The Gems of Raga-Tor (Elemental Legends Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1 Alliance

  Chapter 2 The Road to Reshan

  Chapter 3 The Sultan’s Eris

  Chapter 4 On the Moren Forest Path

  Chapter 5 Morengoth

  Chapter 6 On the Road to the Red Vale

  Chapter 7 Avatar

  Chapter 8 The Road to Zephyra

  Chapter 9 Charra-Tir

  Chapter 10 A Circle Complete

  About CA Morgan

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  The Gems of Raga-Tor

  by CA Morgan

  To

  CG Browning

  Eris was always your first and favorite above all others.

  Even with you gone, your words of encouragement remain,

  and others now carry your banner and wear the bunny slippers.

  Chapter 1

  Alliance

  Eris Pann stood at the edge of a pier and stared down at his moonlit reflection rippling in the dark water of Rennas Baye. He cursed the image as he had many times in recent months. Looking back at him was his humiliation, his enchantment, and he saw it all through the eyes of a woman’s face rather than his own, which he much preferred.

  Lost in brooding thought, he failed to notice the gradual rise of the red, crescent moon. Red, dagger-like images danced across the water, the reflections of the evil crescent called Azoreth. A flash of coppery red near his image made him shiver and look up. Evil rode in the night sky, and grew in men’s hearts and minds when Azoreth traversed the skies. But, if the gods were merciful and fate took pity, tonight he would have the first piece of a charm with which to cure himself.

  With muttered curse, he pulled his cloak’s hood low over his face and stepped inside the stale-smelling establishment behind him. As the deep of night was still hours away, the tavern was only half full. The faces that bothered to witness his entrance were weary and nondescript. He liked that in a crowd. It meant the likelihood of trouble decreased... somewhat.

  From a serving girl with a face like countless others, he took a stained, wooden mug brimming with malted ale, a hard roll, and a fat slab of yellow cheese. Taking a seat by the door, he ate quickly and drank slowly, knowing that if his plans for the evening went awry, he might have to make a hasty exit from the city without the usual provisions.

  An unpleasant thought as his current status was as a hero of sorts for almost single-handedly rescuing a caravan from Brazzi marauders. He would have been better rewarded were he not a foreigner to the southern lands, and if he didn’t speak with a strange, unrecognizable accent. Nevertheless, the grateful quartermaster filled his purse with gold coins. Tonight, it was with this hard-earned gold that he had carefully planned and arranged to buy an object. It wasn’t considered priceless by the city’s wealthy, but for him, it was the first step in taking back his life.

  In spasms of uncharacteristic anxiousness, his hand curled and uncurled several times around the mug’s barrel. The fingers of his other hand played with the hilt of a dagger tucked into his bracer. A nearby patron watched him and moved quietly and slowly away. No need to be in the wrong place when the black-clad figure started swinging the long sword that peeked out from beneath his cloak’s deep folds. For a time afterward, the seats at the end of his table remained conspicuously vacant.

  Much later a short, wiry fellow dressed in fabrics too rich for this part of the city entered the tavern, paused and stood near him. The newcomer’s gleaming rodent-like eyes discreetly surveyed the room. He pinched his thin lips together with thumb and finger, and then nodded greeting to Eris.

  “You’re late, Tivol,” Eris said, his voice muffled by the hood. He grabbed Tivol by his tunic’s neck and roughly shoved him onto the bench across from him.

  “What’s wrong with your voice?”

  “I have a cold. More importantly, where’s the seller?”

  “Things happen,” Tivol answered, smoothing his shirt. “He’ll be here.”

  “Maybe he was and left. Time has passed.”

  “We’re offering a lot of gold. No one passes that up simply on account of lateness,” Tivol assured with a flicker of a smile. “No, the hungry animal doesn’t give up its meal, because the trap remains long empty. He waits.”

  “An interesting choice of words, Agent Tivol,” Eris said suspiciously.

  Suddenly anxious, Tivol pinched at his lips. “I’m not implying anything. Merely making an observation based on my vast, and honest, experience.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Eris traded his empty mug for a full one. He leaned back against the tavern’s wall and stretched out his long legs. The cloak’s deep cowl hid the impatience that creased his face.

  Tivol fidgeted under the weight of slow-passing time made worse as he was unable to see where Eris’ attention was rooted. He was relieved to see the hood’s edge move and lift upward, away from him.

  Both watched as three, lissome, dancing girls pranced and whirled along a warped, sagging balcony as they headed for the stairs. In spite of his growing temper, Eris smiled slightly as they wove their way through the room teasing and playing tricks on the patrons.

  Tivol suddenly turned back, leaned forward and rapped his knuckles against the table. “He’s here.”

  Eris pulled up from his slouch. “Where?”

  “Next to the counter. The one with the heavy, black beard. Be right back,” Tivol said and left the table.

  Keeping an eye on the little man proved to be a task as a dozen unwashed and stinking men entered the tavern and loitered near him, blocking his view of the service counter. A loud bark of laughter drew his attention to a nearby table where a trio of sailors, long at their cups, sat. The veil-clad girls giggled and squealed loudly as they taunted the drunken men with fleeting glimpses of bare skin beneath their colorful, wispy garments.

  Grinning stupidly, eyes bright with lust, a sailor reached out and tore the gossamer veils from one of the whirling dancers. The girl, no less a whore than the other two, screeched indignantly at the betrayal of her modesty. The sudden appearance of bare, ample breasts and a slender, twisting torso instantly prompted a dozen defenders. Chaos erupted. Drink-muddled punches connected indiscriminately, blood sprayed from broken noses, and mugs and trenchers crashed to the floor.

  Eris tucked his feet beneath his bench and pressed against the wall. He wanted nothing to do with the now tavern-wide brawl. In moments of clear sight, he spotted his agent talking to the bearded man—a large man with a face oddly twisted by scar lines that disappeared into the mass of his black beard. A moment later Tivol signaled that all was well and that he should join them. Returning a signal that he would do so, Eris was halfway to standing and froze in horror. Two men flew toward him, tumbled across the table and all three crashed to the bench. With a resounding crack, the bench collapsed and they sprawled on the stained, wooden floor.

  The hood was pulled from Eris’ head. A tumbling mass of raven locks and the face of an exquisitely beautiful woman appeared.

  Tivol and the seller stared at him wide-eyed, their faces blank with shock. Tivol knew very well that his client was a man with a quick temper and a sharp sword. A terrible, angry glare contorted the woman's strange, but not altogether unfamiliar face, and did little to dampen its beauty.

  “Damn you with the disease of whores!” Eris’ anger exploded. Shoving and kicking the drunken men away with furious disregard, he scrambled for the door through which the seller just exited.

  Hands clutched at the hem of his cloak, slowing him. “What a beauty you are, sweet face, perhaps we might share company?”

  �
��Bastard!” Eris spun, kicked the man hard in the chest and left him gasping.

  Tivol collapsed against the side of the rough plank counter. Pale and shaken, he grabbed and gulped down the first mug of spirits he found. He trembled in the face of unsuspected sorcery. He thought he knew the faces of all the magic users currently in the city, and generally avoided them. He gulped more ale and went a shade paler as he thought of the huge commission he had probably just lost and slumped to the floor.

  In a whirl of curses, kicks and black fabric, Eris ran out onto the wharf looking left then right for the seller; a thousand misfortunes on the drunken curs for ruining his plans.

  The bearded man had disappeared. There was no way of knowing where he went, or whether he was still amenable to the sale, which Tivol had negotiated over several weeks. Now, after seeing what he had, perhaps the seller felt betrayed by both buyer and agent and would seek another buyer. A moment of uncharacteristic panic prickled through Eris.

  After brief consideration, emotions quickly settling, Eris smirked and pulled the hood over his head. The big man wouldn’t be far. In fact, he was probably hiding, watching from one of the many shadows that hugged the buildings on the leagues-long wharf. He wouldn’t be fool enough to pass up a chance at a heavy pouch of gold carried by a mere ‘woman’, and the treasure as well. What was it Tivol said about greed and traps?

  Choosing an alley behind closed shops and away from prying eyes, Eris’ cloaked silhouette faded in and out of the shadows created by mountains of water-stained crates and piles of tattered sails. All was silent but for the occasional, muffled outburst of raucous laughter from one of the other taverns. Seawater sloshed beneath the great pier. It lapped against the wooden planking now that the tide had come in and sent up tiny rivulets through the cracks. The sound was too soothing, too gentle to accompany what was likely to unfold.

  “That’s far enough, Eris Pann,” a voice sneered.

  Eris spun to face the huge man, who stepped with dangerous intent into the rising red moon’s faint light. Evil and malcontent filled the space between them. “Or should I call you ‘Erisa the Wench’. I’m surprised you’ve lived so long without someone discovering the truth about you.”

  Eris gripped his sword’s leather-wrapped hilt and drew it from its scabbard.

  “You know nothing about me.” His voice sounded neither male nor female.

  The black beard smirked. “More than you think.”

  “I have the gold. Do you have the stone?”

  “Aye, but now I know your secret. All those stories I’ve heard about you were just that—stories. You’re no more a man than am I one of those jades back there. And to think I believed you almost single-handedly wiped out those caravan marauders,” he said humorlessly. “I, for one, won’t be made a fool. So, for your little trickeries, the price just went up.”

  It was then Eris realized he was familiar with the man by name and profession; a mercenary with a reputation for changing sides with every sunrise. It didn’t surprise him that he was the one to “find” the curative gemstone.

  “The price is set. You know the procedure. Put the stone on the crate, step away and I’ll toss you the gold.”

  The man called Slott grinned unpleasantly as the pale scars contorted his face.

  “Rules—I spit on them. The first rule in Rennas Baye is that a contract is renegotiable. How much is this stone really worth to you? I can find another buyer,” Slott taunted as he dumped the stone from its pouch into his palm. He flipped and caught the bright-green, plum-sized gem in his thick-fingered hand.

  “At the price you’re asking, doubt it. I’ve brought enough gold to keep you in good wine and women for a year. Put it on the crate.” Eris raised the sword to a more ready position.

  “Then you have a problem, woman.” Slott nodded at the sword. “Want to kill me yourself? Bah, it would be a pitiful attempt.”

  “Don’t tempt, for by me you’ll go to Riza’s Pits with a length of steel in your gut. The agreement was made. Put the gem on the crate and hurry. The city guard isn’t completely cowed by this part of town.”

  Slott snorted and glanced around.

  “New deal. Let’s say we make ourselves comfortable for an hour or so, make the trade, and then you are free to go. What say you?”

  Eris made a disgusted sound, but Slott paid no heed to the fury in it. “You’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

  “Your secret is mine and I intend to have my reward for discovering it”

  Eris said nothing. His feet moved into a fighter’s stance.

  For a moment Slott stared at Eris with an amused grin, then chuckled and shook his head. He scarcely believed her audacity.

  “You’re going to take this charade to the very end, aren’t you?”

  “Laugh all the way to hell, because I have no problem killing you. Give me the gem.”

  Slott scowled fiercely. His humor vanished. His face contorted into deep lines and crevices.

  “Insolent wench! I’ll give you a fight. And I’ll not stop until you're begging on your knees,” Slott sneered. He dropped the gem back into the pouch and drew his heavy sword.

  Eris said nothing, but pushed the cloak over his shoulders.

  “You’ll wish you had accepted my offer by the time I’m finished with you,” Slott snarled. “Your death will not be an easy thing at my hand.”

  Eris said nothing and set his stance.

  Face to face, their swords arced and clashed in a shower of yellow sparks. Eris stepped back and swung low. The blades scraped together again, points to the wooden planking.

  Skipping back, Eris made an off balance move drawing Slott eagerly forward. Eris’ blade flicked upward cutting through Slott’s breeches and deftly countered his slashing stroke.

  Slott glanced down, surprised, as through the rip in the fabric, a stinging, red line appeared on his thigh. He had just underestimated the skill of his opponent and fell for a risky trick of an experienced swordsman; or rather, a lucky swordswoman.

  Three times Slott came for Eris. Three times his attacks were repelled.

  “Damned bitch!” Slott grimaced and breathed hard. His leg stung and burned as blood ran down his leg. “No more holding back. No trying to save your pretty face.”

  “What generosity.” Eris assumed a cocky stance. His unexpectedly swift and unchecked stroke slashed across Slott’s belly beneath his leather breastplate. “That could have cost you your dinner.”

  Slott didn’t see the devilishly amused smile that flickered for a moment on his opponent's face.

  Slott sucked in his breath as he drew away. Rage, fueled by a woman’s taunts, and her bit of luck, made him growl with fury. No woman was this skilled. He raised his weapon overhead to deliver a crushing, two-handed strike that no amount of skill could prevail against. Only brute strength equal to his could stop him and unyielding strength met his blow.

  Eris kicked the stunned man back. Slott stumbled and fell backwards over a low pile of crates. Eris’ sword was at his throat.

  “Give me the gem and I’ll let you live,” Eris warned.

  “Go to hell, bitch!” Slott snarled, grabbed a crate and threw it.

  Eris blocked the box and Slott rolled. He screamed in agony when Eris lunged and his blade stabbed through the back of his thigh. Warm blood pulsed from the wound, the artery cut. Slott grabbed for the wound to staunch the flow.

  Eris kicked him to his back and blood flowed onto the wooden pier. His sword’s point pressed against Slott’s throat.

  “Give Riza my regards,” Eris sneered as Slott grimaced.

  “Cursed wench! Take off that hood!” Slott shouted furiously. His hands trembled, his strength flowed from him.

  Eris squatted next to him. “First things first, my friend,” he said sarcastically, and cut the pouch from Slott’s belt. The gem dropped into his palm. “A pretty thing, isn’t it?”

  Eris held the stone to Slott’s dimming eyes before he slipped it into a concealed pouc
h in the bracer buckled to his sword arm.

  “Too bad you didn’t take the gold. Now you have no gem, no gold, and,” Eris bent closer and whispered, “no life.”

  “The hood,” Slott slurred.

  Eris pulled back the hood.

  Slott’s eyes widened. Even with his vision fading there was no mistaking the masculine face, with a trace of stubble, that smiled a vague, disarming smile down at him; a face of deadly arrogance that suddenly smiled wickedly at seeing surprise consume the dying man’s face.

  “If it’s any consolation,” Eris said, cutting Slott’s coin pouch from his belt, “you do know my secret. Too bad you won’t live long enough to figure it out.”

  “You bas—”

  Riza, lord of the pits of damnation, claimed Slott mid-word. A shiver rippled up Eris’ back. In the night’s cool blackness, he sensed the dread passage of the demon-lord. Seeing from the corner of his eye, he knew Azoreth sharpened its crescent with the blood of a man.

  It wasn’t the clean exchange he and Tivol had planned, but it was done. Soon, he would be back in his room in the company of a very good bottle of wine. As for women, he’d had more than his fill of them.

  He had only walked several paces, when he paused and cocked his head slightly to one side; a misplaced sound. His senses, still heightened and wary, reached out into the red-black. Again he heard a muffled, quick scrape. This time he knew it was a heavy-soled shoe moving against the planking. Someone lurked in the shadows behind him.

  It wasn’t the city guard or they would already be dragging him to the nearest gibbet for killing the man. He was sure that whoever it was could hardly be more trouble than the last. Likely a desperate sort who had seen the exchange and desired the extra pouch of coins.

  Sword still in hand, Eris held it ready beneath the folds of his cloak. The end of the alley, where it opened onto the lighted wharf and the sea, was a short distance ahead. The thief needed to act soon. Eris smiled. The night was proving more profitable than he ever imagined. Perhaps he would add a few more coins to his fattening purse. He continued on.

  The clumsy scrape sounded again, but suddenly much closer than he anticipated. Eris swung around into his fighting stance. At the same moment, he heard the clicked release and whistle of a crossbow quarrel as it flew in the darkness. He froze. There was but a moment to hope the assailant was unskilled, when the quarrel thunked into the wood behind him.