The Flesh of War: The Warsworn, #1

Table of Contents

The Flesh of War (The Warsworn, #1)

Chapter 1: First Rite

Chapter 2: Whelp

Chapter 3: Dwarf

Chapter 4: United

Chapter 5: The Porgrin

Chapter 6: Fractured

Chapter 7: Brothers

Chapter 8: The Blademaster

Chapter 9: Sojourn

Chapter 10: Jerikaal

Chapter 11: The Hunted

Chapter 12: Trial

Chapter 13: Felshard

Chapter 14: The Endurance Trial

Chapter 15: Answers

Chapter 16: The Azüre

Chapter 17: Baiting a Trap

Chapter 18: The Bounty

Chapter 19: The Forge

Chapter 20: Unmasked

Chapter 21: The Bloodmist

Chapter 22: Dispatched

Chapter 23: Griffin

Chapter 24: Breach

Chapter 25: Home

Chapter 26: Changed

Chapter 27: Gorn

Chapter 28: The Arena

Chapter 29: Reaver

Chapter 30: Scarred

Chapter 31: Broken

Chapter 32: The Benefactor

Chapter 33: Kythira

Chapter 34: The Crossroads

Chapter 35: Urthin's Tale

Chapter 36: The Lost Mine

Chapter 37: The Soulforge

Chapter 38: The Guardian

Chapter 39: Burned

Chapter 40: Twins

Chapter 41: A Single Voice

Chapter 42: Isolated

Chapter 43: To War

Chapter 44: A Last Stand

Chapter 45: The Flesh of War

Chapter 46: Plummet

Chapter 47: Summoned

Chapter 48: Warshard

Chapter 49: Warsworn

The Chronicles of Lumineia

Author Bio

Sign up for Ben Hale's Mailing List

Also By Ben Hale

The Flesh of

War

By Ben Hale

Text Copyright © 2015 Ben Hale

All Rights Reserved

To my family and friends,

who believed

And to my wife,

who is perfect

The Chronicles of Lumineia

By Ben Hale

—The Warsworn—

The Flesh of War

The Age of War

The Heart of War

—The Master Thief—

Jack of Thieves

Thief in the Myst

The God Thief

—The Second Draeken War—

Elseerian

The Gathering

Seven Days

The List Unseen

—The White Mage Saga—

Assassin’s Blade (Short story prequel)

The Last Oracle

The Sword of Elseerian

Descent Unto Dark

Impact of the Fallen

The Forge of Light

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Map of Lumineia

Chapter 1: First Rite

Part I - Whelp

Chapter 2: Whelp

Chapter 3: Dwarf

Chapter 4: United

Chapter 5: The Porgrin

Chapter 6: Fractured

Chapter 7: Brothers

Chapter 8: The Blademaster

Chapter 9: Sojourn

Chapter 10: Jerikaal

Chapter 11: The Hunted

Chapter 12: Trial

Part II - Naifblade

Chapter 13: Felshard

Chapter 14: The Endurance Trial

Chapter 15: Answers

Chapter 16: The Azüre

Chapter 17: Baiting a Trap

Chapter 18: The Bounty

Chapter 19: The Forge

Chapter 20: Unmasked

Chapter 21: The Bloodmist

Chapter 22: Dispatched

Chapter 23: Griffin

Chapter 24: Breach

Chapter 25: Home

Chapter 26: Changed

Chapter 27: Gorn

Chapter 28: The Arena

Chapter 29: Reaver

Chapter 30: Scarred

Chapter 31: Broken

Chapter 32: The Benefactor

Chapter 33: Kythira

Chapter 34: The Crossroads

Chapter 35: Urthin's Tale

Chapter 36: The Lost Mine

Chapter 37: The Soulforge

Chapter 38: The Guardian

Part III - Warsworn

Chapter 39: Burned

Chapter 40: Twins

Chapter 41: A Single Voice

Chapter 42: Isolated

Chapter 43: To War

Chapter 44: A Last Stand

Chapter 45: The Flesh of War

Chapter 46: Plummet

Chapter 47: Summoned

Chapter 48: Warshard

Chapter 49: Warsworn

The Chronicles of Lumineia

Author Bio

Map of Lumineia

Chapter 1: First Rite

ANCHORING THE CENTER of the rock troll army, King Utoric swung his double-bladed axe into the orc line. Their leather armor split beneath the blow and the weapon cut into flesh. The orcs gurgled as they sank to the ground, and Utoric stepped over their corpses to engage another group. He released a rumbling snarl as he advanced.

Desperate to escape, the orcs and gnomes shoved and trampled each other as they fled down the canyon. Hundred-foot walls rose on either side as they sought an exit, but there was none. Utoric had lured the orc army into the depths of the Fractured Plains, and now he used the terrain itself as a weapon.

As if a great mallet had struck the earth, the desert lay cracked and open. Plunging canyons marred the landscape like twisting scars, curving in a labyrinth of dead ends, winding alleys, and sharp corners.

A side canyon appeared in the gloom ahead. The orcs rushed to it, but their cries of relief turned to dismay when more trolls blocked the way. Appearing from the myriad of side paths, other trolls closed off the orcs’ retreat, forcing them into a box canyon with no egress. Trapped, the orcs and gnomes shrieked in fear and turned on the trolls.

The clash of steel reverberated down the canyons and came back distorted, obscuring the screams of the dying. Wind howled as troll clerics sent miniature tornadoes churning through the orc line. Trolls pressed into the gap, widening the breach and plunging into the horde.

Utoric led the charge, driving his great axe through orcs with brutal precision. Marked by the plumage on his helm, an orc chieftain stepped to the front and attempted to rally his force. Stepping over the bleeding dead, Utoric aimed for him.

Seeing him coming, the orc swung his sword. Utoric bared his teeth in a snarl and caught the blade in his free hand. His thick skin split, but the dull blade could not penetrate far enough to draw blood. Ripping it free of the orc's grip, Utoric tossed it away. Then he caught the chieftain by the throat and lifted him into the air.

When will your kind learn! he bellowed into his face. You are rodents to be squashed and tossed to the dogs! Your sole purpose in life is to die by our hand!

Helpless and seconds from death, the orc flashed a bloody smile. Not anymore, troll.

Utoric brought him close to his face and sneered at him. You will always be a waste of flesh.

Instead of fear, the orc's eyes shone with an almost reverent fervor. The bounty has been issued, troll. This generation shall be your last.

With a savage twist Utoric snapped the orc’s neck and threw him to the ground, but the orc's eyes held his gaze. Even in death they appeared worshipful, causing him to frown. The orc's words had carried the echo of truth, but Utoric could not fathom their meaning. Issuing a grunt of irritation, he returned his attention to the battle.

The other trolls roared, shattering the orcs' resolve and sending them into a knot of shrieking flesh. Crushed by the struggling bodies, the gnome leaders frantically sought to rally their dwindling force. The rock trolls drove into the writhing mob and slaughtered them where they stood.

Although they outnumbered the trolls by ten to one, the orcs could not use their numbers in the packed confines of the canyon. They had garbed themselves in rough-forged armor of mixed metals, their breastplates and helmets adorned with fur, feathers, and teeth, much of which had been dipped in blood to make them more fearsome.

At nine feet in height and layered in muscle, the trolls towered over the stocky orcs. Their hair was black, matching the color of their eyes, while their features resembled the race of man. Tanned from thousands of hours in the desert, their skin appeared faintly cracked. As tough as hardened leather, their very flesh was armor.

Leaving the chest bare, the trolls wore belts with strips of leather that fell to their knees. Curving tattoos spiked across their upper bodies, marking every feat . . . and every kill. Unique to each troll, the Sundering created an armor of fear, causing even mighty foes to tremble.

Orcs and gnomes saw Utoric's thousands of kills and panicked, fleeing before his axe. He cut them down and relished the sound of his blade tearing through cartilage and bone. Packed shoulder to shoulder, the orcs could barely move. They squirmed and struggled to wield their stubby swords. In their haste they injured their own companions.

Utoric! a voice called, drawing his attention.

He spun on his feet, nearly beheading the young troll. To his credit the boy stood his ground and glared up at him. Tuul leapt to take Utoric's place in line as he stepped to the boy.

Sybrik, Utoric grunted in irritation. I warned you about joining the battle before you are of age.

Sybrik raised his chin. You gave orders to be summoned for the birth.

Utoric looked to the battlefield. In the few seconds that Sybrik had drawn his attention the rock trolls had pressed forward. There were still orcs to be killed, but the battle was over. Loath to leave it to the others, he hesitated. Then he recalled the oath he'd made to his sister.

Tuul, he shouted, make certain that one survives. Then he turned and joined Sybrik as they trod through the orc dead.

Why spare an orc? Sybrik asked.

The survivor will spread fear like a plague, Utoric grunted in response. Now where is Morana?

She was struck by a stray arrow, Sybrik said. She may not live through childbirth.

Utoric released a breath at the news. Morana and her son Sybrik were the last of his kin within the clan. If she died their bloodline would be threatened. To lose an entire lineage would be tragic, especially theirs. He hoped she would bear another son. Then he recalled Sybrik's tone when he had spoken.

You do not wish for a sibling?

Caught, Sybrik's eyes flashed dangerously. If the child is male, I will crush him.

Utoric glanced at his nephew. At seven years old Sybrik stood almost as tall as a human, and boasted the strength of a naifblade. His skill with a hammer had forced the Blademaster to elevate him three age groups. Many already thought that he would eventually assume the throne. For Sybrik to consider the babe a foe—before the child had even been born—demonstrated a penchant for vicious forethought.

You must wait until the infant grows, Utoric allowed. Then you may prove your strength.

They turned a corner in the canyon and found a healer rock troll kneeling beside Morana. A black arrow had penetrated her neck. Blood seeped from the wound and darkened her leather tunic. Her breathing was labored and her features were twisted in pain.

Amidst the stink of dead orcs, the healer had leaned Morana against the canyon wall. Still warm in the twilight, the wall reflected a torch nearby. Blood from the orcs splattered the wall, drying as their owners cooled on the ground.

It's nearly time, Drenuh said as Utoric approached.

Will she survive?

Drenuh shook her head. The shaft has done too much damage. Her willpower and my magic have kept her alive.

Utoric nodded. Morana had always been strong. Male rock trolls were rarely gifted with magic, while females frequently carried the power. Those without magic became soldiers like their male counterparts. Morana was one of the best warriors in the clan. His fists clenched at the manner of her dying.

He stepped to her side and knelt. A thousand orcs will die in your name.

She shook her head. My husband would not have wanted that. Nor would I.

The fool never did care for our ways, he said with a grunt.

Nor did I, she whispered, her statement ending in a hiss as another contraction assaulted her body.

He met her gaze, surprised by the truth in her voice. You said you did not agree with him.

If I had joined him in exile I would have left Sybrik alone, she said. My fear bound my tongue.

Trolls do not know fear, he said, but the reflexive reply caused her to shake her head.

We fear what we have become, killers without souls. Or do you not feel the regret?

Her treasonous words caused Drenuh to suck in her breath, but Utoric could not look away. His chest tightened with sadness as he recalled the regret he used to feel. He shook his head.

I have not forgotten, he murmured, his words barely reaching Morana's ears.

She smiled. I know you as a king, Utoric, but I would have liked to know you as a brother.

Utoric made to reply, but her face twisted in a grimace. Reluctantly he retreated to allow Drenuh space, and stepped to Sybrik's side. Although the boy tried to hide it, his face revealed his internal conflict. Trolls were taught early that death came in battle, and in another setting Utoric would have chastised the boy for caring about the loss. But Morana's words were too fresh in Utoric’s mind, so his rebuke went unvoiced.

In silence they listened as Morana's labored breathing continued to worsen, until ultimately she sighed in relief. Then he listened for the child's cry that would herald its arrival.

It did not come.

The child is male, Drenuh announced. And healthy.

Utoric and Sybrik stepped to join her.

Why does he not cry out? Sybrik asked.

Then Utoric's gaze connected with the infant’s. Awake and alert, the baby stared at him with intelligent brown eyes, unflinching under the gaze of the rock troll king. Struck by the sense of calm about the infant, he reached out to it.

Wait, the healer warned. I have yet to complete the First Rite.

Use his mother's sword, Utoric said, and retrieved it himself.

Lifting the bloodied weapon from beside Morana, he placed the hilt into the hand of the infant. His tiny fingers curled around the hilt, gripping with a strength that belied his small form.

A troll's flesh is born for war, and feels a blade of such, Drenuh intoned. Before breast or sleep, a blade is this child's first touch. By his blood does he take his First Rite, to join his people with a weapon in hand.

She drew a dagger from her side and pricked his finger, allowing the infant's blood to touch the hilt still stained by his mother's blood. Utoric looked to the baby, but once again he did not cry.

What shall be his name? the healer asked, and turned to the dying Morana.

Her eyes fluttered open. He does not cry out, she said weakly, so he shall be named after the blade of his father, Tryton.

You would name him after a weapon? Sybrik's voice filled with anger.

A strand of compassion pulled on Utoric's heart. I will allow it.

It is not permitted!

Utoric struck him, sending him to the ground. The blade does not speak against its master, he growled. It is a lesson you would do well to learn, Sybrik.

Sybrik forced himself to his feet and glared at him. Then he stalked away. In the ensuing quiet Morana spoke.

My eldest is full of pride, she whispered. I fear it will be his undoing.

Utoric knelt at her side. We are trolls, Morana. Our pride comes from our prowess. Sybrik will be one of legend.

Perhaps, Morana allowed, but I sense a unique spirit in this babe.

I as well, Utoric said with an approving smile. I wager he will be like his father.

Morana smiled as her eyes closed. That would please me.

He clasped her hand. You have served the clan well, Morana. You die with honor.

Her smile softened, and then her body relaxed. Utoric stared at her body, the battle and Tryton momentarily forgotten. He released a held breath, struck by the sense of sadness that overcame him.

Walk with Ero, he whispered.

Then he stood and strode away. As he left Drenuh called to him.

No mother has a child at this time, she said. We cannot wean him at another's breast.

Give him to the Blademaster to raise, Utoric said, and turned toward the battle. Perhaps there were still orcs to be slain.

But he is not strong enough to eat on his own! she protested.

Utoric answered without pausing. Then he is not strong enough to live!

Part I

Whelp

Chapter 2: Whelp

THE BLADEMASTER FED Tryton for a week on mashed lurnit root and kull milk. Against all odds the infant survived until another troll gave birth, allowing him the chance to receive the sustenance his body craved. He and his milk sister, Salina, were weaned together at the end of their first year. Then they began their training.

Tryton's first conscious thought was of fatigue and pain. He learned to walk with a blunted sword in his hand. It accompanied him to his uncomfortable rock bed. It was strapped to his fingers during the endless hours of practice. It even remained his companion during meal times.

Battle offers no time to eat like a thin-skinned, the Blademaster said. Eat quickly or go hungry.

I tired, Ryphon complained.

The Blademaster struck him, sending him to the floor. Crouching over him, he growled at the whimpering child.

Whine again and I will have you crushing rocks until your fingers bleed.

Tryton bowed his head and shoved the food into his mouth as Ryphon resumed eating. Tryton did not understand why, but he knew the consequence of speaking back to the Blademaster. Disobedience, speaking out of turn, or any other infraction earned crushing rocks in the mine.

After the morning meal Tryton's group went straight to the training hall, making room for a group of older children to take their place. Once they stepped into the training hall they lined up in formation.

You are whelps, the Blademaster said, striding among the children. And will remain such until you are inked at the age of ten. Then you gain the title of naifblade and join us on the battlefield. If you survive to fifteen you will have the chance to forge your soulblade and become warsworn. We train for life . . .

To fight to the death, the children finished.

The Blademaster issued a grunt of satisfaction. Older whelps to the back. Younger whelps to the front. Bring your swords up and prepare yourselves.

Tryton shifted to the front and struggled to follow the Blademaster's naifblade trainers. His small body ached by the time a break was called. Following the meal they strode down a side corridor to the teaching hall. Tryton fought to keep his eyes open as warsworn Hogath droned on about blade types. When the lesson finally ended they trudged through the training hall and then to the smallest of the sleeping chambers.

Arranged in a horseshoe configuration, the sleeping chambers all faced the training room at the center. Meal and teaching rooms were situated on the two ends of the arch. Several hundred whelps rotated through the chambers like weapons through a forge, each becoming a lethal instrument of combat. None were allowed to leave.

The days blended into a single memory of striking the other whelps and fending their attacks with weak parries. Naifblades assisted the Blademaster in his training of the children, often by demonstration. Tryton watched the older youths and admired their strength and grace, but most of all he envied them. They were allowed to go outside, to see the sun and the sky.

Each day he rose from his bed of stone and ate a meal of vegetables and seared kull meat. Then he joined the other whelps of their clan. His entire world was bound by the confines of the three caverns and ruled by the Blademaster, Geranaut.

Huge and forbidding, Geranaut's body was covered in scars and tattoos. Twisted flesh bent his face into a grotesque testament of his encounter with a tigron. The tigron had taken his eye. Geranaut had taken its life. A few years later an orc battle had damaged Geranaut's arm beyond repair, forcing him to give up his staff weapon for a sword. Even without his chosen weapon he was a legend among trollkind, and his Sundering demanded respect. Like most of his peers, Tryton's first words were addressed to him.

Yes, Blademaster, he said.

Towering over him, Geranaut nodded in approval. Widen your stance and you won't go down as easily. Do it again.

He did, and got better. The next day he did not fall down, or the next. Occasionally he saw adult trolls, but they mostly came to observe. Tryton stared at them in fascination. Over nine feet in height and corded with muscle, the adults moved with a fluidity that implied years of training. The males kept their black hair cropped short to their heads, while many of the females allowed theirs to grow long. Underneath their unique Sunderings, their skin appeared as worn leather, hardened and faintly cracked.

Sometimes the warsworn told stories in the teaching hall. Tryton listened to their tales of battle with rapt attention, curious about the outside world. At night he listened to his age whelps whisper.

Do dwarves really eat rocks? Salina asked, her voice full of wonder.

Of course, Ryphon said. What else would they eat?

Tryton smiled in the dark. Ryphon was the oldest and largest of their group, and liked to pretend he knew everything.

You have the head of a Kull, Orlana said, causing Drea to giggle. They eat as we do.

They aren't monsters, Drea agreed.

A grunt of irritation came from Ryphon's bed, but Arkon spoke first. I think they live differently than we do.

His twin, Alkon, snorted. I've heard them talk about clans and families.

What's a family? Salina asked.

Solus shifted in his bed. I heard a human in the mine talk about his. He spoke of his mother and father. It sounded like he was raised by them.

They are not taught by a Blademaster, Ryphon said. It's why they are weak.

His bravado carried a trace of falsehood that prompted Tryton to speak.

I would like a family, Tryton said.

He rarely spoke, so his comment caused the others to fall silent. Then Solus grunted his impatience when Tryton did not elaborate.

Why?

Because I want there to be more, Tryton said.

More of what? Salina asked, her tone curious.

Tryton shifted in his bed until he could see the outline of her form. Aside from Solus, Salina was the closest to his age, but there was an innocence about her that set her apart from the other whelps. Tryton shrugged, and then recalled she could not see him.

I don't know, Tryton finally replied. I just want . . . more.

No one spoke, and Tryton took their silence to mean they felt the same. The next morning they did not speak of the conversation, but the sidelong looks Tryton received implied the others continued to ponder it.  

When they finished eating, they were ushered into the teaching hall. Shelves containing hundreds of books lined the walls, leaving space for the whelps to sit on the floor. The instructors varied by day, and ranged from grizzled warsworn to clerics with healing and wind magics.

Drenuh strode into the room and ignored the disappointment on many faces. Warsworn told tales of war, clerics taught from the books. In spite of that Tryton liked her. Unlike the other teachers, she spoke with a quietness that somehow silenced the room as much as a shout. Drawing a book from a shelf, she strode to the single chair and motioned the whelps to sit on the floor. Knowing well the consequence of disobedience, the whelps sat without a word.

Many of the other races think us uneducated, Drenuh began. But the opposite is true. By the time you are naifblades you will read and write better than many humans, and you will know more about their history than their own people do. Knowledge will be your greatest weapon.

For the next hour she detailed the armor types of various races. Examples were brought out to show them, and Tryton looked upon them in wonder. Then one of the five-year whelps rotated his palm face up, indicating he had a question. Drenuh motioned him to speak.

Why do the other races wear armor while we do not?

They must, Drenuh replied. Their skin is so thin even the sun damages it. By the time you are a naifblade your flesh will be strong enough to deflect most weapons. However, it is your Sundering that will truly protect you. She motioned to a naifblade at the rear of the room.

You all know Sybrik from your training, Drenuh said as the boy moved to stand next to her. He has been a naifblade for just over a year, yet he already has numerous kills. The ones on his right arm prove he is strong enough to defeat skilled warriors, while the ones on his left arm prove he does not hesitate to slay the weak. The volume of kills on his chest indicates that many standard foes have fallen to him. The four on his face reveal that even the mighty have fallen to his hammer.

She paused and her gaze swept the group. A troll's character and skill can be seen at a glance, but that is not what our foes see. The Sundering creates an armor of fear that will terrify even the valiant. I have seen mounted knights tremble at the sight of a troll's Sundering. They know that if they fail, their legacy will be an indelible mark on our flesh.

Their fear makes them weak, Sybrik added. The king's Sundering has even caused orcs to lose their bowels.

A murmur swept the group until Drenuh's look of disapproval silenced them. That is enough, Sybrik. You may return to your post.

His lips tightened at her tone, but he obediently returned to his previous position. As she continued the lesson, Tryton's thoughts were drawn to the people she described. The way she talked about the outside made him yearn to see it. Following the lesson they returned to the training hall to find that different types of armor had been placed on figures of stone that resembled the different races.

Strike until they break, the Blademaster said. You may sleep when one has broken before you.

The older whelps had clearly had the lesson before, and destroyed their targets with relative ease. Tryton looked up at the armored stone human and swung his sword with all his strength. With each blow he tried to imagine the man as an evil monster.

You strike with precision, the Blademaster said from behind him, but not with strength.

I am small.

The Blademaster grunted in amusement at Tryton's innocent reply. Your strength will come. Strike here. He placed a finger on the heart. The leather will split, even for you.

Tryton struck hard, leaving a shallow opening in the material. At the Blademaster's prompting he did it again, and again. When it did split he was almost surprised.

Even a whelp may kill a man, the Blademaster said. Their flesh is weak and their hearts are fragile.

Tryton thought of the conversation with his age whelps and turned to meet the Blademaster's gaze. Why do we hurt them? Are their families dangerous to us?

An uncomfortable silence passed as the Blademaster stared down at him. You will understand when you are older, he said. Don't ask again.

Tryton's gaze fell. Yes, Blademaster.

Confused and uncertain, he stabbed at the armor until it gave way. Then he stared at the bare stone chest visible through the broken armor. Only when he heard the heavy footfalls of the approaching Blademaster did he stab at the rock. Bits of stone chipped away under the blows until the Blademaster spoke.

You may return to your bed, whelp.

Without a word Tryton turned and left. Reaching the stone bed he called his own, he reclined on the rock. The minutes ticked by as his other age whelps entered and collapsed into slumber. Overpowering his pain and fatigue, a strange ache in his chest held him awake.

Chapter 3: Dwarf

HIS FIRST PUNISHMENT came for continuing to ask why. His wooden sword was taken and a hammer was strapped to his hand. Then a naifblade led him out of the whelp caverns. Tryton peered at his surroundings with interest as he was guided up a curving corridor.

Metal brackets held strange balls of light near the ceiling, illuminating the hallways and the few occupants. A pair of naifblades strolled by, arguing about the forge, while a towering warsworn hurried past them.

The doors on either side were made of stone and cunningly fastened to the wall in order to swing open and shut. None were open, but he imagined other whelp caverns like the one he trained in. He felt a flicker of hope that he would get to see the sky as they continued to ascend—but his hope evaporated when they turned