Celebrant

D. Lambert

Description

The line between enemy and ally blurs…


Tohmas Galanth has arrived in the north, outnumbered on every front. To survive his commitments to his besieged uncle, he must defeat the hoards, but DoomDragon is no easy foe and his battles are fought in steady retreat.


To end the decade-long war, Tohmas must survive assassinations, betrayals, spies, and the crumbling morale of his trapped men. His staunchest allies will become his greatest threats as the winter looms.

Sujets

• Fantastique
• Epic Fantasy
• Sensible
• Sensibilidad
• Fantasy
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: 4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
• Date de parution: 15 décembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781644504031
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Table o f Contents
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
Sneak Peak Chapter 1
Glossary





C elebrant
Son of No Man Serie s Book 2
Copyright © 2021 D. Lambert. All rights re served.


4 Horsemen Publicatio ns, Inc.
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Dunedin, FL 34698
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Cover by Je n Kotick
Typesetti ng by MC
Editor Amand a Miller
All rights to the work within are reserved to the author and publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please contact either the Publisher or Author to gain per mission.
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 21948920
Print ISBN: 978-1-644 50-404-8
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-644 50-503-8
Audio ISBN: 978-1-644 50-402-4
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-644 50-403-1



To my sister Rachel, for inspiring my love o f writing.






The fires of the soul burn brightest under conflict.
- Loni Fi redancer, Celebra nt of Inac


Chapter 1
“G ood idea,” Darak said behind Tohmas. “Your arm will get weak if you don’t use it regularly. I usually recommend things that are a little less fragile. Be a shame to break it.”
Tohmas placed the glass orb he had been fiddling with atop his folded, green tunic on the large table. Master Kitable had warned breaking the sphere would defend against hostile magic and warn Kitable about the attack. Cutter Darak was right; he did not want to break it pr ematurely.
Tohmas’ shoulder panged as the cutter tightened the bandage, having replaced the moss bandages with fresh ones. The arrow wound bled surprisingly little, but he had a bruise from his arm to the middle of his back beca use of it.
“I had noticed it was slow,” he said. Truthfully, his left arm screamed in pain if he moved it. He found it hard to grip a weapon and could not lift anything beyond his dagger. His natural tendency was for his left hand, but he had trained to use his right to better fit in among the Esparan. He hated to think he would have to rely on it, knowing his left was faster, stronger, and less expected.
“Three days since you got shot in the back, and you’re surprised that your shoulder hurts? You’ve not been sparring, have you?” the cutter demanded, interrupting the prince in a way few dared. The cutter glared at Carsh, who was perched on a nearby chair back. Tohmas’ prime protector fiddled with a knife, weaving it over his fingers, much like Tohmas had the orb. “Did you spar? Prime Protector, your duty is to defend this stubborn oaf, even from himself!”
Carsh gave a sharp-toothed grin that looked demonic in the light of the lamp hanging from the central post. The small candle atop Inac’s altar flickered behind him, heightening the sini ster look.
Rydans were not known for holding back. Darak may not have realized it, but Tohmas’ upbringing among the Rydans was the main reason he hid the discomfort of his wound. But he saw no reason to exp lain that.
“I have to be fit when we meet Northlanders, Darak,” he answered. “For the moment, that means I am behaving myself. To a point, o f course.”
“To a point?” The bandage now secure around the prince’s entire shoulder, Cutter Darak pulled a pot from his pocket and applied an ointment on Tohmas’ exp osed back.
“Yes, Darak, to a point. Are you quite finished?”
“You have a rather impressive number of sc ars that—”
“My scars are fine. They have not grieved me yet, and I do not expect them to grieve me in the future.” Despite the continued administrations, Toh mas stood.
“Alright, alright,” Cutter Darak said in surrender, not tall enough to reach Tohmas’ scarred shoulders without Tohmas being seated. He presented a handful of pills to the prince, but Tohmas shook his head.
“I promise to recover without your herbs. I will not upset your reputation, I assure you.” When he crossed his arms, the statement was final. The cutter replaced the pills into one of his voluptuous pockets then adjusted his collar where the pressed flower denoting his service to the God Pari w as pinned.
“As you wish, my Prince,” Darak said with an undisguised roll of his eyes. He shoved his tools unceremoniously into various pockets as he added, “If you want to improve the use of your arm—”
Carsh leaped from his seat, toppling the chair behind him and drawing a second knife instantly. Tohmas joined him, forgetting about his wound and drawing his sword. Fiery agony shot from his neck to his fingers. He swapped his sword to his right hand, ready despite the pain to deal with whatever Carsh had detected.
Nothing happened.
Darak cleared his throat into the ensuing silence. “I was going to suggest a coin,” he said awkwardly. “It will keep your fingers from getting tired and make you look important at the same time. Or do Rydans have an aversion to coins? Don’t tell me I offe nded him!”
Tohmas’ eyes were on Carsh, who was poised like a mountain cat about to pounce.
“ Flya ,” the Ryd an hissed.
He’d sensed nearby magic, Tohmas translated. There was a caster nearby, but while Carsh would consider it a threat, Tohmas was less concerned. Most wizards he knew were allies or at least clai med to be.
Tohmas straightened slowly, letting his sw ord lower.
“No offense,” he told the cutter. “Good nigh t, Darak.”
“Good night, my Prince.” With another bow of his head, Cutter Darak left, followed by his old dog, Stitches, carrying a bone Carsh had t ossed her.
As the cutter left, a protector stuck his head through the tent flap. “Prime Protector Severin for you, ” he said.
Explains Carsh’s reaction .
The bodyguard waited for Tohmas’ reply. Despite the wizard’s known allegiance to Prince Sol, Tohmas’ uncle and ally, Tohmas contemplated refusing. His life in the Outlands, where casters were considered manipulative killers, had made it difficult to get past an inherent distrust of them. He hardly knew Master Clarin, as the Prime Protector of Solta was commonly known, and was not convinced that the master wizard merited his rank as Prince Sol’s top defender.
Besides, Master Kitable also despised Clarin, and Kitable was as Esparan as could be. Although Kitable was known for hating people in general, particularly other wizards, he had also confided that Clarin had once tried to sneak into Kitable’s personal vardo. As Clarin was now politely requesting entrance into Tohmas’ tent, he must have learned from the event.
Master Clarin had probably traveled by Relocation from Prince Sol’s besieged city facing the Northlander hoards, and he was likely needed back on the front. Waiting could leave Prince Sol at risk. Tohmas did not want to arrive to his uncle’s rescue too late.
“Fine. Let him in,” Tohmas said. He forced himself to put away his sword.
Carsh did not. He kept two daggers on hand, one long for stabbing and one short for throwing.
Master Clarin did not have to duck through the entrance of the canvas tent, being nearly two heads shorter than Tohmas. Dressed smartly in red and black boasting of Prince Sol’s patronage, the balding man had spectacles perched on his nose and a girth under his belt. Tohmas doubted the man knew how to smile, his premature wrinkles deepest around his perpetual expression of confused annoyance.
Carsh snarled at him, and Clarin visibly flinched back. Not only was the Rydan Prince Tohmas’ last defense, he also had a reputation as the deadliest man in Tohmas’ service. Further, Carsh had an absolute hatred for wizards that even Master Kitable had failed t o mollify.
“Relax,” Tohmas told his prime protector. “We are among allies.” He did not use the word “friends.” But Tohmas’ Princedom of Galanth needed Solta if they wanted to stop the invasion of Northlanders. Tonight, Solta was represented by Clarin.
Every movement amplified by hesitation, Carsh slowly sat on another chair, leaving his felled one on the ground. His eyes never le ft Clarin.
Clarin ostensibly avoided the stare of the Rydan and looked at Tohmas. His mouth dropped open, and he blurted, “You w ere shot?”
Tohmas smothered a smile. Not precisely correct etiquette, he mused.
“I am fine, thank you, Master Clarin. What can I do for you? Since you have sent yourself quite the distance to seek me out, I presume it is important.” Leaving the orb and the blood-stained tunic— he had soaked through his shirt—on the table, he opened one of the many storage chests that lined the walls of his tent. Their bases thick with the mud of the last four princedoms he had marched his men through, they worked well to keep out the draft coming off the nearby river. His cot stood between two chests for the same reasons, a heap of furs piled on it. Nights were chillier in the far north, even summ er nights.
He threw a new tunic over his head. The wounded shoulder took effort to maneuver into the sleeve, but he managed it without a ssistance.