The Golem Crafter

  ETHRIA 2:

  THE GOLEM CRAFTER

  AN EPIC LITRPG ADVENTURE

  BY AARON ROLAND HOLLOWAY

  Artwork By Ming-Luke

  LINK: https://www.artstation.com/mingluke

  Formatting By Waqas Hussain

  LINK: https://www.fiverr.com/mwaqash

  Beta Reading / Editing Credits

  Daniel Rodriguez

  Lincoln Stewart

  Benjamin Porter

  Sean Oswald

  Jordan Smith

  Thank You

  Thank you to my family, friends, church group, and fellow indie authors who were all extremely supportive and helpful during the formation of this second installment of Ethria.

  A special thanks to Craig Martelle and Aleron Kong who ran charitable grant programs for other indie authors and community members during these uncertain and trying times. As a recipient and those grants, I will say that this novel would never have been finished without the assistance they provided me and my family.

  Due to their kindness and generosity, my family was able to stave off homelessness despite fewer hours at work, lost job opportunities, bad landlords, and failing health.

  Thank you to my artist, my alpha and beta readers, and of course all of you readers out there for picking this novel up. I hope you enjoy reading Ethria 2 as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Authors Note

  I had originally planned on having this novel professionally edited for grammar before release. Additionally, I had planned on re-releasing Ethria 1 after having it professionally edited. Due to world events beyond my control, that became a financial impossibility.

  Still, I took great care and time in putting this novel together. Revising, editing, and working constantly the last three months in an attempt to craft a better product even than the first novel. I hope that dedication shines through for you. Still, I am aware that my self-editing is a rare skill among authors. Sadly, I am not among the rare breed of authors who can do it perfectly. On that point, I can only ask for grace.

  Table of Contents

  Map of the Borderlands Region on the Continent of Tor’sel

  Prologue 1: The Knight, and the Friar

  Prologue 2: The Cardinal and the Sorcerer

  Chapter 1: Winter Howls

  Chapter 2: The Crystal Caverns

  Chapter 3: The Crystal Matriarch

  Chapter 4: Avatars and Vengeance

  Chapter 5: Burning Dwarven Beards

  Chapter 6: The Heartfield Manor

  Chapter 7: Wizardly Dinner

  Chapter 8: Decisions

  Chapter 9: Hunting the Bear

  Chapter 10: Nightmares and Festivals

  Chapter 11: Golems and Water Dogs

  Chapter 12: At The Gates

  END PART 1: TRAVEL SOUTH Interlude 1: The Horse Clans

  Interlude 2: The Meaning of Names

  Interlude 3: The Pain of Names

  Chapter 13: Sightseeing

  Chapter 14: Mage Tower, Licensing, and a New Master

  Chapter 15: Ecclesiastical Court

  Chapter 16: A Hard Day of Shopping

  Chapter 17: Bright Creations

  Chapter 18: Dark Lessons

  Chapter 19: Duel of the Golem Crafters

  THE END PART 2: THE BIG CITY Epilogue 1: Murder and Mayhem

  Epilogue 2: Songs and Hope

  Daniel “Rayid” Tear’s Character Sheet

  Map of the Borderlands Region on the Continent of Tor’sel

  Prologue 1: The Knight, and the Friar

  “To the knights of faith, nobody believes.” - Dejan Stojanovic, Circling: 1978-1987

  Shortly after the demise of the Necromancer of the Dow’del Ruins.

  Knight Errant Sir Jonathan of Tri-Water stood unmoving on the open plain. The field was flat and lay fallow. The beginning of winter’s first frost tipped the grey yellow grasses that stretched on in every direction. His Warhammer rested in a loop at his hip, his kite shield strapped to his arm prepared to engage in his defense as he stood by the small brightly-painted red ward stone that marked the boundary into town. I hope it does not come to that dear Pyris, my lady of light, the ever-burning flame. Please do not permit this to escalate beyond what it has already come to.

  “Ho!” Came the strained voice of his squire behind him. “Get this wagon going!” The spindly boy yelled at the driver of the last wagon in the caravan from atop his mare.

  “The horses are pulling, but the axle seems to have broken sir knight.” Came the elderly voice of the wagon driver, panic beginning to infuse his words.

  “Papa, they’re here again!” The wagon driver's young daughter yelled from the back of the covered vehicle and pointed at the dust plumes of the riders that had been harassing the caravan the past four days. It had started out simply enough, threats, yelling, the confiscating of food and other material as “fines” and “tithes” assessed by the supposed representatives of the Church of Dominus. But it had escalated, fights, beatings, the killing of livestock, and just the day before it had finally come to near murder. That was when the Knight had had enough and sent his squire to retrieve the caravan and bring it to his faith’s small shrine, where no other religious authority could claim rights under Torish law.

  “Go, cut the horses free, and ride them into town. Get your family to safety,” the squire ordered.

  “But our food, my tools are in here. We can’t just…”

  “Go, now! Your lives are more important. Food can be found and tools can be replaced!” The squire ordered.

  “Aye,” the elderly driver said, his voice subdued. A few minutes later, the small family, the driver, his wife, and daughter, only a few summers younger than the knight's squire, fled into town. Their weary horses galloped as fast as they could take them.

  “Squire Trestin,” the knight called out.

  “Yes, master?”

  “Do you have your bow?” The young would-be knight reached behind his saddle and retrieved the riding bow he had crafted. He was barely thirteen summers old, tall and skinny with wispy, brown hair, with eyes as azure blue as the sky. Despite that, the knight knew his squire could use the weapon in self-defense. The boy was a natural prodigy with the weapon. Sir Jonathan was sure that if the boy continued working at the skill, he would become one of the most renowned master bowmen in the world. Trestin’s skill was already nearly double that of his own, at a skill rank of 9, an impressive gift from the gods if ever the knight had seen one.

  “If they do not dismount to face me in honorable combat, target their horses first. Once dismounted, I will deal with the paladins.” The knight nearly spat the last word like a curse. Only propriety, and his past respect and friendship with the men he was about to face stayed his tongue from cursing their names.

  “If the Friar attempts to interfere, with magic or otherwise, put a shaft through his traitorous throat.” The boy nodded, having brought his horse to the knight's side. Sir Jonathan had given his warhorse to a small family whose mare was on the verge of collapse. Rather than allow the poor beast to keel over and doom the family, he had hooked up Ember to the wagon in its stead, allowing the beast to follow slowly behind the rest of the wagon train.

  “Would you rather be mounted, master?” Trestin asked offering his horse, but the knight refused with a shake of his head.

  “Ember is my warhorse. If our lady of the ever-flickering flame wished me to be mounted, she would not have left me afoot. She will provide one way or another. Besides, I’d only be knocked off and forced to fight afoot anyway. You being mobile is far more useful in the coming fight.” The squire nodded and finished stringing his riding bow. He then attached a long and slender contraption to it that the Knight had seen the boy working on for th
e last several nights before sleep took him.

  Trestin had explained that the contraption was meant to increase his shooting rate, and had attempted to explain to him how, but the explanation was lost on him. Sir Jonathan was old, and as all people knew, it was difficult to teach old dogs new tricks. They both went silent then and watched as the three paladins, and the friar quickly ate up the space between them and came to a stop just barely out of easy bowshot. At least, for a normal archer.

  “Hail the town of Bread Makers and their Lady of Fire,” came the Friar's nearly shrill voice. “We are in pursuit of fugitives from justice, who seem to have entered your town's environs. I hold you guiltless as you did not know of their crimes. But, I must retrieve them!”

  “And what crimes are those that have been committed by children, scared mothers, and elderly farmers? What crimes could such as these beleaguered peasants have possibly committed to earn the attention of such as you. Paladins, and a Friar of the Church of Dominus.”

  “They are unclean, and many are servants of evil! They must be driven from the lands of man so Dominus can ensure our purity of mind, body, and blood!” The friar yelled back nearly manic in his fervor.

  “I saw no demons or cultists among them, friar. What I saw were men, women, and children who were being harassed, and stolen from. Families exhausted from a forced march by people who should have been guiding and guarding them. How is your behavior, how is beating children nigh to death following your oaths?” yelled Sir Jonathan, locking eyes as best he could with each of the three paladins.

  Two of the paladins broke eye contact and looked at each other uneasily. The third shouted back “They are filthy! Products of unnatural unions between dark powers and sinners! Those who protect such shall die!” He stood tall in his stirrups and charged.

  And so ends the negotiations , Sir Jonathan thought, donning his helmet in one fluid motion. He reached for his hammer and brandished it in the air. “Flame can be used to cook, forge, or seek vengeance! Today it will be the latter!” The head of his hammer ignited in red, vengeful flame, and Sir Jonathan could no longer feel the cool chill of winter’s first grasping fingers.

  As his hammer ignited, three shafts leaped past him and into the charging horse. The beast's cry of pain and fear was cut short as it collapsed in a heap, the last arrow lodged firmly in its heart. The rider went flying, landed prone, and skidded to a halt just a few steps from Jonathan. The knight took a step forward, and brought the fiery wrath of his goddess down upon the paladin, caving in the man's helmet, and ending his life in a brutal stroke. He lifted the hammer up from the crushed skull and helm. The body burst into flames and was quickly consumed to ash.

  “Thank the lady of light for his swift death!” Sir Jonathan yelled across the field. The other two paladins looked at one another again, and as one dismounted from their steeds. “Come, and meet the same fate!” The two men lifted shields and advanced, protecting themselves from his squire's deadly weapon. As the men advanced, Jonathan's gaze fell on his old friend, the Friar of Hilltop. It was a tiny village just outside and overlooking Tri-Water, the Torish capital. The accused there had fled south, away from Torish lands and into the hands of the Terra Federation, a collection of city-states of various races that existed as a type of buffer state between the Kingdom of Tor, and the slave states of the Glass Islands.

  What the refugee’s reception by the Federation would be, the knight didn’t know. The Federation was a weakly united eclectic body of independent city-states, their fate would be impossible to tell. He prayed for them but knew they were beyond his aid. The people behind him, however, were not so unlucky.

  The friar, a once scholarly man, had ever been close to Dominus’s heart, a devotion that mirrored Sir Jonathan's own to his Lady Pyris, the flame that burneth brightly. Sir Jonathan's was a small order of knights, dedicated to their lady of the flames. Dominus, Pyrus, and their clergy had ever been friends and allies.

  But something had changed his friend, as it seemed to have changed the entire church of the sun god. The institution now warred within itself. The fanatics were fueled by fear of the unclean, by nightmares of cultists in the dark hiding behind every corner, and had taken liberties that went far beyond their authority. Those leaders who had not given in to fear were few and far in between. Though they did what they could within the church to calm their colleagues and tame their zeal. Their efforts were exhausted simply preventing an escalation of the official decree, leaving them nearly helpless in dealing with incidents like this, where local clergy went rogue.

  “Aaaah!” The two paladins yelled their warcry as they charged the last few feet towards him. Sir Jonathan lifted his shield to block the first attack. The taller of the two paladins, wielding a short sword and buckler, attempted to gut him, but the short blade was turned aside by the thrice-blessed steel shield on Jonathan's arm. Before he could retaliate, the second man brought down a heavy mace on his right shoulder and sent shockwaves of pain through Jonathan's arm.

  “You have been hit by Unknown Paladin for 12 damage, stun effect countered by Fortification of Hope enchantment. Damage Reduction of 4 applied. Damage received, 8.”

  “Pitiful!” Jonathon yelled, as he kicked out at the second man and sent him sprawling. He raised his shield towards the first again, and turned aside another strike, only to bring down his own weapon squarely on the man's pauldron. The man screamed in pain and dropped his weapon. “And you call yourselves Men of Dominus! I have fought gnats with greater resilience.” Jonathan rounded on the second man, leaving the first clutching his likely broken shoulder.

  The second, shorter holy warrior was getting to his feet just as Jonathan kicked him prone again, and rushed him. Jonathan pinned the man's arm under one leg, and brought his hammer down on the outstretched arm, shattering the bones there into a useless heap. “Heed me unless you seek an end like the first! Leave here, and never...” Jonathan's world exploded in light, and he was knocked off his feet and sent hurtling back towards the town.

  “Master!” Trestin yelled, as he pulled his bow to his shoulder, and urged his mare forward with his thighs. A riding technique he had recently learned from his studies of the bow. His horse shot forward, running roughshod over the two still prone paladins, as he took aim at the friar who had just sent his master flying with a word of power.

  Tristin pulled the bowstring back and loosed an arrow. Then, without reaching for his quiver, pulled the bowstring again, and loosed a second, third, and fourth shaft at the friar in rapid succession all before the first shaft reached the spellcaster. He would have loosed a fifth shaft, but the makeshift quiver-magazine he had attached to his bow was out of arrows. He watched as the first shaft soared through the air, aimed directly at the large draft horse under the spellcaster. The arrow flew true, and just as it was about to land, shattered to splinters as a spell shield flared to life. The second, then the third shaft splintered sending the same rippling of blue-gold through the magic of the shield, each time growing brighter.

  As the fourth shaft splintered on the shield it finally broke apart. The mana construct shattered like glass under the rapid-fire barrage of heavy oak shafts, but it had served its purpose, and both the Friar and Squire Trestin knew it. “By mercies grace!” The squire swore, as he broke the magazine off the bow, and threw it to the ground with a regretful wince, It had taken him months to craft it, and nearly fifteen class points to pry the knowledge out of Ethria’s vast Store. It had been his first purchase since gaining his class and was his one major splurge on a skill or talent that would not go directly into making him a better knight, which was his ultimate goal and the profession he strived for.

  As the broken magazine fell to the ground, the squire pulled another shaft from the riding quiver at his hip, knocked, and began to draw back the string. Had he had time to lose the shaft it would have ended the threat of the friar then and there, but it was not to be. Whether it was the whims of the gods, the adrenaline and hatred that fueled the F
riar’s spellcasting speed, whimsy of chance, or simply bad luck, the young archer would never know, but the spell caster had finished his retaliatory spell a half-second before, and let it fly.

  The brutal Force Bolt would have struck the squire in the chest and killed him instantly had the boy’s bow not taken the brunt of the spell. Tristins bow exploded in his hands, wrecking his body with splintered shrapnel. Tristan's horse reared, and threw him to the ground before bolting off away from the battle.

  Tristin’s world wheeled wildly as he lay there, he could barely breathe, let alone read or understand the information that was flowing into him from the magic of Ethria about what had just happened to him. As the sky spun, three faces, one grimacing in pain and holding a shattered arm came into view above him.

  “What do we do with him?”

  “Kill him, obviously.”

  “His ribs are shattered, he is heavily concussed, and his face is a mess. I don’t think we have to do much but leave him to freeze. Come, let's get to the town. Why have the blood of a squire on our hands when we still have the knight to deal with?”

  The voices were ethereal, strange, and sounded to Trestin as if they were coming from underwater. Blackness took him, as his health began reaching dangerously low levels. His last thought as the three men walked away was, what happened to Sir Jonathan?

  ---

  Sir Jonathan stood upright, unsteadiness in his legs slowly easing as he breathed in and out, allowing the magic inherent in his armor to clear his mind from the concussion he was surely fighting. He had flown hundreds of yards, nearly half the distance back towards the town. He examined himself as his mind finished clearing, and found his health was nearly at half. As he looked at his arms and armor, he found his breastplate, with the symbol of his holy order emblazoned on the front, a lit torch held high on a metal gray field, was caved in.