Sydrathium: Sword Of Kings, Assassins, and Thieves

Sydrathium

Sword Of Kings, Assassins, and Thieves

By

Allan R. Wallace

"Live ahead not behind, crafting not replicating,

choose adventure rather than to be sure.

Much of life's joy is found in surprises that overtake us as we dare."

Allan R. Wallace

Some Other Books By

Allan R. Wallace

the hacker trilogy Cyberhug.me which includes:

Hacktivist

Complicit Simplicity

& Abacus Brief

three short stories making a

Hacker School Trilogy

Would a high elf lie?

Shirker John Leprechaun

in pursuit of dragon treasure

ten expat ePulp short story collections starting with:

Sparrow Swift Is Born

five (so far) thought provoking daily reads:

Long Trips To Nowhere

And also available in French and Spanish

Uruguayo Shade

adventures in Uruguay and Argentina

& other stuff:

Find my author page where you bought this book.

Syd's Story

this being the first entry recorded in Journal XXIV

In which a strong willed lad crosses a deadly sharp edge into manhood with his best friend Amos and a new tween age sister Beth helping him along.

Copyright 2014 -2015

Allan R. Wallace

All rights reserved.

(but are individually negotiable,

ask me – student_sage at yahoo)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About Allan R. Wallace

Brink Family Rules

Run To Discover

Walk To Consider

Saunter For Inspiration

Persist For Eternity

Please respect the work of the author and pay for his book.

Read the sample first to see if it is for you.

Everything here is newly crafted.

Similarities to existing people, places, or works are purely co-incidental.

That said, the author favors a copyright period of 3 years or less to protect and encourage creators; anything longer than life is purchased legislation to profit undead corporations, not dead artists. Lifetime copyright plus seventy years (or Mickey Mouse's age plus five years) is a corrupt obscenity. After all, what we craft is determined by what we've learned, so all thought is derived first and only then personally shaped. If you had not read Tolkien your understanding of orcs and elves would be less and a magic ring would not seem so powerful. Maybe Bilbo was a deviant leprechaun with a love of managed nature rather than gold. Frodo discovered nothing but stories old, but his world was a tavern tale better told. There are not yet talking trees, angry mountains, or necromancers in this series. But if our heroes or heroine discover them they are on trails already tread.

My preference is to have no copy control scheme on my books, some platforms won't do that. As always, do what is best for you without harming me.

Thank You for considering this work.

Chapter One

Greater knowledge on the marrow

may be a partial cure

for unmeasurable sorrow.

Sydrathium XIV

The narrow oak door to my bedroom creaked open slowly as my new sister Beth entered with fresh bandages to replace the sodden ones on my shield side. After her careful work there she changed my scalp bandage, it was an older wound that bled less now and did not hurt much. She also replaced a cloth and poultice that smelled of orange juice I had not noticed over a sewn-closed gash in the heavy muscles below the knee on my shield side leg. It hadn't hurt until I saw it. Now it worried my mind that it might effect my fighting or forging. Beth handed me a cracked white mug that I took in both hands, savoring the heat it gave my cold fingers. The mug had chips caused by me when I was a clumsy child; those imperfections now provided a familiar fit against my cupped hands.

Beth's dark, long, tattooed fingers looked delicate next to my rough, furnace scarred hands. From the emerging fringe on her shaved scalp I imagined her hair would be dark also. Her face and most of its bruised features were round but not soft. Her nose seemed so small as to not yet fully exist. Even Amos' sister's nose was larger. Of course we Brinks run to commanding noses so I was judging by what I know. I could get used to small noses, kinda cute, maybe. Syd, drink this. It will ease the physical pains and help you sleep. You were wounded in the fight when you freed me. You will live.

She paused then continued I need to say this while I have the courage: I see that of our many possible futures most contain us freeing individuals by killing servants of power and providing alternatives to their captives. We will chop out deep roots and and topple foul kingdoms. I've seen them fall. In some futures we die early, in others we start a new world way. Sometimes one of us dies and the other continues. I thought, So Beth is a far-seeing mage, perhaps that explains the strange tattoos on her knuckles. I would ask her . . . later.

My aches ebbed as I sipped the healing herb tea and my awakening started to flow away. Then I remembered too much for sudden sleep. I could not avoid my mind pain any longer. I cried like a child, not like an eleven year old warrior.

My mother was taken by slavers just as my eleven years old party started. I saw a lookout shot with an arrow and screamed as I ran toward him with the birthday pie cutting knife in one hand and my boot knife in the other hand.

The party goers scattered, but Mom and another adult stayed and fought to give escape time to as many as possible. I was knocked out early with a bloody scalp wound and left for dead – I prefer that reasoning instead of my being unfit for sale as a boy-slave.

Dad came running from the trading post when he heard the cries of fleeing children. He organized those of us old enough to fight, providing weapons where needed. I was the youngest, and the only wounded one on the vendetta team – I had a piece of festive green tablecloth tied around my head wound. Blood still seeped around the bandage and congealed on my face. I refused the order to stay, Dad looked in my eyes, nodded, and agreed I could go. He knew I would follow anyway.

We followed the slavers within hours. When we got ready to attack them at dawn, mother had already killed one of the slavers in an escape attempt the night before. Even though she was badly wounded the slavers had her and a slave girl who helped her freedom quest tied to trees awaiting daylight's visibility for a lesson. They were planning to start with Mom's beating-to-the-death.

The punishing cat-whip had slivers of rock and broken links of chain mail tied in its nine short straps to rip out extra chunks of skin and muscle. A beating with that would be a nasty, prolonged murder. As I awaited Dad's signal to attack, I saw a first blow to her back and the blood dripping cat dipped in the dirt to pick up additional grit. Mother did not cry out although her body jumped at the impact. The process was to be slow and dramatic, a slaver's lecture for their other captives on escape attempt endings.

We tossed that whip into a branding fire and the former slaves chose to watch as it was devoured. They all needed and some wanted lessons of renewed freedom to start breaking their implanted fears. Two in the chain had been born of slaves and did not seem to realize freedom was always an option that started in a single, quiet mind. They knew not what slaves were except a place for life. They came back with us so we could find them homes with fiercely independent wild-woods families.

The girl who was bound next to Mother later said the other slaves refused to join in revolt because they might make their current owners angry. Beth and my Mother had alone plotted their do or die attempt.

Beth's village had been famous for its spiced food so she was forced to assist the camp cook. She dropped some gathered leaves of what she called slow weed into the guards' stew. The weapons Beth was able to grab as night fell were short thrusting spears and small ram shields. Mother and Beth