The Keep In The Marsh E-Book

Neil O'Donnell

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A village blacksmith from the middle of nowhere, Thomas seeks adventure after surviving a plague that eradicated his homeland.

Following his father’s advice and heading east, Thomas finds himself entwined in a surge of attacks by a thieves’ guild knows as Neydis. Similarly lost adventurers soon join him along the Queen's Road, and they set their sights on breaking through the grasp of Neydis and finding "safe" adventure in dungeons without any dragons.

Thomas and his group may be reckless, but they aren't stupid. Who would knowingly mess with a dragon? Find out in The Keep In The Marsh, the first book in Neil O'Donnell's series of epic fantasy adventures.

Leseprobe

THE KEEP IN THE MARSH

ESCAPING DRAGONS BOOK 1

NEIL O’DONNELL

Copyright (C) 2022 Neil O’Donnell

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Terry Hughes

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

CONTENTS

Level 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

And So It Begins…

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LEVEL 1

CHAPTERONE

The waning sunlight emboldened the dreary clouds above as cold winds and a chilling drizzle heralded the coming storm. In truth, even a hurricane would fail to smother the fire Thomas planned to ignite.

“Ever in my thoughts, Mom and Dad,” Thomas said as he tossed a torch through the open doorway to the cabin in which he’d spent his entire life until that moment. Seventeen years of life shielded by the stout, timbered walls of the 30- by 40-foot structure his father had built years before the son’s birth. His father had been a carpenter, a good one, and had erected the structure so that no storm would destroy it. That fact only complicated Thomas’s actions now. Thomas loaded the cabin’s main entryway with firewood coated in lantern oil. With but that one torch, the cabin erupted in flames that would soon eradicate the structure and any remaining residue of the plague that claimed his parents and most everyone else who called the Village of Seneca home.

The rain was soon falling steadily. Thomas, hooded and cloaked, watched as the flames lapped up the sides of his home. The crackling of the flames proved unnerving as they signified the death of his parents as well as the victory over the plague. Well, the other survivors called it a victory; Thomas was not so convinced.

The fire-clenched cabin soon caved in on itself, the roof supports failing sooner than Thomas anticipated, which actually made things easier. Knowing the fire would be contained by the storm and unable to reach the woodlands, he said his final goodbye to his parents. Though he’d buried them in the village cemetery, he still sensed his parents’ presence even now, forever connected to the lands that sustained them.

“The world will always remember you both,” Thomas whispered before turning his back to the cabin and marching off east to God knew where. He recognized he would get only so far before the eye of the storm hit, but he vowed to walk until he was beyond the borders of the village. At the time he set the fire, the remaining villagers were leading a half dozen wagons south to find a new place to call home. Thomas wished them well, but he wanted to free himself of village memories. The burden was too much to bear. He needed a fresh start.

“To the east, Lad,” his father always said. “To the east be adventure. Mountains, swamps, rivers and adventure.” His parents loved a quiet life, one of routine, safety, and stability. Thomas had treasured that, too, but the plague changed everything.

“I will not let this world forget my parents,” Thomas vowed, and places of adventure, danger and the unknown offered a path to achieve this new goal. “Everything I do, I do for them.” Then, before departing, Thomas cut a lock of his coal-black hair and buried it not far from the cabin. “A piece of me will always be here, Mom and Dad.”

Traveling a league beyond Seneca’s eastern border, Thomas found a copse of evergreens that provided a good break from the growing wind. There he pitched his canvas tent, which was really just a canvas tarp that he tied between two trees. With the ground saturated and the night air cold, it wasn’t until he set a small fire that Thomas felt any comfort. Snacking on some venison jerky and hard biscuits, he sated his hunger if but for just a little while. He would soon run out of rations so he knew securing food ranked as his highest concern. Glenwood was the nearest eastern village and his current destination. Yet, his stay there would be brief; just enough time to secure food and perhaps some money as he’d given every copper and silver coin he’d had to the other Seneca survivors. Of course, the brigands could not have known that.

He woke to the patter of raindrops against his tent. Wrapped tight in a wool blanket, he shivered as the ground had grown cold, his campfire having long since burned out. Thomas was considering options for his continuing trek when the three men appeared. He’d heard them traipsing among the woods and had hoped they’d move past him without seeing the tent. No such luck.

“Look over there, a tent,” one of the men said before their footfalls grew louder as they drew closer. Emerging from the tent, still shrouded in his blanket, Thomas looked at the travelers. All three were older than him, by at least 10 years. One was heavyset, while the other two were thin, gaunt even, looking as if a stiff breeze would knock them to the ground.

“Morning, stranger,” the heavyset man said as he unsheathed his short-bladed sword, which looked more like a machete than a weapon of war. “Certainly a fine morning to be outdoors, wouldn’t you agree?”

“A bit chilly for my tastes,” Thomas said as he dropped his blanket and watched the other men unsheath daggers with rusty blades.

“We’re collecting taxes on behalf of the lord mayor,” the heavyset man said, stopping within feet of Thomas. He smirked at the thought of any mayor sending forth tax collectors dressed in such a mismatch of leather jerkins, well-worn boots, cotton trousers, and wool cloaks beyond threadbare.

“I don’t have any money, just my smith’s hammer, a tent and my blanket.”

“You village folk always got somethin’ hidden,” the nearest of the gaunt men said, pointing his dagger in Thomas’s direction. “I say we search him.” Holding his palms up and out towards the brigands, Thomas slowly lowered himself into a crouched position before reaching behind him for his hammer. Once he had clutched it, he rose and extended his arm as if offering the hammer as tribute. The heavyset man took a step forward unwittingly. How could he possibly understand Thomas’s anger, which was still raw and overwhelming? Once the brigand’s left foot extended within a yard of his outstretched arm, Thomas threw down his hammer, with its four-pound weight, solidly hitting the top of Heavyset’s foot.

“Ahhh!” the man exclaimed as pain coursed through his body and he collapsed to the forest floor. He couldn’t even grasp the thought of ordering his companions to strike Thomas dead; they were similarly stymied, providing Thomas time to reclaim his hammer before slamming its head into Heavyset’s right knee. Thomas’s rage took over from there. First casting his hammer into the nearest dagger-wielding brigand’s chest, he scooped up Heavyset’s dropped blade while the brigand screamed and rolled about on the forest floor. The last brigand standing fled. As for the dagger-wielding “tax collector” whose chest caught the hammer, he was gasping for breath as he lay prone on his back.

“Try to breath slow and deep,” Thomas advised as he picked up his hammer before walking to his shelter. It took but a few minutes to take down his tent and gather his belongings. Once set, Thomas walked over to Heavyset who was now simply groaning. “If I see any of you again, I will kill you,” Thomas said bluntly before tossing Heavyset’s sword into the brush. His anger now somewhat assuaged, Thomas hiked on, putting the brigands out of his mind and keeping his cobalt-blue eyes focused on the trail to Glenwood.

CHAPTERTWO

Thomas walked long that first day, wanting to put as much distance between him and the brigands as possible. He followed the queen’s road for the most part, slinking off into the forest whenever he heard fellow travelers. No sense in risking more tax collectors.

The queen’s road was beaten and packed, the fall of wagon wheel, horse shoe, and boot having trampled most of the grass and weeds that survived to punch through the road’s compacted earth. Even with the recent rains, most of the road drained rainwater into the ditches erected here and there throughout the entire road system.

“Gotta love engineers,” Thomas joked, figuring that the runoff ditches were placed where flooding was considered likely centuries before, when the roads were first constructed. Certainly, he encountered enough vernal ponds that appeared to be fed in part by road runoff. That first night after the brigands, Thomas stopped at a creek that ran parallel to the road for maybe half a mile. While not even close to the girth and depth of even the tiniest river, the creek’s shallows still produced two rock bass, which he spent less than an hour fishing from the slow-moving water. Avoiding his mistake from the previous night, Thomas hiked back well away from the road to set camp. Shielded by a dense grove of conifers, Thomas set up his tent before lighting a fire to cook with. Supplemented by a few bites of jerky throughout the day’s journey, the two bass subdued his hunger pains. Thomas determined to fish in the morning to start off with a good meal rather than waiting until day’s end again, when he was exhausted.

That night, the stars sparkled through partly cloudy skies, the constellations his father spoke of reasonably clear. Thomas remembered, the Hunter, the Stag, and the Scythe, but he could not recall the rest, the religion those constellations linked to having died out a millennia before. His father had for a time studied to be a priest, which is where his sire had learned of other faiths and superstitions. Disillusionment and want for a family drove his father from the cloth, which Thomas was thankful for. Like his parents, he believed as others did, in a Supreme Otherness and lesser entities, divine or otherwise, which stalked the world to strengthen or subdue mortals. He didn’t spend much time considering the supernatural. As a smith, he preferred to create from the bounty the visible world provided. Not two days from home, and Thomas’s ears ached for the sound of his hammer pounding into hot iron. He fell asleep that night thinking of the sights, sounds, and scents of a smithy.

“OK, next time I get rid of all the rocks,” Thomas cursed as he dug out the weathered stone he’d rolled on to during the night. His back sore, he emerged from his tent and stretched for a time to work out the kinks in his muscles. Then, after quickly disassembling camp, he hiked to the road and again caught a couple of fish, this time a plump catfish along with another rock bass. He risked a cooking fire at the road’s edge and had his meal cooked and finished in under an hour. Then, the day’s hike began in earnest. Fishing in the morning and camping well away from the road became Thomas’s routine for the next three days, his thoughts seldom far from his parents and his friends who had likewise succumbed to the plague. That last day of travel, as the main street of Glenwood came into view, he realized he was far from letting go of his pain and loss, but he hoped this village would serve as the start of his rejuvenation.

The village itself was larger than his home of Seneca, but not anywhere near the size of the cities his father spoke of to both the north and south. With no money whatsoever, finding work that would pay in copper, silver, or lodging was his first task. A stable located at the near edge of the village proved unsuccessful as they already had two resident smiths tending to every need, from horseshoes to wagon-wheel rivets. Thomas’s visits to the mill, the church, and the village’s main tavern proved equally fruitless as what little needing fixing by a smith was contracted out to the village smithy. It wasn’t until Thomas approached the far eastern stretch of Glenwood that he happened upon an inn in need of minor smith work.

“Horseshoes and other tinkering, indeed,” innkeeper Grier had said when Thomas inquired. “Haven’t had a smith on the premises in three seasons now, and God knows that damned Vaulkner who runs the village smithy robs ya blind with what he charges. I can think of a few things that I could use you for, if you’re OK with getting to sleep in the barn and two free meals a day while you’re working. Does that sound like a fair deal or not?” Grier was a short, stocky fellow with black hair and piercing blue eyes who never gave the hint of a smile when you talked to him. That suited Thomas just fine, given that his goal was just to get a roof over his head and some grub in his stomach. He eagerly accepted the deal.

With but one change of clothes, Thomas was more than thrilled to change out of the getup he’d worn throughout the past several days. Saying he was a bit ripe was an understatement. Getting a hunk of soap from one of Grier’s inn maids, Thomas took a bath in a tub of cold water before soaping up and rinsing his travel clothes. Wanting to impress his new employer, Thomas wasted no time afterwards in lighting the inn’s coal forge, set in a shed just south of the barn. In little time, the forge was blazing and soon thereafter the scents and sounds he loved flooded the shed’s air. The failed work of previous smiths rested in an old barrel; busted ball-peen hammers, broken horseshoes, cracked axes, and a miscellany of metal odds and ends.

For a moment, after lifting his hammer, Thomas closed his eyes and soaked in its weight. Then, grabbing one of the horseshoe fragments from the barrel, he placed it into the fired coals and waited. It didn’t take long for the iron to turn red hot, after which his hammer started to sing. Blow by blow, his hammer pummeled the iron from what had been a mule shoe, and in little time he had forged a hoof pick. As night began to take hold, Thomas moved on, this time taking a larger horseshoe fragment and transforming it into a knife. He smiled as he remembered his mother and father always encouraging him to recycle tools, leftovers from meals, and even stout limbs that fell from trees during wind storms, the latter for use as shovel, hammer and axe handles. It felt good to create again, iron his medium and the fire his art’s lifeline. He smiled after appraising his handiwork. It was then that a glint caught his eye. A splitting axe hung from a peg hammered into one of the shed’s support beams. Just a hunch. He walked over and removed the axe from the beam, and a quick look at the axe’s rusted head showed a crack in the edge.

“Well now, there’s a thing needs fixin’,” he said as he jammed the axe head into the coals. The axe head gleamed in a range of hues from crimson orange to a brilliant yellow. With every strike of his hammer, the developing edge revealed new facets. As he was reforging an old tool, the axe’s story was beginning a new chapter, as opposed to starting a new life as iron stock. Once it was finished, Thomas whetted the axe, taking his time to get it good and sharp.

“My father’s axe,” Grier said, startling Thomas as he was inspecting the axe’s edge.

“I’m sorry. I just thought to fix…”

“No apologies needed,” Grier said holding out his hand. Thomas handed over the axe, which Grier took in hand. The innkeep smiled revealing crooked teeth yellowed by a lifetime of pipe smoking. “I never thought this would be whole again. You have my thanks.”

“Happy to help, and even happier to have shelter for the night.”

“You should get yourself inside while there’s venison stew left. My wife even baked a fresh batch of corn muffins that are absolutely delicious slavered in butter.” Grier spoke, but he never took his eyes off the axe.

“I’ll get washed up.”