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    Faded Yellow Dreams
    Faded Yellow Dreams
    Faded Yellow Dreams
    Ebook222 pages3 hours

    Faded Yellow Dreams

    By Kenneth McDonald

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    About this ebook

    Jaron Feldergrass has returned home with his people after the defeat of the human slavers and the Red priests that led them. But life in the hauflin village of Fairhollow has lost some of its appeal, and when some old companions arrive with an offer he once again leaves his quiet home behind. With his unpredictable cousin Beetle and the human warriors Carzen Zelos and Mara Lendoran, Jaron escorts a caravan over the western mountains. But a greater threat has been massing outside of the borders of the Cinder Valley, and neither Jaron nor his friends are aware that their expedition is heading right into the heart of a brewing war. Faded Yellow Dreams begins a new story in the series “The Colors of Fate.”

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKenneth McDonald
    Release dateMar 2, 2014
    ISBN9781310805981
    Faded Yellow Dreams
    Author

    Kenneth McDonald

    I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

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      Book preview

      Faded Yellow Dreams - Kenneth McDonald

      Faded Yellow Dreams

      Book Four of the Colors of Fate Series

      Kenneth McDonald

      Kmcdonald4101@gmail.com

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2014 by Kenneth McDonald

      Cover Credit: The cover image is adapted from the painting A Meadow in the Mountains by Vincent van Gogh (1889). The image is in the public domain.

      * * * * *

      Works by Kenneth McDonald

      Wizard’s Shield

      The Ogre at the Crossroads

      The Colors of Fate

      Black Shadows Gather

      Green Hearts Weep

      Red Vengeance Rising

      Faded Yellow Dreams

      Blazing White Stars

      The Mages of Sacreth

      The Labyrinth

      Of Spells and Demons

      Grimm’s War

      Grimm’s Loss

      Grimm’s Love

      The Godswar Trilogy

      Paths of the Chosen

      Choice of the Fallen

      Fall of Creation

      Daran’s Journey

      Heart of a Hero

      Soul of a Coward

      Will of a Warrior

      Courage of a Champion

      * * * * *

      Prologue

      Yellow.

      The color of decay. Of weakness. Of cowardice.

      The color of the orcs.

      The orc was thinking about the color as he stood in the tall grass, staring out across the plain. The day was fading, the sun a golden sphere just touching the horizon, as if tentative. From where he stood the sea of grass seemed to go on forever, but he knew that was an illusion.

      The colors here were familiar, yet also different than those of his home so far away. The yellow came in many different shades here. The tawny color of the dry grass. The aureate majesty of the sun. The canary brightness of the flits that made their nests in the grass, fleeing into the sky when men—or orcs—approached.

      He had brought other shades of the color to this place. The sullied ochre of orcish banners. The pustulent issue that was spawned in wounds by the poisoned arrows his warriors used. And not least the fulvid shadings of the orcs themselves. The orc raised a hand, looked at the flesh pulled taut over muscle and bone. Scars marked that hand, scars old and new.

      Tainted, that was the word that the other races used. Tainted meant weak. Yellow.

      The orc made a fist. He would change that.

      A faint rustle in the grass behind him drew his attention. He lowered his fist and turned.

      The creature crouched in the grass looked hardly of the same race as the orc warrior. He did not stand tall, did not look even capable of it, his limbs gangly and jutting hopelessly from a lean body. His hide was a darker shade than the warrior’s, more brown than yellow, the color of a thing used to grubbing in the dirt.

      The warrior’s lips tightened into a scowl that the new arrival did not miss.

      Great lord, he began.

      No titles, the warrior interrupted, stomping on the other orc’s speech before it could begin. We are not humans, Nurg. He made the name a curse.

      Apologies, First. The crouched orc raised an eye to confirm that was acceptable. The warrior’s expression did not change from its hardened rigor, and the orc hastily continued, One of the Reborn seeks words with the mighty Taruk.

      The warrior’s lips twisted. Nurg could not help but curry favor with his words. It was in his nature. Taruk kept the other orc with him as a reminder of what he had been before. Before the pathway of the true color had been revealed to him. Is it Nazul? he asked. He already knew the answer, already knew what the request portended, but a part of him hoped that maybe he was wrong.

      That part of him was weak, and he quickly squashed it.

      Nurg had no inkling of Taruk’s thoughts, but he could sense enough of the warrior’s mood to be wary. Yes, First.

      Come then.

      Taruk led the way through the tall grass to the site of the battle.

      Smoke hung thick in the air, rising from the wreckage of tents and animals and men. The slaughter had been recent, begun when the sun had begun its ascent on the opposite horizon. Orcs moved through the remains of the camp, poking and prodding for items of value that might have been missed. Most were like Nurg, bent creatures that shuffled through the wreckage like the carrion birds that hovered above, waiting for their turn.

      Enough remained of the camp to show how far its owners had fallen even before the orcs had arrived to put a final end to it. Taruk had already visited the tents, shortly after the battle had ended. Those unable to fight—women, children, the aged—they had taken their own lives, or been killed by those men who had been left to resist. The humans had fought like madmen, perhaps knowing that they were the last spark of their tribe. Or knowing what awaited them should they fall. Few of the Nassir had let themselves be taken alive. Those deaths in the tents had been a mercy. A mercy that had harmed his cause, but Taruk did not waste much thought on missed chances.

      Even though his enemy had cheated him of his prize, there were always other ways to gain strength in victory. Taruk reminded himself of that as he turned away from the devastated camp and walked over to where his army had established itself.

      The orc camp was a hodgepodge of hide tents, some brought all the way down from the mountains, others scavenged from the Nassir after battles like this one. When the tribesmen had finally united against Taruk’s army it had already been too late. He did not know if the disease that had swept through the enemy had been a blessing of the Yellow or just an accident of fate, but it had only accelerated this day. The fate of the Nassir had been decided before, when Taruk had started consolidating his control over the orc tribes of the mountains. Once he had begun the Rebirth. Ten years it had taken, ten long years of ruthless but inevitable motion to set the orcs upon a path different from the one that the Creator had first set them upon.

      He walked through the camp. Orcs moved out of his way or prostrated themselves before him; he ignored both equally. Only the Reborn, the warriors, did he acknowledge, meeting their salutes with curt nods.

      He came to a tent that was somewhat larger the others. He could smell what was inside before he could see into the darkened interior. Another shade of yellow, the sickly scent of decay and death.

      He went inside. Gaunt figures clad in robes of ochre that matched the battle standards of the orcs drifted through the room like shadows. One slid up to Taruk. The sorting is nearly complete, First, he said. The priest’s voice was thin and scratchy, the orc’s face covered in blemishes and pock-marks. Taruk did not flinch from the creature’s haggard appearance; he knew all too well what sacrifices the Yellow demanded. Once he too had looked as this one had, before his Rebirth.

      Nazul? Taruk asked.

      The Yellow priest shook his head. He has asked for you.

      Taruk repressed a grimace of annoyance. He had known this moment would come since the morning, after the last of the Nassir warriors had fallen. Nazul had tried to conceal the full effect of the wound he had taken, but Taruk had learned too much over the last ten years to be fooled.

      The priest was just standing there, watching, but Taruk could feel the judgment in his eyes. Taruk had set them on this path, and it would be Taruk who would lead them to its end. A report of what happened here would travel to the tribes, he knew.

      The big orc made his way across the tent. The dead lay in a scattered pattern. Some were covered in drapes sodden with blood. Most of those chosen for the ritual had already been removed, leaving gaps between the dead that were now just useless meat. Even as Taruk pressed into the tent two of the priests raised another of the still-living upon a pallet of hides stretched across a frame of wooden branches. The dying orc was not one of the Reborn; if he had been it was doubtful that two of the Yellow acolytes would have been able to lift him. The wretch was just barely aware enough to have some inkling of what was happening; he mewled piteously as he was lifted, and an arm slick with blood jutted out from under the coverings atop his body, pawing at Taruk as he was carried past.

      The first priest had remained in the entrance of the tent, but Taruk could feel the weight of his stare on his back as he approached the far side of the tent. A small cleared space had been left there, and lying in that gap upon a bed of hides was Nazul.

      A drape had been laid over the orc’s body, but Taruk didn’t need to look beneath it to know what was underneath. The tribesman had stabbed him in the gut, his hook-knife coming up under the ragged armor of crudely tanned hides and beaten iron plates that were the best that orcish craft could manage. Someday the Reborn would wear links of woven metal and gleaming steel like the humans of the rich lands beyond the plains and the forest. Someday the humans would serve his people as slaves, or cower in the dirt as his people had done for so long. Taruk had seen it in his dreams.

      The dying orc stirred, his eyes blinking as he tried to see what was happening in the tent. Taruk? he asked.

      I am here.

      Nazul swallowed heavily and nodded. I… I thank you, brother. For coming at my call.

      What do you want of me?

      Nazul gestured, a feeble motion. Taruk came closer. Nazul gestured again, and Taruk dropped to one knee beside him. I beg… Nazul began.

      Our kind do not beg, brother, Taruk said.

      Nazul reached out and grabbed his forearm, holding on with surprising strength. I was there with you at the beginning, he said. My axe was at your side when we were but one tribe.

      I remember.

      Nazul clenched his fingers hard enough to bruise Taruk’s arm, but the First did not react. I ask only for an honorable death. I have earned that, brother!

      Your strength has helped our people reach this point, Taruk said. The orcs are united, mountain tribes and hill together. The weak have fallen, and the strong have been Reborn. The Nassir are sundered, the once-proud humans who chased our people into the rocks and caves. Their strength has become ours.

      Nazul let out a groan, but he didn’t release his grip. Taruk leaned in closer, meeting the dying orc’s eyes. But the road ahead remains long, brother! The Nassir were a strong people once, and now they are nothing. But the elves of the Tel’har lie in our path, and beyond them the men who live along the sea, skittering around like ants in their villages and towns and cities. Men who make our tribes seem like specks of dust gusting upon the wind.

      I have seen it, I have seen it all, brother. Our road leads to glory, and victory over those who have kept us weak and pathetic. But to reach that victory we cannot allow ourselves to be weak. You have served our people well in life, Nazul. But even in death, we need your service.

      Nazul released his grip. His hand groped at Taruk’s belt, and the warrior realized that he was trying to grab the hilt of the dagger there. He pinned the dying man’s wrist and pressed it back against his chest. For a moment Nazul struggled, then he sagged back, his strength exhausted.

      Yes. Keep fighting, Taruk said. In your sacrifice, another will be Reborn.

      Nazul gasped something, unable to do any more.

      Taruk rose. He looked back at the priest, who had assembled a coterie of half a dozen of his peers at the entrance of the tent. They hesitated as Taruk came back to them.

      Take him to the ritual tent, he said. The priests hurried to obey, but Taruk interrupted them. See that he is treated as a hero of our people, he said.

      For a moment the priests blinked in confusion, then one said, It shall be done, First.

      As they hurried to fetch the dying warrior, Taruk started toward the exit but paused next to the senior priest. I trust you to ensure that his gift is given to one who is worthy, he said.

      The priest inclined his head. I shall see it done, First.

      Taruk left the tent. The sun had fallen below the horizon, cut in half as if hewn by a blade. None who stood to benefit from Nazul’s life were truly worthy, the orc chief knew. But the road ahead would be a bloody one, and he was beyond flinching at sacrifices. Well beyond.

      He stood there staring at the setting sun until his eyes hurt from it. He could hear them bringing Nazul out of the tent, but he did not turn around.

      Finally he turned and headed toward his own tent, deeper in the camp. There were orders to be issued. The first stage of the campaign might have come to an end, but the next had already begun.

      * * *

      The elf scout ran through the deep forest, his legs moving in a blur over the soft ground.

      The forest was thick, the ground beneath the trees uneven and dangerous with hidden ravines, twists of undergrowth as thick as hedges, and low branches that jutted out with little warning. But the elf barely slowed as he ran, darting through and around and over the obstacles with an agility born of decades of familiarity with the landscape.

      He was clad in dark clothes that allowed for easy movement, and carried both a pair of curved knives and an unstrung bow that he held like a short staff. A quiver covered in a fold of leather bounced upon his back as he ran, the strap supporting another knife with a blade only as long as a finger. His dark hair was bound back by a cord, and he wore only a narrow cap of thin leather upon his head.

      The elf occasionally glanced up into the canopies of the trees that ascended like massive pillars all around him. He could feel the weight of the eyes watching his progress but did not acknowledge them. If an enemy came to the Tel’har the reaction would be different, but for every sentry he passed there were another four or five watchstations that were empty and silent.

      He did not slow when the forest began to thin subtly, the trees spaced somewhat further about, the ground smoothing out into a gentle upward slope. Structures appeared, little houses built into the lee of the larger trees. Some were shaped to resemble mounds of earth covered in grass while others looked like miniature cottages with eaves of gracefully carved and curving wood. The elves did not build homes in the shape of crude boxes as humans did, all rough angles and gross permanence. There were a few structures raised up into the boughs of the trees, accessed by thin staircases that twined around the trunks, but those were few. Too few, the elf thought. The settlement was peaceful and pretty, but the elf saw only what was missing.

      There were only a few elves about in the village. They noted the elf’s rapid passage and looked at him with curiosity, some with concern. But he ignored them all and ran up the slope to where the oldest trees grew in a tight cluster at the summit of the rise.

      At the edge of the grove there were enough breaks between the trees to allow rays of sunshine to penetrate down to the forest floor. A ring of bushes had been allowed to grow in a broad circle around the grove, carefully tended until it formed a barrier around the site. Here the scout finally did slow, but only until he had ducked into the subtle gap in the hedge, a recessed opening that dropped down into a passageway through the obstacle. Thorns jutted out from the canopy above, their points colored red like tiny daggers, but the scout had no difficulty navigating his way through the close space. On the far side a series of steps had been cut into the dirt, leading up into the center of the grove.

      The elf emerged into a world both part of and distinct from the surrounding forest.

      The trees formed a circle of columns, their boughs weaving into a rooftop that was open in the center to let the full light of the sun in. It was too late in the day for the direct light to reach the ground, but even the diffuse radiance made the clearing seem bright by contrast to the rest of the forest.

      The center of the grove contained a bubbling spring that fed into a pond lined by smooth stones. It was flanked by two arbelas trees with limbs that extended out over the water like protective arms. Flowers formed waves of color around the edges of the pool, filling the air with their pleasant scent.

      This place was welcoming and warm, a sanctuary. The elf scout felt a twinge of regret at what he brought to this place, but he hesitated only a moment before striding forward toward the pool.

      A man waited there, sitting in the shade of one of the arbelas. He was old, his hair hanging in white wisps around his lean features, his long fingers gnarled like the roots of the tree that sheltered him. He rose as the scout came forward, smoothing a simple robe of undyed linen.

      Aleilenen, he said.

      Speaker.

      You have news.

      Yes. The last of the Nassir bands has been overrun. The orcs control the plains.

      The old elf sighed. The day has come faster than I had anticipated.

      The humans made a poor showing of it.

      No, do not blame them, Alei, he said. This foe is unlike any they—or we—have ever faced.

      "We have defeated

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