The flesh of war, p.1
The Flesh of War, page 1
part #1 of Warsworn Series
The Flesh 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
Chapter 1: First Rite
Part I - Whelp
Chapter 2: Whelp
Chapter 3: Dwarf
Chapter 4: United
Chapter 5: The Porgrin
Chapter 6: Fractured
Chapter 7: Brothers
Chapter 8: The Blademaster
Chapter 9: Sojourn
Chapter 10: Jerikaal
Chapter 11: The Hunted
Chapter 12: Trial
Part II - Naifblade
Chapter 13: Felshard
Chapter 14: The Endurance Trial
Chapter 15: Answers
Chapter 16: The Azüre
Chapter 17: Baiting a Trap
Chapter 18: The Bounty
Chapter 19: The Forge
Chapter 20: Unmasked
Chapter 21: The Bloodmist
Chapter 22: Dispatched
Chapter 23: Griffin
Chapter 24: Breach
Chapter 25: Home
Chapter 26: Changed
Chapter 27: Gorn
Chapter 28: The Arena
Chapter 29: Reaver
Chapter 30: Scarred
Chapter 31: Broken
Chapter 32: The Benefactor
Chapter 33: Kythira
Chapter 34: The Crossroads
Chapter 35: Urthin's Tale
Chapter 36: The Lost Mine
Chapter 37: The Soulforge
Chapter 38: The Guardian
Part III - Warsworn
Chapter 39: Burned
Chapter 40: Twins
Chapter 41: A Single Voice
Chapter 42: Isolated
Chapter 43: To War
Chapter 44: A Last Stand
Chapter 45: The Flesh of War
Chapter 46: Plummet
Chapter 47: Summoned
Chapter 48: Warshard
Chapter 49: Warsworn
The Chronicles of Lumineia
Author Bio
Map of Lumineia
Chapter 1: First Rite
Anchoring the center of the rock troll army, King Utoric swung his double-bladed axe into the orc line. Their leather armor split beneath the blow and the weapon cut into flesh. The orcs gurgled as they sank to the ground, and Utoric stepped over their corpses to engage another group. He released a rumbling snarl as he advanced.
Desperate to escape, the orcs and gnomes shoved and trampled each other as they fled down the canyon. Hundred-foot walls rose on either side as they sought an exit, but there was none. Utoric had lured the orc army into the depths of the Fractured Plains, and now he used the terrain itself as a weapon.
As if a great mallet had struck the earth, the desert lay cracked and open. Plunging canyons marred the landscape like twisting scars, curving in a labyrinth of dead ends, winding alleys, and sharp corners.
A side canyon appeared in the gloom ahead. The orcs rushed to it, but their cries of relief turned to dismay when more trolls blocked the way. Appearing from the myriad of side paths, other trolls closed off the orcs’ retreat, forcing them into a box canyon with no egress. Trapped, the orcs and gnomes shrieked in fear and turned on the trolls.
The clash of steel reverberated down the canyons and came back distorted, obscuring the screams of the dying. Wind howled as troll clerics sent miniature tornadoes churning through the orc line. Trolls pressed into the gap, widening the breach and plunging into the horde.
Utoric led the charge, driving his great axe through orcs with brutal precision. Marked by the plumage on his helm, an orc chieftain stepped to the front and attempted to rally his force. Stepping over the bleeding dead, Utoric aimed for him.
Seeing him coming, the orc swung his sword. Utoric bared his teeth in a snarl and caught the blade in his free hand. His thick skin split, but the dull blade could not penetrate far enough to draw blood. Ripping it free of the orc's grip, Utoric tossed it away. Then he caught the chieftain by the throat and lifted him into the air.
"When will your kind learn!" he bellowed into his face. "You are rodents to be squashed and tossed to the dogs! Your sole purpose in life is to die by our hand!"
Helpless and seconds from death, the orc flashed a bloody smile. "Not anymore, troll."
Utoric brought him close to his face and sneered at him. "You will always be a waste of flesh."
Instead of fear, the orc's eyes shone with an almost reverent fervor. "The bounty has been issued, troll. This generation shall be your last."
With a savage twist Utoric snapped the orc’s neck and threw him to the ground, but the orc's eyes held his gaze. Even in death they appeared worshipful, causing him to frown. The orc's words had carried the echo of truth, but Utoric could not fathom their meaning. Issuing a grunt of irritation, he returned his attention to the battle.
The other trolls roared, shattering the orcs' resolve and sending them into a knot of shrieking flesh. Crushed by the struggling bodies, the gnome leaders frantically sought to rally their dwindling force. The rock trolls drove into the writhing mob and slaughtered them where they stood.
Although they outnumbered the trolls by ten to one, the orcs could not use their numbers in the packed confines of the canyon. They had garbed themselves in rough-forged armor of mixed metals, their breastplates and helmets adorned with fur, feathers, and teeth, much of which had been dipped in blood to make them more fearsome.
At nine feet in height and layered in muscle, the trolls towered over the stocky orcs. Their hair was black, matching the color of their eyes, while their features resembled the race of man. Tanned from thousands of hours in the desert, their skin appeared faintly cracked. As tough as hardened leather, their very flesh was armor.
Leaving the chest bare, the trolls wore belts with strips of leather that fell to their knees. Curving tattoos spiked across their upper bodies, marking every feat . . . and every kill. Unique to each troll, the Sundering created an armor of fear, causing even mighty foes to tremble.
Orcs and gnomes saw Utoric's thousands of kills and panicked, fleeing before his axe. He cut them down and relished the sound of his blade tearing through cartilage and bone. Packed shoulder to shoulder, the orcs could barely move. They squirmed and struggled to wield their stubby swords. In their haste they injured their own companions.
"Utoric!" a voice called, drawing his attention.
He spun on his feet, nearly beheading the young troll. To his credit the boy stood his ground and glared up at him. Tuul leapt to take Utoric's place in line as he stepped to the boy.
"Sybrik," Utoric grunted in irritation. "I warned you about joining the battle before you are of age."
Sybrik raised his chin. "You gave orders to be summoned for the birth."
Utoric looked to the battlefield. In the few seconds that Sybrik had drawn his attention the rock trolls had pressed forward. There were still orcs to be killed, but the battle was over. Loath to leave it to the others, he hesitated. Then he recalled the oath he'd made to his sister.
"Tuul," he shouted, "make certain that one survives." Then he turned and joined Sybrik as they trod through the orc dead.
"Why spare an orc?" Sybrik asked.
"The survivor will spread fear like a plague," Utoric grunted in response. "Now where is Morana?"
"She was struck by a stray arrow," Sybrik said. "She may not live through childbirth."
Utoric released a breath at the news. Morana and her son Sybrik were the last of his kin within the clan. If she died their bloodline would be threatened. To lose an entire lineage would be tragic, especially theirs. He hoped she would bear another son. Then he recalled Sybrik's tone when he had spoken.
"You do not wish for a sibling?"
Caught, Sybrik's eyes flashed dangerously. "If the child is male, I will crush him."
Utoric glanced at his nephew. At seven years old Sybrik stood almost as tall as a human, and boasted the strength of a naifblade. His skill with a hammer had forced the Blademaster to elevate him three age groups. Many already thought that he would eventually assume the throne. For Sybrik to consider the babe a foe—before the child had even been born—demonstrated a penchant for vicious forethought.
"You must wait until the infant grows," Utoric allowed. "Then you may prove your strength."
They turned a corner in the canyon and found a healer rock troll kneeling beside Morana. A black arrow had penetrated her neck. Blood seeped from the wound and darkened her leather tunic. Her breathing was labored as and her features were twisted in pain.
Amidst the stink of dead orcs, the healer had leaned Morana against the canyon wall. Still warm in the tw
"It's nearly time," Drenuh said as Utoric approached.
"Will she survive?"
Drenuh shook her head. "The shaft has done too much damage. Her willpower and my magic have kept her alive."
Utoric nodded. Morana had always been strong. Male rock trolls were rarely gifted with magic, while females frequently carried the power. Those without magic became soldiers like their male counterparts. Morana was one of the best warriors in the clan. His fists clenched at the manner of her dying.
He stepped to her side and knelt. "A thousand orcs will die in your name."
She shook her head. "My husband would not have wanted that. Nor would I."
"The fool never did care for our ways," he said with a grunt.
"Nor did I," she whispered, her statement ending in a hiss as another contraction assaulted her body.
He met her gaze, surprised by the truth in her voice. "You said you did not agree with him."
"If I had joined him in exile I would have left Sybrik alone," she said. "My fear bound my tongue."
"Trolls do not know fear," he said, but the reflexive reply caused her to shake her head.
"We fear what we have become, killers without souls. Or do you not feel the regret?"
Her treasonous words caused Drenuh to suck in her breath, but Utoric could not look away. His chest tightened with sadness as he recalled the regret he used to feel. He shook his head.
"I have not forgotten," he murmured, his words barely reaching Morana's ears.
She smiled. "I know you as a king, Utoric, but I would have liked to know you as a brother."
Utoric made to reply, but her face twisted in a grimace. Reluctantly he retreated to allow Drenuh space, and stepped to Sybrik's side. Although the boy tried to hide it, his face revealed his internal conflict. Trolls were taught early that death came in battle, and in another setting Utoric would have chastised the boy for caring about the loss. But Morana's words were too fresh in Utoric’s mind, so his rebuke went unvoiced.
In silence they listened as Morana's labored breathing continued to worsen, until ultimately she sighed in relief. Then he listened for the child's cry that would herald its arrival.
It did not come.
"The child is male," Drenuh announced. "And healthy."
Utoric and Sybrik stepped to join her.
"Why does he not cry out?" Sybrik asked.
Then Utoric's gaze connected with the infant’s. Awake and alert, the baby stared at him with intelligent brown eyes, unflinching under the gaze of the rock troll king. Struck by the sense of calm about the infant, he reached out to it.
"Wait," the healer warned. "I have yet to complete the First Rite."
"Use his mother's sword," Utoric said, and retrieved it himself.
Lifting the bloodied weapon from beside Morana, he placed the hilt into the hand of the infant. His tiny fingers curled around the hilt, gripping with a strength that belied his small form.
"A troll's flesh is born for war, and feels a blade of such," Drenuh intoned. "Before breast or sleep, a blade is this child's first touch. By his blood does he take his First Rite, to join his people with a weapon in hand."
She drew a dagger from her side and pricked his finger, allowing the infant's blood to touch the hilt still stained by his mother's blood. Utoric looked to the baby, but once again he did not cry.
"What shall be his name?" the healer asked, and turned to the dying Morana.
Her eyes fluttered open. "He does not cry out," she said weakly, "so he shall be named after the blade of his father, Tryton."
"You would name him after a weapon?" Sybrik's voice filled with anger.
A strand of compassion pulled on Utoric's heart. "I will allow it."
"It is not permitted!"
Utoric struck him, sending him to the ground. "The blade does not speak against its master," he growled. "It is a lesson you would do well to learn, Sybrik."
Sybrik forced himself to his feet and glared at him. Then he stalked away. In the ensuing quiet Morana spoke.
"My eldest is full of pride," she whispered. "I fear it will be his undoing."
Utoric knelt at her side. "We are trolls, Morana. Our pride comes from our prowess. Sybrik will be one of legend."
"Perhaps," Morana allowed, "but I sense a unique spirit in this babe."
"I as well," Utoric said with an approving smile. "I wager he will be like his father."
Morana smiled as her eyes closed. "That would please me."
He clasped her hand. "You have served the clan well, Morana. You die with honor."
Her smile softened, and then her body relaxed. Utoric stared at her body, the battle and Tryton momentarily forgotten. He released a held breath, struck by the sense of sadness that overcame him.
"Walk with Ero," he whispered.
Then he stood and strode away. As he left Drenuh called to him.
"No mother has a child at this time," she said. "We cannot wean him at another's breast."
"Give him to the Blademaster to raise," Utoric said, and turned toward the battle. Perhaps there were still orcs to be slain.
"But he is not strong enough to eat on his own!" she protested.
Utoric answered without pausing. "Then he is not strong enough to live!"
Part I
Whelp
Chapter 2: Whelp
The Blademaster fed Tryton for a week on mashed lurnit root and kull milk. Against all odds the infant survived until another troll gave birth, allowing him the chance to receive the sustenance his body craved. He and his milk sister, Salina, were weaned together at the end of their first year. Then they began their training.
Tryton's first conscious thought was of fatigue and pain. He learned to walk with a blunted sword in his hand. It accompanied him to his uncomfortable rock bed. It was strapped to his fingers during the endless hours of practice. It even remained his companion during meal times.
"Battle offers no time to eat like a thin-skinned," the Blademaster said. "Eat quickly or go hungry."
"I tired," Ryphon complained.
The Blademaster struck him, sending him to the floor. Crouching over him, he growled at the whimpering child.
"Whine again and I will have you crushing rocks until your fingers bleed."
Tryton bowed his head and shoved the food into his mouth as Ryphon resumed eating. Tryton did not understand why, but he knew the consequence of speaking back to the Blademaster. Disobedience, speaking out of turn, or any other infraction earned crushing rocks in the mine.
After the morning meal Tryton's group went straight to the training hall, making room for a group of older children to take their place. Once they stepped into the training hall they lined up in formation.
"You are whelps," the Blademaster said, striding among the children. "And will remain such until you are inked at the age of ten. Then you gain the title of naifblade and join us on the battlefield. If you survive to fifteen you will have the chance to forge your soulblade and become warsworn. We train for life . . ."
"To fight to the death," the children finished.
The Blademaster issued a grunt of satisfaction. "Older whelps to the back. Younger whelps to the front. Bring your swords up and prepare yourselves."
Tryton shifted to the front and struggled to follow the Blademaster's naifblade trainers. His small body ached by the time a break was called. Following the meal they strode down a side corridor to the teaching hall. Tryton fought to keep his eyes open as warsworn Hogath droned on about blade types. When the lesson finally ended they trudged through the training hall and then to the smallest of the sleeping chambers.
Arranged in a horseshoe configuration, the sleeping chambers all faced the training room at the center. Meal and teaching rooms were situated on the two ends of the arch. Several hundred whelps rotated through the chambers like weapons through a forge, each becoming a lethal instrument of combat. None were allowed to leave.
The days blended into a single memory of striking the other whelps and fending their attacks with weak parries. Naifblades assisted the Blademaster in his training of the children, often by demonstration. Tryton watched the older youths and admired their strength and grace, but most of all he envied them. They were allowed to go outside, to see the sun and the sky.
