonight, which made things worse.

  It wasn't that he couldn't see in the near-total darkness; his eyes were keen in that regard. But Twyla was cold, so he had finally risked a small fire. He could not refuse her. She had stayed with him when the rest of the clan had moved on. It was because of his weakness—his frailty—that they were still in harm's way. His wounds were nearly healed now, but they still pained him.

  He felt a hand on his arm, and he started a little, but it was only Twyla, his little sister, now grown. She had a life-mate and children of her own. They had gone with the rest of the clan—children must be protected. Only she had stayed behind to care for him. He looked into her eyes, reading the message in them.

  That's what good sisters do. Don’t worry…we’ll catch up with the others soon.

  Though the trees were unfriendly, it was not so with all creatures of the night. As long as one could hear them hooting, chirping, buzzing, and click-clacking, one was probably safe from the Hunters, or so he had been told by the lore-master. There were plenty of night-creatures giving voice tonight, though their tempo had slowed due to the chill in the air. That meant the Hunters were occupied elsewhere tonight…didn't it?

  What if the lore-master was wrong?

  He pulled his ragged cloak tighter, hating to leave the fire. He hated even more that he must ask Twyla to leave it, for she loved staring into the ever-changing, red-golden coals, and she had only recently stopped shivering.

  “We must move on…I'm afraid to linger here.”

  The fear leapt into her eyes at once, though she tried to conceal it. She knew what the Hunters could do, though she had never actually seen one. Very few of their people had, and their descriptions were incomplete—shadowed beings that would come on you by night or by day, striking without sound or sight, killing anyone who set foot in the forest only because it was within their power to do so. The only way to safely lay eyes on a Hunter was to come upon the remains of a dead one, and that did not happen often. How I hate the forest! But it’s just so vast…I know going around it is not possible if we hope to escape our enemies, but still…

  The fire was too bright and the smoke too obvious…why had he ever built it? They had to extinguish it and move on. He suffocated the glowing, welcome warmth with damp soil as Twyla sighed at the loss of comfort, lifting her eyes to the tiny patch of sky visible through the canopy. It was going to start raining at any minute.

  He heard the rumble of approaching thunder before they had managed another half mile. He was still limping, though things were improving and he would soon be able to walk with fair speed. Perhaps they would catch up with the others tomorrow. For now, the storm would be their friend. The Hunters would not stay in the trees, for the wind and the lightning made them unsafe. Hunters were much less dangerous on the ground.

  The storm swept in and enveloped the forest, bringing wind and lightning. Twyla hated the bright stabs of light and terrifying noise–they both did—but there was some satisfaction in the helplessness of the trees. They would fall to the lightning if they were so fated, and there was nothing they could do about it. Even the mightiest tree would fall, an enemy even in death, crushing the life from the unlucky.

  They drew near the boundaries of the forest as the storm waned…only a little farther and they would be safe from the Hunters. They had survived the violence of the weather, though they were soaking wet and cold to the bone by now. Twyla began to whimper, and at first he thought it was from the cold. He could not blame her.

  Then his eye was drawn to an unfamiliar shape, just visible in the last flickers of the retreating storm. It obviously did not belong among the trees, hanging upside down with arms splayed at odd angles, several feathered shafts jutting from the flesh. Twyla's whimpering grew with the next flash of light, for she could see the blank, staring eyes of her life-mate, and she knew the Hunters had taken him. She drew several random, gasping breaths and lurched forward. She made no other sound—she was only another rain-soaked, grey shape for them to aim at.

  Twyla! Stop! They'll see you!

  She hesitated, looking back over her shoulder at him. It was the last time he would see her eyes with life in them—full of grief and terror. She whispered his name.

  The Hunters fell on her from the shadows, cutting her throat as if she had never mattered to anyone. He crouched in the dark, trying to remain hidden, tryin
g not to scream as his sister's blood sprayed from around her severed airway. Her last cries would never be heard.

  They cast her body aside—his little sister who had never harmed anyone in her life–and he moaned as the terrible loss cut into his heart like a blade. One of them heard him. Its head snapped around, long locks of wet hair whipping in the last of the wind. They were like wolves; when one became wary, they all did. They turned bright, fiery eyes toward his hiding place, narrowing their gaze, their lips drawn back to expose unnaturally white teeth. He saw them in every detail—tall and slender like the trees—strange, unnaturally long ears surrounded by impossibly long hair that hung in slack, soaking-wet strands down their backs. Their skin was pale and their enormous eyes blazed with a cold, heartless light. Their blades, flawlessly forged, glittered in the last lights of the storm as they moved toward him. One of them snarled like a beast, but the others were absolutely silent. They had seen him, they were coming for him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  His courage had died along with his sister, and it could not prevent his terrified screams. It was those screams which woke him from the dream…the same dream he had every day. He woke with the same question—the same contradiction—burning in his mind.

  Do they not know it is wrong to kill without cause?

  Chapter 1: Reflections of a Lore-master

  Imagine the warmth and comfort of a cozy den, a fire glowing and crackling, old, red velvet furniture that has reached just the right shape and degree of squashiness, soft pillows and bolsters tossed about, and a very large, lovingly oiled oaken table. Add to that row upon row of parchments, manuscripts, and bound books, their spines boasting gilded letters in various languages. Include a plate heaped with food, and a touch of fine brandy, and you have pretty much described a dwarvish lore-master's notion of heaven.

  Fima, Lore-master of Mountain-home (lately of Dûn Bennas), loved his private study. It was mostly belowground, but sunlight and moonlight shone though several windows placed near the tall ceiling. Fima could still hear the late winter rain. He drew his wooly cloak around his chest, shivering slightly. Perhaps it was time to toss another log on the fire.

  He moved toward the river-stone fireplace, catching his reflection in a glass-fronted cabinet. A very distinguished, long-bearded dwarf with wise blue eyes set in a weathered face looked back at him. He smiled at first, but then the image changed with irregularities in the glass so that the face seemed frail, almost feeble.

  Can I really be that old?

  When he bent over to lift a heavy piece of firewood, his question was answered. Pain coursed through his back and legs, causing him to drop the log and brace both arms against the wall for a moment. He grimaced as he straightened again, breath whistling through his moustache. Cursing and muttering, he selected a much smaller log, and then another, lifting each one v-e-r-y carefully. At last, with the fire now blazing to his satisfaction, Fima returned to his place at his study table. I fear I have seen my last battle…

  The western lands of Alterra had been relatively peaceful for the past twenty years, due to the defeat of Lord Wrothgar's army and the death of Gorgon Elfhunter. Fima was proud to state that he had played a major role in that defeat, but he had been old even then. He had once traveled thousands of miles—all the way from the northern wastes to the deep southern deserts—but he was now convinced that another long journey would be the death of him. The past few winters in Dûn Bennas seemed harder than he remembered.

  He was reflecting on all that had passed, still listening to the late winter rain, when he was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. He knew at once who knocked—his apprentice, Carmyn, had followed him to Dûn Bennas. Carmyn, who hailed from the far southlands, was a fine map-maker with an uncanny sense of direction and a most wonderful desire to learn. Now the door creaked open and her intelligent, friendly face appeared. She shook unkempt dark hair from her eyes and smiled at Fima, who immediately bade her come and sit with him by the fire.

  “I heard a rumor that you plan to travel to the Elven-realm of Tal-sithian this year, Lore-master,” she said. “If so, then I would beg leave to accompany you. My work there is still incomplete.”

  Fima knew that she referred to her exhaustive mapping of the great lake that surrounded the island of Tal-sithian. Known as the Linnefionn, It had never been properly depicted due to the influence of the Elves, who would bewilder all attempts. Therefore, the lake appeared much larger than it was in reality on all maps of the region—including Fima's. Carmyn, who had befriended the Elves, would be the first to map it with accuracy.

  Fima sighed, offering Carmyn some cream-filled cakes on a tray. “It never ceases to amaze me how every musing and thought I have ever had seems to become immediate public knowledge,” he said.

  Carmyn chuckled at him. “That's because many of those musings and thoughts are held under the influence of ale. You haven't exactly made a secret of this particular plan, or so I'm told.”

  Fima grumbled a little, and Carmyn's bright expression faded as she heard the weakness in his voice. He suffered from a chronic cough, especially in the winter, and his grumbling was now little more than a disgruntled wheeze. She missed the deep, sonorous voice of years past. She wondered whether he was up to a journey of any kind, though she would never, ever question his decision.

  “Gaelen thought me mad for wanting to travel there, until I explained that the environment of Tal-sithian would probably be quite restorative,” said Fima. “She couldn't argue with that.”

  Gaelen, a Wood-elf of the Greatwood realm, had stood beside Fima through untold hardships, and was now one of his most devoted friends. They adored one another as mentor and disciple, as teacher and protector. Gaelen had overcome the typical animosity of her people toward Dwarves, and anyone causing harm or insult to her friend Fima would answer for it. An unusual Elf in many respects, Gaelen had even pledged her heart to a mortal man, Rogond by name.

  Carmyn sniffed. “What does Gaelen know of Dwarves, anyway? I think it's rude for her to even suggest that you aren't capable of making whatever journey you choose.”

  “Ah, Carmyn…I have seen the doubt in your eyes as well,” Fima replied. “You must remember that Gaelen has had little understanding of mortal races, and is inclined to believe that we’re made of glass. You should have seen her when she noticed the first grey hairs on Rogond's head! She flew down here in a panic, begging me for enlightenment, as if she expected he was on his last legs. Poor little Wood-elf.”

  “As if she hasn't seen grey hairs before,” said Carmyn, who, though she liked and admired Gaelen, found her to be something of a mystery.

  “She has, but she is also painfully aware that grey hairs do not come until the later chapters of a man's life,” said Fima. “Remember…to Gaelen, even a hundred years is a brief time.”

  “So, when are we going to Tal-sithian?” asked Carmyn, returning to the topic at hand.

  “Whenever Rogond decides,” said Fima. “He’s the one who insists on going every other spring, though I don’t blame him. Now that he has found his brother, he wants to visit with him every two years. Tal-sithian is a nice enough place to do it; it’s about the only really suitable place between here and Mountain-home. At any rate, when last we spoke, he was planning to leave in about two months’ time.”

  “Doesn’t he usually leave earlier? Why so late?”

  Fima sighed. “That was my fault. I requested the late departure time to avoid the worst of the rain. It seems to aggravate my breathing. Rogond has agreed to wait until the rains abate before we set out. I intend to spend the interim getting in shape for the journey, so have some more of these cream-cakes before I eat them all myself.”

  “In my opinion, you should have no more of them at all,” said Carmyn, taking her leave and the tray of cakes at the same time. “I’ll find a good home for these. What say I take the responsibility of providing your meals from now on?” She left before he could formulate his reply, which would hav
e consisted of at least ten reasons why such a strategy was not only unnecessary, but a bad idea.

  Carmyn was gone, and Fima was left to list them only to himself. Fine. Knowing her, I'll starve to death down here. He knew her well enough to know that his meals would consist of lots of things which had once grown out of someone's garden. Aside from potatoes, these were not especially high on Fima's list of favorites.

  In the weeks that followed, Fima spent as much time as he could manage going through some of the more important documents in the library. Some of these were very, very old—even a few dating back to the First Reckoning. These had no doubt been handed down over countless generations of Men, and Fima examined them with reverence. He had also noticed Gaelen spending more time in the library than was customary. She hovered intently over a small table in a tiny chamber far from the main path, apparently studying a manuscript.

  He wondered why she had chosen this isolated location, and he crept up on her as silently as he could. When he drew near enough, he could hear the sound of a quill upon parchment, and he knew then that she was not studying a manuscript, but working on one of her own.

  He watched her from the shadows. She was so intent on her work that she did not notice him, which was unusual. Her eyes glowed in the candle light, her clever fingers whipping the quill across the parchment, her lower lip drawn in between her teeth in an expression of pure concentration. Every now and then she would whisper or mutter soft words, her eyes never straying from her task, reaching now for a piece of charcoal and then for powder to dry the ink. She finished one page, placed it carefully with more than a dozen others, and started on a new one, pausing only to shake her unkempt, tousled hair from her eyes. At last Fima withdrew, leaving her to her solitude.