An Elven Tale: Thorn's Quest

By John W Partington

The exploratory army has returned from its quest to find the Kingdom in upheaval. High Lord Edmond has taken control while Leaf was away, so the army is holed up in Cordoon with the dwarves. An emissary must be sent to the demon god Vier, who has attacked Cordoon. Leaf must fight to regain his crown, but cannot fight a war on two fronts. Thorn takes it upon himself to travel into the mountains, far from home, to confront the god. Thorn does not go alone. Churlish, Lilly, and Putt are along to help with their own individual talents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John W Partington
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781989973493

John W Partington

I have been writing for most of my life: as a child, as a soldier, and now as an independent author. My favourite colour is purple. I have two cats, who choose to annoy me most when I am trying to write. I'm a middle aged white dude suffering from psychosis, but with medication am perfectly stable (except for singing to my cats).

Book preview

An Elven Tale: Thorn’s Quest

Volume 3

John W Partington

Published by John W Partington

An Elven Tale: Thorn’s Quest, volume 3

© 2023 John W Partington

Cover art © https://www.123rf.com/profile_prometeus

ISBN 978-1-989973-49-3

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you’re reading this e-book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

Note from the Author

How the heroes got home

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Appendix A - Goblish

Excerpts from the Editorial Overview

An Excerpt from Mark of the Spider

About John W Partington

Also by John W Partington

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my editing team: Zack Brunet, Jean-Guy Brin, Evelyn Kaye Brooks, and Gerry Kroll. None of them is a professional editor, yet, but all contributed to the finale of this series.

Note from the Author

Epic fantasy is normally what can be described as a darn thick book. Originally Thorn’s Quest was meant to be about twice as long as it is, to bring it in line with the rest of the series, but most of that consisted of descriptions of mountains and endless scenery.

While the environment is important to the soldier walking over it, it tends to make for boring reading. If you’ve seen one mountain you’ve pretty much seen them all. The same goes for weather. If you’ve never been caught in a rainstorm, you’re not really missing out on much.

Suffice it to say, this novel is long enough to be entertaining without boring you. That’s the goal: to get you to spend a few hours in the world inside my head without being bored.

How the heroes got home

Spider! Paul Book gasped around the leather strap clenched between her teeth. She was sprawled on the ground, supported on both sides by paladins. Her armour was shed except one brace. Her cotton shift was drenched with sweat and blood, not all of it hers, and her skin was only one shade off alabaster. Half a spear was rammed through her swollen belly. The spear entered up and left of her belly button and came out her back below her kidney.

The baby comes, Paul reached out a hand for comfort.

This isn’t the most convenient, Spider started to say, then gasped in pain as Paul crushed his hand. When the contraction subsided, she loosened her grip, but not enough for Spider to escape. Dover! Spider called to his cousin, My wife is having our baby. You’re in charge.

Newell, Dover turned to the closest archer, My cousin’s wife is having a baby. I’ll be here. You’re in charge.

Spadder, Newell called to an elf, the twice removed second cousin on my father’s side’s wife is having her baby. You’re in charge.

Gimble, Spadder called to another archer.

Enough! Spider shouted. Dover, you stay here in case I need help. The rest of you go kill the bad guys! The archers reluctantly left while Paul’s body was racked with pain, which meant Spider’s hand was also racked with pain as Paul squeezed. The Lubber surgeon cast nervous glances between the spear and the bulge low on Paul’s stomach.

As Paul bore down, sweat washed off her body in buckets, her face contorted in a grimace that would frighten a gargoyle, and her bowels loosened. It was the best day of her life. A relatively short time later, no more than an hour, Paul cried out in joy as the baby filled his lungs for the first time.

I don’t understand how the baby can be alive. The surgeon looked at the spear. Her remaining words were drowned out by the sound of the gate exploding.

It’s a boy! Spider exclaimed as he lifted the child in his arms.

And a truly impressive boy! Dover pointed.

That’s the umbilical cord, the surgeon corrected. Spider started to wheel in great circles, throwing the child a short flight into the air.

Spider! Paul snapped, you can’t do that. His neck isn’t strong enough! Bring him here! Spider lowered the baby to Paul’s arms as another spasm of pain rocked her.

Paul smiled. The child looked up and smiled back. Paul’s eyes widened in surprise. The baby laughed. The child was exceptionally strong, larger than the average baby, and leaner. There was a scar, which looked well healed but blazed white, running from the right temple, across the right eye in a crescent to behind the right ear. The right eye would be blind. The baby didn’t seem to notice. Lying on Paul’s chest the baby reached up, grabbed her nose, and wiggled it.

He’s awfully precocious, the surgeon started to wash the infant with warm water. In a few minutes we’ll deal with that spear.

What should we name him? Paul asked, her face flush with exhaustion.

Wiggle, for the little dance he’s squirming on your chest, Spider suggested.

No, Paul replied immediately.

Chip for the scar?

No.

Scar?

No.

Slash? Hack? Cutter, Spider rambled off.

No, no, no. Nothing with scar.

How about Marked?

How about Mark? Paul smiled.

Mark, Spider stroked the child’s downy hair. Another paladin, acting as a nurse, took the child away. Mark made no complaints. Instead, he watched intently as the surgeon set to work on the spear. The Lubber and Spider rolled Paul onto her right side. The spear head was broken off and the haft cut down.

This is going to hurt a lot. The surgeon grabbed the haft where it came out of Paul’s back. With a steady and firm grasp, the Lubber pulled the weapon through Paul’s body. Paul screamed in pain, yet not so loudly as when she birthed her son. Mark screamed as well, though he was swaddled in a blanket cut from a quilted under-suit.

The surgeon pounced on Paul with sinew and needle. She knew, in fact everybody knew, that if there were any pierced organs Paul was doomed. Few ever survived abdominal wounds without the aid of mystique. Even with spells, there were a lot of things to go wrong in the abdominal cavity. The Lubber surgeon was no sorcerer. The only thing she could do was patch the skin closed and hope for the best.

As the doctor approached Paul, she gaped in astonishment. Instead of an ugly hole gushing blood, there was a patch of white scar tissue the diameter of the spear shaft. The surgeon pressed against the scar, only to find it firm, yet yielding, as if the wound had been healed years earlier. She looked at the mark on the baby’s face and wondered.

Good job, Spider clapped the paladin on the back as he looked at his wife’s side.

I didn’t do anything, the surgeon mumbled.

Don’t be modest, Spider started, but then realized she really hadn’t done anything. I didn’t think Lubbers could channel mystique?

We can’t, the paladin answered. That’s why we have to set bones, sew, and amputate just like the Grey do. Only we’re immune to spells as well. For this, she waved at the closed wound, I have no explanation.

Spider, Dover interrupted, they need us at the front. The Wolves have breached the gate. We have to push forward, and we’re out. We’ll be home! Spider looked hesitantly at Paul. She was in no condition to escape, much less fight.

Go, she tried to shout, but managed a whisper. Neither John nor Dathon will leave us if there’s a chance. They’ll need all the swords we have right now.

Spider nodded, then ran to the battlefield where the defending Azurd-Bal guarded the fortress exit from the underworld. An impromptu ode to Mark drifted back to Paul over the sounds of battle.

Dathon swung about himself in ever more desperate arcs. In one hand, his longsword spun in a dizzying display of metal. The swordsmanship held his opponents in awe but added little to his defence. One well-timed jab and the sword would go flying. In his other hand he held an ungainly orc scimitar that he used like an axe.

When the final cannonball exploded, a great rush of fresh air flooded the cavern. There was the smell of daffodils and lilacs carried by the breeze. Light littered with dust, as if in an old cathedral, slanted across the front of the fortress. At that moment, Dathon rushed forward, carving a path, and then was surrounded fifty feet from the gate. In his zealousness to secure the exit, he had forgotten he was but one man. Cut off from his forces he was easy prey, but the circle of bodies surrounding him made the trolls and orcs nervous.

His own forces fared well. Pushing forward, the few survivors of the expedition were forcing the Azurd-Bal back. All saw the light and felt the breeze which held the sweet outside air. While drastically outnumbered, they had a reason to fight. The horde was starting to lose its nerve. As guardians, they were to prevent elves from entering the under-realm. The force they were fighting was trying to get out. As a point of debate, it could have been interesting, but the horde sub-chiefs didn’t have time to think about it as they dodged Dathon’s weapons.

I will slay you myself! a voice boomed from the fortress. The figure striding toward Dathon was massive. Standing twelve feet tall, he carried a broadsword that would be a claymore for anybody else. His shoulders were almost as broad as Dathon was tall. Under a burnished breast place and chain kilt, the black skin held a network of popping vessels. Cilia writhed across the scalp, and when he gave Dathon an unfriendly smile, the mouth was full of razor fangs.

Infernal! Dathon tossed the scimitar away and felt a small measure of satisfaction when the blade cleaved into a troll’s thigh. Dathon advanced and started to circle the giant.

Piddle-ass ugly mortal! The demon brought his sword forward to a low guard position. Have you anything to say before I chop you up for bait?

Would you actually let me talk, or are you just being coy? Dathon asked.

I’m not going to let you prattle on, but it would please me greatly if you would plead for a swift ending.

In that case you better boil some water, Dathon replied, because I just opened a sachet of whoop ass.

Dancing forward, Dathon slashed horizontally at the infernal’s side with a two-handed chop. The demon easily moved his blade to block. When the swords met there was no give. To Dathon, it felt like attacking a mountain. His sword stopped cold, his wrists went numb, and all the residual force vibrated through his body as if he were a tuning fork.

The infernal simply rotated his wrist, sliding the blade up his side, past his shoulder, to bring it down where Dathon was standing. Only Dathon wasn’t there anymore. Instead, the blade bit into the rocky ground. With a grunt, the infernal jerked it free.

You’re quick, the creature growled. The great blade swiped at Dathon’s head, but the Grey ducked. He thrust his sword forward, intending to disembowel the giant. The infernal sidestepped, pirouetted, and then sent Dathon flying with an elbow to the back of Dathon’s head as the turn completed.

You’ll never defeat Onslaught so easily, the infernal proclaimed his name. Dathon grimaced as that realization dawned on him as well. He, however, had no time to mince words as he tried to recall everything he knew of the half-demons. Regrettably, he should have paid more attention at the academy.

Dathon swung at a kneecap as an idea came to mind. Onslaught jumped backward in exaggerated fright. The giant was obviously playing with Dathon. Being shorter and more vibrantly coloured than most Grey, Dathon had spent most of his life dealing with bullies. He had some idea about how to defeat the infernal.

In a flurry of strokes and slashes that would have decimated a weaker foe, Dathon backed the infernal another five feet. Onslaught laughed the whole time, without paying much attention to his surroundings. With a final deep lunge, leaving him in a hurdler’s stretch, Dathon jabbed his blade forward; the blade fell inches short of Onslaught’s midriff. The infernal dropped his own blade as he held his hands to his chest in an effort to control his laughter. The demon started to hyperventilate as Dathon stood poised, and the raucous laughter of trolls and orcs filled the cavern. The fighting over the field of battle stopped as all eyes, friend and foe, turned to observe the confrontation.

I feel so embarrassed for you, Onslaught started to get his breathing under control as he relaxed.

Dathon’s rear leg came coursing forward to smash the heavy boot into Onslaught’s knee cap. The infernal’s joint snapped in two and sent him crouching to the ground. Before Onslaught could react, Dathon spun in a roundhouse kick that knocked loose the arm the infernal was using for support. The half-demon thudded into the ground on his chest.

Dathon’s sword plunged down in an overhead strike. The blade smashed through the breastplate, then Dathon used the momentum of hurtling over the body to turn the blade one hundred and eighty degrees inside Onslaught’s torso. Yanking the blade out, he leaned down to Onslaught’s ear.

You forgot to put the kettle on, Dathon muttered.

Remarkably, Onslaught staggered to his feet, using his misplaced sword as a crutch for his shattered knee. In an uppercut Dathon rammed his sword through the thin gap between Onslaught’s breastplate and chainmail skirt. Using all his weight Dathon pressed the blade deeper while Onslaught howled in agony. When the blade became stuck, Dathon grabbed a rock and used it as a hammer to further impale the infernal.

The Grey dropped into a crouch, then swung about in a low roundhouse. Onslaught was knocked onto his back, lying on the ground, and twitching limply. Dathon pounced. Standing between the giant’s thighs he twisted his sword a quarter turn. Onslaught wailed louder as torrents of blood gushed out of his body.

Squatting, Dathon braced the pommel against his shoulder, and then pressed up and over the demon. Dathon’s muscles strained and sweat ran from his limbs as he concentrated all the force of his body into pushing his sword up like a lever. Onslaught was a quivering mass of flailing limbs and wild screams.

Rivets started to pop as the sword slowly cut through the breastplate. The crack of Onslaught’s sternum was clearly heard over the giant’s wails. As the infernal thrashed, his intestines spilled out the gaping maw that was his abdomen. Warriors on both sides of the battle started to look away, cast their eyes elsewhere, or examine their feet. Evisceration was a horrible way to die. Several even felt pity for the monster.

When the wailing stopped, everybody looked up to see Dathon leaning on his sword, which was stuck in the embossing on the breastplate. Dathon was panting. He took his helmet off and dropped it to the ground. He wiped the sweat from his eyes, ran his fingers through his matted hair, and then noticed his hands.

His hands were a loam-grey colour, not quite as light as Silk’s, but not a vibrant yellow. Absently he tried to scratch away the colour, whereupon he discovered it on his arms and legs. All about, Grey soldiers were ogling their skin in wonder.

The shame is lifted, Dathon muttered to nobody in particular. The shame is lifted? The shame is lifted. The shame is lifted! Dathon screamed the last so loudly that pebbles broke loose from the cavern ceiling. Standing on the infernal’s corpse, arms uplifted, Dathon heard the jubilant cry echoing throughout the cavern.

He lowered his arms as the excitement washed out of his body. As far as anybody knew Dathon, the youngest colonel ever in the Royal Light Infantry, had lifted the great shame by defeating a demon in single combat. Dathon was the salvation of his people. Accolades and praise were nice, but forever after, the name Dathon would be remembered. With a warm feeling still coursing through his veins, Dathon returned from his reverie, only to barely avoid the halberd that would have split him in two. Instead, it cleaved Onslaught’s carcass.

Dathon lashed a fist at the attacker, and then grabbed the closest available weapon. Onslaught’s blade was almost as tall as Dathon, the grip another three feet in length. At that point, to Dathon, it felt light as a feather. There was still a battle to be fought, even though the Azurd-Bal didn’t really seem to have the heart anymore.

When Dathon reached the gate, he stood in triumph, completely prepared to defend his foothold. The remainder of his army had consolidated two hundred feet away. Every inch in between was packed with orcs and trolls. Along the walls and ceilings, Azurd-Bal goblins were battling with Dathon’s Reavers. The dwarves had staked a claim, and the Woods, long since out of arrows, were fighting hand-to-hand beside the Wolves and Lubbers. Stretching once, Dathon readied his new claymore, then waded back in.

Two hours later they were no closer to the exit. The horde had switched tactics to a holding action rather than battling tooth and nail to drive the elves away. It was a siege without walls. Dathon’s troops had stopped fighting almost completely. Instead, there was a circle twenty feet wide around the army that no horde member entered. If the elves rushed the horde, steel met steel, but only enough to repel Dathon’s forces back into their sanctuary.

Conversely, the Grey sentries stood almost shoulder to shoulder, constantly ready for the eventual attack. The horde could starve the elves’ camp in a few days.

What we need is one concentrated rush with everything we’ve got to smash through, then get out, Dathon hissed in frustration, but there are too many of them.

What if we went the other way? Spider asked as he peeked under a blanket. During the battle, Spider had killed a rather rotund orc that had worn a leather breastplate, suitably fashioned for the orc’s pot-belly. After ripping it free, wiping it clean, and packing it with whatever soft material was available, the breastplate became a serviceable crib. Mark was asleep. Paul, still woozy, was trying her best to pay attention.

What do you mean? Dathon asked.

Well, Spider began as he grabbed a baby toe no bigger than a small pea, if most of their force is between us and the gate, then why not attack a flank and fight our way back to where we came into this cavern in the first place? There must be other ways out. Even if we find a small cave, we could probably dig through the rock quicker than we could fight our way out. The dwarves have got picks. Let them use them. The baby squirmed a little.

If you wake that child, I will by royally pissed, Paul warned. Spider dropped the blanket but cast sneaky glances to see if Paul was watching him. She was. Spider skipped his plans for peek-a-boo until Paul went to sleep.

He has a point, Silk said. If you cock your head right you can see the sky out that tunnel. There can’t be more than fifty feet of rock between us and there.

Have you ever dug through granite? Johan asked.

No, Silk admitted, but if you gave me a pick I’d certainly try. It’s so close I can taste it.

All the more reason to push, Dathon growled. This, he displayed the restored skin of his arm, means more to me than life itself. I’ll not retreat from this cavern into another shame. What we really need is a diversion.

A heavy bolt thunked into the fire at the centre of the conference. Embers scattered and Spider tried to shield Mark and Paul while trying to find where the shot came from. He saw a glint from a ledge high up the left wall. The ledge ran most of the way around the cavern and over to the left side of the fortress.

Dathon burnt his hand when he retrieved a brass tube attached to the crossbow bolt, but considered it worth the pain. His eyes widened when he read the message inside. Catching a sentry’s eye he made a hand gesture, which was casually repeated all around the camp in a matter of moments. All of the Grey and most of the Lubbers, now as near to the same race as to be nearly indistinguishable, readied for battle without being obvious. A few sauntered around the camp, relaying the order to the remaining Woods, Wolves, and Reavers.

We charge straight at the gate in two minutes, Dathon said as he stretched.

But I thought we needed a diversion, Spider blurted as he looked at his son.

We are the diversion, Dathon tossed the note into the flames. Mark started to whimper as Paul bundled him into a sling that hung from her shoulders.

You can’t be serious, Spider started.

Do you want to leave him here? Paul replied. Don’t worry. I’ll stay in the middle, and only fight if I have to.

Dathon hefted the claymore to his shoulder. It was an ungainly weapon which he had difficulty using, but somehow it felt right. With his free arm he grabbed Silk by the waist, then drew her into a kiss more passionate than any she had ever had before. Then the moment passed, and Dathon started a