Fires That Forge Read online

  Fires That Forge

  Book I of the Lords of Order and Chaos Series

  R.J. Hanson

  Hanson Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 R.J. Hanson

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9798621162634

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Bloodlines Reforged Saga:

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  The Lords of Order and Chaos

  Part I:

  The Fires that Forge

  A novel by R.J. Hanson

  This work would not have been possible without the support and advice from my wife, Michelle, and input from my son, Alex, my daughter, Kaity, and son-in-law, Riker. I would also like to extend my thanks to Una, and Beth for their distinct contributions to the refinement of this tale. As always, I would have none of what I have if it weren’t for the Lord. I am richly blessed.

  -RJ

  The Bloodlines Reforged Saga:

  Heirs of Vanity Series;

  Roland’s Path (March 2019)

  Roland’s Vow (July 2019)

  Roland’s Triumph (November 2019)

  Lords of Order and Chaos Series;

  Fires that Forge (April 2020)

  Bloom of Blood and Bone (May 2020)

  Whetstones of the Will (June 2020)

  Orphan’s Blade Series;

  To be Announced

  Templar’s Rebellion Series;

  To be Announced

  You can find maps and other information about the fantasy world of Stratvs here;

  www.bloodlinesreforged.com

  Prologue

  Who to trust?

  The sky was the color of old bruises. The damp, cold air of the fall morning was the sort that made its way into the muscles and joints of those who’d seen too much labor or war. It was the month of Tetobier in the year 1648 of the era of Restored Great Man Kings.

  Far to the south, near the small town of Fordir, a young Great Man trained feverishly with his twin axes. Soon he would be taking the first steps of an adventure that would change his life, and the lives of nations, forever. However, that is a story for another time.

  In the northern city of Moras in the kingdom of Lethanor, young physician Silas of the House Morosse forced himself to a steady, calm pace. He pulled his cloak tight against the chill of the nearby harbor air. His bare feet trod along the cold black stones of the street. On any other day the bone chilling damp that surrounded and penetrated him would have caused him much discomfort. However, this morning his mind was on murder.

  Two murders in fact. His father, Killian of House Morosse, and his mother Helena, both lay cold in the absolute inertia that is the chief characteristic of death. Each chilling footfall took him further from that scene of finality and closer to what he hoped would be an ally.

  Silas arranged his thoughts meticulously, as was his habit. He was already choosing his words with care before even arriving at the inquisitors’ barracks.

  “Hold there,” came from one of the two guards posted at the iron gate of Blackstone Hall. “What’s this about?”

  The guards wore the fine steel breastplates and keenly honed blades marked by the seal of Lady Evalynne, Lady of this vast city and these rich lands.

  “I am Silas of House Morosse,” Silas said in his customary, measured tones. “I am here to speak with Inquisitor Dunewell. I have no appointment.”

  The mention of House Morosse, one of the greatest merchant houses, if not of dubious reputation, had the intended effect. Furthermore, upon the mention of the name, one of the guards recognized the young physician. Although, one could hardly blame him for his tardiness of positive identification. He had never seen the handsome Doctor Morosse with a curly lock of his hair out of place or a silver buckle unpolished and now he stood before him barefoot and unkempt.

  “Of course, Doctor Morosse,” the guard said. “Please, allow me to escort you.” With a nod from Silas, the guard turned abruptly, bound for Blackstone Hall. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you, sir,” the guard said, looking over his shoulder at the young doctor. “I’m Tennes, you treated my son for the Vile Twitch some months ago.”

  “How is Tanis?” Silas asked. He had been taught since birth to keep a careful record of names and associations. Killian had insisted upon it and tested him often.

  “He’s doing quite well, thanks to you,” Tennes said. “My wife and I… we owe you. We owe you a debt we could never repay.”

  “You owe me nothing,” Silas said, his tone betraying no emotion.

  “Not to argue, sir, but I do,” Tennes said. “If there’s ever anything the likes of me could do for the likes of you, please just say so and I’ll be happy to oblige. When the priests couldn’t help him…we thought…I owe you, sir. Here we are.”

  Tennes, burly even among the elite guard of Blackstone Hall, pulled the bell of Inquisitor Dunewell’s iron bound door and stood to the side. His large frame, made even greater by the presence of the armor, shield, and heavy cloak, made Silas seem even smaller in his wet and tightly wrapped house cloak.

  Silas enjoyed the title of the Great Man race, and time would tell if he possessed their longevity, however he was not distinguished by the physical traits that usually defined them. His stature, six feet in height and weighing almost one hundred and eighty stone, was more akin to his father’s common blood rather than the more robust nature of his mother’s Great Woman heritage. His hair, as black as the wet stones that he stood upon, was also of his father’s line. The only visible mark of his mother present in his visage was his green eyes which bore the dark shade of bearberry leaves in the spring.

  The door opened to reveal a large man undoubtedly of the Great Man bloodlines. Inquisitor Dunewell, appearing to be perhaps a year or two older than Silas, was actually beyond his fortieth year. He stood half a foot taller than Silas and weighed at least one hundred stone more. His dark blond hair was cut very short in the style of the Silver Helms, for he was among their number, and his eyes, also of green, reflected an insight that made most uncomfortable in their gaze.

  Dunewell looked to Silas who in turn looked at the guard to his left.

  “That will be all, Tennes,” Dunewell said.

  Tennes offered a brief nod and stepped away smartly.

  Inquisitor Dunewell stepped to the side and Doctor Morosse shuffled past him, tracking moisture from the morning dew across the polished black and white marble floor of the inquisitor’s quarters. Dunewell noted that, despite the walk from Morosse House to Blackstone, Silas’s feet also stained the marble with traces of blood.

  “Dune, they’re… they’re
dead…both of them…murdered,” Silas finally managed as Dunewell closed the door. “She… mother… and my father, they’re both dead.”

  Dunewell knew Silas well, perhaps better than anyone else did, and had not seen him shake or heard him stammer since his childhood. He felt the flash of contagious panic and hysteria burst in his breast but muzzled that wild beast quickly.

  “Killian and Helena?”

  “Yes,” Silas said as he downed his head. “I didn’t know…I hope… I hope I was right to come to you first.”

  Chapter I

  Funeral Thoughts

  Inquisitor Dunewell’s armor shone with a high polish despite the heavy gray of the fall morning. He rode his war horse, a fine palomino, just to the right and to the rear of the Coach of the Court. Within sat Lord High Inquisitor Gyllorn, accompanied by Captain of the Watch Creagull, Chief Magistrate Beelan, and the Reeve of Moras, Reeve Sevynn. Accordingly, the Officers of Execution for each within, rode to the front right, front left, rear left, and Dunewell rode to the rear right of the coach. Alongside marched one hundred of the finest soldiers and officers of Moras. The sounds of shoed hooves striking stone, leather boots marching in step, and coach wheels creaking were muffled by the cold damp air that surrounded them all.

  The procession was a grand display of power, both political and force of arms. Of course, the coaches and horsemen of House Morosse led the Walk of Return in mourners’ black. They marched toward the marble mausoleums where the noble and notable were interred. House Morosse was followed by the Coach of the Court, which shined in a stark white contrasting the dark adornments of House Morosse, and other lords, dukes, and Houses followed thereafter. It did strike Dunewell as unusual that Lady Evalynne, Lady of Moras and her surrounding lands, was absent.

  Lady Evalynne ruled one of the wealthiest cities in all of Stratvs. Her personal wealth was only rivaled by her prowess with a blade and her beauty. Standing at six feet four inches in height, and well-muscled, her blonde curls spilled down over shoulders broadened and browned by a life at sea. The epitome of the Great Woman race, she was strong, fearless, and quite cunning.

  Almost a century before, Lady Evalynne, then the ship’s captain of a privateer vessel, had brought down the corrupt former lord of Moras by force. She secured the great city, and spilled a great deal of blood, for King Eirsett. In return she was awarded the rule of the city and surrounding lands. Since that time, she had proved herself quite adept in the arts of diplomacy and trade. Thus, this show of the Reeve’s respect as well as that of her personal guard. However, it was not like her to miss an opportunity such as this, and she was the sort to see a funeral as an opportunity.

  After his graduation from the Silver Helm Academy in Moras, Dunewell had spent twenty years in service of the King’s army as an officer on the Tarborat front. Then, by order of King Eirsett, he had been sent to serve as an inquisitor in Moras. Dunewell was no fool and was confident the actual recommendation had surely come from one of the brotherhood placed in the King’s counsel. So, Moras is where he would serve them. He had served in the capacity of Inquisitor for almost five years now. Under normal circumstances Dunewell would find this show of official deference to a merchant House galling. However, these were not normal circumstances.

  Realizing his thoughts were turning inward, Dunewell made a conscious effort to scan their surroundings. An assassination attempt was unlikely, however, it was rare that so many high officials were in one place and so exposed. Furthermore, it was understood by those with his type of training that the murderer, or whoever hired the murderer, would be in attendance. His desire to discover a possible suspect was paramount. Dunewell attempted to make a mental note of all in attendance, confident that information would likely serve him in the future.

  Just then he caught sight of something he did not expect. Uriel-Ka, advisor to Lady Evalynne and by all accounts a very capable mage, was clad in his customary decorative silks and jewels. He walked in step with the mourners of House Morosse. Dunewell, as charged by the brotherhood, had made careful note of Uriel-Ka’s movements over his past five years in Moras. It was rare that he made any appearance except at the side of Lady Evalynne. Furthermore, it was not like him to walk, although Dunewell had made careful note of the man’s gait. A wizard could change his outward appearance easy enough, but for a man to change the subtleties of his movements was another matter entirely. There he was, in step with Silas on the Walk of Return just behind the coffins. The coffins carrying the remains of Killian of House Morosse and Lady Helena.

  That pang of guilt, grief, and rage sprang into his heart once again. However, no weak-willed person ever passed through the Gauntlet of the Silver Helms. Nor did the fires of four terms of service in the war with Tarborat forge a man of brittle iron.

  He forced his thoughts back to Uriel-Ka. The mage was a man, flesh and blood, although it was hard to guess his age. A simple change in expression could wash away wrinkles and years or deepen them and pile on decades. Perhaps some sort of enchantment. He was not a tall man, nor athletic in build, however, Dunewell had observed enough of his movements to know that he did hide a remarkable agile nature and quick reflexes. His eyes were always brown, though Dunewell had noticed that they changed in shading from time to time. Ka’s head was shaved bald as well as his eyebrows, and his teeth were remarkably well kept and shined white. It was rumored that he was a eunuch, however, Dunewell was confident that was no more than rumor. Perhaps even a rumor started by Ka himself to dissuade attempts to ply him with women or to prevent rumors about his relationship with Lady Evalynne from taking root.

  The stark white Coach of Court came to a halt. Dunewell dismounted, leaving his well-trained mount ground hitched, and took one more good look about. Then he opened the door to the Coach and helped the Lord High Inquisitor and Captain of the Watch from their conveyance.

  Lord High Inquisitor Gyllorn was a common man of almost sixty years. He was a thin man of surprisingly thick, short cut gray hair and deep brown eyes. This morning he wore his ceremonial armor, much lighter and thinner than he was used to, and a long sword paired with a fine dagger. The silver shine of his armor and weapons seemed to virtually glow in comparison to his black inquisitor’s cape of velvet. Dunewell was one of very few in the city that knew Lord High Inquisitor Gyllorn never carried a sword, but rather crafted the hilt of one to rest inside the scabbard. The weight of the actual weapon had come to cause him back pain.

  Captain of the Watch Creagull was also of common blood and had passed his fortieth year, although recently. Creagull was a heavy man, stoutly muscled and sporting a larger than average gut. His hair was a reddish tint leading one to think his eyes were blue or green. However, there was some doubt about that given their deep-set nature and the mounts of scars about his nose and brow. Creagull had come up the hard way and was a tough one. He wore his ceremonial armor as well; silver chainmail and the blue cloak of the watchmen he oversaw. He also wore a cudgel of polished sectot wood opposite a short sword on his belt.

  Four of the most influential people in a thousand leagues walked together through the iron gates of Noble’s Rest; the five-hundred-acre maze of marble mausoleums and crypts that served as the final resting place for some of the wealthiest people in all Stratvs. Flanked by Dunewell, and three others almost as capable, these men were as safe here as King Eirsett on his throne.

  They gathered under the gloom of leafless trees before the marble mausoleum of House Morosse.

  For this occasion, Dunewell wore his dress shield and broadsword. Only the keen eye would notice that he also carried a rider’s pike strapped inside his left arm bracer. He was well trained in all manner of weaponry and had used a variety of other means to take the lives of men and beasts. However, this rider’s pike, a sharp rod of hardened steel, had served him most. It was not a clever weapon. It was in fact of rather simple design, not amounting to much more than a pointed stick. However, the needle-sharp point and cross braced shaft made it ideal for puncturin
g eye or armor. One quick thrust, aptly guided, could steal a man’s life more economically than the long, heavy stroke of sword or axe.

  Ushers, most of whom were the second born of nobles, showed them to their places just behind and to the right of the mourning family.

  “Shouldn’t you be with the family, sir?” an usher asked Dunewell in a whisper.

  “My place is here,” Dunewell assured him, just as quietly.

  The ceremony went as most do. A priest of Father Time, one well known to Dunewell for his less than spiritual ways, was overseeing the proceedings. High Cleric Dyllance was richly adorned in silks and velvets golden stitched with Time’s Hourglass. His over-indulged stomach stretched the front of his robes with a shameful girth and his soft and plump hands squeezed the Word of Time as he addressed those in attendance. One day Dyllance would likely be the focus of Dunewell’s efforts, however, it was not this day. Although his words were likely well chosen, Dunewell heard little of them. He kept his mind on his surroundings.

  The young physician, Silas of House Morosse was here, of course. He looked himself again, smartly dressed and composed. Rugan of House Theald, a thin man of common blood who was overly proud of his long, black hair, wore the best of his House colors of brown and orange velvets and finely tanned leathers. Whillyd of House Jocayn, also a common man but much stronger in frame than Rugan, wore his House colors as well, in the form of a sea green and yellow striped shirt, green cloak, and yellow leather boots. Those two, along with several other shipmen and merchants, likely all also hoping for an opportunity out of this gathering, were also ushered near.

  Uriel-Ka, with his hand held to obscure his mouth, spoke in hushed tones to the young son and sole heir of House Morosse. Likely they were platitudes only but Dunewell would have very much liked to know exactly what was being said. Dunewell thought Uriel-Ka was probably just being cautious, for very few were aware that he had been trained to read the lips of a speaking man.