The Precious Quest Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Precious Quest: An Epic Fantasy of Love, Identity and Power

  Chapter 1: The Decline of Doubt

  Chapter 2: The District Hæsel Bush

  Chapter 3: The Tongue Holds the Key

  Chapter 4: Skulls and Scales and Hoarge Mount Tales

  Chapter 5: Planning the Attack

  Chapter 6: Poison on the Thorns

  Chapter 7: Pledges Broken, Pledges Gained

  Chapter 8: The Goddess Speaks

  Chapter 9: A New Dawn Surrenders

  Chapter 10: My Rule for a Man

  Chapter 11: Death on the Plains

  Chapter 12: The Water Weirn Sacrifice

  Chapter 13: The Goddess Reveals Herself

  Chapter 14: Blessing by the River

  Chapter 1: The Brownie Bones Foretold

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  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 Cheryl R Cowtan

  Cover design by Cheryl R Cowtan

  using Canva.com

  All rights reserved. If you wish to use brief quotations for media coverage, reviews or literary analysis, please use proper citation format and include my personal web site link at cherylcowtan.com. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thanks for understanding and supporting authors by complying with copyright laws.

  Written in Canada.

  eBook ISBN 9780978088965

  Print ISBN 9780978088958

  Please visit the author at

  http://www.cherylcowtan.com

  Oath

  Upon the goddess-light, I swear all characters within this text are as ethereal as the mist upon the hill-sands. They exist only as figments of my imagination and do not represent any person, real, alive or dead.

  Names of locations and my efforts to create an imaginary world are used in a fictitious manner, and are not meant to represent the company, actual setting, or current physical business practices of any property or person.

  Chapter 1: The Decline of Doubt

  The giant opened his blood-stained hand and released the oversized axe. It fell slowly, twisting from the giant’s height to swoop like a sickle before striking a rock. The strike of the weapon clanged like a too-late warning in the after-battle silence, catching my attention in time to witness my mighty warrior dropping forward onto his knees.

  No sooner had his impact forced clouds of red dust to billow around his massive thighs, then I had nocked an arrow and panned the deadly point across the forest at his back. Yellow leaves flickered deceptively in the wood, but I held steady, staring at the black trunks of the trees until my eyes watered. No opponent stepped out to challenge our victory.

  The giant, Nethaz, lowered his head, his long black hair sliding like silk from his pale neck. Between the colossal warrior and the tip of my arrow, the bodies of our enemies lay twisted on the battlefield. They were no longer a threat.

  I released the tension in the bowstring and in my shoulders.

  “What ails you?” I called out to my axe wielder.

  He dropped forward onto one hand, the other clenching his stomach. “Waste...” The rumbled word rose from this throat like a gag, and his powerful torso strained against his leather chest straps.

  A deep throb kicked up in my temple counting out the seconds.

  His heaves subsided, and he sat back on his haunches and raised his face to the sky.

  “Death!” he roared, “Can you not see the death?”

  I unclenched my jaw.

  “See it?” I raised my bow and shouted with pride. “I brought it!”

  A long, keening moan escaped his twisted mouth. The giant’s regret rippled through my veins with insult. I wanted to strike him about the head until he bled from the ears.

  “We are victorious!” I marched across the bodies of our slain enemies, shouting as I went. “We, the Horde, who live and fight in the service of the goddess, brought death to those who would defy her.”

  I was close enough to Nethaz to see his shoulders shuddering as he grieved like an old man at the end of a wasted life. Disbelief chilled me to a stop. To mourn our service was dishonour. But worse, the giant’s tears were a scourge, a plague that could only bring unrest to the warriors of the Horde and challenge to me as their ruler. I resisted the urge to cast my eyes Hallward for fear the goddess would meet my gaze and witness my shame.

  An overwhelming need to strangle Nethaz’s next moan before it left his lips struck me into action. Turning my bow his way, I aimed the sharp-edged arrowhead at his white-skinned chest.

  “Laywren.” A calm voice from behind tugged at my death-stare.

  Dorn, my advisor, stepped into my side-vision and looked from me to Nethaz and back to my bow. “What would you do?”

  I kept my eyes on the giant. “Step back, Warden, and allow me to sweeten the air with silence.”

  A quiver started deep within my elbow as the bowstring begged for release. My face burned with disgrace as I allowed another sob to escape the giant’s lips and take to the air.

  “Would you slaughter one who has just fought for your glory?” I could feel Dorn’s eyes searching for mine.

  “There is no glory in weakness.”

  I started to unbend the calloused creases of my fingers and slowly released my breath as the giant drew his last.

  Dorn stepped between me and Nethaz, his strong chest boldly framing the arrowhead.

  I tried to re-hook the tension, but it was too late. The bowstring zinged the tips of my bending fingers. I jerked the bow in the hope of changing the arrow’s path.

  A cry of frustration tore from my mouth as the feathers ripped the skin between my fingers. Dorn twisted his upper body to the left, too slow to avoid the deadly dart. Yet, the arrow missed its mark and blurred into the forest ahead.

  “Fool!”

  I strode forward and struck his chest with my bow. He stumbled one step back, then raised his hand to the spot as if sorely wounded. My heart pounded against his reckless insolence and how close I had come to losing him. Dorn gave me a light bow, then turned and walked to the warrior.

  This time I did cast my eyes Hallward, for I know a flying arrow is true to its path once released...unless a divine hand changes its course.

  Flipping his red cape back over his shoulder, Dorn bent to gaze into Nethaz’s contorted face. A shuddering sob burst from the giant’s trembling mouth to blow Dorn’s light brown locks away from his brow. Placing his hand on Nethaz’s wide shoulder, Dorn spoke soft words, a soothing spell. But the giant did not respond.

  As I drew closer to them, I looked to the spattering of dusty, red soil sprinkled on the giant’s white thighs like spice. It coated the toes of Dorn’s boots and reminded me of the goddess’ impending disfavour. We were standing on ground that would not grow food, nor hold water. We did not need any more misfortune.

  As was Dorn’s way, he stood and stared across the battlefield, giving his decision much thought. He held more knowledge than any living person in the Horde. He was the Chronicle Warden, the storyteller, the keeper of our legends and our past. His word was revered, and I always sought advice from Dorn before I made my decisions. He was not a man to be dismissed, easily, as much as I wanted to rail at him for daring to interfere. My patience in waiting for his conclusion was almost spent when he finally turned his eyes my way. As was right, he waited for me to invite his opinion.

  “Come closer, so I might judge your loyalty.”

  A smile played at the corners of his lips, his too-bold way of acknowledging my half-hearted disapproval.

  I place my hand on my dagger and was rewarded b
y a slight hesitation as he approached. When he was standing in front of me, when I could see the flecks of black in the amber of his eyes, I nodded.

  “Nethaz’s heart bleeds for the slain.”

  “We do not bleed for the dead.” I struck the clotted wound at my side. “We bleed for the living.”

  Dorn’s eyes were earnest, his face grave. “Without him, we may not have turned the charge of District warriors.”

  I was aware of the giant’s might. Nethaz had fought like a god, swinging his axe into the mass of enemies without fear of mortal wound. He had served the goddess well. But a warrior who breaks inside is useless in battle and cannot be trusted.

  Dorn continued with a reassuring smile, “He will fight for you again.”

  My instinct was strong, and the training under my warlord father was rigid. A broken warrior should be dealt with like a lame horse. I knew this. But what was clear in the past, was no longer clear in the present, and my father was now part of my past. Dorn was here, living in this changed world with me, his glance searching my face for a sign I would relent.

  “The arrow tracked left when it missed me, not right.” Dorn broke into Chronicle rhythm as if he were retelling the tale back at camp. “It was a divine hand that pushed it from the giant’s might.”

  I considered the idea that the arrow had missed the giant and not him. It was possible, though painful for me to admit how close I had come to displeasing the goddess if this were so. There was no way to be sure, and one must err on the side of the goddess’ favour. Nethaz living another day would not incur her wrath as much as killing him, if she still wished the giant to serve.

  I slid my bow back into the sheath on my back. The stretch cracked open the wound in my side with a sharp prick and blood tickled down onto my dusty thigh. We had begun the battle at dawn, and I was weary. Perhaps that is the true reason why I let Nethaz live, or perhaps I no longer could stomach guessing at the goddess’ will.

  Dorn continued his appeal, as if I were not yet convinced. “The giant’s time with us has been short, but his loyalty is strong, Laywren.”

  I turned my back on him and began the long walk back to camp.

  His strong legs brought him easily to my side, where he matched my stride. “I cannot explain his behaviour, but I perceive no threat to the Horde.”

  “You serve the past, Dorn, not the future.”

  “The past and the future are the same.”

  “Tell that to them,” I waved at the field spread with dead and wounded warriors from Horde and District.

  “Laywren,” Dorn stopped walking and clasped my elbow.

  I turned and glanced at the bronze circlets gripping his forearm. He dropped his hand from my arm, but the pained expression in his eyes held me still for his query.

  “You do not question the cycle?”

  In another place and time, to question the cycle would have meant death. Within the Horde, I was the law. I was the bringer of death, yet I could not answer. I could not give voice to my doubt. I knew the words would begin the final unraveling of our order, our codes, and our lives, just as Nethaz’s tears would.

  I WAS SAVED FROM HAVING to speak by a baying that split the thick air. Our wound-hounds broke from the far forest, racing toward the battlefield. Strong-shouldered beasts of grey fur with lolling tongues ran among the bodies, sniffing and seeking, needing to begin the curing. One sat, raised its muzzle to the sky and howled the death song for a master who could not be healed; then another. The mournful cries took my mind back to other battles, other wounds. So many times, I had been saved from injury, waste or disease by my hound’s healing.

  The pattering of his wide paws announced my wound-hound’s arrival. With a whine, Hinfūs scented my spilled blood and leaned into my side. The oily smell of his fur mixed with the spicy scent of smoke that hung in the air. I squatted, draping my arm over my hound’s neck, and squinted through the swirling haze hanging over the field closer to the District. Beneath the haze were the bodies. Members of the Horde moved with their heads down, collecting weapons from the dead. One warrior raised her arms and drove down a sword—a mercy stroke.

  Beyond the hounds and the bodies, the barricade of sun-bleached, twisted wood that protected the District dwellings rose up against the red-tinged sky. The branches of our enemies’ living barrier were armed with thorns the length of my finger. It had turned out to be an impassable mass of twisted, wooden growth that our helve axes could not breach, that our fires could not burn. But we had set fire behind the wall and that had driven their warriors out to greet us.

  They had swarmed, ready as bees from a battered hive; a mass of buzzing anger that forced us back into the field. The people were honey-coloured and wore armour emblazoned with a wild boar. We did not know their kind, did not know their deity or their ways, but we knew they had food and water. That had made them our target. Made them our mark still, for we had not been able to breach the wall. I was sure it was spelled with magicks, for the warriors who had come out through the thorny wood had not left an opening for us to move through.

  Opening or no, we had to get in, for behind the twisted wall of branches would be something the goddess had denied the Horde. Young. Without born young, we could not replace those who had died today, or yesterday, or the thousands of days before that had not seen a child born to our people. To any people.

  A familiar numbness threatened to clamp my limbs in iron. I knew Dorn would sense my despair and seek to sooth me. And so, I shook the memories away and thought instead of the waiting children and the tinkling of their laughter. The echo filled my chest with warmth. Hinfūs’ trusting glance took in my slight smile and set his bushy tail to thumping against the ground. I stood to avoid inhaling the rising dust.

  A flash caught my eye by the District wall. The last rays of day winked as it reflected off a warrior’s armour. From this distance, he seemed a man surrounded by a mystical glow, but I knew him as Rserker, my general. No other man would be so vain as to wear a golden chest-plate.

  I put two dirt-caked fingers into my mouth and whistled loudly. Rserker turned his head, and I raised my hand. Dorn waited quietly by my side as Rserker moved on powerful legs toward us. The soil barely stirred as he crossed it, for it was heavy with blood closer to the District. But as he neared, the red cloud that dogged all our movements rose to his knees.

  I reached out my right hand and clasped the cool metal of armour below his elbow.

  “Brother,” I hailed him, pleased that he lived.

  His strong hand wrapped my leather arm guard. “Sister,” his deep voice returned my greeting as he pulled my arm against his chest.

  “The Griffain will tire this night.” Dorn praised the outcome of the battle.

  Rserker released me and clapped his hand onto Dorn’s shoulder. “May the souls’ journey to the Hall be swift,” he boomed.

  “May their journey back be swifter,” Dorn replied with a smile.

  Although we nodded, the ancient saying did not ring true in my mind. I kept the doubt that was my dishonour from my face.

  “What did you hear behind the wall?” I asked Rserker.

  “Silence,” he said, his blue eyes shining with his strength of will. “But they are there. We will find our way through.”

  “And the age of the youngest warriors?”

  “Young enough to cut their chins when they shave.” He smiled at me, his teeth big and white against his sun-bronzed skin.

  Swallowing against my parched throat, I nodded. These people had younger members than the Horde. Perhaps they could still bear young. It was enough for hope.

  I licked my lips, tasting the soot at the corners of my mouth. “Continue with your search,” I said to Rserker. “Seek beneath the armour of the younger women. Look for signs that any have carried a child.”

  Dorn sought to ease the desperation in my voice. “Look alive while you search lest the Griffain mistake you for the dead,” he said to Rserker

  “And carry me t
o the Hall?” Rserker scoffed and slapped his chest plate. “This beating heart is too heavy for their talons.”

  A thought struck me, a thought that drove my heart into my throat and made me speak without thought. “If a live warrior could seek the Hall, we could learn why the door to return has been barred against us.”

  Dorn and Rserker stilled and it seemed as if the very smoke itself hung suspended in the air, at a loss without a wind. I had spoken rashly, but now the words were released, I was free to face my doubt. I held my head high. Rserker bowed and backed away two steps before turning to walk toward those awaiting his command.

  I dropped my eyes from his retreating form and spied a female warrior in the dirt. She wore leather breast armour as I did. I pushed her arm with my sandal. It resisted. The District warrior’s body had begun to stiffen into the shape of the battle-fallen—the message to the Griffain that she belonged in the Hall of Return. I knelt and slit the ties on her body armour, moving it off to the side. Running my hand across her smooth stomach, I was disappointed to find no breaks in the fat beneath her skin, no lines from the stretch of child bearing. Her stomach was firm like mine. I sat back on my heels, rubbed my hand across my face and sighed.

  “She is only one,” Dorn said.

  And there’s the wound, I thought, as a pain started deep in my chest—the ache of the barren. The muscles in my arms and neck began to tighten as if my body would stiffen into the shape of a slain warrior as well. Perhaps, I was fallen. Perhaps the battle had been lost long before I had lifted my sword. I could not draw my gaze from the warrior’s tight stomach, even as I felt my hound licking the wound in my side.

  Dorn knelt beside me. “The Griffain come,” he whispered.

  His soft voice drew my mind from its pause. I looked up, noting the light had changed. It was near dark. Through the shadowy air, the trees surrounding the battlefield blurred into a grey smudge of soft-edged mounds. I held my gaze until I saw it. Movement in the trees—slight flickers of darkness among the north stand of forest. Griffains! Beasts of burden for the goddess. Their gripping talons and strong wings earned them the privilege of flying the dead to the Hall.