Seeds of War (The Smokesmiths Book 1)

Copyright This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by João F. Silva 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. First paperback edition May 2023 Edited by Sarah Chorn Proofread by Belle Manuel Cover Design by MIBLART Interior Illustrations by CyberOni Arts ISBN 979-8-8299-6383-5 (paperback) Published by João F. Silva www.joaofsilva.net To my wife, W, without whom I would never have the strength. To anyone struggling beneath the surface. This book is for you Read a Free Short Story How many lives do you get? A Man faces death but strikes a deal with his executioner. 'A Dead Man' is a genre-bending tale of redemption, wasted opportunities and overcoming the odds. My short story 'A Dead Man' is set in the same world as Seeds of War and takes place many years before the events of the novel. But the best thing? It is available for FREE to all my mailing list subscribers. In fact, this short story isn't available to anyone else. You can read it completely for free. CLICK HERE TO READ IT Contents Map 1 Map 2 Bestiary 1. Visitors 2. Out of Luck 3. God Himself 4. The Blind King 5. Whispers of Grief 6. Powerful Smoke 7. Clean-up Duty 8. Unwanted Neighbours 9. The Holy King 10. Goals and Ambitions 11. Defiance 12. A Necessary Hero 13. Paragon of Justice 14. Gasho 15. Duel 16. The Smokesmith 17. True Pain 18. Propositions 19. A Whistle in the Air 20. The Only Solution 21. Stormbane 22. Promises 23. Before the Storm 24. The Price of Blood 25. Tarnished 26. Kingdom of Chaos 27. Foreigners 28. Invincible 29. War Criminal 30. Choices 31. Absolution 32. Ambush 33. Leverage 34. Sabotage 35. Shattered 36. Swallowed 37. Rite of Passage 38. Four Graves Thank you! Please Read! Join the Smokesmiths Acknowledgments About the Author Glossary Dramatis Personae one VisitorsGimlorePlease have mercy. I cannot recall. My memories fade and I am nothing but weak. Old things haunt my dreams. —From Mother’s MemoriesBy the time she was ten, Gimlore had already lost her parents to the war, escaped the King’s smokesmiths and learned to survive. Selling a product nobody else had should be easy by comparison. Yet, there was something off about this whole ordeal. The door creaked open and Edmir stormed in, bringing with him the stuffy humidity from outside the tavern. The bald, stocky man walked towards Gimlore, twirling his moustache as he approached the counter. He wore a stained, short-sleeved shirt revealing veiny arms marked by scars. “They’re almost here, boss.” Gimlore swallowed. “How close are they?”“They’re reaching town, but they ride at a snail’s pace.”“Good. Is our contingency plan prepared?”Edmir nodded.“Let’s go, then,” she said, walking towards the door.Outside her tavern, clouds obscured the sun, but the moist air continued to press on everyone. Beads of sweat made her shirt stick to her back, and she wiped her damp forehead with her sleeve. To make matters worse, the main street was still filthy with mud after the night’s heavy downpour.“Tell Nork and Nosema to keep the kitchen knives sharp,” Gimlore said. “The visitors are going to arrive tired, hungry, and smelling like shit.”“I’ll make sure it’s all prepared,” Edmir said. “Don’t worry about nothing, boss.”Moments later, she was waving a welcome from the middle of the street.“Shitheads came riding shadesgrowls to the marshes,” Gimlore whispered as the eight feet tall, furry grey beasts with antlers struggled in such heat. Their flat hooves made it hard to stay balanced in the mud without slipping. Those were creatures of cooler climates.Riding them was a group of men wearing strange apparel. Their long silk robes of varied bright colours contrasted with the earthy tones of the town. Especially in a street filled with mud, soot, and dung. The clothes had embroidered intricate designs of flowers, trees, and picturesque scenery. They were all inlaid with small gemstones.People nearby stopped what they were doing and stared, their loud voices turned to murmuring. Sweaty merchants in ratty clothes stopped loading their rustic wagons. A gang of shoeless children stopped pestering the adults. Carpenters and apprentices dropped their tools.One man wearing a loose blue robe jumped off the shadesgrowl and almost slipped on the mud but found his feet. A shorter man struggled with his robes in the muddy street. After a while, he gave up on trying to keep his apparel clean. There were chuckles and muffled laughs from the gathered crowd. “Worry not, good sir. I’ll have your robes washed for you,” Gimlore said. “They’ll look like new.”The man gazed at her. He had a pointy nose and a bony, sharply shaved face. “These silks are only available in Sirestir. You cannot wash them,” he said with a continental accent. “Are you the one in charge?”“I wouldn’t say in charge,” Gimlore lied."What do you mean?”“Heleronde is a new little township, you see. We’ve only been around for ten years, since the end of the Crimson Wars. Here, everybody is welcome but no one is in charge. We help each other out. I’m Gimlore.”“I am the interpreter for Herald Basa Akan, envoy from the Kingdom of Sirestir,” the man said, tidying his robe and wiping sweat from his forehead. Two of the Herald’s bodyguards helped the large, tree-like man off his mount. They all had neatly groomed, silky dark hair and brown skin—lighter than hers—and wore cheaper green robes under a studded chest armour. “We’ve travelled on orders from His Majesty, King Doemus of Sirestir,” the translator continued.“What an honour to welcome such a venerable guest to our insignificant town. Let me know if something isn’t your style. Please forgive anything rude my comrades might