The Gaellean Prophecy Series Box Set Read online

  The Gaellean Prophecy

  Books 1 — 3

  C.S. Vass

  Copyright © 2020 by C.S. Vass

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Stars of Ice and Shadow

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  The Music of Dragons

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  The Magic of Elves

  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

  Chapter 21

  Newsletter & Website

  By C.S. Vass

  Stars of Ice and Shadow

  Book One of The Gaellean Prophecy

  Prologue

  Heat.

  Saebyl burned in the darkness. Through the flames that blossomed across the rooftops of shops and homes like thousands of bursting fire lilies, the Wolf watched the battle from its starry home.

  In the streets below two brothers stumbled hopelessly. They were soldiers, warriors, but their interest in the battle was over. The younger, grievously injured, leaned on the elder.

  “Leave me you fool,” the younger said. “You’ll only get yourself killed as well. Can’t you see I’m finished?”

  The smell of blood and burning wood filled the nose of the elder. He wanted to vomit. “Shut your mouth,” he replied. “You’re talking like a damn idiot. I’m going to get us out of here.”

  “Curse these Tarsurians. Curse them all the way to hell, the bloody bastards.” The younger grappled at a stone wall and slid to the ground. “I need a moment. Rest. Just a moment.”

  The elder had no choice but to relent. His stomach felt like a sack full of snakes. When he saw the wound the younger had sustained, he had almost fainted. His right shoulder had been turned into a ruin of blood and bone by a swirling morning star. There was no time to tend to it. They had to get out. They had to escape.

  Silence encroached like a creeping tiger. “Just what the hell is Wenjen playing at?” the elder asked. “She has an entire division sitting just outside of the city. Why isn’t she flooding the place? Does she plan to just let the sun warriors take us all with our breeches down?”

  The younger began to reply but instantly fell quiet. The harsh shriek of steel on steel rang out from just around the corner.

  The elder brother drew his longsword with a shaking hand. He had survived several battles already, but never had he felt death so near. Never had it been such a certainty.

  Crouching over his younger sibling, the elder brother waited. Sweat trickled down his neck. He thought of Lea, frightened and helpless with the baby. What would a dozen Tarsurians drunk on battle lust do when they found her?

  He could not die. He would not allow himself or his brother to perish. He would find Lea and they would tend to his brother’s wounds. They would make a plan and survive. They had to.

  “We have to keep moving,” he said. The younger brother’s face was ghost-white. His forehead was slick with sweat.

  There was a scream. Then, what sounded like the contents of a chamberpot being tossed into the street. Cold, brutal laughter.

  The Tarsurians emerged from the shadows covered in blood. Reeking of murder, they laughed upon seeing the two brothers. There were three of them with thick short swords meant to hack flesh and shatter bones.

  “What’ve we here?” sneered their front man. “Couple of deserters from Lord Rockhelm’s army?” The Tarsurian’s strange eastern accent grated on the elder brother’s ears. His teeth chattered in his head like castanets.

  “Lord Rockhelm has just one solution for that I hear,” the Tarsurian went on. “A nice long rope and a tree. I don’t see any need for the Lord of Saebyl to waste his hemp. There’ll be plenty of hangings before this is all over. I say we save him the trouble!”

  “Gregory…please, run,” the younger brother mumbled. “Leave me to them, the bastards. I’m already finished.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Gregory said. “Just shut up. I’m going to take care of them.”

  “What’s that?” the Tarsurian jeered. “Speak up, lad! You sound like you’re dead already. And put that sword down. If you don’t, I’ll have to take it from you and spank your arse with it.”

  The Tarsurians moved in. The three of them formed a deadly semicircle that pinned the brothers to the wall. As the Tarsurians inched closer the clouds above parted. Gregory felt the Wolf staring down at him, flooding his body with vicious energy. He knew he had to act or die.

  Flying like an arrow, his blade shot straight for the head of the Tarsurian to his left. Gregory’s blow was swept aside, but he had expected that. Using the momentum from the strike, he pivoted and swung his longsword in an arc in the opposite direction. The head of the middle Tarsurian went flying like a perverse pumpkin as it gushed blood in the moonlight.

  “Bastard!”

  Abandoning the younger brother the two remaining enemies flew at Gregory with everything they had. Their swords spun at him so quickly that he had no time to do anything but bounce between the two and deflect their blows with no chance at a counterattack.

  Dancing like a madman, Gregory was pushed backwards until he stumbled. Behind him a ledge dropped into a stairway that descended into a market square below. Without wasting a moment, he flung himself sideways to try to make room for himself. He managed to barrel-roll past the blade of the Tarsurian and regain his footing.

  Taking advantage o
f his new position, he moved to counterattack. Gregory raised his sword, eager for the chance to overcome them. A sharp pain pierced his back. He felt a shock, and something wet pooled between his shoulder blades.

  Turning, he looked into the face of a grinning thug with the Tarsurian sun displayed proudly across his breastplate. He had never seen the soldier approach. Gregory’s head swarmed. He stumbled backwards towards his brother. Panic began to set in even as he tried to fight it to slow his heart rate.

  The Tarsurians laughed. Unconcerned about their dead comrade, they moved in to finish the fight. Gregory was back where he started—in a standoff with three enemies—and in much worse condition.

  “Get back!” he shouted, swinging his sword like a madman. His back spasmed in ways he didn’t even know were possible, but he kept himself going. The middle Tarsurian slapped the blade out of his hand and sent it sliding across the ground.

  “What did I say about spanking your arse with that blade if you raised it to me?” he mocked as he picked up the sword. “Not bad steel,” he said as he inspected it. “Far too good for a peasant like you, I should say.”

  Hopelessness crashed upon Gregory like a tidal wave. Leaning against the wall with his brother, he trembled. “This looks like the end,” he said. “I’m sorry, Rocco.”

  Rocco coughed. “You did what you could, brother. I hate the thought of these bastards in our city. But we’ve done our part. It looks like it’s time for us to go to the other side, together.”

  A voice like molten steel echoed in the darkness.

  “Leave these rats to me.”

  “What?”

  “Who said that?”

  The Tarsurians stumbled over themselves trying to locate the newcomer. He emerged from the shadows.

  In the light of the fire, Gregory got a good look at him. He was only a boy in his teens. His hair was black as jet and tied in a short braid that fell to his neck. His silver eyes surprised Gregory, but not for their unusual color. They were narrowed in a rage unlike any he had seen. They were the eyes of a killer. A murderer’s eyes.

  “So the boy wants to make a name for himself,” the Tarsurian soldier spat. “Decided to come and play with the grown-ups, did you lad? I’ll teach you your place, you vagabond!”

  You fool, Gregory thought. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see what that boy is?

  The boy drew a long, sharp blade. It was black as onyx with runes chiseled into both sides. The Tarsurians gasped. “Well isn’t that something? The little doggy has a long tooth.”

  Gregory laughed. It was a painful laugh that caused his lungs to ache, but it was worth it. “Of all the ones to stumble upon us,” he said. “It’s the Odruri. Godwin of Brentos. The Darksword!”

  The Tarsurians seemed uncertain. Two of them stepped back. The third stood his ground. An explosion sent billows of smoke into the air in the distance, but not one of them even lifted their eyes to see.

  “You’re the Odruri?” the lead Tarsurian asked. “Pathetic. You’re a child. I see it doesn’t take much to become a legend here in the West. Put down that sword, boy, before I teach you how to use it!”

  The Odruri’s eyes narrowed even more. Gregory had never felt such an intense hatred radiate from a human being.

  “I don’t take lessons from dead men,” the Odruri said. He took a step forward.

  The Tarsurian’s face flushed. “You brat! If you want to speak of the dead, then you can join them!”

  The Tarsurian charged. For a moment, Gregory lost faith in the Odruri. He was just a boy, barely half the size of the broad-shouldered soldier who thundered down on him. He wasn’t even raising his blade to defend himself!

  “Odruri!” Gregory rasped.

  The Tarsurian swung.

  Gregory did not comprehend what happened. It appeared that the Tarsurian had swung at the Odruri only to miss and stumble past him. The Odruri hadn’t moved a muscle…had he?

  The Tarsurian turned around and opened his lips, perhaps to curse. A river of blood flowed from his mouth. He stumbled. An arm fell from his shoulder. Then a weeping gash from his knave to his hip appeared. In a moment he was on the ground, bleeding profusely. Dead.

  Gregory found himself clutching his brother’s hand. “My gods,” Rocco breathed. “Do my eyes deceive me?”

  The Tarsurians were in an uproar. “You bastard! So it’s sorcery, is it? We’ll burn you, you witch! We’ll bleed you dry and nail you to the cross!”

  The Odruri, Godwin of Brentos, the Darksword, tilted his eyes ever so slightly to meet his foes. “No sorcery,” he said. “I use magic to heal. I use a sword to kill.” He smiled hideously. “That is, unless I’m provoked.”

  “You arrogant whelp! I’ll have you whipped through the streets!”

  That look, Gregory thought with terror. Can they not see it? The murder in those eyes. Those evil eyes that glow like twin moonstones in the darkness. Do they not know that their fate is written in those eyes? Run. Hide. You cannot win.

  “Dead men shouldn’t make threats,” the Odruri said. A quiet rage pulsated in the tone of his voice.

  “Then shut your mouth!” the Tarsurian shouted. He reached into his leather armor and pulled out something the size of an apple. The Tarsurian tossed it on the ground. Thick black smoke that tasted of sulfur flooded the area. Gregory was instantly blinded. Choking, he covered his mouth.

  “Rocco!” he shouted, grasping wildly for his brother. Together the two of them huddled against the onslaught of smoke that strangled the entire area.

  Gregory strained his ears against the darkness. He heard chanting, quick and rhythmic, from the Odruri’s murderous voice. He felt a surge of energy. A wet thrump. A scream. Begging. Tarsurians pleading for mercy.

  The smoke cleared. Gregory gasped, then vomited.

  It was cold slaughter. No soldiers fought like that. The Tarsurians hadn’t just been murdered. Their bodies were hacked so thoroughly that it was impossible to tell what parts belonged to who. Guts were spread a distance of twenty feet across the street. How did it happen so fast?

  The Odruri approached them as he wiped his blade clean of blood. The runes on it pulsated with hellish red light, then faded. His braid swung back and forth like a pendulum as he approached them.

  “You were right to flee,” the Odruri said. “There is no battle to win here anymore. The sun warriors have brought foreign magic into the city. It’s no longer a matter for foot soldiers.”

  Gregory struggled to speak. “Y-you…you obliterated them. Odruri. They’ve been annihilated.”

  “My name is Godwin. You can do away with the trivial titles that the clucking hens bestow upon me. As for the Tarsurians…this is a war. Would you expect me to greet the men sent to ravage our land any differently?”

  Gregory gulped. “No Odru—Godwin. No, sir. Forgive me. I was just surprised. I have never seen…” Gregory trailed off, realizing that he was babbling. The Odruri wasn’t listening, anyway. He was gently peeling off Rocco’s armor and inspecting the damage.

  “This is a serious wound,” he said. “You’re injured as well. Let me see.”

  Not daring to object, Gregory allowed the Odruri to remove his padded jerkin. He hadn’t realized how weak he felt. He must have lost a significant amount of blood.

  “Both of you are in grave danger. You’ll likely bleed out soon. Tell me, is there a place you can go to receive medical attention? To clean and bandage your wounds, at a minimum?”

  “Yes,” Gregory said, not daring to believe his luck. “My house and wife are nearby. Will you help us get there?”

  “No.” The Odruri made no attempt to soften his tone. “I’m needed elsewhere, and I really shouldn’t even spare the time to look at you. But let me see.”

  He took off a leather strap that was tied diagonally across his chest. The strap held a dozen vials with different colored liquids inside. He chose one the color of sea foam.

  “I have an interest in potions and chemistry,” he said. “This is still
in the experimental phase. It’s highly toxic. It contains the adrenal medulla of an ox and a synthetic naphthoquinone.”

  “Wh-what?”

  The Odruri rolled his eyes impatiently. “It will give you a burst of energy to get home and block the pain you would ordinarily feel along the way. But to achieve those effects you will essentially be poisoning yourself.”

  “Should we take it?” Gregory asked, alarmed.

  “That’s up to you. I don’t think you’ll get far without it. If you do take it, you should only take half each. Listen carefully to me. When you arrive at your destination, whoever tends to you will want to see to your wounds first. It’s vitally important that you begin detoxing yourselves of the poison immediately. That will threaten you far more than your wounds at that point.”

  Gregory struggled to keep up. “What…what does that mean, sir?”

  “You’re to immediately drink as much boiled water as you can. If that is too difficult you can use tea leaves. Green only and don’t waste time waiting for it to steep. Juice from cranberries and flax seeds will also help if you have them. As for you injuries, clean out your wounds with a mixture of boiled water and vinegar. Bandage them, and have someone who knows what they’re doing take care of it.”