Into Exile_Teutevar Saga Read online

  Contents

  Legal

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  Into Exile

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Thank you!

  Author's Note

  Also by the author

  Author Bio: Derek Alan Siddoway

  Legal

  Into Exile: Teutevar Saga Prequel

  Copyright © 2016

  ♠ Derek Alan Siddoway ♠

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the Derek Alan Siddoway. Thank you for respecting the author's hard work.

  Permissions can be obtained through [email protected]

  All characters, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real places, events, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Edition, Ebook

  Published March 2016 by Derek Alan Siddoway

  Editor: Kelsen Kitchen

  Description

  Widowed. Hunted. Exiled. From the ashes of destruction, a saga begins.

  When her country is conquered and her lord husband slain by his best friend, Guinevere, Lady of Athel, has only one thing left to live for: her young son Revan. Forsaking vengeance to honor her husband’s last wish, Guinevere flees with Revan — the last heir of the Teutevar line. Exile, however, will not come easy. Pursued by ruthless invaders and a wilderness full of bloodthirsty savages, Guinevere’s only allies are a loyal spearmaiden and a deranged mountain man. The Lady of Athel may not fear death, but should she fail, Athel’s last hope falls with her.

  Into Exile is an introductory prequel that takes place before the events of Out of Exile in the world of Teutevar Saga. Fans of Joe Abercrombie’s Red Country and Miles Cameron’s Traitor Son Cycle will enjoy the Teutevar Saga and its unique blend of traditional medieval fantasy in a gritty, American Western landscape.

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  Into Exile

  For as much as she stumbled, she's running

  For as much as she runs she's still here

  Always hoping to find something quicker than Heaven

  To make the damage of her days disappear

  Just like Guinevere

  — Guinevere, Eli Young Band

  Chapter 1

  Athelon burned.

  The Lake of Mirrors, true to its name, told the tale. Its endless, dark depths danced with the reflection of fire cutting through the smoke hanging thick on the water. Guinevere gritted her teeth and dug her paddle deeper, the canoe slicing through the reflected destruction with each stroke.

  With each pull she repeated the same line over and over in her head: Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

  Over half a mile from the island, the booming sound of siege engines could still be heard pounding the slopes of the mountain city. In every direction around them, mini flotillas of canoes, barges, rafts and sailing boats formed a spotted inferno, their occupants shrieking and splashing into the cold embrace of the lake.

  In the front of the canoe, Reginleif matched paddle strokes with her old friend and liege lady. In between pulls, the two Valkyries peered through the haze, searching for any sign of enemies. About halfway to the shore, they’d passed unseen thus far. Arund’s soldiers were focused on the docks where Mathyew had sent more defenders than could be spared to clear a path for Athelon’s citizens to escape the island.

  But the White Knight had the island and most of the lake shore surrounded. Instead of fleeing to safety, the Athelings were slaughtered like sheep.

  A part of Guinevere hoped she’d die with them. Better to fight here than run like animals and be captured on the shore.

  Revan’s whimper broke Guinevere’s dark thoughts, her last beacon of light in the smoking darkness. Ash rained down on them, mixing with the tear streaks on her son’s face.

  “Where father?” he asked, clutching her leg.

  Guinevere wondered the same thing. Where was Mathyew? Was he drawing his last ragged breath on Athelon’s cold stone, his last thoughts of his son and wife? Or did he still fight against the man he’d once considered a brother, defying the White Knight until the end?

  Guinevere bit back a knot in her throat. It wouldn’t do to let Revan see her crying too. To let him know the hopelessness they faced was even more real than his two-year-old mind could imagine. She swallowed her welling emotions and put on a calm face, never breaking her paddle strokes. Had her son been any older, he would have known what she said next for the lie it was:

  “We’ll see him soon.”

  Regg glanced over her shoulder and shot Guinevere a long look before turning back around. The sheen of fire flickered over the water and the chaos of battle reached a new pitch, the scents and screams washing over them like a wave of destruction.

  And Athelon burned.

  They made the shore unseen by Arund’s soldiers. Looking and listening for patrols on the shore, Guinevere and Regg unloaded their packs of supplies and buckled on their weapons. Throughout it all, Guinevere refused to look back at the mountain. It wasn’t until one hand gripped the pommel of her sword and the other clutched a spear, that the Lady of Athel looked back on her home for the first time.

  Athelon’s slopes blazed like the molten fires legend said once poured from the extinct fire mountain — belching chaos, eating everything in their path. The pines roared and, in the haze-shrouded orange glare, Guinevere imagined hordes of soldiers swarming across the island to wherever Mathyew made his final stand.

  Guinevere’s grip tightened on her weapons until her hands ached and tingled. It was against everything she stood for — a Valkyrie spearmaiden running from battle. For the hundredth time she wished she was fighting beside him. Mathyew Teutevar, Lord of Athel and his wife, Lady Guinevere, making a final stand together.

  “Guinevere.”

  Reginleif’s voice cut through her mistress’s brooding and Guinevere turned to face her friend. Regg recognized the look in her eye, the look of a Valkyrie spearmaiden thirsting for battle and she gave a small shake of her head, nodding toward Revan.

  “We’ve got to go.”

  The raging bloodlust drained from Guinevere, leaving her hollow and cold once more. She nodded, the numbness in her hands spreading throughout her body. While Regg picked up Revan, Guinevere gave one last look over the canoe to make sure they’d taken everything. She placed her foot on its nose to shove it back into the lake. Mathyew’s sacrifice meant nothing if the White Knight’s patrols caught them.

  Guinevere’s leg froze and she looked down at the rough dugout canoe, her last connection to Mathyew.

  “Guinevere!”

  The urgency in Reginleif’s voice pulled her back once more. Patrols roamed the lake, looking for Athelings. They had to go. Adding anoth
er vow of vengeance against Arund the White Knight, Guinevere gritted her teeth and pushed the canoe away as hard as she could, sending her despair into the lake with it. She watched the craft float into the fire-painted water and turned away again.

  Don’t look back.

  Up ahead, the cliffs loomed dark and ominous — the black, foreboding rock swallowed the flames rolling off the mountain in the middle of the lake. The cliffs, equal parts ally and enemy. To climb them could prove disastrous even in daylight, for those who didn’t know the secret paths.

  Thanks to the pyre that was Athelon, they needed no torch and Guinevere found the stair in the cliff side without too much trouble. She led the way, climbing hand over hand in the steepest parts, ignoring her protesting muscles and the dragging weight of chainmail, weapons, gear and provisions. Regg followed close behind, cradling Revan in her arms, whispering in his ear whenever she could spare a breath.

  When they finally reached the hidden ledge, Guinevere shrugged the load from her shoulders and sat down, breathing hard. While Regg dug them a cold meal out of one of the packs, the Lady of Athelon stared out over the lake even though she’s told herself she wouldn’t while climbing the cliffs.

  Revan sat down in her lap, aware that something was wrong but too young to understand what. To him, their journey was little more than a trip into the woods. Even with the fire on the mountain and the adult’s tension, she knew Revan thought his world would be normal again in the morning. For him, Mathyew was a night’s rest away, instead of eternity.

  “I did good,” he told her after a long minute, his small amount of patience exhausted. “I climbed the last part all by myself, Regg didn’t even help me.”

  Guinevere didn’t hear him. Dark water and flaming destruction filled her green eyes.

  “Momma?” Revan tugged on the front of her shirt, but his mother never wavered.

  All I see is fire.

  “Guinevere.”

  I should have stayed, we could have burned together.

  “Guinevere!”

  Regg’s commanding tone broke Athelon’s spell. Guinevere drew a shuddering breath and turned to look at her friend, blinking

  “Sorry, lost in my thoughts,” she muttered

  Regg gave her a long look, the kind only a childhood friend would be forgiven for. “We need you here,” she said in a gentler tone. “What are your plans for morning?”

  Guinevere shifted Revan and stood, dusted herself off and picked up her son. “We’ll wait here a couple of days. If our armies are victorious, I don’t want them to have to track us through the wilds. The Sylvads are bad to the north.”

  Over Guinevere’s shoulder, the flames continued to eat at what was left of the mountain foliage. Either they were too far away to hear the din of battle or, more likely, the fighting was over — and Regg knew who the victors were. Neither Mathyew, nor any of Athelon’s warriors would be coming to bring them home.

  Regg looked at Revan, who’d begun to doze on his mother’s shoulder. “Guinevere,” she began in a low voice. “He’s…I don’t think anyone is coming. We can’t stay here. I’ve been looking around and I can’t see a way up the rest of the cliffs. I think this is a dead end.”

  Guinevere laid her son on a cloak and tucked another over him, Regg’s words falling on deaf ears. “We’ll see in the morning,” she said after she’d stepped away from Revan.

  Knowing it was useless to argue, Regg nodded. “I’ll take the first watch.”

  Chapter 2

  Morning came and, just as Regg suspected, it held no promise for the newly-exiled.

  A red sun dawned through the smoke and haze, revealing soldiers covering the beach below. They weren’t Mathyew’s warriors. And they had prisoners. Peeking over the cliff edge, Guinevere and Regg watched a line of haggard men and women below force the captive Athelings and other refugees to their knees. Each bore the four-pointed star of the White Knight on their tunics. One of the soldiers began to speak and his coarse voice floated up to where the two women were hiding.

  “Think you could get away from us, eh?” A big man, the speaker’s gut protruded beneath his chainmail vest. “No one escapes from the White Knight’s trackers, Atheling scum!”

  A young boy kneeling in the sand began to sob. Beside him, an old woman patted the boy on the shoulder and spat at the speaking soldier’s feet. “Filth! We’re not scared of you.”

  The fat man laughed, his chainmail jingling over his belly. “That so? Tell you what, old bag. I’m gonna kill you last, so you can watch the rest of them go before you get yours. We’ll see if that puts the fear in you. Let’s start with him!”

  Pointing to the crying boy, the fat man drew a thick, single-edged sword from his belt.

  Cries arose from the prisoners and the boy shrieked, thrashing in the sand against the two soldiers holding him down.

  The fat man chuckled, bringing his sword into place. “Now, hold still young feller. This will hurt a lot worse if you don’t give me a clean swing.”

  “We’ve got to do something!” Guinevere hissed. “We have bows, they —”

  She started to rise but Regg grabbed her arm. “Are you mad? There are too many!”

  Guinevere tried to shrug off her friend’s grip, but Reginleif tightened her hold and locked eyes with the Lady of Athel. “I swore a star oath to your husband that I would protect you and your son, Guinevere. You can’t just throw your life away —”

  “I hungry.”

  Both women froze and turned to see Revan standing at their feet, their argument forgotten.

  “Soldiers?” Revan said peeking between Regg and his mother’s shoulders. “Is time to go home?”

  Regg and Guinevere scooted back as fast as they could to Revan’s side, unable to stand for fear of being seen. “Revan, dear, sit down with me,” Regg whispered, gently pulling on him before the soldiers spotted them.

  But Revan locked his legs, a dark expression clouding his two-year-old face. “But I’m hungry. I wanna go home now.”

  Guinevere made to shush him, but before she could speak, a scream split the morning air. Facing Revan, she saw her son’s eyes go wide and his face twist into a mask of terror. They’d beheaded the young man and Revan had seen it all.

  Clamping a hand over Revan’s mouth to mask his screams, Regg clutched him against her chest and shrank away from the edge of the cliff. Too late. The child’s shrill cry blasted off the black volcanic rock and resounded across the beach. Below them, everyone jerked their heads toward the sound.

  “Hey you, up there!” the fat man said, pointing up at them with his sword. “You’re under arrest for treason, by order of Arund, High King of Peldrin!”

  Some of the soldiers had bows of their own and drew them, aiming at the Valkyrie women. Regg hid Revan behind her and Guinevere rose to her feet.

  “Peldrin has no high king!” She shouted down at the fat man and the rest of the soldiers. “Arund the White Knight is a rebel and a murderer.”

  “Are you mad?” Regg hissed at Guinevere’s back. But the Lady of Athel didn’t back down, nor did she bother to spare a glance back at Regg.

  “That’s the talk of a traitor!” the fat man shouted up through cupped hands. Turning to his scouts, he motioned for them to draw their bows. “Shoot ‘em down.”

  “Hold.”

  Another solider stepped forward and waved a hand at those putting arrows to their bows. The fat man gave him a questioning look, but said nothing.

  The newcomer studied the women for a minute then shook his head. “By the stars,” he said. “It’s them.”

  Although he spoke in a quiet voice, his words carried up the cliff, sending a chill down Guinevere’s back. He was shorter than the fat man and his mottled cloak draped over a lean, stooped frame, but Guinevere sensed this soft spoken soldier was the real danger.

  Regg ushered Revan back to the cliff wall, away from Arund’s soldiers and their arrows as well, she hoped. Guinevere and the quiet soldier continued to stare
at one another, but neither spoke.

  “Forgive my poor manners,” the quiet soldier said at last, breaking the silence. He gave a slight bow. “I am Captain Theron Fitch, the High King’s commander of scouts. Do I have the honor of addressing Lady Guinevere of Athel?”

  Behind Guinevere, Regg untied the bundles that held their own bows and quivers of arrows as fast as her fingers would move. When she heard the soldier’s question, she froze and looked at Guinevere.

  The haughty expression never left the Lady of Athel’s face as she continued to glower down at the scout commander and his soldiers. Fitch met her eyes, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. After a time, he chuckled and turned to his men.

  “Well done, comrades. We’ve found them!”

  A cheer went up from the scouts and the prisoners moaned. With frantic strength, Regg set the stave against her foot and bent the bow. At last, the string slipped into the notch on the stave. Without bothering to string the second bow, Regg snatched a quiver of arrows and tossed both them and the bow forward to land at Guinevere’s feet.

  Still silent, Guinevere reached down for the weapon and drew an arrow from the quiver.

  Below, the scout captain removed his hood and slicked back his greasy gray hair. “I’d put that bow down if I were you, milady. Why don’t you come down here and we’ll talk about these prisoners like civilized folk?”

  In answer, Guinevere drew the arrow back and loosed in one fluid movement. Seeing her draw, Fitch flung himself to the ground with deceptive speed. The arrow passed over the spot where he’d been a moment before and buried itself in the stomach of a scout who’d been standing close behind his captain. The unfortunate man screamed and sank to the ground, clutching the fletching sticking out of his gut.

  Before Guinevere could loose again, Fitch signaled the fat man, who ran his knife across the throat of an old woman.

  A hiss escaped Guinevere as the old woman kicked and the dark sand drank her lifeblood. Without even glancing at the dead lady, Fitch stood and brushed the sand from his leather leggings. He looked back up at Guinevere and shrugged in a helpless gesture. Behind him, the wounded soldier continued to moan and roll on the beach, but no one made a move to help him