C. L. Scheel - Talesian 2 - Weapons of Ruin

copyright.

Cover Art by: Jay Degn

Published by: Hard Shell Word Factory.

PO Box 161

Amherst Junction, WI 54407

books@hardshell.com

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Electronic book created by Seattle Book Company.

eBook ISBN: 0759940711

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no

relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. These characters are not even

distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure

invention.

To Shannon Horn who not only writes and loves fantasy, but has also been a loyal friend and staunch

supporter through every trial and triumph. My heartfelt thanks.

And for S. E. R.

Weapons of Ruin

The Second Book of the

Talesian Narrative

by C. L. Scheel

Hard Shell Word Factory

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

C. L. Scheel

Prologue

FEAR RARELY OVERCAME a Siarsi warrior, but Warrior-Guardian Amstok trembled with genuine

terror. Throughout his long watch, he had faced the altar stone guarding Siarsia’s Hammer, a sword held

in each hand crossed over his chest. He never took his eyes from his tribe’s most sacred object. The

tribe’s namesake Daughter, Siarsia, had bequeathed to her people the silver hammer she had carried into

battle, along with her most precious gift, the secret of steel. Only the Siarsi knew how to make the

weapons Talesian warriors carried into battle. Men from every tribe often gave their most valuable

horses, their most beautiful women and sometimes their last talin for one Siarsi sword.

Tall and serious, young Amstok did not often join in with traditional Siarsi boisterousness and their

inclination for getting into trouble. He wore the hai’stam, the crossed, black-enameled bands over the

chest and the long, kilt-like hai’sten that fell nearly to his ankles, with a dignity far greater than his

twenty-four sunturns.

It had only been for a moment—a chilling cold that had crept through his bones and a sickening

dizziness filling his mind like a deadly smoke. He had not turned his eyes from the Stone and Hammer for

an instant. He was sure of it.

Amstok’s heart beat wildly within his chest. The long, slender braids at his temples, threaded with

fine glass beads and gold ornaments, trembled against his lean, black-scarred cheeks. The ultimate

dishonor. Disgrace and shame on his family and clan. By Verlian’s blood, dishonor upon his entire tribe.

The penalty would be death—he knew that. The Master of the Forge would see him flayed alive and

then have his headless corpse staked outside the great Caverns for all to see, until he was no more than

bones and dust. Amstok would not be Summoned to the Goddess, to Verlian’s side as one of Her

favored, but remain forever scorned.

Amstok turned and hurried from the high-domed chamber to find the Master. He pulled open the

heavy iron doors and was about to enter the corridor when he nearly stumbled upon the crumpled forms

of the outer Guardians. He knelt down and touched the nearest warrior’s neck, looking for the beat of

life, but snatched his hand back in horror. The Warrior-Guardian was dead. Blood ran from a gaping slit

in his throat. The other Guardian lay dead from a similar wound.

Amstok stood, shaking with rage. Who would dare violate the Caverns? Kill the

Warrior-Guardians? How had they defeated the elite E’stal Guardians protecting the entrance to the

Caverns?

The Master’s great bell rang an ominous warning of invasion.

Swords drawn, Amstok ran toward the sound, prepared to sacrifice himself for the Goddess and

Her daughter. He turned down the main corridor leading to the chambers of the crucible and the forges.

Several Warrior-Guardians ran by him, frantically trying to find the intruder and seal off the chambers and

their priceless secrets.

No one shouted or panicked. Only an underlying feeling of dread permeated the dark corridors as

the Warrior-Guardians sought the enemy who had violated their secluded realm.

The great bell rang again, now more of a death knell than a warning.

At the Great Cavern, Amstok stopped. The order of the Caverns had been shattered. A knot of

Guardians clustered around someone or something lying on the sand. Amstok brushed by a huge

ironworker, his broad face agleam with the sweat of his labors, and to Amstok’s surprise, tears of

unashamed grief. The big man grabbed Amstok by the arm and pulled him around to face him.

“What has happened?” Amstok shouted.

“All is lost. All is lost,” he said, moaning.

Amstok broke free and hurried toward the cluster of distraught men surrounding what was lying at

their feet.

“Amstok!”

He recognized the voice of his closest friend, Kamchet, another Warrior-Guardian who had taken

oaths and bonds with him on the same day.

“Kamchet! What has happened?”

“The end of the Caverns,” the young Warrior-Guardian said, his own eyes filling with tears.

Amstok pushed his way to the center of the gathered warriors. He stopped and stared at the figure

lying in the sand.

“Death to all Qualani!” one of the Guardians shouted angrily.

All indeed, was lost. The Caverns had been violated, the Sacred Hammer had been stolen and the

Master of the Forge lay dead in a widening pool of blood spilling from a hideous, gaping wound in his

throat.

Chapter One

A TORRENT OF WAVES crashed against the massive seawall of Daeamon Keep, sending its white,

bitter spray nearly to the battlements. The storm had lasted all night and throughout the long day,

battering the ancient Talesian stronghold with shrieking winds and wild winter rain.

From her high chamber window, Princess Kitarisa, first and only child of Prince Kazan dar Baen of

Gorendt and Princess Liestra of Riehl, stared down at the angry sea beating against the black granite and

fought the mounting storm within her own heart. She had arrived only ten days ago. In five, she would

become the bride of Prince D’Assuriel, the High Prince and Ter-Rey of all Talesia—an honor she both

anticipated and dreaded. And this somber, ancient fortress, set high above the sea would be her home.

It was said that the Goddess Herself had chosen this place to build Daeamon Keep and named it for

her mortal husband. When Prince Daeamon fell in battle, Verlian never overcame her grief. She wept not

the tears of a mere mortal, but her own blood. One tear had hardened, crystallized into the brilliant jewel

worn by every successive Ter-Rey since then—a drop of the Goddess’s fiery blood, dangling from his

left ear.

Kitarisa knew well about grief and about symbols. She traced a tentative finger over the object she

held in her hands, the last remnant of her mother’s family—the Riehlian crown—a delicate chaplet of

filigreed gold, intertwining like gleaming lace around the image of a falcon, the royal symbol of Riehl. She

had never worn it, at least not in public. Her father had forbidden her to wear it, as he had forbidden her

mother.

Kitarisa set the chaplet on her dark hair and studied her shadowy reflection in the glass of the

chamber window. Her face was too heart-shaped for her own liking, even though her attending lady’s

maid had readily complimented her delicate features. She frowned slightly. Her chin was too sharp and

her eyes too wide-set. Rhynn, her dearest Rhynn and long dead now, had loved her eyes. He said they

were as dark and as luminous as a forest pool.

She touched the edge of the deep-red velvet sleeve of her yet unfinished bridal gown. It was the

most beautiful garment she had ever worn. Cut in the Talesian style, the snug bodice fit her to perfection.

The long sleeves, so warming for the winter, had been tailored to conform to her good right arm as well

as covering the remaining bandages protecting her left arm—the final reminder of her terrible battle

against the ‘Fa.

The bell-shaped skirt flared out like the petals of a flower and swept back in a short, elegant train.

Gold fringing ran from her left shoulder to the right side of her waist and continued down in alternating

diagonal bands across the front of the gown, adding a regal touch to her appearance.

She studied her reflection again. Only her long, dark-brown hair pleased her. It gleamed from

constant brushing—lustrous, like polished wood. Its shining mass had been plaited into one thick braid,

intertwined with a gold cord and deep red and black ribbons. Prince Assur’s colors. A heavy gold

necklace with one black pearl suspended from it hung almost to her waist—the honor gift he had given to

her the day he paid bride-price to her furious father. She touched its smooth surface, gaining some small

comfort from its cool beauty.

The chamber door opened and she heard the soft rush of skirts against the floor.

“Please, you must come away from the window, my lady, you will catch your death. It is so cold this

evening,” a gentle voice admonished.

“I am not cold, Davieta.” Kitarisa turned anyway, obliging her. Lady Davieta’s devotion had

surprised Kitarisa. After the Rift Cut War, she had firmly attached herself as Kitarisa’s senior attending

lady. While Assur and his legions wintered in Riehl, waiting for the snows to subside, Davieta had

become her first true friend and confidante. The long trek from Riehl over the Adrex Mountains to

Daemon Keep had proven her loyalty. Davieta had willingly left Riehl, leaving behind only a handful of

relatives, along with bitter memories. Kitarisa knew Davieta had an unhappy past but did not press her,

knowing it had to do with the loss of her husband and two little sons.

Davieta approached her carrying a sewing basket, then curtsied. “This will not take long, my lady.

Only the hem needs adjusting.” She knelt and opened the basket. “The gown suits you. It is so lovely, his

highness will be pleased.”

“You think so?”

Davieta looked up and smiled mischievously. “Of course. But, I think he would be pleased even if

you were dressed in rags.”

“You are teasing, Davieta.”

“I am, but it is plain to everyone that the Ter-Rey loves you. Everyone, that is, but yourself.”

Kitarisa sighed and lifted the chaplet from her hair. “I believe the prince would have chosen me even

if I were as ugly as a toad. Dearest Davieta, Prince Assur chose me because...” She raised her arms

helplessly. “Because I was the obvious choice. The war is over, my father has been destroyed. My

half-sister and brother have been banished and what remains of the Reverend ‘Fa, Malgora, lies at the

base of the Rift Cut. Prince Assur chose me because I was the only sensible choice.”

“My lady, that is not true. His highness loves you, I have seen it with my own eyes. Surely, youmust

have some feelings for him?”

Lady Davieta’s anxious gaze made Kitarisa smile. She reached down to touch her maid’s cheek,

consoling her. “Perhaps you are right. Ido have feelings for him. He has been kind and good. He freed

me from my father and he has honored me...” She caught the gleaming pearl in her fingers. “And yet, I

cannot quiet the unease in my heart.”

Davieta tugged at the hem and pressed several pins into the soft velvet. “You have nothing to fear. It

is not just Prince Assur, but all Talesia honors you. You killed Malgora, that dreadful witch.” She coiled a

length of wine-red thread tightly about her fingers until it snapped away from the spool, then threaded it

into a needle. “The Eastern Lands are safe now.”

Kitarisa said nothing. She could not contradict her maid. She had done as Davieta proclaimed, yet it

caused her no happiness in recalling it. She had killed the ‘Fa for all of Talesia, but at what price?

A dreadful, frightening secret pressed heavily on her mind.

She looked at her left arm. Beneath the rich velvet of the sleeve, a tight layer of bandages still

encased her arm, binding the healing work of the Daughters. Malgora had caused that—had burned her

arm and brought her so close to death that she had almost been Summoned by the Goddess Herself. The

Daughters had restored her by their empathic powers. They had called the affliction from her, binding up

the hideously burned arm and bringing her back from death.

Kitarisa shuddered at the memory. As Assur’s legions defeated her father’s armies on the ground,

she had fought Malgora in the skies. Both she and the ‘Fa had become fiercsome winged beasts, brought

to life by an ancient, monstrous conjuring from a time no longer known to this world.

The creatures took form within her and Malgora, embodying their flesh, using them to fight their

terrible battle. Destroying the ‘Fa became a bittersweet victory. Kitarisa still felt the dark animal presence

within her, a terrifying, savage force capable of death and destruction. It would not leave her—it

remained a cruel, sinister power, always pressing at her, demanding to be released.

“I am finished now, my lady. My lady?”

Kitarisa started out of her daydreaming. “Forgive me. My mind wanders.”

Davieta gathered up her sewing things and stood. “I believe it is time to get ready...?”

“Yes, of course.”

After helping her change into a gown more suitable for the evening, Davieta carried away the

magnificent bridal gown. Kitarisa felt a sudden rush of relief as she turned to replace her mother’s crown

into its velvet-lined box. Out of sight, the crown would no longer remind her of future obligations, or her

promise to Assur.

Another knock on the door sent Davieta hurrying to answer it. Kitarisa’s gloomy mood was at once

forgotten as she eagerly welcomed the visitor.

Hair, red as a brilliant sunset and shot with amber-gold, crowned a face of unfeigned sweetness.

Princess Sethra did not resemble her brother, Assur, but her eyes, now dancing with mischief, were the

same deep blue color. She embraced Kitarisa like a sister.

“If we do not go down at once, father will force Assur to have the hunting dogs slain and served up.”

“Am I that late?”

Sethra took her arm and began heading for the door. “No, but you know my father has no patience

when it comes to food.”

“Prince Achad would eat the dogs?”

“Father would eat anything if he were hungry enough. Come, Kitarisa, we must hurry before Assur

runs out of excuses.”

Half-believing her, Kitarisa hurried to keep up with Sethra.

Eat the dogs? Surely, she was jesting.

From the heights of the balcony above the great hall, Kitarisa looked down upon the gathered

warriors, the grave-looking officials, council members, she presumed, and a few women.

In spite of the luxurious amenities in the private, upper chambers, parts of Daeamon Keep still clung

stubbornly to its barbaric past including the massive court hall. Even though tables had been laid out with

new silver plates and goblets, the hall itself was still lit by torches, each held in place by an ancient iron

bracket hammered into the shape of a beast or some long-forgotten demon.

The vaulted ceiling, supported by great pillars, had been carved in intricate patterns, beaten over

with silver and inlaid with rare corals from the sea. Unlike the floor in Riehl’s Falcon Hall that boasted

richly hued tiles, the floor in the hall of Daemon Keep was still made of wood, polished to a high gleam

and covered with a scattering of patterned carpets brought back from long-ago conquests.

The center floor had been left bare to allow for dancing or amusements, but Kitarisa knew there had

been a time when the hall rang with the shouts of Talesian warriors as they grappled and fought one

another in mortal combat. Dark stains still marred the wood where the blood of the long-dead warriors

had been spilled.

From the highest beams hung the tribal war banners, tattered and blood-stained—some so faded it

was impossible to make out their original designs in the darkness. The banners were the relics of a proud

people, symbolizing their savage past as well as their victories in battle.

At the head of the great room she noticed a large table placed on a raised dais, set for only six

people. A massive silver candlestick had been placed at each end. She hoped Sethra would sit next to

her and help her through the intricacies of a Talesian feast.

In front of the table stood the Ter-Rey. His armor and swords had been replaced with the formal

black and gold, web-like harness encasing his chest and shoulders. Like all Talesian men, his long, almost

black hair had been bound tightly at the crown, the shank falling past his shoulders. The only identifying

mark separating Assur from his men was the plain gold band across his brow signifying his rank. A

molten-red jewel, Verlian’s Tear, dangled from his left ear; a neck collar of gold linked-plates encircled

his throat, each plate enameled in the design of a black rose and sword ringed by a crown.

He appeared deep in conversation with an older man whose long, silvery hair was not bound by the

traditional ring, but tied back with a braided rope, an orange cording. He wore a long, dark-colored tunic

and an over-robe decorated in bands of orange and deep red. The wide sleeves were edged in more of

the orange and embroidered with strange symbols and markings. Around his neck he wore a heavy chain

and hanging from it, a glass disk edged in silver.

Assur did not hear her or Sethra approach, until everyone around him bowed. Kitarisa looked

down, even now afraid to look at him for fear he would disapprove. He turned and stared at her, ignoring

the older man at his side as well as his sister and Prince Achad. The fingers of her right hand toyed

nervously with the pearl at her waist.

“Kita,” he said softly, bowing to her.

It still unnerved her to look directly into his eyes. Their deep blue color only emphasized the

markings, the distinctive patterns embellishing them—a bold black stroke just underneath each eye,

sweeping from the inner corner to the outer edge, and another, from the outside of the upper lid, flaring

back, almost touching the end of the brow. Neither tattooed nor painted into the skin, the marks were a

natural feature seen only on Talesian males.

“If you do not arrange for the joining ceremony this instant, Assur, I will have her for myself,” Achad

exclaimed, smiling wickedly at her.

“Father,” Sethra said sharply. “Where are your manners?”

“I am an old Talesian dog, used to taking what I want. In the old days, I would have fought your

brother for her, now I must be civilized.” He winked at Sethra.

Assur scowled. “Enough, or I will have you sent from the hall,” he warned, but regained his good

graces by taking Kitarisa’s hand and turned to the tall, silver-haired man by his side.

“This is the Adar, Tethket. He is the Wordkeeper.”

The Adar bowed deeply to her. “I am honored, great lady, to meet the destroyer of the hated ‘Fa.

An extraordinary accomplishment and one, I am told, not achieved without great sacrifice.” He nodded

at her arm. “My Lord Assur tells me you were restored to us by a Holy Daughter, one of the last healers

of Verlian. Sometime, at your pleasure, I would enjoy hearing your deed so it may be written into the

chronicles for all time. Such a victory must not be forgotten.”

“The Adar keeps the Words, Kitarisa,” Assur explained. “It is his task to record all the great

events.”

Kitarisa nodded. Her father, Kazan, had long ago dismissed the Gorendtian Adar and the Chanter

as useless appendages to his court. No great events had ever been chronicled after her mother died and

Kitarisa privately knew her father never intended for Princess Liestra’s death to be recorded, or anything

else that might incriminate him in any wrong-doing.

“I would be happy to assist you, Adar Tethket, if you would be good enough to give me lessons on

Talesian history. I know so little. I was not allowed to learn...”

The Wordkeeper’s brows arched in surprise. “It would give me great pleasure. Indeed, an honor.”

He bowed again, pressing his palm to his chest.

“When do we eat?” Achad demanded in a loud voice. “I pray the Goddess we eat something better

than camp swill and teki-bread.”

Achad’s jibe was met with raucous laughter as Assur led Kitarisa to the table. To her relief, Sethra

was indeed placed to her right, with Assur at her left. Prince Achad sat on the other side of Assur with

the Adar next to him, and far to the right, next to Sethra, sat a beaming Kuurus. Kuurus held the rare

position of Assur’s most-favored and it pleased Kitarisa to see him dine at his lord’s table.

Throughout the entire feast she was treated to a bewildering array of dishes and foods she had never

tasted: exotic fish in spiced sauces; a pastry laced with dark honey and sweet seeds, tasty little morsels

that were the meat of a shellfish, gathered only that morning from the shores along the Keep.

Instead of the rough-cut joints of breok that had been served at her father’s table, she was given

only the choicest, most tender portions.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched Assur. He was at last at ease with his own people. The

former lines of fatigue and stern resolve had vanished from his face. Relaxed and in a lighthearted mood,

he joked with Prince Achad and occasionally called out to a familiar warrior. At times, he would drape

an arm across the back of her chair and lean near her, speaking in private tones.

“The food is to your liking?” he asked.

“I have never seen such a feast, my lord. You Talesians always surprise me. I had no idea barbarian

warriors dined so well.”

“Not the savages you had imagined, eh? I assure you, we aretrying to end some of our

blood-thirsty ways. You will notice I have not eaten any of the dogs. Yet.”

For the first time, Kitarisa saw humor light his dark blue eyes.

“But, do not let any of this civility deceive you,” he went on. “Beneath it lurks a pack of ruthless

animals.”

Kitarisa caught the wry smile and she, too, laughed out loud. “Then, I will simply have to learn to be

C. L. Scheel - Talesian 2 - Weapons of Ruin

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