Junkland (The Hoarding Book 1) Read online

  Junkland

  Text copyright © 2017

  Patrick Johns

  All rights are reserved. This work may not be reproduced in whole or in part in any form without permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing: Katie Herring

  Cover Illustration: Nele Diel

  Cover Design: Steph Wulz

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part Two

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part Three

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Special Thanks

  Thank you for showing me the importance of enjoying the simple things in life, especially the people who are there for you in the end.

  I love and miss you every day.

  This one is for you, Poppy.

  Trust:

  A strength that is built with time,

  But can be taken away,

  In a blink of an eye.

  Prologue

  THE SPHERE GLOWED a faint blue at the top of her staff; its energy was low, but she needed to keep running—she needed to make it to the mountains. The wind was howling in all directions and the trees danced and whistled in the night as if they were alive. The branches whipped violently through the thick, humid air. Thunder cracked above, releasing raindrops onto Partha’s face.

  She picked up her pace.

  Partha’s hair was blowing in a tangled mess, making it difficult to see in front of her. She didn’t have a free hand to fix it, nor could she adjust the bag digging deep into her shoulders like razor sharp teeth. Her heart was racing in her chest as she moved one foot after the other; she had to keep moving.

  Her baby was crying in her left arm, wrapped in a woolen blanket. She clutched him close to her chest as she clenched her staff tightly with her right hand.

  She heard something whip past her on her right side, feeling the heat as it zipped by. A yellow blast collided into a tree five feet away, sending shards of wood dangerously close to her in the air. She ducked, pulling her cloak over her body to shield herself and her baby.

  When the lightning lit up the sky, Partha took a quick glance over her shoulder. She saw the yellow glow from their suits among the dark green foliage. There were three of them chasing her.

  She spun her head back around, wincing as a thin branch whipped across her cheek. She felt blood slide down her face—but she kept running. One foot after another, that was all that mattered; she couldn’t be caught. Not until she knew her baby was safe, but in order to do that, she had to make it to the mountains.

  Partha heard another blast echoing behind her. She covered her baby’s head as she ducked behind a tree. The yellow blast blinded her as it exploded into the trunk of the tree, catching it on fire. The rain was falling harder now, but it wasn’t enough to stop the quickly spreading fire throughout the forest.

  A dense cloud of smoke covered her. Coughing profusely, she hunched over, staying as low to the forest floor as possible.

  She saw a path through the smoke on her left and she decided to take it. It quickly became steep, and she had to hold her baby tighter so not to drop him. She ran down it and realized it opened up underneath a small cliff. She took cover underneath a rocky crevice. Leaning against the rock wall, she felt the scars on her back tug as she took deep breaths—in and out, in and out. The rain fell like a waterfall over the crevice making it hard to see, but she could hear the rustling of branches and heavy footsteps over her head.

  Partha pulled her baby closer to her chest and glanced at the sphere at the top of her staff. She knew she could stop them in a heartbeat, but she had to save energy. She had to keep her promise to Ren. A tear rolled down her cheek as the horrible events flashed through her mind.

  She had been lying in bed, worrying about her husband fighting in the war. Somehow, sleep had found her, but the crashing of a door woke her. Ren had been sprinting up the steps, yelling her name. Partha recalled the fear in his voice. Breathlessly, he had barged into their bedroom. He had tried to explain as best as he could: she was coming for their boy, and they had to get him far, far away. Ren had told her to run east, to the mountains, before…before…

  The men’s footsteps brought her back to reality. They were directly above her now, on top of the cliff, and the smoke was beginning to fade. If she stayed, they would soon discover her, but if she ran now…

  She ran.

  She kept her baby close to her chest as she sprinted out into the forest. Shouts from above told her they had spotted her. Partha heard the clicking of weapons and another blast zipped by her. The blast hit the ground by her feet. She went flying forward, crashing into a wet blanket of leaves on the forest floor. Her baby shrieked as he rolled out of her arms. Her staff was gone, too.

  Her head was spinning from the explosion and her mind was going black. Her baby’s cry sounded far and distant, almost hollow. She heard shouting from behind her, taking her out of the black fog surrounding her consciousness.

  Thunder boomed over her head, and smoke and rain fogged her vision. A flash of lightning gave her enough light to locate her baby and her staff. They were both about ten feet away. Clawing at the loose dirt beneath her fingernails, she pushed herself forward with her legs. A root scraped her stomach, ripping her tunic. She stretched another hand forward and another, towards the cries of her baby and towards the blue sphere that was still glowing faintly through the smoke. She was almost there.

  A blast hit the ground a foot away from her right hip.

  Too close.

  She picked up the pace. She recalled her husband’s words as she pushed forward. ‘Promise me you will save your energy. Promise me you will save it, Partha.’ Ren was right. She needed to save it for the long journey over the mountains. But what choice did she have? The men were almost on her, and she would soon be caught. She had to use it—only a little.

  “I’m sorry, Ren,” Partha whispered.

  She dove forward, covering her baby from the blasts that stormed around her. She desperately reached her right hand out in front of her, towards her staff. Her fingers fell short—only inches away. She gritted her teeth, trying to stretch and close the distance. The blasts continued to storm around her. Her baby cried and wriggled beneath her. She stretched a
nd stretched and stretched. Her arm was shaking uncontrollably. She let out a yell and reached a little bit farther, wrapping her fingers around her staff.

  Partha rose to her knees, pointing the staff to the top of the trees. She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. The air flowed down her throat to her stomach like a river before curving back up to her chest and then back out her mouth.

  She felt the energy circulating within her. She felt it running from her heart, up through her arms, and into the sphere. She let her mind focus, letting the energy continue to flow through her. Every muscle in her body pulsed. A blue light shot out from the sphere enclosing her and her baby like a shield.

  The three men crashed through the dense trees to where she was standing, but stopped abruptly.

  “Where’d they go?” one of them asked.

  “I don’t know. I could’ve sworn they went this way!” another said.

  “Do ya hear anything?” The third asked.

  “No, I hear nothing.” The first man pointed his Captor at where Partha was standing. “They were right here.”

  Partha held her breath, every muscle in her body aching.

  The third man took a step forward. “Let’s keep moving. The queen will not be happy if we let them get away.”

  The three men ran forward, creeping deeper into the forest.

  Partha felt the energy fading. She held it for a little longer. She could not chance wasting it all, but she had to make sure the men were out of sight.

  Partha watched the glow of their yellow suits disappear into the darkness. When their footsteps faded, she let go of the energy and let out a loud gasp. Every muscle in her body screamed. She brought the sphere down in front of her face. I used too much, she thought as she turned her gaze towards the mountains, and then down at her baby. She scooped him up.

  “We’re going to make it, little one. We are going to make it.” She nuzzled her baby with her nose.

  Partha continued running towards the mountains.

  But now the sphere on her staff glowed an even fainter blue.

  Part One

  The Hoarding

  Year 913 A.Z.

  Chapter 1

  Jahrys

  JAHRYS GRENT DODGED a blow from his enemy. He was knocked off balance, but he found his ground and leapt forward, swinging his sword. A loud crack echoed throughout the forest as the two swords collided. Jahrys let out a grunt. He used all his strength to push his sword towards his enemy. The sweat poured into his eyes, causing them to burn, but Jahrys held his gaze. His heart was racing, and every beat sounded like an elephant’s foot pounding the earth. His muscles were aching, but he continued to hold his sword.

  His enemy broke the bond, and swung at Jahrys; it sounded like a whip slicing the air as the sword came down on him.

  Jahrys rolled to the side, missing the blow by inches, as his enemy’s sword smacked the ground. Fixing his feet, he steadied himself.

  His enemy was on him again. This time he was swinging his sword left and right, left and right.

  Jahrys parried the attacks as he stepped backwards. Each step had to be placed perfectly or else he would—

  A root appeared out of nowhere. Jahrys stumbled, falling on his back. He let out a yell of pain. He tried to regain himself, but when he raised his head, a wooden sword was pointed directly at his heart.

  “Looks like I win again,” his best friend, Kevrin Danell, boasted. Playfully, he poked Jahrys with the point of it.

  Jahrys flicked it away in frustration. “You got lucky this time.”

  “Isn’t luck part of the game?” Kevrin asked, giving him a sly smile. He lowered his wooden sword and shot a hand out towards Jahrys.

  Jahrys took it, and groaned on the way up. Pain shot through his lower back. “I think a stick dug into me.”

  “Maybe it will turn into a scar just like Sir Piller Lorne’s to brag about,” Kevrin laughed.

  “No scar will ever look half as menacing as Sir Piller’s. Have you seen it in person?” Jahrys asked, as he brushed the dirt off his back.

  “I’ve only heard the stories,” Kevrin said, as he walked over to his log to sit down and drink from his waterskin. “I heard on his first night in the Poolesguard he took out three men single-handedly to save a little girl, and when he was just eleven years old, he saved his father’s shop from a crazy old fool who had tried to rob them!”

  Jahrys walked over to his own log. He leaned his wooden sword up against it and grabbed his own waterskin. He sat down on the ground, his back leaning up against the log. He felt his heart still racing in his chest, and his breathing was hurried. He took a sip of water to cool off before he answered. “The stories soften it up. I saw his scar.”

  “You saw his scar? In person?” Kevrin leaned forward on his log. His ears pricked up like a dog’s.

  Jahrys took another sip of water and began to unstrap the pads around his legs. “I sure did. He was searching the streets with the Poolesguard, looking for a wanted man who had escaped the castle. Sir Piller walked right past me on my way to my father’s shop. His scar ran all the way across his face like this…” Jahrys drew a jagged line with his finger from his forehead to his chin.

  Kevrin’s jaw dropped. “I hope I get to see it one day.”

  Jahrys watched Kevrin trace a line on his own face, as if imagining what it would be like to have his own facial scar.

  “I still think Galagar Poole is the bravest knight of Astenpoole,” Kevrin stated, as he began to unstrap the pads around his shoulders and arms.

  “You can’t compare a man who lived three hundred years ago to him,” Jahrys shook his head, tossing another pad into the pile he had started on the ground. He wiped his sweaty brown hair from his eyes before working on another pad around his right knee. “Times were different back then.”

  “Well I still think it’s astounding a guy could go from begging on the streets to becoming King of Astenpoole.”

  “Okay, well, if we’re talking about three hundred years ago, then I’ll throw Palor A’kal into the mix. He may not have been a king but he was a true hero!”

  “Palor wasn’t even officially a knight,” Kevrin pointed out, struggling with a pad on his wrist.

  “No. But I still think he deserves a place in the Hall of Heroes. The guy tried to stab King Alas Danor after walking in on him beating his own daughter. And he got banished over the Western Mountains for it! He threw everything away for Princess Melaine.”

  “Well, then, what about his brother, Sible, who actually succeeded in murderering King Alas?”

  “I guess he deserves a spot on the wall, too.”

  They both came to an agreement about that.

  “And what about Old Lan?” Kevrin asked, his face serious.

  Jahrys’s hands stopped working on the pad around his knee. He looked at Kevrin and burst out laughing. Kevrin joined him.

  The two boys finished taking off their pads and leaned back to enjoy the fresh air. The trees swayed side to side above their heads. Birds scrambled back and forth to different branches. Insects were little black specks circling over their heads, buzzing and spinning. The day was perfect.

  Snap.

  Jahrys and Kevrin spun around.

  “Well if it isn’t Jahrhead and Grammy’s Boy,” a tall, muscular boy named Rallick Henner said, appearing from behind a tree. Two other boys accompanied him: Stade Crar and Taygar Flebb. Stade was tall and skinny, and Taygar was fat and had no tongue.

  Jahrys let out a groan. Just what I needed. “What do you want, Rallick?” he asked rudely.

  Rallick stepped forward, puffing out his chest, leaving Stade and Taygar to glare menacingly from behind, but Rallick’s glare was the worst. “I came for my fifty pooles you owe me from our game the other day.” He held out a hand, as if expecting it immediately.

  Stade and Taygar sniggered and crossed their arms behind him.

  Jahrys stayed put. He didn’t have any pooles on him, and he didn’t want to give in to Rallick’
s harassment. Jahrys knew he got a rise out of it. “I told you I would get it to you when I can. Why don’t you go bother someone else?” Jahrys snapped, waving them away.

  “I want my coin…today,” Rallick demanded, taking another step forward, more threateningly this time. “Are you deaf, Jahrhead? I said I—”

  “He said he would give it to you when he can,” Kevrin stood up. His fists were clenched tight, his nostrils flaring.

  “Shouldn’t you be back home taking care of that sick grandmother of yours? Or have you finally seen the light and realized The Sickness has taken her?”

  Kevrin grabbed his wooden sword and pointed it at Rallick. “That isn’t funny.”

  All three laughed at the sight of Kevrin’s sword.

  When Kevrin realized how ridiculous he looked, he lowered his weapon, his face reddening.

  Jahrys lifted himself up. He placed a hand on Kevrin’s tense shoulder. “He isn’t worth it, Kevrin. Let’s just go.”

  “Go?” Rallick mimicked. “Are you afraid, Jahrhead?”

  “I am not afraid,” Jahrys turned and puffed out his chest. A knight is never afraid.

  “Tell you what,” said Rallick. “If you can land one blow on me with that stick you call a sword…I’ll walk away and forget you owe me anything.” He turned back to Stade and Taygar. “Doesn’t that seem fair?”

  “Sounds fair to me, Rallick,” replied Stade, nodding his head mindlessly in agreement.

  “Hargh!” agreed Taygar, his lips moving in odd directions as the fat under his chin jiggled.

  “And better yet,”—Rallick’s lips twisted into a smile—“I won’t even use a sword against you.” He lowered his hands to his side as if he was offering peace.

  Jahrys wanted to knock that smirk off his face. Why couldn’t Rallick just leave them alone? Jahrys felt his temples pulsing, and his fingernails were digging into his palms.

  Kevrin placed a hand on Jahrys’s shoulder. “Come on. Like you said…he isn’t worth it.”

  Jahrys didn’t listen. He picked up his wooden sword, and gripped it tight in his hand. “If Galagar Poole had turned away, he would never have been the King of Astenpoole. If Palor A’kal had turned away, he wouldn’t have saved Princess Melaine. If Sir Piller had turned away, that little girl would be dead. I will not turn away,” he muttered.