Chronicles of Bulinnärm

Chronicles of Bulinnärm

By

L Frank Turovich

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 by L Frank Turovich

All Rights Reserved Worldwide

A collection of epic fantasy stories set in the world of Bulinnärm. Ranging over 1000 years of history they include the first adventure of a legendary hero, the humble beginning of the greatest sorcerer who ever lived, a prince without a kingdom, and a worried librarian.

Table of Contents

A Painful Blessing

The Huntress

A Lesson in Power

Prince of Mules

The Missing Wizard

Intro to Bulinnärm

Afterward

Other Stories

Copyright

A Painful Blessing

On his first raid, young Bergulf escapes a group of pursuing Veritoori knights by fleeing into the forbidden Alfr forest of Oolinor. He is instead captured by the Alfr Tywynn who plans to take him in for trial and punishment. But the pursuing knights have other plans.

Foreword

If you have a world with a history thousands of years old then myths and legend play a big part in the lore, as do heroes. So Bergulf Doorishmurk was born, an inspirational combination of King Arthur, Conan, Sinbad, and Paul Bunyon. Hundreds, if not thousands of his tales permeate the cultures of Bulinnärm. In some he’s a hero, a champion who can do no wrong. In others, evil incarnate and cursed by the descendants who suffered from his wrath. Some tales are real, some imagined, and some mix real world events with his name to enhance the retold stories and to gain an audience. Many of these tales are collected in the book The Chronicles of the Warrior King Skar Doorishmurk, collected by famed historian Rhasiah Amourn.

Bergulf was born a simple clansman of the Worldheart Mountains, almost 2000 years after the events described as the Great Burning, when the Mythian Forest was destroyed. He was a warrior, a ship’s captain, an adventurer, a king, and a hero for the ages. His tales have been told and retold and held up as examples of courage, fortitude, and sheer determination in overcoming adversity no matter what form it assumes. The following begins the saga of the legendary Skar Doorishmurk.

The howling urged Bergulf to continue running.

The youth maintained a steady relentless pace that ate up the distance even as his pursuers sought to run him down. For the last day and a night he had successfully evaded the Veritoori knights efforts to capture him. The knights sought to eradicate his residual threat to their domain, the soldiers wanted vengeance for slain comrades, and the hounds hunted for the pure joy of the kill.

Tall, rangy, with wide shoulders and strong legs, Bergulf ran on, his mountain sewn and stained leather jerkin and trousers dark with sweat, a great sword strapped tight to his back, and worn boots he had stolen from a villager that no longer needed them. Born into one of the mountain clans of Worldheart, his people were famous for their strength, endurance, fighting ability, and feared by all the lowland kingdoms. A factor the clans used every spring to raid and terrorize the lowland kingdoms.

The area he ran through now was a collection of high grasses and flowing plants, small copses of trees budding in the early spring warmth, and small hills that he used to avoid being seen while fleeing as fast as possible. He leaped over a fallen trunk right into a swarm of insects and spent the next few steps sputtering them out of his mouth. A herd of deer startled up as he jogged past, and then bounded away in fright.

His first instinct had been to fight, but soon realized he was vastly outnumbered and fled. Behind him were several Veritoori knights on horse, a bevy of soldiers on foot, and several trained hounds and handlers, all thirsting for revenge of their slain countrymen.

Bergulf continued running east.

East was home, where his clan lived, where the tribes of Worldheart survived in the highland mountains. To the North was the Oolinor forest, home of the forest Alfr, a reclusive race that killed trespassers on sight.

His slain raid leader Haarewalden had avoided that solemn forest as they advanced stealthily into the lowlands. That night he warned all the first time raiders of the danger. You want to meet the gods early, said Haarewalden, just step in there.

Warm ale had been flowing that night, a common event whenever clansmen camped. Bergulf had glanced at the tangled trees, their leaves rustling in the light breeze, but saw nothing threatening about them. Nevertheless, whether it was a true warning or just ale talking, he had no intention of ever entering.

Right now, he was backtracking along the hidden trails his clansmen had used to enter the lowlands. He knew there was a trading road somewhere to the South, but it would have made it too easy to catch him. Beyond that road lay huge bogs where savage tribes lived in a muddy delta and eked out a miserable existence among the poisonous flora that grew everywhere. The mud tribes were known to be poorer than winter ghosts, making the lowland kingdoms the prime destination for raiding.

Bergulf had hoped the rougher terrain would slow, confuse, or even lose his pursuers, but so far it had not worked. He ran on.

His breathing felt labored now, his legs aching from constant motion, and runnels of sweat soaked his torso. He was skirting a stand of trees where the dappled sunlight provided a bit of respite from the sun.

There was the sudden pounding of hooves and a Veritoori knight in red and white colors burst from the undergrowth with his axe raised. Bergulf stumbled a step then threw himself aside as it swished past his ear. That misstep made it impossible to avoid the mounts powerful shoulder that threw him loosely rolling across the ground.

Bergulf grimaced as he scrambled up, his bruised shoulder hindering his normally smooth draw. It would ache for days if he survived. He spat out dirt and set himself, his two-handed great sword ready. Blood thundered in his ears and his vision narrowed until all he saw was enemy. With an excited shout, the knight twisted his mount around, dug heels in and charged in a flurry of dirt and torn grass.

Bergulf didn’t have much time. Every moment he fought meant other pursuers were drawing near. He concentrated on his opponent and waited. The rider rode to his left, then cut back at the last moment, leaned over and swung his axe at Bergulf’s head.

Bergulf surged into action as he slid the knight’s next swing aside with the edge of his sword. It screeched along the axe handle, and then sprung off to slice into the riders leg. Bergulf leaned into the resistance and rode the blade as it dug into the horse’s belly, leaving a gash that stretched from ribs to thigh. The knight grunted and his mount whinnied a high-pitched protest. They were by him in a second and Bergulf spun. Their second turn was slower, the horse favoring its wounded leg. Before they could recover, Bergulf was on them.

He covered the distance in three steps and swung, an upward strike that cut reins and slashed deeply into the horse’s sweat and dust covered throat. Screaming, it reared and then toppled over carrying its armored rider with it. Bergulf heard equine ribs crack, followed by the distinct hollow breaking of a leg or hip. The knight’s furious cries changed to an undulating scream as the writhing beast kicked and heaved its last moments atop him.

Bergulf circled, keeping well back from those deadly spasms. The knight was pinned beneath the dying horseflesh and making a futile effort to escape. When Bergulf stepped into view he stretched desperately to recover his out of reach axe, but then stopped. His helmet had fallen loose and Bergulf saw a young man barely older than himself. A new knight who had shown promise as an esquire, been promoted and trained for years and who finally earned his knighthood. His opponent raised an imploring arm, eyes wide with dread.

Bergulf stepped forward and struck so hard his sword buried itself deeply into the grass underneath. A glassy eyed head rolled away.

Blood soaked into the ground as Bergulf slumped to one knee quivering in relief, catching his breath. The adrenaline pounding in his head quieted while the blackness at the edges of his vision faded. He gingerly rotated his bruised shoulder finding it stiff but usable. He felt a thousand years old at that moment.

A howl shook off his fatigue. It sounded odd, although he could not identify why. Then he stood in understanding, the howl was from the East! The pack was now ahead of him and his escape route cut off.

Quickly he wiped the blood from his sword, sheathed it and started running, this time north.

Bergulf cursed his ill luck.

His mountain gods must surely be laughing at him now. Grim, uncompromising, and without mercy, they would view this as a test of the young clansman, a way to prove his dedication to their unyielding standards. He only had to survive.

The fight had allowed the low landers to catch up. He heard them now, crashing through the underbrush, shouts of anticipation from the soldiers, excited oaths, and encouragement from the knights and the joyful baying of the pack. They knew he was tiring. Now they were closing in for the kill.

He gritted his teeth and ran. It was all he could do. His limbs quivered as he drove them harder than before, using every trick he knew to regain lost ground. He was tiring now, and making mistakes, stumbling over roots and brush he should have easily avoided. He was leaving a trail a child could follow. His skin itched with sweaty grit, his bruised shoulder ached, and his legs trembled with exhaustion.

Ahead was the overgrowth that marked the forest edge. Behind it loomed the tall twisted trunks, gnarled branches, and heavy leaves and vegetation of the Oolinor forest.

If the gods willed, then he had one chance to escape. Enter the forest edge and wait to see what his pursuers would do. Knowing the forest’s deadly reputation as they did, would they be foolish enough to enter? Bergulf was betting they would not. If so, he hoped to use their delay to slip away and escape.

Cries arose behind as his pursuers spotted him. A baying frenzy let him know that the hounds were free. Bergulf urged his trembling limbs to greater speed knowing that only the verdure woods ahead offered escape.

The panting sounds close behind sent him plunging into the arboreal darkness. The warm sunlight dimmed within steps and Bergulf found himself crashing through a maze of gnarled roots, thick hindering brush, and fallen limbs. The only illumination came from occasional shafts of light that pierced the thick canopy overhead. The boles of oak and pine surrounded him, reducing his vision to mere yards. Only steps into the Oolinor and already he hated the sense of brooding and suspicion it invoked. His enemies could approach and attack before he could sense them.

Without a backward glance, he plunged deeper into the forest.

He searched for a trail but saw only a jumbled, fallen mass of tree trunks, limbs, broken stumps, and other debris that reminded him more of a battlefield