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The Triskelion Book One of The Guardians of Glede Excerpt |
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The Triskelion came about from a picture that I saw in a dictionary - the triskelion. I have seen many different definitions of the triskele. Some say it's the trinity, some say it's maiden-mother-crone. In my books, it stand for the Triad Gods - Honor, Valor and Mercy. The crossed swords tie all of the Glede books together. Currently, there are 25 books written, hopefully soon to be published! This book is the 2004 Dream Realm Award winner for Young Adult
ISBN: 1920741070 Ebook Formats: PDF, PDB (Palm), HTML, LIT (Microsoft Reader), PRC (Unencrypted Mobipocket), RB (Rocket 1100), IMP (Gemstar 1150/Ebookwise), IMP (Gemstar 2150/Rocket 1200) Price: US $4.95
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"Fate dictates all." The words echoed in Jansson's mind. Perhaps they were meant to bring him peace, to console him at a time of no consolation. He repeated his father's words over and over, even as the horse beneath him tore through the Davan countryside, war trolls in pursuit. Tears blurred his vision, and he was thankful he was not the one guiding the horse. He could feel the arms of his bodyguard, Ghel, around him, but they had lost strength. Dozens of arrows had fallen on the duo as they sped away from Mayfaire Castle, and, even though considered still a child at thirteen, Jansson wasn't so naive as to think none had met their mark. Ghel's muscular body had been an effective barrier, keeping the missiles from hitting Jansson. Guilt ate at Jansson's soul, but he could do nothing to help. His father's last orders had been firm - "Take the prince to Lidgerwood. Let nothing stop you." - and Ghel would not disobey, not even in the face of his own death. And so they rode; through the night, finally outdistancing the troll warriors. With the coming of morning, the great stallion finally stumbled and went down. Several arrows protruded from its flank, and blood stained the hindquarters. Ghel pulled Jansson away from the animal, his own breathing ragged and forced. Jansson stared at the dying horse, his heart torn with grief. Gently, he stroked the beast’s neck as it breathed its last. "Sleep well, brave one," Jansson whispered, then turned to Ghel. The guard had propped himself against a large boulder. In his hands was an arrow, its tip bloodied. Jansson steeled his resolve and scooted toward the man. "I am sorry, Your Highness," Ghel mumbled, his eyes closing. "Ghel?" Jansson whispered. He shook the man gently. "Ghel?" Ghel forced his eyes open. "Your Highness, you must go on. You must continue to Lidgerwood. The elves … will protect you." He coughed, and blood trickled from his mouth. He reached up and grasped Jansson’s arm. "The trolls … they may follow … you must go … on." His body seized with a spasm and he groaned, then closed his eyes once more, his hand falling away from Jansson. Jansson stared in shock, then backed away. He had never seen death up close. His life as the crown prince had afforded him copious amounts of protection, had shielded him from life's cruelties. His gaze danced furtively about his surroundings. The wind rustled through the trees; some small animal chattered loudly. Jansson’s gaze went back to Ghel. After a moment, he crawled forward to take Ghel’s sword and dagger. He strapped both to his own waist and rose, then abruptly sank to his knees, unable to stop his tears. Ghel had been his last lifeline, his last hope. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes, seeing again the attack on the castle. He'd left his father there, the only family he had. His hand went to the pouch hidden beneath his tunic. It held his father's ring, the symbol of his power. King Brann had given it to Jansson, with the instructions to keep it safe, keep it close. Jansson had had no time to ponder on why it had been given, and now he did not make the time. His gaze went again to the dead horse, and back to Ghel. He had not the strength or the time for a proper burial. He brushed his wet cheeks on the sleeve of his cloak, and rose. It was no easy task for a boy as slight as he was to drag Ghel's lifeless body to the horse's side. He draped Ghel's cloak over him, closed his eyes in a modest prayer to the Triad Gods, and turned away. Both mountain ranges in the land of Glede were rock-crested, their lower flanks heavily forested with cone trees. In the few small clearings grew brown scrub and other bushes, not yet in spring leaf. Patches of snow still remained, scattered about on the brown earth. Jansson had been in these woods only a few times, to hunt. Then, he had a well-stocked entourage with him. What did he know of foraging? Mindful of Ghel’s words that the trolls might track him, he stayed off the trail, but always kept it in sight. A part of him, where hope lingered, still wanted to believe the elfin soldiers would ride to his rescue, but as the day wore on and evening approached, reality took hold and he knew that help would not be forthcoming. Handfuls of snow had slaked his thirst, but his stomach rumbled hungrily. He looked for a clearing. Perhaps there he could find some of the hackleberries Ghel had once told him about. They were the only ones likely to have survived the winter, solely because the bushes were so spiny the creatures of the forest preferred other forage. Finally, he found what he sought. He eased one hand among the long barbs and collected a handful of the withered fruits. They smelled like rotten grapes and tasted not much better, but they eased the gnawing in his stomach. He wandered amongst the bushes, searching out the least shrunken berries. When he looked up, he realized he had lost sight of the trail. The moon had not yet cleared the mountaintops, and night was falling fast and dark. Trying to stem his increasing panic, he fought his way through tangles of brush, scrambled across fallen trees, and stumbled over clumps of newly-emerging ferns. He slipped, fell, rose and pushed on, but could not find the trail. Finally, overcome with exhaustion, he sagged to the ground, leg muscles quivering with the unaccustomed exertion. His arms and face were scratched from his frantic flight, and the berries churned in a stomach too long with fear and without food. Turning his head, he retched, heaving again and again, until there was nothing left. Spent, he lay damp with sweat, his cheek pressed against a cushion of cone tree needles. The chill night air swept across him and left him shivering, feeling more dead than alive. Fatigue clawed at his mind and, although he tried to rise and go on, he could not. He pulled his cloak tight and curled up against a fallen tree. From the darkness came the whispery sounds of stealthy movements. Perhaps it was the elves, finally arriving. But he saw nothing, no one. Too exhausted, too ill, too filled with despair, he closed his eyes and fell into the uneasy darkness of tortured sleep.
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