Northlander

D. Lambert

Description

The truth will destroy it all

Pinned in HillTop, winter eats away at Tohmas Galanth's forces. Tohmas' wizard is outmatched and in hiding. His warriors are tired and losing faith. The longer they wait, the closer the truth comes to unseating Tohmas' position as Prince of Galanth. His chances at victory are dwindling and the more Tohmas learns about his powerful enemy DoomDragon, the more his confidence wanes.

As Tohmas battles on, his family’s crimes come to light. The Galanth have guarded their secrets for a generation, but now the blood of the fallen washes away their deceptions. Lies have always come easier for Tohmas, yet to protect the obscurity of his past, he must set right the blood feud he inherited. In a war where no one can be trusted, can anyone emerge victorious?

Dragons, wizards, and magical forces collide in this complex world of swords, sorcery, and ancient revenge.

Sujets

• Fantastique
• Epic Fantasy
• Fiction
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: 4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
• Date de parution: 27 mai 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781644504895
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Table o f Contents
Current a uthor bio:
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Glossary





Nor thlander
Son of No Man Serie s Book 3
Copyright © 2022 D. Lambert. All rights re served.


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This is book is meant as a reference guide. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All brands, quotes, and cited work respectfully belongs to the original rights holders and bear no affiliation to the authors or pu blisher.
Library of Congress Control Number: 20 22933468
Print ISBN: 978-1-644 50-490-1
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-644 50-504-5
Audio ISBN: 978-1-644 50-488-8
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-644 50-489-5



To my father, for con vincing me
I could do anything I set m y mind to.






Prologue
I n the early dusk of the bog, Crawthran crept out from the den. Laorn followed him into the gloom of the thick marsh near their newest home, her shoulders slumped under the weight of the furs she wore. Mud covered her legs and feet, protection from leeches and the cold. It cracked as she moved, revealing her deeply ta nned skin.
He ran a hand over her wide belly in approval. She was a strong female. With luck, the child she carried would be a boy.
The hounds quickly assembled, their bright eyes locked on the two humans, ready for action. With a guttural bark, Crawthran sounded the hunt, and the pack dispersed to follow him in his search. Beast, the eldest of the eight dogs, picked up the scent. He arrived at Laorn’s side like a ghost and indicated the way with a look. As one, the pack turned to the north to hunt the intruders.
This was where the First Clan territory began. The chief had declared no one should pass through the Black Marsh, and Crawthran was more than pleased to enforce that law.
The pack found the humans in a clearing on the border of the marsh. Beast brought the pack in downwind. After scouting the region, they split again. Laorn took Beast and his pups to the west, and Crawthran took the remaining hounds in from the south.
The enemy had a dog with them, and it was this unfortunate creature that called the alarm.
Crawthran threw the first knife, taking one of the invaders in the back, straight to the heart. The others moved away, into Laorn’s charge. Venom, her sharp teeth flashing like diamonds in the gloomy light of the moon, caught the second man’s throat before he could draw his weapon. Her brethren were not far behind her; they intercepted the remaining human. They knew the danger of a blade and circled the last man cautiously to keep him pinned until Laorn could slip between them. Laorn’s double-handed, bladed fury forced the enemy back into Crawthra n’s reach.
There was no reason to prolong it. Crawthran slit the man’s throat and let him fall.
Several groups had entered the pack’s territory over the last few nights, but this was the last of them. Laorn showed her own sharpened canines as she approached the tethered horses where Beast was giving the final shake to the doomed watchdog. The three horses screamed as they fell to Laorn’s blade. The hounds moved in to feast, for once not called off by their pa ck leader.
He was satisfied the last of the enemy was dead. None would pass through the Black Marsh. His chief had com manded it.
After gorging themselves, the hounds wearily dragged themselves back to the den for sleep that would last most of the next day. With the hounds gone, Crawthran and Laorn were left to dump the remains of the intruders into a deep reach of the swamp. Crawthran left the rest of the horses for the scavengers then found a clean pool where he and Laorn could wash themselves of the blood, taking turns picking off the ticks and leeches before they made good their bite. Done, Laorn covered him with mud once more, hiding his scent and protecting him. She let the contact linger, her eyes telling Crawthran of a different kind of hunger. Even as heavily pregnant as she was, slaying excited her. Now that the last of the killing was done, she ca me to him.
Crawthran lead Laorn, stark naked with her tattered furs slung over her scarred shoulders, back to the den but was interrupted by the sense of magic p assing by.
He snarled, alerting his mate. It was not the first time they had felt the presence of the caster in the swamp, but as the power was only ever passing, he had been unable to locate or slay the flyer. He searched the undergrowth, sniffing the air and reaching out his senses, desperate for any hint of the whereabouts of the enemy. He wanted to slay the flyer; it was his duty as a kni fe dancer.
But in a few moments, the magic was gone, and they were alone once more.
He growled as they carried on, his lust lost with the knowledge that a caster still patrolled the Black Marsh. But they had completed their task and defended the marsh. It was time to return to the Outlands.
He had to leave the cast er behind.
Chapter 1
“Always fight for something bigger than yourself.”
-Darknim D oomDragon of the E idenlandsa
A top the lake cliffs, the spectators lined the waggons and supply trunks. The crowd of observers, mostly Tohmas’ trained protectors, seemed to get bigger every morning in the restricted space atop the hill. Since setting up the camp over the lake, it had been a long cycle of exchanging skirmishes with Northlanders, and the trapped men and women were glad for anything that would distract them. The occasional battle was interspersed with waiting, which favored the Northlanders and their access to outside resources. With the summer mooncycles ending, autumn loomed, threatening cooling weather and scarcer supplies.
Carsh, Tohmas’ prime protector, sparred Rydan-style with his young tagalong, Sabian. Although Esparan, Sabian had taken to Carsh’s weapons and style smoothly. While he was no match for the Rydan Knife Dancer, Sabian was getting better steadily, Tohmas had to admit.
It was a miracle Carsh allowed the eighteen year old Esparan to shadow him in the first place. It took great skill and strength to win over a Rydan’s prejudice.
Tohmas sat apart on a barrel, leaning against an entrenched shop waggon, wishing he could be in Sabian’s place and exercise his bored muscles. Instead, all he could do was flip a Lourite coin over his fingers, working the dexterity of his scarred left hand. But he was a Prince of Espar, even if his heart remained Rydan, and he had other duties this day. He would have to take Carsh aside later for a proper match if he was to get a good challenge.
After , Tohmas reminde d himself.
Once the spar was in full swing, Tohmas lowered his feet. “Protector Sanba, with me,” he called.
The protector fell into step beside him, his tabard catching the wind. It had become stained by mud and blood, making it a mottled brown instead of green.
Tohmas moved away from the crowd to a place overlooking the cliff and the lake. Sanba joined him as Carsh kept the attention of the crowd off Tohmas by adding a flipping knife to his display. Sabian copied him, impressing the onlookers.
The other protectors followed Tohmas at a distance respectfully. Over the last year, Tohmas had come to know the protectors well, and they knew him equally well. So long as he stayed close, they w ere happy.
Sanba stood at his side, his blue eyes—an uncommonly bright shade like Tohmas’—scanning the lake then the cliffs. His stare lingered on the traps they had set along the sharp cliffs below to deter Northlander approach from the water. His posture tense, Sanba was ready to act should dang er appear.
His steady resolve was one of the reasons Tohmas had p icked him.
The wind picked up in the dawn and favored Tohmas with a gust down the slopes. The crash of the water against the cliff and the soft chirps of irate swallows kept his words from being overhead outside of immediate company. Farther to the right, a group of soldiers worked the nearby winch and drew water for the camp.
“You went to the Outlands once before, Protector,” Tohmas prompted. “You delivered a greeting to the south border of Polthian.”
“Yeh,” Sanba replied, his word as curt as his nod. There being no other Rydans in the camp, he must have picked up the Rydan slang and accent f rom Carsh.
Tohmas smiled, vindicated in his choice of protectors to approach with his request. “I need you to do it again.”
The older man narrowed his eyes, drawing his large eyebrows low enough to unite them over the bridge of his nose. He peered south across the lake to where another river began. The river there was treacherous and unpassable by boats. Still, it led toward the Outlan