Death without Direction: A Modern Sword and Sorcery Serial (A Battleaxe and a Metal Arm Book 1) by Samuel Fleming (novels to improve english txt) 📗

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Quote

Born without Memory

The Rusted Prison

Ziggurat

The Drowned Temple

The Room

Spoiler-Free Excerpt from BAMA 2

Back Matter

Connect with the Author

A Battleaxe and a Metal Arm 1:

Death without Direction

By Samuel Fleming

Copyright © 2021 by Samuel Fleming

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.

Cover Art by David Leahey

“Death is not the end.”

—nameless

Born without Memory

The first thing Helesys knew was falling.

It was long enough for her heart to rise into her throat and thankfully no longer than that. She landed on both feet and crouched into a roll to spare her legs. Twice over and then sprawled out on the dusty stone floor.

The elf pushed to her feet quickly because a short step away someone else fell to the ground. He did not land as graceful but he did not need to. The man hit the ground in a crouch, catching himself through sheer strength alone. He stood easily and relaxed, finally towering shoulders above Helesys. He wore thick leather armor. A fur cloak and battleaxe sat across his shoulders, making him look like a mountain in the sharp light of the room.

His voice was cold as stone. “Who are you?”

Helesys measured the man and took him for an outlander, a barbarian nomad. Savages to some… but not to her.

This gave her pause. She sensed this man was not a danger to her, but she did not know how she knew. Helesys searched her memories and found more shroud, more void.

“Are you mute?”

“Give me silence a moment,” she replied sternly.

He grunted in response, but stood still and waited.

Helesys looked around the room. It was three stories high and barely the same across. They were clearly underground—the room was sparsely lit by threads of light from above and sconces that burned along the wall. This fact alone did not bother her, as her eyes did well enough in the dim. All around, the room was made of wide stone blocks. They were pitted and rough in spots and covered by green-red moss in others.

Wherever they were, it was ancient and worn. The air was stale and still.

No, the thing that troubled Helesys was that could remember scarcely more than her name. She knew things… but could not remember the context. She could discern things about the underground room, but could not remember where she was or why she was in this place.

Worse was that she could not see an opening above them. No telling how they got in or how they might get back out.

“My name is Helesys,” she finally said while scanning the room. “I do not remember more than that.” It was a half-truth. Her family name was Byyra.

“My name is Taunauk. My memory has been stolen as well,” he replied. “I know what I am, but I have forgotten who.”

“I do not follow.”

“I am from the forest and the fields and the mountains. I am human. I am a warrior.” He pulled the giant axe overhead and held it firmly. It was taller than Helesys and nearly as tall as the barbarian. It had twin blades on the head, razor sharp yet chipped at the points and the rest of the metal was dulled with wear. The leather wrap of the handle was worn pale at the grips.

“I know this axe,” he said. “It echoes in my hands but I cannot sense its origin.”

Helesys looked herself over as the human talked. She was an elf, tall (compared to most humans) and slender. White hair draped over her shoulder. Beneath her gray robes she felt the silken weight of elven chainmail, of mithral. Her hands and skin were noble-fair, but she felt strong and poised—which had helped her landing and tumble—

—Her right arm had felt like it was covered in a gauntlet beneath her sleeve. The metal was a bright silver with a hue of blue—the same mithral as her chainmail—but it was more: Her entire right arm was metal prosthetic from fingertip to shoulder. No skin or muscle or bone remained—yet it was as dexterous as her left hand. She looked at her arm with wonder for she could feel the supple weight and fabric of her robe upon the metal surface.

And in her forearm, embedded deep within the length of metal where a bone ought to be, was a magic wand. She knew this—felt this—because the wand wasn’t just hidden inside her arm, but connected to her arm. So she was a mage. A spellslinger.

But again her memory was a void. Helesys couldn’t remember when or how she had gotten her arm. She couldn’t remember her spells or her training or her teacher.

“Are you a weaver?” Taunauk asked, bringing her back to the tomb. “You have that look about you. Noble, fair-skinned. Cunning.” He said the words plainly and without disdain. That surprised her. If anything, there was confusion in his voice, as if the term weaver was familiar but disconnected. He did not mention her arm.

“I believe so. I know so… As you said, I know what I am, but I have forgotten who.” Helesys looked around the room and saw a passageway—a single passageway. “Since there seems to be no other exit, are you against traveling together?”

“I am not,” the barbarian replied. He walked over to the closest sconce and with a smooth pull he ripped it from the wall, sending bits of stone scattering across the floor. The quiet display of strength contrasted with the breaking of the attachment and scattering of stone fragments across the floor.

In the flickering torchlight, his face was rough with creases, and his hair and beard were cut to nothing but stubble.

“I will go first.” Taunauk said. He led the way with torch in one hand and battleaxe in the other.

Helesys offered no counterpoint and followed the hulk of a man. Meanwhile she flexed