Melkorka by Joshua Robertson

Author:Joshua Robertson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: epic fantasy series, fantasy series, epic fantasy, dark fantasy, fantasy, sword and sorcery
Publisher: Crimson Edge Press
Published: 2015-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

Month of Wine Flowing

First of Frost

124 CE

Chapter XVII

Branimir’s small, crimson knees sunk into the cool sand of the shoreline that led into the unexplored lands called Maharia. He lay on the wet, dark earth that seemed to stretch for eternity. He had never been so thankful to have solid ground under his feet.

The clouds were thick overhead, blocking any attempt that the sun may have to warm him, but he barely noticed. Even though the breeze off the water was shrill, tearing through his red skin like ice, Branimir clung to the sea-stained sand.

The ground was hardening, close to freezing, giving sign to how much time had passed since the four of them had sailed from Arkaim. They had spent nearly two months on the boat through sunshine, rain, and storm. Branimir never wanted to touch foot on a faering again. He may very well have to make his home in Maharia.

“I nearly thought I would never see land again,” Falmagon wheezed with a half-smile plastered on his face. He pulled the faering onto the beach with a rope, while clinging to his crooked staff. Once it was secure, the aging man collapsed onto the dirt and rolled over onto his back.

It was amazing that none of them had died on the long voyage in the small faering, especially when considering the wounds of Falmagon and Erzebeth before leaving Arkaim. Fortunately, the Vucari had found enough herbs in Arkaim that she could tend to their injuries. Her knowledge of the medicinal properties should have given her the title of herbal healer. Alas, most of their suffering had to be withstood, as supplies ran low and food became scarce. Branimir only knew that somehow they had managed to overcome the impossible.

Dorofej joined Falmagon on the sands of Maharia, “Much too long of a journey, yes? I fear, forgotten how to walk, I have. I say, a decent meal would be warmly welcomed.” Any disdain for Falmagon was gone from the old man’s voice for the time being. The Highborn, although confined on the boat together, had barely spoken. Time had been the remedy for their anger.

The two Highborn had little choice but to get along with one another. Dorofej and Falmagon had a similar quest with similar limitations. The Highborn Longwalker’s age was not as great as Dorofej’s, but it was beyond anything he had ever known. Falmagon’s hope was the same as Dorofej’s, to reach the Waters of Life to restore his youth.

“Rabbit stew,” Branimir said, rubbing his hands together at the thought.

“Anything but fish,” Erzebeth muttered, joining Falmagon in the sand with her arms folded to stay warm in the cool breeze.

Falmagon laughed.

Branimir chuckled to himself, realizing it had been a very long time since any of them had even broken a smile.

Kinhar’s death had not been forgotten, but it was not talked about among the fellowship. Branimir had tried once and was shushed by Dorofej before Falmagon lectured Branimir on manners and respect. None had said a word about the death of the spearhead again.

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