The keeper, p.1
The Keeper, page 1
The Keeper
a Sword of Cho Nisi story
D.L. Gardner
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE KEEPER
First edition. October 31, 2022.
Copyright © 2022 D.L. Gardner.
ISBN: 979-8215282304
Written by D.L. Gardner.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Keeper (Sword of Cho Nisi, #5)
The Plunder
Call the Alarm
The Enchantress
The Alchemists
Lost Magic
The Quest
Gingham’s Wagon
Scouts
The Lost Road
Stormy’s Word
Something Dark Lurks Herein
The Admiral’s Prisoner
Anna and the Hawk
Airmed’s Rage
Attempt to Run
Tea
To Tellwater
Big Rock
The Legend
Maurice and the Keeper
The Northerners in Kolada
News to the King
Perplexed
The Keeper’s plan
Night Flight
Cold and Lonely Dungeon
The Empty Dungeon
Kairos and Cho Nisi
Stormy and Serena
Tracks
At the Seer’s
Anna on board
Cho Nisi warriors and the Fleet
Moonless
Anna and the Sorcerers
The Ransom
Fire on the Water
The Bubble
Turnaround
In Distress
The Bilge
The Magic
The Treaty
The Enchantress Surrenders.
The Sinking Ship
Wedding Bells
Cho Nisi’s magic.
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Further Reading: Sword of Cho Nisi book 1
Also By D.L. Gardner
About the Author
Dedicated to those who hold on to their dreams.
The Plunder
DECAYING FRAGMENTS on the beach adhered to Waylen’s cloak as he followed the other sorcerers toward the dunes. Despite their glares, he had promised to do his part faithfully. Their mistrust was not unfounded, though, for they were right in their suspicions. This collusion curdled his gut, and he wished he had never volunteered to help.
Silt wet from the fog pulled at his feet. The odor of rotting seaweed, shellfish remains, and mud clung to him. He glanced over his shoulder. The cloud that enveloped the group of thieves acted as a barrier from the rest of the world, but he could still hear the drone of the surf in the distance, and the groan of the ships where the admiral waited for their return.
How do I get myself into these situations?
Waylen walked barefoot, wincing as the sharp shells and jagged rocks dug into his feet. The sorcerers strutted as if they were calloused and felt nothing—not the damp and chilly atmosphere, nor the bruised feet, nor guilt or remorse for what they were doing. Here he was, following them around like a lamb, bending to their will and bearing all the pain.
When they reached a clearing free of driftwood, the man and the woman in the lead set a box and a gilded chest on the ground. Those two alchemists had been less hostile than the sorcerers, and Waylen wasn’t sure if they came from the Neverworld or not.
They opened the box, took out an assortment of tools and parts, and assembled a funnel-shaped machine that stood equal height to a man’s chest, four legs made of poles, and a gearbox that supported a copper funnel. They screwed in a brass tube to the bottom of the funnel and, after lifting the lid to the gilded chest, lay the other end of the tube into it.
The other seven encircled them. Once the machine was assembled, the sorcerers held their hands over the coffer, casting magic from their fingertips as the alchemists stepped back and looked at Waylen.
It was his duty to call out the incantation while the others gathered the magic and directed it into the machine.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hating every second.
“Why leave the reaping up to him?” someone whispered.
“It’s his talent.”
“And the admiral’s orders.”
“If I had my way, I’d shove sand down his throat.”
“Quiet!”
Unable to respond to their whisperings, for the charm had already vibrated inside of Waylen, he had no choice but to submit to the power within him. His skin prickled as the chant leaked out of his pores. Every cell in his body echoed the monotonous tone, creating a wind, billowing his robe, jetting his hair into the air. Feet of the sorcerers shuffled across the sand as if floating on the sound. Swishing of robes heightened his senses as the gust sucked, then choked out air, beating to the rhythm of an unseen drummer. The chant grew louder, his muscles trembled uncontrollably as flashes of lightning brightened his closed eyelids.
Why does it have to work every time? I’d be a lot less miserable if my chants failed.
The seas responded to the reaping, lashing at the beach with angry surf. The tide rose, clapping at the sand. A shrill whistle in the air gave Waylen a start and he opened his eyes. Repelled by the chant, the fog had formed into a thick dark cloud, encircling the sorcerers. Sand flew into the air stinging his feet, his cheeks, his eyes. He could see nothing but the opened chest, the machine’s gears sending sparks as it spun, the sorcerers, and darkness around them.
“Don’t stop!” someone cried out.
Waylen raised his voice, his throat aching, the power lifted him off the ground and he gulped. As the machine sucked in the clouds, a marble of white liquid entered the funnel with them.
“What is that?” an alchemist asked.
“Curses!” the sorceress Airmed groaned. “A taint of goodness the natives sealed into their magic. I’ll have to sift it out. Continue, Waylen!”
Airmed’s witchery burned the shining ripples away. Cries of foreign voices filled their ears as if the natives themselves were ablaze under her spell. The sorcerers captured the rest of the island magic, wringing the dark and terrible clouds into rope that twisted and churned into the machine, the gears of which whirled and smoked; steam puffed through its vent. As it traveled through the tubes, the magic transformed into liquid metal and dripped dollop by dollop into the chest.
Waylen shivered. More raw power streamed into that vault than he had ever seen in his lifetime.
“This will take time,” Airmed prompted, weaving in and out of the sorcerers now sweating from the labor. “Get it all. There’s much magic here. The chest must be filled. Don’t falter, Waylen!”
Waylen’s voice cracked, and his throat burned. He wouldn’t be able to speak again for weeks. He kept his word, though. Maybe he could leave these vagabonds to their own evil endeavors and use his talents for something more useful when this is over.
“Louder!”
Waylen raised his voice as best he could and closed his eyes again. At least if he didn’t watch what they were doing he wouldn’t feel so guilty. What an atrocity! Stealing magic!
Just do what I’m told. That’s why I’m here. To do what I’m told.
Call the Alarm
FAR AWAY FROM THE MIST-shrouded beach in Northport on the Cho Nisi Island, stood a castle high on a hill. It was the white stone walls and stained-glass entries that made up the palace of the once-king Arell and the once-queen Erika, monarchs who had ruled the island but had recently relinquished the throne to a parliament of elders. The castle was used as a retreat for the former royal family. With its large rooms and tiled floors, it had become a meeting hall used if critical issues arose. It was also a banquet hall for celebrations, and this week Arell and Erika had celebrated their son’s coming of age ritual both in the Cho Nisi tradition in the village of Nico, and now with their Moaton friends in the castle.
Arell lay in his canopied bed on the last day of the festivities, enjoying the fragrant breeze when Erika rolled over and snuggled into his arms. He gently brushed a curl off her forehead, admiring her soft skin and silky red hair. They had both grown so much since they first met, she was lovely as ever. Now our son has become a young man. How quickly life passes by.
“I’m cold,” she mumbled. “Can’t we close those doors?”
He sighed and rolled out of bed when someone pounded on the entrance to their room.
“Who is that?” Erika asked.
“It sounds like your son,” Arell replied.
“My son? I seem to recall you had something to do with his conception.”
“Father!” Maurice stormed into the room panting. The boy’s voice still young, but he stood taller than yesterday it seemed. His dark hair curled at his shoulders; his brown eyes were wide with excitement. The seriousness in his tone caused Arell to frown.
“Something’s wrong outside.”
Erika sat up as Arell quickly slipped on his nightshirt. Maurice hurried to him and tugged on his arm.
“Come listen.”
Arell allowed Maurice to pull him to the terrace.
“What?” he asked.
“Listen. The elders. That drumming,” Maurice leaned over the banister and Arell put a hand on his shoulder.
“Easy,” Arell cautioned.
“What are they doing?” Maurice asked.
Arell stood on the porch, listening. Drums in the dista nce. He tilted his head as he glanced at Erika with concern. She stepped up to him, tying her robe.
“That’s not the elders,” Arell said. “It’s the wind, maybe.”
“It’s our people chanting,” Maurice insisted.
The boy was partially right. Yes, it was the wind, but it carried with it voices he recognized. Voices that sounded like Chief Silas, and...his own? He leaned over the terrace, searching the night but a thick layer of fog veiled the sky.
“It’s too loud to be the elders,” Erika said. “They’d have to be right below us to make a sound like that.”
Arell blew out the torch that flickered on their patio and focused on the distant clouds.
“It’s a storm.” Erika noted.
“Yes but look at it. It appears more like the tempests the elders drum up to keep enemies away.”
“Father, what’s happening?”
“I’m not sure.” He rushed to the door, addressing a sentry who had been keeping guard outside of their chamber.
“Call the guards and ready me a horse,” Arell said. “And summon the elders.”
“What is it?” Erika asked as the guard left. “Who else would be down there?”
“I’d like to know. If it is the elders, why didn’t they call for me?”
“Maybe because you’re no longer the king?” Erika suggested.
“I still have authority over the military.”
“Some things need to be fought spiritually, Arell. You know that.”
He paused for a moment before he took his sword from its rack.
“I know, Erika. And I’m just as capable of chanting as any of the elders. You forget who trained me.”
“Yes. Silas. And he didn’t want you to give up your throne,” she reminded him.
“Silas didn’t want to sit on the council. He didn’t care if I gave up the throne.”
“How can you say that, Arell? Of course, he cared! He was a father to you. He raised you more than your own father. He believed in you. He, along with everyone else, wanted you to remain on the throne.”
Arell took his sword down from the wall and slipped the sheath through his belt.
“You’re too indoctrinated in the ways of a monarchy, Erika. My vision for Cho Nisi was different.”
“Indoctrinated? Why? Because I’m sister to a king?”
“Because you were raised as a princess and you want Maurice to inherit your brother’s throne.”
“That’s ludicrous!”
Arell sighed and lowered his voice. “Barin even suggested it on numerous occasions.”
“Barin will marry, Arell. Even if he did mention our son inheriting the throne, he couldn’t possibly expect it to happen. Maurice is an islander. Barin will have a son of his own someday. Maurice is...was...entitled to the Cho Nisi throne.”
“Stop it, Erika!” Arell glanced at Maurice. He shouldn’t argue about this in front of his son.
“Why? Maurice already knows.”
Arell grimaced at her, but he restrained his anger. This was not the first time they had fought about their son’s right to a kingdom.
“And no, I will not stop talking about it in front of him. He has a right to know your reason behind it, which you’ve never uttered to me or to him.”
“Maurice has better things to do than sit in a palace all his days. Isn’t that right, Maurice?”
The boy didn’t answer but studied both his parents.
“There’s no time for this. I need to go.” Arell said.
“What are you going to do?” Maurice asked.
“Investigate,” Arell said as he walked to the door. He ruffled his son’s hair, but Maurice pushed his hand away.
“Can I come?”
“No. You should go back to bed.”
“But Father!” the boy protested. Arell frowned and Maurice relented. “I just want to make it right.”
“Let him go with you,” Erika said.
Arell glared at her.
“I have my drum—” Maurice offered. “The elders say I’m good at calling the magic. They invited me to go with them next time. They promised!”
“It’s not safe,” he said.
“Why not let him go with you? He’s good with a bow, and with the drums. Like he said, the elders trust him,” Erika pleaded.
“I said no!”
Maurice scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. Erika’s face reddened but she placed her hands on his shoulders.
“It’s all right, Maurice. Do as your father wills. Someone needs to stay and defend the castle.”
Arell barred his teeth at the connotation of that. He finished dressing without responding. Why waste time arguing with Erika when there are dangers aloft? When he buckled his belt and opened the door, he took one more glance at his family.
“Be safe, Arell,” Erika said.
Arell turned and hurried down the dimly lit corridor, jogging past the closed doors of what few servants lived in the castle. The emptiness of the halls reminded him of the days Skotádi’s skura had laid siege on the island and how he had almost died. A shiver ran up his spine, for tonight he sensed the same darkness. But that would be impossible. Skotádi, the skura, and the mountain giants had been destroyed, hadn’t they?
Nevertheless, something felt dreadfully wrong.
Another man’s footsteps echoed in the corridor and Arell breathed a sigh of relief when Theo, his commanding officer, appeared.
“The sentries summoned me. Is the drumming the cause?”
“Do you know anything?” Arell walked up to him.
“No. In fact I met a couple of the elders in the foyer, and they were asking the same thing.”
Arell’s eyes widened. If anyone would know why drums were beating in the middle of the night and changing the weather patterns, it would be the elders.
“They didn’t know?”
“Apparently not,” Theo said. “I had the groom saddle our horses. We’ll meet him in the courtyard.”
Once in the saddle, Arell took the lead with Theo and ten soldiers escorting him. The monotonous beat coming from Northport grew louder. The gentle mist that dampened their faces and made their woolen cloaks smell of sheep led to a much gloomier haze hovering over the beaches below.
“Pretty wet out that way,” Theo commented.
“Yes, well, when one lives on an island, water is the natural habitat.”
“That cloud isn’t natural.”
Theo was right. The veil was thick and glowed an uncanny green, an aura unlike any Arell had ever seen before. There was no choice but to ride head on into its fierce downpour. After only a short ride, the storm came upon them so brutally that the men had to rein in their horses and put their backs to the wind. When the gusts changed direction, Arell looked for the trail amid the creeks that were now streaming over the hillside. Where a path should have been, brush impeded their travel and Arell recognized none of the grassy slopes nor the berry thickets that seemed to have popped up out of nowhere.
“How can we possibly be lost?” Arell asked as he rode in a circle looking for a trail that was no longer there. The soldiers hunkered under their hoods, dripping wet and shivering.
“Have we been fooled by our own magic? I’ve never seen anything like this aside from what the elders drum up.” Arell said.
As they rode, the rain tapered, but now Arell had no recollection of the terrain. They had found another trail that led downhill. The olive groves had disappeared, replaced with fields of unfamiliar shrubs.
“Did we turn the wrong way?” he muttered to Theo. “Or did someone dig up the olive trees since yesterday?”
“We didn’t turn at all, sir,” Theo answered and shook rainwater from his cloak. “We’re still descending. We should reach the beach soon and then we can get our bearings.”
The drums continued, a seemingly endless throb that gave Arell a headache. He continued to hear whisperings—not real voices, more an echo. It seemed that the elements had captured the elders’ chant and now played it back as a haunting wind-song. The riders hadn’t drawn any closer to the sound, neither had they traveled farther away but the beating seemed to resound over the mountainside with them, matching the horses’ steady hoofbeats. As the trail leveled, no familiar landmarks came into view. There was no sand, no beach, no Nisi Sea in the distance.
“Magic,” Arell grumbled. “There is no other explanation. Either the spell of the elders has gone awry, the elders have turned against us or...”
