The Chosen by Kris Kramer (best novels ever txt) 📖

“Oh, come now, trackers. Don’t get all bent out of shape. You use two blades in a similar, albeit inferior, fashion to a Thorn, so perhaps you can give Brian a few pointers on your way out of the caverns,” Liam suggested.

He slapped Bruce on the back for good measure, showing the woman his good rapport with creatures big and small. After all, he’d already established dominance and leadership by delegating Brian’s training to the nuathreens. Now he was showing his more personable side.

Bruce’s face turned red in fury and Gil held the small archer at bay, whispering in his ear. Liam appreciated Gil protecting his friend from a hasty defeat at Liam’s hand, should Bruce force a confrontation. The nuathreen’s anger seemed to fade.

“Okay, Thorn. We’ll take the boy off of your dainty wee hands so that you can help your wee damsel. But know this: He will learn more from us in an hour than he has learned from you in a month.”

“I find that difficult to believe based upon your recent performances,” Liam responded politely, smiling for effect.

Bruce ignored him. The pair of trackers pulled Brian to his unstable feet. Liam didn’t appreciate the nuathreen’s tone at all, especially not in front of a young lady. Brian had learned immense bravery, obviously all from Liam’s instruction. A mere tracker couldn’t teach this trait. Even two trackers couldn’t, for that matter.

Brian, Bruce, and Gil started walking away from the new companions. Bruce said over his shoulder, “Miss, you’d be wise to keep an eye on this one. Don’t let him get you killed.”

Liam could hear Gil agree faintly, “Quite right, Bruce.”

Eilidh turned to Liam with a look of concern. Liam welcomed the challenge that the nuathreen had set up for him. Now he was escorting a veritable damsel in distress who also didn’t trust in his supreme melee skills. In due time, he would prove himself a master of the swords and win her over. He felt impressed with his abilities just thinking about them.

“Well, let’s be off then, shall we?” Liam said.

Eilidh nodded slowly. The pair wandered after the trio before them, but didn’t follow when the trackers turned off of the main path. What nerve these short people had! Liam had ordered them to take Brian straight to the surface. Why were they heading in that direction?

Eilidh looked a little unsure.

“Um, the trackers turned back there. We also need to head towards the surface to recruit more help. Do you know where you’re going?”

Liam laughed, booming echoes off the walls.

“Of course, I do. Have no fear. They are the ones who have made the wrong turn.”

Aren’t they?

He quickly distracted himself from self-doubt by dismissing Eilidh’s desire to find more adventurers. Liam the Thorn could handle this small quest all on his own.

The Priest

Chapter 14

Aiden trudged along the narrow, tree-lined dirt path that led to his house in the woods south of the Silver Hills. The sun had set long ago, and the forest had completely surrendered to darkness. The trails out here could be a dangerous, twisting maze even in sunlight; in the dark they were just short of treacherous. But Aiden knew this one intimately, and he could wander it without thinking and still make it home in good time. And that worked out well for him, because he wasn't thinking about where he was going. He thought instead about where he could have been.

All he’d wanted was hope. A glimmer of it, even. Just enough to let him know that the Goddess hadn't completely forgotten about him, or that she wasn't playing a cruel joke with his life. He'd wanted little from tonight, just enough to prove to everyone that he was a better person than what his brand showed, and he didn’t even get that. He had nothing left. Nothing to strive for. Nothing to live for. But he'd always kept on, persevering through all of his trials, waiting for the moment to arrive where he could take back his life. He was sure that moment had come tonight. And he'd let himself believe in it, only to see everything yanked away from him at the very end. He hated himself for that, for thinking he was more than a useless, cowardly old soldier.

The path faded back into grass and the trees around him opened into a small clearing where he could see the moonlight shining down on the roof of his small house. A shack, really. It was a single room, with enough space for a bedroll, a small table, a stove, a cupboard and some shelves. No one would ever call it fancy, or even quaint. But it kept the rain off and the wind out, and it was remote enough that few people ever bothered him. The wood was old and bent, and the roof constantly needed repairs, but Aiden didn't mind since it gave him something to do when he grew tired of feeling sorry for himself.

A bark greeted him from the darkness, and a moment later a skinny, gray-haired dog wandered up to meet him, tail wagging.

“Hey, Bastion,” Aiden whispered, holding his hand out for the dog to sniff, then scratching absentmindedly behind his short, scruffy ears. Bastion was an old hunting dog that once belonged to a Grunlander nearby who'd died of old age. He'd found Aiden shortly after that and decided he liked it well enough around here that he'd stay for a while. Aiden couldn't afford to keep him well fed, but he didn't mind having the company some days so he gave him what he could and let him chase off the rats. The dog was far past his prime, partially deaf, and rarely did anything except lie around and watch for forest critters to run by, but Aiden didn't care. He had someone to talk to who didn't care about the brand on his face, and that was enough for him.

Aiden stepped inside, threw off his cloak, dropped his pack on the table, and leaned the goblin spear against the wall, while the dog followed him in and settled down in his familiar spot near the stove. He fished for the lantern sitting on the cupboard, lit it and then kneeled down near the foot of his bedroll to unlock the heavy iron chest nestled in the corner. Inside the chest were all of his weapons and armor from his time in the wars. At the bottom, face down, was his shield, with his armor pieces stacked up neatly on top. Lying on either side were two swords, one long, used for open field fighting, the other short, used in the brutal shield walls. He frowned at his weapons and armor, wishing he'd had them when fighting the Warshield. But really he wished for any chance to use them again. He pulled out the bent merchant's sword hanging from his belt and tossed it into the chest. He closed it and locked it, then laid down on his bedroll, letting out a long, slow sigh. All he wanted was to clear his mind and go to sleep, and hopefully forget everything that had happened tonight.

But he couldn't forget. He never did.

~~~~~

This one's for you, father. I hope you drown in it.

Finias lifted the heavy mug of ale and drank, sucking it all down in one long gulp after another. It tasted suspiciously watery, but he didn't care. He sat alone at a small table in the back of Ye Merry Mug, a loud, raucous tavern on the corner of Fountain Square, near the east gates of Corendar. He'd been here almost an hour, his instincts helping him keep a low profile while watching the Artorans, Sotherans, Venrians and even a Movrisian or two drink, sing, and laugh all around him. Finias wasn't here to get drunk with them, though. He'd come here because he needed to be around other people. He wanted to peer into someone else's life and not have to think about his own.

"One more," he said to a passing barmaid, a pretty young woman with dark hair, who looked so flustered that Finias suspected she was new. “And some of that Arley's ham.”

No matter how intently he watched the other denizens of the tavern, though, he had trouble escaping from the day's events. He wanted to whack that fool Aiden across the face with his mug for getting him riled up to his cause, only to walk away after getting cheated. Those guards were nothing more than thieves playing dress up, and they should count themselves lucky Finias wasn’t the type to hunt them down in their sleep. But those were small, unimportant things. What really troubled him tonight was the Warshield.

The man was dead by Finias' own hand. He'd aimed for his neck and head, fired both shots, and those arrows hit exactly where he'd wanted them to hit. There was no mistake. It didn’t happen by accident. He'd killed him because he wanted to, and now he couldn't stop seeing the Northman's body in his head, arrows protruding from his neck and skull, blood everywhere. But the worst part of it all, what had him sitting in this tavern drinking watery ale, was that he wanted to be sick about it, but he wasn't.

I did it because it had to be done, he thought. I did the right thing.

He needed to believe those words, even though they felt hollow. He thought back to Aiden’s story of his own first kill, that Anduain Thorn. He'd told Finias that he didn't have any mercy for him, even after seeing in his eyes his last desire. That was duty, though, right? Aiden was a soldier, in a battle, and he'd killed someone who had been trying to kill him just moments earlier.

He'd done the same thing here. Just like Aiden. He’d been a soldier, and tonight his battle had been stopping that Warshield. He wasn't a murderer. Not like his father, and his brother. Not ever like them. He was a soldier. At least for one short night.

His rumination was interrupted when he realized someone had approached him. Finias looked up and saw a middle-aged man with long, graying brown hair standing nervously at the other end of his table. He wore dirty, frayed, woolen robes, dark green, very similar in style to a Resurrectionist war priest, the kind who fight with the armies, and he leaned on a thick wooden walking stick. He guessed the man had fallen on hard times lately, because he looked to have lived a very rough life. In fact, he'd have thought him a beggar if beggars were allowed in the taverns. The man raised a fidgety hand in greeting, and Finias nodded back but didn't say anything. The priest, or whatever he was, looked like he wanted to sit down in the extra chair, but then stopped himself awkwardly and looked to Finias for permission. Finias nodded, slightly amused now that the ale had begun to kick in, and the man sat down.

He fidgeted nervously in the chair, and kept leaning forward as if about to say something, only to change his mind at the last second and look away at the crowd of patrons instead. This happened five times before Finias decided he couldn't take it anymore.

“I don't have any coin for you,” he shouted over the din of several Artoran soldiers singing at the next table. He knew they were Artoran because of the song, which celebrated the dragons of old, and the chaos they had sown. It was a song he’d heard more than once growing up. The old man muttered something back that no one could possibly hear.

“What?” Finias said, leaning closer. The disheveled priest seemed uncomfortable, and he scanned the crowd again before finally leaning in closer.

“I'm not a beggar,” he said, just loud enough to hear.

“Then who are you?”

“I'm Riordan,” he stammered. He looked around carefully, as if his revealing his name might get him in trouble.

“Riordan?” Finias asked, and the man nodded, and then scanned the crowd again. He was awfully fidgety, either constantly wringing his hands or rubbing his face. His erratic behavior made Finias wonder if he might be sick or maybe just crazy. Finias raised his drink in greeting. “Well met, good man.”

“I-I saw you,” he said, stammering. “With the Northman.”

“Aye?”

“You killed him?” he asked. “You and–and–and the other man?”

“Yeah.” Finias gave Riordan a fake smile. “But I've been told that I can't