Deathweaver (Prologue)

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The young boy strolled down a dirt packed street in Dragonscale Port, a small fishing village in the kingdom of Salisdar on the southern shore of the Sea of Tranquility. The village was named for the sparkling sands of its beach. The boy’s path took him toward the coast and the shop that Jaroth, the boy’s father, owned. The day was growing old as the sun sank towards the horizon. The breeze coming in from the water felt cool against the boy’s skin and he welcomed it. Gulls dived and wheeled in the air over the beach, screeching and jockeying for the chance to be the first to taste the morsels left over from the day’s catch.2

The lad reached the walkway that ran parallel to the shore and turned to the west in the direction of his father’s shop. Weathered and sun-browned fishermen greeted him in passing with waves and hearty salutations, pausing while mending a net or unloading cargo. The boy’s radiant smile left a stretch of cheerfulness in his wake.3

Jaroth’s shop, The Gallant Whale, was a tavern that most of the sailors and fishermen frequented when they were in port. In the front of the building the customers enjoyed hearty, well-cooked meals that friendly serving women brought from the kitchen piping hot. Ale and beer and some wines were served if requested but anyone familiar with the place knew better than to get disorderly. Jaroth kept a clean, respectable shop and was known to enforce the friendly atmosphere, being a large and physically powerful man.4

As the boy reached the tavern, he paused in the doorway (a prudent precaution after an accident with one of the serving women before) and then made his way, weaving carefully among tables, waiting staff, and patrons to the rear of the building where his father kept a small store. The store was nothing more than a partition from the kitchen that stocked dried meats and fruits, various seasonal fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh water, bread, and assorted other items of storable potential for the sailor or traveler with little time to stop. A window in one corner opened onto the street where customers in a hurry would not even have to enter the building. Here the boy found his father just concluding a sale with a white-haired old fisherman.5

Jaroth turned to the bins that he had been refilling before the customer arrived and noticed his son.6

“Eric, my boy! Did your mother run you out of the house again?” he teased.7

Eric had been born six years ago and Jaroth could remember it as if it were yesterday. His son had made him proud in the last few years. Eric minded the store on occasion when his father was busy elsewhere, helped his mother with household chores, and was the village’s best hunter and tracker in his own age group. At his young age, Eric was already becoming lean; baby fat having melted away. His eyes held a patient intelligence that caused most people to think him older by several years.8

“No, father. I just came to walk home with you after you close shop,” he replied as he helped Jaroth stack fruit neatly into the bin. Jaroth smiled and tipped a wink at his son.9

“So is your mother in a good mood?”10

“Oh, yes! She heard a juicy piece of gossip from Mrs. Nellis and can’t wait to tell you herself.” Eric went on about what he had done during the day and his father told him about the news he had heard from travelers from other cities. All the while the sun set lower in the sky and the breeze off of the water brought the salty smell of the sea through the window. Sailors and travelers began to find their ways to the inns and taverns scattered along the shore.11

Leaving instructions with the cook, Jaroth and his son walked down the nearly deserted streets toward home. The night was peaceful and the sounds of the waterfront melted with the distance. Eric and his father walked through the streets in silence, content just to be together. They had no reason to fear for cutthroats or brigands for the village was too small to have much crime at all.12

As they approached the street that led to their house, Jaroth’s brow lowered in concern as the smell of smoke wafted to him on the night air. He began to walk faster and Eric had to trot to keep up. They turned the corner and Jaroth’s eyes flew wide in horror at the sight before him.13

Flames, just becoming visible, licked at the upper edges of the windows and eaves of the house he had built with his own hands. Smoke poured thickly out of the doors and windows, rising into the dark sky of evening. The townspeople had gathered in the street forming a bucket brigade and Jaroth broke into a sprint leaving Eric behind. Pushing through the growing crowd, he glimpsed dim figures behind the house. Two armed men were dragging someone between them toward the forest on the outskirts of the village.14

As the fire consumed his home, he ran straight through the wall of heat that surrounded his homestead and out the other side where he saw the figure being dragged was his wife, Lil. Eric’s mother. The woman he loved above all else. With a bellow of rage that shattered the night, even over the roar of the fire, he charged after them, moving with a speed that belied his size. Standing almost six and a half feet tall, he was quite intimidating when enraged.15

One of the armed men, hearing the blood-curdling scream, released his hold on Jaroth’s wife, turned and drew his sword while his accomplice continued dragging Lil toward the woods. As he lifted the blade over his shoulder, Jaroth dived under the flashing steel, catching the man around his ribs and forcing him backwards onto the ground. The sword flew from the man’s hand as his breath exploded from his lungs with a surprised and pain-filled whoosh. Jaroth squeezed - a quick, hard snap that broke the man’s spine and crushed his ribs as if he were only made of sticks instead of flesh, blood, and bone.16

In seconds, Jaroth was up and grasping the long sword that his fallen enemy had wielded a moment before. The man on the ground was twitching and choking on his own blood, his life fading quickly. He was a threat no longer.17

Jaroth turned his attention to the other man who had abandoned his hold on Lil’s arm and drawn his own sword, advancing confidently. He felt he had nothing to fear from this soft man of the village. Jaroth circled his foe, moving away from the trees and the dying man while keeping the firelight at his back. Even though he was not an expert swordsman, Jaroth was a formidable opponent. He had trained in the village militia as all young men must at the age of fifteen and had also served as a mercenary guarding travelers and their wares to various destinations in the land. He knew how to fight and he called upon every nuance of skill that he possessed. Taking a deep breath, he planted his feet firmly and relaxed his muscles for the lightning-fast whip-crack of motion that often brought a foe’s life to a bleeding, bone-crushing halt. In the back of his mind, he knew his wife was hurt, maybe dying, but he could not allow his emotions to control his movements and reactions. He waited while the other man approached.18

“Are you Jaroth, keeper of the sword?” the man called out.19

Jaroth did not answer but stood his ground. He would not be distracted.20

“If you are the man we seek, then all of this blood-shed can be avoided.” He took another step forward. His voice was not threatening but Jaroth did not relax his guard in the least. He kept a wary eye on the man’s face, knowing that he would read his intentions in his eyes first.21

A small crunching of grass accompanied by cries of ‘Father, father!’ came from behind Jaroth.22

“Go back and stay with the townspeople, Eric!” Jaroth called while keeping his eyes on his opponent.23

“But father, where is mother? I could not find her,” Eric cried. His father could hear the tears in his voice and a wave of despair washed over him. He quickly regained his composure.24

“Go back and look again. I’m sure she’s there somewhere. Go now!” Jaroth forced a harshness into his voice that he knew his son would not disobey. A fresh spate of tears and sobs receded back towards the fire and he knew his son had left.25

“You jeopardize your entire family and this village by hiding the sword. Hand it over and all will be well again,” the man reasoned.26

Eric’s father remained silent and alert. After a moment’s pause the man facing Jaroth jumped, quickly feinting to the left with his sword. Jaroth moved with him, knowing it to be a ruse but allowing his opponent to think he had fallen for it. Swords clashed as Jaroth parried his enemy's attack and countered with a quick flash of steel.27

They stood once again, facing each other across the night. Jaroth’s foe now had a shallow cut running from his left temple to the side of his nose, blood dripping from his chin to the front of his tunic. Jaroth stood watching closely as the pain set into his opponent’s wound. Tears welled up in the man’s eyes as the stinging increased and Jaroth attacked. With an instinct for fighting, Jaroth knew that he would have no better chance to end this battle than right now. He engaged his enemy with body, heart, mind, soul, and steel. The melee commenced, turning in Jaroth’s favor almost immediately. The other man gave ground, defending his life with little more than sheer luck. The din of swords ringing could be heard over the fire as it burned lower. Both men gasped for breath, tiring from the relentless exertion of swinging the heavy steel. Jaroth’s face ran with sweat, his tunic sticking to his body as he repeatedly swung and thrust with the sword, only seeking to tire his opponent quickly.28

And tire the man did. He stumbled back too far with one foot and dropped to a knee. Jaroth rushed in as the man reached back with his sword hand to catch his balance and stepped on his blade, bringing his own weapon straight in to pin the man to the ground through his chest.29

Taking only a moment’s pause to catch his breath, Jaroth ran to the curled figure that was his wife. She was still breathing. When he laid his bloody hand on her shoulder, she rolled over to her back, her face lifting from the ground.30

Jaroth’s words stuck in his throat. ‘What have they done to you?’ he thought to himself, for the woman he loved and had bore his son had been replaced by some horrific presence. Surely this was not his wife. ‘Her eyes,’ he thought, ‘her eyes are filled with madness!’ The pupils of her eyes were dilated almost to the edge of her dove-gray irises. Spittle ran down her chin in a thin line, reflecting the dying firelight and a low moan escaped from between her pale lips. Her hair, that was once a golden brown, was streaked through with stripes of stark white. He began to shake his head back and forth, denial rising from his heart. Any sound that he might have made was strangled by a swelling in his chest until, finally, a scream erupted from his mouth with the force of his grief. He collapsed beside the hollow husk of the woman that was once his wife, his mouth working in bitterness and hatred for the murderer of her soul.31

Eric heard his father’s cry and hastened away from the crowd surrounding the burning pile of timber and stone that had once been his home towards where he had seen his father before, thinking him hurt from the battle with the other man. Just as his eyes had adjusted to the lesser light away from the flames, he saw his father kneeling beside a figure lying on the ground, his head bowed and his hands covering his face. It was then that Eric realized the truth of who his father was bent over.32

He started to call out and noticed another figure standing in the deep shadows of the woods behind and to the left of where his father knelt. In the next instant, the figure raised both hands with fingers pointing toward Eric’s parents, and chanted words in a language that made Eric's mind blur in confusion. Fire exploded from the man’s fingers in a burst. The growing ball of flame raced straight for the unknowing form of Eric’s father where it impacted with a force that threw the young boy from his feet, even though he was a good distance from it.33

The last image that passed through his mind before he lost consciousness was that of his father flying through the air, his body shattered, his hair in flames.34

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