Hastrom City Rising

The Adventures of Letho Ferron, Book 2

Doug Rickaway

Copyright © 2015 Doug Rickaway

Kindle Edition

Written by Doug Rickaway

Edited by David Gatewood

Cover Design by Brian Fajardo

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Disclaimer: The material in this book contains some language and graphic content.

This book is dedicated to my father, David Rickaway, and all my uncles and great uncles, for being great examples of what a man should be.

Prologue: The Dragon That Fell From the Sky

ONE - The Return

TWO - Centennial Fulcrum

THREE - Trajectory

FOUR - Surface

FIVE - Light Our Darkest Hour

SIX - Hideout

SEVEN - Proud Papa

EIGHT - Guerrilla Tactics

NINE - Of Mice and Men

TEN - Hastrom City

ELEVEN - Bazaar

TWELVE - Money Changers

THIRTEEN - Aftermath

FOURTEEN - The Calm

FIFTEEN - The Storm

SIXTEEN - Heart of Darkness

SEVENTEEN - Hit Reset

Epilogue

            Prologue: The Dragon That Fell From the Sky

Alaric’s lungs burn cold blue as he struggles to catch his breath. The air continues to grow colder and thinner as he ascends the mountain. He has been climbing for hours, and the numbness in his legs threatens to overtake the burn in his chest. His destination is a cut in the skin of the god mountain that he can see, far above, a crooked smile that mocks his weakness. He fears his legs will give out under the strain of traversing the waist-deep snow, but he will not allow himself to falter. No. He will not give the others that satisfaction.

Farther up the mountain’s unkind slope, a group of men garbed head to toe in thick animal pelts glide atop the snow on wide shoes crafted from strips of leather and tree branches. The largest one, called Hrogar, calls out:

“Little girl! Little girl? Are you lost in this forest?” His tone is playfully mocking, and he speaks in the clipped syllables of their native tongue.

Other men join him in abrupt laughter that falls somewhere between scornful and good-natured. Their voices tumble down the mountainside, and the trees groan, crying out to be relieved of their snowy burden. Alaric knows it is part of the test. He knows that his tribesmen are at once measuring his fortitude and his ability to withstand the barbs they fling at him. To be a swordbrother, one must have a thick hide and a swift and strong arm, for he who cannot share laughter with his brothers is not permitted to die with them.

“Hrogar, you are lucky that I am not allowed my snowshoes, otherwise I would come up there and clout your head so hard your eyes would go crossed,” Alaric shouts.

The other men whistle at Alaric’s retort, buffeting Hrogar about the shoulders.

“Ooh, a feisty one,” Hrogar calls back.

“We’ll see how bold your words are once I emerge from the cave of proving,” Alaric shouts to the men, with an air of bravado he does not feel.

If I emerge from the cave.

Hrogar slows a bit to walk alongside Alaric. They share idle conversation and a few crude jokes, for which Alaric is deeply thankful. Hrogar can always be counted on to lighten the mood, even in the darkest times. Alaric looks at his friend’s face and sees the boy he grew up with, although that boy is now barely visible within the hard flesh of the man Hrogar has become.

“What do you think that I will find, Hrogar?” Alaric asks, nodding his head at the cave entrance above them.

Hrogar’s face turns white, and he casts his eyes to his feet.

“Alaric, you know it is forbidden to speak of such things.”

“I am sorry. But all the same, I would be much less fearful if I knew what to expect.”

“Even if I told you, it wouldn’t matter. The trial is different for every man,” Hrogar says, and his eyes cloud for a moment. Alaric imagines that Hrogar is remembering his own trial. He doesn’t like what he sees in his friend’s expression.

“Is it real? Is there truly magic in the cave?”

The other men have slowed a bit, and are now within earshot of Alaric and Hrogar’s conversation; the Elder casts Hrogar a disapproving look.

“Enough!” Hrogar says in a harsh whisper.

“Forgive me, old friend,” Alaric says, placing his hand on Hrogar’s shoulder. One of the men above them says something crude about Hrogar’s mother, and the boy Alaric once knew quickens his pace to join his fellow swordbrothers.

Alaric continues his upward climb. He sees the entrance to the cave just above, an opening so dark as to appear anomalous. His chest burns, but no longer from exertion. Fear begins to fill his chest, limbs, and arms; his breath comes hard and fast, punctuating the arid cold. He tries to hide his rising terror from the men above, attempts to downplay the jitter in his limbs. Thoughts of flight fill his mind, but there is no turning back.

To run is death. I must face my fear. I will become a swordbrother.

The gap in the mountain grows ever larger, a malevolent god’s crooked smile. Alaric focuses on each step, though his feet want to turn and run in the opposite direction. He feels the wetness in his moccasins, the cold air searing his raw nostrils. The sound of crunching snow underfoot somehow reaches his ears over the thrum of his heartbeat, and then he is standing among the older men.

Alaric is aware that Edulf is speaking. He sees the old one’s mouth moving, feels the flint-hardness of the man’s cerulean eyes upon him, but he is still drowning in the deafening roar of his own heart and lungs. Edulf, the old one. Bent by time but not broken. Arms still strong enough to wield his great axe.

“Boy, do you hear me?” Edulf says.

“Yes, Sundin, I hear you,” Alaric wheezes.

Edulf pauses for a moment to allow Alaric to catch his breath.

“Alaric, son of Hastim, today is the day of your second birth. You will face the trial of manhood, as did you father before you, and his father before him. You must enter the cave of Tar-Sun, where you will fast for one sun and one moon, to face whatever the gods bring to you. Should you weather this trial with your mind and body intact, you shall become a swordbrother.”

Edulf hands Alaric a pitiful sword, dull and notched from hard use.

“I thank you, my liege-lord. I will prove myself worthy to bear your shield and your mark.”

The men nod, grunting deep from their chests. Alaric takes one last look at them. Edulf greets Alaric with a smile, but Alaric can see indifference in the old one’s eyes. There are stronger, braver men waiting to take the test should Alaric fail.

As he surveys the men around the Sundin, Alaric wonders if he will be welcomed warmly even if he does survive his ordeal. He studies their stout chests, their legs like tree trunks, and then he looks down at his own birdlike chest and pale, gaunt arms.He wonders why Edulf is allowing him to take the test in the first place. A favor to Alaric’s father? No, of course not. Men do not do favors for the dead.

Alaric pushes the turmoil from his mind, clearing it. He thinks of the reason why he has climbed the mountain today. Shena, the girl with the red hair and blue eyes.