Wanda's Dirge

  Wanda’s Dirge

  Brad C. Baker

  Dedication

  I would like to again thank, and dedicate this book to everyone who supported this crazy dream of some blind guy becoming a fantasy author.

  To all of you who’ve taken the plunge into Amathrain with me to follow Crallick, who begrudgingly allowed me to chronicle his travails, thank you!

  To my family without whom I wouldn’t be who I am today, Thank you!

  Graeme, Kaleem, Sheri, and all of my close friends, I wouldn’t be half as confident as I am without your support. Thank You!

  The headliner of this dedication is my lovely wife, Beverly, who didn’t need to do anything other than to say two little words: “I do” to change my life forever. With you and God both having faith in me, how can I not have faith in myself? Thank you!

  WANDA’S DIRGE

  First published in 2019

  by Wallace Publishing, United Kingdom

  www.wallacepublishing.co.uk

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © Brad C. Baker, 2019

  The right of Brad C. Baker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is sold under condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Typesetting courtesy of KGHH Publishing, United Kingdom

  www.kensingtongorepublishing.com

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “I am Ser Crallick Oakentree. I first met Wanda Swells in the docks district of Marahaven, nigh on twenty-five years now.”

  -Eulogy given by Ser Crallick Oakentree

  It was early summer when The Flamerunner sailed into the waters of the Carrib archipelago with her hold heavy and her rum stores light. Crallick couldn’t wait to get ashore again. To his mind, he had spent too much time lately on sea vessels.

  Their hold held the spoils of a newly discovered land: potted plants, bags of coffee, and fruit trees of a sort that Crallick couldn’t remember the name of. There was the butchered cadaver of the dragon that the crew had slain. Most of the dragon’s parts would pay handsomely. Some parts of it though, he intended to make good use of. Once they got into port, of course.

  There was also a rather macabre tome of the Chessintran religion occupying a safe place with their Flowwevite cleric, Wanda. She had the Malefecorum wrapped safely in oilskins, stowed within the rest of her small travelling library.

  Padded foot-falls were belied by the gentle scrape of claws as Crallick’s rescued cat strolled up to join him by the rail. The orange and black-striped cat had continued to grow from when Crallick first met her. Over the long trip back that had spanned several months, she had added a foot to her length and gained nearly a hundred pounds. This put her at two-hundred pounds and four feet long, by Crallick’s reckoning.

  “Hey, tiger.” Crallick still hadn’t named her. He ruffled the fur between her ears, soliciting a rumbling of contentment. “How are you doing?”

  Crallick was still amazed his feline companion seemed to be unfettered by sea-sickness, and held no fear of the water. She was an unusual specimen indeed.

  The noise about the ship began to liven up as the night watch made ready to be relieved by the morning watch. Smells of cooking wafted up from the galley. The clatter of crockery, and the murmur of female and foreign voices joined the creaks and groans of the ship.

  Turning his back to the tropical vista, the half-elven Vitani-blooded knight-ranger watched the eclectic crew as they began scurrying about the deck anew. Sure, there were some sailors that Cralliock had sailed with for some time now, but the bulk were tribal, Halfling villagers that had been added to the battle-decimated crew to try to survive the voyage home. There were also the seven maids they had managed to rescue from the clutches of a sinister priest, who had intended to sacrifice them all to the goddess of death, Chessintra.

  Ironically, Crallick mused the superstition that stated a woman sailing would spell the doom for a ship. How would it explain ten women aboard a vessel making it safely from a foreign land, all the way across a massive ocean? Maybe the fact that they had a dwarven captain counter-balanced everything.

  A red-skinned beauty sashed over to Crallick. She was smiling and wiping drowsiness from her eyes. Her morning-disheveled hair did nothing to calm the beauty that seemed to radiate from her.

  “Master,” she yawned. “I woke and you were gone.”

  “Good morning, Kittalae,” Crallick smiled.

  “Oh!” she squealed in delight. “You are in a merry mood this morning?”

  “Yes, I guess I am.” Crallick tried not to broaden his grin. This seemed to be a failing endevour.

  “Yay!” She threw her arms around the much older man’s waist. Surreptitiously, she allowed one hand to drop down to cup his buttock.

  “Kittalae,” came the fatherly warning.

  “Mmmm-hmmm?” she cooed back.

  “Well, am I interrupting something Crallick?” The Dwarven captain saved his friend from further awkwardness.

  “Not at all, Vlados,” Crallick smiled. “Kittalae, can you gather us up some breakfast?”

  “Sure, my sweet Cral.” She gave a squeeze before untangling herself and swiftly heading down to the galley. She shot Vlados a venomous glare as she passed.

  Once she was out of earshot, Vlados asked, “Crallick, I’m not always going to be around. What are you going to do with her?”

  “Don’t ruin my morning,” Crallick warned. “We just spotted the coast of Cresent Moon Island, and by mid-afternoon, we should be making port at Jamtown.”

  “Rum?” Vlados asked wryly, interrupting Crallick.

  “Rum,” Crallick confirmed. Then he added, “I can also see if I can get these girls freed from bondage with Mr. Dazzle.” He was referring to the dark Vitani flesh trader from whom he had acquired Kittalae.

  “Huh!” scoffed Vlados. “Good luck with that. After Jamtown, we can stop at Port Faraway, and check on our injured.”

  “Good plan,” Crallick confirmed.

  Their quest to free their daughters had been exhausting and long. They were both homesick for their native soil. They watched familiar flora sweep by on the coastlines. They could barely suppress grins of relief.

  A young sixteen-year-old girl, who was mostly Vitani-blooded, stole up between the tiger and Crallick. “Missing home, daddy? I never thought I’d see these shores again.”

  Crallick put an easy arm around his daughter. “Amalae, I never had a doubt I’d get you safely home.”

  After putting into Jamtown, Crallick discovered to his dismay that not only were all sales final, he had been put on a preferred client list, as he had tried to save Mr. Dazzle’s wares from misuse. He would forever have a discount for any pleasure-slaves he needed.


  Crallick’s homeland of Bannathyr frowned on slavery. He grew up with this morality. He felt sickened that not only could he not free the girls here, he also couldn’t release Kittalae. The exception of these magical bonds was the death of the owner. Crallick attempted to point out that Eli died and owned the five girls, not him.

  Mr. Dazzle gave a glaring white smile that gleamed from his mahogany skin. “You’ve been wit’ ‘dem for too long, m’elf. ‘Dey got demselves attuned to yer gem, mon.”

  Crallick came back to The Flamerunner to at least find the good news that their rum stores were replenished.

  Kittalae practically skipped back. She seemed ecstatic that Crallick had failed. Vlados knew just what mood Crallick would bring to the ship once he saw the skipping and singing demonic ephemorae.

  “Bad news?” He offered Crallick a draught of amber spiced rum.

  Pulling strongly on the beverage, Crallick nodded. “It’s worse. They’re all attuned to me.” He looked at the direction of his cabin. “Kittalae keeps on saying the wood brought her to me, and she’s happy to stay.”

  Laughing, Vlados said, “Hey, from her point of view, she could have it much worse, I suppose.”

  “Damn it, man. She just expects things from me,” growled Crallick. The tiger padded over as Crallick growled, and added her own rumble to the conversation.

  “Shite!” Vlados jumped. “Thanks for that,” he grumbled at the big cat. To Crallick, he added slyly. “What sort of things?”

  “You know,” Crallick snapped.

  “Would it be so bad just to give her what she wants?” Vlados put to him.

  “Are you insane? She’s only twenty-two!” Crallick was dumbstruck.

  “So?”

  “I’m…”

  “Yeah?”

  “…Older!” Crallick concluded.

  “So what?” Vlados grinned. Then, self-preservation kicked in at Crallick’s expression. “I’ve got to go and help Erik, catch you later.”

  Vlados made his escape.

  A day of balmy, sun-drenched sailing later, they found themselves entering the harbor of Port Fairaway. The gaily-colored, unofficial capital of the southern pirate islands was a larger, but slightly quieter port-of-call than Jamtown.

  The crew of The Flamerunner was able to disembark for some much-needed shore-leave at last. Erik led the seasoned sailors to the watering hole that he frequented while he was in port. The pygmy crew stuck to the docks. Crallick saddled the maids with Wanda.

  Vlados headed up the street to find the healer’s hospice. He had some folks he desperately wanted to check in on.

  Crallick found that his money was still secure, and had accrued quite a tidy sum of interest while he had been away. The half-ogre money changer was quite a money-savvy investor. Crallick was just getting ready to discuss his portfolio with the man when a blond, blue-tabarded Bannathyrran knight-ranger burst in on them. He held the Jaragua lizard-man clerk by the throat.

  “Ser Crallick Oakentree, I presume?”

  “Yeah.” Crallick rose from his seat, drawing his serrated sword from the etherium itself. “I pray you to put him down.”

  The knight-ranger dropped the clerk. The clerk squeaked, then ran and hid behind the half-ogre’s desk.

  “We need to talk. I suggest you acquire a local estate with your foreign funds, and leave your slave girls here. You’re needed back at the royal palace. An overly large retinue would be unwelcome indeed.” The knight-ranger sneered. “No matter how native you needed to get.”

  “Bugger yourself,” Crallick growled. “I was saving Bannathyr while you were shitting in your loincloth and rubbing it in your face.”

  “Ser, I beseech you. A moment…” The knight-ranger gestured out the door, and bowed his blond head. The pointed ears this revealed showed him to be Vitani. That meant that this young-looking knight may be just as veteran as Crallick.

  Crallick glanced at the half-ogre money changer before leaving. “Buy me the biggest estate in the islands and set up my girls there. Make sure they’re happy and need for nothing.”

  Then he followed the wispy blond elf out the door. “So, why are you here?” he abruptly shot at the Vitani.

  “I am Ser Syrell Fyrth. I’m of Her Majesty’s Royal Knight-ranger’s Order of the River.” Syrell punctuated his introduction with a flourishing bow.

  “I could tell,” rumbled Crallick. His tiger growled along with him. Crallick nodded at the young elf’s livery and belted rapier. “You make it rather obvious.”

  Ser Fyrth scoffed in reply: “Well, I wear my order’s livery as a source of pride. I have no shame in that. Nor do I bear issue with my order’s weapon. It is as elegant as our order’s tactics. What of you, Ser Oakentree? I see no livery or order colours upon you. Nor do you wield a recognizable weapon. Do you bear shame for your order, good ser?”

  “No to the shame, and indeed, you are correct Ser Fyrth, you shan’t find anything identifying me as a knight-ranger unless you check my papers,” Crallick sneered. “A knight, ranger or otherwise, is not measured by his trappings, but by his ability. You shan’t find me wanting in any department, save for social graces, perhaps.”

  “Nevertheless, good ser,” the pleasantry sounded weightless in the tone of Ser Fyrth, “I have a royal decree for you. May I see your documents of Title?” He extended an empty hand.

  Blowing a wad of snot onto the ground, Crallick wiped the back of his sleeve against his upper lip. He then pulled his oilskin pouch out of his jerkin. “Here you go.” He handed the package to the appalled knight.

  Gingerly, Ser Fyrth retrieved the bundle and unwrapped the pieces of vellum that held Crallick’s particulars of title, deed, and holdings. There was, indeed, an order of the parcel of land known as Gladeholme. This was stamped by the royal signet, but not locally notarized. There was title to personal property in that parcel, which specified he was to build a keep. No artisans had yet to be mustered for the task, however. There was also the title list for the heralds. The heraldic announcement read:

  Ser Crallick Oakentree, knight-ranger of the Order of the Cradle, lord-protector of Gladeholme, the butcher of Brackenridge Marsh, slayer of Caustroth the Dragon, hero of The Battle of Nine Skulls, and the royal guard of the queen.

  No personal coat of arms had been claimed though. After careful examination of the documents, Ser Fyrth returned them to the older man, who he felt had to be the worst knight he had ever met. Flowwe only knew how he had attained the rank of knight-ranger.

  “Everything seems to be in order … sort of.” Ser Fyrth grudgingly admitted. “Here are the solemnly decreed words of her royal grace, her majesty, Queen Kyliessa Bannathrae.” Ser Fyrth took a breath, intent on continuing with the remainder of his ceremonial duties, when Crallick cut him off by yanking the clutched document out of his hand. Ser Fyrth snorted his indignation. “How rude.”

  “Better rude than dead,” Crallick opined. He glanced over the paper, then he cracked the seal.

  “You didn’t even check that the seal was untampered…” protested Ser Fyrth.

  “Don’t care.” Crallick glanced over, a threatening smile played across his face. “I know Kylie’s word choices. Only she uses this type of vellum. So the source is real. If her words aren’t, I’ll be able to tell. Also, anyone trying to fool me with her orders is a dead man…”

  “Well, that would be treasonous…” began Ser Fyrth.

  “By my blade, not the Bannathyr court,” Crallick corrected. Then he continued: “Don’t worry, Ser Filth. It’s legit. I guess I’m going back to Marahaven,” Crallick’s voice trailed off into a resentful grumble, “Like I had intended to anyways.”

  “That’s Ser Fyrth,” Syrrell vainly tried to correct the belligerent man.

  Chapter 1

  “She was a young, radiant beauty whom I first took to be a whore-turned-burglar. Truth was, her burglary gig was just a stepping-stone.”

  -Eulogy given by Ser Crallick Oakentree

  Late winter cloud
s that draped low in the skies provided a chilly foreboding of snows yet to come. The overcast dusk provided a gloom to a tundra grassland that would have frozen the hearts of all but the most stalwart of foreigners. The lands surrounding Cairnhold were creepy. Off the trails, one’s feet had an even chance of finding a clod of rounded, grass-tufted earth, a sharp, angular chunk of stone, or a thin crust of ice that dropped your boot through into a freezing pool of water.

  While this unfriendly landscape frowned on travellers, the lemmings, voles, rabbits, and winter foxes who called the plains home found it ideal. Even the snowy owls were able to find prey enough to warrant living out here with their ground-held nests. This was because the densest and tallest patches of undergrowth were comprised of low-growing cedars.

  Off to the distant north stood the Draketooth Mountains. The smallest of the Amarallan mountain ranges, it was still home to a small kingdom of dwarves, and a raucous tribe of goblin-kind. In fact, it was a three-fronted war that had been fought between the mountains and the northernmost town of Amaral, Scale, that had been the reason for the construction of Castle Cairnhold, and the appointment of the noble house, Bligh, to it’s protector.

  The battle had been gory, with nearly two-hundred dwarves, three-thousand goblin-kind—including several giants, and thirty-five Amarallans—including a dragon, all meeting gruesome ends on their way to Chessintra’s Eldritch gates.

  A biting wind gnawed at the line-etched face of the stoic man. Weather had taken years to beat his skin into the tough, leatherlike hide that covered his body in a bronzed sheath. His rugged clothes still bore an opulence of wealth. Black bear fur cloaked his shoulders and back. His neck and sleeve cuffs were likewise adorned. His coat was a deep crimson velvet. His breeches were wool-lined, blackened leather. Overall, his figure looked more portly than he actually was, on account of his armor against the frigid clime.