Vanquished

Three strangers brought together by war.

The Ulanesh—vicious soldiers from the underrealm—are invading the forest and destroying everything in their path. Standing against the enemy, Evrenor is a captain in the Quennin army and has been tasked by his king to find allies. He enlists the aid of the ancient sea sorceress Valkaria, whom he wakes from a curse that has entombed her at the bottom of a lake for a thousand years. She must regain her powers after a millennium of disuse or else watch everyone around her die.

Evrenor finds another ally in Damir, a woodsman whose people are so reclusive that outsiders consider them myths. The tree-talking woodsmen can blend perfectly with the forest, and they are deadly with their daggers. Damir is ready to take down the enemy, but he has to strike before the vision he’s had of his own death comes to pass.

An awakened sorceress, a mysterious woodsman, and a cunning army captain—will their combined forces be enough to vanquish the enemy?

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Excerpt from Vanquished

It was a week’s march to the Lake of Whispers, the depths of which concealed the man Evrenor sought. Some said the sorcerer had been buried in water for a transgression against the gods. Others claimed his body had been placed in the lake by his men after a great battle had been lost. The truth was they knew very little about the last of the mighty sea sorcerers, and what they did know resided in the book now in Evrenor’s hand. Out of all the Quennin warriors, Lord Ynduras had chosen Evrenor for this difficult task. He would not fail.

Watching for the enemy at every step, Evrenor and a small force of his most trusted men had traveled the long and treacherous route to the lake in the hope of rousing the ancient sorcerer and enlisting his aid. Even now, the enemy Ulanesh grew in numbers and spread across the land. The Ulanesh were a large and brutish race, and all attempts to reason with them had been rebuffed with violence—in some cases ending in death for the emissaries who had dared approach them. The desire for conquest was all that drove the dark, beast-like soldiers. Which meant war was inevitable.

To fight an enemy with such superior numbers, the Quennin would need all the allies they could get. That included an ancient magic-user, whom only a scholar like his king could have even known existed. Lord Ynduras’s orders repeated in Evrenor’s mind: “Take this book and travel south to the pool they call the Lake of Whispers. There you must recite the incantation so the sorcerer will hear the call and wake from millennial slumber.”

The shore came within sight, and the winds already carried the murmurs for which the Lake of Whispers had been named. Evrenor had reached his destination. He and his fellow Quennin halted in front of the water and looked at the glossy pool that lay unmoving before them.

“Is there anything we should do to prepare?” Pharanor asked.

Evrenor gripped the tome more tightly. “No. We only need this book to guide us. Just be ready for whatever happens.”

The men inclined their heads. They were stalwart companions—warriors he trusted with his life.

Evrenor walked to the edge of the murky water and looked at the mirrored surface. The lake might have been beautiful if it had not possessed quite so haunting a vestige, but it seemed to hold a certain promise. The shore was soft and foul-smelling, and he hardly drew a breath as he opened the old and crumbling book and ran his fingers across the page. Although he could not understand the script, his talent for languages was one of the chief reasons he’d been chosen for this mission. He carefully reviewed the sound of each foreign word before he began to speak in a slow and steady cadence.

“Nalevte. Nalevte. Ng te sumardes sa. Al anam aste quia. Al losun aste quia. Brea ut soji, Ososhi. Spira.”

He didn’t have to comprehend the words to feel their power. As the last syllable left his lips, the whole forest went unnaturally silent. Even the insects were hushed, as if they, too, were waiting for a response. A breeze wafted across the surface of the water and blew the musty odor of the ancient pages in Evrenor’s face. He didn’t blink.

After a moment, a subtle motion caught his eye. The bits of sediment that had hung suspended on the glassy surface of the lake suddenly began to skim away from the shoreline. It was as if they were drawn by the pull of a nearby waterfall or had turned into water bugs that skittered and dove. The first sound reached his ear—the soft churning of water. It emanated from the center of the lake.

As he watched, ripples began to span out from the epicenter, growing stronger until a bubbling froth ensued. A concussive surge like muffled thunder blasted through the air, sending his men staggering back a step. In the middle of the watery broil, a body slowly floated to the surface. It was bound in black cloth, so its features were concealed, but he could make out the shape of a head and arms. At last, the turmoil ceased, and the lake resumed its dormancy except for this one obtrusion at its surface.

Evrenor closed the book and stared at the mysterious figure. “Hyvril,” he called to one of his soldiers.

The man hesitated a moment but then strode forward.

“Come with me.” With a deep breath to steady himself, Evrenor stepped onto the muddy bank.

Hyvril stayed by his side, and their boots sank deeply into the clinging muck. They had to force each foot forward as they waded into the cool, dark water. Their cloaks floated on the surface behind them, but the depth posed no challenge to their height. As they reached the shrouded form in the middle of the lake, the water only reached their forearms, and they easily took the body in tow. The figure didn’t stir as they dragged it back to their waiting comrades.

After hauling the body onto the dry land beneath the trees, they laid it gently on the ground. Evrenor bent to pull the wet cloth from the face. A quick tug unmasked the man, and he jolted in surprise.

“It’s a woman!” Antyar, another of his men, exclaimed.

Yes, it was. Where there should have been a broad brow and stern jaw, there were instead the delicate features of a female. Like the men he led, Evrenor was taken aback, but he didn’t let shock paralyze him.

“Unbind her,” he ordered.

His men obeyed and moved their swift fingers to the knots that held the shroud tight. They cleared the ropes and pulled back the dripping fabric to reveal her body. They all studied her curiously.

The mysterious young female wore an exotic white dress, and her hands rested at her sides. On her chest were stains from flowers long rotten and dead, and small chains of shells encircled her limbs and hung from the braids of her bronze locks.

“What do we do now?” Antyar asked.

Evrenor opened the book and perused it. He doubted it contained further guidance, even if he could have translated it. This foreign text seemed to be a journal or history of sorts. The fading pages were written in several different hands and appeared to age as they progressed. The last author had filled only a single page, and it was from this source that Evrenor had read.

He closed the tome again and studied the face of the woman. She showed no traces of death, and although she looked pale, there was still some healthy color in her skin. Kneeling beside the body, he reached out to touch her. Her flesh felt cold beneath his fingertips, but it was still soft and undamaged, and her lips held no tinge of blue. He ran his hand down her arm in search of a pulse.

“Huuuuuuuuh!” The woman startled awake with a violent gasp for breath.

The unexpected sound gave Evrenor such a start that he jumped to his feet. The body that had lain inanimate suddenly awakened, and the woman shuddered and convulsed. She desperately gasped for air and flailed her arms, and her gaze darted in every direction, although he wasn’t sure if she actually saw anything.

Witnessing her distress, Evrenor immediately dropped to his knees and captured her hand. He spoke softly to help calm her with his voice.

“Peace, lady.” He spoke in the barter tongue—a language old enough and common enough that he thought she might understand it. “Be at peace. You’re among friends.”

She continued to writhe and gulp for air, oblivious to his presence. He held fast to her hand and watched the droplets that had clung to her eyelashes stream down her cheeks.

“Peace,” he repeated, gently stroking the back of her wrist.

That word at last seemed to reach her, and she ceased her struggle. She began to draw breath more easily and finally focused on his face. There was a sharpness in her gaze that revealed her wits were returning to her.

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “You’re safe.”

She regarded him for a long moment before parting her lips. “Are you real or another nightmare?”

Although her voice rasped with disuse, he heard her clearly. It was an odd question, but the expression on her face and terror in her eyes revealed it to be most serious.

“I assure you I’m real,” he answered. He was relieved that she at least understood him. “Lie still and rest a moment. You’re free now and have nothing to fear.”

Although she didn’t respond, her face began to smooth with calm, and he could see she breathed the fresh air without difficulty. More color seeped into her cheeks, and her gaze moved between his face and the sky far above his head. When she struggled to sit up, he helped her.

Once seated, she appeared to survey the land around her, as well as him and his men. Then, still clasping his hand, she rose to her feet, almost teetering before finally standing steady and letting go. Evrenor remained poised so that he could catch her if she stumbled.

“Who are you?” she asked, looking at him directly.

He could see she wasn’t completely recovered, so he spoke slowly so that she could easily comprehend him. “I am Evrenor of the Quennin. My men and I were sent here by Lord Ynduras to retrieve you from the lake.”

In a whisper, she repeated his name several times and then fell silent as she looked at the ground.

When it appeared this was all she would say, Evrenor asked the question he wanted answered. “And what is your name?”

“My name?” She blinked for a moment and then straightened. “I am Valkaria, daughter of Valkinor, the ososhi of the Shieslamar. I rule the great isle where the seas have no names.” She frowned as she looked at the forest around her. “I don’t know this place. What land is this?”

Evrenor thought about how best to tell her. He didn’t know the exact location of her homeland from here, and she’d been out of the world for far too long to be familiar with its landmarks now.

“I can’t answer you, Lady Valkaria,” he admitted. “Not in names you’ll understand. You’re very far from your home to the south.”

She seemed to accept this, though she continued to scowl. Perhaps she understood what had befallen her?

“Do you remember how you came to be here?” Evrenor asked.

Her face darkened, and he could see she struggled to recall, but she looked defeated. “No, I remember only the darkness.”