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Blood of the Fallen
Blood Scrolls Trilogy: Volume I

Written by Poppy Reid

Illustrated by Alastair Brook and Jack Burdess

Edited by Vicky McGhie

Published October 2014

©Poppy Reid

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author.

To contact Poppy Reid, please visit www.poppyroybal.wix.com/bloodofthefallen

ISBN-13: 978-1503086166

ISBN-10: 150308616X

I’ve always had a fascination with the fantasy genre – it’s so flexible, limitless, romantic, and can be mixed with virtually any other genre. I’m honoured to be part of a community of fantasy writers, a community which is constantly expanding and getting more awesome with each passing year.

Special thanks to Alastair Brook and Jack Burdess for doing such a great job on the book cover. To Leo Roybal, who has been there to support me every step of the way. To Vicky McGhie, who put aside her time to edit this. And to James Foulds, who just wanted to be mentioned.

You, the reader, have my thanks for purchasing this book, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it. Thank you!

Yesterday’s rain had settled on the trees overhead. Large drops of old rainwater fell noisily onto the fractured wood and muddy leaves that were strewn underneath the surrounding oaks. The almost musical patter of the droplets covered the sound of chainmail boots softly crunching through the bushes. Villid steadied himself, crouching low between the wet brambles, his eyes fixed on the forest clearing just ahead of him, where a small, warthog-like creature grazed, unaware that its every move was being watched.
Silently, Villid took a thick, sharp dagger from his belt and raised it high above his head, aiming carefully. In a split second, the warthog lifted its head slightly, as if hearing something other than the droplets of yesterday’s rainstorm.
The dagger was thrown cleanly, neatly, through the air, quick as lightning. It caught the warthog on its thick throat, cutting it slightly, before piercing a nearby tree. The beast gave a terrified grunt and began to gallop around the clearing, throwing back its head as it stumbled along, blood spurting from its neck.
Villid raced out of his bush and threw himself onto the squealing animal, drawing a second dagger, which was sharper and longer than the first. With one clean swipe he beheaded the creature. Crimson blood spurted onto the
ground and onto Villid as the heavy head rolled into the bushes, and with a huge shudder, the beast lay still.
Villid got to his feet and cleaned his blade on the grass, his ears pricked for any sound of further prey. He wiped some blood from his mouth, tucked the killing knife into his belt, and examined the animal that he had just slaughtered.
Villid was tall and broad-shouldered, his sun-battered skin covered in cuts, burns and scars acquired from rigorous training and bloodthirsty battles. Villid’s dark hair was almost shoulder-length and bristles of hair covered his cheeks and chin. A bronze-hilted sword accompanied by a heavy battle axe hung on his back, and daggers and knives sat round his waist, ready for quick kills. He was dressed in a ragged tunic stained with blood, mud and grime.
Villid groaned slightly as his knee throbbed with a sharp pain; he found the wound and saw a deep gash in the lower part of his right leg, made by a defensive attack from the warthog. He pushed himself to his feet, hoisted the dead beast onto his shoulder, and began a steady pace back through the forest, listening out for any unfriendly sounds.
Villid was a Tyran, and the Tyrans were one of the most feared races in Theldiniya. Until two hundred years ago, when the Darkma almost destroyed their race, they had ruled on the brink of ultimate authority. Now, however, the Tyrans were almost dead. They were based in the northern city of Xentar, the Tyran capital, where the weather was brutal – hailstorms and hurricanes ripped the
land in the winter, and famine scorched the land in the summer. The Tyrans lived and worked in tightly-knit tribes whilst their two-century long war with the Darkma raged on. Theldiniya had nearly been torn apart by the Red Wars for two hundred years now, and showed no promise of ending anytime soon.
From birth, Tyrans were stripped of any comfort and given a number, which was branded onto their chest, a lifelong symbol of their faith to Xentar and their people. Underneath Villid’s tunic, just above his heart, was the branded number six thousand one hundred and twenty-seven, given to him to mark his place with his division’s warriors. From the moment they could walk, Tyran children were trained in the arts of combat and stealth to join their people in glorious battle.
The Tyrans hunted alone, not returning to their tribe’s camp until they had found food. Sometimes this lasted for days at a time, especially during the vicious, famine-ridden summer where food and water was scarce. In the cooler, kinder weather of the eastern forest where they were now, however, Villid had found his prey in just a few short hours, and revelled in the thought of a warm evening meal that was sure to come soon. The beast he carried on his shoulder now was slim and small compared to the larger animals he was used to, but it would feed him and his group at the very least.
Darkness was falling rapidly. In the distance, Villid could
see the flickering light of the first evening’s fire made by his fellow Tyrans. Hoisting the dead warthog higher onto his back, he came out of the thicket of trees and limped into another, larger forest clearing, where the rest of his tribe sat in small groups, murmuring quietly to each other, a few turning to glance at Villid as he carried the carcass past them. Villid’s own group consisted of three other Tyran men, who were poking the flames of their fire and muttering to each other.
“Your meal, gents,” he said, dropping the dead warthog next to the fire. Blood splattered the nearby Tyrans, who grunted in approval. The nearest, who was branded six thousand one hundred and twenty-six and known as Swift, clapped Villid on the shoulder as he sat. “Less than two hours, brother,” he said approvingly. Swift had been born from the same Tyran woman as Villid six minutes before Villid had been born, and they had grown up in the same tribe and fought together in training since childhood. Swift looked almost the exact opposite from his brother; he was of slim build, and his long blond hair was almost waist-length.
Villid said nothing but sat beside Swift, used another knife to slice a large chunk of flesh from the dead warthog’s body, and began to roast it above the fire, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. The other Tyrans in the group nodded, unsmiling, and copied him, and a pleasant smell of cooking meat soon wafted through the air.
“Six-one-twenty-seven!” barked a loud voice. Villid answered automatically, jumping to his feet at once despite the stabbing pain in his leg, letting the roasting meat slide slowly off the skewer and onto the grass beside him.
A large Tyran approached the group, his steps heavy, his thick eyebrows curved into a frown as he marched towards them.
He was slightly taller than Villid, his face was weathered and scarred, and the shadows round his steel grey eyes were black and battered. His waist-length hair was jet black and straggly, and a thick grey wolf skin hung from his otherwise bare shoulders. He was the tribe leader, branded four thousand and seventy-nine, known as Shade. “Warthog meat,” he grunted, glancing at the beast’s corpse, which was half ripped apart by Villid’s hungry group. “The first catch tonight. TYRANS!” he suddenly bellowed, and the men in Villid’s group jumped to their feet. “See to it that this meat is taken to my space immediately,” Shade ordered.
Villid felt a twinge of anger as the Tyrans obediently heaved the warthog carcass and dragged it over to where Shade’s bedroll lay, next to a crackling fire, glaring at each other but remaining silent. Shade watched them, a smirk creeping across his weathered face. He turned back to Villid.
“My thanks for fetching my evening meal, six-one-twenty-seven,” he growled. “You’ll need a clear mind for tonight.”
It was considered disrespectful to look a tribe leader in the eyes, so Villid stared straight past Shade and into the trees ahead, his stomach growling in indignation. The setting sun winked at him from behind the treetops, the sky was turning purple, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Shade glaring down at him.
Shade stepped back, cleared his throat and addressed the whole group, around forty Tyrans in total, all closely sat in groups of three or four, starting fires and chopping wood. Each Tyran stopped instantly at Shade’s words, and turned to face him, getting to their feet with a rustle of cloth and metal.
“Warriors,” Shade bellowed to the listening group, his deep voice echoing clearly through the forest clearing. “Tonight, we face an old enemy.”
The interest in the group sharpened.
“It is time we enforced the power of the Tyrans in this eastern forest. We are here to battle the
Elves.”
A loud murmuring broke out amongst the warriors. An electric emotion charged through the air; interest, excitement, anticipation. The Tyrans loved a battle, and this one was unexpected. A few of the Tyrans cheered. Shade gave a smug smile.
It was then that the crowd of mumbling soldiers fell silent when a trembling voice pierced the whispers that flew around the clearing, like the sharp hoot of an owl in a breeze.
“You fool.”
Silence fell across the clearing. A thin, frail old Tyran was the only soldier who hadn’t risen to his feet at Shade’s words. His long grey hair was thin, and his watery eyes were old and wise from years of living. He looked hundreds of years old. His bony shoulders were covered by a thick wolverine skin similar to Shade’s, but decorated with different sized teeth and brightly coloured feathers from various beasts, symbols of the hundreds of battles he’d encountered in his lifetime.
He was the Tyran’s Seer, a priest who had been chosen by the Dragons to follow a life of worship and guide the Tyrans spiritually through tradition. So long had he been the very last Seer of his kind, the rest of the tribes had, in time, forgotten his name, so now he was just known as ‘the Seer’. For most of Villid’s life the old priest had helped him train, watched over him, and kept him safe. He was the closest thing to a friend that Villid had had whilst growing up in the otherwise harsh land of Xentar, where passion and kindness were scarce. Villid looked at the old Seer now and noticed how thin and frail he looked, especially in recent months. Now, however, he sat with a definite inner strength. The old man glared at the tribe leader, his hand shaking on his gnarled staff. He raised a thin finger and pointed at Shade, who stared coldly back. “Have you forgotten the Tyran laws, Shade?” he asked.
“Hold your tongue, Seer,” snarled a young Tyran closest to him. The old man ignored him.
“Gone are the days where the Tyrans faithfully served the Dragons,” the Seer said. He got to his feet slowly, leaning on his staff with his trembling hand.
“There are no Dragons left,” said Shade shortly. “You have been worshipping and serving for far too long. How can you argue, Seer, that the laws are still valid, if there are no Dragons to support them?”
The Seer limped slowly towards Shade, pushing the surrounding Tyrans aside, past the staring eyes of the rest of the group. Each step looked like a huge effort but his tired grey eyes never left Shade’s. The Seer’s ancient body was weak, but anger burned on his face.
“No Dragons?” he thundered. “A single temple is left standing in Xentar, our homeland! The one temple I could protect! This is the temple that keeps the thin fabric of Tyran faith alive! Have you not wondered, Shade, why in two hundred years since the great war began, the Tyrans still have not achieved the strength we aim for? Two centuries we have battled, two centuries of stalemate! Have you not stopped to consider, Shade, that lack of faith is to blame!”
The Tyran Seer stopped before the tribe leader, not breaking eye contact, rage in his wrinkled face, steadying himself on his staff. His whole body shook, but whether from anger or age, nobody could tell.
“Corruption has blinded us!” the Seer shouted to the surrounding Tyrans. “Only a handful of us still pray at the
temple! I am the last remaining Seer of our tribe, the last of seven, who in turn have died -”
“Exactly!” Shade interrupted triumphantly. “Died! What protection have the Dragons ever offered the Seers? None!”
“The Dragons have never promised immortality,” the Seer said shortly.
“And what have they granted you, you old fool?” Shade jeered.
The Seer glared at him. “Heed this warning!” he shouted, turning to the crowd of Tyran soldiers. “We must not attack the
Elves! The Dragons have shown me a terrible future that we Tyrans might suffer if we disobey them now. We must turn back, return to Xentar, and forget this foolishness!”
It was rare that the Seer spoke of his time in the last temple, where he would spend hours of the days and nights praying. Villid knew that when he was a child, most of Xentars temples had been burned to the ground by revolutionising Tyrans, who claimed that religion in Tyran society was a waste of time and resources. The Seer, Villid had heard, had almost died protecting the last temple in Xentar. It sat on a mountain a mile from the grand gates, an old, almost forgotten shrine that now only had one frequent visitor. Since then, the Seer had visited the temple daily, but never spoke of religion to others. Never since the burning of the temples had the Seer spoken so fiercely about Tyran laws, laws that were now less than important in their modern
society.
Swift muttered to Villid. “Perhaps the Seer is right,” he whispered. “The Seers were greatly respected a long time ago. Only he now prays at the last temple.”
The Seer looked tired and angry, glaring at Shade with determination. But behind his eyes, Villid could see a tired, desperate old man, who couldn’t convince the tribe leader alone.
“Are we making a mistake, Shade?” Villid suddenly asked, before he could stop himself. Swift and the surrounding Tyrans glared at him in disbelief. Shade’s face was contorted with rage. The Seer gave Villid a small, approving nod, his ancient face unsmiling.
“We did not travel this far to turn back!” Shade shouted angrily. “Without a solid base in the east that we can control, the Tyrans are doomed to either become slaves to the Darkma, or else be wiped from existence once and for all! The Tyran laws do not matter! Times have changed since your Seeing days, old man,” he hissed, his face inches from the Seer’s. “Tonight, we battle the
Elves, forbidden or not!”
The Seer’s eyes remained fixed on Shade, and an inner strength seemed to reverberate from him. “Nothing good will come of this,” he whispered. “If we attack the
Elves and defy the Dragons now, they will leave us forever!”
“They have already left us!” Shade spat.
“Because you have made it that way!” the Seer cried.
Shade made an angry hissing noise, his skin turning an ugly reddish-purple as he glared viciously at the irate Tyran Seer. “You will pay for your treason,” he whispered. “Soldiers, at midnight, we travel to the Elven village!”
“Fool,” breathed the Seer. “No good will come from this.”
Shade pushed the old man aside, his heavy boots leaving dark footprints in the mud as he marched towards the soldiers.
“Listen to me!” he shouted to the Tyrans. “The Dragons have left us! The Tyrans need to rebuild the old empire by expanding our influence here in the east. The