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  Heirs of Vanity

  Part I: Roland’s Path

  By: R.J. Hanson

  Heirs of Vanity Part I: Roland’s Path Copyright © 2019 by R.J. Hanson. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Henreitte Boldt

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  R.J. Hanson

  Visit my website at www.facebook.com/RolandsQuest/?modal=admin_todo_tour

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: March 2019

  Hanson Publishing

  ISBN-13 978-1-7970517-8-9

  I would have none of what I have if it weren’t for the Lord. I owe a debt to my parents, Jesse and Janine, for their patience, my wife, Michelle, for her tolerance, and my daughter, Kaity, for her dedication to this work. I would like to thank my son, Alex, for taking his turn at the head of the table.

  I also owe a debt to my friends, Riker, Will, Simon, Doug, Larry, Geary, James, Toren, Michael, Zach, Bradyn, John, Hance, Jon B., Chance, Traff, Straight, Armondo, and Jake. Their input and participation have been invaluable. Also, a huge thanks to Henrie, for her art work for this project.

  The RPG character Roland owes the roots of his personality to the Steven King character in the Dark Tower novels; which in turn owes recognition to the Robert Browning poem Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Louis L'Amor whose books introduces a young boy to a much larger world.

  chapter I

  Enemies Meet

  IN ONE OF THE RICH FORESTS OUTSIDE OF FORDIR in the lord’s region of Gallhallad in the eastern parts of the Kingdom of Lethanor, rapid axe blows echoed through the crisp autumn air. It was Tetobier, literally meaning the tenth sword. It was the tenth month of the year 1648 of the Age of Restored Great Men Kings, the fifth age of known history.

  A large man wearing a battle worn breastplate, and battle worn face for that matter, rode to the edge of the wood. His hair, which had once been black as coal oil, now flurried in the breeze with tints of silver and gray. His eyes were the color of the bracing waters that washed ashore on the glaciers of Janis. Around them deep cracks ran through sun worn skin. Those eyes spoke of brutal days with little food and no sleep. They spoke of miles of marching, and days of battle. They spoke of sorrows known only by the soldier and the warrior and the brutal life they led. This was a man that had traveled.

  “Roland,” boomed from the man’s throat. “Roland, come here!”

  A young, but stoutly built and athletically muscled, man walked from the trees with a double-edged axe in each hand and a sheet of sweat cloaking him. He was bare to the waist despite the coolness of the morning. His coal oil black hair, wet with sweat, clung to his neck and forehead. Although decades younger, his father’s mark of family could be well read upon his face and in his bearing. Although lacking the evidence of years of toil, his eyes were also his father’s eyes.

  “Yes, father,” Roland replied. In spite of his heavy breathing he sought to reply with control and respect.

  It had never been ‘Dad,’ or ‘Pappa.’ Always it had been ‘Father.’

  “I will be riding out of town for a few days. There are a few men that have fled south that I must go after,” Velryk said as he shifted in his saddle.

  “What of your deputies?” Roland asked letting his curiosity jump ahead of his judgement.

  “Did I raise a son that questions his father?” Velryk said.

  “No, father,” Roland said stepping back a bit and lowering his eyes.

  “These men are beyond my ‘deputies,’” Velryk continued. “All of our good warriors have gone to the front to seek their fortune. I came by to make sure you continue your exercises and your reading and to tell you to watch the jail.”

  “I have never shirked my exercises!” Roland replied as the muscles in his strong-boned jaw tightened. His eyes shot back up to meet his father’s. The thought that he would grow slovenly in the work of a warrior stung him to his core, and that his own father might think so! He had struggled since the time of his first steps and words to honor his father. He had striven all of his seventeen years to be worthy of Velryk’s tutelage. It seemed even in the midst of his attempts to impress he would be forever a disappointment.

  Anger washed through the deep and dangerous waters in the older man’s eyes. He felt the blood in his veins, blood said to be too strong for mortals, burn with a flash of rage. He rode his war-horse over calmly to face the boy. The gentle way he maneuvered his mount belied the storm in his heart.

  It seemed his son not only possessed his father’s high cheekbones and strong jaw, he also possessed his inborn pride and quick temper. A vanity, Velryk reflected, that had been deep in their blood and the downfall of a kingdom. A kingdom likely never to rise again. That vanity had been the end of an age.

  “Seven feet four inches tall and weighing over four hundred sixty stones. Strong as a bull you are.”

  Roland, misunderstanding Velryk’s air, smiled with a sense of accomplishment.

  “Damn your pride, boy!” Velryk barked down at him. “Anyone who spots you on the horizon can tell you are of the race from Lethor. They can calculate your size and your strength, although both be considerable. Listen to me! Open your ears!”

  “Yes sir,” Roland said, steeling his expression and fixing his faded gray-blue eyes forward. He locked his anger, and sometimes his shame, behind an oft used mask of emotionless flesh.

  “This is the weapon you should sharpen,” Velryk said as he leaned down from his saddle and struck Roland’s forehead with a stiff index, often called the king’s, finger. “Your mind will win you more victories than any axe or sword!”

  When he could hold in his pride no more Roland said, “but you have taught me so well, father. No one can match your skill with the bastard sword, the axe, or the bow and soon I will be as good with those as you yourself. Perhaps one day even better.”

  “No one around here can match me, but this is just a small corner of the world, son.” Velryk felt his own anger flood to a dull red storm raging behind his eyes. He would have to be better. He must be for his sake and for Roland’s. Velryk’s anger had cost him, cost him dearly. He did not intend to see his remaining son fall into that trap. A trap that nearly devoured their race.

  After a pause, and a look off to the beauty of the world that surrounded them, Velryk said, “an axe is only as good or bad as the man that wields it. I will expect you to have your reading done by the time I return.”

  “Yes sir,” Roland said. Sounding perhaps more resigned that he intended.

  “What is a warrior’s most valuable weapon?” Velryk asked.

  “His mind, sir,” resuming his formal tone.

  “And what is a warrior’s most trusted ally?”

  “His courage,” Roland answered.

  “See that you understand those concepts,” Velryk said. “Any fool can regurgitate what is fed to him.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Roland watched as his father turned his horse. Velryk’s steed cut through the frost on the early morning grass as he began his pursuit to the south.

  “‘Damn your pride, boy!’” The impression attempted of Velryk’s tone was off, but an impression Roland had heard many times. “Your father sounds like a priest of the old religions.”

&nb
sp; Roland turned and glared at his friend, Eldryn, standing in the trees a few yards away.

  “You probably couldn’t hear my approach over the grinding of your teeth,” Eldryn continued.

  “Damn my pride indeed! I am as strong as you, El, and I have a short sword’s reach on any man. I am a warrior, and he calls me ‘boy!’”

  “You are almost as strong as me,” Eldryn corrected, raising his finger to mark the point.

  Eldryn was another of the Great Man race. Although his stature was akin to the more common, reaching to only six feet three inches in height his strength was undeniable, even by Roland. He was Roland’s age with short cropped blonde hair and eyes of deep green. Eldryn’s core was that of an oak with a strong build, deep chest, and broad set of shoulders.

  “Well, warrior, are you ready for our sparing?”

  “Are you ready for me to beat you?” Roland replied.

  “You can talk like that once you’ve beaten me. How about a joust instead? Take up a lance and meet me on horseback and then make your brags,” Eldryn replied light heartedly.

  The boys trained for death. Trained to prevent their own and cause their enemies’. Eldryn, however, had always had a way of taking things in stride. He always seemed to let words and events wash over him and then away as the ocean’s waves would a huge stone on the shore. Roland would not likely admit it, but he always admired that about his friend.

  “You know I don’t fight mounted,” Roland said. “The horses around here…”

  “Yes,” Eldryn laughed, “your feet would drag the ground.”

  Both boys had trod the earth for seventeen years and looked their age. However, being of the race of Great Men, they would appear to be seventeen to twenty until well after their fortieth year. Velryk had never discussed his age with Roland, but by Roland’s estimation he was around one hundred and fifty years old. It was a topic often pondered by the son about his father.

  The two young men walked to their horses that had been staked in tall grass. Roland put on his padded shirt and his old iron breastplate. Eldryn was already wearing his armor. They each drew a six-foot long iron pole from their saddles. The poles were made to resemble the Great swords of old in weight and reach. Shrou-Hayn they were called in the old languages meaning Fate’s Hand or the Fate’s Decision.

  The Great sword was designed so that its sheer weight and momentum could wound as well as its edge. It took uncommon strength just to lift one of the majestic blades, much more to wield one in combat.

  Roland held his sparing weapon high above his left shoulder in a more unorthodox position. It sacrificed defense for a stronger attack. Eldryn held his squarely in front of him. The position was much more tactically sound which left him able to block or thrust easily.

  Now Eldryn put his humor aside, and Roland his anger. Although only practice, both young men understood that the skills they were sharpening would someday decide whether or not they would walk from a battlefield or, be carried. Both boys were too young to truly remember and properly miss Ellidik, but both had experienced the hole that his death left in the lives of Shaylee, his wife, and Velryk, his brother in arms.

  Roland tried his first cut. Eldryn was ready for the move because Roland never held anything back for defense. His first move was always whole heartedly offensive. Eldryn knew Roland held to the philosophy that if a man only defends then he accomplishes delay and exhaustion and little more. Eldryn held to other ideas.

  Roland ripped the heavy practice blade through the air, cutting down toward Eldryn’s right shoulder. Eldryn swung hard to block, knowing that the weight of the impact could be enough to drive him to the ground even if Roland’s pole never got past his blocking sword.

  Roland shifted his feet and his grip on the practice sword slightly. As the two weapons collided during Roland’s attack and Eldryn’s parry, Roland jerked his practice blade in a reverse arc using the power in Eldryn’s parry to help drive the sword back above his head. Roland brought the pole high in the air and then brought it back down in a rapid arc away from Eldryn as he spun completely around. This move built momentum in the practice blade and Roland hauled the pole up under his right side toward Eldryn’s unprotected lower left.

  Eldryn, instead of attempting to stop Roland’s new attack, allowed the weight of his weapon to drop it quickly to his lower left as he shifted his feet to the right. His practice blade struck Roland’s just enough to knock it slightly off course. Eldryn easily danced clear of Roland’s attack.

  The two warriors battled on for another three hours with Eldryn landing four minor blows to Roland’s one. Both were sweating and the extreme weight of their weapons was taxing their strength.

  “One more touch and I will win,” Eldryn said with his breath coming in rasps.

  Roland tried another lower cut bringing his pole up from a point just below Eldryn’s line of sight. Eldryn stepped back and parried the blow to the side.

  Roland hauled his pole high above his head, miraculously holding his practice blade in one hand and stretching his left arm out. Eldryn knew that Roland would have to put both hands back on the weapon before attempting an attack. Therefore, he prepared himself for an attack that would come from Roland’s middle or left. Roland would have to expose his left side to an open attack if he attempted to put both hands on his hilt and attack from his right.

  Eldryn positioned his practice weapon to his right knowing that would be Roland’s weak side, and knowing he would have to attack in that hemisphere.

  To Eldryn’s astonishment, Roland roared and dropped the point of his practice weapon for a thrust at Eldryn’s heart, one handed. Since the move was one handed, Roland did not have to bring his left arm across, which meant that his left side was not exposed. Eldryn fought to bring his practice weapon up in time to parry the thrust, but with this move Roland had gravity on his side.

  The direct thrust, backed by speed, weight, and gravity, struck its target. The point of Roland’s pole struck the left side of Eldryn’s breastplate hard enough to dent the iron and knock even mighty Eldryn back several steps.

  “I acknowledge the killing blow,” Eldryn said between gasps of breath.

  “I acknowledge your honor,” Roland replied, struggling to breathe himself. Both boys took a knee in the grassy field to chase the breath that had been so elusive.

  “Does your father know about that one-handed move?” Eldryn asked. “It doesn’t seem honorable.”

  “I struck you with the blade, did I not? I did not kick, bite, or punch you. I did not throw sand in your face, nor did I use any form of magic.”

  “Aye, it is true to the Code, but you didn’t answer my question,” Eldryn said. “Does your father know about that move?”

  “He doesn’t think I’m strong enough to wield one of the Great swords in combat, that’s why he trains me so hard with the axes. I am stronger than any other man in the valley with the exception of you and my father. He says the Great swords are good for practice, so that one can wield a bastard sword with more ease and finesse. But he says only the old ones could use the Shrou-Hayn as they were intended in battle. Why be a Great Man, if you are not going to wield a Great sword? That’s what I say.”

  “Yes,” Eldryn said. “That’s what you say, only you do not say it to his face,” Eldryn said as a slight barb to his lifelong friend.

  “I happen to like the bastard sword. It is versatile, easier to carry, and with the proper level of skill, just as deadly as the Great swords of old. And a bastard sword once swung, does not leave its wielder so badly exposed as would something the size of the old huge blades.”

  “But the bastard sword is not a Shrou-Hayn of old,” Roland said, ignoring Eldryn’s attempt to get under his skin. “When I claim my glory from the battlefield it will be as a true warrior like those who strode with the champions and gods.”

  “So why not join the armies going north? It would give you your chance at those glories and riches you keep talking about.”

 
“I will not take orders from common men with fancy brushes on their shoulders. I have trained to be a warrior and tactician. I will not subjugate myself to a lesser man’s whim. Besides,” more quietly now, “father doesn’t think I’m ready.”

  “Enough about lesser men and their whims. It’s time to eat,” Eldryn said as he walked toward his horse. “Will you come into town with me and have a meal at the inn?”

  “I have my reading to do,” Roland began, but thoughts of the girls and ale at the inn floated into his mind carried on a wind of temptation. “Why not, I will have plenty of time. The old scholars will just have to wait for me a bit longer.”

  The two young men walked their horses to a stream that cut through the woods nearby. Both stripped to the waist and bathed in the chilling waters. Refreshed and clean, both young men rode into Fordir.

  The town of Fordir was busy that day. The boys stabled their horses, dusted their pants clean of the road sediment, and walked toward the Rusty Nail.

  The tavern was a two-story building of stone and possessed all of the sights, smells, and tastes one would expect of a tavern right down to the typically fat but cheerful proprietor.

  Roland and Eldryn had their goals in order. Both were hungry. After that need was filled, both would want a bit of ale. After that taste was satisfied, there were the tavern girls.

  The Rusty Nail was catering to the groups of coffee drinkers during this hour of the day. That group, however, rarely tipped very well. Therefore, Roland and Eldryn were well received when they ordered ale with their noon meals.

  These two young men would have drawn young women to them anywhere they traveled. Roland and Eldryn were each handsome in their own ways. Both were very obviously strong, although young. It is often enough that a young girl will be attracted to the future of a man instead of the cut of his brow and cheek. As Roland and Eldryn finished their meals they were greeted with another tankard of ale, served by falsely charming girls accustomed to the tavern life.