Description:

When Rhylli, a dwarven soldier of the holdfast Gray’s Tooth, hears that his father has been murdered, he returns home to investigate. The motive for the murder: his father had discovered how to forge a sword capable of destroying the demons once and for all. Rhylli sets off to find the murderer and recover the new weapon on the surface world.

There he meets Hrongar, a young warrior whose deceased father was once King of the Norani. Hrongar has a destiny of his own to fulfill in order to rule from his father’s Hall. Together, this unlikely pair will confront mighty demons and the legacies of their fathers as they seek their destinies together.

Excerpt:

“River of the gods,” breathed Hrongar.

The sun was only now beginning to rise, casting a soft orange glow over the gray, pre-dawn world. A low fog rolled off the river as the morning’s growing warmth touched the sluggish waters. The mist settled on the bodies of the slain, but did little to hide the warrior’s remains from the eyes of the carrion crows.

The carnage was terrible, far beyond anything the young men had envisioned. The bodies of fallen Norani warriors were scattered among the dead skreelings. They were enemies since time immemorial, yet they lay together in the embrace of the grave. A breeze drifted through the mist, gently parting it to reveal the blood-soaked ground beneath. Broken weapons, splintered shields, and the waste of war littered the banks of the Oltaig.

“How many are there?” Ulfwine whispered.

Hrongar shook his head, unable to speak. The skalds had never prepared him for this sight. He swung down from his saddle and began to walk toward the river. His boots crunched in the white gravel along the river’s edge, eerily loud in this silent world.

“Where are you going?” Ulfwine’s voice floated over the river with the fog.

“To see the battleground,” Hrongar replied. “Isn’t that why we came?”

He stepped into the river. The current was low near the ford. Icy water soaked through his boots and swirled around his knees as he surged ahead. Behind him, Hrongar could hear Ulfwine calling his name, growing more urgent, yet a strange curiosity gripped him. Nearly halfway through the ford, and approaching the far bank with each passing stride, the son of Hrothgar paid heed only to the call of the battleground.

Hrongar paused; for the first time, he looked back. The fog floated on the surface of the water, preventing him from seeing more than a few hazy feet in any direction. He considered waiting for his friend, but once again curiosity gripped him, and he turned toward his destination.

As he felt the sandy bottom of the Oltaig give way to the crunching of gravel, the wind roared to sudden life. He stumbled and fell to one knee, jarring it against a driftwood log lying on the beach. Hrongar looked up again as the wind died, and a deep, unnatural silence descended on the battleground. Even the Oltaig ceased its endless noise.

“Ulfwine?” Hrongar called loudly. Hearing no answer, he tried again. “Ulfwine? Can you hear me?”

“Son of Hrothgar…”

The voice was thin with age, yet it carried an otherworldly power more felt than heard. Hrongar felt a chill grip his heart even as fire ignited in his veins, creating a strange, heady mix. The young warrior gripped the driftwood log with one hand, yet could not find the courage to stand.

A light bloomed in the fog; hazy and red, it floated in the fog chest high to the kneeling young warrior. It rested upon the nearbank, mere feet from Hrongar, diffused by the mist. Hrongar climbed unsteadily to his feet. He held the driftwood log as he would the wooden staves in the practice yard. Though his stance was brave, his heart raced like a frightened doe, and sweat trickled down his clammy, cold flesh as shivers traveled down his spine.

“Who are you?” His voice, tremulous at first, grew as he forced the courage to come. His father would have feared no otherworldly light, nor would he. “Be you a shade of Hell or a man concealed, show yourself or trouble me no more!”

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