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  TALES FROM THE EMERALD ISLES: HOPE CHEST

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2019 Anthony Aurisano

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  Graphics, Layout and Editing © 2019 Eileen A Harris. All rights reserved - used with permission.

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-54399-107-9

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  SAMPLE OF BOOK TWO

  TALES FROM

  THE EMERALD ISLES:

  HOPE CHEST

  ANTHONY AURISANO

  PUBLISHING

  CHAPTER 1

  Ash readied his sword. He had fought battles before; many battles, in fact. He had even faced and defeated a dragon. But, none had hurt him like this. He rubbed his eyes free of sweat, missing a bead that streamed down his brow and fell slowly from his eye like a tear. This all could have been avoided, he thought to himself. That boy. He knew. The hope chest was behind Marric, but so was an army. Ash knew staying present in battle meant the difference between life and death. He was so much nearer to death now than he’d ever been before. He was the prince of Larutte. He was born to lead his people. He was mighty. But, so was she, he thought. His sword began to lower. It seemed heavier now.

  “Open the chest, Ash,” Marric demanded.

  “I can’t… Only Euan can open it.”

  His sword fell below his shoulder. As it did, a blast of fire barreled toward him. Ash rolled out of the way, his ears ringing. If only he knew then the truth about the dragon. He never would have killed her. You’ve been such a fool, he thought.

  Marric saw an opportunity in what he called “dragon attacks” on the kingdom. He was always good at spinning a tale, even as a boy. He would enchant Ash for hours with his tales of the heroic knights of old, and then haunt him with stories of ghosts and magical beings. Ash never knew from where he got his ideas, but he adored Marric’s ability to strip away the everyday and make it fantastical. So, when Marric came to him with stories of a dragon devastating the people of their kingdom, Ash was eager to challenge the beast, as had the knights in the tales told to him as a boy by Marric. However, Ash was not led by this alone. Ash was the heir to the throne of Larutte and had been for many years now. He had studied war and learned to govern. He loved the former and hated the latter. He wanted to protect his people; he wanted to be loved by his father. That meant doing his duty. But duty is a heavy mantle for any young man to bear. His father wore the mantle well. It suited him. His broad shoulders and barrel chest were much like the ash tree for which he had named his son. King Alric had long brown hair dusted with white, piercing, yet gentle almond-shaped blue eyes, and a sharp nose. He was resembled an eagle soaring high in the sky and Ash often felt like his prey. Ash had the same piercing almond-shaped blue eyes as his father, but his mother’s nose. It was angular, but not as sharp as Alric’s and he also had his mother’s blonde hair, which he kept long, just like his father.

  Ash remembered as boys, looking into Marric’s eyes while he would tell his tales. Marric also had blue eyes, but they were flecked with grey, which in the right light made them look icy and cold, but most of the time they reminded him of his father’s eyes. They had the same almond-shape, and they beamed right down his sharp nose; the piercing gaze of a raptor locked on something of interest. Ash always looked forward to the nights when he and Marric would sneak away to their favorite nooks throughout the castle as he would tell his tales. What Ash loved most about these nights was that they took his mind off of his daily drills on duty and frequent lectures from his father. Marric was his friend, but, they were more like brothers. At least until Marric turned sixteen. That was when he was conscripted into The Order of Clerics.

  Ash’s father, Alric, always treated Marric rather harshly. He all but forbade them from playing together. Marric was the bastard son of an Emerald Sister who was stationed within the castle as a physician for a time. She had conceived Marric out of wedlock and was found trying to abort him by another of the Emerald Sisters. As such, she was expelled from the order for promiscuity and for using the knowledge of the sisterhood for nefarious ends. According to Alric, Marric was not the sort of friend kept by princes. But, he never actually decreed that Ash was not to spend time with the boy. Ash had a feeling that Marric’s conscription was somehow his father’s doing, but he had no proof. From that day forward, Ash saw Marric scarcely, if at all. The few times they did see each other, Marric told him no stories of knights nor ghosts, nor any sort of magical beings. He grew more and more serious and his eyes seemed to be in the right light all the more often.

  When Marric came to him with the tale of a dragon attacking villagers and stealing livestock, Ash was heartbroken for their loss, enraged over the attack on his people, but he was also, at least for a moment, a little boy once more, enchanted by the fantastical tales told by his dearest friend. This time, however, it was not some knight from the past in Marric’s tale; it was Ash. He would be the valiant knight dodging fire and slaying dragons for his people. Marric claimed he knew just how to defeat the monstrous beast, and promised to tell him if Ash would, in turn, promise to bring him the ruby red heart of the scarlet dragon. And so, Ash agreed.

  “Damnyou, Marric!” The words slipped through his gritted teeth. He could hear the jangle of armor moving through the woods to his left. He’s trying to flank me. Damn you, Marric! May you rot in underworld for what you’ve done, thought Ash as he steadied his feet and reached for a small glass orb on his belt. I need to gain some control over this situation.

  He threw the orb at the tree-line near where he heard the men moving into position. It exploded into an ever-expanding cloud of dark smoke, its inky tendrils groping through the air, surrounding the base of the trees and reaching upward. The smoke appeared to Ash as eyes blinking on beat. He reflexively pulled his right shoulder back as the arrow flew past his chest. He felt the bite of the second arrow in his left leg. He reached for it; it was deep into his flesh. He tried to pull it out. Dammit, he said to himself as he heard the hiss and crackle of fire coming toward him again. Instinctively, he dove in the opposite direction, but he landed on the arrow in his leg and it snapped. He groped blindly for the tiny bit of shaft protruding from his leg, careful not to drop his eyes from his surroundings for even a moment. Waves of pain fluttered through his body. He saw spots of light. Every slipping grip or solid connection with the shaft sent agonizing pain through his body. He felt his eyes closing. “Was this how she felt before I killed her?” Ash thought. The world momentarily flickered between his eye-lashes and then he lay unconscious on the ground, blood pooling beneath his leg. His final thoughts were of a dying dragon.

  CHAPTER 2

  She stood in stark contrast to the lush varietals of greens within the valley. Her wet, crimson and ruby red scales glistened in the sunlig
ht; her wings beat upon the air. She roared. Ash readied his sword.

  Look for the misshapen scales. That’s what Marric had said, Ash remembered to himself. The heat from the flame sac causes the scales to heat and cool too rapidly; as such, they’re softer than the others.

  His armor, a brilliant azure offset with gray, was heavy against his body; the weight a comfort to him in this moment. Without deviating, he rushed straight towards her, much like an arrow in flight. He hit his mark, driving his sword deep into the misshapen scales now visible on her chest. She roared and writhed in agony. She sucked in air to make fire, but Ash’s sword had punctured her fire sac. All she could do now was expel the air like an old woman blowing out a candle. She’s not dead yet. A wounded animal is a deadly one, he thought. Ash stood for a moment watching, waiting, studying her movements. He was hot. Sweat burned his eyes. He took off his helmet and let it fall to the ground by his feet.

  She’s in so much pain. I need to end this quickly. My people will be safe once she is dead. They can birth and raise new livestock. In one season, they’ll be able to feed themselves again.

  She rose up again with a mighty roar tinged with pain. His sword slipping out of her chest as she rose to extend her magnificent wings. The grass and leaves fluttered against her gale-force beats. Ash lost his footing, tumbling backward into the nearby brush. She wrapped herself within her wings. Ash felt a soft breeze on the back of his neck. It came from the east; the direction from where he had heard the rustling of leaves. As soon as he stood up, he saw the dragon wrapped in her wings. She looked like a living garnet. The underside of her wings added blackness to the interplay of her ruby and crimson scales, with the red blood splattered and smeared upon them. He had no idea from where the wind came. The glen was surrounded by a mountain ridge-line for miles which acted as a natural wind barrier for all but the most southerly winds. Ash recognized the situation for what it was - dangerous. She was hurt, yes, but she had taken up a defensive position. While she could not see him under those wings, she was more or less protected. He could easily breakthrough with his sword, but it remained embedded in her chest. If he charged her like this, he would surely be swatted away like a nagging gnat on a warm summer night. Ash scanned the area. My helmet, he thought to himself. If I can throw it behind her, it may give me the opening I need to retrieve my sword and finish this. Kneeling on one knee, Ash bowed his head, “Odin, far-wanderer, grant me wisdom, courage, and victory. Friend Thor, grant me your strength. And both, be with me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  You two, Clint, Pike, take this body over to the chest.”

  “Aye, sir,” the two men replied bringing the fist of their left hands to their right breast. Each tapped their dark cuirass twice, making a double metallic clunking sound. They each grabbed a limb; Clint grabbing the arms and Pike the legs. Each struggled to maintain their grip on his body. Stripped of his armor and after fighting in the spring heat, his body was slick with sweat. His leg slipped from Pike’s hands.

  “Be careful with him, you idiots. He can’t die just yet. Even if he cannot open the chest, which he will, he’s worth more than both of your lives combined. Drag him, if you need to,” Marric said as he rubbed his forehead.

  The soldiers continued to drag Ash to the hope chest within their encampment. Marric rubbed his chin, twisting the hairs of his beard between his fingers, thinking “what will I do if he cannot open the chest? He must - he sealed it after all. If he won’t do it willingly… perhaps with the right motivation…”

  The soldiers returned from their task. “Sir, we placed him by the chest as ordered. I had Pike check over his wounds while I tied him to a nearby post. Nothing looks like it’ll kill him, at least not before dawn. We await your orders, sir,” Clint said, as he brought his left hand to his chest.

  “Bring me the girl.” The two soldiers hesitated. “But sir, she’s the, she’s our…” replied the soldiers.

  Marric’s eyes trained upon them. “I’m well aware of who she is. Now bring her to me. I didn’t have her captured to sit idly in my tent like some doll. She has a purpose here, and, so do you. Unless you don’t, in which case…”

  The two soldiers snapped to attention. “Aye sir, the princess. Bring the princess here, now. Got it.”

  Farrah heard the clanging of armor as she struggled to untie her hands. There was no wiggle room, nor could she raise her hands over her head since she was tied too tightly and too close to the large post they had driven into the ground. She couldn’t raise her hands over her head either. The post stood too tall.

  “Princess, you’re coming with us,” Clint stated as he and Pike entered Marric’s tent. The inside was simple, like the rest of the soldiers’ tents, but his was larger and contained a desk for writing. There were a few piles of books scattered about the space. He had the same sleeping set-up as the rest of the soldiers - a mat and a large fur blanket; his a large bear. The soldiers had either deer or elk. The only other difference was that there was a rather tall wooden post sticking out of the middle of the ground with the daughter of their King tied to it.

  “If you say so. It would not seem like I’m not in any position to argue at the moment,” Farrah replied, tossing stray hair from her green eyes.

  “Don’t talk back, you traitorous bitch,” Pike retorted quickly. “Tried to kill your own father and then you go and cozy up with the son of the King who killed your mother.”

  “Pike! That’s enough! Control yourself. You’re a solider,” Clint said as he grasped Pike’s arm. “What would Commander Gregor think?”

  “Kinda hard to think anything when you’re dead, Clint. Or, did you forget that King Caelen had him killed for failing to find this one?” Pike replied, pointing at Farrah.

  “No, Pike, I did not forget about that. I also didn’t forget that Commander Gregor, as loyal as he was to the king, didn’t quite buy the story of that night. He always taught us that the simplest explanation is usually the most likely one. The King’s story is too complicated and hinges on far too many assumptions. Something bad happened that night. That’s for sure, but I don’t believe for a second that she would attempt to kill her own parents,” Clint said as he made his way behind Farrah.

  “Why would the King lie, Clint?”

  “Pike, you ever think about why some people refer to him as the Mad King?” Clint replied as he worked out the first knots in the ropes. “I’m gonna untie this last knot. Make sure she doesn’t run out of here. The last thing we want if for that Marric guy to tell the king we lost his daughter.”

  “Got it,” Pike replied.

  “And Pike, just focus on the orders. Leave your personal opinions for when we’re off duty. Don’t forget what the commander taught us.”

  “Aye, Clint. I will. Let’s get this over with. I need a drink,” Pike replied as he grabbed Farrah by the hood of her cloak.

  Farrah’s head jerked at the pull of her cloak by Pike. It sent her back to that night. Her head had jerked in just the same way as her father pulled her close to him. She shuddered at the memory. “You talk about my father as if he was some kind of saint. I assure you, Pike, he is not! He’s not even close.”

  Clint untied the last knot. “Get up. Let’s go princess. Commander Marric wants to speak with you,” Clint said as he nodded to Pike. A nod that Farrah understood meant for him to be ready in case she decided to run. She didn’t. Marric, she thought to herself. Wasn’t that the name of the man who sent Ash to kill the dragon in the forest?” Her train of thought was interrupted as her face met Pike’s shoulder. The pain was sharp and hot. She shook her head. She stumbled but caught her composure. Her jaw set still, and her eyes became small and focused on Pike.

  “What the hell happened?” Clint asked.

  “I leaned in to help her up and I guess she must have come up too fast. I guess princesses growing up in privilege don’t have any experience in dealing with men of arms and their armor,” Pike replied as a tiny thin smile spread across his face.


  “Sure, it did. Just make sure you’re more aware of her inability to judge such things from now on, Pike. As a man of arms, you, yourself, should be more careful,” Clint said as he slipped his arm around Farrah’s waist. “You okay, Princess?” he whispered softly. She nodded. They all walked out of the tent to where Marric was waiting.

  CHAPTER 4

  Farrah knelt before Marric, Pike and Clint at her sides. The last time she knelt like this was at her mother’s bed on the evening of her death. The death of her mother, though expected, hurt no less. It sent her reeling, she remembered, unable to move, she spent several hours kneeling beside her mother in tears.

  But, no one felt that loss more than her father. Her father was despondent after the death of his wife. King Caelen had always been a fiery man, with a raging temper. He inherited this from his father, and his father’s father. So fiery a temperament had the men of the Hylaen line been that their standard bore the flame behind a claymore. Caelen had suffered many loses in his youth and was not always the strongest of men, thus were the seeds of insecurity and mistrust laid in his youth.

  When he met Eirin, that all changed. She was strong-willed, but kind and tender. She challenged him in a way that strengthened him as a man; never diminished him. She was brave enough to love him completely and always be honest with him; and, he adored her for it. For Caelen, the sun rose and set on Eirin. They had a child together just shortly after their marriage, and they named her Farrah after Eirin’s mother. Farrah had her mother’s auburn hair and green eyes. She had her same angular jaw line and high cheeks. She looked in every way to be her mother’s daughter. As she matured, her father’s fiery nature began to show itself. But, she managed to maintain her mother’s genuinely kind disposition. Farrah was a good girl. She might have behaved more like a boy than her parents would have liked, but she loved her parents dearly, and it was obvious.