Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael Read online

  Titles by Martin V. Parece II

  Blood and Steel (The Cor Chronicles, Vol. I)

  Fire and Steel (The Cor Chronicles, Vol. II)

  Darkness and Steel (The Cor Chronicles, Vol. III)

  Gods and Steel (The Cor Chronicles, Vol. IV)

  Cover Art By:

  Philip Jarvis

  All rights Reserved.

  Copyright 2014

  Parece Publishing, Martin V. Parece II

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be printed, scanned, reproduced or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express permission from the above.

  Chronicler’s Note

  Know, O Exalted Reader, that I have no idea whom you are, whether you be a queen or beggar, priest or witch, warrior or scholar. But I do know that you are now reading this Chronicle, and that makes you a personage of some import, for the ability to read is a privilege that not all in our world have. Enclosed in these pages you will find the Chronicle of Rael, a tragic story full of bloodshed and loss, but if you have read any of my previous Chronicles, then you know that the Dahken Rael played a pivotal part in the return of his race to greatness.

  Now, I may assume that you know what a Dahken is, but if you have not read my previous Chronicles you would not. For that matter, you may know nothing of our world at all. I would hate for you to be lost in the fog of confusion, so I might spend just a moment explaining to you something of how the races of the world came to be.

  Of course, the gods had before them a world teeming with life, men and women without direction or reason to exist. The gods each took a people for their own, bestowing on their chosen the gift of powers. Garod chose the Westerners, light skinned and dark of hair, and gave them the powers of light and healing. Urso took the Northmen, hardy and strong like the Great Bear Himself. The elemental gods looked to the hot jungle continent of Dulkur across a vast ocean to the east, a place as dangerous and untamed as They, and selected a bronze skinned people to wield the elements. Those gods of technology, mathematics and engineering went south from the West to the continent of Tigol, choosing to give their knowledge to yellow skinned peoples.

  Finally was left Dahk, the God of Blood. It will long be debated, even amongst the gods Themselves, whether Dahk betrayed them or simply created his people accidentally, and likely only Dahk Himself knows the truth. From him sprang the Dahken – a race of warriors whose blood is their power. When wounded, the wound strengthens the Dahken’s blows well beyond that of a normal warrior. When they spill the blood of their foe, the Dahkens’ own wounds heal, and some have other powers as well. The blood of a Dahken forever calls him or her to various places around the world to find other persons or objects, for good or ill.

  The Dahken do not breed as normal persons might, and in fact I know of none who have had their own children. But this is where Dahk’s power is most keenly felt, for he is the God of Blood, and all of the people of the world have blood within their veins. A Dahken may be born to a Westerner, a Tigolean or even a Loszian (whom I will discuss in a moment). Their skin color, no matter to what race the Dahken’s parents may be, always turns to the ashen color of a corpse, a gray associated only with the grave, and they suffer from occasional fits of coughing which some may assume to be a weakness. Despite this, they are known to live well over a century, even two.

  Tannes, the first Dahken to be aware of what he was, established a great stronghold in southwestern Aquis, to which he brought all the Dahken he could find. Over time, he sent his most powerful to other parts of the world so that they too may seek out their kind and bring them together. Most met with little success or disappeared completely, and the tower of Lord Dahken Noth on the eastern side of the West was obliterated when the Loszian gods arrived in Rumedia. Their meteor destroyed the tower, and those that did not die from the cataclysm, died from the corruption of the Loszian magic, for their bodies were not compatible with the change as were the Westerners.

  When the Loszians conquered the West, enslaving it for centuries, they avoided war with the Dahken. They found their twisted necromancy to have no effect on the blood warriors, and so they struck a peace with them. Eventually the Westerners, the children of Garod, overthrew their Loszian masters and used their own powers of light to forge the Shining West. This was called The Cleansing. A titanic battle between good and evil created the huge mountain range we now call the Spine, separating the Shining West from the Loszian Empire, and the two civilizations fell into relative peace.

  The Westerners and The Cleansing were not finished however, and the Shining West, angry at the Dahken’s unwillingness to aid them against the Loszian Empire turned its ire upon the gray skinned warriors. Garod’s priests found their powers equally ineffective against the Dahken, but their abilities to heal their own wounded and dying made their armies virtually limitless. Eventually, the Dahken stronghold in the Shining West fell. The Dahken were annihilated, and even disappeared from history.

  Except my history of course. And who am I? I am the Chronicler, a mere mortal and chosen by the gods to live apparently forever and record everything that ever happens in the world of Rumedia. I am neither the first, nor will I be the last. But I can assure you, O Exalted Reader, that the Chronicles of Rumedia shall always have someone to pen them.

  Prologue

  She hobbles through the dark streets of Kashimi with only the moon, faint stars and flickering smoky torches to light her way. It doesn’t matter, for she knows her path. Even though she’d been blind in her left eye since birth twenty five years ago, the entire orb milky white in color, her good right eye more than makes up for it. Besides, she has other senses at her disposal, and they have never failed her. Though, other Tigoleans do not have the sense in which she is strongest, a sight of a different kind, and this fact has caused people to both shun her and seek her out at the same time.

  She knows the whole city street by street, paving stone by paving stone, and no one ever molests her as she goes about her tasks. Something is different about this night, and she knows it. The air is thick with it, making it hard to breathe, and it’s almost as if there is a scent on the air. It’s a warm night, humid too, and sweat forms under her arms between and under her breasts. But it is not the hot air or the moisture within it that makes this night uncomfortable. It’s something else, and she can’t quite put her finger on it.

  She hobbles as quickly as she can with the heavy burlap sack full of herbs and roots dangling from her left hand, offsetting her weak right ankle. She had broken that ankle when she was only just learning to walk as a baby, and it never healed right. Her mother sought out Garod’s priests, as Tigoleans had no wondrous healing magicks, but they would have nothing to do with a heathen. Despite all their claims of goodness, apparently Garod’s beneficence only applies to His people.

  She stops and turns to face an alley to her left, an inscrutable lane that runs between a large smithy and a tanner. She wrinkles her nose at the horrid smell that always accompanies such places, and she thinks to retrieve the torch that stands on a stanchion next to the smithy’s door. To an onlooker, and an onlooker there was, she is not unattractive. She is no more than five feet tall with the small frame common to women in this part of Tigol, a roundish face with almond shaped eyes, and one of which is so dark brown as to be almost black like her long, straight hair.

  This is it. It must happen, she thinks, and she resists every muscle in her body begging her to run or at least take the torch.

  There is a sudden rush of movement within the alley, and for just a split second, she makes out a massive dark form before it is upon her. The shape exits the black into the torch and moonlight for just a mome
nt, but it is long enough for her to notice certain things. A heavy brown and hooded robe, not unlike those of Garod’s priests. The clinking and jingling of heavy steel armor underneath the robe, and perhaps the glint of the torchlight off the same. A face hidden in shadow.

  Strong hands wrapped in chainmail forcefully take each of her upper arms. The armor is rough against her bare skin, and she drops the sack as he pulls her back into the alley. He slams her against the wall of the tanner’s shop, and pain shoots through her back as the breath is knocked from her lungs. The torch in the street barely outlines her assailant, and he is huge like a Loszian. But Loszians do not wear armor, and this man’s frame is powerfully built.

  “Lay not another finger on me, ruffian,” she struggles out as she gasps for air. “I am a witch, and I would curse those who dare enter me without permission.”

  She watches confusedly, as this seems to have given him pause. He does not move for long enough a time that her breathe has slowed and steadied, yet he holds her in place against the wood wall no less forcefully. Finally he speaks, his Tigolean rough in pronunciation as if he has too much tongue or lip, and his voice is one of the most horrible, tortured voices she has ever heard. Every word sounds like it is a battle for him to utter, as if he chokes, and it is the sound of rough rocks being ground into dust, fading to a whisper as the words end.

  “You are a witch? Then tell me, witch, tell me why!”

  “Why what?” she asks, her fear and anger turning to concern for this wretched soul.

  “Why do I yet live? Tell me why the gods do not let me rest!”

  “I do not know, leper,” she replies calmly.

  “I am no leper, witch!” he says. He releases her for just a moment, and though she knows this is her chance, she does not run. He yanks his left gauntlet off with his right, and lets it fall to the ground. She can make out nothing of his hand in the gloom, and the reflection of polished steel plates lining the back of the gauntlet shines in her eye as it drops. He takes her right wrist in his bare hand, gripping it with so much strength that she whimpers in pain, and she fears that her bones may crack under the pressure. “Tell me why!”

  She knows he will not leave without an answer to the question, so she focuses on it. His hand is warm against her skin and uncomfortable with the moistness of it. Her eyelids suddenly open wide as her wrist grows white hot where he has his hold upon it. She squirms and squeals, but he will not release her, as if he does not feel the fiery pain. The realization comes to her, the answer to his question, and her arm no longer burns.

  “Because you must be the savior,” she tells him.

  He laughs grossly, perhaps the most terrifying thing she has ever heard, and says, “Savior of what, witch? I am no good man, no hero.”

  “You must save the child of blood who would drown in the sea. Without him, without you, the people of blood will never again see greatness.”

  He continues to hold her is his grasp, but the pressure starts to ease until it seems he has forgotten that he still has her. He lets her go, bends to retrieve his gauntlet and then is gone. She can hear him running down the alley away from her with impressive speed and stealth considering his bulk and armor. She imagines that she can see his retreating form in the gloom, or perhaps her other sight makes it possible.

  She calls after him, “I wish you luck!”

  1.

  “The lad’s got evil in him, he has,” says Garrick to nods of two other fishermen.

  Garrick is ugly as Westerners go with a pockmarked face and a bloated nose. Despite being close to fifty he has a full head of hair, though it is as much gray as black, and it sticks together in thick mats from all the salt water that he never rinses from it. A scraggly beard of the same color and consistency falls from his chin to mix with the gray hair of his chest, making it hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. His flesh tells the story of a lifelong fisherman, weathered and tanned from the sea, sun and elements, and he has numerous scars from hooks, fins and bites. One of these, he says came from a shark that was bigger than his sloop.

  The door to the tavern bangs shut as someone enters. Heedless, Garrick continues, “That color is a sign of a evil sea spirit, it is, and if Jame don’t see, he be a fool. That boy should be thrown back into the sea he came from.”

  “Neeley said you were mouthing off about my son again, Garrick,” says a voice, and Garrick doesn’t turn to see who it belongs to. Jame’s boots clop on the tavern’s wood floor as he leisurely approaches Garrick’s seat. “You have obviously had too much if you are starting this again.”

  “You aren’t as old as me, lad, and you haven’t seen what I seen in me life. I ain’t never seen no one who look as he do and been no good omen,” Garrick replies, burying his maw in his grog. It runs down his beard and onto his chest.

  “Perhaps not, but I am better than you,” Jame replies. “Again I tell you not to speak of my son so. He is no evil spirit.”

  “Then he be sickly and shall not breathe long. It had been better to end him at birth.”

  Garrick has no time to react, either because he never looks to see the attack coming or due to his drink addled mind, as Jame takes a fistful of the old fisherman’s hair. Garrick’s face slams into the rickety table, spilling all three men’s drinks onto its surface to pour and drip on the floor. The table may be unsteady, but the tabletop is no less solid as Garrick’s nose flattens with a terrible crunch. The battered fisherman’s blood flows freely and mixes with spilled grog in a most disgusting fashion. Jame yanks Garrick’s head back upright, and the man is crying either from the pain or the drink.

  “Am I clear?” Jame asks.

  “I sorry. I got drunk.”

  “I forgive your stupidity, and you should have that attended to,” Jame replies, releasing his fistful of greasy hair. He then addresses the other two and anyone else who will listen. “I hope no one else will speak against my son again. Leave Rael Jameson alone.”

  Jame leaves the tavern and begins his walk through the village toward home. It’s not far as the village is relatively small with the exception of an impressive network of docks, housing about two hundred residents. Another few hundred, mostly seasonal fishermen, come and go from the mainland in Roka. The island on which the village is planted is surrounded by some of the most abundant fishing waters around Roka, making it an ideal launch point. It wasn’t long before people began to stay on the island permanently, fishing for both their meals and livelihood.

  Jame has a modest home on the northwestern side of the island; it has but a single level with rooms for Rael, he and his wife and a comfortable living area. Though, he could afford something larger as one of the island’s more successful fishermen. When the fact is pointed out to him, he merely says, “It is only my wife, my son and I. I have no need for such extravagance.” However, a few years ago Jame purchased a tract of land leading from his home to the sea where he built his own dock, and he owns several fine sloops.

  As he approaches, he sees three of the island’s boys playing soldier, or swordsman at least, with sticks that appear to be splinters of deck boards. They’re led by a boy named Orf. Orf’s nearly the size of a man despite being only twelve, and his size has led him to be either the leader or the bully of all the children on the island. He must have Northern blood, Jame thinks. Odd to find it so far from the north. The boy has a chubby face, and his body was the same until he suddenly began to grow over the last year or so. He doesn’t look like a Westerner, at least no Westerner born or raised on the sea, with his fair skin, freckles and red hair.

  However, he is not the only boy in the village who doesn’t have the look of a Westerner. Jame slows his gait when he sees his son, Rael, watching the other boys with interest as they fight with their stick-swords. Rael has almost black hair, not unlike the average Westerner, but his skin is deathly gray. The boy is neither pale nor fair. He is truly gray all across his body, face and hands without blemish or variance. Jame stops in the village’s road,
really just a dirt track well compacted by the passage of feet and wagons, and watches as his boy finally moves toward the others.

  “Orf, can I play?” Rael asks.

  “Play?” repeats the bigger boy. “We’re not playing. We’re training. One day, Tigoleans are going to invade this island of ours, and we’d better be ready.”

  “Can I?” Rael asks again.

  “Don’t let him,” says one boy, and in chimes the other, “We’ll catch whatever he’s got.”

  “It’s not catching,” Rael replies hotly, and the anger shows on his face. “Please, Orf?”

  “I’ll tell you what. You can play with us any time you want, if you can beat me,” says Orf. He takes a “sword” away from one of the other boys and tosses it onto the ground at Rael’s feet.

  Rael steps back once as it lands in the dirt, and then bends over to pick it up enthusiastically. He steps forward, the bit of split plank gripped firmly in his hand, and Jame as to stop himself from stopping what is about to happen. As Rael nears Orf, it is so readily apparent that he has no chance against his opponent. It’s not that Rael is small; in fact he is most normal in every way for a nine year old excepting the tone of his skin. Orf is simply huge in comparison. Rael weakly swings his sword in a sidearm fashion toward Orf’s ribs, and the bigger boy smacks the blow away.

  He laughs and says, “You better do better than that.”

  Rael brings his weapon down in an overhead stroke, and the swords crack as Orf blocks, his own parallel to the ground. Rael grimaces with the impact as the rough split wood begins to dig splinters into the flesh of his palm and fingers. His opponent has no such concern, for he is wearing the gloves he uses when working with his father’s crab pots. Rael stays on the attack, gritting his teeth every time Orf blocks or parries, and he cannot seem to break the older boy’s defense.