A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1) Read online

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  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com

  Copyright 2017 – Michael S. Gormley

  Dedication

  Everything I write is for my family. This one, especially – for my father, Eugene and my brother, Nolan. They taught me that family isn’t bound by blood, that life is an ever-flowing adventure, and that we’re never truly in control.

  Kyrn’s Legacy: Book One

  A Flutter in the Night

  A Novel by Michael S. Gormley

  Part One

  A Frozen Horizon

  Chapter One

  A Journey’s End

  Blustering winds rolled down from the peaks of the Black Rock Mountains, nearly knocking the halfling from his feet, as he closed in upon his destination. The ebony peaks of the mountains jutted into the sky like spires, disappearing as they pierced through the grey clouds above. The mountains appeared smooth, as if they had been entirely polished throughout their many years of existence, but the end of Biddledur Foltar’s exhausting journey lessened his appreciation for such things.

  Had Biddledur been successful in his master’s bidding, he wouldn’t have been clutching his tattered satchel tightly against his chest, rushing in his return. He held the bag by its drawstrings, letting it stagger gracelessly as he dragged it along the dusty mountain path. “He’s going to kill you,” Biddledur grumbled to himself. He surely thought that to be true. The halfling wondered how he had gotten himself into this nasty mess. Although he hadn’t wanted to admit it, he already knew.

  As the sun was almost fully below the horizon, casting an orange glow like a flickering candle in the sky, Biddledur arrived at the end of his path. This was the same spot he’d left nearly four months prior when he set out on his journey; however, the den-like entrance into the bowels of the Black Rock Mountain was nowhere in sight. The halfling knew this was the proper location. He couldn’t have forgotten that. No, there are some things that remain fixed to the memory like a horrid night terror, waiting for an opportune moment to reveal itself yet again behind closed eyes. Biddledur let his eyes fall shut and remembered: the halfling’s capture, the first apprehensive meeting with his new master, and his first passage into these dreadful mountains. He was not mistaken.

  Biddledur placed his bag upon a small rock and began to climb, to make sure that a recent rockslide hadn’t covered the path. Realizing that it was a futile task to fight against his knowledge—he was surely not mistaken—Biddledur plopped down upon the ground and rested his back against the small stone. He considered the facts: maybe his master had already been enlightened of the halfling’s failure and had banished him from the mountain. That’s not at all the worst, Biddledur thought. Perhaps he could be on his way and never see the nasty old man ever again. That was unlike his master, though. There would be some price to pay.

  It didn’t take long for his body to realize what true exhaustion was. Biddledur’s eyes grew weary and he drifted into a state of half-sleep, still aware of the cool winds whistling through the cracks of the mountain. They sounded like the hollowed cries of lost souls, cut short by what lay in wait within the traitorous mountains. The blurred images danced around in his mind, until the subtle clatter of rocks rolling down the steep side of the mountain awakened him.

  His eyes shot open, though he didn’t dare move. For the smallest of black bears in this region would stand more than four times his height on its hind legs. That was not an entity that he wanted to have eyes on him. Biddledur let his eyes investigate for him, scanning left, then right. There was nothing. That is, until a shallow, hot breath fell upon the back of his neck.

  Forgetting entirely what he’d reminded himself of the great black bears, Biddledur jumped from his seat amongst the rocks, turning briskly to see what skulked behind him. As he did, his heel caught within one of the many cracks that separated the black rock, and he tumbled towards the edge of the narrow mountain path. He fought to maintain balance, leaning only on his heels, and, as he glanced over his shoulder, a wave of dizziness swept him. He would have enough time to replay the previous forty-seven years of his life on his way down the mountainside.

  The halfling refused to go over the edge without knowing what had startled him so. When he snapped his head back to where he had been sleeping (so peacefully, he might add), there a creature sat, grinning so casually that it chilled Biddledur to his core, and for a moment he considered whether tumbling down the mountain would prove a much easier end.

  Before the halfling came to a sound conclusion, the small creature rose, standing on two legs, the same as Biddledur. This creature, however, was even smaller than he. It was not the halfling’s first encounter with the demon; its green skin looked as if it had more decay than natural pigment, its sharpened, shark-like rows of teeth smiled at him, and not to forget the two black, shredded wings that looked too damaged to be of any real use. Still, no larger than a woodland fairy, or even a barn owl, the demon hopped from his perch upon the rocks and floated effortlessly towards the halfling.

  “Welcome home, little one,” the imp-like demon chuckled. When it was close enough, the demon grabbed hold of Biddledur’s arm and, needing all of its weight, steadied the halfling from toppling to his end.

  “Grizlok,” Biddledur said, having regained his balance.

  “The master awaits,” Grizlok continued. “Come.”

  For a moment, Biddledur contemplated his master’s knowledge of the halfling’s failed quest. Biddledur knew the answer, yet still he asked, “Does he know? Of the stone?”

  “Of course,” Grizlok sneered. “There is not the master doesn’t know. He has eyed you like a hawk since you set out.” Grizlok turned his back on the halfling and raised his arms high above his head. From the sharp claws, a blue light sparked into the air around him, and the rocks, which Biddledur had so recently been resting upon, faded from existence, revealing the small, dark cavern into the Black Rock Mountains. The demon turned back to Biddledur and grinned, sending shivers down the halfling’s spine. “Come,” Grizlok whispered.

  An illusion spell! Biddledur thought. Of course, the master would hide the entrance from the halfling. The necromancer always held control.

  Chapter Two

  The King’s Return

  Long before the frozen war, Grimmrich had seasons much like you and me. Just before the Season of the Sun, the leaves on the trees sheltering the foot of the mountain to the east would transform into magnificent shades of sea-blue and ruby-red. Even at the coldest of times the moon would shine just so, that the snow dazzled nearly a solid blue. During the Three-Year War (or the Great War, as most would call it) it seemed as if the snow had never lifted, weighing even more so than the sunken hearts of the Grimmrich guardsmen. Since then, the seasons of Grimmrich never found urgency in their return, and the city remained frosted and cold.

  The people of Grimmrich, who consisted mainly of humans and a few dwarves or elves here and there, had nothing but admiration for their countryside. Once the war ended, Ulzrich Fellenor, son of Heinrich Fellenor, was appointed king at the young age of twelve (much too young for either you o
r me to be of that much importance). Heinrich was one of the last of Grimmrich to fall in the final battles of the Great War. You see, the day of man was to be thirteen, but in great attempts to keep the wrong people out of power, exceptions were made, and Ulzrich Fellenor became king. Ulzrich, learning from his father, gave all his young heart to Grimmrich and, in return, his people gave him theirs. An idol to Grimmrich, Ulzrich stood tall over most of its inhabitants. At seventeen, standing a good six feet four inches, Ulzrich was muscular in tone and, even now at forty-seven, with streams of silver lining his beard, his blond hair was still radiant as gold-ore, freshly smelted in the dwarven mountains of Vhanhulan.

  With no hesitation, Ulzrich Fellenor was written in the books of the Great Study as one of the most prestigious figures not only of Grimmrich, but all of Einroth; however, in this moment now, the most crucial topic was the weather, unrelenting and undeviating. Forget the deeds of King Ulzrich Fellenor, and lend your attention to those of his son, Kyrn. For thirty-five years, Grimmrich had been a landscape of ice. With no explanation, the lands stopped growing. The creatures had nearly all died or were forced into permanent migration. It was a rarity to see even a wolf or a fox and, unfortunately, the remaining dire-wolves had become volatile and vicious. Grimmrich was left with no other option but to retrieve supplies from the kingdom of Stalholm, south and east. Stalholm had become one of the largest human kingdoms since the Great War, though that is a story for a more desirable time.

  Grueling as it may be, Ulzrich and fourteen of his guardsmen made a three-day journey to and from Stalholm every other month. Had the days not seemed so similar all year round, it would now be the Season of the Sun, and Ulzrich would be arriving back home before the day’s end. Preparations for his return were almost completed, and that is where our adventure begins.

  ***

  The chilling wind dashed through Elrich’s hair as he raced through the woods. Elrich was the youngest of Ulzrich’s kin, being only eleven. His older brother, Kyrn, had just turned eighteen a few months prior. And the eldest, Abellia, was twenty-four and, at the moment, was furious. Although it hadn’t surprised her, it did enrage her that the boys adventured throughout the frozen lands, while the rest of Grimmrich were laboring for their king’s return.

  It was a common occurrence for the Fellenor boys, nearly to the extent of tradition, that they would sneak beyond the walls of their city to feel the frosted winds rush through their hair, their feet crack and crunch the icy snow beneath their boots.

  There was a point when Abellia would play with them, chase them through the forests. She was never one for their mock sword fighting, though there was even a time when she would watch, cheering them on. This was long before their mother had passed. Now, Abellia was so much like their mother, mature, passionate, intimidating, and the boys respected her for that. But they would not let that change who they were.

  They felt nothing ever could.

  Elrich, being seven years younger, was much quicker than his elder brother, and had made good headway on Kyrn as they raced back towards Grimmrich.

  “Abellia will send you straight to Iafi when she sees what you’ve done,” Kyrn shouted ahead to his younger brother. Iafi Delashev was Grimmrich’s butcher and well known across the lands for his bravery during the Great War.

  The boys’ grandfather fought beside the dwarf in the Great War, bringing their family fame and respect. Perhaps that was what enraged Abellia so much about their playfulness.

  Elrich looked back to see the blood dripping from Kyrn’s left brow, as it now matted some of his long, dark brown hair to the left side of his face. “It’s only a scratch,” Elrich laughed. “Father wouldn’t have his oldest being a tattle, would he?” Elrich couldn’t help snicker, and the frigid air crept into his lungs like a thief in the night, toppling him to the ground in a fit of coughing and laughter.

  As Kyrn caught up, he rested his hand on Elrich’s shoulder and laughed along with him, or, at least, in his little brother’s agony. “You are Father’s glory,” Kyrn said, and he pondered over how much Elrich looked like their father, with his curly blond hair down to his shoulders. He was already nearly as tall as Kyrn and was, for now, in better shape (as was always proved during their races through the woods). Kyrn was the only child that inherited their mother’s brown hair—Amellia, who had passed on not yet a year ago.

  “We both know he wishes you were the eldest,” Kyrn said, attempting to mask the slightest shade of shame on his face. “Father winces at the thought of me being heir.”

  “Mother would strike you if she were here to hear you say that, brother.” Elrich knew that his older brother had taken their mother’s passing the hardest.

  “Mother may be gone,” Kyrn continued, “but she still hears what we say.” He smiled down at Elrich and led him to the main gate of Grimmrich. “She brightened these celebrations, Elrich. They seem so dark and dull now.”

  “We all miss her, but we must be strong for Father.”

  “You’re something, you know?” Kyrn said.

  The guards bowed before them as they entered Grimmrich.

  “I’m not sure what you see in people,” Kyrn continued.

  When Elrich was alone he would joke with the guards, but Kyrn was usually high upon his horse and kept a healthy appetite for respect. He failed to see that the Fellenor name in which he was eternally branded, stood for more than power.

  Grimmrich looked beautiful. In the market district, the shops were now all closed, strung about with lights and decorations. The cobblestone streets, hurriedly shoveled, were nothing less than unkempt. This was indeed Elrich’s favorite time, when everyone seemed so joyous, or at least acted so, and the return of his father had always meant happiness in their home.

  Before the two brothers had a chance to plan their diversion, Abellia caught their eye. She was standing in the center of the market square, looking as stunning as their mother had, with her hands rested upon her hips.

  “Do we run?” Elrich whispered.

  “It is too late for that, little brother,” Kyrn laughed, and walked towards their sister.

  “The day our father is to return, and you boys are off playing in the woods!” Abellia yelled, even though they were now face to face. No one else turned to look at the commotion, for the commoners were accustomed to Abellia’s motherly nature towards the young nobles. “Kyrn, why are you bloodied?” For a moment, she almost appeared startled, but immediately turned to Elrich. “What have I told you about sparring with your brother, Elrich?”

  Elrich dropped his gaze to his boots. Fraying greatly from the snow, his wolf-hide boots were disheveled. “Only start a fight in which I am defending another, or that I know I can win,” Elrich answered, and looked at his older brother. “Which I did. Surely you can see that, sister.” Elrich let out a faint laugh as Kyrn hit him on the shoulder.

  “Surely, I can.” Abellia pinched Elrich on his cheek and sent him on his way. “Kyrn, please don’t do anything doltish today.” She smiled, and Kyrn knew it was forced. She had always had the toughest time being sincere with him.

  ***

  Elrich made his way through Grimmrich, sneaking into the back alleys (which he knew was forbidden to him). He wouldn’t consider himself rebellious, only inquisitive, and would certainly never pass up an adventure. His wet nurse, Cecelia, had told him stories from when he was only a baby. Ever since the day you could walk, she would say, you were a mischievous little runt. He chuckled at the thought of Cecelia telling him how bad he could be and figured he should find her.

  There weren’t many bizarre folks within the walls of Grimmrich, but if you wanted to find them, the alleyways were the place to begin. Ulzrich and the High Council knew of these queer folk, and of the corruption that took place in the dingiest parts of the city; however, more pressing matters always seemed at hand. Elrich enjoyed walking through these parts. He’d only ever left the city a handful of times, accompanying his father to Stalholm. The forbidden alleys were l
ike another world, dark and satisfying, and reminded him of how many possibilities there were outside of Grimmrich.

  Elrich saw the woman when he first turned into the alley. She sat against the stone wall that stood as the rear wall of the metal-works. Her face was gaunt and pale beneath her thin, balding hair, and she wore only a ragged, black cloth. Elrich thought of the many tales Cecelia had told him, and he prayed to the gods that she didn’t look up at him, revealing deep, red eyes of evil magics.

  As he rounded another corner, he saw the witch follow, though it hadn’t mattered what he saw, for he felt her gaze burning into the back of his head. He quickened his pace to match his racing heart. As he looked behind him to examine the witch’s face, a shadow was still all that was visible. Elrich quickly slipped into the nearest building.

  The room was rather large and musky, cluttered with empty crates and barrels. Elrich had no trouble hiding. Sitting in the shadows, he realized that he was in the old mead hall, still permeated by the stench of ale and sweat. Now, it was nothing more than a refuge for beggars.

  The sound of cracking glass panicked Elrich, and he saw the witch slowly pass the barrels that shielded him. Under her breath he heard her mumble something he couldn’t make out, and as he lost sight of her, he grew anxious that it had been some sort of invisibility spell.

  “Cecelia is going to have my head if I don’t get back,” he whispered to himself. As he turned around, he ran face first into her, and when he looked up, Elrich found himself peering straight into the witch’s eyes.

  ***

  Abellia didn’t anger Kyrn, but she made him question himself greatly. As he made his way through the castle to his quarters, he wondered what she truly thought of him. Their mother had treated him with what seemed to most as nearly coddled-affection, though, to Kyrn, it was dearly missed.