The Ravens of Attylan

THE RAVENS OF ATTYLAN

A.J. FINKELSTEIN & A.C. HUGGETT

Smashwords Edition

The Ravens of Attylan

Copyright © 2011 A.J. Finkelstein & A.C. Huggett

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in this publication are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

A copy of this publication can be found in the National Library of Australia.

ISBN: 978-1-742841-66-3 (pbk.)

Published by Book Pal

www.bookpal.com.au

In loving memory of Iain;

"Your courage and faith through adversity inspires me everyday. We are brothers forever."

AJ.

"It started with you and will not finish with us. Lest we forget those we have loved. Rest in peace mate."

Aaron.

Contents

Attylan

Teaching the Pagan

The Assignment

The Arrival

So Much for Rest

Rising Sun

What Lies Beneath?

Shadow Crypt

The Book of the Dead

The Lead

Kylima and D

Get Me Outta Here

Back to the Brewhouse

The Recruitment

Fact or Fiction

More Than Meets the Eye

Friend or Foe

The Book Keeper

Now or Never

Blane

Darius

Elbargo and Ridel

Daigon

Sintor

A Teacher’s Teachings

About the Authors

Attylan

Teaching the Pagan

Cobblestone walkways wound through the ageless trees. Branches hung over the stone walls of the courtyard, reminiscent of a long abandoned royal garden. The sun parted the clouds on an otherwise fine day above the monastery just north of Ruidium. A slim, but athletic built, adolescent man was reading by the foot of a big tree and appeared to be the only living creature in a hundred miles.

Dolarim shallar, he chanted in a firm, but hypnotizing voice. Dolarim shallar.

Laughter came from the shadows of the Monastery’s underpass, deep in tone, but with an underlying jest.

Boy, what are you doing? You should stop before you turn into a tree, Daigon.

The voice was that of his teacher, the man who Daigon considered his only family, his mentor and, most of all, his dearest friend. The Raven they called Blane.

With a deep sigh of disappointment, Daigon gently shut his book and picked himself up.

We need to get moving. No time to waste. We have been called upon to meet with the Ravens, his master explained, turning and hurrying away.

Blane, why have we been summoned?

Blane turned his head towards Daigon with a subtle smirk.

I don’t know the details D, but I’m sure the answers will come soon enough.

Blane, you know I’m up to this, don’t you?

We’ll see, said Blane.

Daigon, pushing the boundaries as if he were a detective, continued to probe the issue. So, what do you know of the assignment, Blane?

Daigon, I honestly know nothing thus far and it would serve you well to silence your curiosity for now.

Daigon, finally realizing his place, bowed his head and said nothing more. It wasn’t that Blane treated him with contempt, nothing like that at all. It was just that etiquette was required by Ravens at all times, and especially within their sacred grounds of Mount Fellium which was exactly where they were headed. Sometimes Daigon needed reminding.

The sun grew warm as it approached noon and Daigon wondered how long their journey may take.

Blane kept silent as he walked. Only the firm, even beat of his old leather boots on the cobblestones filled the air. He wore a thick, black, hooded fleece that looked to have been carefully hand laced with dark metal chain armour. It did not look heavy, or at least he did not move like it was bearing any significant weight on his broad shoulders. His face, outlined by his strong, sharp, jawline, was broken in places by old wounds, which had been replaced with scar tissue. His eyes were blue like the Great Attylantian Ocean and were focused and powerful. His thick black hair hung just below his muscular chin. He carried two silver battle sickles on his back, encased in leather sheaths attached to his belt. Inside his hooded fleece was a small, silver chain with a medallion that looked similar to a crescent moon. He stood tall and walked with definite, even steps. Blane was a very wise man. When he spoke, people listened. When he requested something, the reason was never questioned, and when Attylan was in peril, he was there.

Daigon was confident and strong, but above all, he was respectful. He carried himself with pride and thrust great passion into whatever he set his mind to. He had light, wavy brown hair which ran wild and free down his forehead. Daigon had an innocent face that could quickly transform to a determined scowl given the situation. It glowed with enthusiasm and purpose. His eyes were green like the steep banks of Mount Fellium. His jacket was a gift from Blane the previous winter. It was dark blue like the winter night sky over Attylan, and lined with wolves’ fur.

Daigon had grown up in Tygrus, a small pagan village, approximately twenty miles north-east of Ruidium. He had worked with his father, Nethos, ploughing their family crop of wheat which they would sell in the market place in the city square at the end of each harvesting season. Nethos was a well travelled man and he prided himself on his knowledge of religious teachings from across the world, but with those days behind him. He enjoyed his solace by living only for his family.

Late one night, Daigon was travelling to their neighbouring village of Grandius to deliver an important message to the local Pagan priest. The message intended to inform him that the latest harvest would be ready for sale by the following prayers eve. This was customary so the harvest could receive a blessing from the gods. However, whilst Daigon was away from his home a fierce fire swept through Tygrus, destroying the harvest and homes, and killing many who were trapped by the intense inferno. Many families who were sleeping at the time were engulfed in the fire’s fury and perished before they had a chance to flee. This tragically included Daigon’s mother and father.

When Daigon returned to find only the flickering flames licking the night sky and the scattered smouldering ash that he once called home, he collapsed to his knees. There at the edge of the field he cursed the gods with an almighty roar and could only watch as the flames finished the work they had started.

He watched the fire burn out, as he wept in the long grass outside his home village. A dark figure approached him rapidly without so much as a rustle of the oak leaves on a cool autumn evening.

Do not fear, boy. You are safe now, was all that was whispered by the unexpected figure, in a deep, soft, comforting voice.

Whether or not the fire was a deliberate act of destruction, or it somehow began in the woods of Hiccurus, was a question which haunted Daigon everday, but he was no fool and knew these harrowing unknowns did not change the fact his parents were gone and that he could never bring them back whatever the truth.

Tygrus was not far from an old village named Sirdanam. Like Tygrus, it too was another peaceful, peasant village. However, northward past the fields of the Rising Sun, in a cavern at the base of Mount Fellium, a powerful brotherhood called The Ravens gathered.

That tragic evening was the first time Daigon met Blane, and although years have passed, he was to have no idea of how his destiny had shifted that night, or what his future would hold.

With the monastery fading in the distance, they continued towards their destination.

We are nearing one of our favourite places now, Daigon, Blane explained.

They had been walking north from the monastery, along the gravel stretch of road which spanned between the monastery and a small cabin situated on the most southern point of the Fields of the Rising Sun. It was once used by soldiers who camped while on lookout for any foreign enemy armies heading into Attylan via the mountains at the northern most tip of the country. The road to the cabin was dry and cut through long, green, lemon grass that overgrew the edges. Cattle and sheep grazed in paddocks along the road, unimpeded by travellers or horse drawn carts.

Silver cane, Daigon exclaimed.

The Fields of the Rising Sun, Blane replied in marvel of his view. It never ceases to amaze me how, when the sun rises over these fields, the cane shimmers and sparkles like thousands of steel swords, reflecting the brilliant morning sun, as they sway with the temperament of the morning breeze. Up close, it seems like ordinary silver cane but from the foot of Mount Fellium it is something quite spectacular, Blane marvelled.

One of my favourite views. It is like watching nature’s own army, Daigon expressed sincerely.

Yes, mine too. Quickly now, we must head north. It’s only a short while more, over the fields to Mount Fellium.

Yes, Master, Daigon respectfully exclaimed.

Blane and Daigon began to make their way through the long silver cane towards Mount Fellium. The cane stood almost head high to Daigon and he was struggling a little to keep up with Blane. Daigon watched him as they pushed through the heavy growth. Blane stood only slightly taller than the cane, but used his trusty sickle to cut the tangled cane that denied him access along his path.

I am sorry, Master, but do you think we could rest. My mouth is dry and my legs ...

Quiet, Blane whispered in a gentle voice. He had stopped in his tracks and was staring intensely into the blade of his sickle that, for a moment, doubled as a mirror. The reflection had caught his eye for all the wrong reasons. He had seen a red, handwoven, head scarf bobbing up in the tracks which Blane and Daigon had created behind them through the silver cane.

Daigon, listen to me, he whispered, keep your head down and follow the cane until it becomes too thick to push through.

Why, Master, what is it? Daigon whispered in reply.

Go now! Blane pleaded, eyes wide open. Go now.

Without any further hesitation Daigon scrambled into the long silver cane. It was as if he had forgotten how weary his body was only moments before. Blane’s urgent, whispered words had spawned a new lease of energy in him. As he headed into the thickest part of the cane, his figure quickly vanished into the scrub. Daigon wanted to stay at his mentor’s side, and nervous though he was, he knew that this was not the time to be arguing his apt combat ability. For whatever danger Blane had foreseen, he was not one to cause a fuss without reason.

Rygran! Blane cursed softly.

How long have they been following us? Blane wondered as he pushed further into the silver stalks. Why did I not pick up on it earlier?

The Rygran were a large group of outlaws. They had been banished to the outskirt areas of Attylan and now lived in the woods and deep in the mountains. They were yet-to-be convicted criminals, who were in hiding throughout Attylan. They formed pocket alliances and had found refuge in numbers for many years. They preyed on travellers, women, children and the defenceless members of the community. Their victims were ravaged, robbed and left for dead. They were immoral cowards who took everything and respected nothing and no one.

The Rygran followed no laws and answered to nobody. Every Rygran member had a price on his head, but the gold was not sufficient when weighed against the chances of actually capturing one of these soulless rebels. Their leaders were unknown and they spent their nights hiding in shadows. They were the vermin of Attylan and greatly needed to be eradicated before numbers grew too large and their power too broad.

Blane began to formulate a plan as he headed north-east. He needed somewhere that would prevent him from being surprised from behind. If he was right he would find what he needed about six hundred feet ahead.

As subtlely as possible, Blane altered his direction, leaning slightly to the east. He slowly increased his speed through the fields. Blane waved his sickle in front of his face pretending to prepare to slice through the cane. He caught a glimpse of one of his Rygran followers. He counted four men in the reflection created from the silver blade of his sickle.

Blane knew that if attacked by the Rygran, choices were few and far between – run and hide, or fight. Many who would not give in to a Rygran attack found themselves giving up their lives.

Blane pressed on, each step taking him closer to his desired destination. It was a small clearing in the Fields of the Rising Sun, which had been formed as a midway post for soldiers on lookout duty.

Blane had frequented this place many times as a young man. He called this clearing his Thidle Dorma Nor, which meant ‘powerfully calm place’. He had spent many days in his younger years physically training and practicing various spells there. It had always been a very quiet and relaxing place for him – a place where he would not be disturbed while he was deep in concentration. This knowledge of his Thidle Dorma Nor gave him a huge advantage against any enemy but, unaware of Blane’s inside knowledge, the men continued to follow him.

As he exited the tall silver cane and entered the lush green grass of the clearing, Blane noticed that the ground had been recently disturbed. Parts of the grass had been compressed and it was evident that many boots had been there. Questions began to flow through Blane’s mind like the raging seas at the southern most tip of Attylan.

Who could have been here? Soldiers have not crossed this path in several years. Did these Rygran know of my Thidle Dorma Nor? Did they want me to head here, to fall into a planned trap? Whatever the case may be, I must stay one step ahead of them.

Blane was a Raven Master because of his wide expanse of physical, mental and magical knowledge and experience. He was a very quick thinker, and had always excelled in situations where the odds had been stacked heavily against him.

There was one solitary tree in Blane’s Thidle Dorma Nor. It was only a young sapling during the days that Blane had trained in this clearing, but now had grown into a beautiful oak, with a thick, dark trunk.

Blane quickly headed over to the tall, flourishing oak tree that stood solo at the far edge of Thidle Dorma Nor. As he crouched down behind the oak he heard the silver cane rustling from the direction from which he had entered the clearing.

The Rygran must be close now, he mumbled to himself.

Blane knew he did not have much time before the Rygran found him there. Still crouching behind the oak, Blane began to untie his bootstraps and take off his hooded fleece. He placed his boots in the thick grass on the opposite side of the oak tree so that the toes of his boots protruded just enough to be visible from the track that he created through the cane as he had entered. Then he pierced a hole through his hood and hung it on a small branch on the trunk of the oak a few feet from the base above his boots. The Rygrans would think that Blane had taken a seat behind the oak to rest, totally unaware of his tracking enemies.

Scrambling to his feet in a race against time, Blane headed for the western edge of the clearing. His heart was doing a hundred to the minute as he slid back into the tall silver cane to wait. The wind gently disturbing the stillness of the silver cane was the only sound that entered Blane’s ears as he waited.

His heart seemed to stop as he listened to a deep voice behind him.

Sitiam take the western edge, a voice echoed. I’ll cut off the northern side. Pladmire, south, and, Toriad, you cover the east.

Blane had planned for all the bandits to enter his Thidle Dorma Nor from the south, as his set up would only be effective from that direction, but the bandits were surrounding the clearing and Blane needed to think fast.

With no further hesitation, Blane moved deeper into the silver cane and prepared for an attack. He was as silent as a ghost as his eyes scanned the different directions that the thick cane allowed sight through. The soft, even rustling of human movement grew slightly louder each second. Blane crouched slowly as he knew his Rygran enemy would appear in his vision at any second.

Blane contemplated the inevitable attack. There he is. I can see him now. There’s my man.

Unaware of Blane’s position, and the capability of the man he had been following, the Rygran member continued to push his way through the cane, closer and closer. Like a leopard in the densest jungle, Blane launched from his crouched position, in an agile, but aggressive attack. He came up at the Rygran from below with sickle in hand. The slice from the Raven’s blade cut deep and fast. Blood painted the silver cane in all directions from the powerful spray caused by Blane’s weapon. A once white garment was now red as the Rygran fell to the ground. Not a word was spoken throughout this efficient attack by Blane or the Rygran. Blane knew that the other three Rygran would soon discover his attempt to deceive them.

What’s this? Rythos bellowed. His clothes and boots are at this tree but where is this swine? Where is his gold?

He must be close by, rang a voice from somewhere in the cane on the eastern side of the clearing.

Toriad, Rythos exclaimed, head towards me. Pladmire and Sitiam, you do the same. We will close in on this rat and bleed him dry, he roared.

Yes, Rythos, Pladmire and Toriad shouted in unison.

No reply came from the western side of the clearing where Sitiam’s body lay still. Blane listened as the three remaining barbaric rebels exposed their positions to him around the clearing.

Rythos was obviously the leader of the group. Blane knew that if he took him down then the others would be lost.

He shot off, scurrying north, in a desperate effort to find Rythos before his Rygran counterparts did. Blane slid through the cane at full pace. He barely slowed as he reached where he mentally predicted Rythos was waiting. Unlike his previous encounter with Sitiam, Blane knew he would not have the same amount of time to execute his crucial blow against Rythos.

Bursting through the cane, Blane spotted Rythos and his target returned the stare. Rythos began to charge towards him. The Raven continued to gain speed.

Each step brought the attack closer and closer. Rythos grunted viciously as he sprung his sword above his head with both hands. Blane took one more precise step, and then dropped, sliding hard along the ground through the dirt towards Rythos. As Rythos, still airborne, sailed over Blane, the Raven master released his sickle and effortlessly sliced the back of Rythos’s left heel, like a leather foot strap on a saddle snapping clean. Rythos roared in agony as he hit the ground and collapsed into the foetal position, screaming a sickening moan which would make even the hardest man cringe. Blane jumped to his feet and turned to face his opponent.

Finish me, Rythos cursed.

What do you want from me, you fool? Why were you following me? Blane replied in a similar tone.

Finish me, Rythos again screamed, and with that Blane drove his blade into the Rygran’s chest with great force.

Two down, Blane thought. Now it’s time to enter the clearing and fight these two last Rygran in the open.

Blane quickly picked himself up. The clearing would now be tainted with the blood of his enemies, its peace disturbed forever. This pursuit from these animals was ending now!

Wiping his blade on Rythos’s dead body, Blane gathered his thoughts, and marched through the cane on the outskirts of the clearing and into the lush green grass of his Thidle Dorma Nor. He walked slowly but confidently into the centre of the oval shaped clearing, his face decorated with blood spray patterns from his enemies. His eyes were focused and reflected a brilliant blue in the overhead sun. His clothes and hair were wet in patches from his sweating body. His jaw clenched with a mouthful of grinding teeth. He was ready. He was waiting.

As Blane removed his second sickle from his back, his deafening voice boomed loud enough for even Daigon to hear in his hiding spot in the cane a mile south.

Do you know who you follow, Rygran?

Blane stood panting, adrenalin pumping through his body. Both hands gripped his silver blades intensely, waiting, watching, and hoping the two remaining Rygran would enter his special place. After a few silent moments, Blane noticed the cane on the northern edge of the clearing moving unnaturally.

Blane’s posture tightened like stone as the two remaining Rygran, Pladmire and Toriad, pushed their way through their final silver cane barrier and into his Thidle Dorma Nor. Smirking and grunting to each other, the two bandits began to separate and close in on Blane from two outward directions, as if the pair had an elaborate attack plan worked out. Blane stood motionless in the centre of the clearing. He followed them with his eyes, but he did not move.

Now! Pladmire shouted in a gravely tone. Now!

Running from opposite sides, the Rygran duo prepared to engaged Blane with two long, curved, brass swords. Just as quick as the wind can change, Blane reared from a silent, patient stance to a swinging, double edged flash of fury. With his arms spread wide in a defensive position the Raven master prepared for the Rygran assault.

Alcalamante! came echoing from behind Blane as Daigon, to his Master’s amazement, executed a perfect aerial attack push kicking Pladmire into the shifting, churning terrain which Daigon had composed with his spell just seconds before.

D, I thought I said— Blane squeezed out.

Don’t mention it! Daigon interrupted cheekily.

Stumbling in the disintegrating earth beneath his feet, Pladmire could only watch, as Blane, still shaking his head in disbelief at Daigon, turned to Toriad, who swung a wild swipe at Blane’s head with his sword. Just as his first attack had failed, this swing also ended with a brutal defensive connection with Blane’s sickle. The difference this time was that Blane followed up his saving block with a combination of deadly strikes which stopped Toriad in his tracks. Toriad collapsed with nothing more than a whimper muffled by blood.

Enough, Pladmire begged as he continued to descend into the earth, enough!

"Why were