Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Other Works

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Sneak Peek at Minstrel's Call

  About the Author

  The years of Oraeyn’s short rule have been peaceful, but now ominous nightmares plague his sleep and cling to him during his waking hours. When two of his most trusted advisors disappear without a trace and not even the power of dragons can locate them, the fell promise of the king’s nightmares becomes reality.

  From the furthest reaches of the world, an ancient enemy stirs. Stretching beyond his crumbling prison walls, this foe seeks to bring life to the darkest of shadows. His army marches towards Aom-igh with deadly intent, threatening all Oraeyn holds dear.

  Aided by dragons, and with the warrior Brant and Princess Kamarie at his side, Oraeyn must journey into the wilds of a forgotten realm. Trusting in the wisdom and skill of the enigmatic minstrel, Kiernan Kane, the companions race against time in search of Yorien’s Hand, a relic that may hold the power to save them all.

  The Minstrel’s Song

  King’s Warrior

  Second Son

  Yorien’s Hand

  Minstrel’s Call

  YORIEN’S

  HAND

  BOOK THREE OF

  “THE MINSTREL’S SONG”

  JENELLE LEANNE SCHMIDT

  Copyright © 2016 by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  Published by Stormcave

  www.jenelleschmidt.com

  YORIEN’S HAND

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example: electronic, photocopy, recording—without prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed works.

  ISBN-13: 978-1517076368

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Book design by Jenelle Schmidt

  Cover art by Angelina Walker

  For everyone who asked for more.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book is not an endeavor I ever complete in isolation. I could not bring any of these stories to completion without the fantastic family and team that surrounds me on a daily basis. As such, there are a few people I would like to thank personally:

  Derek, my amazing and supportive husband. Thank you for everything you do to encourage my authoring aspirations. Thank you for the web-designing, mapmaking, brainstorming sessions, and all the ideas you so freely give. One of these days, I really should give you the co-writing credit you deserve!

  James and Nancy, my fantastic editors. Thank you for all the hard work and effort you put into this book. I am so grateful for editors who not only love my writing, but also see the potential in the rough drafts and are committed to making sure my stories shine as brightly as they are able.

  Angelina, my incredibly talented cover artist. Thank you for the beautiful cover and for persevering in the face of some bumps in the road. I love this painting and I love your artwork. This cover may be my favorite so far (though I love them all very dearly). Thank you.

  Ally and DJ, my awesome beta readers. For your thoroughness and attention to detail. Really, you two put so much effort into your notes that you deserve to be credited more as editors than beta readers. I cannot thank you enough for all your comments, critiques, and encouragement. I know this story is better because of your suggestions.

  PROLOGUE

  Oraeyn sat on the shore and gazed up at the stars. The heat of the day had long since fled though the air and the sand beneath him still held a certain warmth. A cool breeze wafted pleasantly across his face, whispering promises of adventure and rest in equal strength. The gentle rustle of the waves washed up to meet the shore in a steady rhythm. On the horizon, the Toreth rose: a large, silver disc that hovered over the water like a glimmering beacon. It beckoned him though he knew not where it might lead. His head ached, though he had removed his crown before leaving the palace to wander along the shores of his kingdom.

  His kingdom. Ayollan. It still felt surreal. The oaths he had sworn that morning before many of his countrymen weighed heavily upon him; they wrapped him in their solemnity and the responsibility for which he was now solely accountable. It was the weight of those oaths he now bore, not the remembered insignificant pressure of the crown he was as yet unaccustomed to wearing.

  It had been nearly a year since King Arnaud announced his intent to abdicate the throne and proclaimed Oraeyn as his chosen successor. In that time, Oraeyn went from an orphaned squire, toiling towards knighthood in relative obscurity, to a direct descendant of one of the greatest kings Aom-igh had ever known. Since learning all this, Oraeyn had followed King Arnaud constantly: observing how to run a kingdom, how to interact with the members of his staff, who his greatest supporters would be, and who might try to cause trouble. The work was grueling, but it satisfied the deepest corners of his soul.

  There were moments when Oraeyn was not sure he believed any of it. But the proof hung at his side. The Fang Blade, a weapon from an ancient era, passed down to him as though King Llian himself had reached a hand through time and bequeathed him the sword. Though the weapon could be wielded by any who grasped its hilt, it had lain for centuries in its hiding place, protected from falling into the wrong hands. The wizard Scelwhyn secreted the sword deep in the heart of the Mountains of Dusk and woven an enchantment around it that could only be broken by one of Llian’s direct descendants.

  Oraeyn’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of the sword. He had found it by accident. He could have lived his entire life and never gone close enough to its resting place to hear the call. It was unfathomable how such a small event could change the course of his life forever. And now, today, he was king. It was a position he never would have sought, a responsibility he never desired to shoulder.

  Thankfully, he was blessed with excellent mentors. Arnaud, former king of Aom-igh, had become like a father to him. And then there was Brant. Former King’s Warrior and champion of Aom-igh, he was the man Oraeyn looked up to the most. One year ago, in the same journey which brought Oraeyn to claim the Fang Blade, he had also met Brant. He and Princess Kamarie had been sent to find the man and request his aid against the invasion from the Dark Country: Llycaelon.

  At the end of that encounter, it was revealed that Brant originally came from Llycaelon, and was by r
ights a prince. Though the throne was rightfully his, Brant declined to rule, instead making certain that the crown passed to his young nephew, Jemson. Jemson’s youth was a concern to many of his people. At twenty-three years, he was the same age as Oraeyn, but people in Llycaelon aged differently than people in the rest of the world, and so Jemson was considered in many ways to still be a child. Because of this, Brant’s time was now divided between both countries as he traveled back and forth acting as counselor to both young kings, and liaison for the newly formed and fragile alliance between these two great nations.

  Heaving a deep, heavy sigh, Oraeyn lay down in the sand and stared up at the stars. It had been a long, long day, and more long days stretched out before him without end. He only hoped he was up to the challenge.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Far away, deep beneath the earth in his prison, an ancient power shuddered. For centuries had he lain in wait, biding his time, conserving his strength. At long last, his patience had paid off; there were cracks in his prison once more. He would be more careful this time, he would reserve his strength. But he would also have to be wary. His enemy was vigilant.

  Stretching out through one of the fractures in his prison, he sought a new host. He had done this before, many times. Subtly, quietly, he offered his power to the mere mortal, and promised greatness he did not intend to ever bestow.

  A jolt of triumph surged through him as he wove his own power into his new host’s body. This time, it would be different. This time, he would find a way to break free from his cell, and then he would never be chained again. He would be king, lord, and master, as he was always meant to be, and not even his ancient enemy could stop him from achieving his goal. Not this time.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  On the other side of the world from where Oraeyn sat contemplating his life, an army of were-folk marched out from the Eastern Isles upon its long campaign. They swarmed onto the beaches of Yochathain. Delicate Yochathain, jewel of the world, untouched for centuries by conflict or war, was overwhelmed by the flood of monstrous creatures that invaded its pristine borders. The country writhed in anguish as the relentless army swept over her virescent hills and tranquil forests, marching over her plains and leaving death and sorrow in their wake. Their feet churned up the mud and their shrieks and hideous cacophony turned the hearts of her countrymen to ice.

  The invasion came with little warning. The sea to the southeast churned and tossed, and then the creatures emerged. Tens of thousands of them, they tore into everything, and left devastation behind. The creatures that ravaged the countryside were hideous beyond belief, nightmarish in appearance and immune to reason. They were the were-folk: creatures out of nightmare and legend. Whyvrens, seheowks, wulfbana, dracors, and spidryns, they struck terror into the hearts of all who saw them. They crept and flew and slithered, bits of darkness that combined and twisted all manners of beasts into forms ghastly beyond imagination. And high above them all soared the silver-winged werehawk.

  A giant beast of icy blackness, the werehawk’s approach froze its enemies with terror. The fierce, bird-like creature screeched in fury and wheeled, its body flashing through the air with powerful speed. It snapped its long, razor-sharp beak closed, cutting off its own cry and diving out of the sky towards its unwitting prey far below. The werehawk plummeted in dread silence, striking at the last moment with strong claws. The creature it hunted never had a chance.

  Ghrendourak, master of the greatest army the world had ever seen, watched as the werehawk hunted. Clad in armor, he was a massive figure. A cape swirled about his shoulders, lending him an air of mystery. The were-folk shrank from him, for he was their leader, their master, and they bowed before the power within him, for it was the same power used in their own creation. He allowed the werehawk to gulp down its prey, and then he called it to him. The creature came, its beak snapping and a wild look in its eye, but it came. Ghrendourak stepped onto its back and together they rose up into the heavens.

  The massive beast never tired. It was the fiercest and most powerful of the were-creatures; the first of these mystical creations, and it had survived with its creator for thousands of years.

  Despite his exterior calm, Ghrendourak quailed every time he called the steed to himself. The werehawk was the only creature Ghrendourak himself feared, for he was not its master. He lived in terror that its power was greater than his own, for he knew it was fed by the same master who supplied him with strength. The werehawk tested him constantly, always searching for a weakness in its shackles. Ghrendourak laughed outwardly at the creature’s efforts, but silently he worried that one day the beast might find that weakness. Without their common master, Ghrendourak was just a man, and secretly he worried that one day his master might deem him unworthy and strip away the strength he had provided. He strove to align his goals with that of his master, to prove himself worthy of the strength and power that had been bestowed upon him. Two separate entities, they worked together as one.

  Ghrendourak sneered as he looked down upon his army. His victory drew near and he could already savor its sweetness. His lip curled with contempt at the thought of how easy it had all been. From the back of his werehawk it was as if he could see all of Tellurae Aquaous spread out before him, ready to be conquered and annihilated.

  “Soon, soon it will all be mine, and there is no one to stop me this time!” He whispered the words to himself. Or perhaps it was the power controlling him that whispered. It was more difficult every day for Ghrendourak to discern between his own thoughts and words and those of his master. “None will stand before me this time.” He leaned forward and patted his werehawk on the neck with an almost gentle fondness. “Can you taste their dread my beauty? Can you smell it? It tastes like freedom. This time we will not be stopped, we will not be driven back, our prison will be destroyed and I shall never be caged there again. Soon I shall reclaim my true form, and then I will rule forever as the king I was meant to be!”

  The werehawk lifted its head and loosed a shrill scream of defiance into the night. Ghrendourak felt grim pleasure at the sound. He stretched his hand up into the night sky, straining to touch one of the stars that dangled there. He looked up at Yorien and laughed.

  “You will not stop me this time,” he snarled. “You are powerless without someone to wield your pathetic gift. And I have already found him. I have touched his nightmares, he will not be able to stand before me. Not this time.”

  The constellation was unmoved by his comments. The stars glittered in the night sky, aglow with calm defiance. Ghrendourak hissed in rage and dug his heels into the sides of the werehawk, taking his hatred out on the closest thing to him. The werehawk screamed again and its pain soothed his anger.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  In desperation, the people of Yochathain fled to the cities, burning everything behind them, for fire was the only thing the were-creatures regarded with any amount of consternation. And so, beautiful Yochathain burned, and the hostile enemy laid siege to the cities.

  Layrdon, the capital of Yochathain, held strong against the enemy for eighteen months. Despite being unprepared for a siege, Layrdon was well-stocked with food and water. In addition to a secret, underground river that ran below the city there were also tunnels and caverns upon which the foundations had been built. It was through these tunnels that messengers were sent and some inhabitants of the city were able to be smuggled away to safety. Supplies could also be funneled into the city through these tunnels, but it was not comfortable. There was no easy way to supply an entire, overcrowded city’s needs through a few tunnels. The inhabitants huddled within Layrdon’s walls suffered. Many died once Cold-Term arrived. And then the food began to run out.

  King Drebune stared down at his once-beautiful city, his hopeless, starving people, and knew defeat had found them all. The ravening army outside his walls had issued no demands; no surrender could stop their advance. But survival might still be possible, for though these creatures slew many, t
hey did not appear to be bent on killing everyone. But even if he and his people did not survive, word must be sent; he must attempt to warn others before they suffered the same fate as Yochathain.

  Making the most of what might be his last hours as king, Drebune called his most trusted and courageous messengers and gave them their assignments.

  “Though we have sent for help, no help has come. We can only guess that our messengers never made it to their destinations. But we must try once more. We have enough left within us to make one last stand, which must buy you the needed time to bring word to the people of Kallayohm, Efoin-Ebedd, Llycaelon, Aom-igh, Endalia, and Emnolae. You must warn them, because when we fall, they will be next.”

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  “The Dragon’s Eye shines brightly on Aom-igh, but thunder rolls across the rest of the world,” Kiernan Kane mused to himself.

  The gangly minstrel perched precariously on his windowsill and stared out at the bright blue sky; his eyes mirrored the tranquility of the morning. His face held a somber expression. A bird chirped at the minstrel cheerily, laughing at his apprehension. Kiernan Kane jumped and almost tumbled backwards off his ledge.

  “He rises once more,” the minstrel insisted, glaring at the saucy creature on the tree branch outside his window. “The Ancient Enemy stirs. I can feel it. He has begun his latest bid for freedom, and perhaps this will be the final confrontation. He is powerful, more powerful than he has ever been before.”

  Clouds drew across the sky like ominous curtains. Kiernan Kane shivered, and wrapped his long arms around himself. The bird hunched down on its branch warily. A chill wind rustled the leaves of the tree.