Torjen Ll: the Search for Andross

By Danny Cove

Brucius is dead, his legions destroyed. The Gai-Dubous are believed extinct and the Death Waker has not been seen in almost four years. And Andross the Invincible, the one who used the Orb of Torjen and took its curse upon himself, is presumed dead, though his body has never been found.

Now a new threat has begun to form, climbing up from volcanic lands to replace the old dangers with even darker, more ancient ones. The kings of Upperworld, Bracchus and Korsoko among them, must stop rebuilding in order to defend their lands once again.

Amidst the turmoil, the old group begins to form as rumors escalate that Andross is, indeed, still alive somewhere, but slowly dying. Ever-loyal to their old friend, the knights set forth to rescue the accursed Tribal, battling ogres, braving monsters and venturing into the foreboding city of the Death Waker, and finally down into the enigmatic depths of Lowerworld itself, where a dark shadow threatens all that lay within its reach. And in that journey, they will face not only the pain of their own individual pasts, but they will also learn the past of their own world, and struggle to maintain hope in a future that will change everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481778565

Danny Cove

Danny Cove has always been a storyteller. A recent graduate of Indiana University, where he studied philosophy, religion, geography and astrophysics, he has since delved into theology at Christian Theological Seminary in Indianapolis, Indiana. Through his studies, he has used his writings to explore the universe, from the outermost reaches of its cosmic origin to the innermost workings of the human soul and its relationship to the divine. But despite his dreams, studies and philosophical inquiries, a part of him has always remained in his enigmatic hometown of King’s End, the place where history literally walks the hallowed earth. Danny Cove released his first novel, Torjen, in 2012. He now continues with the second portion of the Torjen Trilogy, an epic saga in which knights and journeymen fight to shine light in the primal darkness of the universe.

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Torjen II

The Search For Andross

Danny Cove

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AuthorHouse™ LLC

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© 2013 by Danny Cove. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/24/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7850-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7856-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue             Shrogoth

Chapter One       Seqwana

Chapter Two       The Ruins of Azor

Chapter Three     Abode of Olden Night

Chapter Four       The Border Devil Crossed

Chapter Five       The Astronomer by the Sea

Chapter Six         Lokua’s Leave

Chapter Seven     The Valley of the Shadow

Chapter Eight      Cygama

Chapter Nine       The Ice Labyrinth

Chapter Ten         The Meeting and the Lost City

Chapter Eleven    The World as It Once Was

Chapter Twelve    A Dream of Being Human

Epilogue               The Hunt Begins

Dedicated to my Grandpa Dick Whitley,

and my old dog, Cinnamon,

both of whom followed the final path to Tula’el

while I wrote this book.

Upperworld.jpgFormer_Gai-Dubou_Territory.jpgAurobia.jpgIsle_of_Chronos.jpg

Prologue

Shrogoth

Shrogoth brandished his weapon. He pulled it delicately from its sheath, over the elf’s head, and brought it cleanly down, all the way through his neck, decapitating him. The elf’s head fell back and rolled down the small hump of grass on the knoll upon which the defeated lay. There was a thud as it hit, leaving a bloody trail behind the wordless, muted mouth. The body collapsed but continued flinching, still alive but unable to really perform any function at all. The elf’s heart was still intact. It was still alive. And with a devilish grin that spoke of a decrepit, twisted soul, Shrogoth turned and walked away. He had more to stalk.

When the young Legionnaire had disappeared behind a sufficiently large hill, another elf sprinted silently to the first and lifted the panicking head. Her words floated to the wounded and the shrieks of the wounded cried back to her. I’m sorry, the healthy elf passed to the other. The other understood. He knew, despite his panicking, nearly thoughtless state, that the wound was beyond his companion’s ability to heal. The head could not be reattached to the body and still command it. And so he held no blame when the dagger flashed and the sharp point embedded itself in his heart, sending him onward to whatever awaited him. The elfin spirit felt great light, great warmth, and then… he did not feel at all. He was gone.

The other elf, the new elf, removed the metal from her fellow’s chest and was about to wipe the blood on a clean patch of grass when she suddenly dropped it and rolled aside, barely avoiding the same cruel chance of fate that had befallen her comrade. But she would have no one to spare her soul. She would have no one to grant her a merciful end to the misery. The sole elf would have to break this new enemy and win this fight. She would have to defeat the last Legionnaire.

The man her group had been silently stalking was the last remnant of a troupe that had survived the Great Light those few years before. Shrogoth, only a child at the time but filled with infinitesimal rage and an almost phobic hatred of the elfin race, had grown deeper and darker along the path forged not by the Legions nor by the Gai-Dubous but of the amalgamations of the two: he had kept the power and discipline of a Legionnaire and combined it with the twisted malice of a Gai-Dubou. Not that there were many Gai-Dubous anymore. It was rumored that the last had hauled up in the Ruins of Azor but the world’s survivors had yet to venture there.

Shrogoth, after being humiliated by an elf, had retreated to a place of refuge and, not long after, found himself on some of the holy grounds of his homeland. He and some other Legionnaires—most of whom had yet to suffer the Crossing—had remained there and borne witness to the Great Light, the blinding force that had destroyed their people. But these few young children had survived. Some places of the world, it seemed, were protected. And in those dark realms where the Great Light never reached, darkness bred and flourished, preparing to spread its touch.

Shrogoth and his companions had been traveling nomadically, led by a young Legionnaire—the only one to have endured his Crossing—who had taken charge. But after a year of hermitage and seclusion, that man had disappeared and Shrogoth had taken command. No one dared to question the ruthless young one with the shadows in his eyes, especially about his being the last to see the former leader alive… or at all. Having taken charge, he had proceeded to lead small attacks on isolated communities, leaving few, if any, survivors. He led the band across the waters, hidden as crewmen among newly fashioned vessels. Many had kept to ritualistically shaving their heads and were eventually caught, but that tradition was dropped by the lone survivors, whose dark hair now grew long. They had survived only by denying their own customs. They were becoming something different, something new. As they set foot upon the shores of the Northern Kingdoms, they began their torrid attacks on beleaguered elfin villages, forging a new Crossing that they could all partake in. But Shrogoth had his own agenda: annihilation. The elves had sensed the coming threat and taken to tracking the young warriors, slowly removing them, one by one. And now, only Shrogoth remained.

The elf rolled down the hill, narrowly missing the Legionnaire’s sword. She reached down and tore a second knife from her shoe, searching for a weak spot to launch it at her opponent. But the darker was fast with his sword, swinging it around himself in no set pattern and creating a metal field of whirring blade that protected him. The elf took a shot and threw her dagger but it ricocheted effortlessly off the spinning blade and stabbed into the ground hilt-down.

Shrogoth smiled his murky grin and slowed his sword as he saw more elves dawning on the hillside. There were five more, each about ten feet apart and aiming a bow with what the warrior could only suspect to be poison smeared across the arrows. The Northerners, it seemed, were exchanging their morality for mortality. The combatant blinked his eyes and spun his sword faster as the world seemed to slow down. The whoosh of air became a momentous roar and seconds passed before the sword would move more than a foot. The breathing lungs and beating hearts of his enemies now slowed to nearly death and only Shrogoth’s mind remained quick.

As time seemed to descend to a crawl, the Legionnaire was given ample time to look back on the terms of his isolation, namely the loss of his last brethren. There had been five of them left, Shrogoth and four others, each powerful and skilled in his own light, devious in his own darkness and dedicated fully to his leader’s campaign of elfin extinction. But as they camped for the evening, Shrogoth had gone ahead to locate the next village to exterminate. He did not hear the screams for there were none. He did not feel vibrations in the ground speaking of a fight for there was no fight. The men had been caught around a campfire while the fourth, the guard, was silenced with an arrow in his neck. The final three had suffered the same doom as arrows blasted from the shadows of the shaggy pines.

Shrogoth had returned hours later to find the elves still waiting for him. In a maddening rage of strength, he dodged their arrows and killed all but two. Those two had escaped. The lone Legionnaire burned his companions’ bodies on a single funeral pyre and continued on his own, followed by the returning, slinking duo. Those two had no suspicions, despite their mysterious telepathic capabilities, that he, in fact, was leading them, drawing them forth into a trap. He knew they had been following and he had invited them. And he had memorized their predictabilities, striking one at the exact moment it separated from the other.

Had he felt anything more than blind loathing at this new moment, he would have wondered why his mind sped up. He would have suspected that some power had been granted, if only for a moment, in accordance with his fate. Shrogoth was given an interminable advantage to protect his livelihood so that he could, in turn, protect the plans of something far more devious. But Shrogoth thought none of this. He looked at the fly gliding slowly past his face. Its wings flapped so deftly he could see each individual move and hear the pounding of that intensely tiny brush of wind.

As the world slowed more and more within his mind, Shrogoth saw streaks spreading through the sky and, almost before he thought it, he became one. He shot around almost faster than any eye could see. His blade swished through the air, crushing in rib cages. In little more than a second or two, the world sped back up to Shrogoth’s speed and the only elf left was the one that had killed her own kind, the one that had not sensed her own rescue party. This elf rose to her feet and, sensing the great hazard of the Legionnaire, charged forward, an arrow wielded as a spear. Shrogoth moved back with normal, worldly alacrity and still managed to snap the arrow, slam a palm into her stomach and shoot her feet out, taking the elf from her stance. She tangled her feet and fell backward, hitting not the open ground but her own, embedded dagger, which instantly tore through her heart. At last, only one mind still remained.

The Legionnaire strode forward and tipped the body aside, pulling the knife from the back of the corpse. It came out with a sickening crunch and he held the blade up to the light. It glinted and almost glowed, proudly displaying the elfin etchings carved into it. Its form was almost flawless, a perfect tool for protection. Shrogoth squinted. There was blood smeared on the knife, quite a lot of it, in fact. It was almost dripping off but drying quickly. Shrogoth closed his eyes and held the blade over his left wrist, driving the blade into his own flesh until his blood began to seep to the surface and mix with the liquid of the knife. His eyes flashed open. He saw nothing but sensed something. The blood of the dead elf was speaking to him, temporarily granting him a mind of sufficient power to tell him what he needed to know. He shook and trembled as his mind roared and searched until he finally found something…

Shrogoth dropped the knife and fell to his knees. The wound on his wrist healed before the power of the elves depleted from his system. He smiled again. He had shared life with his enemy. And what he had retrieved in return was one order, one guiding command. He had killed without power for the final time.

Chapter One

Seqwana

The palace of Seqwana was not lavish by any sense of the term. On the contrary, it was nothing but a bedraggled mass of tumbled rocks, broken stones, and burned pylons. It was uninhabitable. On its ground lay a carpet of ash. Its spires no longer touched the sky, its granite walls no longer stood as a fortress against enemies and its incredible, iron gate existed as only a tangle of meshed metal, crumpled, broken, useless. And in the center of the palace, a statue of Brucius himself—erected by his followers in place of the very throne—lay crumbled and torn down. Those who removed it would have searched out and burned Brucius’ very bones, if even those had not been burned away.

It had been four years since Brucius met his death. Four years since the journey of the Knights of the Rebellion, first enacted when Seqwana’s own King Bracchus organized three warriors who found four others and a traitor. They had traversed the dangerous isle of Apath, an accursed island roamed by all sorts of nightmarish creatures. But beneath the island, in its centuries-old tunnels and mines, lived a large kingdom-colony of dwarves. Their king, Triton, had met his end in the final battle, the battle where Brucius’ armies were wholly eviscerated. His second-in-command, the benevolent, changed Korsoko, now led his island home with new foreign friendships, breaking the isolationism the kingdom had enacted for centuries. Korsoko sought a new age of accord in the world.

The Knights of the Rebellion had been led by the ingenious human, Jason, the wise, sage-elf, Jiffra, and the mysterious Tribal mercenary, Andross the Invincible, who in his final days had dedicated himself to the mission in an effort of redemption. But Andross had not been seen these long four years. It seemed to Jason that no time had passed at all between their meeting with the wizard, Bryok, and the time in which he now stared out into the crowd before Bracchus’ throne.

Jason ignored his liege’s words as he ruminated once again upon the past. They had met Burns shortly after they met with Bryok. But that man proved to be disastrous: the pretentious beggar revealed himself as a Gai-Dubou warlock on the night he tried to kill them all. He had stolen from them, cheated them, tried to lead them to true disaster and annihilation. And now Burns was no more. They had killed him… twice. Once with a pickaxe and once with a magic so ancient that even the men of the Before Times knew not of its construction. But the death of Burns had signaled the finding of the ancient device, the Orb of Torjen, which had ended the war. Or so he thought.

Though the war is over, Bracchus spoke to the crowd from his pauper’s throne. "Much work is to be done. The followers of Brucius have left their mark in all corners of the world. They destroyed our castles, crumbled our palaces and enslaved us all. But we have not borne the worst. Think of our neighbors to the north, damned in an attempt to save us. Think of our allies to the east, no longer capable of taking to the skies. Their children have no teachers. But we still have our strength. We still have our lives. We can… we are rebuilding Seqwana better than it ever was before!" Jason smiled a disgruntled smile at these last words. Who do you think has to design this new world? he thought. Oh, that’s right: me.

Jason turned to leave his king, to return to his small, temporary shack, but Bracchus laid his hand upon his shoulder. We have much to discuss, he said.

Jason leaned down, bowing and removing his king’s hand at the same time. Aye, my lord, he said. He turned to leave but Bracchus replaced his hand and held firm. Is all good? the royal inquired.

Yes, Jason said. You must return to your people. They need the inspiration of your words.

Our people have heard this all before, Bracchus said. For four years they have heard the same, and for four years we have tried to rebuild with our lone survivors. Anything I have to say has already been said countless times. Jason bowed his head and tried again to leave, but he was again dissuaded by the king. Is all good? he repeated.

Yes, Jason answered. Quite. Bracchus did not release and stared a firm expression into his friend and subject’s face. I… Jason began. I just have much to sort through.

Understandable, Bracchus affirmed. Don’t let it get the best of you. You must keep your beasts well hidden. A man who releases those monstrous sides of himself is no better than the man who desecrated this temple. Jason nodded, bowed again and, Bracchus having eased his grip, melded off into the crowd.

Bracchus turned back to his people, gave a quick wave of his hand and continued with his empty words. There was not much he could say to rouse their spirits. The same words spoken often enough begin to lose their meaning; little was exempt from that rule. With the population of his entire kingdom down to the mere thousands, the capabilities of rebuilding were minimal and, as such, hardly very progressive. His words, meaningless as they had become, still at least showed he cared for them. And that depth of compassion was the most powerful tool in his possession.

*               *               *

Bracchus now lived, for the time being, in a large, canvas tent. He had few guards around this headquarters, though their presence was unnecessary; most traitors and adversaries of the moral good had died. Of course, there had been some survivors: there were rumors of a Legionnaire group roaming other countries, and Gai-Dubou families still hiding in their ancient home. And there was always the question of the Death Waker. No one had heard or seen anything of her, though her castle on the cliffs was still avoided at all costs.

Jason stepped into the tent while Bracchus was huddled over a table coated in Jason’s designs and plans. As king and friend to the knight, the Seqwanan royal was allowed to borrow any information he deemed necessary. The knight bowed before his king and remained silent, waiting for the latter to speak. Hello, Bracchus said.

Hello, my lord, was Jason’s reply. How may I be of service?

I was looking over your plans, Bracchus began. They were ingenious but… are you okay, Jason?

Aye, my lord, Jason said.

Truly?

Aye, good king. Why do you ask?

Bracchus took a step forward and lifted up the head of his still-bowed friend. He looked carefully into Jason’s eyes. The light has gone from you. You are not the same as you once were.

Nothing has changed, Jason said. I just-

Do not say you have much to work through! Bracchus stormed. Do not insult my mind! He breathed a sense of calm into himself. My knight, you are indeed different. You almost never speak anymore. You keep to yourself, never seeing visitors. And your plans…

What of the plans, my king? Jason asked.

Stop saying that. We are equals, both in birth and in death. Bracchus looked away and picked up one of Jason’s drawings. It was of a building that was going to be erected in one of Seqwana’s foreign outposts in the Iridian Plains. "Your plans, Jason… their greatness is missing. As I said, they were ingenious. But now, they seem empty, dull. Where is that imagination that aided you for so long? What has made you grow so somber?"

I merely search for a better creative outlet. Design enough monuments, temples and homes and one eventually loses interest and motivation. I am simply… somewhat unenthusiastic.

I can tell when you are lying, Jason. It is unbecoming of a hero of the people.

I do not lie, my-

Speak only the truth to me, Jason! Bracchus hollered, grabbing Jason by the shoulder and pulling him roughly to his feet. Still holding the knight by the same shoulder, Bracchus continued his rant. You faced the darkness of Death’s mate! You defeated Brucius! You communed with the Torjen and fought dragons, of all things! Dragons! How can you be such a coward as to lie to your king about inner change?!

Jason shook his king’s hand from his shoulder and turned away. Then, peering over his shoulder, he answered, I feel that Andross still lives. I apologize, my lord, for deceiving you.

Bracchus froze. What? He dropped one hand to the chair by the table for balance. The whole table could be felt to shake at the royal’s shock. He was killed by the orb, Jason, he finally said. You saw it happen.

Another lie to apologize for. I said I saw him die but I really saw nothing. That light… it blinded me. I did not see him die.

Why would you lie to me? Bracchus asked. How could you deceive your king?

If Andross still lived, a search would have been sent for him. It has taken us four years to come as far as we have. Can you imagine how it would be if we had organized a rescue mission instead of rebuilding? Jason turned back to King Bracchus, his head bowed, his face red. I betrayed Andross for Seqwana.

You did not betray him, Bracchus said. He lifted his hand and, placing it on Jason’s shoulder, assured him of his deed. You chose not to betray your home.

What are we to do? Jason asked. We cannot afford the manpower to rescue him.

If he is still alive, then I doubt he needs rescuing. If even some of your stories are true, then Andross is not an easy man to kill, nor even wound. Bracchus sighed, contemplating this painful decision; the painful decisions were always reserved for kings. Bracchus closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with two fingers of his right hand. Remove all thoughts of him, Jason.

My lord? Jason inquired, not initially understanding the abandonment of Andross. Eventually, he understood that Bracchus was making the same decision he was.

"As you have said, he accepted the Torjen’s curse, and it was his choice to deal with its consequences. None can be spared for a man who forged his own fate."

Bracchus, Jason said. Please, do not speak of him that way. He placed us before himself. He deserves our aid.

Listen to me, Bracchus said, seating himself upon the chair. It held no jewels or lavish gold as the throne on the Isle of Chronos had. I’ll strike a bargain for the man. As long as this feeling remains a feeling and nothing else, you will remain here, rebuilding the kingdom.

And if more than a feeling should appear? Jason pressed.

If, by some chance, an event should come to pass that proves his survival as more than just a feeling… Bracchus paused, again rubbing his closed eyelids in contemplation. "You can lead a mission to rescue him. As long as you leave your plans behind and you keep me informed. Agreed?"

As you speak, my king, Jason said.

Now, the king said, standing up and moving back behind the table with Jason’s drawings on it. What more do you have to amaze our neighbors?

*               *               *

Jason laid upon his cot that evening feeling slightly better than he had in months. He’d opened up to Bracchus, exuded his feelings of betrayal and been given an opportunity to alleviate his guilt. But as of yet, Andross’ survival still remained a sense and nothing else. He had, of course, spoken with Jiffra numerous times on the subject. He had even spoken with J’raila, who had possessed a more powerful link with the warrior than anyone else. The princess now boasted no connection and believed him to be dead. On the contrary, Jiffra was under the same, heavy impression that Jason held to: that Andross still lived. Jiffra appeared to be the only elf with such a belief, leaving he and Jason very alone in it.

Jason rolled over beneath his sheet, looking at the small table a few feet away. The desk was coated in a layer of dust, its abandonment due to what it contained. Jason rarely went near it and almost never touched any of its holdings, perhaps out of reverence or merely the desire not to grieve or give into the urge to succor the Tribal’s supposed death-tale. Jason had fabricated the story of Andross’ death, allowing for all in Upperworld to believe the man gone.

He focused on the table, staring deeply into the stone that rested in the hilt of a knife. It was a dark stone, almost black. Back in the days of its use, it would almost seem to glow, imbibing life into its wielder, life which then had seemed to flow back into the knife in a cryptic, cyclic relationship. Someday, Jason thought. Someday, that stone will glow again. Jason had tried in those first days to get the stone to glow but its power seemed dead in the hands of a human. If Gorren held that knife, Jason had no doubt that it would spring again to life.

Beneath the knife lay a thin sprawling of papers. They were large drawings, Jason’s first ideas following the Great Light. Some of these drawings had been rejected by Bracchus and Jason had chosen not to show his king the rest. Jason had claimed that the designs were too advanced and rejected due to them being ahead of their time. Bracchus, on the other hand, claimed to reject them on the premise that Jason’s fingers were broken, inhibiting his drawing ability. Jason had agreed to disagree.

He turned from these thoughts and the night-side table and closed his eyes, drawing his cover against the cold wind issuing from the billowing flap of his canvas tent. It was not long after that his world was left behind and he descended into the world of another life in another place…

Jason crawled about on all fours, stumbling in the rocky snow