Heroes of Tolvana: The Jewel Thieves Chapter One Draft

Here is Chapter One of the first Heroes of Tolvana novel, The Jewel Thieves, as of 9/27/2022

It was late afternoon on the third day of the month of Solus when the hooded man rode into the small town of Brakken. He rode atop a tall brown steed. Scars running down the side. Not paying attention to anyone. He trotted through the small cramped streets toward the Inn. Every person he passed looked at him with curious eyes. Brakken isn’t known to get many outsiders. It was far off the beaten pass. Only a few travelers here and there. None like this hooded man. The Lord of Brakken, Lord Fennic, or as he liked to be called Father Fennic, didn’t care much for outsiders. He believed they all stemmed from the bowels of the Raden fortresses. Here to cause only one thing, death. So, when this hooded man trotted in late afternoon on the third day of the month of Solus he was rather curious.

This man rode atop his horse through the small cramped streets of Brakken. Passed the various shopping stalls. Passed rundown wooden houses. Cracks in the windows. Wood falling off. Passed the drunken sailor laying in the ditch. Mumbling insanities. Stopping in front of the Drowsy Bear Inn. The only inn in town as far as he could see. Proper, fancy, it stood out amongst the small town. Once outside he dismounted, tied up his horse onto one of the many unused poles outside, readjusted his hood, and walked through the double doors of the Drowsy Bear Inn. The villagers watched as he went.

The Drowsy Bear Inn was much like any other inn in Tolvana. Tables and chairs lined the bottom floor. A bar with wooden stools lay in the back. An older man sat on a stool in the corner playing a guitar and singing old folk songs like The Hero of Alkilan or Demons March into Midnight. Drunken men lay across the tables and on the floor. Girls barely eighteen selling themselves to the highest bidder. A young man working the bar shouting and pouring drinks.

When the hooded man walked into the Drowsy Bear Inn however all that noise disappeared-even the noise of the mice gnawing away at the scraps on the drunken bellies of passed out Brakkians. All eyes were on the hooded man. The hooded man, not paying any attention to the watchful tavern goers, walked up to the bar. He set his arms upon the bar and looked at the bartender. The bartender reluctantly walked over to where the man sat to ask him what he wanted. “Welcome...” The bartender swallowed hard “to the Drowsy Bear traveler. What’s your poison?”

The hooded man reached into his cloak to grab out a piece of paper. Many of the tavern goers stood up ready for a fight. One younger man made for the door to fetch a town guard in the event things got ugly. The hooded man pulled out a pamphlet and set it on the bar. The pamphlet promised money for any adventurer that would be willing to take up a job. “Where do I get the money?” He asked in a very serious scary tone

The bartender gulped. Picking up the pamphlet shakily and studying it closely.. He read it up and down, twice, three times, before setting it back down and looking at the hooded man. “You mean to tell me that you killed a Bearkin? By yourself?” The bartender chuckled.

Laughter murmured throughout the crowd. The man, annoyed with that silly question, looked straight at the bartender with a look that could kill. With the most serious and death like tone anyone could ever use he said “No, I mean to tell you I killed three.”

The entire inn gasped. Nobody in the town of Brakken ever heard of someone killing a Bearkin by themselves let alone three. This had to be a joke. Bearkins were one of the worst things to come out of this age of Radens. They came from another realm, another world. This realm was where evil came from. Running alongside the land of magic, or ex land of magic, was this land of power. Unimaginable power. Once protected by the great god Falomir. When the Radens killed him, the barrier weakened. Causing terrible creatures to leak from this realm. One of these creatures being the Bearkins. Six arms like a spider. Teeth like a lion. Body of a bear. A smell of rotting flesh. Horrible, terrifying, disgusting creatures. So, when this outsider said he killed three of them nobody could believe it. “You’re joking, right?” The bartender asked.

The hooded man looked annoyed. “Where do I get my money?” Some of the drunks had gotten up and inched towards him. He watched them out of the corner of his eye. “I just want the money then I’ll be leaving.”

One of the drunks got a little too brave and grabbed the hood. Pulling it off revealing a man. A man with long red hair. Ears so pointy they could kill a man. A scar running straight through his golden eyes, the right one to be precise. A face that had seen things. Horrible things. The man lunged at the drunk. Grabbing him by his throat and throwing him onto the bar. The bartender backed against the wall. With his free hand the man pulled a jagged knife and put it up against the drunk’s neck. The other drunks backed off in fear. Murmurs went through the crowd. “He’s an Elven?” “An Elven? This far south?” “Did he bring the war with him?”

The Elven glanced around the room looking at everyone. Looks of fear greeted his gaze. The drunk underneath him began crying in fear. The Elven looked back at the bartender. “I just want the money. Then I’ll leave.”

The younger man came running back in. Three armed guards in tow. “Elf back away from the bar! Let the man go!” One of the guards yelled.

The Elven turned his head towards the three armed men. These men were dressed head to toe in steel armor. In their hands were nice thick steel swords with an engraving FF on the hilt. The FF most likely stood for Father Fennic. The Elven could take all three but that would result in unnecessary bloodshed. He glanced back down at the drunk still crying and wetting himself with fear. A little blood coming from his neck. The Elven felt pity for the drunk. How could someone be so weak in this world of war and bloodshed? He put the knife back under his robe and got off the drunk. The moment he let go the drunk ran. Ran in fear of the outsider. Stumbling away. The three-armed men approached the outsider, one with iron handcuffs. The Elven put his hands out reluctantly and the man clasped them around his wrist. He looked at all three of the guards. “I could still kill each of you.”

The men gulped but had a job to do. One guard leading the way and two behind they walked toward the door. The drunks and girls and the old man, who had taken a break from his singing, looked on as the outsider was led out the door. Every eye followed him as they walked. Worried that this meant the end. The end for their poor village. Wondering why the Elven had come that day.

Father Fennic had been awoken from his late afternoon nap by some commotion at the Drowsy Bear Inn. That wasn’t unusual in this town that had been besieged by drunkards ever since the war. What was unusual is the origins of this man for he was no man at all but an Elven. No one had seen an Elven since they walled themselves off in their large cities to avoid the Radens. The youngest generation only heard stories of these Elven. They had become a myth, a legend.

Slowly rising from his large wooden bed covered in sheets of red. One of his servants had set a glass of water and a small beef sandwich on his bedside table. Father Fennic grabbed the meal angrily. He hated being woken and now he had to deal with an outsider. All his years of leading Brakken he had never enjoyed meeting with strangers. They always brought misfortune with them. Ever since he was a little boy he had feared them. His father had been struck down by a visiting magic user, or mage as they were known in these parts. It had started like any other meeting. The servants poured them each tea. The two chatted about life, love, and all things but then just like all good things in this world of magic that greatness had to end. The mage began to become a little aggressive and attacked Fennic’s father. His father had fought the mage and lost his life in the process. Then the mage had turned on Father Fennic, burning half his face with mage fire. He told him to remember this day before he vanished into the air. After that day Father Fennic had never trusted again. So, when he was awoken and told that a hooded man had come to the town and caused a commotion he was terrified. No outsider is a good outsider.

He would have just laid back in his bed and fallen back to sleep had it not been customary for the Lord of the town to meet with any and all outsiders to learn why they had come to this town. Father Fennic dreaded these meetings, of which there were very few. Not many people made it this far south.

The hooded Elven was led into the parlor of the Father’s Extravagant mansion. It truly was extravagant. Seated on the top of a big hill in the back of Brakken. Overlooking all the town. Giant intimidating stairs lead up to the entrance. A large set of double doors at the entrance. Inside each room was huge. Shiny. Many rooms, some would say too many. The parlor was beautiful. A fireplace sat on the back wall. Fire burning inside. A set of long couches sat in the middle. Art hung from every wall. Various paintings of Brakken’s Rulers and the history. A carpet of demon skin, some of the nicest and rarest skins you can find. The hooded Elven was led to one of the couches and forced to sit down. An armed guard on each side.

The Father slowly entered the room. The moment he saw the Elven he wanted to turn back and run. Something about him just wasn’t quite right. Maybe it was because he was an Elf or maybe it was something far worse. The Father walked over to the couch facing the man and sat down. Two more armed guards stood by Father Fennic. In case the Elven tried anything, the father wished he would try something so the men could just get rid of him. Throw his body off the makeshift walls surrounding the town. Saving him from this meeting. Some servants came rushing in with some food and tea. Setting it on the table between the two couches. A collection of bread and cheese. The two men just stared at each other. Nobody instigated any kind of conversation. One too afraid and the other too cocky. Tension filled the air.

After what seemed like an eternity Father Fennic made a sound. “So, what is your name stranger?”

The Elven looked at the Father. Studying him. Studying the scars on half his face. He then glanced at the armed men to his sides. Watching to see if they would make a move. Since they just sat there he decided it was safe to reply. “My name is Amorillan.”

“Amorillan? That’s elvish. Correct?” The father said as he grabbed a piece of bread from the table and took a bite.

“Woodland actually. Not Elvish.”

“Interesting. Didn’t know there was a difference”

The two men were quiet once again. Staring at each other. Amorillan fiddled with the cuffs on his hands. The father glancing down at them motioned to one of the armed guards. “Why don’t you take those off him? Make him more comfortable.”

The armed guard looked at Father Fennic with astonishment. “Are you sure sir?”

“Yes, take them off.” The guard reluctantly released the cuffs. Amorillan rubbed his wrists before grabbing a piece of cheese, sniffing it, and then eating it. “So Amorillan. What brings you to our little town?”

Amorillan reached into his robe and pulled out the pamphlet that he showed at the Drowsy Bear. The armed guards got ready to slice his head off if it was a weapon. Amorillan slowly pulled it out and set it on the table. “I came for my money, that is all.”

The Father picked up the pamphlet and looked at it. He read it up and down then studied the Elven across the table. “You took out the Bearkin?” He asked.

Amorillan reached for a piece of bread. He glanced up at Father Fennic. “Actually. I took out three.” He said as he grabbed the bread, sniffed it, and took a bite

“Three? Impressive.” The father studied the stranger “Yes I believe you can have your money. For all three. You have done this town a great service.”

Amorillan looked pleased. That was the only reason he came to this miserable town. He needed the money. Times were tough as the Radens continued to march south. Pushing more and more people out of their homes and land. Burning everything in their path. Amorillan needed the money to survive. “Thank you” He replied.

The Father studied him even closer. This outsider was a strange fellow. For one he was an Elven outside the Elven cities. That doesn’t happen. He was powerful. Quiet. This power the Father could use. The Brakken farms on the eastern side of the town had been under attack by a creature for three months now. Making a serious impact on the food supply. The Father had sent many men to take down this creature, but none have returned. He could send this stranger to take out this creature and either the stranger or the monster would die, or both. One problem solved either way. “I have something else you might like to look into.” He said.

Amorillan looked at the Father with curious eyes. “And what is this thing?”

“Well for three months now a creature with eyes of red, skin of grey and brown, tendrils protruding from its hide, teeth snarling has made our eastern farms its home. Killing the livestock and eating the crops. Causing a food shortage.”

“Sounds like you may have a Nelfur on your hands. Wonder how it got here. I can take it out. For a price of course.”

“Of course. You will be well compensated. Anything you need we can give you.”

“Good. For starters I need my horse and weapons back. Your men confiscated them”

“Then you shall have it. Take care of this Nel…what did you call it?”

“A Nelfur.”

“Yes. Please take care of this Nelfur for us before it can do more harm.”

Amorillan never passed up the opportunity to kill monsters. It was fun to him but also it paid the most. A Nelfur was a rare creature. He had only faced one other Nelfur in his life. It had been attacking caravans headed north to the mountains. They needed protection, Amorillan needed money. It was an easy kill. So, this would be fun. Nelfurs came straight from the Realm of Power. They wanted nothing more than to escape that place and kill everything that moves. So much anger and hate held in such a small creature. He would not pass up another opportunity to kill one. He proceeded out of the Mansion picking up his weapons from a table near the door. Closely watched by the armed guards. He didn’t carry much, made him more agile. He had the jagged knife from the bar, a crossbow, and a sword. He gathered up his weapons and put them away. Stuck the knife underneath his cloak. Hung the sword from his belt. Slung the crossbow on his back. He climbed up onto his horse and rode off. Rode off to kill a Nelfur.