Kotar The Heart of the World

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-0-9988479-4-8
Verlag: Waystone Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, Band 3, 438 Seiten

Reihe: Raven Son

A land destroyed by war. An army of giants on the rampage. Can a broken girl heal the world before it dies?
All 16-year-old Khaidu ever wanted was her own hunting eagle. Her ten brothers laugh at her. After all, the rule-bound world of the Gumiren nomads has no place for a girl hunter, much less a crippled one. But Khaidu has a secret. Mastering the ancient magic of eagle-binding, she captures the largest eagle her tribe has ever seen.
Except her eagle isn't an eagle at all. She's a dying queen under an enchantment. Khaidu's binding unlocks an ancient curse of blood and loss. As the curse turns Khaidu's people against each other, the bond between eagle and hunter shatters. Desperate to find her lost eagle, Khaidu will brave monstrous beasts, face an army of shape-shifting giants, and cross the known world...only to be faced with a terrible truth.
If Khaidu cannot save the queen in time, the world itself may die with her.
Inspired by the Russian fairy tale 'Finist the Bright Falcon,' The Heart of the World features complex characters, gorgeous magical landscapes, and unexpected plot twists. If you like creative twists on myths and legends and classic fantasy, then you'll love Nicholas Kotar's sweeping tale.
Buy The Heart of the World to continue the journey today!

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kotar, Nicholas

Leseproben

CHAPTER FOUR
A Massacre of Gumiren
There was a time when Parfyon Krivoshey of Nebesta would have been exhilarated at seeing an enemy army march straight at him. But no more. All he could think of now was the inevitable outcome: the bodies of pale-faced boys strewn around the field of battle. A sowing that would never reap a harvest. That enemy army from the city-state of Negoda must have known the outcome as soon as it saw Nebesta’s warriors blocking their way across the valley. The fools. They had come in force down the nearly sheer walls of a natural amphitheater, never stopping for a moment. Down and down they came, an ever-increasing mass of men, until there was a roiling cauldron of spear-tips in the glen. Behind them—a wall of rock. Ahead of them, hidden among the trees—all of Nebesta’s strength in muster, the most disciplined army left in the Three Lands, seasoned by five years of uninterrupted victory. They had no chance. Parfyon used to feel the deep thrill of that kind of desperate valor, the sense of longing that only men with bared swords in their hands can feel. But what was valorous in this? Two armies, set for slaughter, yet both sides had the same skin, the same pale eyes, the same flaxen hair. Both sides bore the same ancient, tattered banners of the same deities, whose protection was nothing short of a fantasy now. Perhaps there were even brothers on opposite sides. And for what? To satisfy the power-lust of rival princelings? There was no one left who could unite the cities and stop the bloodshed. “Parfyon, a moment.” The voice was raspy, quiet, but commanded like the crack of a whip. “Yes, sir,” said Parfyon. “Nothing wrong with my men, I hope?” Yarpolk Dolgoruk was the most powerful man in Nebesta. The Dolgoruki had done much to keep together what remained of Nebesta’s people after the Gumiren invasion. More importantly, he was father to the most beautiful woman in the world. “Well, I’m not entirely sure about your decision to place the spearmen at the front,” Yarpolk said, “but no matter. This is not a seasoned foe we’re facing. Only Negodi would be foolish enough to ignore such an obvious trap.” Parfyon saw no reason to answer. Yarpolk would make it clear soon enough what he wanted from him. “Parfyon,” he said, his voice almost gentle, though the broken vulture-nose made any gentleness in the voice a caricature. “You know I have not looked favorably upon your suit for my Alienne. It is not merely that she is my only daughter.” He looked at Parfyon in a way calculated to remind him that the fair Alienne was as far above his kind as an eagle is above a mosquito. “Neither is it your bloodline, though it is hardly as ancient or pure as ours.” He was mocking Parfyon. All the Dolgoruki knew well enough that the Krivosheys had been no more than drudges for generations. “Sir, you doubt my valor, is that it?” Yarpolk smiled crookedly and scratched the thick red beard growing in a tuft from under his chin. “Well, since you put it so bluntly, yes, I do.” “What must I do to change your mind? I tell you now that it will take much more than your disapproval to prevent my marrying your daughter. I intend to have her.” “Ha! If boldness in words meant prowess in war…” He looked out over the ranks, brows furrowed in concentration. “Very well. I will give you the chance.” Parfyon had not expected him to agree so readily. It deflated him, knocking him off course like a river-ship whose mainsail drooped for lack of wind. Yarpolk grabbed Parfyon’s arm by the elbow and led him—none too gently—to the cover of a circle of aspens. They stood outside of earshot of anyone in the camp, but he still lowered his voice like a conspirator in a parley. How I hate the Dolgoruk stink of politics. It was more suited to the Veche than to the battlefield. Still, he would have to learn to stomach it for the sake of the fair Alienne. “Not many know this yet,” Yarpolk rasped, “but Nebesta’s reconstruction is complete.” That could not be possible. “Sir, do you take me for a child?” Yarpolk squinted in irritation. “Parfyon, I speak to you as an equal, though you may consider yourself on probation. There are Powers in the world willing to aid Nebesta. They have done much to earn our trust already. One of their preliminary gifts has been a rebuilt New Nebesta. There is to be a Veche of Choosing very soon. Do you understand? We will be choosing, for the first time in hundreds of years, our own ruler. I intend to be there to see it.” So, you mean to grab the reins of power, leaving your army behind? Foolish. “That is good news, sir.” Yarpolk scowled, obviously hearing how little Parfyon believed him. “You think you deserve Alienne?” he said. “Prove it. I leave the command of the entire Nebesti army to you. My generals will not mutter too much. After all, it’s only the Negodi we’re fighting.” Parfyon’s own command. The exhilaration was swift and unexpected, though something intangible left a shadow over the enjoyment. Yarpolk’s smile revealed more than he intended, perhaps. Some insinuation poisoned the space between his words. Did he suggest that fighting the pitiful Negodi would be more difficult than expected, or was there something else? “You will be expected to minimize our casualties, of course. Considering the advantage we have in ground, they should not be significant in any case. What shall we say? Limit the deaths to a hundred, and the fair Alienne is yours.” Was this the trading-block? He spoke of his only daughter as one does of horseflesh. “Sir, you overestimate the Negodi. We will have no more than fifty deaths.” Parfyon hoped Yarpolk wouldn’t sense the bravado behind the words. Yarpolk smiled, but the smile stopped at the corners of his mouth, not reflecting in the eyes. The skin curdled at the back of Parfyon’s neck. “Good. Make it so,” he said. An hour later, all the generals had assembled in Yarpolk’s tent, which was raised on a slight incline, giving a good view of the lines. Parfyon stood outside until such time as he would be presented to them as their new commander. The ranks of soldiers were pristine, barely moving, even though the call to battle would not sound for a while yet. It was a perfect chessboard before Parfyon. The black squares were commoner-spearmen, their spear-tips smaller versions of their peaked helmets. The white squares were either bowmen, their bows taller than their short, squat bodies, or sword-and-shielders, faces hidden behind faceplates wrought in the shapes of monsters from the darkest of legends. The mounted elite, the Sheloma—what few remained after the Gumiren’s ravages—held heavy hammers and maces. Their ragged line formed the rear of the chessboard, but their nonchalance was a ruse—these would be the warriors to strike the death-blow to the enemy. Though Parfyon had initially regretted the battle, now that the pieces were at his disposal, his mind entered a new awareness. Already in his inner eye he saw every unit in precise moves across the enemy’s side of the board. Bowmen should go here, directing their arrow-fire across at the vulnerable spots of the enemy’s flank—over there. Spears moving ever forward, impassive as pawns, but far deadlier. Sword-and-shielders maneuvering the board in strange patterns, a rook and a knight combined, wreaking havoc wherever the enemy expected them least, their face-guards as much a weapon as their teardrop shields, sharpened at the point, and their double-edged steel. Then the queen—the elite mounted Sheloma—waiting until the board was in seeming chaos, no side the clear winner, to begin picking off the enemy, one square after another. It could all be done in less than two hours. All the fatigue, all the reticence was gone. Had he felt regret for the coming deaths of the Negodi? Had he seen similarities in their appearance to Nebesti? How foolish of him. No, their features were angled, a clear sign of inbreeding with wandering nomad tribes. Their hair was straw to Nebesti flowing gold. And their banners, he now saw, had images of dark deities of whom it was not fitting to speak: mermaids and vila and changers. It would be a pleasure to see them burn. “Parfyon, they are at your disposal,” said Yarpolk, as he bent down to exit the tent. “I will not fail you, or them, sir.” Yarpolk’s look was queer. There was an inordinate amount of genuine emotion there, completely unfitting to his face or his person. Was it regret? “See that you do not, Parfyon,” he said. “I need hardly tell you how failure will be rewarded by the new knyaz of Nebesta.” His smile was too smug. Parfyon had a sudden desire to spit in his face, but he contained himself. Yarpolk’s horse already twitched with the excitement of the coming ride. As he mounted, he turned the horse sharply to face Parfyon, just close enough that Parfyon had to jump back to avoid being struck by bucking hooves. Yarpolk rode off without saying another word, not looking back. At that moment, Parfyon swore that he would make them all pay, all the old guard who thought they controlled the strings that pulled the world into action, striding on the backs of better men who died in the field of battle for their sakes. Parfyon bent down to enter the council of war, his thoughts as dark as the inside of the tent. The men facing Parfyon were, to a man, furious. Most of them were grey-beards, men seasoned in war, bearing scars as proudly as ancient family swords. The only two young men were already famed for their deeds in the last war. Sviatopluk the Bold was a...