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eBook Category: Fantasy/Young Adult
eBook Description: The Trial of Cyrhision is a fantasy series set in the British Isles as it was ten thousand years ago--or rather, as it ought to have been. In pristine lands now lost beneath the sea, ancient races with enhanced powers battle for supremacy. Embroiled in this conflict are Holt Goodfellow, a young farmer; Amrielle, the High King's enchanting daughter; and their friend Rillodan, a once-powerful immortal who is just a little crazy ... Book 1, The Darkling and the Lady tells how Holt leaves his rustic homeland to encounter adventures and perils he never dreamed of--hostile Rockfolk, vicious Firbolg, a Renegade sorceror, and not least, love!

eBook Publisher: Writers Exchange E-Publishing, Published: 2005
Fictionwise Release Date: August 2005

This eBook is part of the following series:

• Christine Davidson's Trial of Cyrhision Series

8 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [1.5 MB], eReader (PDB) [349 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [349 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [304 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [272 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [336 KB], hiebook (KML) [733 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [375 KB], iSilo (PDB) [286 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [357 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [394 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [444 KB]
Words: 104753
Reading time: 299-419 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 1920972242

There always had been Shean who were strong and athletic, Shean who were bold, and some who thought for themselves. There were even a few with minds open enough to thirst for knowledge of the world beyond their immediate confines--though these, it must be admitted, often came to a bad end, at least according to the standards of their solid countrymen. Seldom indeed were all these attributes to be found in one individual; but the Shean that rode into the wilds of Ullursland this fine spring morning was just such a rarity.

Holtworth Goodfellow, twenty-five years old and so of age to claim all the advantages of adulthood, as well as a not inconsiderable inheritance, was choosing instead to leave it all behind to indulge a most un-Shean-like desire to travel to the King's City. What he meant to do there, even he himself would probably be hard pressed to say.

Shean were not held in much regard among the tall, proud and often haughty Fir Domnan, their overlords. Most of these, if they troubled to consider Shean at all, reckoned them good farmers, even good hunters; but in other respects, slow of wit, crude in lifestyle, timid and secretive to a fault.

But Yeoman Goodfellow was far from typical in at least one of these features. In the first place, he was on an old, little-used trackway, alone. In addition, he wore a mail shirt beneath his leather buffcoat, a round pot-helm on his head, and at his side a small, square shield blazoned with a white bull's head. That such things even existed in the peaceful Commonality of Shean would surprise many.

Built almost like a Rockman, strong and sturdy, this Shean knew himself a champion in the sports his countrymen enjoyed: wrestling, archery, weight lifting and tossing, and of course Skarmuch, the mock-battle tournaments that kept Shean youth from too much scrumpy cider and sighing after women.

So the flower of Westergarth rode out, sword at his side and bow at his back. If any Shean might be capable of fending for himself among the hazards that lay outside his homeland, it must be Yeoman Holtworth Goodfellow, and surely he should be pardoned for thinking so.

Early mist shrouded the outland hills, but was soon dispersed by the quickening spring sun. The old, grass-grown roadway the rider followed ran at first through young, open woodland of oak and ash, filled with vibrant birdsong. After some miles the trees petered out into an expanse of heather and gorse, and the track narrowed, dropping down into a shallow valley, its mild slopes covered with yellow flowers borne on a sea of spines. Here the air was quiet, save for a lone, red-throated linnet that trilled from the top of a bush.

The horse picked his way on with slackened pace, and suddenly the bird fled with a whirr of wings, chittering loudly as five figures appeared across the path. Dark, tangled hair spread over their shoulders, but was caught up on the crown into a topknot fixed with smears of clay. Though tall, they had skin far less pale than King's Folk, though nowhere near as dark as Holt's own. Their clothes seemed made chiefly of undressed animal skins, pieced haphazardly together. Their faces were barred with stripes of charcoal and ochre; two of the figures bore long, wickerwork shields daubed in the same colours. Their belts seemed festooned with weapons, an assortment of knives and axes, but they had no bows. They stood unmoving, waiting for the rider to approach.

He drew rein and looked at the men. Their appearance was quite unlike that of any of the occasional travellers he had seen passing through Westergarth, and he had no idea who they might be. They were five, and he was alone. He might have unslung his bow and shot all of them before they managed to come up to him; but this he could not do. Shean never shot anything without sufficient reason: wolves that preyed on young lambs, or something that was good to eat. Instinct prompted conciliation. He could see these were men, his own kind if of different race; they were not misshapen gangrels--as Shean called the several types of light-hating Firbolg whose chief pleasure lay in violence and torment. Possibly these folk had some title here. He touched his mount with his heels and walked slowly down toward them.

One of the men, the leader perhaps, said something to the others in a strange tongue, whereupon they laughed. A chill wind stirred the hair on the young Shean's neck. He turned in the saddle, to discover his only route of escape blocked by two more men, who must have lain hidden beneath the bushes as he passed. Too late, he realised he should have been more alert for the tiny signs that would have marked their presence. Now the others were moving deliberately toward him. They had picked their spot well; on either side of the road the thorny bushes grew densely together, and while he might be able to squirm swiftly away beneath them he would not leave his horse and all his gear, which was perhaps just what they desired.

You should have listened to what that Sentinel said, the voice of hindsight prompted. You thought it was just the usual Longshanks put-down, but you ought to have realised King's Men know their job. Better than an idiot Shean; no use being able to track down a rogue lynx like you did last year, if you're wool-gathering when a little observation might save your skin. A bit quicker, and you could have got out of this. As it is, you'll have to take your chances.

He grasped the hilt of his sword. Seven to one was a tall order, literally, for a Shean, even a large one on horseback, but he hoped a show of confidence would enable him to buy his way out by handing over some, perhaps all, of his money and food; both of which could soon be replenished by some honest work. Horse and weapons he had no intention of giving up.

The men's laughter cut off abruptly as the leader brandished his axe. Suddenly, the young Yeoman understood as he gazed into the cold, brutal faces that he stood to lose more than his property. These men meant business, and it looked as though that business included murder.