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  A Baptism by Fire

  Wayne O'Brien

  Copyright © August 2017 Wayne O'Brien. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  Books may be purchased in quantity and/or special sales at Amazon.com

  Cover Art by: Bloodyman88, Fiverr.com

  Interior Design by: Wayne O'Brien. Slick Style Productions

  Edited by: Abah Mary, Fiverr.com

  Published by: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC

  ISBN: 1544905335

  ISBN-13: 978-1544905334

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017911616

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC

  1. Fiction 2. Fantasy

  First Edition

  Printed in USA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PART OF A SERIES

  Although A Baptism by Fire is part one to the series War of the Dragons, it is a standalone story and need not be accompanied with the others.

  The series War of the Dragons is also part of a much larger book series entitled Lore, which follows the full history of the planet Ashra.

  A BAPTISM BY FIRE

  ong before I was Lord Sire, before I was conceived in my mother's womb, my family has always supported you and your house in the kingdom," the elf said, clad in the royal dress of a knight from Okeawodal. The crimson sash was clean and velvety over the deep purple of his tunic. "My dreams from childhood have been realized, my king," he knelt before the throne in a large majestic hall. The windows were made of stain glass, each depicting a different scene from the Okeawodal Elves history.

  "Few have been better than you, and as protector of the Kingdom of Okeawodal, the land of the Elves, you have been charged to serve your fellow citizens." The king looked to his bride, both of which were wearing leather and wood bound crowns, the king's was unusually large and had the skull and antlers of a great stag fixed to it. It looked very cumbersome and heavy, not practical. Their shared throne was cut into the trunk of the large Kadelaka tree. The gold and white flowers had just blossomed, marking the first day of the Festival of Flowers. The branches, which were covered in the sweet-smelling blossoms, hung low and almost to the floor. Growing up the walls of the hall, the roots of the tree stretched like vines framing the windows. The flowers were also on the viny roots of the tree.

  "My liege," the elf bowed his head deeply. His long intricately braided hair fell to the floor as he did.

  "Our sources," the king continued, "have told us that one, if not both, of the Okeawodal jewels have been located south of the mountains. I charge you, Lord Sire Faeranduil Brywarin, with finding and returning them to their rightful owners. Choose someone to fill your duties here whilst you venture to the south and into the lands of our enemies."

  The elf knew the king spoke of the humans who invaded the lands north of the mountains fifty years before. If it had not been for the warning from Moiraes, the high wizard of Okeawodal, the humans would have fought much farther north than the Great Mountain Road. He also knew that the king did not recognize the lands seized as territory of the humans, and yet he was to venture south of the mountains.

  Faeranduil's thoughts jumped up to the present when he heard the call of a raven. It had been seven bloomings since he left Okeawodaer, the capital city. How he missed the wilderness, but since saving King Ianhorn, at the battle of the crossroads, his place had been in the castle. Most of his time now was spent deploying scouts and not being one, nor even leading them. When he is not advising the king in some manner or fumbling through papers, he would do his best to teach his son mountaineering and pathfinding in the castle keep, instead of out in the wilds where it will be needed.

  An arrow sunk into the chest of the raven, out its back and it fell from the sky like a stone. It landed in front of Faeranduil, and he picked it up. After he plucked and gutted the raven he put it on a small spit and began roasting it over a small fire.

  There he decided to make camp for the night, high in the mountains, overlooking a great walled city carved into their side. His thoughts drifted. He wondered how long it had been since he had been sent out alone. Thirty years? Forty? During the invasion, before his son was born, so it would have been more than fifty years.

  Faeranduil smiled at how his life had changed in those last fifty years, starting with the war, followed closely by the birth of his son. He sat eating the raven wishing he was permitted to bring Faerainal, his son, as to train him and continue the tradition of the ancestors. However, King Ianhorn forbade it sighting the extreme danger and sensitive nature of his assignment.

  "I shall enter this great city of men on the morrow's eve", he thought with disdain after he finished the bird. He dropped the spit and the rest of the raven into the fire, then pulled his cloak tight around him and lay close to the flames. He wore no sigil nor showed any sign of high power in the land of the Elves. Another command from the king, complete scrutiny must be observed.

  The young elf, although fifty sun cycles old, sat reading an old book with the wizard. Faeranduil watched his son lovingly until an abyssal scream came echoing across the land. He turned south and could see a ranger, far south of the mountains. This ranger was marked for death, surrounded by fire, and fighting fierce creatures and demons, while frantically trying to get to the boy. Faeranduil readied his bow and took careful aim; he would die for his son if he had to. His only thought was to keep this ranger far from his son. Before he released the arrow for a kill shot, he saw that the ranger, who was doing all he could to reach Faeranduil's son, was, in fact, himself. He turned to look at his son in despair as the arrow flew from his bow. He was no longer a young elf, but a grown man leading a division of the army south to join a great war. A war Ashra has never seen before. Just then, the arrow sunk into his chest and burned like fire.

  Faeranduil awoke with a start, he looked around and saw he was alone, all his belongings were undisturbed and the fire had burnt down to near nothing. He put the knife he pulled as he awoke back into its sheath and stood. He scattered the charred bones of the raven and any unburnt wood, far off from the fire pit, then covered the ashes with dirt and spread them around. There was no clear trace he had stayed there, save to an expert tracker, which he was.

  Faeranduil adjusted the knife in his boot, and tucked the one he slept with in the back of his pants. Then he fastened a rugged leather belt around his waist, along with his sword in its scabbard on his left hip and a sealed quiver of arrows on his right, he slung his pack on and put his bow over a shoulder and across his chest.

  Faeranduil stood there staring at the city far below him, his dream plagued him. What kind of monsters would keep him away from his son? The warmth of Agste, the red sun, fell on his face as it began to peek over the ridge to his right. It was time to set out.

  His travels down the mountain trail were easier than up, although still slow moving. The brush was sparse, and the ground hard, but Faeranduil felt good, save his dream the night before. He stopped when the sun was high in the greenish sky to eat; finally there was fruit in the shrubs, near a large patch of purple flowers.

  The stench from the human city floated up in the cool mountain air the closer he got and, at length he was in sight of the north gate. He leaped from the boulder he was crouched on down to the mountain road and walked towards the large iron gate fixed in stone and flanked by two large watchtowers.

  "Halt," a soldier cried, "state your business,
ranger."

  "I seek shelter for the night," Faeranduil replied in a faux human accent. The sun had already begun its descent in the East.

  "Not many rangers seen coming from the north. From where do you hail?"

  Faeranduil hesitated, searching his memory for the human name for the city. "Mountain's Gate," he replied, pulling his cloak closer around him, making sure his long ears were covered well.

  "Aye, before that," the unseen guard called from the safety of his barracks. Faeranduil knew there were at least twenty archers trained on him.

  "East of the mountains..."

  "From what realm do you hail," the guard interrupted.

  Faeranduil's memory of human history and cities was being tested. "Shadeville," he said finally, "passing through, looking for work. It has been a long journey thus far."

  There was a pause, a little too long for his liking. Eventually the pause was broken when the guard asked if he had coin. Faeranduil replied negatively, and was then instructed to an inn a bit further south from the gate.

  Faeranduil passed through the gate and saw a guard wearing a lion mane shaped helm. He held a long spear, half again as tall as him.

  "Welcome to Bristork," the guard said as he passed him. Faeranduil nodded politely and continued south, down Bristork Highway, a wide stone road that slanted slightly to the edges where a steady stream of water flowed, occasionally dropping down through openings on the side.

  He turned left after two blocks and stood before a great building, one of the first to be built in Bristork by the looks of it. He entered the building and stood a moment, surveying the crowd, then chose a seat to the far right. The music was much quieter here, Faeranduil did not like the music of the humans, it was too twangy and choppy. He missed the music of the castle.

  A young woman came up to the table where he sat. She looked like she had not bathed properly in quite awhile. At least not as he had back in Okeawodaer.

  "Oye there s'ranger, what ye be havin'," she asked. Her frizzy red hair hung to her chest.

  "An ale and a plate of food," Faeranduil replied, "and a room for the night."

  "Aye," she said and waited.

  "I do not have any coin at the moment. Perhaps I could work it off?"

  She paused for a moment, a voice called the name Syndael in the distance and she turned to look briefly. "I'll 'ave t' ask Helmeck, sir," she said and left to see about the calling customer.

  Faeranduil looked around the room, everyone here was rugged and knew how to fight, he judged. He was certain this was the right place to start looking for the jewels of Okeawodal. Someone here must know something. It was at least a place to start, he figured by the smokey smell of the tavern, if not the people. He could make out a bitter sweet scent mixed with the tobacco, it had the same characteristics as the purple flowers he saw east of the wall.

  An older man came walking up to Faeranduil, his skin was leathery and he wore a blood stained apron that was uneven and burnt at the bottom.

  "Ye wanted to work for ye'r food an' room," the man asked, his stomach and chest shadowing the corner of the table.

  "That I do," the ranger replied.

  "Well, I don't need another kitchen wench for the night," the man laughed as Faeranduil glared at him from under the hood. "Aye, ye'r not a wench type are ye? I say ye'r not afraid of gettin' ye'r hands dirty, are ye?" He paused, Faeranduil did not respond. "What ye hidin' from lad? No need for the hood."

  Faeranduil held his hand up to guard against his hood being drawn back. "My affairs are my own; right now I am concerned on if you have work for me or not."

  The barrel-chested man looked at him for a moment, studying him. Helmeck started to chuckle nervously. "Aye, a private man," he looked at the bow and pack that lay on the table, "and a dangerous one at that." There was a pause.

  Faeranduil rested his right hand on the hilt of the knife hidden in the small of his back. "Do we have a deal, work for food and a room," he asked.

  "T'ing is, we're all booked for work t'night. Check back in 'he morn somet'ing may turn up."

  "Many thanks, old man."

  At that Helmeck burst into riotous laughter. Some of the other patrons at nearby tables turned to look at what the commotion was and, when seeing Helmeck with his hand on his chest laughing, turned back to their meals, ale, and conversation.

  "Please, call me Helmeck, s'ranger. An' what can I call ye," he asked with an outstretched arm.

  "Faer..." Faeranduil paused, not wanting to give his elvish name in a human tavern."Faeransis," he grabbed the forearm of the bar keep.

  "First one's on the house. For a deal done."

  "Much appreciated, Helmeck."

  Faeranduil watched as he walked away, something did not sit right with him. He changed during the conversation somehow, yet the ranger could not place how. It happened right after Helmeck looked at his bow. The bow! Faeranduil looked at it, rugged and worn, yet the pulleys and string were still well kept and the inscription could still be faintly made out. It was Elvish enough looking in the dim light.

  "Sloppy," he thought, "it should have been standing in the corner, unseen. I need to be more careful." He leaned the bow in the corner and put his pack next to him on the bench.

  The red head came back with a handleless clay mug filled with a frothy beverage. He accepted it with a nod and took a drink.

  Faeranduil shook his head in shock. The ale was near black and bitter. His Elven senses told him there was a hint of goat blood in it. His mouth curled with distaste, humans cannot even get ale right. Moments later a plate with potatoes, carrots, onions, and a hunk of deer was set before him. At least the food was more tolerable.

  He finished the meal, sucked down the ale, and sat for a moment, watching the people. Syndael came back to get his plate and ask if he wanted another ale. The one he had drunk turned his stomach so he refused a second. She then placed a key on the table.

  "Would ye require company t'night," she asked pulling on the strings holding her top together.

  "Not this evening, thank you," Faeranduil said courteously.

  "As ye wish, ye'rs is room two. Atop the stairs there," she pointed to his right.

  "I thank you for your hospitality."

  She looked at him questioningly, possibly trying to determine his meaning in the unknown grammar he used, before she turned to tend to the other guests. Faeranduil gathered his belongings and headed up the stairs to the rooms. There was a long plain hallway that ran the length of the building; his room was the first on the left. He unlocked it and entered. The room was scantily furnished, a feather mattress, which would be heaven to any traveler, a table with an oil lamp on it, and a single chair. There were hooks on the walls to hang clothes, and a wash basin by them, but not much else.

  He did not care as to the furnishings of a human inn; he just unloaded his things and hung them on the hooks, placing the knife he had on his back under the pillow. He made sure the door was locked and no one could see him through the window before removing his cloak. It was no wonder why the humans here looked so filthy, the water in the basin was dingy, like it was rarely cleaned, and there were no brushes. He washed quickly then laid in the bed, sleep took him quickly and he rested like he had in the castle.

  He awoke the next morning as the sun was peeking over the mountains. Faeranduil felt refreshed and sharp. There was one point in the eve past, however, in which he awoke. The lilting voice of Syndael speaking to an old mean voice that coughed often. He smelled the bitter sweet smoke creep under the door to his room, followed by the sounds of intense bedding from across the hall.

  He got dressed and stowed his weapons, Agste lazily looking over the western horizon. Before leaving his room, Faeranduil made sure his hood was up and hiding his ears and most of his face with shadow.

  He could hear two voices talking in the tavern at the bottom of the stairs as he descended. No sound was made as he walked normally. He turned the corner and saw a young boy, no more than fifteen, talkin
g to someone next to Helmeck. He approached the bar keep spying the boy and a rough, mean looking man put items into their pockets. There was something about the cloth the man put away; it almost glowed with the elf's presence. The boy stared at Faeranduil as he ate a small tomato that was in a bowl before him.

  "Is there something I can help you with," the ranger asked.

  "No, I'm just wondering what brings you here. Don't see many rangers here," the boy said.

  "I came through the North Gate, and this was the first inn I came across," Faeranduil said. He studied the skeleton of a man intently from under his hood. "I am looking for work."

  "Well, looks like you just missed a job," the kid said overly prideful. Faeranduil studied the boy for a moment.

  "Doubtful," he finally said. "You are not capable of the work I am in the business of."

  Helmeck moved towards the boy. "Careful Turpin," he whispered. "He's a Wilder, deadly and cold. He'd pro'ably kill 'is own son if the price was right."

  Faeranduil glared at Helmeck as he bit into a small tomato. Red juice shot across the bar.

  "Come back later in the night, Turpin," the mean eyed man said. "'Ere might be more work for you." The boy nodded and headed for the door. "As for you," he said to Faeranduil, "stay." The skeletal man left through a door to the back.

  "You said there might be work for me," Faeranduil said once the door was closed completely.

  "Aye, I might," Helmeck said studying the ranger. "First, where did ye get that bow?" He gestured to Faeranduil's chest where his bow hung.

  "In the mountains," Faeranduil lied.

  Helmeck studied him for a moment; the elf could only surmise the bar keep was attempting to see into the darkness beneath his hood. He then held a finger to signal the ranger to wait as he walked to the door to the backroom. A moment later he came back and offered food.