Gondell's Quest - Book 1 - Destiny - Free Sampler Edition

Gondell's Quest

  Destiny – Free Sampler Edition

  Andy Lang

  Copyright:

  Layout Copyright © 2016 by Andy Lang. Published 2016 by Andy Lang. Ebook design by Andy Lang. Cover art by Andy Lang.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the authors permission.

  Prologue.

  Long before the dawn of man, peace reigned over the land. And, as those eternal creatures that still remain today will remember, it was an era of tranquillity and equilibrium. Gnome and Dwarf, Elf and Centaur lived in harmony, Hobgoblins and Ogres laboured industriously side by side with the woodland Fairies. The ancient darkness had been defeated and resigned to faded memory, just as modern man worries not over the period in his own history named the Dark Ages, being simply a time known, but no-longer considered, or of any great concern!

  True evil did not exist. Or so we thought. But even the wisest can make mistakes... as I did. Even I could not predict the doom that hovered over our ordered world, or the peculiar outcome. But I do not wish to spoil my tale by rushing ahead. Start at the beginning, travel to the middle, and hope that the end is bright, that is the best tale to tell. And so I take it upon myself to record the events of my long life err memory fades and the now is robbed of the then, for it is a crime to forget, to lose fact to failing memory, or to allow history to be written by the young. History is the domain of the old, we were there, we lived through those times, some of us died shaping the world of today. So my patient listeners, heed not the tales of man. Listen to my story... and learn how it all began.

  In order to enlighten younger folk. Now do not misunderstand my words, be you young or old by your own understanding, in my eyes you are all infants. I talk of young in time, not young of age. I alone am old, ancient beyond reckoning, I alone recall the time before man, before machinery, industry and war. So listen well my children as I peel away guesses, assumption and bare faced lies, Listen as I tell you the truth, for fact has faded concerning the original folk that inhabited your lands. I hear the words myth and fable, legend and superstition trip so easily from ignorant tongues. Oh how much you have forgotten... and how much you have never known.

  As with every good story it is important to introduce the actors that will amuse you with their jests and mishaps, or bring you to the edge of your seats as peril looms. So forget what you think you know and listen to my words, only then will you truly know the facts.

  I feel it only fair that I introduce the humble Gnomes first as young Gondell features so prominently in my tale. I have always found it amusing to see pure coincidence align with forgotten reality, for it is true that Gnomes love to fish, or angle, as they preferred to say. But push aside your preconceptions of the Gnomish race, forget the portly plastic figure that sits dangling his line at the side of your garden pond, for only the bushy beard that it sports bares any similarity to the people themselves.

  I never kept the company of them myself, finding Gnomes to be tedious and rather narrow minded little creatures, contented only with their own small affairs and caring little for the doings of others. But let me set aside my own prejudices and tell you a little about the Gnomish race.

  Although Gnomes are most contented when sat at table, a fried, or roasted, or stewed fish on their platter, or filleted and sautéed fish, or fish smothered in rich sauce, or fish served battered with chips, in fact, fish prepared in any manner suits the Gnomish taste. Forgive me, I digress, but I hope now that you understand that fish are prized above all other fare in Gnomish cuisine. Yet despite spending much of their waking lives either eating, cooking or seeking fish, Gnomes carry, in general, no weight, they are not a portly race, quite the opposite in fact. Gnomes are, or were, agile, one would almost say in modern parlance that they were athletic. I say were because it has been many lives of men since I last encountered them, but they are a tenacious breed, so I am sure that there are still a few hiding away from prying eyes.

  “So how would I recognise a Gnome if I should encounter one?” I hear you asking yourselves.

  And I would reply. “It is all in the whiskers!” If you should chance upon a bearded and handsome faced youngster sat beside a river or pool, a youngster of diminutive stature who would barely reach the belt of a man, then rest assured you have met a Gnome.

  “A Gnomish girl?” I hear you ask. And my reply. She would be slight of figure, boyish almost, but her beauty would touch your heart. But assuredly you would not meet her. Gnomish fathers were famous for their devotion to their daughters, and their zealous protection. No, you would not chance upon a Gnomish girl wandering alone. You may spy her as an unmarried maiden escorted by a chaperone, but as a married Gnome she would remain in her husbands cave, hidden from sight.

  It is a fact that Gnomish husbands were even more protective than Gnomish fathers, not that their wives became prisoners, quite the opposite actually, their being content to remain hidden from the world. It is seen as a dereliction of duty should a Gnome fail to shield his wife from the eyes of others. It was a system that other races struggled to comprehend, but tradition and culture, once engrained, are usually difficult to change.

  Gnomes lived in caves, without exception. Generally dug deep into a quiet river bank with a deceptively small and unassuming entrance. Should a man be small and lithe enough to crawl inside, he would soon be given pause as the narrow tunnel dipped down after a very short distance into still water. Every Gnome hole employed the same design, the sudden dip down would only continue for a short space before rising again to open into a spacious entrance hall. An ingenious design that served dual functions, not only did it exclude unwanted visitors, the flooded passage in effect also served as a larder. Fresh fish always literally on the doorstep.

  Having never been inside a Gnome hole, as they were commonly known, I can only rely on hearsay and rumour, but to the best of my knowledge they were homely enough abodes. The walls clad with polished stone and the grand halls supported by tree roots. Gnomish architecture relied, I am informed, on the support of living roots, this is why the best place to look for a Gnomes entrance is along a sheer river bank, right on the waters edge beneath the shade of a mature tree. Or so I am led to believe, I have never felt the inclination to look myself.

  “So what of a Gnomes temperament?” A question that has no definitive answer. “Were they brave and adventurous?” I would say a guarded no. “Inquisitive?” Yes, to a degree, but no more than the urge to seek out a better fishing hole. “Would a Gnome seek risk and danger?” My answer... absolutely not.

  It may appear dear listener, that my low opinion of Gnomes in general may have clouded my dialogue to a small degree, and this is an observation that I will not deny... however, one Gnome inhabits a special place in my heart, old and dry as it may be. Gondell not only surprised me but also gave me hope that the Gnomish race could someday rise above their self servitude and achieve greatness, maybe my hopes are in vain, but at least one of their race deserves some small recognition.

  Fact - such a small word. So small that along with truth it appears to have been mislaid over the long years. History often favours the bold, and the bold in their turn decide the recorded flow of what they prefer to be accepted as fact.

  I speak of course about Fairies, beautiful and helpful creatures, granting wishes and fluttering around the woodlands on shimmering gossamer wings. Utter nonsense of course. Fairies are, always were, and I am sure, always will be spit
eful and dishonest. Never trust a Fairy, except if your intention is to spread malicious gossip or do wrong to others, for these are traits held dear by their kind. Fairies are in general considerably smaller than Gnomes or Dwarves, and contrary to popular belief, they do not possess wings. It is true that in the old days their race could fly, but it is an ability beyond the Fairies of today. Of the modern understanding much of what is recorded in myth is false, but they do, in keeping with modern belief, inhabit the deep forests, living in elaborately woven homes built high up in the treetops for they are expert climbers. Fairies are skilled with their hands crafting both functional and beautifully elaborate items from wood of all kinds, musical instruments of Fairy build are prized even more highly than those crafted by Elves, and that is praise indeed. I need not tell more about them at the moment as their true nature will be revealed as I recount my tale, only then will you, dear listener, begin to truly understand their hearts.

  Let us move swiftly on and consider Dwarves and Elves, so different in appearance yet so similar at heart. Staunch and just, one would call the heart of an Elf. Stout and loyal would fittingly describe a Dwarf. Of the fairer folk that inhabited your lands, Elves would without argument be described as the fairest. Not of the same stature as man, but easily taller than any of the other ancient folk, the Elves would reach a man's shoulder height, rarely growing much taller, slight of build and fair of face they smiled far more than they frowned. Even during the darkest of days an Elf would not be parted long from his smile. As a race: ever optimistic, prone to moderation, almost temperance, an Elf would never be tempted to excess, except of course in music and laughter, both of which they enjoyed in equal measure.

  Moderation and Dwarf are not words that sit happily together. Prone to over indulgence the average Dwarf could eat to the point of bursting, a fact clearly shown by their rotund physique and the stout leather girdle worn by every member of their race, women included. They would also refuse to leave an inn until a freshly broached cask of wine or beer had been emptied. But it would be unwise to dismiss them as merely drunkards and gluttons, the Dwarves approached eating and drinking as they did every other aspect of their lives, with total commitment and passion. When their minds were set to a task nothing could sway their determination, as hard and durable as steel they could endure great hardship, dogged persistence their ally when all around them quailed at the journey or task ahead. Of all the free peoples of old the Dwarves possessed the most warlike disposition crafting heavy weapons of iron and steel. Aside from the ceremonial double edged sword that always hung from a loop on their girdles their most favoured weapon would arguably be their forged iron battle hammer, although some preferred to carry an axe of similar weight. But other than competitions held between clans on feast days, they rarely found the occasion to test their arms and steel in anger.

  I must take a few moments to mention the Hobgoblins, or 'Hobbies' as they were commonly known. Not to be confused with Goblins themselves, who are a breed apart and no more than distant cousins, the Hobgoblins integrated well with the fair folk being a people finely adapted to domestic service. In fact, it can be stated that Hobgoblins were happiest when cleaning or cooking, hence the name Hob...Goblin, often found polishing, cleaning or cooking at the kitchen hob. In the old days, they were free spirits, moving as they wished, often entering homes unbidden during the hours of darkness, but not entering with any ill intent in mind... No, a hobgoblin would enter a home with the specific intention of dusting or ironing or cooking, vanishing before first light having prepared a filling breakfast, or leaving behind a pile of freshly washed and pressed clothes for the householder. Although many resented this nightly intrusion, the Hobgoblins were generally accepted and their efforts rewarded with small gifts and kindnesses.

  But not all was well with these diminutive people, their larger cousins from the north sought to exploit, and over the course of many years, a huge percentage of the Hobgoblin population became enslaved, only to be released from bound servitude with the gift of new clothes, an occurrence that, I might hasten to add, was very rare amongst their cold hearted and mean spirited Goblin masters.

  And now, let us consider Ogres and Trolls. So similar in many ways, yet poles apart. I speak of course about temperament. They can be counted amongst the greatest successes and greatest failures of the fair folk, (meaning predominantly the Elves). Both races inhabited mountainous regions in the old days, both untrustworthy and unpredictable. After the great war had ended the Elves, as was their way at the time, determined to bring both races into the light of civilization, the task appeared daunting and probably doomed to failure, yet unperturbed they had sent envoys. Embassies sent to the leaders of the Ogres had been met with suspicion, but their advances accepted in the spirit of friendship, and gradually, over a period of many decades, the Ogres of the mountain slopes adopted the trappings of refined and civilized behaviour, in other words, they stopped eating every visitor to their lands. Eventually, they were admitted as a race into the Guild of Free People, having served a probation of many centuries without lapsing back into their old ways.

  The Troll's however were a completely different story. During the darkest years they had openly collaborated with the forces of darkness. Creatures born of rock, and with wickedness in their stony hearts, they had laboured for the Dark Lord, excavating and enlarging his deep and dark dungeons. They became his gaolers, and his formidable security, for the darkness is ever suspicious, rather trusting slow witted Troll's than his own peoples.

  There are many other races that inhabited the world in those days, some touch our story only briefly, and therefore merit little attention here, others such as the Sirens, Naiads, Wulver, Sprites and so forth will be introduced more fully as they enter the tale.

  There remains then only one other race of note. The Wizards, and we play no small part in this tale. I say we, because I have not yet introduced myself. I am Orrin, and I am a Thaumaturge.

  A strange name, many will say, as my order has slipped from common memory over the long years. “So what is a Thaumaturge?” I hear you ask. It is probably best to describe my order as 'workers of great wonders or miracles,' we have the ability to harness and direct all good and pure energy. Of course there are many different paths that the various orders of Wizards may walk, some for great good, some for great evil... and for some there is a more difficult path to follow, a path wreathed in shadow, a fine line between the light and darkness. But I need say no more at this point, for now it is time to take you back to the not so distant past, relatively speaking of course. The war to end all wars had faded into memory, with over one thousand years of peace passing. So let your imagination transport you back to the times before the rise of man, the time before your own short recorded history began. A time of magic and myth.