Chapter One
From every window flame reached out greedy fingers, the sounds of buckling wood added random percussion to the music of the blaze. The now exposed roof timbers resembled a broken rib cage of a well-roasted animal. The forge, and its supply of coal and firewood, had caught as well, it’s stonewalls now glowing yellow with the growing heat trapped inside them.
I was born in this house.
Icker stood close enough that the sparks burrowed against his breastplate and burned tiny holes in his plain white tabard. The vapors of recent and long past memories avalanched into his mind, the tall youth stared unblinking into the place he had called home. My mother died in this house…and her mother. Not wanting to insulate himself from this, from any of it, he would stand here until the house fell. His own men hanged Father, here, right here, under this tree where I stand while I watched. Icker began chopping the parn tree down, the empty noose still swinging from a heavy branch.
I will leave this place with no trace of its dishonor. No evidence of the happy lie I lived for too long.
Even now the roof seemed to tilt toward him in a mocking bow of approval, holding for a respectful second before crashing into the first and second floors in a shower of ember, smoke and noise. The tree fell well before the chimney and forge collapsed into the remains of his ancestral home, the home his father’s father had built with his new bride after coming home from the Great War. This home, and all the things in it, now part of the smoldering corpse of Icker’s past and it terrible secrets of family could finally be forgotten. When the first sun rose over the Bearded Hills Icker gathered his only belongings. These he took off his father’s corpse: his armor with cloak, his whip-chain, a money pouch and his sword.
Olio’s great sword was broken, part of the sentence handed down by his men, the once mirror like wide, flat blade now barely more than his arms length with an uneven, jagged break creating new tips and a crack that wound its way to a fingers span from the pommel. The sword his father inherited from his grandfather. The sword his father used in defense of queen and country, but also in deeds of horrible sin.
Icker rode the dapple brown horse Bella toward the second sun Solt, a blinding red bead now rising over the Forever Plains, casting its bright crimson hue onto the undulating, gray-green grass. Not once did he look over his shoulder at the pile of still smoking timbers, or the stump of the felled tree. He would ride only a short distance through the rolling grass, across the manicured fields-rounds of growing crops, to his neighbor the local high cleric, and once there, take the Last Oath.
It must be two moons now, she thought, two moons with your hands tied to your feet, two moons inside the coarse burlap sack, two moons of bouncing against the side of the horse, without water or food. Two moons with a bib-gag firmly locked on you. Stop thinking about how to get away, and start getting away. Sether tried to remember what had happened, how she was captured, what mistake had she made? Spellbuilding had been outlawed since the Great War, yet could she help who she was? If you could change the shape and size of the objects around you, defend yourself with the swords of air, wouldn’t you?
Ahhh yes, the old woman must have reported me to the mage hunters. No good deed without a price, they say, maybe I will get a right time, and live through this yet. Calm now, welcome the calm… the wave of peace…there are no distractions, only the empty, the quiet…
Sether did not need to ask her captor where they were going, even if she could have, because there was only one judgment town in 10 moons ride from where she was captured. They were going to Greenwater Keep, and her trail. She would be tested with the Prism, forced to touch it, and be executed on the spot, such was the law. Sether knew she would have to make her move before they left the Bearded Hills. If she heard the sound of cobblestones it would be too late. The steady, uneven rocking of her burlap prison told her that they were still traversing the hills, which meant she still had a chance.
Imagine the rope, straightening, becoming a long line into the sunset, never-ending, eternally straight, straight as could be…OW! Sether’s captors were smart ones, professional, they had used thorn rope, which while not spellproof, was like its name causing horribly ripping cuts wherever it was tied, and resistant to manipulation. No pain, pain is water that runs off me, pooling at my feet, drowning in the soil, no pain, pain is the water that runs off me, pooling at my feet, drowning in the soil, the void…good, good, imagine the rope…no pain…straightening…pain is the water that runs off me…becoming a long line…pooling at my feet …never-ending, eternally straight …drowning in the soil …as straight as can be…
She could feel the blood running down her arms and legs, but due to her training in the dual thought, she let the slow agony pulse through her, as the rope moved loosening and unknotting her bonds. No pain…pain is water that runs off me… pooling at my feet…drowning in the soil…pull the ropes, pain is the water… pull it harder, straighter… draw back…further back in now…burning pain …pooling at my feet, drowning in the soil, the void…
Her hands now free, she searched her secret pocket,
With a quiet tearing sound Sether felt her progress, the sack now had a significant rip in it, right under her back. Don’t move yet, don’t let him know what you’re doing, you’re just a defeated little girl, a wild spellbuilder, bound and gagged, no threat to him. The scout appreciating his luck at capturing a real spellbuilder was making good progress and only one more full moon from the keep.
Pull the strands…tighter…towards the second sun setting…pull…don’t move…straighten them…pull harder…pulling…all of them becoming long lines into the suns… long threads fraying… too thin…snapping now…
The light burst into her eyes like being struck the night before. Her fall from the bag had spooked the horse that now galloped away from her, with her captor frantically reining the animal in. No pain…Sether her hand bloody, mangled, but free tore at the bib-gag, too much blood, slippery…faster now… no grip on the straps…
An expert rider, her captor gained control of his stead, and was now pulling the animal around, drawing his saber. Welcome the calm…build the pressure right behind your eyes…more pressure…more… welcome the calm…building…gathering …Her captor was now at a full charge toward Sether, saber raised for a deathblow and heartbeats away from delivering it.
Welcome the calm… the wave of peace…Build the pressure… so much now…build it more…gather more…more
The horse and rider’s sword were upon them now.
Sether exhaled and thought, RELEASE!
A round translucent, thin white wedge of air leaped from Sether’s young face. The wedge flew faster than any arrow and slammed in an instant into the rider’s helmeted face, blasting him off his horses flank. The noise was loud and sharp like a bell. The beautiful gray horse galloped past Sether and continued to run away, terrified. The animals always hate the spellbuilder manifestations, even the small ones…
Calmly, slowly Sether picked up the fallen saber of the de-seated rider, limping towards him. She could barely keep her head up, barely put one foot in front of the other. Closer now, she raised the saber over her head, clumsy with swords, only to drop it to the ground behind her. She had killed him already. His helmet contained the last remnants of his face, now a scrabbled mess, and no way to tell what he looked like before. She dropped to her knees and searched his corpse, found her Spellforge stone, grasped it tightly and thought only “replenish,” before passing out in the tall grass, listening to the horse fading from her perception…am I farther away or am …I…dead?
Tonis had been a Stonefist monk for all his life. Born to a whore in a brothel, he had been given to the passing monks at barely a cycle old. He never saw his mother, had no memory of her at all, or the town of his birth Greenwater Keep. Tonis’s home had always been the cliff-side monastery, The Abbey of the Falling Star. Here he had learned to read, to write, to speak the two languages, and to harness his strengths of spirit to be wielded as a tool.
In this abbey he had be taught to heal wounds with that spirit, to bring peace to the troubled mind, and to be a beacon of clarity. Twenty full circles old now, Tonis had mastered the first, second and third arts of the spirit, body and mind. He often remembered the hundred times he fell on the stone floor learning to stand on the steel ball, the bruised and bloodied hands from striking the hardwood practice spire, and the thousands of forms taught from first sunrise to the last sunset.
It was a very different feeling now, here in his home, as he stood before the grand master, Kilph the leader of the abbey and headmaster of its pupils. Tonis was standing in judgment.
“You, Tonis Bottomfoot, were taken by mercy into this abbey, raised with kindness, love and given the greatest gift, the gift of learning. We all watched you with a guarded pride as that which had no value, became a priceless gem to all the people of Relar, a healer, soldier, scribe, and learned man. How we loved you Tonis. And now you stand before me, in judgments circle, as the murderer of my only son, Sooc. All eight masters Tonis, tried for two moons to raise him, but you had crushed his spirit so completely that it is unrecoverable, lost to the void. I ask you why?”
He stood stunned, as if the words were fists pounding on his temples. His mouth dry he answered,
“Master, I recognize and revere the gifts this abbey has bestowed upon me. Whatever the judgment, know this, I will always defend this place, I will always seek to glorify its name, its teachings…”
“If you are to live, then you will do what you will. Answer the question laid at your feet, shod in our sandals, Tonis.”
“Master, Sooc was a brother to me, a friend beyond my understanding. That night, that terrible night, when he appeared over me in the dormitory wielding the cutting thumb form, I did not know who he was. But I knew that he meant to kill me. I struck before I had willed it, and harder than I have ever struck. When I saw it was Sooc…” Choking on the rising pain in his throat, and then recovering a bit, Tonis continued, “I, I do not know why he meant to kill me, I do not know why he wished me dead. That night, at evendine, as we all ate and sang, we held each other as brothers, and sang with all our wind. Not once did I sense anything but brotherhood in him.”
“If what you say is true then why was his body not found near your pallet? Why was it found at the bottom of the cliffs?” Kilph was barely holding on to his fury now, “Why did not a one of your fellow pupils hear or see anything?”
“I have no answer, but I am not false speaking.” It was all Tonis could say, and the emptiness of his words filled the crowded chamber with their echo.
The Grandmaster pulled his beard as he often did when reining in his emotions; he fought for control of his focus, to be fair, and receptive to truth. Anyone could be overwhelmed by the grief of a lost child, but his rank and the responsibility as the spiritual leader of the abbey did not permit such indulgences of emotion. Kilph looked to his wife the Seer Takelyn, and she gave the slightest of nods through her tears, acknowledging his worst fear.
“What you say is not a lie to you, Tonis Bottomfoot, but that does not mean it is truth. You leave me…you leave us no choice. We cannot place you in the cage of iron to hang for the blackeyes meal, for no one saw you kill my son. We cannot cut your hands from you, because we cannot prove you did this thing with an evil heart, or intention. However, we will not allow you to stay, we will suffer you no longer, you are banished from this abbey, never to return. If you do return, you will be slain as if you were the Old Man himself. Do you hear my words Tonis?”
“Yes master.”
“I am no longer your master. The fates will do with you what they will, but they will not find you here. Leave at once! Take your earnings in full, with no tithe to this abbey. We will not accept your healing earnings as our own. I ask only this as you leave, that you lead a life of sacrifice, of service, to the ailing world below us, that the gifts of combat, knowledge, and healing we cannot repossess from you be used from this moon forward for the greater goodness.”
With those final words Kilph, his wife the Seer Takelyn, the four other Undermasters, and all 38 students turned their backs toward Tonis, he knew they would not watch him leave, nor offer any consolation of the parting. In this huge stone chambered carved out of the light brown and red rock of the cliff, he now walked slowly trying to remember everything. The way the first suns rays flooded this chamber at morndine meals, the endless form lessons, and endless falls on that hard flat stone floor. The room was the most ornate of any in the abbey yet, by most standards plain, without carvings or painted images, and no carpets. Just the light of Core, the first god, god of the first sun, adorns this simple place of learning. No distractions were permitted to draw the mind away from the truths of mind, fist, foot, and spirit.
It was a much longer walk down the hidden path from the abbey than he remembered, the sorrow like a anvil in his knapsack weighted on his shoulders making every step a harder pain than the one before it. The coolness of evening was a lie, a trick of cunning that the path builders had wrought with stone and hammer out of the red rock. The light of the three suns could not reach or light any of the hidden path, for it was a channel in the stone, a tube with a two finger span gap at its top allowing the chill in the air to blow into it. All of his possessions fit neatly in his bag, his 2 gray robes identifying him in the abbey as a one step below master folded on top of his throwing spikes, his money purse, and his threeflute. He longed to play it now, to distract his mind and heart from the screaming wound in his heart, but he knew strength was not gained by distraction, but only through pain and effort.
As he walked the farmers’ road now, he had seemed to forget the half-moon’s journey it had taken to get down from the cliffside abbey. This road lead to Greenwater Keep he remembered, and much farther still, the town of Tel. Maybe he could start a life in Greenwater or Tell, a teacher to the children or a healer to the townsfolk. Though such thoughts lifted his spirit, Tonis knew the ghost of his recent memory would not rest so easily.
He knew he would never know why Sooc attacked him, nor why his body was not found where he had left it. Tonis had decided that he didn’t want to know. What good could that knowledge bring him or Sooc? The young monk would instead concentrate on the now, on the air in his chest, and on what was in front of his feet. He had only what was before him, the long road to the rest of his life.
“I will find him, I will find him and be your eyes for him.”
“You must be more than my eyes, more than my tool. You must be my perfect will, my intention made flesh, and his best and greatest aid.”
“I will not fail us…”
Two figures in the darkness of this deep place in the earth, whispered. None of their order could know what they planned; if they did it would be their death. With no light, the two stood close to each other, to appear as one, larger, to the caves many inhabitants, even now the stirring of the gnaw rat den below them overwhelmed their hushed conversation.
“Then go, find him, watch him, silently steer him to the places he must go, the evil he must face, always be with him, strengthen him with your resolve, add him with your blades, your arrows, your life. If he fails, the Old Man gets his way, and we will all suffer as none ever has before. Guide your actions and thoughts with the knowledge that your failure, his failure dooms us all.”
She felt his kiss on her brow, like a thing barely there, a wisp of smoke, and the slightest warmth in this cold place. With that kiss they parted, she still didn’t know how she would report to him, only that he could make it possible, as he made all of things he spoke possible. Winding through the maze of passages, she made her long way to the surface. No of her order could see her, detect her passing or she would never see the surface.
Her silent run, practiced, perfected through her training, served to facilitate her trek, as she now passed close to her school. This place buried deep in the cave was the only source of pure water in the entire vast cave. Her teachers and students to ensure that no one discovered the school had poisoned all the other pools of water. The Black Hand left nothing to fate, cheating the will of the gods with careful planning and precise action had been the cornerstone of her lessons here. It was often said that the school of assassins predated the two kingdoms, and had been standing a thousand full cycles before the Great War. The Black Hand had been her family, her temple, her everything.
She was getting close now; the air warmed and carried scents not born in the cave. Part of her training had been to smell, to listen to and finally to see everything as it is, was and would be after her influence upon it. It was with this thought she masked her own scent with the rat droppings, and slowed her silent run as to leave no trace in the soil of her passing here.
The light was betrayed her form, so she slowed even more, to use the shadows, the dark places to move, always listening, always hearing and seeing her impact on the mouth of this cave. There. The lone sentry stood in the classic guard stance, quietly meditating as to be a soldier with the swift warning. Had she not expected him, she might have alerted him to her passing, but she and been taught and prepared well.
“He is a great warrior, of stout heart, a sharp blade for the school, treat him as you would a dragon, with great respect, and leave no opportunity for counter attack, for he will slay you.”
With what felt as a full rising, she drew her bow, and notched the still wet arrow. And waited, yes, he would have to make water soon, and with that noise to mask her she would strike a perfect strike. She waited. The sentry finally broke his guard meditation, and walked from his hidden foothold in the mouth of the black cave. He is going to the tall gray grass outside the cave. She moved, slowly, smelling his leather garments soaked in his scent, hearing him move with silent trained steps out to the grass, seeing his path in the soil, and grass that framed the mouth of the cave. Reaching the grass now she heard his water falling softly into the damping mat of grass he had prepared, how cunning he is. She was barely a lunge away when he spoke.
“I hear you blademadien Molsit, I have waited for you, and did you really think anything planned in this cave would escape the notice of the wyrm?”
She stayed still, hidden in the tall gray grass, feeling the breeze of the moonless night’s air weave through the vegetation around her.
“Come face me, even now your master lays in the belly of the wyrm, as is the fate of all who betray our master’s plans.”
A mistake, he didn’t know where she was, he was trying to lure her into an open fight, the night might still be saved. The bowstring now heavy in her hands, was ready for her strike, yet she waited for the perfect moment.
“Do you think I am the only one here? Do you think our masters trusted my strength, my will enough to stop your plan? It is done. Face me so we might end this with a lesson for me, so that all your efforts are not wasted. Your master accepted his fate when he returned to the grand hall in the school, shall you not be as brave, as perfect?”
The arrow sang into the air, piercing the tall grass and firmly embedded itself into his dampening mat, as he dodged to the left. Throwing down her bow, she drew her blades in just enough time to parry the blows of his. He is so strong, and fast…but scared? His actions betrayed him, and she knew him in an instant, this was Karn, the first of the sentries, the keeper of secrets borne in the dark
He struck high and low, in the classic stance of open combat, his second mistake. Molsit, stayed low, halving her height and deflecting the low blow while remaining out of reach of his high blow. Then at the apex of his top counter swing, she struck a deathblow to his belly. Karn dropped to his knees, clutching his ruined innards as if to keep them in place with his hands. The three suns now high in the smoky blue clouds cast the dying warrior in a queer emerald glow.
“You lied, to draw me into the open, my master still lives and the wyrm still sleeps the sound sleep of comfort, not seeing what his hands are acting against him…tell me this, truly and I will give you the honor of a wound.”
She knew he would accept this offer; to die without wounding your opponent was a great dishonor among their clan and would cause his corpse to be fed to the rats. With blood seeping from his mouth he spoke his last words.
“Yes…” breathing slow heavy wet breaths Karn continued. “You are undetected and your master is safe from …even my knowledge. I had guessed you did not act alone, and sought to…. capitalize…on your secret….to….draw you to my…blades…traitor, whore…but-” He was fading fast now.
“Well played Karn, you do us honor with your cunning, I give you my wound, and ask a final parting of you.” She said as she picked up his left blade and pressed into is hand, “You tell me now, how you knew I was leaving and what you knew of the purpose.”
He stabbed her thigh, plunging the tip of the blade a finger span into the meat. Then with much honor, dropped his blade instead of cutting more and said nothing else, instead Karn opened and closed his dark green eyes and with great effort smiled and spit his blood on her face.
“You are still…perfect…” She whispered. With that Karn slouched forward and she caught his head before it touched the dirt, I lower him into the death stance as is his right. “
She had known him all of her life, his excellence in the Training Caverns deep in their home, the
She then ran has hard and as fast as she was able, she knew the body would be discovered at the first sun’s rising, and the spine-hounds would be on her trail that very night. Spine-hounds never gave up completely on a hunt. If prey somehow got away from them, and these plate sized beetles detecting the scent again, they would begin the hunt again in an instant. The beetles would were feared by most in Loth, yet unknown in Relar. One of the many secrets her brethren used to its advantage in both countries.
She had only this moon to disappear into the Forever Plains before The Black Hand knew of her treachery. Molsit knew her only chance now was to reach the inhabited lands to have any hope of masking her presence. The trueborn of the
In its cold and damp lair the dragon awoke. Shifting his massive body slowly, he drew in the air and tasted the taint in his home. Opening his man-sized eyes, he scanned the darkness to find one man, smelling of decay, standing before him, unafraid. The man wore regal robes of red, with a complex purple design covering the garment. Gripping a simple silver staff, the human male seemed to be waiting respectfully for the dragon to speak. He appeared no older than 30 circles, with no gray in his black beard. His eyes, a smoky brown seemed teaming with an unknown intelligence.
Instantly the giant creature was on his feet, wings flaring, tail coiled in the air ready to strike. Arching his neck into a hook the dragon spoke. The deafening sound resembled chains dragged across great, hollow stones.
“Who dares enter my home uninvited, I would have your name so I might know where such arrogance is born before it is devoured.”
“My names, Dienzixial (Deen-zix-ale) last born of the dragons, are many. You may refer to me as Magerious or master if you prefer.”
A deep rolling laughter sprang from the toothy maw of the bright green head. It’s gargantuan body shook in rhythm to the graveled laughter. His amusement at the human was rare and truly unique. Never before had he spoken to a human, nor had one entered his home still living. The darkness alone would inhibit the most stalwart human.
“Master? Why would I call such a runt of a being master?”
The man called Magerious barely waved his off hand, the thumb touching the center of his palm and with fingers splayed in front of the dragon, leaving a trail of rapidly evaporating black vapor behind it. Instantly the dragon fell limp with a thunderous impact. Its eyes remained open and full of a desperate fear. It mouth slack, the two black, knobby tongues lay wetly in the thousands of animal pelts that made the dragons bed. Its great wings bent unnaturally in awkward positions at it sides.
Slowly the man approached, and stopping at the great serpent’s ear, spoke quietly in the dragon’s native tongue.
“I awake you for a task. You will complete this task, and promptly. If you succeed, I will reward you with a key to your other brethren. Now listen, Dienzixial, here is what you will do for me…”
Only after the man faded like a drop of dye in a well, was the dragon able to move. Wasting no time the mighty beast twisted out of his lair in the
A long life will lead to many surprises…Still you do not know what you have started Magerious, you fool of a wizard, when I have the Prism, I will unlock the greatest of us, and you will be fodder for His pantry. Your phase travel will not save you from The World Eater.
Moonlight and night air greeted him as he emerged and immediately he leapt onto the perch he built when he found this lair. Built out of steal lances and pole-arms he had gathered, the perch was a monument to his might, the feel of the fallen weapons of his vanquished foes between his long curved toes soothed his confidence back into him. Finally, the dragon spread his bright green wings and leapt into the air, plummeting head first down to Uther. Tilting his wings to capture the updraft, he catapulted high into the air, past his home. Using the moon and the landscape for navigation, he found his bearings and started a slow arc following a great green river into Relar.
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