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  Cursed Knight

  Elmon Dean Todd

  J. Murry Blanchard

  Cursed Knight

  Godshard Chronicles: Volume One

  Copyright © 2019 Elmon Dean Todd

  Originally published by J-Cat Games and Collectibles, 2019

  www.godshard.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  ISBN: 9781091847385

  Book and Map Design: Matt Todd (@m_todd58)

  Cover Art and Illustrations: Chris Koh (@Zamberz)

  Editing: Anne Hamilton

  Published by

  J-Cat Games and Collectibles, LLC

  www.godshard.com

  J-CAT GAMES Trade Paperback Edition May 2019

  Printed in the USA

  Table of Contents

  Part one / chapter One

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Part Two / Chapter four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter six

  Part Three / Chapter seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter nine

  Part four / chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Godshard Chronicles

  About the Authors

  Part One

  Journey Across the Sea

  Chapter One

  Logres

  When the gods warred amongst themselves, they supposedly destroyed everything except the land of Logres. Beyond Logres lies the sea. Beyond that, more sea. There is nothing beyond the sea except death, for those who ventured out beyond have never returned.

  Lothar, Chieftain of the Lothar Clan

  A

  heavy fog crept into the village.

  The Einar elders claimed that the fog came from the god, Rudras, who sent it to collect the souls of the dead for the netherworld. On this particular day, the god seemed eager for a new soul. It was spring, but the chill air felt like winter.

  Kairos stood in the middle of the village centre, facing his enemy, who was the same age, but stood a head taller with broader shoulders. Kairos gripped his wooden sword with his left hand, and round wooden shield in his right. He was dressed in padded leather, ready for a fight. His enemy before him wore the same, waving his wooden sword in a taunting manner and leering.

  It wasn’t a duel to the death, but everything in Kairos’s short fifteen years of life teetered on the outcome of this fight. He had to win.

  The village centre was a field of mud large enough for spectators of the entire Azel clan. Even a few members of the other Einar clans came to watch. The crowd stretched back to the houses, which were made of wooden beams, insulated with mud and wattle, and roofed with clay tiles. The mud they stood in was ankle deep, rutted by carts and fouled by the wretched livestock that roamed free. The fog made everything sticky and damp. Nobody cared, because if there was one thing the Einar race loved, it was a fight.

  Kairos had two family members in the crowd. Karthok, his father, stood behind him. Known to the all the Einar as ‘Karthok the Cruel’, his father had some grey hairs on his beard, but despite his age he towered over many of the other villagers with his broad frame and seven-foot height. Kairos did not need to turn around to see the glower on his father’s furious face. His father frightened him. Frightened him much more than the enemy standing before him, because Kairos knew the consequences of losing. His father did not tolerate weakness.

  Next to Karthok the Cruel was Thylar, Kairos’s older brother. He was nineteen years old, yet like their father he towered over most of the clan. Kairos was not frightened of him. Unlike Karthok, Thylar often trained Kairos, always offering a warm smile and words of encouragement. Kairos loved his brother more than anyone.

  In the bleak land of Logres where only the strong survived and the weak perished, Thylar was the shining light of hope in Kairos’s world. Their mother had passed when they were young, leaving their father to raise them hard because a man must be hard. The land of Logres was full of violence and death, and one needed to be prepared to rise above it all. Karthok rose above it all, because he was chieftain of the Azel clan, and he expected glory and triumph from his sons.

  Unfortunately, Kairos did not meet those expectations.

  Now, he waited, poised with his wooden weapon before him. He tried his best to appear strong, but only quivered in nervousness. No one was impressed.

  ‘Kairos the Coward,’ his enemy taunted. ‘Why don’t you come at me already?’

  Kairos said nothing.

  ‘Or is it because you’re about to piss your breeches?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Kairos answered.

  The truth was that Kairos was scared. He was so scared that his hand holding the wood sword shook uncontrollably. His enemy took notice and laughed. Kairos knew that he was toying with him. His enemy would win like he always had, and the result would anger his father beyond measure.

  ‘Why don’t you fall to your knees and grovel?’ the enemy said, ‘And I’ll let you off with a minor thrashing.’

  ‘Piss off,’ Kairos said, knowing that was something his father would say.

  And that was when the battle started.

  His enemy charged, slashing his weapon towards Kairos’s head. Kairos raised his shield, and the blow almost knocked him off his feet, sending him staggering back a few steps. Laughter rippled across the crowd, and Kairos’s face flushed with shame. Even the crowd knew that the fight was one-sided.

  The enemy in front of him was his cousin. He was Keng, son of Uncle Vinh, and Kairos had to defeat him in order to sail with the Einar fleet. It was a voyage for the salvation of the entire Einar race. Kairos wanted to seek glory like everyone else in the clan, but there was only one spot left on Karthok’s longship, and Uncle Vinh recommended Keng. Kairos’s father wanted both of his sons to go. There was only one resolution. ‘Let them duel to decide,’ Karthok had said, frowning.

  His father had a reason to frown for Kairos never won duels. He was considered the weakest boy his age in the village. Even now, Kairos could see the villagers placing bets against him. They knew he would lose. He always lost. His cousin noticed the stakes in his favour and laughed. The only two cheering for Kairos were Thylar and an older man aptly called Mad Mavos, who was considered to be quite daft.

  Kairos could not back down. He had to go on the voyage across the sea with his brother and father. If he stayed behind, he would have to live with Uncle Vinh, who hated him beyond reason. His uncle was taller than even the massive Karthok, soaring at the height of seven and a half feet, but he was much more slender with a sly and sinister face, and protruding front teeth like a grinning rat. Even now, Kairos could see his uncle’s rat-like grin, cheerfully anticipating his downfall, and he shuddered at the prospect of what his uncle would do to him once his father and brother were no longer around.

  Feeling hopeless, Kairos sought an opening in his enemy’s stance. He found none. He knew that his attacks would be cast aside. They always were. His opponent had him bested in strength, speed, and skill. The only thing Kairos had left was luck. He squared his shoulders as his enemy readied to attack. Well, if the odds were against him, he could give his enemy less time to think. Less time to attack.

  Forcing his shaking hand to stop, Kairos walked purposely towards his cousin. A murmur of surprise spread through the gathered cr
owd. For a moment, his cousin looked surprised, too, but he quickly composed himself and began laughing.

  ‘Is that nervous laughter? Perhaps you are the one who is afraid of losing?’ Kairos said, trying to display a bravado he did not feel.

  ‘Have you gone mad, cousin?’ Keng shouted, looking around the crowd to soak in their reactions. Several chortles broke out. Keng laughed again.

  That was what Kairos had wanted. Seizing the moment of his adversary’s distraction, Kairos leapt forward at Keng, whose laughter soon turned to a gasp of surprise as he barely had enough time to raise his shield. Kairos anticipated the move and dropped down, striking a blow to Keng’s shin near the knee. Had it been a blade made of iron, Keng would have never walked again. But the blade was wood and Keng howled in pain and fell back limping. Kairos noted that he favoured his other leg.

  Hope surged through him. Maybe he had a chance! Behind Keng, Kairos saw his father nod his head in approval.

  ‘Kairos, you sheep-swiving coward!’ Keng screamed. ‘You dare strike at me when I’m not looking?’

  ‘You were open,’ Kairos answered in an even voice.

  The crowd laughed, but this time not at him. Kairos trembled at the feeling. He had hurt his opponent. Not much, but it was enough to show that Keng was not invulnerable. Throughout his life Kairos had been smaller than the average Einar, much to his father’s dismay. No one wanted a runt for a child, and Kairos was a runt. All of the other youth were bigger and could beat him in a fight. This affected his reputation as a warrior among the Einar clans. Most called him ‘Kairos the Coward’ or ‘Kairos the Craven’ when Karthok and Thylar were not around.

  So the fact that Kairos scored a hit against Keng, a renowned fighter in his own right, was delightfully entertaining to everyone present.

  ‘A lucky strike, cousin,’ Keng growled. ‘But you’ll pay for that with your blood.’

  ‘Come take what blood you can,’ Kairos said, edging backwards in the muck.

  As Kairos tried to keep his distance, Keng hobbled towards him. When his cousin drew close, he lunged forward, flailing with his wooden blade. Kairos took a step back, avoiding the swing.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Kairos asked, flashing his teeth. ‘You’re not so fast now.’

  Keng said nothing and continued advancing, his mouth set in grim determination. Kairos backed away from the blows and kept his distance. He knew that as long as he kept his distance, he could hope to tire out his opponent and end the fight.

  The break came soon enough.

  His cousin stumbled forward in the mud. Kairos saw the opportunity and rushed forward to attack. Just as his wooden blade was coming down onto his cousin’s head, Kairos saw the wicked smile and realised his mistake. His cousin was feigning his limp. Kairos’s blade missed as his cousin twisted away, countering with his own wooden blade. The blow struck Kairos in the ribs, sending him reeling. Kairos tried to regain his balance, but sprawled forward into the mud, crashing atop of his shield. Keng leapt onto Kairos instantly, pinning down Kairos’s sword hand with one arm and raining blows onto his face with the other. He had abandoned his wooden sword in favour of beating Kairos to a bloody pulp with his fists.

  ‘Make a fool of me, you bastard!’ Keng screamed. ‘I will kill you, Kairos.’

  Kairos could do nothing but writhe and twist in the muck. He tried to break free, but his cousin was too strong. Each blow ignited blinding, painful flashes in his vision.

  ‘That’s enough!’ a voice boomed. Kairos vaguely recognised it as his father’s.

  The blows ceased. The fight was over. His father shoved Keng aside and jerked Kairos to his feet. Disoriented and dizzy, Kairos wiped his face and looked at his hand. It was covered in blood and grime. His head throbbed, but he knew this was nothing compared to what was in store for him later. One look at his father’s thunderous face promised a severe beating.

  Kairos sighed in disappointment and summoned all of his willpower to fight away the tears that were beginning to well up. He was already in enough trouble. There was no need to make matters worse by letting his father see him cry. Crying was showing weakness, and the Einar had no place for weakness.

  Now he would stay behind with Uncle Vinh while the others embarked on a journey for the Einar’s salvation. A journey across the sea.

  As long as any on the isles of Logres could remember, no one had ever travelled across the sea. Kairos heard legends from the elders that the Einar had originally come from faraway a long time ago. They came with dwarves and settled on the isles of Logres – until they decided to kill the dwarves off, leaving only the ruins of the dwarven fortresses. Now the Einar clans lived on the isles and fought each other, and would have continued doing so until the end of time.

  Until the land began to die.

  The Einar called it the ‘Blight’ and it started shortly before Kairos was born. Thylar said that the isles were once covered with birch, rowan, and yew trees, but by now most of the trees had died, and the only ones remaining appeared pathetic and withered. The animals were affected, too. Most died off in masses, and those that survived looked plague-ridden.

  Only the Einar remained unaffected. They made the appropriate sacrifices to Rudras to stave off the Blight, but nothing worked. In the end, they counted themselves blessed with their resilience to it, and reasoned that they could resort to eating fish if all of the land animals perished. Yet, the supply of fish around Logres began to dwindle, and the Einar had to sail out farther and farther to sea for them. Most of them preferred raiding the other clans for food. Kairos even joined some of these raids, but his father made him watch from afar.

  After much bloodshed, the Einar elders and leaders set aside their differences long enough to hold a council in Karthok’s mead hall. One elder, Mad Mavos, proposed sailing across the sea as told in the legends. This brought about laughter until Uncle Vinh suggested that finding new land would bring the most glory an Einar could possibly attain. After much more deliberation, the elders and leaders decided to use the remaining precious wood to construct three longships for the purpose of travelling across the sea to find new land.

  And now Kairos would never be able to go. He would have to watch his father and brother leave while Keng embarked on a quest for glory. But that was the least of his worries, as a quick cuff from his father brought him back to his present predicament.

  ‘You bastard,’ Karthok growled, ‘you weak, pathetic bastard. You’re no son of mine.’

  ‘Father…’ Kairos began.

  ‘I’m not your father,’ Karthok snarled, dragging Kairos along by the arm back to their mead hall. ‘You’re not my son. No son of mine would lose to some snivelling shit of a boy.’

  Kairos wanted to point out that Keng was no easy adversary. His cousin could easily defeat most of the other boys of the village, but Karthok would have none of it. He wanted another son like Thylar – a powerful and brave warrior. In his father’s eyes, he proved to be the exact opposite.

  The fog was impenetrable by the time they arrived at the mead hall. Several of Karthok’s house warriors looked up from where they sat at the long tables. At the sight of their enraged chieftain, they quickly abandoned their meals and shuffled out. Karthok slammed the door shut and threw Kairos onto a table, smashing food and crockery.

  ‘Father…’ Kairos pleaded. He looked around for Thylar, hoping that his brother’s presence would calm his enraged father, but there was no sign of him. He was on his own.

  ‘You’re not worthy to be my son,’ Karthok shouted. ‘You have brought nothing but shame to my bloodline! How could a runt like you ever come from my loins? You’re a disgrace. A mistake.’

  Kairos clambered wetly from the table, dripping chunks of food. He backed away as his father approached him with clenched fists. Judging by the wild look in Karthok’s eyes, all reasoning had long fled from his father’s mind. This punishment was going to be one of the worst. His father grabbed Kairos’s tunic with one hand while rearing back with his o
ther. Kairos feebly raised his small arms to shield himself. Maybe his father would beat him too severely this time and end his miserable existence.

  At that moment the door to the mead hall burst open.

  Father and son both turned. Thylar stood in the open doorway, wisps of fog looming hauntingly behind him. Kairos almost felt relief, but the look on his brother’s face unnerved him.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, Thylar?’ Karthok shouted, though Kairos noted that his father’s anger had dissipated.

  ‘Kairos, prepare for the voyage,’ Thylar said in a solemn tone. ‘You’re coming with us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Karthok demanded. ‘Kairos lost to Keng. Kairos is staying behind.’

  Thylar shook his head. ‘Not anymore,’ he said. ‘Keng is dead.’

  * * *

  ‘What really happened to Keng?’ Kairos asked.

  Thylar’s smile, wide as the ocean that surrounded them, vanished as he stared out to sea. Kairos had asked this question several times before, and each time, Thylar changed the subject. Kairos knew that his brother was the only one with Keng during the time of his cousin’s death. His brother called it ‘an accident’, but Kairos was not so sure. There were whispers among the other Einar that Thylar had murdered Keng, but no one dared to ask or confront the large Einar. Except one person.

  ‘Well?’ Kairos prompted.

  Thylar remained silent, the look on his face resembling their surroundings.

  A fierce storm was brewing, blanket of clouds hung low and dark over the sea. The spray of the frigid waters flew like an arrow shower down on the deck of the three longships. They raced each other in the pelting rain, riding the treacherous waves as the men aboard called insults to each other. These ships were the Wolf Fang, the Sea Serpent, and the Grenda. They had been sailing for over a month, and still there was no sight of land. Their food supply was dwindling, but the Einar needed competition to keep their spirits up.

  ‘They would have killed you, Kairos, if you didn’t come along with us,’ Thylar said at last, as he gripped the steering oar of the Grenda, fighting the waves. His hair was long and dark and plastered against his head and back. The padded leather tunic he wore under his coat of mail was soaked through. Being Karthok the Cruel’s second-in-command, Thylar was the only man trusted with manning the tiller in such a storm.