Foundations (The Silver Blade Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  FOUNDATIONS

  BOOK 1

  SILVER BLADE TRILOGY

  This is a fictional novel, all characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of James M. Cherry.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2012 by James M. Cherry

  Forward

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  World of Erias

  Forward

  It is not known when the first settlers first appeared within the world of Erias, but scholars generally agree that the four major races, (the elves, dwarves, humans, and orcs) appeared at roughly the same time, some ten thousand years before Arkhet of the Silver Blade Clan was born.

  Legend tells of beings of great power called the Malivants, who were revered by some as Gods, and despised by others as Demons. The Malivants used their power to open up gateways into many different worlds, from where they snatched away thousands of unwilling individuals, and deposited them upon Erias.

  It is not known why the Malivants did such a thing, nor would it likely ever be known, but the deed was done, and the four major races found themselves in a quandary: Should they go their separate ways or should they work together to rebuild society?

  The four major races, removed from their home worlds, decided to form a peace with one another in order to build new lives, and build a new civilization. And for a thousand years, they were successful, living side-by-side in peace and harmony, that is, until the Great Catastrophe of Shephour.

  The grand city of Shephour was built and inhabited with the cooperative effort of the four races, and it was from this city in which civilization took root and spread across the land.

  And it was also from this city that conflict between the races first began.

  Much of the details of the Great Catastrophe of Shephour were lost throughout time, but what is generally agreed upon by the human, elf, and dwarf scholars was that the orcs were to blame.

  With a shorter gestation time, almost half that of the other races, the orcs multiplied and began to dominate by sheer numbers. And from this supremacy of numbers came the hatred, bigotry, and envy from the other races.

  Soon one war broke out, then another. Knowing the swelling orc population was to blame, the orc sorcerers sought to return the orc people to their home world. Tapping deep into the ethereal weave, they soon discovered how to create a portal. And with the best of intentions, the portal was opened, and thousands of orcs began to migrate back through.

  But the orc home world on the other side was not the grand civilization they thought it would be, as the first immigrants soon found out. The chaotic and war-like orcs of their home world streamed through the portal by the thousands, and captured and destroyed Shephour. This catastrophe caused the other races to flee in panic to the far reaches of Erias.

  But the human arch-mages and the elven wardens fought back, and in a daring mission, they closed the portal in order to stop the growing tide of the orc menace.

  By the time the portal was finally closed, hate and resentment had become deeply engrained within the cultures of the human, elf, and dwarf people. They established new kingdoms, and from there they waged a relentless war upon the orcs.

  Over the next two thousand years, all of the orc cities were destroyed, their numbers reduced by constant warfare, and their kingdoms lost to the powerful alliance of the humans, elves and dwarves.

  The orcs fled into the deepest recesses of the mountains, where they struggled to survive. Much knowledge was lost to the orc refugees, such as general education, magic, blacksmithing, and farming. Due to continued warfare, the orcs were reduced to a rabble of nomadic hunter gatherers, and they continued their pitiful lives within the most inhospitable of places. And the memories of their once grand achievements were lost with time.

  Chapter 1

  As Arkhet emerged from unconsciousness, he felt a throbbing pain in his temple and he groaned in agony. He opened his eyes and blinked for several moments as he attempted to clear his blurred vision. The smell of death in the air jolted his memory, and he suddenly recalled that he had been in a battle.

  He winced in pain as he sluggishly pulled himself into a sitting position, and his body ached in a multitude of places. He turned his head to gaze upon the aftermath of the battle and he felt a sudden sense of despair.

  As the morning sun cast a golden pallor upon the devastation of the battlefield, he could see a dozen bodies strewn about the rocky knoll, hacked, mutilated, and barely recognizable as once proud orc warriors. And the stench of death permeated the air, drawing droves of carrion birds, which noisily shrieked in excitement as they circled high in the sky. The blood was so thick that small rivulets of red had formed, which slowly drained downward, pooling into small puddles of crimson at the bottom of the hill.

  Very seldom had his people won battles against the elves, and this battle had turned out no differently. While the orcs frequent raids upon defenseless farming communities usually resulted in triumph, battles against trained soldiers always resulted in defeat.

  Arkhet shook his head in sadness as he scanned the battlefield for enemy corpses, but none were to be found. Elven warriors were very skilled in battle, and it was rare that one ever fell to an orc blade. And the lack of elf bodies upon the current battlefield attested to that fact.

  He gingerly rubbed the painful knot on his forehead, and winced at the pain. A glancing blow from a mace, early in the battle, had knocked him out cold. And from the looks of the rising sun, he had lain unconscious for several hours, and the battle had long since ended.

  Pulling himself up slowly from his sitting position, he stood still for a long moment as he awaited his head to stop spinning. Once he regained his bearing, he looked down at the ground as he searched for his rusted and pitted sword. Spying his pitiful weapon, he bent down, picked it up, and slid it back into his makeshift scabbard. Straightening slowly, so as to not get woozy again, he began moving forward, gaining strength and confidence with every step.

  Arkhet quickly searched the surrounding corpses and he rounded up a few tattered capes and robes. He then tied them together into one large blanket.

  He looted the bodies in entirety by taking the tattered remains of chain mail, bits of leather, and scraps of clothing that served as orc battle armor, and he placed them into his makeshift blanket. Once that task was complete, he picked up the rusted and chipped weapons of various shapes and sizes, placing them into the blanket as well. He then pulled the ends of the blanket into a large sack, and tied the top.

  He grinned as he knew that with his large sack of loot, he would be wealthy indeed!

  As orcs had never learned how to make steel armor and weapons, what steel they did possess was looted from raids on human, elf, and dwarf settlements. And the orcs only had a rudimentary knowledge on how to create their own clothing as well, their knowledge limited to primitive leatherworking and crude weavings. They had to rely upon looting the finer and more delicate cloth from the fair races.

  And Arkhet spotted some of that fine cloth some distance away, fluttering in the wind, as if it were beckoning to him. So he hiked over and examined the final mutilated corpse, which was of the of the war-leader Makog.

  Makog was positioned face down, his head nearly severed from his body, and one arm had been hacked completely off. A fine black cloak was tied around his neck, and one corner lifted in the gentle breeze. It was calling to him, urging him to pick it up.

  This battle had been Makog's first and last as a war-leader of the Hammer Clan. The life expectancy of an orc war-leader was slim to none, and many orcs had worn that mantle in Arkhet’s lifetime.

  And now it was Arkhet’s turn. He wanted to savor the moment as he acquired the greatest symbol of his people.

  The black leadership cloak.

  As he knelt to touch the black cloak, he recalled the legend of how the cloak had come to his people. It was said that a war-leader, from a time before Arkhet's grandfather’s grandfather, had used a stone war hammer to kill the elf prince who wore the cloak.

  The elf prince had been out on a hunt with two other elf warriors and had strayed far from their city. And the cunning orc war-leader had ambushed the three elves with twenty of his best orc warriors.

  The elves put up a ferocious battle, but the orc numbers were too overwhelming, and both of the elf bodyguards quickly fell to the orc blades. The prince had also been grievously wounded in the ambush, and unable to fight to his fullest potential because of his injury, he eventually succumbed to the mighty blows of the war-leader's war hammer.

  The war-leader then looted the cloak from the
elf prince’s corpse, proclaiming it as his own. After the legendary battle, the clan adopted the symbol of their greatest warrior, which was his stone hammer, and wore it with pride.

  The true magic of the cloak was unknown to the Hammer Clan, and all that was known was that the cloak never seemed to rip, tear, or fade like other more mundane materials.

  In a sweeping motion, Arkhet removed the cloak from the corpse and placed it upon his back. He swelled with pride in his newfound title of war-leader, as whoever gained the mantle, by whatever means, was able to lead the clan's warriors into battle. The only problem was that his clan had very few warriors left to lead, as most had been killed by elf, human, and dwarf soldiers.

  And he knew that because of attrition, caused by frequent battles, his clan would soon be forced to move again. There just weren’t enough warriors left in his village to properly defend it from the human, dwarf, and elf soldiers, who ever so mercilessly drove the clan farther into the mountains. Steadily pushing them into inhospitable and unforgiving lands, away from food, water, and much needed wood.

  Arkhet spat upon the gruesome face of his former war-leader, then grabbed the stiff, cold shoulder of the corpse and pulled. He was searching for more loot, and knew that Makog owned a nice chert dagger that he kept thrust into the front of his pants.

  As he rolled the rigid body over, he spied a beautiful silvery object, which had been hidden underneath. His eyes grew wide in astonishment as he looked upon an elvish sword of exquisite make and craftsmanship. Somehow an elf had dropped the blade in the heat of battle, and Makog had fallen on top of it in death, hiding the sword from searching elven eyes.

  He could not believe his good fortune. Picking up the sword carefully, he hefted the blade and judged the weight. The elf blade was light, feeling as if it weighed little more than a feather, to the muscular orc.

  He slashed the long sword in the air in a practice swing and the blade suddenly hummed, causing the orc to drop the blade in alarm. Eying at the sword for a few minutes, he finally mustered the courage to pick it up again.

  He stared in awe, as the gleaming sword was stunning, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Etched elvish runes adorned the length of the blade, and the hilt and cross guard were embellished with tiny hand-carved golden leaves. The pommel was shaped like a claw and enclosed within was a large shiny red stone.

  Arkhet knew that he had just found one of the magic swords that the elves had long used against his people. And with that sword, he would be the envy of his clan!

  With the search for the war-leaders prized chert blade forgotten, he rushed back to his loot bag and opened it. After he dropped his old rusty sword inside, he tied it securely shut and held aloft his prized new elf blade.

  He stared in admiration for a long moment before finally sheathing the sword into the tattered scabbard upon his hip. Turning back to his loot bag, he grabbed the topknot and began dragging the bag back to his village.

  The long and arduous trek to his village took several hours, but Arkhet managed to make it back without incident. His chest swelled in pride as he confidently entered the village, and he quickly made for the center of the settlement, still tirelessly dragging the bag of loot behind him.

  The village shaman, Grekog, stepped out in front of Arkhet and held up a hand to stop him. Glancing at the large loot bag, the shaman then turned to eye Arkhet with suspicion. His voice dripping with contempt, he asked, “Warrior, where is the war-leader and the war party?”

  Arkhet answered in an insolent tone, “I wear the black leadership cloak. I am war-leader now.”

  The shaman growled, “You didn’t answer my question, where is war-leader Makog and the rest of the war party?”

  “Elves attacked us and killed everyone but me,” Arkhet shot back.

  A crowd of curious onlookers began to gather around to hear the exchange. Arkhet leered at his audience as he knew they would soon fear and respect him.

  Grekog asked accusingly, “So how did you escape? Did you run like a cowardly human again?”

  Arkhet suddenly fumed with rage. He had survived countless battles while others had died, and because of this, some in the clan accused Arkhet of being a coward. They accused him of fleeing from battles instead of dying like a true orc warrior.

  He spat and said, “I fought bravely and killed many elf warriors. I was hit in the head by the elf chief.” Pointing to the purple swelling on the front of his head he continued his lie, “I killed the elf chief and stole his weapon. Look!”

  Sliding the silvery blade from the ill-fitting sheath, he held it in the air and it began to hum as if in anger.

  The gathering crowd stepped back in shock and awe. The shaman retreated in terror, shielding his eyes with his arm as if fearful of the mere sight of the weapon.

  His confidence boosted with the reaction of his people, Arkhet thumped his chest with his free hand in boastful pride. A bold, but dangerous idea suddenly popped into his head and he trumpeted, “I am the new war-leader and I will soon be the new clan chief as well!”

  As if in answer, Morag stepped into the circle.

  Morag was the chief of the hammer clan and known as the bravest and most skilled warrior of them all. Rumor had it that he had felled over a dozen humans and elves in battle, and that he had earned the title of clan chief after killing the former chief in a challenge to the death.

  And typical of orc custom, the warrior with the greatest physical strength ruled the clan. At any time, the chief could be challenged in a duel to the death, and the victor emerging as the new chief.

  A nasty scar ran from the top of Morag's skull, across his left eye, to the top of his neck. His left eye had not been damaged by the vicious slash, as the heavy protruding brow, which graced the faces of all orcs, had saved the eye from destruction. Another scar was evident on the right side of his face, and that scar started at his right cheek and ended at his ear.

  Morag was tall and muscular, even for an orc. His skin was the typical yellowish color that was prevalent among all orcs, but not so typical were his two long tusks, which jutted from the bottom of his mouth. They were much longer than that of a typical orc, and the ends were carved into an unknown, but wicked, effigy.

  Morag turned to the crowd and shouted loudly, “This weakling has challenged me. I will kill him and take his elf toy from his cold hands!” Drawing his heavy two handed sword as he turned, the orc chieftain growled, “Die you coward!”

  Arkhet raised his elf sword in defense as the mighty claymore descended upon him. The weapons clashed in a shower of sparks, jarring Arkhet's hand, and sending him flying backwards into the crowd.

  The crowd jeered and pushed Arkhet back into the makeshift arena. Chants of “Morag!” and “Kill the coward!” rang out from among the spectators.

  Arkhet paused as his brain began to process old memories, memories that he never knew he had. The orcs did not use any fighting techniques, as they relied upon brute force alone. Skill with a weapon was measured as to how hard one could swing.

  But in his mind he could see elves fighting in an intricate dance, their deadly blades weaving back and forth in a mesmerizing series of dexterous moves. The realization that brute force was not the answer set his mind at ease. He knew that he was no match for Morag's strength, so he pulled upon the deep seated foreign memories within his mind, and began the elven blade dance.

  Stepping aside as Morag charged in like a bull, Arkhet spun around to his right and reached out with a quick backhand slash. His sword connected with flesh and a large wound opened up on the larger orcs left arm. Blood spattered Arkhet in the face and spurted into the crowd.

  He had hit an artery!

  Arkhet wasted no time. Dancing around the larger orc, as he had seen the elves do, he repeatedly poked his magical sword into the flesh of the orc chief.

  Morag chopped in rage and Arkhet lithely jumped out of the way of the slow moving claymore. The chief seethed with furor and yelled, “See the coward! He does not fight like an orc! He runs from my blows instead of standing still like a true warrior! He . . .”