Third Chapter Thursday - Helsgaard's Heroine

The third chapter of the first book of the Helsgaard Chronicles... Helsgaard's Heroine. If any of the words aren't clear, feel free to click on the Rosetta Stone button.

Here's what you missed: First Chapter and Second Chapter

Note: This is a copy & paste from the manuscript and not the formatted novel.

Commandant's Office

Bark Like a Dog.

Rylen, Lozen, and Bryn stood at a formidable door, its surface reinforced with iron bands. Bryn delivered three precise knocks before pushing the door open. As they crossed the threshold, Rylen released Lozen’s hand, slid his left hand to the back of her neck, and squeezed to remind her to behave as he guided her into the room.

Rohand hurried down the hallway, his long black hair tied back in a low ponytail. At twenty, he was lean and sharp-eyed, his storm-gray eyes steady above a short-cropped black beard. Like Rylen, he wore brown leather armor over a tan tunic and matching pants. Slipping through the door, he shut it behind him.

Inside, Commandant Günther sat at his desk, his battle-worn face unreadable as his gaze shifted to the unexpected visitors.

“Rohand, good,” Bryn greeted him. “You might want to hear this. Rylen, thank you for your escort. You can go, but please send the Mission Commander here on your way back to the gate.”

“Aye,” he acknowledged, releasing Lozen and hastening down the hallway, closing the door as he left.

With Rylen gone, Rohand, Bryn, and Lozen stood in the Commandant’s office. Rohand, mindful of security, moved close to Lozen, ready to take control of her if necessary. Rising from his seat, Commandant Günther greeted Bryn with curiosity and resignation.

Günther wore blue pants and an orange silk tunic, highlighting his elite status, and spoke as eloquently. “Bryn? You knocked? That’s different. What do you have for us?”

Bryn focused on Lozen, and she prodded the young Aelf forward with a sharp poke in the shoulders. Bryn and Rohand followed, watching the newcomer closely.

Bryn said, “This Little Bird comes all the way from Aeldoria. Says she seeks refuge. Along the way, she claims to have lived on the streets of Ravnborg.”

Looking disgusted, she leaned in close to Lozen, wrinkling her nose as she sniffed. “By her smell, she probably hasn’t had a bath in a moon or more.”

Günther smiled slightly at the graphic display of body odor. He asked, “Well, does she have a name?”

Bryn looked at Lozen, poking her in the chest. “That’s your cue to speak.”

“I am Lozen from Elowen in Aeldoria.” Lozen said abruptly.

“Great!” Günther said. “I suggest we all take a moment to sit down and get to know our guest.”

The assembled group moved to the table with four chairs tucked underneath. They settled into their seats, their postures reflecting curiosity, apprehension, and guarded anticipation.

Looking at Lozen, Günther began the introductions with a warm and welcoming voice. “I’m Helsgaard Keep’s Commandant Günther. You met Bryn. And over here is Rohand, our lead melee combat trainer.”

Lozen glanced at the three individuals, maintaining a polite appearance to hide her inner turmoil. She nodded after each introduction, her silence revealing the uncertainty gnawing at her heart.

“Would you kindly begin from the top?” Günther suggested. “I understand you are from Aeldoria and have made your way here. I would appreciate it if you could share more about your journey.”

Lozen closed her eyes to steady her nerves. “I was born in Aeldoria and grew up in a cottage outside the small village of Elowen. Orcs killed my real parents in a raid, and Elder Faelar facilitated my adoption by my new parents when I was a baby.”

“Orcs? I didn’t know they were seafaring.” Bryn commented.

Lozen looked at her questioningly.

Bryn motions for Lozen to continue.

“Ah, so you know some of the Council Elders?” said Günther, steering the conversation.

A shadow of pain that flitted across Lozen’s features. “Until I was thirteen.”

Sensing the shift in her demeanor, Günther held up a hand, signaling for her to pause.

Three sharp knocks resounded through the chamber. The door swung open, revealing Mission Commander Hrolf. A man of fifty years, his once fiery red hair was now fading to gray, matching his longer-than-average beard. He wore a dark blue silk tunic, a mark of his rank, though it lacked the undeniable panache of Günther’s attire. He walked inside and closed the door behind him, his presence adding a new layer of authority to the gathering.

Bryn, used to standing in the shadows and apart from others, rose from her chair and gestured for Hrolf to take her place. “Mission Commander, please.”

He accepted the offered seat. “The Helsgaard spy is giving me her chair? To what do I owe the honor?”

With a growing smirk, she retaliated with a playful jab. “Age before beauty.”

Hrolf chuckled as he settled into the chair.

Eager to resume their discussion, Günther turned his attention back to their guest. “You were telling us about a the Council Elders when you were thirteen...”

A Note to the Reader (or the Uninitiated)

Forget the hearth fire and the hero's journey. You are about to step into the Helsgaard Chronicles, a saga forged in ash, blood, and the black, cynical humor of a twenty-year military scar.

This isn't a book; it's a butcher’s floor, and you're the next one in line.

Within these pages—stretching through Helsgaard’s Heroine, Helsgaard’s Fury, and the rest—you'll find the grim truth of a world populated by warriors, witches, dragons, necromancers and the monsters men make of themselves. It is a world of dark, visceral power, where the only thing cheaper than a life is a promise.

We deal in violence ranging from petty, soul-crushing degradation to the wet work of battle. Swearing is in the tradition of the Old Norse—so, yes, you'll be exposed to the coarseness of warriors. There is also cost and consequences for the cold reality of child abandonment.

Still clinging to fairytales? Bless your soft, unscarred heart.

You won't find kindly wizards, noble swords, or damsels in distress. Here, the damsels are the ones causing the distress. This isn't heroes versus villains—it's raw politics, cold betrayal, and the taste of mud in your mouth. Peace is bought with the last thread of hope you dared to keep.

DO NOT CONTINUE IF:

You like your sieges tidy. Expect tactical maneuvers, ambushes, and one-on-one melée fights.

You prefer your battles clean. Swords stick in ribs, shields splinter, limbs scatter, and heads roll. Don't look for a neat cut; this is a desperate, ugly mess.

You squirm at a slow, ugly death, the bite of a corrosive, sarcastic joke, or the brutal, inescapable consequences of child abandonment.

Your version of 'roughing it' involves a campfire and a sing-along.

If you crave torchlit keeps, scarred Rangers, and a half-Aelf girl with a blue blade and a red-hot temper—then welcome. You’re twisted enough to survive.

A full glossary is provided for those too soft to infer, but frankly, if you need a Rosetta Stone to decipher a little Old Norse, you’re already behind.

Now, pack your armor. Pour a strong drink. When it all goes to Hel, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I honestly don't care.

Young Lozen, a thirteen-year-old girl with red hair, had struggled to keep up with her Aelfinn companions as they had darted through the trees of Elowen Forest, their movements like a graceful dance. Their tall, lithe forms, resembling fleeting shadows, had starkly contrasted her shorter, robust build. Amidst the verdant tapestry of emerald foliage, her fiery red hair stood out like a radiant beacon, signifying her distinctiveness within her social circle.

“Look at the Dwarf trying to keep up!” Gildor sneered, his green eyes dancing with cruel amusement. The wiry boy, draped in a finely woven emerald tunic with silver-threaded cuffs, pointed and giggled, the sound light and mocking—like birds chirping before a storm. His platinum hair, always a little unkempt, caught the sunlight as he leaned forward, reveling in the laughter of the other Aelfinn children.

The other children joined in, and their laughter rang like wind chimes in the breeze.

Lyriel, a girl with a sharp tongue, mocked, “Maybe she’ll trip and roll all the way to some filthy Human village!”

“She’s half-Dwarf and half-Aelf, making her a Dwaelf!” Gildor’s laughter grew louder.

Lozen clenched her fists at her sides. Her anger boiled like molten lava. The taunts burned like a brand. Rage consumed her. She lashed out. Impact!

With a swift, unexpected movement, her finger knuckles connected with Gildor’s breastbone in a failed throat punch. The force of the blow, though lessened by his sternum, reverberated through his body and caused him to stumble backward, clutching his throat.

“Don’t call me that!” Lozen screamed.

Gildor gasped for air and sputtered a curse. “Dwaelf bitch!!! What’s wrong with you?”

Elder Faelar arrived and interrupted their argument. Her normally calm face showed disapproval. Her dress and cloak marked her as politically important, demanding respect. Her speech was equally demanding. “That’s enough. There’s no place for that language here. Leave the girl alone.”

The children scattered like leaves in a gust of wind. Their laughter faded into the rustling of the trees. Faelar bent over beside Lozen, her ancient blue eyes sad with regret.

“Lozen,” she began. “I have a hard message for you, and I need you to listen.”

She looked at Faelar with apprehension. “I’m not a Dwaelf. Gildor deserved that punch.”

“I’m not saying he didn’t. He needs to learn to control himself so that punch may teach him something. But I’m not here to discuss Gildor.”

Her heart sank with growing dread. What was the Elder about to say?

“You do not belong here, Lozen,” Faelar declared. “You are not one of us. This much is obvious, yes?”

Nausea rolled through Lozen’s stomach and nose. She felt as if the forest floor had shifted beneath her feet, and her once familiar surroundings were now alien and hostile.

“Wh-what do you mean ‘do not belong?’” she stammered.

Faelar hardened. “You don’t fit in. It’s time for you to go.”

Lozen stared in disbelief. “Go? Where? Where will I go?” She cried, tears welling up.

The Elder sighed. “It’s not about what you’ve done,” she explained. “You have met every requirement and have excelled with every training exercise—”

“But why? But—why? This is the only family I have. What did I do?”

Faelar looked Lozen in the eyes, her expression stoic. “Lozen, it’s about who you are. You’re not like the rest of us. We took you in, cared for you, and raised you, but you are not like us. Your physical attributes—your ears, your stature, your size—all indicate you are something else—and they are becoming more pronounced as you mature.”

“But what about my parents?” Lozen pleaded with anguish. “Did they agree to this?”

Faelar’s face remained impassive, and she chose her words carefully to help divorce Lozen from her parents. “The decision has been made. Your guardians, who are not your parents, have been informed they are no longer responsible for your care. They knew this day would come. I had hoped this would not be the case.”

Lozen’s legs buckled beneath her, her sobs crying out through the silent forest. Pain racked her voice. “It’s not fair. I tried. I did what you asked. Why can’t you accept me?”

Faelar reached out and placed a soft hand on Lozen’s shoulder. “You must find your own path, Lozen. Your own path, not with us. Perhaps with the Humans. Their warriors need someone like you. Maybe even Helsgaard Keep—I’ve heard they’ll take anyone. Now go home. Your things are already packed.”

Faelar turned and walked away. Left alone, Lozen began her walk home.

Upon arriving at her former home, the modest cottage nestled in a sun-dappled clearing, Lozen felt a quiet solitude. The gentle rustling of leaves accompanied her as she approached the front door, her thirteen-year-old face etched with confusion and hurt.

Her worn backpack, trusty bow, and overflowing quiver stood by the door alongside a large stash of neatly arranged food. Together, they signaled the grim finality of the situation.

“Why?” Lozen’s voice, a whisper, trembled with the raw pain of abandonment, “I didn’t do anything!”

Only the chirping of birds and the wind in the trees answered her desperate question. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she knelt to gather her belongings.

Young Lozen slung the backpack over her shoulder. The weight of the bow and quiver felt familiar. She took one last look at her lifelong cottage home, turned, and disappeared into the woods, determination burning in her tear-filled eyes.

The tragedy of Lozen’s tale permeated the stillness in the room. The revelation of her abandonment, leaving her exiled and homeless, with the added intrigue of a hidden identity stunned everyone in the Commandant’s office. Rohand, face flushed with shock, broke the silence. “Víd hamri Thors—by Thor’s hammer! The very people who are supposed to protect you tossed you out like a piss pot!”

Hrolf nodded, sharing Rohand’s outrage, and he addressed the outburst. “Thank you, Rohand, for the colorful language in front of our guest. Remind me why you are here?”

“Evaluating the new recruit for training, sir!”

“Very well. Try evaluating with more understanding and less judgment of those you don’t know.” He motioned for Bryn to continue the conversation.

“She’s not a recruit yet. She hasn’t told us what she has to offer.” Bryn’s voice remained calm and analytical. “All I’ve seen so far is a troubled girl with a heartbreaking story who shows up here. Why? What brought you here?”

Lozen took a deep breath to steady her nerves and looked at Bryn with resolve. “There was a merchant who had a map,” she explained. “She let me copy it and showed me how to get here, suggested I come here to get off the streets before the guards caught me. I was developing a reputation.”

Bryn smiled and finished Lozen’s sentence, “Because the Shadow Archer was robbing the rich, feeding the poor, and stirring up the people into rebellion.” Bryn looked at Gunther. “The bards were singing her tales.”

Her words hung in the air, the implication clear. Lozen’s expression betrayed her surprise, curiosity, and apprehension. Sensing the unspoken connection between the two women, Hrolf turned to Bryn, puzzled. “Am I missing something?”

Bryn continued. “Not at all. It’s just an amazing coincidence that an archer shows up in Ravnborg, upsetting the merchants who are losing inventory and distressing the poor because her charity highlighted their plight. Tensions bordered on rebellion, and King Valdissen had to nip that in the bud before it got out of control. So he put a bounty on our girl.”

Bryn stared at Lozen, boring into her Aelfinn inner being. Lozen stared back, reeling on the verge of a panic attack, wondering how she knew these details.

Günther interrupted the stare-down and leaned toward Bryn. “So now I’m hearing we have a RIOS-bountied fugitive in the room? I know everyone here is running from something, but RIOS? I don’t want any RIOS entanglements. Bryn?”

“As you suspect, RIOS has taken care of the situation. The bounty was paid. She’s bounty-free, gone from Ravnborg and the King is happy. Well, happier.”

Günther smiled and leaned back. “Please, continue.”

“She seems to know everything,” Lozen snipped. “Being RIOS and all. Let her tell.”

Bryn glared at Lozen’s outburst. “I have the raven’s eye view. Tell us what’s happening on the ground.”

Lozen sighed. “I got caught by a guard one night. He dragged me to this talking crystal ball called RIOS. He got paid his bounty. He let me go and I took the hint and disappeared.”

She kept her attention on Bryn. The unspoken question amplified the tension in the room. Feeling their stares, Lozen explained. “I’m not saying I am the Shadow Archer, but getting caught at night in a black cloak with a bow was pretty damning. So I took the deal and got out.”

The intensity in the room remained as everyone focused on Lozen.

Bryn commented, “The deal was she comes to Helsgaard Keep or have a lifelong stay in the dungeon—however short that may be.”

Lozen took a couple breaths before continuing, “Not wanting to be branded an Skaldvárr—oathbreaker—and have a blood eagle carved in my back or my ears swinging on someone’s necklace, I left. A half-moon later, slogging through swamps and dodging bounty hunters, here I am.”

“There shouldn’t have been any bounty hunters—RIOS paid your bounty.”

“Don’t know what to tell you,” Lozen glared at Bryn. “And this is not quite the welcome I had expected with your goon twisting my arm and you in my face, poking me. Lemme guess—you’re my contact? If so, you suck at introductions.”

Bryn’s demeanor shifted, becoming more businesslike. “Here’s how it works. You give us a skill we need, and we let you stay. No skill and the Little Bird is out of the nest flying somewhere else. What I’ve got is maybe you can shoot a bow. And you might have some healing ability—not sure how much you learned by thirteen. So far, I am not impressed, and you’re halfway back to the gate right now. I’m sure Rylen would love to hold hands with you again.”

Günther and Hrolf glanced at each other, silently amused that Bryn took command of the meeting and dominated Lozen.

Lozen grimaced at the thought of Rylen’s strong arm and looked down at the table, defeat settling in.

Bryn, noticing her reaction, pressed on. “How old are you?”

Lozen stared at her. “Sixteen.”

Bryn felt a sense of relief. “Sixteen? The streets have been rough on you, Little Bird. At sixteen, you’re still trainable—maybe—almost too old. I’ll give you a chance. Are you ready to hang with the big dogs?”

Lozen, confused by the idiom, furrowed her brow. “Sorry, my Common Tongue may not be so good—you want me to hang a dog?”

“Are you ready to run with the big dogs?”

Lozen pondered the question, realization setting in with a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Woof!” she exclaimed, sparking a playful challenge.

Bryn, mirroring her enthusiasm, barked back. “Woof!”

The room erupted in laughter as everyone joined in with a “woof,” dispelling the tension. She assessed Lozen. “So you’re an Aelf,” she said, stepping forward and examining the newcomer. “But what else? Maybe Dwarf? Red hair, stocky build, smaller ears? I’m betting on it. That will make you a good melee warrior. Maybe even kick Rohand’s rass.”

Rohand stared at Bryn with a challenging look, mouthing the words, “Bring it.”

Bryn asked, “Where did xenophobic Aeldoria find a Dwarf to mate with an Aelf seventeen years ago, right before this war started? It’s an enigma, to be sure.”

She turned to Günther and Hrolf. “All right, she amuses me. Let’s see if she can actually shoot that bow.”

Günther and Hrolf nodded in agreement, their curiosity piqued.

Hrolf ordered Rohand to go with them. “Rohand. Based on Bryn’s assessment, you will take Shadow Archer to the gate or bring her back to me. You are dismissed.”

Bryn headed for the door, Lozen following, with Rohand trailing just behind, his eyes never leaving her. Behind them, Günther and Hrolf remained, silently weighing the fate of the young Aelf who had unexpectedly become part of their world.

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