Za'varuk's Stone: Pleides Series: Book I

ZA’VARUK’S STONE

Pleides Series: Book I

Special Edition

A . L. Neff

Writers Club Press

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Za’Varuk’s Stone

Pleides Series: Book I

All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Adam D’Amato-Neff

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written

permission of the publisher.

Writers Club Press

an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse 2021

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Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-26510-3

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Preface

Acknowledgements

Chronology

Za’varuk’s Stone

Special Edition

A Pleidian Novel

1

Beginnings of Strife

2

Seth

3

The Fool

4

A Taste for Death 

5

More Unknowns 

6

Castles and Companions 

2

Part II: The Visitor 

Master Cheiron 

2

Death and Rebirth 

3

Preparing for War 

4

Laws of Magic 

5

The Quest Begins 

3

Part III: Images

2

Lava Falls 

3

Lair of the Dragon 

4

Convergence 

5

Shadows Thicken 

6

Showdown in Grathmoor 

Conclusions 

About the Author 

Notes 

Glossary 

Addendum 

DEDICATION

For My Wife Francine Who Puts Up With My Temperamental Nature And Rides Out The Maelstrom Of My Creative Outlets, And To My Daughter Elizabeth Tracy Who Inspires Me To Return To The Fantasy Of Childhood Dreams.

EPIGRAPH

Low and behold the fate of a human race

Molded like so much clay;

Yet only the blazing fires may strengthen them,

And set them to shine amidst a sea of burning stars this day.

Master Cheiron, Personal Writings; Circa 5411 Pc.

PREFACE

It is odd that I had originally written these books as novellas for my friends and family out of fun and sharing of stories. They however instantly became popular in circles and spread like wild fire. At that point I published the three pieces Darkwolfe’s Honour, The Dragon Temple, and The Demon Gate together as Za’Varuk’s Stone. This piece was my first and lacking editorial review I went ahead with publication and instantly wished I had been more thorough. Never the less, I’m sure even now oddities may be found and typos present, but I feel I have addressed most of the issues and present you with a better version than the first. Read carefully, because in many cases I added a sentence or even whole paragraphs to thicken the story from it’s original form. As well, I have included other reference material and a general map of the Northwest portion of the continent Glazeer. The interlude between Za’Varuk’s Stone and Pine Tree wind is Crow Scare, but it was included in Pine Tree Wind so is not technically a separate entity. The third book in the series is Shadows of the Underworld and will be out early in 2003. The fourth book, The Demon Hunters should be out by summer or fall 2003. The subsequent books in the series will still center on Darkwolfe and will probably be a trilogy, but at this time I don’t want to even mention the names of them as it may alter your present reading and the books in the 4-part series.

So enjoy, and I always take time to answer personal e-mails as time permits.

{Eavaloch@Aol.Com Or Cheiron312@Msn.Com}

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to commend the artistry of Alan F. Beck for the cover of this novel. More of his works can be seen at his website www.alanfbeck.com

.

CHRONOLOGY

Za’Varuk’s Stone

Crow Scare

Pine Tree Wind

Shadows Of The Underworld

The Demon Hunters

ZA’VARUK’S STONE

SPECIAL EDITION

A PLEIDIAN NOVEL

1

DARKWOLFE’S

Honour

A common bardic song in praise of Darkwolfe and the Dragon Band in ages long past; of his quest for self the gods, and his pact with Pleides

ONCE THERE WAS A LITTLE BOY, BY HIMSELF IN THE WORLD ALONE HE TRIED TO MAKE HIMSELF FRIENDS BUT HE WAS SO DIFFERENT

SO HE SAT IN A FOREST CLEAR AND PRAYED TO THE GODS

THERE

(REFRAIN)

WHY AM I HERE, LIFE ISN’T FAIR, WHY AREN’T I LIKE ALL

THE REST

I TRY SO HARD TO BE RIGHT, TO BE WHO I WAS MEANT TO

BE

THERE WAS A STIR IN THE WIND, AND A VOICE CAME TO

HIM

WAS IT REAL OR IN HIS MIND, HE DIDN’T KNOW BUT HE

LISTENED

IT SPOKE OF MOTHER AT THE DAWN OF TIME THE SEPARATION THAT BOUND US HERE

THEN A BUSH BURNED WITH FIRE, AND SPOKE THE NAME

OF OUR FATHER

HE FELT HEAT DEEP WITHIN, AT THE CENTER OF HIS

BEING

THE FOREST CAME RIGHT ALIVE, A LION STARED INTO HIS

EYES

HE WALKED DOWN THE OLD PATH, DOWN TO THE ANCIENT LAKE

HE LOOKED DEEP INTO ITS DEPTHS, AND SAW THE BLUE

LADYTHERE

SHE HELD ALOFT THE SACRED SWORD, HE MADE HIS

HEART BARE

THEN HE WENT ATOP THE HILL, THE ONE OF ELDER

KINGS

HE MET THE GOD WITH ANTLERED HEAD, AND DONNED THE PAGAN CROWN ALAS HE CALLED THE STORM AND RAIN AND MADE A PACT WITH PLEIDES

Beginnings of Strife

1

The fire line of the burning circle of candles lay somber effect to the darkened hovel. Shadows played lazily upon the walls and danced to a tune that only the great mother may ever know and do. A small orchestra of crickets played at the outer walls and a wisp of morning fog blew in at the lonely windowsill.

Gorden Tucker contemplated his small and yet undecided future here, squatting in a little wood and whicker chair at the room’s far corner. His dark complexion and raggedy beard leant a downcast measure to the glare of what was soon to appear within the ensorcelled circle. His stick-like frame hunkered down in the undersized chair added to a comical aspect to this event; as if old Mr. Brady’s scarecrow had walked in off the field and taken up residence in this child’s seat and awaited the coming show. With a bored and whimsical yawn, Furball the cat stretched beneath his feet and clawed plaintively at the dry and tasteless floor.

A large circle was etched in chalk in the center of the room. At the points of the eight-pointed star stretched within its center sat small white candles with their flames flickering hungrily.

How long is this suppose to take Furball? Tucker asked as if the little feline would so happily oblige a ready answer. The cranky and less than friendly cat merely stretched further into comfort and ignored its current master with utter disdain.

Just this last span of several days (commonly called a five-day or fist for short) a rider had come into Grathmoor speaking of a terrible curse that was soon to come upon the town. Once the captain of the guards discerned that he wasn’t entirely crazy, he was brought to Gorden Tucker, the town cleric, upon the rider’s request. Since it was thought not prudent to bring him to the castle and stir up the resident clerics there, Captain Emory acknowledged his request and sent him on his way. Captain Emory also thought that the fewer disturbances to Lord Noblin the better; curse or no curse.

Gorden Tucker, while not wholly versed in curses and demonic infestations as the case may be, agreed to at least converse with the somewhat hysterical young lad and see what he was about. As was soon gathered, Pylreht a tiny fishing village up the Borneck tributary was annihilated just a fortnight ago by a rather nondescript man walking into town at sunset.

Apparently this man soon transformed into some kind of beast or demon and ripped the entire town limb from limb. Before all was completely lost in total bloodshed, the local mage, named Sabbath, sent the rider on to Grathmoor with a scroll of awakening to summon a beast of the lower planes to battle this unknown demon. Tucker, being versed in local beasts and demonology to some degree, thought this all very vague, but when a forward Grathmoor scout came riding in reporting of some horrible monster thrashing its way up the southern stretch to town, Tucker decided it probably wasn’t too bad of an idea to go ahead and do a little summoning.

The candlelight continued its dance to unseen gods and pulled from the web of the goddess. Like two small pieces of the heart, at first discordant, soon they come into perfect beat and drone on like a war chant or master at the helm of a slave ship. Boom-da-da-da, Boom Di-dum, Boom-da-da-da, Boom Di-Dum. Soon tucker began swaying in rhythm with the sound no one else could hear. The little rickety chair squeaked with each movement and threatened to splinter into nothing but kindling beneath his adult frame. Furball sauntered off to a more private corner of the little shack near the matted straw, which was used as a bed, mewling discomfort-ingly, but otherwise not terribly concerned at the moment. His black and tan tiger stripes, so typical of the mysteries’ brown tabby, soon became lost in the gathering shadows as the flames began to wane suddenly.

A preternatural stillness came in the low circle of flames. First nothing visible, then a misty blackness coalescing from some other worldly or magical plane appeared. Swirling darkness, amorphous yet purposeful was this sentient mass; seething its evilness and malicious intent. Tucker tried to rise from his little seat but felt completely paralyzed except for the intake of breath barely drawn from a captured diaphragm. His darting eyes edged with fear would have leapt from his skull and run far from the unknown depths of this manifestation had they the power to do so.

The little house began shaking, bottles on the shelves lining the walls rattling, some falling to the ground and spilling their contents of healing herbs and spell components to the earthen floor. The sign outside swayed rhythmically as if within beckoned a festive tune. The candle flames turned a wicked green and leaned in toward the mist as if to burn it away with their meager heat, flaring upward to ignite or perhaps enhance the artful display.

Furball apparently had enough of this craziness. How could any cat of proper upbringing sleep amidst such a vile clatter? He cast Tucker one last look, gave a meager meow in farewell and bounded through the small portal window into the night. He, mind you, would take his chances outside this humble abode and spend the wee hours of the dark morning to catch some mousy morning-draw meal.

The mist shape finally solidified into a brackish globe of black and green the size of a morning-draw melon, however Tucker had no desire to bite into this thing on this particular morning or any other. That’s precisely what was about to happen regardless of the poor cleric’s intent. The candle flames returned to their normal color and pointed straight upward for an instant and then winked out, leaving a vast sea of inky nothingness and a wickedly ominous sizzling sound in its wake.

The last thing Tucker remembered was the globe, just fingers from his face, and it seemed to smile voraciously. Then there was only raw relentless pain as if his whole body was set afire. Still paralyzed, he didn’t even have the comfort of a good scream.

Furball was nearby hunting mice in the surrounding woods and grassy fields. He thought it was better not to dwell on what was happening to his master. I am just a cat after all. Holding his fresh kill playfully in his mouth, he still managed an all too non-cat-like grin.

It was a quiet glade just a short walk from Grathmoor proper. A small trail snaked through the West Woods and opened into a small grassy area with a fishing pond set at the southern end. Many townsfolk came here at all times of the seasons and took their chance at snatching a bass or two from the fruitful pond. The place was ringed by trees and offered privacy. It was here that the young man Seth Crownover, more commonly called Darkwolfe by those close to him and not overly bitter about his choice of chosen names, would come to practice his magic and swordsmanship.

Assuming a gleeful escape from his father’s shop, Darkwolfe released his blade and summoned his inner strength to cast magic at the same time.

He parried left, then down, kicked out with his lead leg and thrust for the kill. He jumped straight up as if leaping a blade or staff, turned forward into a roll, came up and turned instantly in a spin with a backhand slash. He stopped suddenly as if blocked, pivoted downward for an attack to the knee, hacked back up toward the neck, and drove in with another spinning technique in the opposite direction, thrusting into the gut.

Immediately after the kill move, he swiftly turned and targeted a stump on the far side of the pond. The sun’s reflection off the water distracted him at the last moment with its morning blaze of beauty and glory. His spell fizzled out in a small wisp of smoke and quickly dissipated in the gentle breeze.

A noisy gray squirrel and a lonesome robin, both momentarily breaking from their endless quest for food to observe his human foolishness, congratulated Darkwolfe’s accomplishments. As if in feeling his rising anger, both animals quickly fled into the surrounding trees for cover and less observed humorous spectatorship.

Darkwolfe kicked the dirt on the pond’s edge in frustration with his hard leather boots and whispered, damn! The semi-moist soil curled back into a deep impression of his anger. Glancing into the pond’s surface, he took in his reflection and studied himself intently, wondering what he was really doing here and not listening to everyone else in his life that told him that he was crazy.

He was kind of thin but well muscled. Brown pants were tucked into his knee-high leather boots that had seen many draws laid upon them in his scouting expeditions in the surrounding woods and hills. A thick heavy leather belt was strapped around his waist and the hilt of his longsword, now thrust into its scabbard, sat above his left hip comfortably. To the front and right of the belt were many small pouches holding herbs, minerals, and other tid-bits used as catalysts for spells.

All things in existence are energy. It is the work of the mage to transform that energy and shape it with his will. While to some degree one can magic-cast without components, it is easier to use components as catalysts, and quite frankly most mages never make it to the level of free-casting. Either they do not have the proper concentration, ability, or out of pride and foolery burn themselves out. That is, without components, the mage is purely the catalyst and if not in harmony with his environment and the energy that he is channeling, he can sort of short circuit the energy and end up cooking his brain or over burdening his heart and never live to cast again. Because of the great discipline required in spell casting, mages as a rule never took another art upon themselves, such as invoking the powers of the blade or a god. It was considered uncouth and below them, after all, weren’t mages the chosen of The Pleides?

Mages assume that drawing from the arcane knowledge and years that they have spent acquiring it, and utter control of the life force, entitled them to some greater hierarchical standing in the greater understanding of things. Did the devotional cleric deserve less, or the trained monk of the temples scattered across the face of this realm? Or even the paladin or thief or assassin who trained whole heatedly to achieve their perspective levels of mastery? Even the bard or artistic souls, did they deserve less? These were the questions that plagued Darkwolfe in his long search for his soul and what he sought to be truth. Was there not some level of divine infusion in any art or trade, which once suffered for, gave back ten fold in the name of understanding and wisdom?

Once Darkwolfe had decided to be both a warrior and a mage, he had outcast himself from both his groups of friends. Both the warrior guild and the mage class had decided that his presumptuous inclinations of following in the footsteps of some legendary figure were more fantasy than anything a real person could attain to. Few, if any individuals had a knack for both trades, and if they did, never pursued both.

The warriors thought the mages to be pure weaklings who used tricks more than any power to actually do anything of real importance. The mages sneered at the warriors as one would a bug or stupid ox, who, while having both size and power in physical abilities, were nothing more than brute strength manifested in human form. The mages certainly thought this was useful, but considered their warriors more as expendable bodies than human mechanisms of war.

The rogues weren’t officially a class, since stealing wasn’t particularly looked on with favor, but there were rumored to be some groups who gathered in the woods about the town. The assassins existed, but not openly. It was clearly known however that if someone needed to meet the dark lord, there was someone to do the deed for the right price. Gold that is.

The priests kept to themselves and while their chosen warriors, The Terra Paladins (protectors of the Earth—akin to the dragon band but wielded minor clerical magic as opposed to arcane magic) generally didn’t enter into name-calling as a past time, but were known to humble many transgressors to what they called their holy law. Its been rumored that the black knights, purely evil paladins, existed but no one around Grathmoor, thank the gods, had ever seen one.

So that really left the warriors and mages squabbling about their own superiority; and Darkwolfe was caught in the middle. He loved and pursued both of these wonderful arts and strove to make every nuance special and meaningful in his training. Since he wasn’t allowed to be officially trained anymore, he spent much of his time perusing the books that had collected over time in his father’s curio shop. Thankfully, there were many non-famous or sought after treatises on lore, minor incantations, and martial arts. Apparently most of them were extremely outdated, but Darkwolfe got from them what he could and improvised variations of them to suit his needs.

This combination of might and magic were so true to his nature; logical strength. Mages were powerful with their arcane knowledge and deadly spells, but quite easily defeated in combat if overwhelmed or surprised before a spell could be cast. Warriors were great in combat, but could be disabled by even the lowliest of mages if time was available and the right spells cast. In fact everyone knew these arguments. However there were few with the aptitude and skill to actually do both. Whether selection or training enlistment was the reason for this anomaly, who can say, but brawny lads always became warriors, and witty-scrawny young ones mages. Who would ever think to break this time memorial mold? One might say that at that exact moment in time, Uranus wept with joy, for he was the god of innovation and free thought.

I suppose no one wanted a warrior who couldn’t lift his weapon or wasn’t strong enough to wear his armor; likewise, no one wanted a mage who couldn’t read, memorize spells and their paired components, or not enough common sense to prevent blowing up half the town. So you see, Darkwolfe just figured the best of both worlds made the most amount of sense. Wasn’t he both strong and intelligent? It just wasn’t that easy though. He knew it would probably take a lifetime for him to be able to use both effectively in combination and in true combat. Especially since no one would or could teach him, and even most of his friends stopped hanging out with him because of his supposed arrogance and willful stubbornness to recapitulate some long forgotten tale through his meager peasant life.

He swatted away a mosquito with his right hand and breathed deeply, savoring the morning as if it were his first and last upon this wondrous plane. He settled back into his concentration, staring across the pond at the stump again. Darkwolfe found that void of nothingness-yet-all from which magical energy was drawn. There was a split second of utter stillness, bliss, and then a pair of red-glowing darts made of pure energy shot out across the still pond’s surface and blasted into the tree stump sending splinters spraying up into the air. A resounding thud-thud came back to him as if someone were knocking on a door and then all was still again.

A small smile crept across his lean face and he brushed his auburn hair out of his eyes. A trickle of sweat dribbled past his temple and down his cheek. He took a leather tie out of one of his pouches and pulled his long hair back into a ponytail. His muscles were sore and magic nearly drained, but it wasn’t often that he could slip away from his father to practice, and mastery wouldn’t be gained by quitting as soon as he got a little sore and weary. His father owned a curiosity shop of sorts where antiques, mostly junk, and an occasional item of lesser magic were sold. Since his mother’s passing, Seth, his father’s only son, took up most of the shop’s work while his father slipped further and further into despair at the bottom of a potent bottle of strong drink. So while his father slept off a particularly long night of drinking and subsequent hangover, Darkwolfe slipped out to what he liked to call the training field, for a little practice. Most of his friends were strangers now except for one, and he guessed it was her who was making all that noise coming down the trail. Charlemette was never one for stealth, goddess bless her.

She came then out between a pair of spruces on the path from town. Her purple robes rustled about her ankles and holy symbol glinting in the sunlight between her well-formed breasts on a silver chain. Levanah’s symbol was a waxing and waning crescent moon connected through the middle by a dragonspear. Yes, all of his friends were no more, lost to ignorance, except Charlemette, his close friend and aspiring priestess of Levanah, goddess of change, love, and illusion.

Well met Lord Darkwolfe, how fare ye on this glorious morn? She purred.

Better than the best can ask for Lady Charlemette. He responded, taking a deep bow with a flourish of his arms. A moment passed and then they both burst out laughing.

Lord and Lady right, she squealed, more like a couple of peasants with big dreams of glory, self importance, and adventure.

Aye! Adventure! Darkwolfe adjusted his sword belt and glanced around the glade briefly as if adventure might be lurking behind some nearby tree before letting his eyes fall back upon the lovely Charlemette. She smiled brightly and for a moment her blue eyes caught his hazel orbs and there was a glimmer of something more than just friendship. His eyes took her in. Her golden mane was startling, and a few loose strands danced in the breeze. Her cheeks weren’t plump per say, but more than one aunt or grand’mamma had pinched them over the years.

Her gaze drifted down to his bare chest and abdomen. He watched her watch him and when their eyes met again she suddenly turned and took a seat in the grass a few heads off. Well, don’t let me stop your practice Lord Darkwolfe, but your father did ask where you had got off to and seemed in even a more foul mood this morn than usual. If that’s possible. She added as an afterthought.

Fine I won’t be too long. I can seem to manage my sword forms and my minor attack darts, but I have a hard time doing both.

Now you see why everyone is town thinks you a fool… she hesitated. His eyes grew large and an angry scowl appeared. I ah..mean that is…ah…well, they think it, I didn’t say that I did. She finished emphatically. This had really been a sore subject for him and she now regretted saying anything. Such was her bane, always talking before thinking. It had been an endless cause of trouble for her. But its true isn’t it!!! So she was fond of pointing out the truth, not sugar coating everything just to appease a few egos. So she shattered a few illusions when she told the truth, that was Levanah’s realm was it not? Well she was adept at creating illusions and destroying them. So be it.

Darkwolfe drew forth his blade and took a few steps back away from where she sat. We’ll see who’s the fool in the end now won’t we?

After the sun had fully risen that morning, Tucker found himself still sitting in the diminutive chair with muscles sore and joints quite stiff. He had a surrealistic perception of the world for many minutes, which reminded him of the time that he had challenged a dwarf from the quarry to a drinking contest and so miserably lost. Dreams of fire and being burned alive were still fresh in his mind, but he looked at his arms and legs as he awkwardly came to his feet and found that he was very much still alive. His plain brown priestly robes of the great mother were a bit sooty and smudged with dirt, but otherwise intact except for the smudge of tomato sauce from the evening-draw meal yesterday eve.

Furball was curled up on some straw matting which served as a bed and appeared asleep; his whiskers twitched every so often as if in response to some cat dream that he may be experiencing or perhaps savoring a remembered mouse of remarkable taste. He pawed at the matting as a kitten would to a suckling breast.

Tucker saw that all the candles had burned out and the room was in good shape except for a few bottles and herbs that had fallen from the shelves. No tracks or markings appeared in the circle and the nine-pointed star was still complete. Tucker assumed that the spell had basically not worked and he had fallen asleep with a variety of horrific nightmares, but nothing to conclude that anything was essentially awry.

Gorden Tucker went about picking up the spilled bottles and herbs methodically and with much care, and the small cleric’s hovel was again as previously considered normal, as if nothing the night before had ever occurred.

Breakfast was soon underway with tucker busily dancing back and forth with his usual cooking fervor. He started a little fire with his flint in a small hole for his flames, and proceeded to feed it enthusiastically. When he had finished his prancing and preparations, the meal consisted of some old hard bread, bitter cheese, and a glass of sweet cider that was brought up for him periodically from Pylreht. Pylreht, yes Tuck thought; what has happened to Pylreht. Anyone who may have witnessed the cook in action, might have wondered what all the prancing about was for, for such a simple meal.

Sabbath, a mage of much notoriety but possessed the title of town mage none-the-less, sat in his study in Pylreht. It was a warm and cozy little lair that he liked to think of as a temporary place of residence. For in his mind things would soon come around in his favor, and if things went extremely well, he would be dining in the castle of Grathmoor in Lord Noblin’s steed by this time next month.

He was often known to do nothing without selfish intent. In fact, he had sat idly by and let a few lads die from a wild snake-beast before blasting it with a lightning bolt when he realized he’d probably be nominated town mage for doing so. Yet he truly felt sorrow for killing the poor beast, because he really had such high hopes of taming the creature and using it in his new torture chamber to suck the life out of unwilling informants.

Once he turned a man into an opossum for saying he hated magic and all mages. The pitiful warrior happened to have a little too much drink in him at the time and happened to be scouring the Wormwood’s company for opposition. Sabbath was just finishing