Chronicles of the Golden City Read online

  CHRONICLES OF THE GOLDEN CITY

  A.P. KNIGHT

  Copyright © 2022 by A.P. Knight

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  First Edition

  Cover Design by Dissect Designs

  Interior Design by Danielle Acee

  Edited by Ethan White

  www.authorapknight.com

  To Tyler because, well, I thought you would appreciate having a book dedicated to you.

  CONTENTS

  Part 1

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part 2

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part 3

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  A Word from the Author

  PART 1

  UNFADING HOPE

  CHAPTER 1

  OATHS

  “Our terms are surrender,” said the young warrior, his voice as sharp as his sheathed sword. “Complete and utter surrender.”

  “Complete and utter ... surrender,” repeated the enemy, a white flag of truce draped over his shoulder. The enemy’s face bore the pain of defeat, yet a silent rage smoldered within his eyes as he stared at the young warrior. “Alas, you have spoken a dreadful thing. But how can I argue this heavy sentence? The battle has been fought, and as we speak, the blood of my men soaks into the ground. This day shall be a blight upon my memory for the remainder of my years. If complete and utter surrender are the terms, then such terms shall mournfully be accepted. Let we who have been defeated return now to our homes, that we may begin the task of rebuilding our lives.”

  Bowing his head, the enemy turned to begin the slow walk back to his men, but harsh words from the young warrior turned him back.

  “Understanding flees you,” said the young warrior. “You may not return to your land. You must leave these lands, for they are no longer your home. Those are the terms of your surrender, and they shall not be negotiated.”

  The enemy’s face glowed red like blood. “Leave this land?” he said, his voice hot with rage. “Must you disgrace us beyond our defeat? Must you shame us beyond what we are able to endure? Under the skies of heaven, have you no mercy?”

  “Mercy!” growled the young warrior. “A more unjust use of that word has never been uttered in the history of men. Was it mercy that compelled you to enslave the lowly of this land? Was it for the sake of mercy that you scarred the backs of the innocent with the whip? Where was your precious mercy when fathers and mothers were forced to feed their hungry children the few scraps of food that you couldn’t fit into your belly? You are allowed to leave this field of battle on the strength of your two feet, but apart from this, you shall be shown no mercy, for you gave none. You laid this land low under the yoke of slavery, but those days of darkness are finished. So leave this land, for it is no longer yours to disgrace.”

  The enemy’s eyes glowed fierce, as though they were coals of fire stoked hot by billows. “Complete and utter surrender,” said the enemy raggedly, and he spat upon the ground. “If that’s how you’ll have it, then so be it.” Unsheathing his sword, the enemy tossed it at the feet of the young warrior. “There is my sword. Take it, and may it bring a curse to you and your family for the brevity of your remaining days.”

  “The brevity of our remaining days?” said the young warrior, and he drew his sword and pointed it at the enemy. “Is that a challenge?”

  “No, it’s not a challenge,” said the enemy with a wicked smile as he sauntered backwards. “It’s more dreadful than a challenge. It’s a prophecy!”

  As the enemy spoke, his smile morphed into a snarl, and he gave up his retreat. Pulling a dagger from a small sheath at his side, the enemy hurled the blade like a flash of lightning.

  With a thud the dagger sank deep into the young warrior’s chest. Gasping for breath, the young warrior dropped his sword and staggered backwards before, with failing strength, he wilted to his knees. As the young warrior’s face turned white, in a last desperate attempt to save his life, he lifted his hands to the dagger, but just as his hands reached the weapon, his body went limp, and he collapsed lifelessly onto his side.

  The enemy walked to the dead body of the young warrior, and placing a foot on his chest, the enemy ripped out his dagger. The enemy then grabbed the white flag of truce that hung over his shoulder, and waving it above his head as if he were conjuring a storm, he turned to his men and raised a wild, piercing cry. With a roar his men returned his battle cry, and, waving their swords above their heads, they rallied to him.

  But as the enemy army gathered like a darkening storm cloud to mount a final assault, in the distance another sound swept over the battlefield, a resounding blare that was as hollow as it was piercing, as beautiful as it was fierce, and as mournful as it was inspired with undying hope.

  A man of towering size raised a ram’s horn to his lips, and with a deep breath he gave a final, prolonged blast. Then, abandoning his lines, and with his allies close behind, he took off across the field of battle like a beast pursuing its prey. The waves of his dark hair flowed in the wind as he thundered through the high grasses of the plains, sword drawn, his eyes fixed upon his son’s murderer.

  Teeth bared, the father approached the opposing army at full stride, and with a growl rising from deep within his chest, he unleashed the fury of his sword upon them. The sound of metal clashing with metal rang through the air, followed by cries of anguish as the father’s deadly strokes met their mark. Soon the rest of the father’s allies had arrived and engaged their foe, yet still the father fought, tirelessly swiping, and thrusting his bloody sword into anyone who dared to cross his path, anyone who stood between him and his target.

  At last, having cut a deadly scar through the enemy horde, the father found himself standing before his son’s murderer. The noise of the surrounding battle faded as the father and the enemy raised their swords to each other.

  “Shall I have two trophies in the same day, both son and father?” said the enemy with a taunting smile. “I never could have dreamed of such generous fortunes. The only question is, how shall it be done? Shall I impale you? Shall I cut your throat? Or, shall the father have the same fate as his son?”

  With a hideous cackle, the enemy pulled out his dagger, still stained with the blood of the young warrior, and after waving the blade playfully from side to side, the enemy made his move. With a snap of his wrist, he hurled the dagger through the air. The father dove to the ground as the blade tore across his shoulder.

  A stream of warm blood trickled down the father’s
arm as he rose to his feet. He pulled out his sword, as did the enemy, and the men approached each other until their blades were nearly touching.

  “You’ve made this land weep,” growled the father, and lunging forward, he took a mighty swipe at the enemy’s sword, knocking it to the side.

  The enemy hastily retreated a step as he regained his balance before raising his sword again.

  “In blood and toil you’ve inflicted torment upon the lowly of this land,” said the father, and rearing back, he took another hard swipe at the enemy’s sword.

  Again, the enemy was forced backwards.

  The father pointed his sword, and with a dark, piercing gaze, he looked straight into the enemy’s eyes. “The days of weeping and dread have passed, for your wickedness has finally been made to stand in the presence of justice. For you, it is over.”

  Like the roar of a lion, the father raised a war cry of terrifying authority, and charging the enemy, the father swung his sword like a whirlwind. The enemy’s sword was knocked from his grip, and as it flew across the battlefield, in the same sweeping motion the father struck the enemy across the neck. Falling in a heap, the murderer’s life drained out of him.

  With the defeat of their leader, the hearts of the enemy army melted, and in fear they fled the battlefield. The father and his allies pursued the enemy army until the land was cleansed of their presence, but when the warriors returned from their victory, there was no celebration.

  The father wandered through the matted grasses of the plains until he came to the place where his fallen son lay. The father knelt beside his son and passed a hand gently through his son’s hair, dark and flowing like his own. The son’s hair was still damp with perspiration, and for a fleeting moment hope flickered within the father that life still remained within his son. But then the father looked upon his son’s face. It was cold and lifeless as a stone.

  The father raised his head and swept his eyes across the battlefield. Dyed crimson, the battlefield was strewn with bodies: some dead, some dying, and some forever maimed. Lifting his voice above the cries of agony that filled the air, the father shouted, “Was it worth it? Wives have lost husbands. Children have lost fathers. Fathers and mothers have lost their dear sons. Tell me now, was our fight worth it?”

  Among the many who were aiding the wounded and mourning the lost, not one person answered.

  “There is but one way that such a fight was worth fighting,” shouted the father, his deep voice sounding over the plains like a war horn. “We who live must never forget. We must never forget the cause for which we fought, and for which our beloved have died. Take oaths now, each one of us. Take oaths to forever remember. Take oaths to tell your children, and your children’s children, of the cost of liberty. For the freedom of this land was paid with blood.”

  Upon speaking his words, the father dropped his head into his hands and wept.

  CHAPTER 2

  REASONS

  The air dripped with humidity as Harper scanned the forest from behind a fallen tree, bow in hand. Silent as the dead of night, not a snap from a twig or a crunch of underbrush could be heard. Not even the air dared to whisper through the trees. Droplets of water gathered like a small army within Harper’s dark hair before stealthily descending upon his forehead. The droplets rolled down his face in streaks until they fell off his jaw.

  Linden let out a sigh. “Stupid roots,” he muttered, and he shifted his weight. He rested his head against the tree, then sighed again.

  Harper looked at Linden and rolled his eyes.

  Linden squirmed again. “No matter how I sit, I can’t get comfortable.”

  “Shh,” said Harper.

  Linden sighed yet again. “This is so boring. Uncomfortable and boring. Why did I decide to come hunting with you?”

  “The bigger question is, why did I let you come hunting with me,” mumbled Harper. He shook his head in annoyance as he turned his attention back to the forest, hoping the deer hadn’t heard their short conversation.

  “But why do you even like hunting?” said Linden. “All you do is sit and wait, and hopefully a deer comes into view before you fall asleep.”

  “And hopefully a deer comes into view before you scare them all away because you can’t keep your mouth shut,” responded Harper. “Seriously, you’ve got to be quiet.”

  “But I can’t be quiet,” said Linden. “I have to know. Why do you like hunting when it’s so boring?”

  Harper rolled his eyes again. “It’s not that I like to hunt. It’s that I like to eat. Which, considering your skinniness, you probably can’t understand. Besides, it won’t be much of a spring festival tonight if we don’t have any food.”

  “Huh,” said Linden, furrowing his forehead in thought. “Hunting isn’t something you like to do. It’s a survival-type of thing. I guess that makes more sense.”

  “Yes, it makes perfect sense,” said Harper. “But you know what the real question in all of this is? How did you get so skinny?”

  Linden scowled as he let his head drop limply to the side. “Harper, you literally ask me that question every week.”

  “I know,” said Harper with a growing smile, “but it’s beyond belief that somebody could be as skinny as you are.”

  “As I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s not my fault,” said Linden. “My dad’s skinny. My mom’s skinny. I’m skinny. What am I supposed to do about it?”

  “Have you tried exercising to make your muscles bigger and stronger?” said Harper.

  Linden bit his lips to keep from smiling. “Uh, maybe every once in a while.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Harper.

  Silence finally returned to the forest. Harper strained his eyes, looking for signs of life that might be hiding in the thickets and dark shadows. Time passed slowly, and it wasn’t long before Linden was fidgeting again.

  “It’s so hot,” said Linden.

  “Shh,” said Harper.

  “And it’s only morning,” said Linden.

  “Shh,” said Harper, louder this time.

  Linden blew a lock of his curly, sandy-brown hair out of his face, then looked at Harper. “You know, I sweat the bed last night.”

  Harper’s cheeks inflated with air, and when he couldn’t fit any more air into his cheeks, it snorted out his nose. Finally, Harper gave up trying, and he lowered his head and shook with laughter.

  “I woke up in the middle of the night soaking wet,” Linden continued. “In my grogginess I thought to myself, no way, I couldn’t have! But then I figured out it was only sweat, which was a relief.”

  Harper set down his bow and leaned his back against the downed tree. He rubbed his eyes as he regained control of himself following his laughing attack, then let his hands drag slowly down his face. “I can’t believe how poorly hunting is going. At this rate, I’ll never spot any deer.” Harper let out a long breath, then wiped his shirt sleeve across his brow in an attempt to dry his forehead. “But maybe it’s not us that’s keeping the deer away. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe they’re resting in the shade.” Harper looked at Linden. “Do you think that’s it? Do you think the deer are too hot and have bedded down for the day?”

  But Linden wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was staring off into nowhere.

  “Isn’t it weird to think,” Linden finally said, “tomorrow we’ll be on our way to Mascaroth? Soldiers of Mascaroth. Soldiers of the Golden City. Sounds funny, doesn’t it?” He looked at Harper, and Harper showed his agreement with a nod. “I’ve never been far from home, maybe half a day’s ride at the most. But you know, I’m looking forward to it. It’ll give me a chance to spread my wings. You know, find myself. I’m almost positive I’ll find her, too.”

  Harper raised his eyebrows. “Her?”

  “My wife,” said Linden.

  “You’re jesting,” said Harper. “You’re planning on finding your wife in Mascaroth?”

  “Of course,” said Linden, as if shocked to hear that Harper was sur
prised. “Why else would I go to Mascaroth? To fight battles?”

  “Um, well, that’s usually what soldiers do.”

  “Nah,” said Linden. “The soldier thing is just a cover. The real reason I’m going to Mascaroth is to find me a wife. And who knows what will happen after that? Blissfully married, I may never return home to Weston.”

  Harper gave his head a small shake, trying to rid his brain of all he’d just heard.

  “You think I’m crazy?” said Linden.

  Harper fought a smile as he gave his shoulders a prolonged shrug.

  “Okay, if I’m so crazy, then why are you going to Mascaroth? Do you have a better reason? I doubt it.”

  Harper’s smile faded, and he looked up at the lonely rays of light that had broken through the canopy of leaves and branches. “When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me stories. Stories of battles that had been fought. Stories of mighty warriors.” Harper smirked. “I think he made most of them up. But when I was younger, it didn’t matter if they were made up or not. The stories caught my mind, and for as long as I can remember I’ve dreamed of being one of those warriors. You know, a person who fights for what’s just.” Harper lowered his gaze from the trees and looked at Linden. “I suppose that’s why I’m going to Mascaroth. It’s so I can be a soldier. Even if I never have to fight any battles, being a soldier seems like an honorable thing to do.”