Graven

Cavin Wright

Description

A far from willing conscript into a war instigated by a foreign empire, Graven, not much more than a boy, is forced to take up the sword - or die. He finds his life spiraling into a web of violence and betrayal. In a world of uncertain alliances and where life is cheap, he must stay alive and prove his worth. His simple, sheltered village upbringing has not prepared him for the carnage and horror he must now face if ever he is to see his homeland again. In a bitter struggle that will rip away the innocent youth and leave a harsh and uncompromising man, his arduous journey begins.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 05 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782344339
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Title Page
GRAVEN
An Epic Struggle



By
Dale Osborne and Cavin Wright



Publisher Information
Graven published in 2012 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Copyright © Dale Osborne & Cavin Wright 2012
The right of Cavin Wright and Dale Osborne to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Chapter One
I shall never forget that winter. But not only for the harshness of it - and it was incredibly harsh. The fields carried a ghostly white sheen and the hedgerows were crested with intricate patterns of frost. Icicles hung from the tall trees in the deep wood and the ground was as hard as iron. Winters such as this were deemed as a bad omen, a sure sign that disaster lurked not far ahead. A bitter wind ruffled the land from the east with a miserable persistence that chilled a man to the bone. It was a winter in which many of the old of the tribe died and men built great fires to send them on their way to the gods Many prayers were offered to Anos, the god whose job it was to shepherd the dead to their final home. Many sacrifices of chickens and lambs were offered to Talvan, lord of all the gods, so places could be found for all our dead.
Towards the end of that long, hard winter my entire life was to change forever. I am old now and my bones creak when I move, but then I was a youth of seventeen summers and my spear arm was strong and fast. I could run like the wind and fight like the heroes of legend - or so I thought - but the inflated opinions of the young are often -as mine were - pounded into dust by what was to follow. We were the Cotti, a fierce and revered tribe; one of the five tribes that made up the Island of Sirrac. The Asshir, the Fellci, the Hamma and the Kallimi made up the rest. Our ancestors had settled this island so long ago that even the eldest of the tribes had not the faintest idea how distant that time was. I think perhaps it was a very long time in the past. Veddig, of the Hamma is very old, almost seventy five summers, some say, and he swears that in his youth his grandfather told him stories of the migration. Stories handed down from generation to generation, though no one, not even Veddig, can begin to guess when they began. What everybody knows, however, is the time when the Isscarans came.
It was long before I was born, and my father had been First Warrior to the old king. The very sea had been filled with ships, he had told me. The tribes had been given no warning that they were coming and a large portion of their army had landed before any resistance could be raised. The tribes had eventually gathered at Ossen Field, but it had taken three whole days, and by that time the Isscarans had taken a huge swathe of the land of the Asshir, and killed two hundred of their spears. Three thousand warriors marched to meet them on the forth day and the two armies clashed at Dun Carr, the last Asshir settlement that had not yet been overrun. My father took a wound but did not die. Yet still, to this day, he walks with a slight limp from an Isscaran sword that bit deep into his right leg. The tribes fought as they had always fought; a seething mass of bodies hurling themselves in one enormous tide of men to sweep the enemy from our lands. They were met by a solid wall of shields bristling with spears and short stabbing swords. The forerunners of the charging hoard threw themselves at the wall and died. More Isscarans marched from the flanks and swung towards the unprotected sides of our warriors. The battle, my father says, lasted less than an hour and the carnage was awful. Three kings were killed that day, as the field outside Dun Carr ran red with blood. The remaining two kings were taken prisoner. My father tells me that the Isscarans were a noble enemy, and at battle’s end, their physicians treated not only their own, but our tribesmen as well. That was how my father lived to tell of the terrible defeat. He would have surely bled to death if an Isscaran physician had not stitched his deep wound.
Now at seventeen summers I am to join the army of the conquerors. They took our land and left a large garrison, with a governor at Dun Gall, the largest settlement on the coast, and two legions of their soldiers to keep us subdued - though after Dun Carr, not many had the stomach for rebellion. Dun Gall is no longer a simple settlement, but a sprawling town, built with Isscaran stone, with a fort sporting high walls and towers. We pay them taxes, plus a tenth of our yearly harvest, and they leave us alone, except to dispense justice where they deem fit. We have no kings now; they will not allow it, but each of our settlements has a councilor, chosen by the Isscarans to represent his village. At the end of each moon cycle, or month as the Isscarans would now have us say, they are summoned to a meeting in Dun Gall.
I do not pretend to understand what goes on at these meetings, and in truth, I have not the slightest wish to do so. What I do know is that Isscara is now at war. Our councilor Brodig came back from the last meeting with the news that every village must yield five young men between seventeen and twenty summers to serve in the legion. I unhappily drew a short straw when, from the twenty five men of that age, the five were selected. My father protested, but Brodig waved away his complaint. The selection had been fair, he retorted. I should not be shown any favors, just because my father had once - and he spat that single word - been an important figure. Brodig was a lapdog who adored his new masters, but venerated his position even more. It gave him the chance to strut with an inflated sense of self-importance about the village, issuing orders and enforcing the tax laws. In the time before the Isscarans he would most likely have been dragged through the muddy village streets by horses to teach him more respect for his superiors. But now, sadly, he held the power and was not hesitant in using it.
Thus it was that on a cold winter’s day, I sat with four other young men of my village in a small hut and waited for the cart that would take us all to who knew what.
Mallic, a straw-haired boy, a few months older than me, looked dubiously at the hut door. His round face was scared by small red marks that showed he had suffered, as a child, from the illness known as the bane. He was fortunate, not for the fact that he was scarred, but for the fact he still lived. The bane was more often than not a killer, and it usually claimed three out of four victims. “Do you think it’s true?” he asked lamely, “about the tings they say will happen to us?”
He was referring to the rumors, most likely started by Brodig, if the truth were known, about the horrors inflicted on new recruits by the other men in the Isscaran legions. I looked into his pitted face and saw the nervousness in his green eyes. I wondered if the same trepidation was mirrored in my own. I smiled half-heartedly and shrugged my shoulders in answer to his question. I had no more of an idea about the stories than he did. If they were true, then all we could do was endure whatever happened, praying to the gods that it would not last long. I didn’t know what to expect, except that my life was never going to be the same again.
Rewan, who sat next to Mallic, looked across at me. He was nineteen summers and the gods had blessed him with a strong face, and square jaw. His raven black hair hung to his shoulders and he looked the part of a warrior even if he were yet to be proven one. Rewan was ever the favorite with the village girls. They would moon over him with big eyes and dote on his words. “I hear that you can be flogged for not having a sharp spear point, or having dust on your chain coat,” he said gravely, “And if you run from the enemy, they hang you.”
His words did little to cheer our already dark moods. We had all heard such stories and our futures seemed as bleak as the winter wind that whipped round the hut in which we sat. We were callow and untried young men, who perhaps wouldn’t see home again. We were about to be thrust into a war which had nothing to do with us, and it seemed to me that the gods were laughing at our unhappy lot.
“We could run away!” suggested Mallic, a sudden look of hope lighting his pock-marked face.
Avian laughed. He was the forth member of our doomed band - a tall youth with brown hair and freckles. He was the eldest, at twenty summers and had been listening to our conversation with some amusement. “And where would we run to, Mallic?” he demanded. “The Deep Wood, maybe? I am sure the Isscarans would never dream of looking for us there. We could hide in the trees and live off of nuts and berries for the next thirty summers.”
Mallic scowled and tried to defend his suggestion. “There are other places,” he muttered, looking at me for support. But I could not back him up, because I knew Avian was right. If we fled, they would catch us and we would dance our last jig at the end of an Isscaran rope. The bitterness of the situation washed over me. My anger stirred at life’s cruel tricks - tricks that could alter a man’s life so damnably as to never be the same again.
Avian seemed to relent of his mocking, and smiled at Mallic. “It may not be as bad as they say it is,” he said, trying to reassure the younger man. “Gods! If we were to believe everything we heard, then for every bad deed we did as children, would we not have all be