Reclaiming Honor Read online

  Reclaiming Honor

  Marc Alan Edelheit & Quincy J. Allen

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

  Reclaiming Honor: The Way of Legend

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2019 by Marc Edelheit. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  I wish to thank my agent, Andrea Hurst, for her invaluable support and assistance. I would also like to thank my beta readers, who suffered through several early drafts. My betas: Jon Cockes, Nicolas Weiss, Melinda Vallem, Paul Klebaur, James Doak, David Cheever, Bruce Heaven, Erin Penny, April Faas, Rodney Gigone, Brandon Purcell, Tim Adams, Paul Bersoux, Phillip Broom, David Houston, Sheldon Levy, Michael Hetts, Walker Graham, Bill Schnippert, Jan McClintock, Jonathan Parkin, Spencer Morris, Jimmy McAfee, Rusty Juban, Marshall Clowers, Joel Rainey. I would also like to take a moment to thank my loving wife, who sacrificed many an evening and weekend to allow me to work on my writing.

  Editing Assistance by Hannah Streetman, Audrey Mackaman,

  Brandon Purcell.

  Art by Piero Mng (Gianpiero Mangialardi)

  Cover Design and Formatting by 100 Covers

  Agented by Andrea Hurst & Associates

  http://maenovels.com/

  This book is dedicated to two people.

  To Marc Alan Edelheit, who was generous enough

  to let me play in his sandbox.

  To Victoria, who was brave enough to let me play in

  her life. ~Quincy

  Books by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Chronicles of a Legionary Officer

  Book One: Stiger’s Tigers

  Book Two: The Tiger

  Book Three: The Tiger’s Fate

  Book Four: The Tiger’s Time

  Book Five: The Tiger’s Wrath

  Tales of the Seventh

  Part One: Stiger

  Part Two: Fort Covenant

  Part Three: A Dark Foretoken

  Part Four: Thresh (Coming 2020)

  The Karus Saga

  Book One: Lost Legio IX

  Book Two: Fortress of Radiance

  Book Three: The First Compact

  Way of the Legend:

  With Quincy J. Allen

  Book One: Reclaiming Honor

  Book Two: (Coming 2020)

  CONTENTS

  A Word on Language from Grimbok Lorekeeper

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Enjoy this short preview of Marc’s First book:

  One

  A Note from the Marc

  A WORD ON LANGUAGE FROM GRIMBOK LOREKEEPER

  To all those readers of the common tongue of Tannis who find themselves in possession of Reclaiming Honor—the first Tale of Tovak—I must offer a few words on the use of language contained herein. To achieve that, of course, I must begin with an apology. My people, the Dvergr race, as a whole, do not like the other races much. Indeed, there are many who would say we are inherently and inexorably xenophobic. They would not be wrong. Our mistrust and general loathing have been hard-earned.

  My apology, however, is not to provide some sort of querulous accounting for how the Dvergr feel about other races and cultures. Our feelings have been reinforced time and time again—a result of one betrayal after another, one assault after another upon my people. Humans, elves, orcs, goblins, and gnomes, to name the most common interactions, have been, as a rule, wholly unpleasant. An apology for our perfectly reasonable reaction to those events is neither offered nor warranted.

  Instead, my apology is for how I decided to treat with a variety of Dvergr-specific terms utilized throughout this tome, as well as for those places in which I chose to use terms specific to the common tongue. I had guidelines, to be sure, but no hard and fast rules. All I can say is that I did the best I could.

  The Dvergr are a complex people with a wide array of rich cultures spanning across our cities, societies, and even the expanse of time stretching back into the mists beyond memory. It was and has always been my intention to preserve as much of that strength and beauty as I could, whilst still conveying a reasonable and comprehensible sense of the events surrounding Tovak and his journeys, beginning with the Great March from Garand’Durbaad and culminating in events that none of us ever could have guessed would happen in our lifetimes.

  It is important to note that how the Dvergr treat with numbers is somewhat different than how the other races undertake numeration. Of all the races, the Dvergr are the only thinking species with six digits on each hand and foot. This means that our counting systems, going back millennia, are based upon extrapolations of twelve rather than the more common use of ten as the base numeral utilized by the other races. Subsequently, time, distance, weight, and other measures in their gross quantities are very different for Dvergr.

  For example, I could have used term jura as the large measure of distance undertaken by the Great March. A jura equates to roughly three-quarters of a mile, and twelve jura equal a legiar. However, using the Dvergr terms would have made it difficult for the reader to conceptualize the context of distance. To achieve clarity, I converted Dvergr jura to common miles. Additionally, in descriptions of shorter units of measure, I have chosen to utilize the more common terms of feet and yards. This deviation from Dvergr norms is deliberate and was chosen to give the reader an easier sense of scale for combat and the general descriptions of setting. It was a literary consideration to make it easier for the reader to quickly and easily envision those events as Tovak—and others—experienced them.

  Furthermore, when treating with Dvergr-specific foods, cultural constructs, and even the beasts of Tannis, I have chosen to rely upon Dvergr terminology wherever possible. Where applicable, I have included as detailed a description as I could manage in order to make it clear that what I am relating might have a counterpart in the other languages or on other worlds but that the Dvergr have a term for that creature, object, or action. I do not know where you, the reader, have come from or what experiences you carry with you. Therefore, because this story is, for the most part, told from Tovak’s perspective, utilizing Dvergr terminology seemed more effective.

  It is my sincere hope that you do not find this mixture of both the common and Dvergr tongues confusing.

  The Tales of Tovak coincide with a cri
tical time for the Dvergr people on Tannis. Indeed, his journey from the Age of Iron and beyond the time of the Great March represents a pivotal era that held both great peril and discovery for the people of Garand’Durbaad, Garand’Tur, and Garand’Karak.

  It was Tovak’s hand in these events, however, that, in many respects, altered their course and, one could argue, made the Great March not only possible but successful. I bore witness to at least some of these events—the Battle of Keelbooth, for example—and while I cannot claim to have been one of his mentors, I have always looked upon him fondly. Over a span of many years, Tovak himself told me of his accounts. And I must add, with a bit of pride, he allowed me to name him a friend.

  It is, therefore, with humble respect and heartfelt thanks that I present to you Reclaiming Honor. It is the first Tale of Tovak. He is the one who gave hope and returned faith to my people in a time when we desperately needed both.

  His was the Way of Legend.

  Your humble servant,

  Grimbok Lorekeeper,

  Scribe to the Thane Rogar Bladebreaker

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tovak Stonehammer breathed in the crisp air, clenching his fists in frustration and anger as he stared out at the grasslands of the plateau rolling by. Behind, yet another conversation about him was rolling by, just as easily as the landscape.

  “Thank Fortuna we’re almost there. I can’t wait to get off this rickety old thing . . . . I swear, the stench of the Pariah is getting worse every day. I’m afraid it’s gonna stick to me.”

  The voice belonged to Kutog, an arrogant Dvergr from a wealthy family who had spent their entire journey making no secret of his family’s wealth, influence, and his intense dislike for Tovak’s presence.

  Tovak was the Pariah.

  “My father says it would be better to simply put them all to death.” A round of agreement from the other recruits floated up behind Tovak. “Put the honorless scruggs out of their misery . . . .”

  Tovak didn’t recognize the voice and wouldn’t dignify the person by looking, which was what they likely expected. Knowing who it was only made it harder for him to go about his business. He’d heard such things many times before. It never made it any easier. He had long ago learned how to ignore those who insulted and reviled him while he was within earshot. It came with who he was, a Pariah. And though words hurt, he’d suffered much worse over the years.

  “The warbands shouldn’t take their kind,” another voice said.

  “If they weren’t so desperate for warriors, they wouldn’t,” Kutog said. “Don’t worry, he’ll probably piss himself at the first sight of a goblin and run.”

  The group laughed.

  Tovak burned with shame. He closed his eyes and breathed out a heavy breath. His objective was making it to the Blood Badgers, just like the other recruits he shared the journey with. For it would only be through building his own Legend that he could finally and forever cast off the stigma of Pariah. Until then, he would endure. He had no choice.

  Tovak was far from what had been his home—a place to which he would not return, at least if he could help it. He certainly never desired to see it again. The memories were just too painful. The great reinforced iron wheels of the yuggernok—one of the massive cargo wagons of Garand’Durbaad—ground its way across the Grimbar Plateau, carrying him one turn of the wheel at a time closer to his dreams of Legend. The yuggernok and three others of its kind traversed the rolling grass prairie in a small convoy on their way to resupply the Blood Badgers Warband.

  Tovak ignored the voices behind him and whispered a prayer to Thulla as he watched the plateau pass by. He unclenched his fists and tied a prayer knot of gray cloth into a small braid hidden behind his thick auburn beard, marking the prayer’s passing.

  And the Way shall be opened to the faithful, so they may be tested and reclaim that which was taken from them. The passage, lifted from Thulla’s Blessed Word, echoed in his thoughts. He knew Dvergr scripture as well as the priest who had taught him. Like no other, that passage had sustained him through the rough times for as long as he could remember. The prayer knot was one of twelve required by scripture, and he maintained them all without fail, as one of the faithful.

  He had his faith, he had his dream, and he was going to be at the forefront of the next Great March—the exodus of his people.

  It was enough, enough to sustain him.

  The incessant rumbling of the yuggernok, its massive wooden frame creaking and groaning with every turn of the great iron wheels, had taken some getting used to. The wagon was pulled along by a team of six oofants—distant cousins of elephants. They were larger, shaggy beasts of burden capable of travelling tremendous distances. Fully grown, they normally stood fifteen feet at their humps, though some occasionally reached twenty feet tall. They had long, curved tusks that reached out to lengths of eight feet and made formidable weapons against predators and raiders alike. Each of their thudding feet added its own tempo to the low, subtle thunder of the yuggernok’s passage. During the long nights, Tovak had at first struggled to sleep through the racket, but in time, the sound had come to lull him to sleep as the miles passed.

  Setting out from Garand’Durbaad, the small caravan of yuggernoks had traveled for two weeks, and in that time, Tovak had grown increasingly restless. His body, accustomed to the rigors of physical labor and the Academy’s military training, yearned to be active once again. The only time he was able to stretch his legs was when the oofants needed rest or water.

  Early on, out of boredom, Tovak had even offered to help the teamsters tend to the animals and the rig. Duroth, the lead teamster, had rejected him, saying only that they didn’t want a dumb, young Pariah’s bad luck. So, he had passed the days and nights by riding in the back of the covered wagon, watching the mountains in the distance slide by.

  A ruddy pair of suns squatted just above the nearby ridgeline separating Grimbar Plateau from the heavily forested, orc-infested lowlands to the northwest. As the two suns set, they took with them the warmth of the day. It would turn cold again soon as daylight shifted to shadow and shadow to night, but Tovak was accustomed to cold nights spent shivering under his blanket.

  He was no stranger to the cold. Under the mountain, the stone floors and cold barns where he’d worked and slept had been chilly. Hardship was something to which he had become accustomed. He shrugged his shoulders into his threadbare woolen blanket for warmth, doing his best to mind its frayed and torn edges. Unable to afford the cost of a replacement, he’d had it for years. In truth, it was almost like an old friend.

  As the deepening shadows from the mountains stretched across the rolling countryside, he silently watched the tall grasses of the prairie. Almost hypnotically, they bent and swayed with the wind.

  “Stand to,” a harsh voice shouted, jarring Tovak out of his thoughts. He recognized Duroth’s bellow and wondered if the old drunkard had been at the jug yet again. “I said, bloody stand to.”

  Tovak had learned to follow Duroth’s orders or face the consequences, which could and often did include a cuff or, if enraged, a beating. Duroth was shorter than the average Dvergr, ill-tempered, and possessed with a genuine enthusiasm for swearing . . . particularly by taking Thulla’s name in vain. He had long, gray hair and a braided beard tied with simple black bands.

  At the start of the journey, Duroth had made it clear to everyone that he’d been a training instructor with the Blood Badgers once and still held the auxiliary rank of sergeant. This meant he outranked the recruits and was the ultimate authority on the oversized wagon.

  Tovak and the other recruits stepped out from their berths into the central passageway that stretched from stem to stern along the interior of the yuggernok. Like Tovak, they had all recently achieved the Age of Iron and were now fit to join a warband and grow their Legend. Unlike Tovak, however, they already had secured appointments to various companies in the Blood Badgers.

  It would have been easier if he’d had a clan or sponsor to arrang
e for his appointment. But as it was, a Pariah could only hope he would be able to join a company once he was standing before its commanding officer. As always, Tovak was on his own. No one cared a fig for a Pariah. Well, to be honest, very few did.

  There were twenty recruits on board Duroth’s yuggernok. They, Tovak along with them, placed their backs to the curtains of their berths and faced forward, stiffening to attention.

  Tovak stood before the three-by-six-foot area of floorboards Duroth had laughingly referred to as Tovak’s “berth.” Without a clan, sponsor, or patron, he had been forced to pay for his own passage. Tovak had spent a week trying to arrange for a berth aboard one of the caravans, but it was always the same. One teamster after another simply turned his nose up at a Pariah.

  Tovak had been losing hope when a strange impulse finally pushed him in the direction of an older yuggernok that looked to be on its last legs, barely travel-worthy. Its owner, Duroth, was its match in appearance, and he’d had a strong reek of spirits upon him. The teamster’s initial reaction had been identical to the others: “Fortuna don’t look kindly on Pariahs.” However, when his eyes had found Tovak’s purse in hand, his tune had changed. “Maybe we can work something out . . . .”

  In exchange for ten copper suuls, a substantial chunk of Tovak’s hard-earned savings, Duroth granted enough space at the back of the yuggernok to lay out his blanket each night. It was twice the cost of a standard berth, and Duroth made no secret of having taken on a Pariah, which made Tovak’s journey a lonely one.

  At least he’d gotten aboard.

  The corridor, such as it was, held the sleeping bunks for the other passengers and the crew. The yuggernok could sleep up to thirty Dvergr in narrow bunks shielded only by curtains and a weatherproofed canvas roof.

  When unoccupied, the bunks were disassembled for additional storage space. Stacked above each bunk were crates, sacks, casks, and amphorae, all supplies destined for the Blood Badger encampment. The supplies had been strapped and tied down so they didn’t shift or move during transport, and the teamsters regularly checked to make certain everything was still safely secured.