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    Lorkdan: How He Told It
    Lorkdan: How He Told It
    Lorkdan: How He Told It
    Ebook175 pages1 hour

    Lorkdan: How He Told It

    By AJ Cooper

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    About this ebook

    Lorkdan, the underworld’s champion, would consider himself second to none in devotion to his much abhorred god, but when the murder of a family leads him on a quest for truth, that devotion—as he tells it—will be put to the ultimate test.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRealms of Varda
    Release dateApr 12, 2023
    ISBN9798215810187
    Lorkdan: How He Told It
    Author

    AJ Cooper

    Cursed at birth with a wild imagination, AJ Cooper spent his youth dreaming of worlds more exciting than Earth. He is a native Midwesterner and loves writing fantasy, especially epic fantasy set in his own created worlds.He is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and the author of numerous fantasy novels and novellas. His short stories have appeared in Morpheus Tales, Fear and Trembling, Residential Aliens and Mindflights, among others.

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      Book preview

      Lorkdan - AJ Cooper

      Part One

      Who am I? I am Lorkdan.

      —Inquiry Number 1,174, Records from Evre Prison

      Chapter One: B-L

      In the Royal City, the storm raged, and as I sat in my quarters in the dim candlelight, I uttered a prayer for myself, for the nation I would fight for, for the war that would soon come to this land.

      For days I had been holed up here, in the upper room of some rich man’s house, and for days I had yearned for the call of the king, that the war at last would begin, and my sword could meet its foe.

      I, Lorkdan, a sell-sword and mercenary, had been hired for such a purpose, for a foreign nation. The sword was my trade, and well did I use it. The kingdom of Zarubain was my client, but as yet their gold had not flowed, as yet my coinpurse was still too empty for my liking. Still, I did not have proper lodging and still, for my lodging, I was relying on the mercy of others.

      In the upper room, little better than an attic, I watched as the rain poured outside, as the glass of the window frosted, as lightning struck blue and terrible, and thunder rolled. Storms in Zarubad, the Royal City, were notoriously fierce, and some said if you listened close enough you could hear the voice of the storm-god call out amid the firmament.

      It was spring, the year 1102, and I, Lorkdan, had not been summoned. Skirmishes had begun, but my coinpurse had not been filled with gold.

      It was spring, the year 1102, and I, Lorkdan, was drifting off, away, thinking of another place, another country.

      ~

      Below me there were thunderous footsteps, the sound of shouting, and I recognized the voice of the rich man who — out of the generosity of his heart — had allowed me lodging.

      There were other voices, too, however, ones I did not recognize, ten or perhaps a dozen. The storming of the feet seemed to reach an apogee — the shouting too, then a scream.

      But I recalled the rich man who had offered me lodging, his name Messeur Tirell or some such, had made a point of me never leaving my chambers. I, a lowborn in his view, though my sword had cut many low, was not fit to be seen in his presence, at least not publicly.

      On the porch, at night, when no one could see my scars and cut lip, he’d offer me a glass of wine. But unless asked, I, Lorkdan, was not allowed to leave my quarters. It was a sad arrangement, but my own stirrings of pride were fended off by the fact no inn would take me — my reputation was too dour — and what’s more, my coinpurse was so light I could not afford lodging if I tried.

      The shouting had reached a peak, and then it had stopped. Silence reigned, silence save for the pouring of the rain, and the striking of lightning. The utter quiet of the rooms below me endured, and so I remained still, sword within arm’s reach, and when thunder rolled I tried to listen for the voice of the storm god so many had spoken to me of.

      Minutes passed, and my fingers’ grip was fixing to my sword’s hilt. Minutes turned to a quarter of an hour, and then a half, and the storm began to retreat, the rain to lessen to a drizzle. At last, the house below me I could tell was perfectly silent.

      I began to think of Messeur Tirell and his habits, how — when there was not a lavish banquet below me — there were without fail rich friends of his who would boisterously laugh and clink their glasses. I began to think on just how unusual the silence of this house was, how utterly eerie. I began to wonder, and though Messeur Tirell had treated me as lesser-than I knew he had offered me this space at no cost, out of his heart’s generosity, and I began to wonder… I began to fear for him.

      Silence… it was utterly unusual, unheard of in this place, this house, and not until the wee hours of the morning did Messeur Tirell stop making noise.

      It was not like me to be gravely concerned for the well-being of a benefactor, but with my hand gripping my sword, I inched closer, to the trapdoor that would lead me out of this cellar-like room.

      There was a shouted word: "Balzor!"

      That was the name of my god, the god of the underworld, the god of death.

      Some called me, Lorkdan, the underworld’s champion.

      I had heard a voice; I had done my duties. I sidled over to my cot, and laid my head down on the pillow.

      I kept my sword by my side, within arm’s reach, just in case.

      ~

      The noises of the city stirred me awake. After the storm, the skies outside my window were colored rose, utterly serene, and the sun was gently beating down on the streets below.

      My stomach gurgled. My eyes strained.

      Below me was silence — utter silence. And Messeur Tirrell’s maid had not brought me my morning meal.

      I was within my rights to intrude upon this man’s space. I was within my rights, I knew it. I stood up, sword in hand, and sheathed it. I opened the trapdoor of the upper room, and entered the lower floors of Tirrell’s house, a man who what’s more should have treated me better and with respect. I, after all, had pledged my sword to defend his nation.

      ~

      The candles were not lit, and what light there was came filtering in from the windows outside. On the walls of the corridors hung tapestries and portraits of Tirrells of long ago. My boots trod on the carpets of the corridors, and I — who had not bathed in many days — was freely traipsing about this scene of opulence without thought for hygiene. Still, there was silence… still, no noise greeted me. That feeling of suspicion was quickly turning to a sense of dread.

      Darkness was all about, and shadows, and where the windows’ light was not sufficient my eyes strained to see. I began to dare to call out Messeur Tirrell! Messeur Tirrell! and only silence greeted me.

      In the dark I scoured, room by room, and my voice grew louder, my tone bolder, and I knew that if everything was quite all right, I’d lose my lodging and worse. But now I was concerned, concerned for the messeur, but also concerned for the dark air I was feeling, the strange sense of defilement. Those voices had reached an apogee, and then they had stopped, and unusual silence had ensued.

      I walked down the stairs, toward the great hall which faced the front double doors. I drew my sword when I saw the bodies.

      ~

      Messeur Tirrell lay in a pool of blood on the carpet before the door. The maid had been tied up, and she had been stabbed, and her clothing scattered. Worst had been done to the messeur’s wife, beheaded, and there was a hole in her chest, as if some organ had been cut from it.

      My own blood began to drain, for I had not seen such brutality in all my time in war, for on the battlefield death is a matter of necessity and never something to be reveled in.

      Whoever had done this had made a point of displaying the bodies. As I viewed, nauseous, still standing on the steps of the staircase, I noticed something smeared in blood above the front door, the crude image of a hand painted in crimson — and letters: B-L.

      I thought of running to the gendarme, to the constable. Then I remembered my own situation. I had been staying up in their room, at no cost, and my bad reputation was everywhere throughout the Royal City. Who had done this, I did not know, but the crime would be blamed on me.

      I ran down the stairs, peered out the window to check for passersby. I opened the door and entered into the cool morning air.

      I had done no evil. I had committed no wrong act. I had only accepted the messeur’s hospitality. But I, Lorkdan, the underworld’s champion, was a stranger in a foreign land, and the king’s justice was notoriously swift and not even handed.

      I disappeared into the mob, into the swarming crowds. My sword was at my side.

      Chapter Two: St. Morreau’s

      The morning light was falling, glittering on Zarubad’s filth-strewn streets. I was one among the masses, the merchants and the hawkers and the urban poor. I was still shaken, and my blood was still drained from my face. I could still hear my own breath. I could still feel my cold sweat, dripping from my hands and ears.

      What is wrong with you, my good seigneur? said a dancer passing by the way, her gown a thing of billowing red and tacky white frills.

      What is wrong with you? said her companion, a woman in a bright green veil.

      I wondered who knew I had been staying at Messeur Tirrell’s house.

      I tried to don a smile as I staggered through the street. I tried to blend in with the city’s hustle, with the gaiety of the dancers and the hard-nosed sobriety of the common workmen.

      Hail, Lorkdan, the underworld’s champion! said a little boy tagging along with his mother. And sometime as I reached the River Zaros, the images of the murdered victims, of the maid, of Messeur Tirrell and his wife, the blood, the gougings, the red message of the wall, assailed me at once. I keeled over and a bit of vomit escaped

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