Hey everyone! I'd like to remind everyone that if you haven't signed up for my email list to do so here. Every week I'll be sending out a newsletter with upcoming blog posts and book promotions! And, if you sign up, you get a free ebook of A Chronicle of Crowns, Prelude 1.
The prelude's are short, tie in novels to the main series. I'll be releasing them slightly before each book, and (for the most part) they'll feature a character in a point-of-view roll that you won't get in the books. The first prelude is from the point-of-view of my character Howell Pendengalle (you can find his image on my character page). But if you haven't signed up yet, let me entice you with a little taste of the prelude itself. Below I've posted the first scene from the prelude, it's a bit long. But it's the first look into my world, and the character of Howell Pendengalle.
To set this up, it's set 100 years prior to the events in A Chronicle of Crowns. Howell Pendengalle is an interesting character, because he bridges the gap between the past and the present. While most of the main series takes place in human civilizations, he's sort of the link between these kingdoms of men and the ancient races, like the elves and the faun, who have kept to their own as their numbers dwindle. The prelude sets up Howell's story-arch throughout much of the series, an arch that rarely involves the other characters, but impacts events that effect every other character.
Ragged ravens circled in the sky above, watching for rodents and other scurrying things in the ruins below. Their black wings fought with the white gulls to pluck minnows from the tide pools and crabs scuttling back to the safety of the retreating waters. It was a chaotic scene down at the ocean’s door, where the waters lapped at the toppled spires of the ruins of Astalar. The birds’ white and black feathers writhed like soot blown in the wind, rippling across the sky and beach in an unending orgy. The greedy birds squabbled, snapping at each other with sharp beaks, drawing blood, killing their own for a chance to feed. The shrill squawks of the dying stood out in shrill contrast to the sound of the ocean. Ringing through the ruins, the sounds bounced off the crumbling walls of the ancient palaces, ricocheting up the fjord to be heard throughout the ruined islands.
The birds were so focused on their feast that they didn’t notice that they had guests. Few feet had trod that sacred ground in thousands of years. The ruins were now a sanctuary for the ocean birds, fidgety crabs, and sea-fed lichens Moss clung to every surface like glue. Gentle ghosts drifted on the ocean mist searching for their former homes long lost amongst the rubble of Astalar.
Out on the ocean, a dwarven barge sat still between the cliffs of the fjord, pumping out massive columns of black smoke, thick enough to block out the sun. Even all the way up the cliff-face, past the ruins, and up the broken winding stairs, the smell of burning wood was distinct and lingered in Howell’s nose. Those damn dwarves and their contraptions, Howell thought to himself as he rubbed his nose clean of the smell, spewing poison into the air without a care.
“It appears that we’re the last to arrive,” Howell said.
At his side, Helikilé crinkled his nose at the smell and let out a disapproving sigh. “Bo must have lifted the mist from the ruins.” He clicked his tongue and eyed the dwarven barge. “I do not like this Howell, these ruins are sacred. That fool Galos exposed their location to the dwarves. With their greedy hands, they will ransack the place.”
“Surely there is nothing left of value here, Helikilé.”
The elf did not respond, descending down the decaying steps leading towards the ruins below. He was a tall elf, Helikilé, a unique elf, unlike the rest. Over the years his ears had grown long, the delicate tips quivered in the air as he descended the stairs, and from his temples sprang two massive antlers, like those on a stag, felt-covered and imposing. They sprouted from his silver hair like branches and added to his height. His robes where of a similar silver as his hair, and they shimmered in the light as the sun twinkled off intricate beads and stitches that rippled across the soft fabric. It was a flashy dress, the opposite of Howell’s modest garb.
“Remind me why we are here again, Howell,” Helikilé groaned.
“You know why,” Howell replied. “Feoryn requested it.”
“Feoryn,” Helikilé scoffed. “That faun went mad ages ago. All we are doing is appeasing that madness.”
“He said he had something to show the council.”
“There is no more council.”
“Must you be so cynical, Helikilé?”
“What you perceive as cynicism is merely a healthy dose of distrust. Life is defined by our little sufferings, our pains and misjudgments, and the drive to adapt and evolve to those little tremors. You were always the optimist, Howell. Always striving to wring some light out of the darkness. Your optimism is the result of a perception that life is a gentle gift, but it is a foolish belief. Have we not seen enough death and betrayal for your foolish eyes to see life for what it truly is?”
“My optimism does not stem from a gentle worldview, Helikilé. I have seen the same death and experienced the same betrayals as you, enough to make some men go mad with despair. Yes, this world is dark and dangerous, but just as a coin has two sides, so too, does life. What is darkness, but emptiness devoid of light? And what is light, but an illumination that fills the dark? No, I see the darkness around me, but it is not all I see. My optimism stems from a desire to concentrate on the pleasantries of life. It is not the little sufferings that spur my evolution, but rather the little kindnesses.”
“As hard as they are to come by.” Helikilé said. He flitted down the steps, barely disturbing the dust and sand that had collected on the ancient steps, an antlered figure, full of despair, descending on a city full of echoes of death.
Howell had not been to Astalar since the city’s fall thousands of years prior. It had been the greatest of the elven cities, the cultural centre of the Theesians. It stretched across the skerries at the back of the fjord, and had been a beautiful combination of sculptured gardens, impressive towers with gilded spires, decorated palaces and well organized harbours. Astalar’s trade with the other races made it rich and prosperous, the envy of the other elven races. It took centuries to build, centuries of delicate stonework, and careful planning, until it shone with the radiance of countless diamonds. Remnants of the city’s past still glimmered through the decay. The weathered books from an arcane library here, the sparkling glass from an observatory there. Howell could see the carved, wooden posts that had lined the streets that were lit when the sun went down. Intricate designs ran up and down the smooth columns, details that were painstakingly carved into the wood with precision, now left to be battered by the ocean, and stained by sea foam. The cobblestone stairs and roads that once led thousands on their daily lives were now shrouded under a layer of sand and bird shit that stunk like a festering wound. And the old gardens had overgrow; weeds crept into the once carefully pruned plots of flowers and ferns, tangling the gardens of the dead into twisted mounds.
Howell surveyed the ruins. He could remember the city in its prime. He could hear the soft twinkle of lyres and harps, the smell of fresh rosemary bread and honey, the faces of elves and dwarves and men and faun who populated the streets. He wondered if the dwarven district still housed the mighty Anvil of Dehellan where the smiths would forge the strongest dwarven blades south of Dun Darohelm. He wondered if the Harbour House of the Valdorrean Kings still sat by the sea, beside the docks that once housed the mighty ships of the Valdorrean Seafarers. He wondered if the Moonwell of the Oaken-roe still sparkled in the night, feeding the dead roots of the twin trees of Astalar, the Guardians of the City. “Such memories I have of this place,” he muttered to himself.
“Memories I have long tried to forget,” Helikilé grumbled.
It was here that Faye Ravenswood betrayed the Council of the Wise. He remembered the day clearly. She had murdered Elzik Stormcaller, the leader of their Order, before syphoning the lives of the Guardians of Astalar to resurrect that darkness, that ever encompassing terror, the Demon Lord, Kostantyne.
Howell felt a shiver travel up his spine, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Helikilé. The antlered elf turned to face Howell and nodded his head. “You feel it too? The lingering remembrance of that fateful day. The stink of demon’s breath bathes this rotting tomb. We should not be here Howell. There are more dangerous things lurking within these ruins than all of those damned seabirds.” He turned to look out over the city and said, “Much more dangerous.”
The Guardians of Astalar, they were a beauty to behold. The twin trees had intertwined and grown to a towering height, casting shade over the entire Palace of the Wardens. One of the trees bark glinted with shards of gold that its roots had grabbed from the earth. When the sun hung over the fjord, the tree’s golden light touched every corner of the city. The other tree had dark bark, a deep blue, almost black, with red leaves that never changed, despite the season. These two majestic trees were the Guardians of Astalar, the Guardians of the Gold Warden, Amathiseon, and her brother, the Spirit Warden, Lóthuel… both long dead, causalities of Faye Ravenswood’s betrayal.
The final steps brought Howell and Helikilé from the cliff passage down into the ruins below. It was quiet down here. The screams of the seabirds were lost among the crumbled walls and phantom buildings that lined the empty streets. A wetness covered everything, and the ruins smelt stale with blossoming mold. Howell swore as he felt the dampness seep into his boots, wetting his socks. “That damn faun,” he mumbled. “Ruined my boots.”
“Come,” Helikilé said, “they will be at the old palace.”
They traipsed through the damp ruins, feeling the heavy sea air close in around them. Slowly, a growing mist trickled up from their ankles, higher and higher until it was all around them.
“So much for the mist clearing,” Howell grumbled.
“This is not right, Howell. This mist…”
“Let’s make for the palace, and quickly.”
Helikilé agreed.
As the mist thickened, Howell’s mind began to play tricks on him. He thought he could see movement in the mist, just beyond his sight. Figments that darted between the ruins, ghouls that watched them from the cracks and crevasses, ghosts that wailed in the deeper parts of the city. Howell told himself it was the sound of the wind, whipping through the fjord, along the cliff faces and whistling through the ruins. He told himself it was the crashing of waves as they thundered along the shore, pelting the old cobblestone ruins with ocean spray. But he knew these were comforting distractions used to keep his mind from the terrifying truth. There were things in the mist, watching him race to the palace ruins, old things, ancient things that had crawled out of the bowels of their disturbed tombs to greet their visitors with teeth and claws.
But these things, these ancient phantoms, knew better than to engage Howell and Helikilé. They would linger just out of sight, hissing at them as they passed. Howell almost felt sorry for those disgruntled ghosts in the mist, watching them with twisted eyes and seething with malice and hatred, for they were doomed to drift through the ruins, shrieking with the ravens and the gulls, unsettled like the crashing sea. They were doomed things, creeping for an eternity just out of sight.
“Howell! Helikilé! Over here.” They could hear Bo Surin’s voice through the mist and followed it to an old flight of stairs that led up to the palace. Her yellow skin glistened in the dense mist, and her hair, wet and limp, laid against her head and cheeks. She wore a long, light blue robe, the colour of robin eggs swirled with gold stitching and ornate details. At her feet, a wind whipped around her, kicking up the bottom of her gown and twirling away the mist. When they reached the stairs the stagnant smell of mold and decay was replaced with the smell of fresh mountain air. Bo lifted a hand and cupped Howell’s furry cheek. “How long has it been since we have seen each other last, Howell? An age or two?”
Her hands were soft and her yellow skin smelt of honeysuckle and cherry, reminding Howell of ages past. She was still beautiful, still exotic, though the centuries had caught up to her and wrinkled the corners of her eyes. “Too long, my friend. But it seems the years have been kinder to you than they have been to me,” he smiled.
She chuckled. “A rejuvenation spell and a long soak would hide those creases of yours.”
“I’ve grown to like them,” he replied.
“And I bet no one expects the old man to be up to no good.”
“Precisely.”
Up on the stairs Helikilé huffed. “Feoryn stressed the urgency of our meeting, we should not keep the faun waiting.” He turned and disappeared up the stairs.
“Is he still sore from my leaving?” Bo asked.
“I’m afraid he’ll never recover.”
The two climbed the stairs and left the misty bowels of the city behind. Howell felt the watching eyes slip away, and the creeping ghouls turn back to their bleak patrols of the cheerless remains.
Atop the crumbled palace, Galos Starseer greeted them with a bellow. He was a short and stalky dwarf with a gingery beard and weathered, leathery skin. He wore a green robe over a plain tunic, synched together with a metal belt that glowed blue from ancient runes cut into the buckle. Giant muscles blocked his arms and legs, as thick as tree trunks, plump and round.
Beside him stood a tall Jinthan warrior wearing the same blues as Bo Surin. She introduced him as Shojii Ryu, her personal sword, who had traveled with her from Qi-Shan, half the world away. He gave a curt nod when he greeted them, but Helikilé pretended not to notice him. “Where is Feoryn?” Helikilé asked. “Is he late for our little reunion?”
“Feoryn is here, yes, yes.” From inside the rubble, the faun appeared. He was a scraggly thing; his hair had grown long and matted down the side of his heart-shaped head. His horns curled and stretched from the sides of his head in twisted spirals and his old skin had become knotted and woody causing him to creak as he walked. Like giant pearls, his eyes sat illuminated in his skull, milky white and eerie, like he was some blind beggar. And ringing his mouth was a circle of blood – he had recently eaten. “Should Feoryn wait for the others?” he asked, cocking his head and creaking his neck.
Helikilé rolled his eyes. “No one else is coming.”
Feoryn lifted a knotty finger. “Stormcaller? Ravenswood? The Rose? What of them? And Indumatii and Oteshha? Feoryn does not see them. Feoryn will wait until the council is complete.”
“I do not have the patience for this mad thing,” Helikilé grumbled.
Bo approached the faun, and touched his arm tenderly. “Feoryn, do you not remember? Elzik, Faye, Dashara, they’re dead.” The faun shook his head and wrinkled his brows.
“They have been dead for over two thousand years,” Helikilé drawled. “No one has heard from Oteshha since the withering of The Eye. And you will not drag Indumatii off her plush throne, not anymore. We are all who will heed your ridiculous call, now get on with it.”
“Must you speak so harshly with him, Helikilé?” Bo asked. “You know how frail his mind is.”
“His frailty is a shroud, a farce he clings to so that he does not have to confront reality,” Helikilé replied with a flip of the hand.
Galos shook his head and snorted. “I see you haven’t changed much. Still pious as ever. I oughta knock you off your perch. Teach you the cost of vanity.” The dwarf’s face turned red with pent up rage, and he shook a fist in the elf’s direction.
The group began to bicker like the gulls on the shore, and Howell felt his temples pulse with annoyance. He lifted his old, wooden staff and tapped it on the stone floor three times and said, “Enough of this petty squabbling! We are the Council of the Wise, not the Council of Fools. Please, Feoryn, tell us why you have called us here.”
The faun nodded and clicked his tongue. “Follow Feoryn, yes, yes. Deep into Astalar Feoryn will take you. Into the sanctum, to see the Guardians.”
The rickety faun led them deep into the ruins of the Palace of the Wardens, past still statues and sea-soaked walls, past collapsed pillars and caved-in rooms, relics of the past, left untouched from where they’d fallen all those years ago. Howell felt himself overwhelmed with memories. He could feel the ancient imprints echoing off the walls and the dusty relics. They called out to him. Begged to be touched, begged him to read the memories that coated them. He could spend hours here among the ruins, reliving the past, immersing himself in the memories, but Feoryn’s creaking limbs kept them moving forward, deeper in the palace.
Finally they reached the centre of the sanctum where the twin trees of Astalar had once stretched high above the palace shading it from the harsh noonday sun. The roof had caved in and the rubble was piled in the centre where the trees once stood before they were turned to ash, before their life force was drained from them to resurrect an unspeakable evil. As they fanned out through the room, something caught Howell’s eye. A small, glowing wisp danced up and down on an invisible current, drawn towards the centre of the room. “It cannot be…” he mumbled.
Feoryn was standing over the rubble in the centre, pulling pieces of rock out of the pile and tossing them aside. “Feoryn will show you,” he grunted. “Feoryn will show you what he saw, yes, yes.” The others had gathered around the faun. Bo gasped and it caught Howell’s attention. He hobbled over to them and looked down at the hole in the rubble Feoryn had made. “See? See? It lives, it does. Feoryn found it. Feoryn saw it.”
There, in the rubble, the black, twisted bark of the Guardian of the Spirit Warden had sprouted anew and reached up through the rubble to the sky. Beside it, its gold-glittered sister was still a pile of ash and gems, but the Spirit Tree was alive and thriving. Small, red leaves sprouted from spindling branches and five more wisps danced delicately around its trunk. The wisp that Howell had found fell into place with the rest.
“What does it mean?” Bo asked.
“Does the Spirit Warden live?” Galos questioned.
“Impossible, we felt his death,” Helikilé replied. “We felt his soul shatter at the hands of the Demon Lord. We saw his tree wither and turn to dust.”
“Then how do you explain this?” Bo asked.
“Howell…” Helikilé turned to him, the elf’s expression was pleading, confused. For once his smug smile was replaced with puzzlement.
Howell thought about it for a moment. When the wardens died, their tree’s withered with them. The two were tied to each other, bound to each other. He had seen the trees twisted by Faye Ravenswood; he had felt the Spirit Warden’s soul crushed by the Demon Lord. But there had always been a lingering question… Like all the wardens, Lóthuel was created with special gifts. One such gift was the ability to cheat death. When his body was broken his soul created a new host and retained all that he had been.
“We felt his soul shatter,” Helikilé repeated in the silence. “We all felt it.”
Howell thought of the Guardian of the Vale. The gargantuan tree had once been the centre of Garsaglith, where the Life Warden, Tavinar, had lived in harmony before the men of Aralia swept over the Vale. “Tavinar was killed when the Aralians took the Northern Vale. Yet the Tree of Life still stands,” Howell said.
Again, Feoryn lifted a knotty finger. “Ahh, but the Tree of Life is everlasting, it is. It chooses its warden. It is not tethered to the host. The Spirit Tree is, yes, yes.”
“He is right, Howell,” Bo said. “This tree cannot exist without Lóthuel. The Tree of Life is one of a kind; the other trees depend on their symbiotic relationship with their warden. There is no other explanation, the Spirit Warden lives.”
Howell stroked his beard. It was impossible; he had felt Lóthuel’s death, they all had. Had he escaped the shattering of his soul they all would have felt it.
“Then where is the lad?” Galos asked.
“He could be anywhere,” Bo replied. “Anyone.”
Howell shook his head. “It cannot be,” he mumbled. “The Spirit Warden is dead. We know little about the Guardians, and even less about their relationship to their hosts. Perhaps this is the result of seedling, a pod taken root in the soft soil.”
Bo protested. “Howell–”
“I cannot accept that he’s alive. That he could have survived the atrocities done to him. We all felt his death, Bo. We all felt his soul shatter.” He shook his head again, “No, there is a reasonable explanation to this.”
Helikilé agreed. “I will take samples of the soil and the tree back to Teleth. The Moon Warden will know whether this is the original or a descendant.”
Feoryn watched with sympathetic eyes as Helikilé scraped away at the bark, pinched off leaves, and collected the soil. Bo patted the faun’s shoulder and comforted him, whispering gentle words in his ear to calm him.
Howell stumbled down the rubble and surveyed the broken sanctum. It was silent aside from Bo’s tender whispering and Helikilé’s scratching at the tree. Back at the entrance, Bo’s sword stood silently, watching them all from a distance. Howell wondered what the man thought of them all – a rag-tag team, bickering amongst themselves. He was about to return to the group when he felt something tickle the edge of his senses. There was a presence in the ruins, one other than the phantoms and shadows that drifted through the rubble. He looked back at the group, and they, too, had felt the sensation. They were not alone.
Bo called out to Shojii and spewed out Jinthan too fast for Howell to catch. The man unsheathed a curved blade and slunk into the shadows back the way they’d came.
“What do you think it could be?” Galos asked.
“Probably one of your dwarven friends scouring the ruins for treasures to steal,” Helikilé replied.
“No…” Feoryn shuddered in Bo’s arms. “It is they. Feoryn has seen them, he has. Stalking the ancient places. Befouling the sacred ground. They have followed Feoryn here!”
Howell felt the disturbance approach, along with another, and another, until they were surrounded. Through the doorways and the collapsed columns darkness crept along the ground, creeping over the rocks and dust and walls as it stretched towards them. A figure emerged from the shadows, and another, and another, until a choir of shadowy figments encircled them.
A single laugh echoed through the room before a calm and effeminate voice said, “Having a little reunion are we?” One of the figures stepped forward. It was a man, a tall, beautiful man with skin the colour of caramel. He wore all black, a sleeveless tunic and baggy pants that swayed in the lapping shadows around his feet. A simple trident was drawn on his forehead, and both his forearms were marked with the same symbol above a skull, flanked on either side by two tiny stars. It was the symbol of the Children of the Dark, the cult of Faye Ravenswood. It had been many years since Howell had seen the symbol last.
“What business do you have here?” Howell questioned.
The slender man approached, keeping a close eye on Howell. He chanced a glance into the rubble where Helikilé stood next to the sapling and smiled. “As she suspected.” When the man turned around to retreat to the shadows, Howell stopped him. The man laughed. “Let us not be hasty here, Pendengalle, after all, we outnumber you twenty to one.”
“In numbers only,” Galos spat.
“Careful there, Starseer, your dwarven rage could make you sloppy.”
“Sloppy!” the dwarf shouted, “I’ve never been more insulted. Who is this tramp, Howell?”
Howell gave the man a long, hard look. He didn’t recognize the face.
“Oh, you do not know me, Pendengalle, but I know you. I have seen your face from the dark time and again.” He reached a hand up and stroked Howell’s creased face. His cold skin sent a shiver down Howell’s spine, but he used the moment to his advantage. He connected with the man and entered his memories. Howell raced through his recent memories, the man’s travels to the ruins of Astalar, the simple orders he had given to his adherents, the shadowy voice that gave him instructions in the night, the old ruins of The Eye, far in the north, alive and breathed in fell flame and demon’s breath. The old tomb of Faye Ravenswood rattled and glowed and cracked.
The man retracted his hand, and the memories came to an abrupt halt. “Yes, I know all of you. We have been watching, ever so carefully. Delicate things are at work, my dear council, and I am afraid you are too late to halt the progress. Chaos will sweep away the world, and when the walls have fallen from war and unrest she will have won the day.” He turned his back to them and strutted off back to the shadows.
From Howell’s side, he could hear Galos muttering an incantation, a spell to toss the fancy man’s way, but Howell stopped him. “Now is not the time, my friend.”
“Twenty to one!” Galos spat. “We’ve been up against worst odds than that, Howell. We can’t let him just walk away.”
“These ruins are crawling with phantoms and dark things, Galos, use your head,” Helikilé said. “They have the advantage here.”
The tall man slipped back into the shadows with the others and slowly the creeping darkness retreated back the way it had come. The disturbance lingered in Howell’s senses until it passed from his sight and faded into the ruins.
He felt Bo approach him. She reached out and touched his arm with her hand as smooth as silk. “What did you see?” she asked.
“The Eye,” he replied. “We must make for the ruins of the Demon Lord at once.”
“Yes, yes. Alive it is, Feoryn has seen it!”
“The Eye?” There was shock in Helikilé’s voice, “When did you see it?”
“Those ruins are leagues away!” Galos mumbled.
“Go we must!” Feoryn shouted.
“The Eye has been inactive since the war,” Helikilé said. “We would have known if there was a presence. We have watchers keeping post…”
“It lives once more! It does, yes, yes.”
“We must go,” Bo put in. “Our lack of vigilance led to the Demon Lord’s first resurrection, here in this very room. We must take all precautions to stop that from happening again.”
Howell looked up at the crumbled ceiling, at the dusty walls full of haunting memories. Thousands of years had passed, and he had lived many lives in between. For a moment, the sanctum felt foreign to him, like a place he had never been before. “This had been my home once,” he mumbled almost as a question more than a statement of fact, “when the world was young. Yes... it hardly feels like the home I once knew...” He looked at the others and said, “We will travel to The Eye and see what Feoryn has seen. I have lost too much to the past, we all have. We must do everything we can to see that nothing is lost again.”
***
