The Winter That Follows E-Book

LG Surgeson

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

Beschreibung

The Summer of Fire has burned away. The younger gods and their champion have defeated Krynok the Hunter, General Salamander has been destroyed, and slowly Tartaria is reuniting to heal the Clans and the land.

The world has been left dazed and flattened, trying to pick up the pieces. Those who survived find themselves standing amongst the ruins with empty hearts, waiting for faces they will never see again. It has not occurred to many that this might be the greatest challenge of all.

For once the glorious struggles of the Summer are over, they will have to find their way through The Winter That Follows.

Leseprobe

THE WINTER THAT FOLLOWS

BLACK RIVER CHRONICLES BOOK 2

LG SURGESON

CONTENTS

1. Rebuilding

2. A Conspicuous Lack of Goblins

3. A Quiet Life

4. The Deal

5. Goats, Gates and Goblins

6. Appearances

7. A Mammoth Task

8. Cold Comfort

9. The Albion Ambassador's Ball

10. A Turnip for the books…

11. The Greenland Army

12. In for a Penny

13. Instant Access

14. The Greenland War Machine

15. The Chain Gang

16. The New Green Dawn

17. Private Communiqué

18. The Festival of Lights

19. Then, one night in Paravel…

20. Beggars at the Feast

21. An Act of Faith

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2015 LG Surgeson

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

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.

To Derek Peterson, who helped rebuild Aberddu,

&

Chelios, Trasg & Mordachai,

and their vision of a brave new world – a green one

The Summer of Fire had burned away. The younger gods and their champion had defeated Krynok the Hunter, who had called himself the All-Father. General Salamander had been destroyed and slowly Tartaria was reuniting to heal the Clans and the land. The world had been left dazed and flattened, trying to pick up the pieces. Those that had survived found themselves standing amongst the ruins with empty hearts, waiting for faces they would never see again. It had not occurred to many that this might be the greatest challenge of all.

Once the glorious struggles of the Summer are over, somehow you have to find a way to live through the winter that follows.

1

REBUILDING

Iona sat down heavily and pushed her hair back from her face. She did not remember ever being this tired. Everything she had done before, the travelling, the fighting, the 'entertaining', none of it had ever left her exhausted like this did. She heard the door slide open behind her and she turned quicker than she ought, in case he was back. Her head swam as she tried to focus on the figure in the doorway. It wasn't Pringle she knew that whatever she might hope, even though she sat at his desk in the Guild Master's office, which no-one had yet had the heart to clear.

The man cleared his throat and said softly,

“You sent for me Mrs Pringle,”

Derek was wondering exactly how he had ended up in this position. He had left his home and family on their pig farm to seek adventure possibly with a side order of fame and fortune, but he couldn't have picked a stranger time to arrive in the Adventurers Guild. The Summer of Fire had destroyed more than just a few temples. But he had had the good sense to stick around to see what would come afterwards, and as he had walked back from Tartaria he started to realise the enormity of his decision. The Guild, the City, the whole world really needed to be rebuilt, and here he was in the heart of Aberddu with the chance to add his hand to this time of historic change. When Iona Pringle had turned up looking for extra hands to rebuild the Poor Quarter he had volunteered thinking that he might find himself on the business end of a shovel or a wheelbarrow. Rebuilding a couple of hovels couldn't be much different to sorting out a pig shed or two, surely? It hadn't even crossed his mind that Iona was planning on rebuilding more than a few of the houses.

That had been a month ago, and whilst he had in that time found himself with both a shovel and a wheelbarrow in hand, he had more often than not found himself with a list of plans and a group of eager-looking peasant waiting for instructions. There must have been more than a thousand of them all told, and somehow Iona had bought the land they lived on and sold them a tale of a better life - once they had rebuilt it. They worked day and night, racing against the turning autumn weather. Derek was 'overseeing' - a job he had always thought was specifically reserved for those who were too old, deaf and fat to do anything useful. He was in charge of the construction of ten rows of houses, a school room and nearly five hundred workers. Once he had got over his initial shock, he found it to be no different in essence to farming. Things needed doing in a certain order, on a certain time scale and if one thing didn't happen on time it meant everything else was put out. The main ingredient was sweat and there was no chance of opting out because of bad weather. He was actually starting to quite enjoy it. The peasants were willing workers and easy company and progress was on the whole good. In fact, the thing that troubled him most about it all was that they kept calling him Mr Peterson.

Iona looked at Derek for a moment, fighting the fog in her brain. She remembered sending for him, but she couldn't think why.

“Oh, yeah, hello Derek,” she said, trying to cover her confusion, “come in, take a seat and for Gods' sake call me Iona.” Derek nodded, kicked the worst of the mud off his boots and dutifully sat down. It was not in Iona's nature to hesitate for long and luckily she now remembered why she had sent for Derek.

“How's work going?” she said, as an opening.

“Good, good,” said Derek, unsure why he had been hauled into the office to answer questions like this. “We've nearly finished the first seven streets and foundations, just digging the drainage now actually.”

“How do you feel it's going in general?” she asked, with what Derek considered to be a suspiciously feline expression.

“Well, I think,” said Derek guardedly, he knew Iona well enough to be wary but not quite well enough to confront her. She already knew the answers to these questions surely, and small-talk was a waste of time during business hours.

“Really?” she asked, more emphatically that Derek had expected.

“Mm,” he confirmed, and finally the shoe dropped. She had been waiting for her way in, and his non-committal answer was exactly what she was looking for.

“You don't seem convinced,” she said, “What's the problem?”

“Oh,” said Derek confused by her tone; it wasn't accusatory at all. It was at this point Derek actually took in the expression on Iona's face. It wasn't that of a distance boss questioning the foreman of the works, it was one adventurer to another. She wanted a proper answer from a trusted colleague.

“Well,” he started, unsure where to begin.

“Come on Derek, I want to know. You've been down there, and the workers talk to you, they trust you. What do they want? There's no point in my building a quarter for these people and leaving out the things they want.”

“Well, er,” he started, “for one thing they were hoping for a bigger school building.” He looked up expecting to see at least a look of displeasure on Iona's face only to find she was taking notes.

“What else?” she demanded. “Are the houses big enough?”

“Yes,” said Derek emphatically, “but if possible could we cobble the main roads? The mud really gets people down. Also, they were hoping for a factory or something. Some form of livelihood.” Iona was nodding and scribbling away furiously when Derek looked at her again.

“Right,” she said after a moment, “what el…”

Instead of finishing the word else, Iona let out a cry of anguish, and doubled forward in pain. Involuntary tears were falling from her eyes, as she slid from her chair to the floor, clutching her abdomen, her mouth open with silent screams. Derek roared with anger and sprang to his feet, to an observe this would have seemed like a very strange sight, even out of the context. Derek had the very essence of mild manner about him. He leapt over Iona's desk, and having no weapon to hand, began to set about her prone body with his feet. He drove the toe of his boot into her shoulder, then he stamped on her nose so that it shattered, spraying blood across her face. At this, she let slip a pathetic whimper. He then kicked her several times in the head. And then, as quickly as it had arrived, the rage and pain vanished and Derek was left standing over the body of his friend in horror and disgust at what he had done. This was the fourth or fifth time tonight they had been gripped by a demonic wave that pulsed out over the city. It filled those of pure human blood with a hateful rage against those who were not, who at the same time were ignominiously struck down in blinding agony and unable to defend themselves. It was magic the Frisians used on their borders, but now it seemed they were letting pulse out through the surrounding country side.

Iona was motionless and bleeding from the nose and ears. Tears streaming down his face, Derek opened the office door and called for a healer. He didn't pause to take in the devastation in the main guild hall, he was too busy trying to find someone to deal with Iona.

Seeing his distress, a Life Priestess called Saran came forward, bustling through the destruction in her green habit. She was so new to the Guild that she thought of Derek as an old hand. Standing numbly in the doorway of the office, Derek could do little but point at the sorrowful sight on the other side of the desk. Saran understood, she had seen this look of shame in the eyes of so many pure bloods in the last month. It was nearly as painful as seeing the other races cry out in helpless agony. She didn't stop to question Derek, she just got on with the task in hand - a skill she had had learnt fast since joining the guild. If you stopped to make a fuss about how people had got injured in the first place, they died. She lay hands on Iona's head and started praying immediately. The soft white light that Derek associated with a Life Priestess' healing poured out and over Iona. Derek stood in the doorway, desperate to make sure Iona was okay but not willing to get any closer. He watched intently as, eyes closed, Saran ran her hands over Iona's whole body, her face serene. If he had been a religious man, he would have been praying too that she could fix all the damage. When she got to Iona's kidneys however, her eyes sprang open and her brow furrowed.

“What?” demanded Derek, his heart stopping for a moment.

“Nothing,” replied Saran quickly, “It's fine,” leaving Derek unconvinced.

“Is she going to be okay?” he persisted, determined to hear the worst as soon as possible. Saran looked up at his panicked expression and nodded slowly.

“She's going to be fine. I just need a moment in private with her when she comes round.” Derek's face fell. He clearly didn't believe Saran, he just nodded stoically and left the room pulling the door to after himself.

Iona let out a pained moan and opened her eyes. She could taste blood in her mouth and her limbs and head ached. The new priestess was kneeling by her head looking troubled. Iona forced a smile, and the other woman helped her to sit up.

“Thanks for that,” said Iona casually, stretching her arms and trying to assess the remaining damage. Saran nodded but did not relax. Her expression concerned Iona. It was certainly troubling to see on the face of someone who had just healed you. “What's wrong?” she asked, hoping it was nothing more than piety or over-protection.

“I don't know how to say this,” whispered the priestess not daring to look Iona in the eye. “but did you know you were pregnant?”

Iona just stared at her.

2

A CONSPICUOUS LACK OF GOBLINS

Charlie heaved the barrel up through the trap door and lumped it down beside the other two. It was unusually quiet this morning. The Law Temple nine-hour bell had rung long since, and yet there was no noise in the street. He wiped his forehead and hands with his apron and went to the door of the Tavern.

Charlie was used to goblins, some of his best customers were goblins. In fairness he didn't have many customers that weren't goblins - which is what happens if you open a bar called 'The Startling Toad'. Today, however, was suffering from a conspicuous lack of goblins. The sound of no goblins always made Charlie nervous. It usually meant they were up to something. Mind you, goblins were up to something whether you could hear them or not, but if you couldn't hear them it meant they were up to something organised. Charlie was still recovering from the chicken rustling plot of 1099ac, he couldn't live through that again – screaming militia, chortling goblins and flying chicken feathers everywhere and he was still finding grain in places he could have sworn he had cleaned.

He tried to rack his brains, what had he heard? One of them had been muttering about the Temple District he thought, and another couple had been mumbling about the Adventurers Guild. He hoped it was the Temple District. It was already a pile of rubble and therefore there wasn't much more damage they could really do to it. If it was the Adventurers Guild then things were not likely to go so well. The combination of a bunch of self-obsessed hero types and a load of piss-head goblin dock-hands was not something that Charlie wanted to contemplate at this hour of the day.

On opening the door, it was much as he feared – the street was empty. There weren't even the usual pile of drunks sleeping off the night before. Not even those crazy bastards Chelios and Trasg, lying in a stinking heap grinning and twitching in their sleep and cuddling their explosives. Charlie couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the street empty. There was nothing out there apart from effluent and seagulls. He was beginning to wonder if he was dreaming, until he caught a whiff of something wafting by and decided that if his subconscious could manufacture a smell like that then he didn't want to know about it. He shrugged, there was nothing to be done except his job, so he stumped back into the bar and started to wipe tables wondering to himself if there was really any point. It was then that he noticed it. A scrap of paper, perhaps twice the size of a hand that was pinned to the wall by a rusting dagger. It had clearly been dropped in more than one puddle and bore the terrifying legend 'bak sooon, we'ze joynd the arm-ee lov Chelios'.

“Blimey,” thought Charlie, “I didn't realise the army were that hard up.”

“Front and centre,” bellowed the captain, “Come on you bunch of idle scrotes.” A small handful of scraggly looking men jogged up and fell into an uneasy line in front of the captain. They were all looking slightly sheepish and were trying not to meet the captains rheumy eye even more so than usual. “I said front and centre or you'll feel my whip,” screamed the captain again, spittle flying as she let a whip-crack echo through the air. Nothing. No one else appeared, and the few who were shuffling in front of her stared at their feet with more concentration than they had ever paid their work. The captain rounded on them like with a fury like the storm-bound sea.

“Where are Chelios and Trasg? Slacking? I'll have their hides if they're too drunk to unload.” This met with an uncomfortable silence. “Or are they still in the alehouse? Is that what it is?” The crew dared not breathe. The wrath of the captain was bad enough without interrupting the flow. “Well?” she demanded, “One of you speak to me,” then she shot a hand out and grabbed the first collar within reach and yanked. A scrawny man with a fearsome beard found himself nose to nose with the red-face harpy that was his captain.

“Mordichai,” she roared, “where are the goblins?” The man, Mordichai, looked the captain in the eye and with the fatal air of one whose day cannot get worse without a sudden invasion of demons said calmly,

“They've gone.”

“GONE?” screamed the captain, “What do you mean gone?” Mordichai had nothing to lose. He wasn't sure he wanted to stay on the crew if the goblins had left anyway. He took a deep breath and in the slow manner one explains simple things to an infant or an imbecile, said

“They've gone, as in they are no longer here. They have left, they have departed and removed themselves to another geographical location. Apparently, there's a war on. Or there will be.” At this point the captain let out one last guttural roar and hot spittle hit Mordichai in the face just before she threw him to the floor. Lying on the deck looking up at the sky, Mordichai was cross about one thing. Wherever they had gone, those green bastards could have taken him with them.

The muffled explosion was the first thing the guard knew of what was to become known as 'the goblin incident' even though a significant proportion of the participants were in fact orcs or trolls. He had been in a lolling daze-state when the blast had occurred, three seconds later he was more awake than he had been during the last three years of his guarding career. Perhaps that was the sound of the falling masonry had been the worst thing or it might have been the raucous cackling and howling that had followed. He had honestly never heard a sound like it. It was enveloping and pervasive, it crept over his spine and into his ears and hair. It was frightening and taunting, it wormed its way into his head and his dreams and it stayed there. The look on his boss's face whilst he was making his report made a similar impression, resulting in a horrifying tableaux that greeted him whenever he closed his eyes to sleep. It took several days to decipher exactly what had happened, by which point it had also become abundantly clear why it had happened. Rumours of a vast greenskin army massing on the borderlands of Aberddu State were spreading like clap through a brothel and if the more esoteric stories were to be believed there was more blowing in the winds than the foul smell of a thousand pairs of unwashed feet. If that was indeed the case, then the jail break was a very logical move.

Clearwater was a well-known Albion jail. Well-known for two things – firstly it had started life as an insane asylum and then some time during the reign of King Leopold it had been cleaned out and turned into a prison for vagrants and petty criminals. No one asked too many questions about what had been done with the previous inmates as slowly the jail began to fill with the more unpleasant elements that got underfoot in Royal Albion. The second thing was that by 1102ac the jail was renowned for having a vast population of green-skin inmates on such a wide array of charges that the senior jail clerk had had to buy a new ledger. In the case of a greenskin uprising, it was like the proverbial goldmine. The guard had, at one point, wondered why no-one had thought of that before but he knew full well what the answer to that question was. The greenskins in Albion, and in fact everywhere else, were so far down trodden that no one had expected there to be a greenskin uprising.

“Well,” thought the guard as he left his bosses office with his ears burning for the third time in as many days, “more fool them.”

Greery rolled his eyes. Don't worry they said, everything'll be back to normal they said. His captain had reassured him that his job would return to its previous glorious monotony, so had his wife. Apparently they were both wrong. At least this lot were heading in the right direction he thought, as he cranked open the gate and let the gaggle of greenskins amble out of the city. He had no idea what they were playing at but this lot were the sixth, or possibly the seventh, group to leave the city through this gate in the last two days. The Tartars and pilgrims had been bad enough, but green-skins were something else. Not only were the bad-mannered and broke they also smelt unbelievable - particularly when they were over-excited. Another man would have been diverted by the sight of near on a hundred green-skins leaving the city - each one a unique harbinger of chaos and lunacy. Little ones with monolithic noses poking out from beneath massive helmets some of which, on closer inspection, were made from a range of cooking utensils including pans, kettles and colanders. There were big ones with crooked teeth and dozens of knives, alchemical grenades and other weapons criss-crossing their bare torsos in bandoleers. Orcs with back banners, front banners, side banners, strange leather masks, hand-bells, knee-bells and multicoloured top hats. Trolls with wheelbarrows or armed with tiny trebuchets and a goblin waving a feathered tricorn from a sedan chair being carried by two bewildered children. One entire batch were lavishly adorned with all sorts of spoons and singing. Greery didn't care, he just counted the heads and opened the gate.

Grumpily, he watched as this latest crowd moved off, the smell of lamp oil and sweat lingering as they passed. Then he cranked the gate shut and went back to the office. He had just finished scribbling the words 'another dozen or so greenskins' in the ledger when his attention was caught by a movement. A pack of tiny, squeaky-type goblins that were hopping from foot to foot and pointing at the gate had materialised from somewhere. He cursed loudly, gazed longingly at his cold stewed tea and he went out to see to the bastards.

3

A QUIET LIFE