âSome call me Murderer, others call me Lord. I've been called Savior and Enslaver. But no one has ever called me Child.â
A young man signs his own death warrant when he joins an already failing militia. A teenage girl is haunted by her childhood abuse and begins to crave the very things she hates. A childless mother finds herself on the run as a convicted murderer. Yet, they are all unaware that their own fates are tied to a young orphan who has drowned and come back to life in a foreign land where he will be the death of everyone he meets.
HĂŠlendâs Ballad is a tale about what happens when men and women from two colliding cultures realize they may not be on the right side. Heroes are villains. The persecuted are oppressors. And when rumors begin to spread that the world is dying, the darkness of their own hearts betrays them.
âSome call me Murderer, others call me Lord. I've been called Savior and Enslaver. But no one has ever called me Child.â
A young man signs his own death warrant when he joins an already failing militia. A teenage girl is haunted by her childhood abuse and begins to crave the very things she hates. A childless mother finds herself on the run as a convicted murderer. Yet, they are all unaware that their own fates are tied to a young orphan who has drowned and come back to life in a foreign land where he will be the death of everyone he meets.
HĂŠlendâs Ballad is a tale about what happens when men and women from two colliding cultures realize they may not be on the right side. Heroes are villains. The persecuted are oppressors. And when rumors begin to spread that the world is dying, the darkness of their own hearts betrays them.
As the breeze blew the tails of EilĂvurâs coat behind him, he peered across the Llynhithe port docks to the rising tides of the Swelling Sea. He pulled the letter from his pocket and fiddled with the corner as his gaze wandered to a group of sailors, gesturing and shouting while they raised the sails upon the foremast of a great ship. A boatswain pointed toward the outhaul, and several men gripped the rope, tightening the sail which billowed out in the wind.
âBlasted airâs gone chilly again,â came a voice from behind.
EilĂvur turned as Commander JĂłtham approached in his black uniform, which only seemed to accentuate his pale skin, even by Daecish standards. âLlynhithe isnât so bad,â he replied. âAt least you can see the sun.â
JĂłtham grinned, revealing his ghastly brownish-gray teethâunfit for an officer. âWith all due respect, Commander Tyr, you havenât been here but two days. Youâll grow to hate it, too.â He pointed to the letter in EilĂvurâs hand. âAre those my orders?â
EilĂvur faintly nodded and scratched his cleanshaven face. His eyes wandered to a row of crooked wooden buildings. Gray thatched roofs sagged around the seemingly rotting beams beneath them. âAnywhere we can get a drink?â
JĂłtham let out a hack, which EilĂvur assumed was meant to be a chuckle. âA drink? Commander, this isnât Everwind.â
EilĂvur didnât bother replying.
JĂłtham rolled his eyes and pointed down the road. âThereâs a tavern not far from here.â
Stepping through the open entryway, the smell of sour milk and lantern oil filled EilĂvurâs nose. Several Sunderian men, clothed in brown leather tunics and jerkins, sat at the bar. As with just about everyone else in Sunder, they looked like poor farmers. One man, with a leathery face, smiled, revealing his toothless gums. Another man chewed on something, probably tobacco. EilĂvur never smoked, but even he knew tobacco was for smoking in pipes, not chewing raw.
JĂłtham motioned for the barman to bring them a drink as they sat at the table situated beside a hand-blown window wrapped in a rotting frame. Gazing back at the port docks, EilĂvur could almost make out the reflection of his graying blonde hair in the glass.
âIâve about had it with this country,â JĂłtham whispered as he glanced over his shoulder at the men at the bar.
The barman brought two mugs of ale and set them on the table. âYou want to go back to Daecland?â EilĂvur asked before taking a sip of ale. He frowned as he forced the liquid down his throat. JĂłtham was right. This tasted little better than bilge water. A hot cup of tea would have been nicer.
âI donât know,â he replied with a sigh. âAt least out of Llynhithe. But anyway,â he pointed to the letter again, âwhat have you got for me?â
âGreystromâs arrest papers.â
JĂłtham raised an eye. âLombard Greystrom? Has he been found?â
âA scout found him and his family nearly forty leagues due west of here in the Western Plains, just north of the Arglen Valley.â
âThe Western Plains? We should have known.â
âWeâve always been pretty certain. But finding a homestead in the vastness of the plains isnât easy.â
âWell, itâs about time,â JĂłtham replied. âThis Black Horse will wishââ
EilĂvur lifted a finger. âDark Horse, you mean?â
JĂłtham waved his finger away. âWhatever you want to call the leaders of the Slithering,â he rolled his hand for the word. âThe Slitheringââ
âThe Silent Hither?â
âYes, thatâs what I said.â
âAnyway,â EilĂvur interrupted, âI had planned on arresting Greystrom myself, but as soon as I arrived in Llynhithe, I was asked to take on a series of training courses for the Nautical Armada, effective immediately.â
âYouâre a man of many talents, arenât you?â
EilĂvur sighed. âUnfortunately. So, I must find a replacement for arresting Greystrom.â
âAnd that would be me?â
âI thought you would be a good fit. And you did mention that youâd like to spend some time outside of Llynhithe.â
JĂłtham laughed. âIâm not so sure the Western Plains were what I had in mind.â He interlocked his fingers, cracking his knuckles. âBut I guess itâs better than nothing. When do I depart?â
EilĂvur pushed the letter toward JĂłtham. âNext week.â
JĂłtham slid his mug out of the way and unfolded the letter, reading through its contents. âCertainly gives me enough time to prepare. Do you already have a team lined up?â
âThree men, fully armored and equipped, as well as yourself. You shouldnât have any problems.â
âSounds reasonable for the arrest of one man. And the family?â
EilĂvur threw JĂłtham a stern look. âThe family is to be untouched, obviously, unless youâre using self-defense.â
JĂłtham nodded but said nothing as he continued reading.
âThatâs very important, JĂłtham. We donât need the blood of women and children on our hands.â
âOf course not,â he replied, waving his hand in the air.
EilĂvur sat back. âOne other thing,â he said. âOne of your men will be Ulnleif.â
JĂłtham glanced up, a cocked grin on his face.
âItâs his first mission outside of Llynhithe.â
âLook,â JĂłtham said, âit isnât a secret that youâre protective of your brother. You want me to give him a special role or something?â
âNo, no,â EilĂvur replied. âTreat him like the others. I just want to be sure everything is done right. Heâs still young.â
JĂłtham took a last draught of ale, tipping it up as he finished. âDonât worry, Commander. Your brother will do fine, and weâll have Lombard in the gallows before you get back to Everwind.â
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* * *
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Although the sun lay hidden behind the hills, it still managed to cast a thin light against the fleeting darkness. Lombard gazed across the rolling landscape, dotted with sparse withered plants. A sad memory lay in those hills as if they could remember when the land once stood green and lush before it faded into a barren death. But maybe it was his own conscience that made it seem that wayâa reflection of his own life. It was a constant internal battle, having to fight off the temptation to wonder whether his hiding in the Western Plains was a punishment from Theos.
It had been five years since the Fellhouse Cellar was sacked by the Daecish, breaking the backbone of the Dark Horses. Landon was murdered, Galvin fled to Denhurst, and Porter and himself were hiding out in this wasteland. The Silent Hither in Everwind was now at its weakest. And as much as he didnât want to admit it, he regretted leaving Wesley in charge. It was a foolish act of sympathy, and he shouldâve put a stronger man in his placeâsomeone who knew how to keep the Dark Horses going in Everwindâto keep the cause of the Silent Hither alive. Hopefully, Drake and Morgan would keep the poor fool straight.
Lombard couldnât help but let out a low groan. He needed to get back to Everwind as soon as possible.
Approaching a wide depression, he knelt down. Arnon squatted beside him as he notched a cedar arrow on his bowstring. His dark brown hair, as straight as the arrow in his hand, reached down to his lower jaw. Like himself, Arnon was a Sunderian in the fullest sense. It was said that Sarig blood even ran through their clanâs veins, and he was proud of it. He pat Arnon on the back. During these early morning hunts, he had more in mind than just teaching his only son how to kill a deer. He was teaching him how to survive. How to be a Dark Horse when he was gone.
Arnon lifted his bow and drew back the bowstring, his back muscles tightening. Gazing through the tall grass, Lombard caught sight of a doe rising from her bedding, seemingly unaware of the hunters in her midst. With both eyes open, Arnon looked down the shaft of the arrow and let it go with a deep twang as it hissed through the grass and pierced the deer just behind the ribcage. Stumbling, it bolted out of the grass and over the ridgeline above. Lombard pulled the long grass heâd been chewing on from his mouth and gave Arnon a solid clap with the palm of his hand. âBarely nineteen and already surpassing your old man!â
Arnon laughed, rubbing his shoulder. âYou said that last year. You sure I havenât always been the better shot?â
Although Lombard smiled, he never could get over the softening accents of the younger generation. âMaybe, but youâll never be stronger than me,â he replied.
Arnon began to disassemble his bow. âI wouldnât be so sure. Youâve gotta get old at some point.â
Lombard laughed. âNot even then, boy.â
They began the steep climb up the ridge, following the blood trail. The dried grass crunched beneath their boots as dust whipped in the wind behind them.
âYou ever wonder what this place might have looked like when Burgess first arrived?â Arnon asked.
âWell, being thirteen-hundred years ago, I reckon it wouldâve been greener. Likely more trees, too.â
Reaching the top of the ridge, they paused as the view opened before them. The wind rushed from the west, blowing Lombardâs bearskin behind him. The Serin Sea could barely be made out as it stretched across the horizon like a thin gray thread. To the north towered the vast, impenetrable mountain rangeâthe Great Fringe, his own people called it. Its icy jagged peaks marched from east to west, as far as he could see. There was a rumor that several new Daecish copper mines were operating nearby where the mountains plunged into the sea, and he made a point never to travel too far in that direction.
Dozens of tales about trekking parties looking for a pass through those mountains had been laid down over the ages. But as far as he knew, they never returned with success, nor without several deaths to show for it. Winds were too strong, and the natural paths went too high. The few returning survivors almost always came back with blackened toes and fingers, which would either be amputated or rot off on their own. His grandfather once told him of a man who returned sickened, mumbling and gripping his head as he coughed up blood before falling into an agonizing death.
Despite the casualties, in the early centuries, his people never gave up their search. They craved to know what secrets were hidden on the other side of those mountains. But it soon brought out the worst in them. Of course, all of that ended when the Daecish arrived from over the mountains, and the mystery turned into resentment.
Lombard shook the thoughts from his mind and looked across the ridge, following the blood trail into another holler thirty yards ahead. Next to a rotting tree lay the dying deer, caught up in briar and blackbrush.
âWhy didnât the Earlonians ever speak of why they left the Southern Kingdoms?â Arnon asked, looking south.
Lombard almost laughed. He wondered if Arnon could read his thoughts.
âDo you really think they were running away from something?â
âAye. When Burgess and our ancestors arrived in this land, they brought with them many tales. But the one thing they swore to never talk about was why they left. I, and other like-minded folk, believe it was something they were ashamed of. Something wrong they did which they hoped to forget. Perhaps itâs why they named this land Sunder?â He tapped the side of his head. âItâs all in the name.â
They continued the trek down into the holler. As they approached the trunk, Arnon pulled the shaft of the arrow from below the ribs of the doe.
âThat was a good shot,â Lombard said. âBut remember you want to aim behind the shoulder.â He pointed to his chest. âRight in the heart.â
âI know how to shoot a deer,â replied Arnon shortly.
Lombard raised his eyebrows and set his boot on the trunk of the tree, crossing his thick arms.
âLook here, boy.â
Arnon swallowed as if he immediately regretted his comment.
âDonât get put out. Youâre a fine shot, but your pride gets in the way. You need to work that out of yourself.â He peered into Arnonâs eyes. âPride ainât strength; itâs weakness. And from it can spring forth all kinds of evil thoughts. All a prideful man shows me is that he cares too much about himself, you understand?â
âYes, sire.â
âYour grandfather told me the same thing. See, he was a learned man and spoke wise counsel. Itâs something we all have to battle.â
âYes, sire.â
âGood, now grab your knife, and letâs clean that deer.â
By mid-day, they were welcomed by the view of their cottage, situated at the bottom of a low bluff, yet perched on its own little hill. Built of wattle and daub and topped with a thatched roof of grass and willow branches, the cottage didnât look like much, but he built it himself, and it held strong against the changing seasons. On the west side sat a stable built of a thick layer of sod; it housed two cows, several chickens, and his own bay horse, whom he named Ansel. Out front stood a maple tree with few leaves of a dark and shriveled olive green. Lombard walked up to the front door as Arnon followed.
âWhere you heading to?â Lombard asked.
Arnon groaned. âFirewood?â
âCanât cook without it.â Lombard took the meat from Arnon and walked inside.
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* * *
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Setting up a hickory log, Arnon swung his ax with a great heave, splitting the log in two. The high sun helped warm the autumn air, but the occasional northern gust from the Fringe pierced through his jerkin. Just as he set up another log to split, he turned, hearing his youngest sister, Hazel, skipping through the tall grass. Her light brown hair whipped in the wind above her woolen gown.
âWhatâs taking you so long?â She smirked.
âWell, here.â Arnon handed her the ax. âThink you can go quicker?â
âItâs your job.â She stuck out her tongue.
âThen donât interrupt.â
She placed her hands behind her back and dug her toe into the earth.
Arnon lifted his ax but glanced at her. âI know what you want,â he said, âbut Iâve got to finish chopping this wood first.â
âOh, but please!â she replied with wide blue eyes. Although only six, she had mastered the art of getting her way with him.
âHazel, I really needââ
âBut we ainât played Burrow Hunt for a whole week. Pretty please?â
Arnon sighed and dropped his ax. âOne quick game.â
Hazel jumped as she threw her arms in the air. âThank you!â
Arnon turned over several logs until he found one with a clean flat top and began drawing out the lines with a piece of charcoal. âDo you have the pieces?â
Hazel searched in her pockets and pulled out a handful of dyed figurines carved from oak. She set them on the log. âI lost a couple more yesterday.â
âItâll be all right. Weâll just have to improvise.â
As fun as this game was for him when he was younger, it was really pretty dullâjust mindlessly moving pieces until one player had the opponentâs fox cornered with no way to escape. It didnât help that Hazel still couldnât get the rules right, so it always took longer than normal. And when she did win, which she always did because he let her, she never let him live it down.
Hazel knocked his red fox over. âHa!â she shouted as she jumped up and jabbed a finger at him. âYou lost.â
âVery good, Hazel. Now help me put the pieces away.â
Of course, she didnât help and just ran back to the house, hollering something Arnon couldnât understand.
 With chopped logs in his hand, Arnon stepped inside the cottage and breathed in the savory smell of roasting venison and smoke. Their family home may have been small, but it had two rooms, one of which was the bedroom on the left side, with a single thick door built from oak planks. Four years ago, his father had felled that oak about a league east of there, and it took him and Arnon a dozen trips to haul it all back to the homestead. In the family room sat a little hearth in the center, with a large trestle table behind it. Arnon tossed several split logs over the hot coals and made his way to his father, who stood salting the venison.
âGive that back, Hazel!â Fleta hollered as she chased Hazel around the hearth. âThat oneâs mine! Youâve got your own!â
Hazel stopped and faced Fleta. Her face shone almost purple. âYou tore her arm off last time!â
âMama sewed it back on!â Fleta snapped back, snatching her doll from Hazelâs grasp. Hazel broke out in a cry.
âGirls!â called out his mother. âOutside!â
Arnon chuckled and stood beside his father. âIs the pit ready?â he asked.
âCleaned it out this morning before we set out.â He handed Arnon a thick loin. âBut weâll need to salt and wrap the deer first.â
Arnon stepped around him, grabbing the raw meat. He brushed aside a pile of grass and broken pine needles from the counter, which he assumed was Hazelâs. Reaching between several clay jars of honey and cream, he grabbed the half-empty jar of salt. Above his head hung several bundles of rosemary and basil, which filled the corner of the room with a rich, earthy scent. âThis deer will give us enough meat for a while,â Arnon said, massaging the salt into the meat.
âEnough for a few weeks, certainly,â his father replied, laying another strip of meat next to the salt jar. âOn the âmorrow at dawn, weâll take Ansel to Rock Hill and work on our archery.â
âWhile riding?â he asked.
âWhy else would I take Ansel? One day youâll be the head of your kin and help lead the Silent Hither among the Dark Horses. You need to be ready.â
Arnon grinned. Nearly every day, for as long as he could remember, his father took him to Rock Hill; whether it was hunting, stalking, building, or survival, he taught him everything he knew, and his knowledge and talents seemed limitless. He happened to also be the strongest man Arnon had ever known.
Flipping over the loin, Arnon began to salt the other side until he felt a bump against his side.
âExcuse me,â came Hazelâs voice from below. She reached up over the meat, grabbing at her pile of grass and needles. âYouâre getting blood on the seasoning!â Â Â Â Â Â
âThe seasoning?â Arnon asked.
Hazel frowned and raised her grass-filled hand toward Arnonâs face. âFor our pottage.â She marched toward the hearth.
Arnon glanced at his father, who only shrugged with a smile.
âHazel!â shouted Fleta from the dining table. âNow look at what you done! You spoiled it!â
âI did not! Mama said I could season it.â
âNot with grass!â
Both Lombard and Arnon burst into laughter.
Myla hurried over to the hearth. âHazel, dear,â she said, peering into the cooking pot as she held back her long, wavy brown hair. âThank you very much. Iâm sure itâll taste just fine. Now do me a favor and bring in the milk from the stable. Can you do that for me?â
Hazel stuck her tongue out at Fleta before stepping outside.
âHurry,â said Myla to Fleta. âI think we can get most of it out.â
With the sun set over the Serin Sea, Lombard lit a lantern as the family gathered around the table.
âWhich story will you tell us tonight, papa?â Fleta asked, looking up from her bowl. The lantern light flickered against her green eyes. Even with her black hair tucked behind her ears, he could barely see the faint freckles dotting across her nose. When she was five, Arnon once chased her across their home in Everwind. She slipped and hit her face on the edge of a door frame. A large bump formed on the upper bridge of her nose, and itâd never gone away since. Sheâd always been self-conscious about it, and one time, when she and Arnon had gotten into an argument, he said she looked like a horse. It upset her so badly she didnât speak to him for a week. Despite the passing years, he knew it had an effect on her confidence, and heâd never forgiven himself.
âHow âbout a ballad?â Lombard asked.
Hazel grunted. âI donât like the singing ones. Theyâre boring.â
âHazel,â Myla said, âas you get older, youâll learn to. Just listen.â
âI like ballads,â Fleta added.
Hazel shot a glare at her.
Lombard crossed his arms and leaned toward Hazel. âItâs the ballads that capture not only the past but the hearts and desires of those who shaped it. But donât worry,â he laughed, âIâll only sing part of one.â He then closed his eyes, and in a low, resonant voice, began to hum. His family soon joined in, and together, they sang:
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I shall tell ye now a tragic tale
From Ashfirth village on the dale
In the distant kingdoms, south
By the Cymford riverâs mouth
When young Brigham of Colgate
Left poor Orla to her dreadful fate
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In early spring, at the break of dawn
Before the birds broke out in song
Stood young Orla with curling hair
Eyes of brown and smooth skin fair
Her dress of sage and tasseled ends
Blew against the gentle winds
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On the Isen road, her people left
For the north, their hearts were set
To forget a dark and troubled past
And settle a country fair and vast
Yet by the southern river flowing
There poor Orla stood sorrowing
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With cunning words and a handsome grin
Brigham had stolen her love for him
But when her womb stirred with life
He would not take her as his wife
To the north, heâd join his people
And leave her behind weak and feeble
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She had no means for food or care
So she wept with a pleading prayer
No such journey could she endure
Her coming death was set and sure
Yet still, he left with a heart of ice
And spoke no more of his shame and vice
Â
By early winter, starved and cold
She ventured north, in vain yet bold
To find that man before she died
And plead once more to be his bride
But of his fate, she could not tell
For she knew not where he dwelled
Â
She soon grew weary with aching pain
And searched for shelter from the rain
By the road, she lay down and wept
With tears, all spent, she finally slept
Under a dying weeping willow
Her beating heart began to slow
Â
Early one mornâ, a man walked by
And saw poor Orla beneath the sky
He laid aside his hunting bow
And knelt beneath that weeping willow
In his arms, he took ahold
Her body stiffened with lifeless cold
Â
Along the hills and through the dew
He hurried north, for her face he knew
By evening he found her family clan
And laid her body beneath that man
Who left poor Orla and child to die
As his new dame stood by his side
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When Lombard finished, Arnon opened his eyes as he let his mind drift back to the room. In Everwind, at their old family home, fast-paced tunes, plucked and whistled with homemade fiddles and fifes, could keep everyone dancing for hours. But old ballads were always sung in the late night after the crowd had quieted down. His father still had an old gourd cut out and fitted with gut strings. He even had a bow made of muleâs hair to go with it. But since they left for the plains, he hardly ever played it anymore. No one even danced much either, except for maybe Fleta, when she thought no one else was looking. But even so, ballads and tales were either told or sung every night, and Lombard always insisted the whole family should sing together so that they would never forget their past.
Fleta sighed as her chin rested on her hands.
Hazel rolled her eyes. âIt donât even make sense. Whyâd she go and get herself pregnant in the first place?â
Arnon burst out in an unexpected laugh.
Lombard lifted Hazelâs chin. âShe made a terrible mistake and fell too easily for a worthless man who sought only to satisfy himself.â
âIf you say so,â Hazel replied.
âItâs all right,â said Myla as she stood up, picking up her bowl. âWe donât all have toââ she began to say but froze at the sound of Ansel whinnying in the stable. Arnon shot a glance at his father. The whole family held their breath.
âSurely, itâs just a wolf or aââ Arnon began to say before Lombard raised his hand.
In the distance grew the thudding sound of galloping hooves.
âSomeoneâs coming,â Lombard said in a low voice. He slid back his chair and hurried to the door, blowing out the hanging lantern. âArnon, go out back and stay outta sight.â
âFather, I am not going to leaveââ
âNow!â he snapped.
âListen to your father and go,â Myla whispered as she threw Arnonâs bowl in a basket.
Arnon knew why he needed to hide, but he hated the idea. He climbed through a back window and ran north against the howling wind. After ascending a steep path to the top of the bluff, he positioned himself out of sight but still had a decent view of the homestead below. Four horses galloped along the road, coming to a trot as they paused just in front of the cottage. Their uniforms looked black. Daecish.
âItâs the ballads that capture not only the past but the hearts and desires of those who shaped it.â
Iâve been developing quite an interest in epic fantasies of late, and have been fortunate enough to read ones with a variety of flavors and themes. I have loved each one of them, but none has ever challenged, and eventually satisfied the very core of my values and faithâboth as a reader and a writerâas this one has.
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One of the things I shy away from when it comes to epic fantasies, aside from its length, is the number of characters I will have to keep up with. Iâve always felt like I would get confused and soon forget who is who and which is which. Curiously though, this was never a problem while reading Ian V. Conreyâs HĂŠlendâs Ballad.
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It is hard enough to create characters to populate a lengthy tale of such epic proportions (and disproportions), but it is harder still to make each one of them be their own personâa feat that, as far as Iâm concerned, Mr. Conrey has achieved. It does take some commitment on the readerâs part to follow along and keep tabs of the charactersâwho they are, which side theyâre on and what they stand forâbut it is definitely a committed time well spent and ultimately well satisfied in the end. Not to mention that once you get started reading, the story has a tendency to just flow smoothlyâlike a movieâwith each scene seasoned with just the right amount of descriptions and backstories, and always given much more life by realistic dialogues and peeks into the charactersâ internal struggles, so familiar that they resonate with the personal thoughts and questions that we may not even be aware we have about our values, our faiths, and our very lives.
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And although the story is excellently structured, nothing is ever perfect with what goes on in each reaction, realization and revelation that unfold. Constantly, you will find characters that do things impulsively, driven by their rawest emotions, their deepest, darkest fears. And just as constantly, you will find them internally torn by their conscience, struggling to find justifications for their actions, questioning their values, and seeking for forgiveness they donât even feel like they deserve. It is these powerful struggles that make the characters alive, that make them stick to our minds long after weâve finished the book, because we find ourselves in them. We learn to accept and understand ourselves more because of them.
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Add to this a world thatâs fully formed, with mythos and histories that at once feel both familiar and new, cultural values and a political landscape that both divide and unite its people, and lofty hopes for the future threatened by the prophetic promises of the past, and youâve got an unforgettable reading adventure that you wouldnât mind going through again and falling in love with anew.
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I have been searching for a good Christian fantasy to add to my library and mention as one of the best ones that influenced the stories I hope to be writing in the future. HĂŠlendâs Ballad is an epic way to start that collection.
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Thank you Mr. Ian V. Conrey and Reedsy Discovery for the opportunity to read and review this book. â„