Legends of the Forsaken Empire: FORFEITED

As the dark ages end, the spirit of an ancient forsaken empire stirs when a lost book is discovered and rescued ... at a terrible cost.

Generations have passed after Realm of Thorns' chaos. 

As the dark ages fade, an ancient book is discovered and rescued from oblivion, and the Spirit of an ancient forsaken empire stirs. 

When a young scribe of the Religious is granted
sanctuary by the powerful and wealthy Valo-Treour family, he brings with him the very heart of a long-forgotten faith.


But following this new faith comes with a terrible cost.

The Valo-Treours are irresistibly drawn to the book's forbidden scriptures, which threaten their rulers' claims to power.

Wealth, strength, and a long-revered name cannot save them from paying the price of their devotion.

Scroll down for sample chapter!

Legends of the Forsaken Empire: FORFEITED, Chapter One:

Copyright 2019 by R. J. Larson

Researched and written by R. J. Larson

All rights reserved in all media. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission.

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Printed in U.S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

While every effort has been made to ensure the accuracy and legitimacy of the references, referrals, and links (collectively “links”) presented in this e-book, R. J. Larson is not responsible or liable for broken links or missing or fallacious information at the links. Any links in this e-book to a specific product, process, web site, or service do not constitute or imply an endorsement by R. J. Larson of same, or its producer or provider. The views and opinions contained at any Links do not necessarily express or reflect those of R. J. Larson.

Cover design by: Kacy Barnett-Gramckow

Background and images: Kacy Barnett-Gramckow.

Map icons: Kacy Barnett-Gramckow 

Chapter 1

Ceyfraland, Autumn 1125

A ferocious grasp startled Brother Davin awake, even as Brother Gregaraii’s husk-dry old voice pleaded, “Davin, help me save them!”

“Save who?” Davin turned over on his thin, hard pallet, peering through the darkness of their stark, narrow, stone cell.

Brother Gregaraii didn’t answer. At least not with words. Robes rustling, he scooted toward the doorway, his movements insubstantial as creeping, enfeebled shadows. Gathering his senses from sleep, Davin listened hard in the nighttime gloom. No sounds of mortal distress proclaimed the need to save anyone this instant. Had Gregaraii finally lost his distracted wits?

Davin sighed and ran one hand over his face, then sat up.

A tiny, metallic click cut through the darkness, informing Davin that his elder had lifted the cell door’s latch—strictly forbidden among the Religious during their few mandated hours of sleep. Only illness or an act of the Eternal could excuse this transgression. Yet Gregaraii had virtually ordered Davin to help him with whatever jumbled task had overwhelmed his addled mind. How could Davin at fifteen years, and newly ordained, argue with his revered elder? Indeed, Gregaraii would bear any responsibility for the night’s forbidden excursion.

Though the distraught old man might get lost in their own corridor. Davin tugged on his thin, leather shoes, tightened his thin rope belt, then followed Gregaraii out into the narrow, high-vaulted corridor that made echoes of the slightest sounds.

A young, fierce whisper beckoned from the tiny, barred window of an adjoining cell’s door. “Davin! Where are you two going?”

Davin halted, reining in his frustration. Trust his ever-zealous friend and fellow boyhood pledge, Thomen, to be alert and awake tonight. Davin leaned toward Thomen’s cell. “I don’t know. Brother Gregaraii’s in distress. Stay here. I’ll try to guide him to the infirmary.”

“Oh.” Thomen drew away from the tiny, barred window, clearly disinterested in Gregaraii’s plight. But he recited by rote, “Go in peace. May Syphre guard your path.”

“And yours.” Davin quickened his pace to catch up with Gregaraii’s thin, old form—hunched and crabbed with the rheumatism that slowed his steps—as the old man led them outside.

The swift-setting moon threw silvering light among shadows along the flagstone walkway, forcing Brother Davin to stare hard at the night-muted path before him—at Brother Gregaraii’s scuffing feet and flapping black robes. Brother Gregaraii hissed and muttered unintelligibly as he walked.

Sighing, Davin rolled his gaze toward the chilly, star-scattered skies. Eternal, why was he following an old man’s whims toward possible punishment?

He ought to be asleep. His eyelids almost creaked their weariness as he opened them wider to perceive the shadowed outlines of Gregaraii’s intended destination, a vaulted stone archway. Irritated by Brother Gregaraii’s rasping, indecipherable whispers, Davin groused beneath his breath, “What are you muttering?”

Gregaraii halted and leaned toward Davin, his whisper becoming almost inaudible. “Our verses.”

The muddled old book they’d been translating in the library? “Impossible.” Davin stared into the old man’s night-dimmed face. Was Gregaraii going insane? “You’ve said yourself that your translation must be incorrect—that I was to ignore your keyword chart. That the verses are nothing but gibberish!”

“They’re not gibberish.” A guilty pause delayed Gregaraii’s shame-tinged explanation. “I wanted them to be wrong. I fear I’ve understood them for the past five years.”

Davin sought his addled mentor’s gaze. Why would Gregaraii risk soul-crushing forfeits over an old book? “Good sir, forgive me—you must be going mad!”

“As you ultimately will, young Davin.” Gregaraii pushed down the latch and leaned into the door like a knight pressing against his shield as he lunged amid battle, though he was merely entering the library’s hall.

Beneath his breath, Davin grumbled, “If I’m following you, I’m already insane.”

Gregaraii waved him through the library’s entrance. “Obviously—by all your babbling. Let’s hurry.”

Punctuated streams of moonlight slid through the ancient, polished-stone library, shining against pale marble columns, dark wooden shelves, and tables boasting centuries-worth of routine waxing and oiling. Gregaraii’s fluttering form faded in and out of sight as he passed through successive patches of silvery moonlight, his shambling pace carrying him inexorably toward the far door—the rare-manuscripts collection.

Two thin streams of light gleamed from a pair of high windows, illuminating the old-parchment-scented room, overpowering the central night lamp’s modest glow. Gregaraii shuffled over to a cave-like niche that sheltered his obsession, the ancient manuscript clasped between two leather-clad wooden covers—a rarity he’d studied, by his own count, for more than twenty years. Gregaraii hefted the massive tome over to the nearest table and set it down gently, as if it were made of glass. Exhaling, he tucked a clutch of folded notes inside the book’s cover, then muttered to Davin, “I cannot do this alone. You will help me.”

“Help you do what?”

“Save this book. This evening, the abbot borrowed all my translations—except for these few notes. Most likely he intends to claim glory for my life’s work. But when he reads my translations and identifies this book and its threat to the power of the Religious, my life will be forfeited.” Gregaraii continued, distracted as if thinking aloud. “I’m old. I need only die. But what will they do with you, young Davin, when they finally understand these words? When they believe you know them because you’ve sketched and decorated the imagery I described?”

A chill lifted all the hairs over Davin’s arms and along the fringe of his shaven scalp. Could merely sketching, painting, and gilding the book’s imagery—the illuminations he’d deduced from Gregaraii’s descriptions—threaten his life? “What are you saying?”

“You’re holding the Rone’en.”

The Rone’en? The fabled, nonexistent Sacred Word of the ancient Syvlande Empire? “You’re certain?”

“Yes, and I’ve repented to my very soul! Think about your work, young Davin! Consider all those illuminations you’ve been crafting as a single work. You’re holding the actual Rone’en! If we don’t escape, we’ll be silenced—burned with these verses, and they must be saved!”

He’d be condemned for illuminating the laborious translation of an old book? And for being randomly assigned to the cell of an addle-pated old scholar? Davin shook his head. “Sir, granted, this might be the Rone’en, but who’d condemn us for merely—”

His protest dried and died in his throat, silenced by Gregaraii’s knife-sharp glare. The old man’s pale amber eyes glittered like molten gold amid the gloom. “Do you know everything, young Davin? No! How easy your life is, boy, when an elder carries your burdens!”

What in the rotted world did the old man mean? Burdens? Who was guarding whom tonight? And yet... Gregaraii’s glance was suddenly young. Acute and warrior fierce. Commanding respect.

The old man shoved the heavy book at him, knocking the breath from Davin’s lungs. “Follow me, if you wish to survive a while longer, you condemned fool of a boy!”

Gregaraii lifted the night lamp from its wrought-iron stand and tottered off to the far corner of the rare-manuscripts room. He halted before a locked door, produced his prized iron ring of master keys from a cord on his belt, and shook one discolored key from the others. Fumbling at the lock, he finally worked it open, then exhaled his relief as Davin followed him into the passage beyond. “We’ll gain enough time to complete a translation, using my notes.”

He closed the door behind them, then turned the key in the lock, sending the tumblers rattling through the lock’s rusty box, which was undoubtedly older than Gregaraii. A musty stone hallway gave way to narrow, downward-winding steps, and several more doors. As Gregaraii lifted the lamp to light their way, Davin shivered, eyeing the lumpy, filmy shadows clinging to the grimy walls. Was that moss? What part of the abbey was this? According to the floor plans offered to the novices for inspection upon acceptance to the abbey, no hallways or rooms existed on this side of the library. Only walls.

What else did the abbey conceal? Certainly, it concealed this hallway, and those stone steps leading down to the narrow doorway that Gregaraii was unlocking.

Old Gregaraii nudged Davin through the narrow doorway, onto uneven steps of dirt-rimmed stones that merged into a clay path within a dank stonework tunnel. As Davin blinked, willing his eyes to adjust, the old man closed the narrow door and locked himself and Davin firmly outside. Or were they still inside or beneath the abbey? From what he could discern within the lantern’s light, ancient ages-worth of soil and roots had oozed and crept through the tunnel’s stonework, with chunks of stone resting here and there along the tunnel’s dirt-strewn stone floor. “Sir, where are we, precisely?”

“In a place that doesn’t exist.”

Davin flinched, avoiding a clump of roots that extended, claw-like, downward from the tunnel’s ceiling, just skimming his razor-shorn scalp. “How did you find this place?”

“Young Davin…” Clearly summoning patience, Gregaraii paused, then shifted the lamp away from another clump of roots, “You seem to think I was never a pledge your age, full of high spirits and inclined to adventure. My cellmate and I found this tunnel long ago, before locks were placed on these lower doors. We came down here a few times, searching for gauatchen.”

The legendary nighthound of Vrydn Abbey? Davin suppressed a snort. He might be young, but at least he’d never wasted time searching for a freakish ghostly hound imagined by some long-buried monk who’d probably intended to merely frighten gullible novices. “Obviously you didn’t find the nighthound.”

“A time or two we thought we’d heard him,” Gregaraii mused. “We were probably listening to our own footsteps echoing back to us. This tunnel was in better shape then, and so was I.” He ducked away from another scraggly hand-like extension of clawing roots, then crept forward in the tunnel. “We’ll request hospitality of my cousin in the Vales.”

“Your cousin is a freedman in the Vales?”

Mild-voiced Gregaraii said, “My cousin is earl of the Vales.”

The Jareth Valo-Treor of the Vales? That proud old warrior descended from long-forgotten kings? Impossible. Or was it? Despite Gregaraii’s humility, only noble blood could cause Vrydn Abbey to overlook Gregaraii’s quirks and grant him that ring of master-keys. Battling astonishment, Davin followed Gregaraii. Only silence could pay his mentor appropriate respect.

As they approached the next clump of roots dangling from the ceiling, Gregaraii lifted his lamp and scooted around an odd pearlescent curtain that dangled in wide, loose twists from the knotted roots. Following his master’s example, Davin sidestepped the big, shimmering coils, eyeing their peculiar pattern. Those scales, that sheen … it could only be a snake skin.

A giant snake’s skin.

Davin swallowed and allowed his gaze to follow the skin’s lowermost loop, which trailed along the passage ahead in an endless glowing and ghostly swath. For the first time, Gregaraii faltered. “Na’khesh.”

The giant snake of ancient local lore? Davin shook his head. It couldn’t be. All na’khesh vanished centuries ago, if they’d ever existed. Gregaraii exhaled a perilously direct prayer to their Creator. “Let this creature of the Adversary, the Soul Hunter, be far from us, oh Endless Liege!”

Liege? What was the old man babbling?

Gregaraii led Davin slowly, both of them eyeing the skin, which trailed onward, finally ending in the ghastly replica of a giant serpent’s monstrous, wide-open mouth.

As Gregaraii froze, Davin choked out, “Who needs a gauatchen! We’ve this beast nearby. Shouldn’t we go back, sir?”

Gregaraii’s golden eyes widened in the lamplight, his olive face ghastly as a wax sculpture. “Oh, Eternal, where’s this na’khesh?”

A subdued creaking behind them made Gregaraii turn. Davin glanced over his shoulder and stared hard into the darkness. The tangle of skin-draped roots shifted in the shadows, and one particularly large root unfurled from the broken ceiling and descended in monstrous sinuous coils. Gregaraii shoved the lantern and keys at Davin. “Take these!”

Davin grabbed the lamp and keys, clutching the heavy book closer, gawping as more shadowed coils slipped from the roots above. Serpentine scales shimmered, pearlescent in the wan lamplight. Davin shoved at his mentor. “Sir! Hurry! Let’s run!”

Gregaraii flapped one aged, gnarled hand at Davin. “Go, or we’ll both die!”

Behind them in the tunnel, the gleaming-pale sinuous serpent reared its massive head and hissed, its fangs glistening white in the lamp’s flickering light. Gregaraii screamed. “Save the book! Run! Don’t look back! Run!”

Davin fled, his robes flapping. Talon-like roots clawed toward his scalp and face, drawing blood as he ran.

Gregaraii’s agonized scream echoed behind him, then ceased.

***

Agony jolted through Gregaraii with the giant serpent’s first strike. Paralysis seized his limbs, trapping his final gasp in his lungs as he dropped to the stone floor. Accepting the storm of searing pain in silence, Gregaraii Valo-Treor sprawled on the stone floor as the serpent coiled around him. If Davin escaped with the book, then these next few moments meant nothing. Nothing. …

Clenching his teeth, Gregaraii prayed inwardly: Let me enter the perfection of Your Presence! Let me see Your face and live forever! Eternal Liege, all my trust is in You. Take my soul!

A cup of celestial celebration would replace his pain. Soon—!

The venom burned through his body, rendering him motionless, unable to breathe as the monstrous serpent tightened its grip. Darkness closed Gregaraii’s eyes as his heartbeat stopped.

***

Davin staggered from the cave into the predawn air, tears and blood drying on his face, his heart thudding an army’s worth of cadences. Where was he? A mighty cliff stood behind him, housing the cave and supporting the ancient abbey above. Around Davin, trees and tangled shrubs loomed, shadowed and bleak. He must escape to the Vales. The snarled shrubs rattled their drying autumn leaves and raked their harsh limbs over his torn face as he forged a path. But what were mere branches and leaves? He’d seen a nonexistent na’khesh. Gauatchen must certainly be near. Neither this huge book in his arms, nor the iron key-ring dangling from his wrist would protect him from another such beast.

Davin licked his split lower lip, tasting blood as he charged through the shadowed woods.

***

Clutching the huge book to his chest, Gregaraii’s iron key-ring dangling from his arm, Davin knelt on the stone floor before the brawny, silver-bearded tawny Earl Jareth Valo-Treor of the Vales. Seated in an oak chair on a dais in his banner-hung, blue-and-white great hall, formidable as any despot king, Earl Jareth’s bright-amber gaze cut through Davin, exactly like Gregaraii’s.

Davin fought tears as he placed the ancient book on the stone floor. How could he have doubted his mentor? He should have been stricken down, not Gregaraii. Daring another look up at Earl Jareth, Davin begged, “Forgive me, my lord. I’m Davin of Vrydn. Your cousin Gregaraii is dead. He sent me here to seek refuge.”

News of his cousin’s death sent a flicker of surprise across the proud nobleman’s bronzed, weathered, silver-bearded face. Taking a breath, the earl shook his head as if reflecting upon some long-forgotten memory and then dismissing it without sentiment. He straightened and spoke, his big voice grating like stone raked against stone. “Dead? But then … I lost him years ago. So, after all these years of silence, he’s sent you—a scrawny starveling—here? Why do you need refuge?”

“From destruction—of myself and of his life’s work.”

The earl grimaced. “That dusty book is his life’s work? And who are you? His son?”

Son? Among the Religious? Davin forced down scandalized outrage. “No. He was my mentor until his last breath. May the Eternal forgive me for not appreciating him as I should have.”

“Why shouldn’t I return you to the Religious?”

“They probably believe I’m dead.” Forcing strength into his plea, Davin said, “It was Brother Gregaraii’s dying wish that I continue his work.”

“How did my cousin die?”

Davin winced, hearing Gregaraii’s final scream. “Of a na’khesh strike.”

“Na’khesh? Impossible!”

“My lord, as I live, it’s true. I saw the beast.”

The earl’s amber eyes stared, huge and shocked, too much like Gregaraii’s for comfort. But then he roared out a laugh that filled the empty, lamplit great hall. “My Religious cousin, felled by a mythical serpent’s strike!” He guffawed, then shook his head and caught his breath. “Ah, the irony! If only his brothers were alive to hear this. Their deaths were nowhere near as glorious—our faithful Gregaraii, taken down by the symbol of his adversary, the Soul Hunter!”

Unable to laugh, and too scraped and journey-wearied to move, Davin sagged and lowered his gaze to the book. The earl’s laughter faded. He sighed gustily, then wiped his face. “I’m sorry. Poor Gregaraii—I respected his intellect and counsel. Except for his youngest sister, he was the last of my extended family. How I wish he were here.”

“As do I, my lord.”

“Yes,” The earl grumbled, “I’m sure you do. You stink of remorse. So, what am I to do with you? It’s a fist in the eye of the Religious for me to keep you here, and I’m not sure you’re worth the trouble—you younglings eat your weight in food daily. Do you write? Read? Recite Religious principles? Decipher mathematics?”

“Yes, my lord. All those. And I illuminate books.”

Silence followed. Davin glanced up. The earl wasn’t looking at him, but at an elegant, veil-wreathed, olive-complexioned young woman, who stepped around the embroidered hunting tapestries behind his great chair, her silken robes and jewels gleaming, dazzling. Davin swallowed. How could she be real? More beautiful and regal than any statue of Saint Syphre. As the young noblewoman’s magnificently sculpted dark eyebrows drew together in a thoughtful frown over her brilliant amber eyes, the earl lifted his silver-bearded chin at her. “Isolde, my girl, what say you?”

The young Lady Isolde smoothed her shimmering crimson gown, revealing her advanced pregnancy. Her gaze rested upon the book. When she finally spoke, her voice was as calm and cool as the earl’s was boisterous. “My lord-father, he’s bound to our family through your cousin. If the Religious would truly kill Sir Davin, then shouldn’t we keep him? Furthermore, you know how much I enjoy my books, and we’ll need a trained clerk to keep accounts, since old Sir Reginald has begged to be pensioned off.”

The earl shrugged, then stood. “If Gregaraii valued this boy enough to become his mentor, then he might be worth a bit of a scrimmage. Tell your lord-husband that I’ve hired a new clerk for you while we’re gone. You’ll need someone to manage your revenues if the two of us die in battle.”

Visibly pained, her olive skin turning ashen, the young woman widened her golden eyes at the earl. “Father, don’t say such a thing. I won’t lose you and Evard. You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m as much a realist as Gregaraii was a dreamer. We’ve an arrogant young fool as king, and enemies on three borders, while all the lords in this kingdom battle each other. No one is safe, girl. Not you, not me, not Evard, and not this meek and beaten boy-clerk sent by my cousin.”

The earl stepped off the dais and planted his booted feet before Davin as if he’d step on him as readily as insult him. “Don’t presume you’ve found a permanent haven here. You’re seeking refuge and peace from a family that’s known none since the old empire unraveled a thousand years past. Nevertheless, serve us faithfully, and we’ll shelter you. Cause one whiff of trouble, and you’ll be flung back at the Religious to meet your fate—unless my daughter or I use you for target practice first. Do you hear me?”

Dry-mouthed, Davin nodded.

The earl swaggered from the hall. As his footsteps faded, the Lady Isolde lifted one hand and beckoned Davin—her poised elegance extraordinary and unnerving for one so young. She was much his own age, between fifteen and twenty. As he approached, she stared at the book in his arms, then smiled. “You’ll be known as Sir Davin here, to hold respect among our villeins—they’re uncommonly peevish over rights and ranks. I’ll have my servant Meriel assign you a chamber, ointment for those cuts on your face, and whatever provisions you need for your work. I appreciate books, by the way, so I’ll intercede for you when my lord-father loses his temper with you. What’s written in your book, sir?”

“Ancient legends, lady.” A chill ran over Davin as he spoke. Were they mere legends? Hadn’t the na’khesh been a mere legend before it killed Gregaraii?

“Legends?” The Lady Isolde shook her head. She gathered her rich, flowing garments and stepped down from the dais, an aristocrat firmly in control of her domain. “I doubt it. No man among the Valo-Treor would devote his life’s work to a mere collection of legends, much less assure its safety with his dying wish. That book’s obviously far more than dry old stories spun of ancient whispers, and if I’m sheltering something extraordinarily important within the Vales, I will know what it is, sir.”

For all her grace and civility, this young lady certainly commanded respect and everything else within the Vales. Davin caught his breath. What if he failed to understand Brother Gregaraii’s miniscule notes?

Davin offered his fears aloud. “Lady Isolde, I’m more an artist and scribe than an ancient language expert. If I fail to translate these verses, then perhaps it’s for the best if the book remains as nothing but a collection of markings and ancient paintings. According to Brother Gregaraii, true understanding of these words will bring madness—the knowledge is dangerous.”

“Knowledge is a weapon, Sir Davin, and I intend to be armed. I’ve always believed that certain authorities strive to keep us ignorant, thus maintaining their supremacy over our lives and souls.” Lady Isolde clasped her long hands together, the rings glittering on her fingers in mute, dazzling testimony to her family’s astounding wealth. “As for madness, sir,” she softened her voice to a well-bred murmur. “My lord-father believes Ceyfraland is yet again descending toward war on all our borders and within them. Madness is in the very air around us, so breathe deep! The Vales can survive whatever’s in that book. Therefore, I command that you translate and share it—madness and all.”

Was she so confident of her sanity? Of his?

Syphre save them all.