The One Who Would King: A Book Of The Lands by Gareth Blackmore (a.k.a. Dan DeBono)
WHAT THEY’RE SAYING ABOUT : The One Who Would Be King:
"Harry meets L0TR when a kid is pulled into a medieval world filled with danger.”
—www.FantasyReaders.com
"You're on to something here!”—Brian Winfrey, screenwriter of W-Disney’s Maid Of Honor
"A refreshingly told tale of fantasy with epic proportions that would make any fan of this genre pleased.” —Mohr Reviews, Midwest Book Review, DreamForge magazine
"Blackmore weaves strong character development with a rich history, spell-binding magic, and non-stop action to create a realm of fantasy that will have you constantly reminding yourself to exhale.” — Christopher Winters, Nevermore Magazine
"... a story that will delight time and time again ... and a must for all ages.” —Loretta Turner, Bookaholics
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2002, 2012 Dan DeBono. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part (except graphics and exerpts may be used for review purposes) without consent of author.
ISBN 0-9728902-1-1
Chapter I: A Princeling On The Run
For the second time in as many days, Djar tasted blood in his mouth.
"Get up,” snarled the thick green lump of a goblin, with an ugly, twisted grin.
Djar tried once more to make the goblin captain understand: "... as I’ve been trying to tell you, I tried to tell him you ordered it, but he simply wouldn’t listen. He said he wouldn’t … couldn’t give up any more of his stock. With summer already waning, he has to prepare for winter. With all due respect, Karn, you may be pushing them to the brink."
The goblin rolled his eyes, which was an eerie sight. They were a shiny yellow, his iris and pupils both very cat-like. He sank back onto what used to be Djar’s father’s throne, the action seemingly adding more girth to his already bulging belly. "Princeling, you are alive for one reason, and one reason only," he said, pausing to wave Daelwoo, the royal scepter of countless generations, mockingly in front of Djar’s nose. "You are to have your people refrain from all forms of civil disobedience with no exceptions or excuses!"
"I will try again next week, Kar ... uh ... Sire."
Karn smiled, revealing a menacing number of sharp, yellow-stained teeth. "You will try immediately."
* * *
"Cookie! Get your suff, we’re getting out of here — now!"
"Oh, Djar," cried a lithe and pretty young woman, wildly springing up from her sitting position on the floor. "He hit you again?"
"Uh, huh," Djar answered, bringing his hand up to his lip to feel the now hardening blood and test the swelling. "But he won’t get another chance. Just get some traveling things packed — and I mean only the bare essentials. I’ll tell you what’s going on after we get to the Durn.”
Cookie was off to her room in a blur, while Djar began stuffing his own essentials into a small red leather bag. Pausing, he ran his fingers over the griffin insignia on the bag’s brass buckle — that of the House of Lahroan. So much had happened so quickly that it still made his head swim. It seemed like only a few days ago — though in fact it had been nearly half a year — that Mahhrain had been overrun by Captain Karn and his goblin horde.
He resumed packing, violently thrusting needed things into his bag. He knew he would be glad to be rid of the life that had been thrust upon him — no matter what the outcome. It was completely draining, always feeling like a gutless little traitor. Of course, the once proud Duke Daeron Lahroan — Djar’s father — would have been proud of him. He would have said that it was better that he served his people in any way possible, as lives would be spared and that was paramount. And that was what mostly kept him going. That, and just a small measure of hope; hope that something would happen to drive the goblins out of the great city.
Thinking of his father brought tears to his eyes, but this time he choked them back. Usually, the tears were followed by sobs, but he simply had no time for that now. He had to resign himself to the fact that his family was gone, murdered by the leathery-green force that now patrolled their castle. But, now, maybe he could do something about it.
The ever-battling goblins had spread their army just a bit too thin. Increasingly, they had trouble keeping the provincial peoples in check. More and more landowners missed their tax deadlines, and Karn’s division found itself busy with the sometimes petty and ofttimes mundane administrative tasks of occupation — nothing the violent goblins relished. They were much better at ransacking than running a city. Also, vandalism, looting of the goblin stores, and acts of ’treason’ plagued the conquerors. They were finding that it was one matter to overrun a castle, quite another to run the entire duchy with any semblance of efficiency. And not only was controlling the city and surrounding countryside a problem for the aggressive goblins, they were also expending a lot of bodies in their campaign to overtake Fort Durn. Djar’s situation was bleak, but he had reason for his small bit of hope.
Djar’s job — in the vast scheme of goblin ideals — was to explain to the landowners that the new administration deserved the tribute, and that he was there to collect it before the tax department was forced to pay a visit. Djar usually chose not to explain the deserved part, but he never forgot to tell of the risks of non-payment. If he didn’t get what the goblins were after, his visit was eventually followed by a visit from the goblin version of an undertaker. So even though Djar felt like a coward and traitor sometimes, deep down he knew his calm reasoning had indeed saved many lives. The majority of his people were farmers, not warriors.
Almost all the fighting men and women had been killed in the battle for the city, or had retreated and later headed north to regroup with the army at Fort Durn where they now waged a desperate battle for their own lives.
After retrieving Dybol from its hiding place, underneath a loose floorboard where it had rested since the occupation began, he strapped it to his back under his woolen travel cloak. He ran over to Cookie’s room, pausing just for a second in the dimly-lit hallway to make sure there were no goblin sentries about. Though it wasn’t likely that he would be searched, it was important that he be extra careful. If caught in the palace with the magic talisman, it would mean a quick end to his plans, and he would lose the priceless and essential sword that had been in the Lahroan family for countless generations.
For the past month or so, the goblins usually let him go about his daily tasks in peace, only bothering to give him orders each morning. He then had to report his progress to Karn every evening. Though he had begun to exhibit a bit more rebelliousness, it was not anything the goblins considered serious, especially after he quelled several small uprisings. And even though several months before, on his twentieth birthday, he had taken his rites of manhood, he was still seen as a boy — The Little Princeling — and really nothing to be all that concerned with. Hopefully, this underestimation would soon haunt the conquerors.
"Ready?" whispered the pretty, brown-eyed nymph of a woman. She was suspended between the top of the doorway and the ceiling like some kind of huge, cute spider. Among her many talents, she could climb nearly anything — and she regularly practiced, though it was sometimes disconcerting to Djar. Or maybe he was just a bit jealous.
"Yes - and get down from there. You look like an insect."
The young woman seemed to simply go limp for a split second, flipped over and sailed to the floor on all fours. She grabbed her hunting pack off the four-poster bed. It was bulging with a variety of little things that would make life on the trails more comfortable: a tinder box, her short hunting bow, her short sword, string, fish hooks, rope, bandages,and she threw in just a bit of dry meat and a few roots to begin the journey. She knew the Durn quite well, and could forage for food on the way — to wherever it was they were going.
Nearly ten years had passed since Djar’s father found her living alone in the wilderness. Though she was now an adult, she still looked very young — and indeed she was — in terms of spritean life expectancy.
Most likely, she was probably more than ten years older than Djar — they didn’t know her exact age — but she looked his age or even a bit younger. It was well known that sprites lived about forty to fifty years longer than humans.
Most of the others of her kind, including Cookie’s family, were killed in the early days of the Goblin Wars, before the Power Nations even bothered to take notice.
At the time, a unified front may have seen a quick end to the menace, but those days had long slipped by.Inaction, bred by self-centered administrations with private agendas, assured the goblins one victory after the next. The stark reality proved to be that none of the nations could handle the goblins by themselves, though that was what each seemed to want to do.
After nearly exterminating the sprites, the goblins took several small border areas formerly governed by humans. They took Naru, the one city settled and ruled by nearly all peoples — a city most despised by the goblins! Next, they occupied several cities in the Dwarf Lands. Northville fell easily, though the great dwarven city of Confluence was — and still is — another matter. The city proper was occupied, but the dwarves still waged a valiant underground war in their vast tunnels, making the goblins expend still more of their energies. Of course, how long the noble but rag-tag army could hold out was a matter of debate.
The most brazen of all the heinous goblin attacks, however, was their assault on Mahhrain. The duchy was the largest — and most powerful — of the three major human cities in all The Land, and just a few years ago an attack on any one of the human duchies would have been unthinkable! Many now concur that the greedy monsters will not be happy until they push all the way down into the West Wilderlands, the home of the elves and remaining handful of sprites. And maybe that still wouldn’t be enough to satisfy their blood lust.
Walking out to the stables, much as they always did, they grabbed their ragged mounts and saddled them. The goblins had long since confiscated the prime battle stallions and sent them up to their Northern Stables to be used as common working beasts.
Djar eyed the inattentive guard as they approached the stable gate. He was nervous, but steadied himself as he realized the guard wouldn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary. Sure, they carried packs full of traveling items, but they often had to bring things here and there to complete their normal daily routines.
"We’re going back down to Josh Bucklyn’s place to see if he will give up some of his herd in lieu of this month’s payment," said Djar.
The disinterested stable guard just growled and looked away. He was nearly nodding off, lazily slumped against the barn door.
They breathed a collective sigh of relief.
* * *
"What do you mean we’re going to Dymorla’s?" Cookie yelled. "You can’t be serious?"
"What do you mean: ’what do you mean?’ I told you. We’ve talked about this before. The witch is the only one left I can think of to help us. With all the fighting going on in the Durn and Confluence, the goblins may not be able to properly defend a concentrated attack on Mahhrain. Dymorla may be able to help us regroup … somehow. In any event, we may as well face facts: we can’t simply stroll up to Fort Durn and expect the goblins to let us pass the siege.And getting to Confluence would be difficult at best, and we’d be faced with the same problem even if we did make it. No, we need to think differently. And it will be easier going south …"
"But … Dymorla! I still get frightened just thinking about her! And, anyway, isn’t it treasonous to attack one’s own castle?"
"Don’t be funny, Cookie," Djar scolded. "Many people will probably end up dying. Of course, we’ll be the first, if Dymorla’s as bad as you believe, or if any of those bedtime stories about the old witch are anything close to the truth."
Among other things, the old sorceress was said to be an evil recluse. Although no one in Mahhrain had actually seen or heard from her in nearly thirty years, most still believed she existed, wielding ancient magic like it was an everyday household necessity. The trouble was, Djar was unsure if the stories of her vast necromantic powers were just legend — stories made up to scare bad little girls and boys — or were they true?
The tales differed from teller to teller. Some said she was an old hermit who ate children, others said she was, in fact, not evil at all; they said she simply didn’t like to be bothered with people. The reason Djar even considered the trip at all was the fact that his grandmother used to tell stories about seeing the witch when she was a little girl. Being the daughter of a Duke gave her certain traveling privileges, and one of her most memorable was a trip nearly to the border of the East Wilders, and to Dymorla’s Keep, with her father who was trying to get some kind of information from the witch. Djar’s grandmother never relayed what it was that his great grandfather needed — or if he ever received any help from the mage — but she had told him that Dymorla appeared to be both powerful and compassionate, albeit a bit eccentric. She mentioned many strange goings on in the keep; she spoke of things that could only come about from someone with vast powers. Of course, she also said that Dymorla did indeed wish to be free of political squabbling. However, Djar was at his rope’s end — he had to try to engage the witch. He’d try just about anything at this point! He was also banking on the gamble that his grandmother’s stories were not inflated for entertainment value.
"Halt!"
Djar groaned. It was Demron, the thick-skulled goblin arms master posted at the portcullis that separated the walled city from the grassy rolling hills of the province. "Show your orders, Little Princeling."
Djar slowly reached into the front pocket of his cloak and produced a piece of parchment covered with the crimson scrawls of Captain Karn’s administrative assistant. Djar had to suppress making a face every time he looked at his orders. The blood-red ink was an effect the goblin miscreants took to all too readily.
Demron slowly studied the writing, clearly having trouble with the content. Cookie finally yelled: "We’re in a hurry. Must you detain us from the Captain’s ordered duties every day?"
The guard menacingly drew his ax, which up until Cookie got rambunctious, was strapped to the back of his leather and chain mail jerkin. "Stop, sprite, or I’ll cut you like a finger through ham." The saying was ridiculous, but the intended threat quite evident.
"Wait, Cookie. Demron is only doing his duty," Djar shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, realizing that Dybol’s pommel was pushing up his cloak in the back.
Albeit not the brightest creature, even for a goblin, the movement was not wasted on Demron. "What’s that?" he said, pointing to the protrusion in Djar’s cloak.
"Nothing."
"That’s not nuthin'.’"
"Correction. It’s not something."
"Get down off the horse."
"Can I get up off the horse?"
The last statement left the obtuse guard in a quandary for just a moment. Fortunately, a moment was all Djar needed to realize that it was time to quickly vacate the premises! He put his heels to the horse, working the chestnut mare into a frenzied gallop.
Cookie didn’t need to be asked to follow — she was quickly pursuing. Djar felt a strange sort of exhilaration — like a warrior on the charge. The feeling didn’t last long, however, as he saw Demron’s huge spike-armored warhorse tethered to the hitching post, just a few feet away. His heart sank. The charging knight had been revealed as a fleeing Princeling. The chase was on and the two companions’ mounts galloped as best they could, but Demron’s huge warhorse, Ghaarhart, steadily gained on them.
Ghaarhart was heavily armored and carried an immense passenger, but the beast was much younger and of a far different breed than the other horses. Just as they reached the main trail leading into the Durn, the massive bulk of Ghaarhart and Demron caught up to the fleeing companions.
"Stay here, Cookie," screamed Djar, whipping his horse about. He clumsily freed Dybol from its leather scabbard, and charged. At first, Demron was taken aback by the audacity of The Princeling, but eventually figured that it was a great excuse to teach the whelp his final lesson. Besides, he never understood why Karn hadn’t simply eaten the boy’s innards and been done with him.
The two met in a mixing of dust and clash of metal. Djar brought Dybol up to block the powerful first lunge of Demron. The force from the savage blow sent him sprawling from his mount. Demron then dismounted, moving forward to attack.
"Give up now, and I may let you live. At least until Karn hears about this."
"It’s you who should give up, Demron, for I wield the mighty Dybol," Djar said, waving his sword menacingly at the goblin.
Demron let out a laugh that could more easily pass as a snarl. He then began a slow advance on the young man. The massive goblin hesitated, however, when Dybol began to faintly take on a greenish glow — even in the bright daylight.
And the eerie green color grew brighter as he approached his young prey.
"She anticipates the blood of an enemy, Demron!" cried Djar, hoping the glowing sword would unnerve his gigantic foe. Apparently, it did. Beads of sweat began rolling down Demron’s sloping forehead, splashing like raindrops at his feet. This made Djar feel a little better.
Though he was well trained in the martial arts and swordsmanship, the fact was he didn’t have any real combat experience. At least his tutors were among the best fighters and blade masters in Mahhrain. This was somewhat comforting, and helped his resolve. Of course, the goblin wasn’t going to back down.Though a bit shorter than Djar, the creature outweighed him by over eighty pounds, and thought the boy would be an easy match. On he came, bringing his own weapon to bear.
Then, suddenly, the mass of green muscle lunged, his speed belying his bulk. The huge battle axe just missed taking off Djar’s ear and part of his shoulder as he quickly ducked right. Then it was Djar’s turn: He purposely fell to his side, quickly slashing upwards with Dybol. The Possum Turns
Scorpion was an effective maneuver that his father’s bodyguard Dermatt had taught him long ago. He put a nice scratch in the behemoth’s thigh, and then rolled away from Demron’s powerful down stroke. It was a masterful move.
Djar stood, then quickly retreated as the angry goblin came at him again. He became increasingly nervous as the behemoth seemed to shrug off the blow. How could that be? The stories about Dybol …
But Demron didn’t get too close before he grabbed at the seemingly insignificant flesh wound. "Unnngh ... what devilry is this, boy?"
"No devilry, just a bit of old-world magic to keep big-bad goblins away!" laughed Djar, leaving Ghaarhart in favor of his own ragged mount. "Let’s get out of here, Cookie!"
Meanwhile, Demron fell to his hands and knees and vomited. Thanks to Dybol, he would feel that way for the next few days. That made Djar feel good.
Continued With Chapter II: On To Durbin
The story continues with a demon, the zombies, kind-hearted trolls, they go to sea, fight an evil wizard, massive armies colide and so much more!