The strong do not tempt fate; they court destiny.
Viggo lives a simple woodsman’s life in the Dales of Madreanah, where the clans have lived in peace for decades. But when two enigmatic strangers crash into his world, Viggo is dragged into a far-reaching conflict – and forced to face dangers he could never have imagined.
Beyond the borders of Madreanah, powers are shifting. Along with the mysterious northerner Netalia, Viggo may be the key to preventing a kingdom-crushing power from descending… but with war on the horizon, the road ahead may be paved with blood.
Caught in a crossfire of kings, bound by a sword and a promise, can Viggo endure the brutal path to victory at Netalia’s side – or will the cost of heroism prove too high?
Secret Keeper is the action-packed first novel in Edward Tome’s gripping fantasy series, Lore of the Blood.
The strong do not tempt fate; they court destiny.
Viggo lives a simple woodsman’s life in the Dales of Madreanah, where the clans have lived in peace for decades. But when two enigmatic strangers crash into his world, Viggo is dragged into a far-reaching conflict – and forced to face dangers he could never have imagined.
Beyond the borders of Madreanah, powers are shifting. Along with the mysterious northerner Netalia, Viggo may be the key to preventing a kingdom-crushing power from descending… but with war on the horizon, the road ahead may be paved with blood.
Caught in a crossfire of kings, bound by a sword and a promise, can Viggo endure the brutal path to victory at Netalia’s side – or will the cost of heroism prove too high?
Secret Keeper is the action-packed first novel in Edward Tome’s gripping fantasy series, Lore of the Blood.
Viggo stepped to the edge of the road at the sound of galloping hooves coming down the trail. Tilting his shoulders with a backward glance, he saw a woman speeding past: braided red hair, riding low over her grey horse. He was certain he had never seen her before. With her dark draping cloak, she had the foreign air of some important purpose.
A few moments later, a big, dangerously determined-looking man followed in her tracks. Hooves pounded the ground, throwing up clods as they blew past. Viggo’s stomach sank in a wave of instinctive dread. The man’s bearing immediately set off a warning bell in his head. He was riding faster and would be bearing down upon the woman in moments.
Viggo moved without thinking; there was no time to make a judgement. He had to act. His mind raced ahead to where the road cut back on itself on the other side of the hill. A surge of fear powered his legs to run as fast as he could go, even without an idea of what a woodsman on foot could do. As he flew down the forested hill on the other side, he saw with dread the woman already passing down the road.
Hooves pounded around the corner. Viggo kept running. Casting reason to the wind, he leaped from the bank of the road onto the other man’s back.
The impact was a lot harder than he expected. His chest burned as his breath was expelled from his lungs. Against anything his mind may have told him if he had been listening, he clung onto the big man’s shoulders with an iron grip and pulled him off his seat as his momentum carried him over the horse’s back.
Viggo’s grip was wrenched away as they hit the ground and rolled atop each other. He lost all bearings in the tumble. Then his face was pushed into the dirt, his neck straining from the pressure of the firm hand that had him by the collar. Before Viggo could react, his arms were wrenched behind his back. A burly arm locked around his elbows, and he was hauled to his feet and pushed against the trunk of the beech tree nearest the road. Spitting out dirt, he struggled with all his strength to gain some freedom, though his shoulders burned from the tension. He panted, somehow unable to sate his need for air. Then he froze still.
The icy edge of a knife was pressed against his throat.
“Not a move,” came the careful, grating voice of the man who now restrained him.
Viggo was jerked to the side of the road, where, to his astonishment, the red-haired woman was now standing, her horse’s reins in her hand. Viggo could make no sense of what was going on.
The woman was tall and looked to be of a similar age to himself. She moved towards him purposefully. Gripping Viggo’s face under his jaw, she held him tightly.
“Who are you? Who sent you?” Her voice was harsh and merciless.
Viggo tried to shake his head, but felt the knife at his throat. His mind reeled. “No… I saw you go past on the road, up there on the hill, and I saw him, chasing after you – he was gaining on you.” He tried to twist to ease the strain on his shoulders. “I… thought you were in danger. I’ve never seen anyone —”
“I’m going to cut your throat in five seconds if you don’t answer the question,” came the man’s deep voice, right behind his ear.
Viggo’s rock-tense muscles were shaking. Terror gripped his mind. Somehow, his voice steadied. “Please… It’s true. I don’t know who you are —”
Pressure on the knife cut his words off. A hot trickle ran down his neck into his shirt with an odd tickling sensation.
He saw a hint of amusement on the woman’s face. Her hand released its pressure and pushed his limply hanging hair back as she stroked the side of his cheek.
“So, the gallant man, is it? Saving damsels in distress on the roads, fighting off thieves and outlaws?”
She arched an angular brow behind a loose lock of amber hair that had fallen out of her braid. Her accent was elegant and foreign to his ears. If it had been sincere, her soft gesture would have captured his attention just as surely as his present situation.
“I’m flattered,” she went on. “A single look at me was all it took for you to throw your life away.”
She turned her eyes up to the man and gave a slight nod. Time stood still as Viggo watched a stray lock of red hair bounce beside her face at the gesture. There was no doubt what it meant.
“Please! No… I thought you were —”
She turned back to him… but there was nothing to say. Viggo was a fool, and he was about to die.
“Bring him,” she said shortly, turning back to her horse.
“We don’t have time!” the man growled.
She didn’t answer.
“You jumped the wrong person,” the man told Viggo in his gruff voice as he began searching his belt and sturdy boots for any concealed blades.
Viggo didn’t consider himself a small man among his village, but he had to shuffle on the tip of his boots to hold his weight on his feet as he was roughly hauled to the tethered black horse. It was so tall that the top of Viggo’s dirty-brown head of hair was level with its back. It would effortlessly carry the weight of an extra man. Little wonder he had misjudged how much bigger the other man was.
Viggo’s hands were bound at the wrists and lashed to the back of the saddle.
What had he been thinking?
The image of what he thought he’d seen played over in his mind. How could he not have acted? He cursed himself. If only he’d made a better plan beforehand.
Wherever the strangers were taking him, it seemed they were in a hurry. Though it was already cutting off blood flow, he was forced to pull down on the leather cord that tied his hands as he tried his best to keep his seat when they spurred into a canter.
The village wasn’t far. The road between the woods where Viggo cut lumber and the village of Longdale was a good three miles. He had been more than halfway home before he had gotten himself into this mess. Having his life held on a knife’s edge had shaken his nerves, yet he was still bound and the Fool Atwix Evil for it.
The last mile to Longdale was rough and slow, riding into the open pastures of the Dales. Viggo strained as he was jostled on the horse’s rump the whole way. He had no idea why he had been brought along or what they intended to do with him. He had no information to give them, though it seemed they believed someone had sent him after them. He still could make no sense of it, why these people had come into the Dales. They had obviously travelled a long distance. Longdale was only a small town that had almost no dealings with other places. People from smaller nearby villages occasionally came to Jon’s mill for sawn planks, but the inhabitants of Longdale were mostly farmers and tradesmen. Even the chieftain kept most of his affairs within the district. He was interested in little other than his sheep and his wool market.
All Viggo knew was that there was trouble, and he was stuck right in the middle of it. It was obvious that his captors were wary about who may have been following them. Maybe, he thought, they were on the run. Outlaws from another district. That was the only thing that would make sense. Yet his better judgement told him that whatever their affairs, they were important. More so than the concerns of the flocks and herds of the Dales and the sales of wool, and certainly bigger than the purchase of freshly felled timber.
Viggo was out of his depth and scared at the thought of what they planned to do with him. He knew about foresting and hewing timber. He could build bridges and houses. But he didn’t know what went on in the next town, let alone outside the Dales.
The horses clattered over the planks of the bridge that stretched across the Vaultersburn stream, reining into a walk as they came into the dirt street of Longdale. The squat houses, with their walls of logs and stone and low, stacked-stone fences, had never seemed so small and unassuming. With its second floor, the inn was the largest building in the collection of dwellings lining either side of the street. The chieftain’s longhouse at the end of the street stood away from the town, nestled against the forest and the stream, with its own stables towards the rolling meadowland. Many of the older houses of dry-fitted stone adjoined each other on up to three walls. It was a tight community. Yards held garden plots and stalled pigs. A few narrow paths squeezed in between buildings, leading from the street to access houses towards the back.
The big man carefully watched each of the narrow alleyways as they passed, finally stopping outside the inn. The people they passed stood to the side and avoided making eye contact, some casting confused glances at Viggo. He tried to appeal to anyone who noticed him with a look of worry. He knew everyone in Longdale, and surely word would soon reach the longhouse. He was sure the chieftain would have something to say about one of the tradesmen of the town being taken hostage by outsiders. He just hoped the chieftain would act soon enough to save him being asked questions that he had no answers for.
His hands were left bound as they entered the Vaulters Inn.
The big man put some coppers on the counter. “We need two beds.”
Brin, the innkeeper, looked the two travellers up and down. “What have you been meddling in, Viggo?” Brin asked him, with a look of puzzlement.
Viggo put his hands on the counter, but was pulled back.
“Mind your own,” the big man quipped darkly.
“You know this man?” the woman enquired of Brin.
He turned his confused look to her. “Course I know Viggo. He lives here, doesn’t he? Works up at the mill. Hard work. Never been one to stick his nose into other people’s problems, though. What do you want with him?” Brin didn’t seem to be so intimidated by the strangers – but then, he hadn’t had a knife held to his throat… yet.
“Well, he’s poked his nose into our affairs,” the fiery-haired woman responded evenly. “Now, show us some beds, before I show you some steel.”
“No need for that. If you’ve got coin, I’ve got beds. Just down here.”
Brin grumbled as he led them around a central hearth and under the lintel of a small side room. Two walls had sturdy timber beds against them. Brin pulled open a timber shutter that let a little light into the room.
“There you have it. Best room in the house. Would you be needing anything else?” He wore a forced smile.
“Stables,” the other man grunted.
“I’ll have my boy take your horses around. It’s a piece for their keep each night.”
The man flicked Brin another copper. “I’ll know if anything is missing from our packs.”
The threat wasn’t missed on the innkeeper, who looked a little offended. “Bad business, this is,” he said, with a look to Viggo. “Chief Aygin, our leader, won’t stand for it.”
“Then you’ll see that he knows about it,” the woman replied in a testy manner.
Brin left them. The woman took off her gloves and put them on the cabinet against the back wall before lying down on the bed below the window. The man half closed the window, peering out for a while, then sat down on the other bed and looked at Viggo. Viggo feared he was going to be interrogated about who had sent him to attack them on the road, but the man pointed to a place on the floor.
“You can sit there,” he said, his deep voice less menacing than Viggo was expecting.
Viggo moved to where he had indicated and sat. He waited, but the big man leaned back against the wall, seemingly uninterested in him. After a while, he could tell that the woman was asleep by her deep breathing.
Finally, Viggo realised what they were doing: using him to draw attention to themselves.
They wanted to speak to the chieftain.
Borden stopped to let his horse drink from the stream. He was only a few miles from Longdale, but his thirsty horse was unwilling to go past the cool water after the long ride from Forksburra down to the Dales.
Another mile on and his horse sensed Longdale was near, picking up his pace without needing to be urged. The gelding knew his way to the open stall outside the longhouse. After pulling off the bridle to allow him to nibble at some straw on the ground, Borden went straight to the door. He was met just inside by a familiar face: Chief Aygin’s youngest son.
“Logan, I need to speak with the old ram. Where is he?”
“He’s to lunch. Come, you must be hungry, Borden.”
“I guess I am. But I have else on my mind.”
“Well, you know how he is when he’s dining. You might as well sit down with him – you won’t pull him away from it.”
The men shared a knowing look that grew into a greedy chuckle. Borden clapped Logan’s shoulder. “How have you been, little brother?”
“Borden. Sit down, have some meat,” Aygin said in a rich voice. “Fetch Borden a horn,” he called as he sliced off a thick piece of mutton and held it out to Borden on his knife.
Borden took the meat and enjoyed a hot, juicy bite. He watched Aygin as he ate. The chieftain was a big man. A soft layering over the hard frame of his youth. His sheepskin vest added a roundness that may have fooled some into thinking he was fat. They would soon learn, if they crossed him, that there was still more brawn to him than anything else.
“What are you staring at?” Aygin said through a full mouth.
“I was wondering when you became so fat,” Borden said, and took a deep draught of his horn.
Aygin’s eyes widened as he swallowed his mouthful. “Fat!” he spat, glaring over the table.
Borden’s face remained calm. After a moment, Aygin stood up, his bulk towering over the table. He kept glaring at Borden – and then roared a laugh. “I rutting well should be fat. The toiling of my younger days is finally turned to prosperity. I’ll not let it be squandered!” He dropped back down. “Fat. Have anything else to tell me apart from insults while you sit at my table?”
Borden groaned. “That I do. A gathering has been called, two weeks from now.”
Aygin shifted in his seat. “That’s what pulled you in here before returning to Glendale. What is this about?”
Borden shook his head. “Talk of some northern clans uprising. A young chieftain growing stronger, conquering the northern mountain districts.”
Aygin grunted. “What’s it to us what he does?”
“His ambitions are worrying the king. His standing army is growing larger, and he has an advantage of terrain in the valley that runs out from the mountains, leading right to King Harvald’s doorstep.”
Aygin chuckled. “No army has ever crossed the river. Madreath is well defended.”
“And there is another thing,” Borden announced.
Aygin listened, hands crossed over his stomach.
“The King of Strommen has banned trading with Madreanah.”
Aygin sat up. “What?” he barked. “We’ve had established trade with Strommen since the last alignment. What foolish notion is this?”
Borden sighed. Strommen was a major buyer of wool; Aygin was a large provider of that wool, as he supplied the markets of Madreanah. Strommen also sold iron that Madreanah lacked.
“I couldn’t say why trade is upset. I heard it said that our sellers were smuggling goods into Strommen to avoid King Sahar’s tax.”
Aygin’s fist hit the table. “That sand-biter and his hordes of desert-midge tax collectors have been sucking the profit out of our trade more cruelly than the sickness that sucks the life from his body!” he bellowed.
“And has it crossed your mind, Father, to avoid the sand-biter’s sting and do some ‘free trading’ to allow the taxes be exchanged for profit?”
The chieftain only gave a disinterested grunt as Borden drained his horn. As the cool fermented goat’s milk began to lull his tense muscles from the day’s ride, his brother spoke up.
“There’s two strangers in town, a man and a woman.”
“So what?” Aygin said.
“They’re an odd pair. Struck a fear into the town folk. They had Viggo with them when they rode in. His hands were tied. They have him with them still, at the inn.”
Chief Aygin’s attention was now on his younger son. “Where are they from?”
Logan shrugged.
“Go see what they want,” Aygin said thoughtfully.
“They made a scene. They’ll want to see you.”
“Yes, I’m sure they will. Bring them to the longhall.”
Viggo waited silently. The woman was now sitting up while the man slept. They seemed to be tired from their journey, wherever it was they had come from.
He watched as the woman leaned back against the wall. She had pulled out a map from inside her coat; it rested in her lap. She seemed to bear much on her mind, though she was almost as unreadable as the big man. She was fair to look upon. In fact, she was dangerously beautiful. Her deep red, somewhat dishevelled hair was pulled back into a loose braid. Her jawline was well defined and had a youthful cast. Too young to carry such worry – but then Viggo remembered her steely, authoritative voice.
Her eyes turned to him, shining the colour of a still, forest-green brook with velvety pebbles beneath. He quickly looked to his hands, flushing at the memory of how she had stroked his cheek. How he’d been ready to throw his life away with one look at her.
“What is this place?” she asked in a low voice, much smoother than it had been before.
Viggo glanced up, shaking his hair off his face, as his hands were still tied. “Longdale.”
“Who is the chieftain?”
“Chief Aygin.”
She nodded to herself, looking at the map in her lap. “And you are Viggo?” She didn’t look at him.
“Yes. What is your name?”
Viggo immediately wished he’d never asked it; he had made a fool of himself enough this day. The woman looked at him for a long moment. He felt like she saw right through him. Then she leaned back again and closed her eyes. Viggo waited in silence again.
“Netalia,” she said, her eyes still closed.
Viggo had been sitting on the floor for hours with no comfort. Hunger gnawed at his stomach as his eyes roamed the beams and rafters, recalling days when he’d been little more than a lad, learning his craft from his father. He had worked on this very building several times since his father’s death.
When he looked back down, relief and anticipation flooded his body at the familiar sight of Logan, the chieftain’s son, who was standing in the doorway of the small room. The woman, Netalia, was watching him. There was a tension in her body like she was ready to leap into action at the slightest trigger.
“What is the meaning of this?” Logan demanded, indicating Viggo with his eyes. “By the order of Chief Aygin, he is to be released.”
With measured movements, the man who had been sleeping sat up on the edge of his bed.
Netalia hissed through her teeth. “He attacked us on the road, so I could ask you the same question,” she said in a crisp voice. “And until we have an answer, he is not leaving.”
Logan held her stare. “Chief Aygin has summoned you to the longhall – the three of you, then. He expects to hear an explanation.”
Viggo, the hero of this epic tale, comes crashing into this story in a headlong, full battle-rattle style that might as well be his trademark. He is young, headstrong, quiet, and absolutely loyal to his clan and his king.
But trouble comes into his forest in the form of two strangers from the Northlands. Netalia and her warden are fierce, determined, and definitely hiding something. All Viggo knows is that she calls herself the last Lore Keeper, and for some unknown reason she wants Viggo to travel with them, and soon begins to refer to him as the Secret Keeper.
As his eyes took in the carnage, he realized everything that had happened in the last two weeks was no longer just talk of a distant threat. He was stuck in the middle of something unknown and deadly, and his role suddenly felt somewhat more intractable.
This saga has the feel of a legendary tale as Viggo finds himself thrust into a world of shifting alliances, deep secrets, and a lore he cannot comprehend. He is ruled by his heart, his loyalty, and his intense desire to protect. The fact that he does not understand the nature of their quest is secondary to him. For most, this would be a detriment. For Netalia and Viggo, in this time, it is of great value.
Eyes from a different hill remember the same valley differently.
The author has created a rich and exciting world. One in which disputes are often settled with the blade, and treachery rarely goes unpunished. While the entire story is well written and full of adventure, intrigue, mystery and magic, it is the fight scenes that most capture the reader. That sense of being in the midst of the battle, of wielding the sword or axe, hearing the clash of iron or the agony of the fallen, and smelling the stench of death. Those are the scenes in which this author excels. They move at a lightning quick pace and grab the reader in a grasp so tight it seems hard to breathe until the scene is over.
While Viggo is open and honest, full of honor and a love of life, Netalia is in many ways his opposite. She is shadow to his light, secrets to his openness, and jaded to his appreciation for the beauty of life.
Viggo accepted that life offered hope, but often held it for ransom.
Readers who enjoy epic adventures, daunting quests, and strong characters that give to their last drop of blood for a cause they believe in, this novel awaits.