Original Submissions of type 'Stories'
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Hunters by Chris Morrison
Added on Feb 2, 2005A servant of the Dragon reawakens to walk the world again, leaving behind it a trail of death and destruction. Two tribal hunters begin to track the beast, intent on exacting revenge for their fallen comrades.
Crouched among the sparse bushes of the ocotillo scrub, Feng and his mate waited, their long spears held motionlessly upward like branchless trees. From far away a gortok bayed once, then abruptly fell silent. The scrub was still.
They waited for another hour before stirring from their fixed positions. Wordlessly, the pair shouldered their spears and loped southward through the plains.
The scene that met their eyes when they reached the place was a now all-too familiar one. Five wild dogs lay dead, scattered over a wide area of scrub. The still bodies were torn and mangled, flies already buzzing around the open wounds.
Feng whistled once, a short, terse chirp. His mate, Teera, came to his side as he pointed down at the ground. An oddly splayed foot had left its mark in the thin soil, clearly visible to the sharp eyes of the hunters. Past it, there were more marks; a disturbance on the moss of a rock, a twig lying at an odd angle. Their quarry was headed south, as it had been for days.
That night, huddled in the sparse wind shelter of a few bushes and rocks, they broke their silence of the day, their soft voices blending in with the slow movement of air across sand and scrub.
"Tribe mates spirits rest uneasy, Teera." Feng's face was invisible in the darkness as he raised his hand to his mouth, taking a bite from a hunk of jerky.
She nodded, quietly leaning into his shoulder. "Soon. We must find where it goes. Then, then we must kill it."
The only movement that could be seen was his jaw working on the tough jerky, but she could feel his disapproval "Know where it comes from, Teera-mate. That's enough. Fool vialdos disturbed it in the the bad place. If it goes somewhere, it is going to another bad place."
She nodded. The strangers had been fools, it was true.
"Soon," she promised.
The dawn sun blazed hot over the landscape, heat shimmers already distorting the distant mountains. Feng and Teera were already on the move, trailing their adversary.
The day wore away as the hunting pair trotted along, rarely having to do more than glance down to follow the creatures trail. Whatever it was, it was arrogant, not troubling to conceal its own tracks. Twice they came across spots that it had stopped to rest. It was just after noon that the ground began to rise, and the already sparse vegetation lessened as the soil grew rocky and hard.
"Soora, Feng," Teera said once as they paused, lightly panting, to examine a deep set of prints. "We are getting close."
Low cliffs and ridges were becoming evident as they came upon a change in the tracks. The animal had slowed, the character of its footprints seeming hesitant.
"It is searching," Feng observed.
It wasn't long until they found what it was searching for.
The land in front of the pair made a sudden dip, leading down into a ravine carved in the bare rock. The top of the ravine was more or less level with the rest of the land on both sides, and the dull red rock all blended together, making it nearly invisible from most angles. The tracks led straight down into the gorge.
They broke away from each other, each creeping along one side of the rough-hewn defile. Soon after, they caught sight of it, against the dead-end wall at the other end of the ravine.
The beast was a deep, dull black, a large dark blot against the red stone. It was pushing with its front two paws against a barely visible rectangular indent in the stone. With a growl of disgust, it settled back on its haunches, staring at the wall.
After a moment, the form seemed to shiver. Then, it slowly began changing.
Teera's low gasp must have been enough for whatever ears the creature possessed. It casually turned, obviously not fearing for its own safety, to regard them. All thoughts of killing the beast skittered from their minds as they saw its entire form; it bulked larger than any of the scrub-forest creatures they had ever seen near their home. Its bare skin, which at first seemed to be furred, was leathery and smooth. The only outstanding feature against the dark stone were the eyes, wide and large, with an unnatural blue color to them.
It opened its maw, emitting growling noise, and smoothly shifted to its feet, stepping forward.
Feng ran into the center of the ravine, his spear held at ready. "Run, Teera!" he shouted.
There was no time to think. She whirled and bounded away, scrambling over up the incline.
Feng lowered the tip of his spear, preparing himself.
He fought, but the effort was futile. The creature proved to be immensely strong, although its black flesh hung flacid from its bones. Its batting paws seemed almost playful, until it trampled over Feng's spear and left three long gashes across his chest, making him choke on his own blood. Ending its own game, the thing darted forward, latching its huge mouth over the man's left shoulder.
With a wild cry, a shape leaped down from the cliff above, its form wrapped around a spear. With the entire force of her weight on it, Teera's spear entered the beast's right shoulder, lancing down through its body into the sand below. The woman, stunned by her landing, sprawled across the black shape. Blood spouted around the spear, as dark as the animal itself in the dimming light, pumping out in thick gouts, as it fell to its side, viciously twisting its head back to snap at the narrow shaft. Its jaws instead found Teera's arm. Weakening, the beast nevertheless tore a great gash in her arm before its head fell to the sand, her blood mingling with the dark flow still trickling out around the spear.
Gripping the long shaft protruding from the monster's side, Teera staggered to her feet, her right arm held protectively to her chest. Paying no more attention to the dying animal, she went to her mate, gazing down at him.
In time, she wearily bent. Her hand strayed first toward the crumpled, torn figure of the man, then hesitated.
Grasping his abandoned spear, Teera rose to her feet. Without a backward glance, she set the spear on her shoulder, moving away. Within minutes, she was gone from the defile, gone into the scrub.
Behind, one of the last servants of the Dragon silently died. The wind softly sighed through the rocks, the only sound heard as the plains waited for dawn.
Crouched among the sparse bushes of the ocotillo scrub, Feng and his mate waited, their long spears held motionlessly upward like branchless trees. From far away a gortok bayed once, then abruptly fell silent. The scrub was still.
They waited for another hour before stirring from their fixed...
Continue Reading...Kuraci After All, A by Dawn Byrnes
Added on Feb 2, 2005A chance meeting in a bar changes the lives of two individuals.
"Ouch!"
The new Runner cried out as Navan Tal's bone practice spear delivered a sharp jab to his side, the worn leather of his carru-hide jacket little protection against a hard blow. He staggered back and Navan swept his feet from under him with a well-timed footsweep, sending him sprawling to the ground. Presented with a sword-tip at his throat, the sandy-haired half-elf spat a curse and held up his hands in surrender.
"Krath damn it, Tal, you're a Runner like me an' you still kick my arse!" he said as Navan helped him up. "Where in the name of the Highlord did you learn to fight like that?"
"Third-generation mercenary," the lean, silver-haired human replied calmly. "You learn things when both your parents are fighters, and your grandparents too."
"Quit boasting, Runner!" Sergeant Jali snapped, her age-roughened voice still able to carry from one end of the mess hall to the other over a crowd. "Get yer arse over here!"
The other Runners gave Navan sympathetic looks, because the knife-tongued Sergeant was about to make an example of him, like she'd done with so many cocky first-year members of the T'zai Byn. A joke that went around the Obsidian Fists was that Drov wouldn't take her because she was too mean to die. But oddly enough, he wasn't bothered. It would be good to have a test of his skill.
He obediently marched up to the other side of the training circle from her as she stepped in, lifting his spear in a brief salute. Jali moved like a sand-snake, quick and wiry and darting, but she had a tendency to raise her shield a little too high. Navan preferred the Nakki style because of his agility and speed, and hoped that it would be enough.
Jali returned the salute and blurred into motion a heartbeat later. Thirty years of being a mercenary had taught her every trick possible with blade and shield, but Navan had a couple of his own up his sleeve. Instead of parrying the blow from the sword, he stepped and spun at the same time, narrowly missing the lunge as he riposted with a slash that sliced the air. With a preferred weapon of a broad-bladed spear with sharpened edges that he used to slice as well as stab, he was just unorthodox enough to give the Sergeant a surprise.
"Not bad," she admitted grudgingly as she just dodged the slash, feinting with her shield. Navan ignored the feint for what it was - a standard Byn attack that he'd learnt during the past year - and swung his left-hand spear to catch Jali in the right thigh. While shields gave extra protection, they also weighed you down.
I'm actually matching her blow for blow, he thought as the bout progressed. Some of the other Runners cheered - unwisely, he felt, because Jali would have their heads on platters the next sparring session.
But years of experience and training overcame youth and talent. Navan found himself staring at the hatchet face of Jali as she leaned over him and grinned. "You'll do, if you don't stay so cocky," she told him. "Get up and get lunch, Runner. I'll see you at weapons' maintanence after you've eaten."
It was evening in the Gaj. A troop of T'zai Byn entered the tavern and made for ale and whores of both genders. Ree realised they'd been let loose for the weekend as she tallied the days in her head, and sighed. She had enough work to do without half-witted mercenaries bothering her.I hate this stinking, sand-infested city, she thought sourly. As an apprentice merchant for Kurac, she had little choice but to come here under Agent Errick, but she still hated Allanak. Some of that was her Tuluki ancestry, but most of it was an excessive dislike of sand. Though sandstorms plagued the Northlands, there was the Grey Forest and grasslands to break up the monotony of desert. Down here, it was either sand or silt, just about.
Ree eyed some of the brown-clad mercs despite her personal feelings about them, for the House was always looking for new recruits. A lean, white-haired young man caught her eye, most likely because of the short-hafted broad-bladed spears strapped to his leather pack. He wasn't too bad on the eye, she had to admit, with strongly aquiline features and long legs, but he seemed unimpressed by his companions' roistering behaviour.
Pale blue eyes met her grey-blue ones, and something passed through them. Ree recognised it as instant attraction, having felt it with her first man Kanan. At the thought of his name, the old wound in her leg started to ache. The gith attack that had cost her a position as an outrider for the House had taken her lover's life. They'd joined the House together at the age of fifteen. By twenty, he was dead and she was lame.
The mercenary - a Runner due to the plain carru-hide sleeves he wore instead of the striped ones full Byn members had - came over. "Hello," he said in a rich baritone. "I noticed you and had to come over."
"Is that a pick-up line?" she retorted instinctively, then winced. He laughed, assuming an expression of mock-hurt. "I'd never do that to such a beautiful lady!" he exclaimed dramatically. He was a real charmer, she had to admit.
By the end of the evening they were chatting like old friends. Ree felt comfortable with him, like she'd known him forever, and Navan apparently felt the same. If it wasn't for her self-imposed rule of never sleeping with a man on the first meeting, she'd've dragged him off to the dormitory and jumped his bones quicker than he could blink.
Wonder if I should mention the House's looking for guards, she thought, then sighed mentally. However attractive he was, she couldn't let that tinge her recommendation for him to join Kurac.
"I'd better go," she said reluctantly. "I've got work to do at dawn." He nodded, she said her farewells and left, wondering if she'd meet him again.
It was graduation day. Navan had survived a year of the T'zai Byn, yet for some reason, he didn't want to wear the single-striped sleeves of a Trooper. Perhaps it was the stories that pretty blonde woman Ree had told him about her life with House Kurac that made him want to see more of the world. He was unsure, and for him, that was new.
Sergeant Jali faced him squarely, her agate-grey eyes meeting his. "Stayin' or leavin'?" she asked bluntly. "You stay, you'll make Sergeant in about five years, I reckon. You go, plenty of private employers would take you if they don't hold bein' Byn against you."
"Not sure," he admitted. "All of my folks served with the Byn, but I've been speaking with this pretty Kuraci girl - "
"Ree Stone. Heard of her," Jali replied. "Tough bitch until a gith shot her kank from under her and speared her leg." The Sergeant shook her head. "Kuraci through and through, that one. She'll break yer heart and take yer purse as quick as any gypsy."
Navan felt slightly offended at Jali's description of the friendly, sweet-faced woman. The Sergeant was known for her bias against northerners, merchants and Kuraci, and unfortunately for Ree, the blonde woman embodied all of that. "I think that's my mistake to make, Sergeant," he replied with a salute, the last he would give as T'zai Byn. "I think that I will leave."
Agent Errick came in, rubbing his hands as Ree was mending her cloak. "We've got a new guard," he crowed. "Sergeant Balfus likes him, and has got him picked for special training." The pudgy Family member gave her a cheerful smile and tossed her a pouch. "I believe you persuaded this Navan into the House, Ree."
Ree caught the pouch reflexively. A couple of hundred 'sid from the weight and feel of it beneath the cracked leather. She smiled briefly. "I can imagine what Jali thinks about it," she chuckled dryly. She and the Sergeant of the Obsidian Fists had disliked each other since an argument about unstabled kanks in the main street of Luir's Outpost. Errick, who'd also met the hatchet-faced sellsword, shared her thin smile. He'd backed her up on that one, when she was still an outrider.
"She won't cause trouble," he assured Ree. "We're sending you and Navan up to Luir's. Haltha's wanting to come home - "
"Why, I can't imagine," Ree interrupted. "This place is a pesthole."
" - And so I'll have her and her eldest boy as assistants here," Errick finished. "You've got about a month to go on your training before you're a full merchant, Ree."
At least she'd finish it at home, with that oh-so-handsome Navan from the Gaj. Ree intended to show him the beauty of the Northlands - and some of the more exotic uses of spice.
She was a Kuraci after all.
"Ouch!"
The new Runner cried out as Navan Tal's bone practice spear delivered a
sharp jab to his side, the worn leather of his carru-hide jacket little
protection against a hard blow. He staggered back and Navan swept his
feet from under him with a well-timed footsweep, sending him sprawling...
Continue Reading...Brief Glimpse into the Mind of Kiveiji Ravinoste, A by Jason Adam
Added on Feb 2, 2005A merchant has a drink at a bar and discusses the state of the world.
"What be yer pleasure, stranger?"
Looking through the pale lighting in the tavern, I see a burly human, his face rough with new stubble. What little hair he has left is dirtied and matted. His tunic, despite the dingy apron he wears, is equally soiled. Just the kind of man you would expect to see tending bar in any small, rundown tavern on the outskirts of this trading village.
"Just a drink of the house ale, if you please. Looks like you could perhaps use the business," I say, softly chuckling and looking about at the two other patrons in the pub.
"Things aren't too bad, just gettin' started and all. That'll be three 'sid."
"Three!?" I carefully weave a look of anguish across my face, "but I've only four on me."
"Well, then you'll only be havin' one drink today?"
"Ah, but if perhaps the ale, and surely it is a fine brew, were two 'sid, I could have two drinks, while you my good barkeep would have four coins in your pocket!"
Folding his arms and huffing, a slight sneer crossing his face, he mutters, "Must be a merchant, come to make his fortune."
"Fine, two 'sid it is, ya stinkin' swindler!" he exclaims, throwing up his hands and grabbing a crudely carved wooden mug from a wall peg. After filling the tankard from an open barrel, he slaps it on the unfinished bar, spilling some of the ale from the mug.
I lay my two shiny black coins in the calloused, outstretched hand of the bartender, and take a swig. I was wrong, a fine brew it is not. However, I feign an expression of contentment, lest I be forced to give up another 'sid for the slight. Truly, on hot days such as this, even this swill brings some satiation, albeit at the expense of taste.
"So, w'ere ya from?" he asks me, cleaning a mug with a rag. Cleaning might not be the best term, as the rag itself does not look like it has been rinsed since the last Descending Sun.
"Why, from right here in Freil's Rest, of course."
"That may be, but you sure weren't born here, I can tell that much," he snorts, shooting me a smug grin.
"Ah... well, right you are on that," I nod in agreement, though it doesn't take someone of even mediocre intelligence to guess that I had not spent my whole life in this town. For that matter, not many of the people living here could claim such a thing, though whether or not that is a good or bad thing will have to be decided later.
"However, I have lived here some time," I raise my glass to him and take a deep gulp, setting the mug down on the bar just hard enough to give an indication by the sound that its current contents are almost depleted, "My mother was not from this area, though my father's family was here before the destruction, surviving it and the plagues."
"Hearty folk you come from then, to stick it out here. And yer mom?"
"She was a gypsy I am told, traveled all over, though I believe she originally hailed from Red Storm. I do not know her, according to my father she felt burdened by him and me, and left one night with her group, wandering away in the night and leaving me with my father. Anyone that tells you that mothers are full of nurturing compassion is full of gwoshi dung," I raise my glass again and take the last drink, placing the mug in front of me and pushing it slightly towards the barkeep.
Chuckling, he grabs the tankard and fills it again, placing it in front of me and turning back to cleaning the glasses. So far so good.
"My father, however, was a strong man. Not like yourself, but strong of wit and mind. And he wasn't too bad with a blade, either."
"A warrior of some type, then?" He nods, an approving look on his face.
"No, a weaponscrafter." I grin and wink.
Laughing, the husky bartender slaps the dirty rag over his shoulder, and leans a hip on the ale barrel, "Now I know where you get it from."
"Well, thank you my good man, that is the nicest thing someone has said to me today," I smile broadly, toasting my glass to him, "But my interest is not in weapons. You see, of all the things my father taught me, one was the most important lesson. He said, to truly make a fortune out of being a merchant, there is one thing we must thrive on."
I lean forward, overemphasizing my movement to show I do not wish to reveal this most treasured secret. Taking the cue, the bartender moves from the barrel and folds his arms across the bar in front of me, "And what is that, friend" he asks.
"Conflict," I whisper, and lean back.
"Conflict? That's yer great advice? Ha! Any merchant with brains enough to walk knows that with all the wars and fights, that there'll always be a need for weapons and armor and wood and such. I'm afraid if that's your great secret, you might want to keep it that way, or else you'll be laughed right out of the Rest!"
"Ah, but the conflict I talk about is much more subtle friend, a much more devious and deep-rooted conflict." I take a drink, a sly grin crossing my face. He stops his laughter and peers at me questioningly.
"Go on," he says, leaning forward to listen.
"Sure, wars are great for business, anyone knows that as you pointed out. But there are conflicts that are in the very nature of the soul. Take the noble houses for example. Why do they buy precious things? Is it because they like them, that they make them feel safe and at peace? No my friend, it is because they wish to show others just how much better they are than them. They are in constant conflict with each other, gracefully fighting a war with each other and the common people." I take another quaff, slowly wiping my mouth, pausing dramatically. This will perhaps be easier than I thought.
"But better yet, they are in conflict with themselves. Always striving to prove, to show just how great they are. Not by what they can conquer, but by how much they can acquire, how many nice things they can buy and surround themselves with. It is in our nature, even the Dasari gardeners feel a sense of pride if they discover a certain plant or use for an herb before any of their colleagues. Bards wish to perform better than any other; thieves strive to perform the perfect crime. Not to see if they can for themselves, but to show everyone else that they can!"
Nodding, the bartender says, "So your plan is to live off peoples' greed and envy?"
"Not only live off it, but to nurture it, to let it thrive, to foster it in people who have yet to experience the joy of having something your neighbor does not. Sure, I will focus on the wealthy houses, as they are the ones that can purchase the truly fine, valuable pieces of art and jewelry that will gain me the most profit. However, take a common resident, sell them something of not the best quality, but still fine in craftsmanship, and at a good price. But none of the other people they see daily has such an item, and suddenly you have a customer who wants more things. And then their neighbors start envying their possessions, and seek to gain their own. It can be as simple as an intricately woven basket to display often, a sparkling piece of delicate jewelry, or a finely carved set of wooden mugs."
I take my last drink, smiling and sitting back. The bartender nods approvingly, grabs the empty tankard and pulls the rag off his shoulder. As he begins his cleaning, I push myself from the bar and stand to take my leave. Quicker than my eye could catch, the bartender firmly grabs my left wrist with a rough, meaty hand.
"You forgot to pay your two 'sid, friend," he says, grinning broadly, revealing the fact that several of his teeth are missing or chipped, "Unless of course you want some of that conflict you've been going on about."
Curse the luck, I could have sworn I would get away with it. At least he is still only asking for two coins, so I might as well count my losses. Still a lot for me to learn, but I'm patient, "Ah yes, my apologies!"
I pull out two more obsidians and place them on the bar. With a short bow, I turn and leave the pitiful tavern behind. As I leave, I hear the bartender chuckling, "Smart man, he might just make it here after all!"
"What be yer pleasure, stranger?"
Looking through the pale lighting in the tavern, I see a burly human, his face rough with new stubble. What little hair he has left is dirtied and matted. His tunic, despite the dingy apron he wears, is equally soiled. Just the kind of man you would expect...
Continue Reading...Templar's Sons, The by Sanvean
Added on Jan 26, 2005A templar beguiles three half-giants into believing he is their father.
Once upon a time, there was a templar, of the House of Sath. His name was Arylian, and he was altogether a generally unremarkable man, destined to remain in his blue robe, and whose only moment of note had been a conversation with Garrick of the Red.
Some of his lack of remarkableness he brought on himself, for he was a quiet man, and not given to flamboyant gestures or clever conversation. And his quietness did not reflect any sort of profound or philosophical ruminations, but rather was the quiet of a man who took life as it presented itself, with little wonder or appreciation. His appearance made up the other part of his lack of remarkableness, for he was, like most of the inhabitants of Allanak, dark of skin and hair, and not overly tall.
But the life of a templar has certain bonuses, such as the ability to tax people at whim, or to confiscate spice or coins or concubines, and with those benefits certain perils, such as assassination attempts by disgruntled merchants or members of the ALA. And after Arylian had seen the third of his fellow blues dead to poison or a quick knife, he decided he would try to avoid suffering the same fate by hiring guards. Good guards, loyal guards. And to this matter, he did lend a certain amount of thought and at length, arrived upon an idea.
He went to the slaving house of Borsail, and then directed the slave keeper that he wished to purchase three half giants, of a very young age. Old enough to walk, but not old enough to speak clearly. And when he had made his selection among the array of the best that Borsail had to offer, he went home with his new charges toddling after him.
For Arylian was clever enough when need held, and he had decided that the best ties are those of blood, or believed blood, and that if the giants believed him related to them, they would gladly enough serve him. So he set about convincing them, over the next few months, that he was their father.
"Look!" he told the giants, who he had named Tug and Toby and Teracitus, and touching his face. "Just like me, you have two eyes. You inherited those from me, your father! And two ears, and a nose, though mine is a trifle longer than yours. Does this not prove our relation?"
And the half giants, who were as simple minded as any other of their breed, nodded and accepted his word. As they grew older, he dressed them in armor, and had them trained to fight, and wherever he went, his three half giants trailed after him, solemnly following their sire.
There were uncomfortable questions at times, such as the fate of the giants' mother, but Arylian concocted a story of a beautiful giantess, with long dark hair that fell to her ankles, who had come from the shores of the Sea of Silt to fall in love with him, and who had died to an assassin attempting to kill the templar. The story grew over time and by the end, Arylian was half in love with his creation, whose eyes were blue, and lips were full, and who had a cleverer turn of mind than most giants. And every once in a while, Tug or Toby might slip, and call him father in public, but he discouraged that, pointing out that if assassins knew they were his beloved sons, that they might kill the half giants as they had killed the mother, in attempting to cause a templar pain.
On a hot day, when dust cloaked the streets and the beggars fought over the slightest sliver of shade, Arylian and his half giants went out walking. They paced the length of Meleth's Circle, and along Caravan Road, and near the gates, where the crowds were thickest, Arylian felt someone tug at his belt pouch, and turned just in time to see a lean, wiry elf tucking away the stolen pouch with one long fingered hand.
"Seize him!" he shouted, pointing at the elf, and the half giants did.
The elf pleaded for mercy, words spilling from his lips faster than sand grains being swept across a dune, and Arylian frowned and scowled and refused to listen. Telling Tug to continue holding onto the elf, he went in search of a collar and whip, for he meant to flay the elf's skin from his bones, and then enslave him for daring to touch the robes of a templar.
And so the elf continued speaking, trying to persuade the giants to let him go, in the name of kindness, and mercy, and various other opportunings. But Tug and Toby and Tericatus all shook their immense shaggy heads, solemnly and sadly.
"Father wouldn't like that," Tug said eventually, and the elf paused and looked at him, astonished.
"Father?" he said.
Tericatus pointed in the direction that Arylian had taken, and all three nodded their heads.
"How," said the elf, the words as slow as his thoughts were fast, "how could such a thing come to be?"
Tug leaned to whisper in his ear. "It is a long story. But he is our father. For proof of this, you have but to look at us, for do we not have two eyes, just as he does? And do we not have one mouth, and one nose, just as he?"
The elf's face cleared. "Ah!" he said. "My luck has turned. For here I came to Allanak, myself, searching for my three long lost brothers. Perhaps you've seen them? They are half giants, all fierce and brave, and each one of them has two eyes, and but a single nose...."
Astonished, the giants gaped at him and then one by one, they extended their arms and hugged him tightly, each shouting "Brother!" to the great astonishment of the passersby.
And when Arylian returned carrying his whip, and a collar, he found his giants gone, for the elf had persuaded them to come wandering with him, and where he led them, and where their bones lie, those three half giant templar's sons, no one knows to this day.
Once upon a time, there was a templar, of the House of Sath. His name was Arylian, and he was altogether a generally unremarkable man, destined to remain in his blue robe, and whose only moment of note had been a conversation with Garrick of the Red.
Some of his lack of remarkableness he...
Continue Reading...How the Azia Got Their Stories by Sanvean
Added on Jan 26, 2005Adapted from a South African folktale, this is the tale of how stories came to Zalanthas.
Once upon a time and long ago, tesukrami, there were no stories in all of Zalanthas, for a Prince of the Djinni held them all, and kept them in a small wooden box with three locks upon it, away in his castle, beyond the great chasm to the north, and refused to let them go out wandering to be told and heard. And a boy of the Tan Muark, one of the Azia, decided that this should not be.
So he set out wandering along the road, and at length he came to the castle, and was admitted, and there he spoke with the Prince of the Djinni, and asked for the stories.
The Prince laughed at him, for he treasured his stories, but the Djinni are a gambling folk, and at length the boy persuaded him to make a wager. 'Very well,' said the Prince. 'I will give you the stories, but you must perform three tasks before I will even consider the notion. You must catch the Tembo with the Terrible Teeth, and the Hornets that Sting like the Fires of Suk-Krath, and the Rashani who cannot be seen.'
The boy's face fell, for these were daunting tasks indeed, but he nodded and set out. He went to his village, and from his mother, he asked these things: numut vines, and a hollow gourd, and three squash covered with honey before roasting.
First he went to the Grey Forest, into its green and shadowy depths, into its depths where there are halflings, and tembo, and cilops slithering in the shadows. He sat down in a clearing where tembo tracks clustered and there he began to tangle himself in the vines. And when the Tembo with the Terrible Teeth appeared to eat him, there he was, patiently coiling and uncoiling the vines.
"Before I eat you, and lick your bones clean," said the tembo. "Tell me what it is that you are doing."
The boy frowned, ignoring the tembo as he continued with his vines. "I am trying to tie myself up," he said. "In such a way that I cannot escape."
The tembo watched him for a few moments as he fiddled with the vines, and finally said, "You're not very good at that, are you?"
"No," the boy said in humble tones. "I'm not. Perhaps you might show me how it could be done?"
"Yes, yes," the tembo impatiently said. "Stand aside." And he took the vines and tied himself up so thoroughly that there was not a chance of escape, the vines so tight and thick around him that only his eyes could be seen.
"Very good," said the boy, for he had fulfilled his first task. And tugging the tembo along behind him, he went about his second task. He came to the place where the Hornets that Sting like the Fires of Suk-Krath were buzzing about, and he watched them for a while. He hung his gourd from a tree and then he gathered handfuls of sand and tossed them into the air. The hornets, thinking a sandstorm was rising, flew into the gourd for shelter, and soon as the last one had entered, he stoppered the jug.
"Very good," said the boy, taking up his angrily buzzing gourd, for he had fulfilled his second task. And he set out his squash beneath a tree and waited.
Before long, the wind whispered and the grass rustled, and he knew the Rashani Who Could Not Be Seen, the wind fairy, was there.
"Squash," her voice said. "My favorite food. May I have some?"
The boy pretended not to hear.
"Hrmph," she said. "Then I'll simply take some!" And she tried to take the squash, but the sticky honey held her fast, no matter how hard she tried to flutter away. "Very good," said the boy, for now he had fulfilled his third task. And he gathered up the tembo, and his gourd, and the squash with the Rashani still attached, and took them to the Prince of the Djinni.
The Prince scowled and frowned, but he was forced to admit that the boy had done what he had been asked to do. So he gave the boy the box. The boy bowed in courtly and elegant fashion, for the Azia have always been mannerly, and set back to his village. He was impatient to get home, and to show his mother how he had triumphed, so he began to run, the box tucked beneath his arm. And he tripped, and he fell, and the box went flying, the locks breaking open, and all the stories flew out, and scattered all over the world, and in this fashion, stories came to Zalanthas. But the best stories, they were in the bottom of the box. So the Azia still have those, and we tell them on occasion, tesukrami, and this is what makes us the best storytellers of all.
Once upon a time and long ago, tesukrami, there were no stories in all of Zalanthas, for a Prince of the Djinni held them all, and kept them in a small wooden box with three locks upon it, away in his castle, beyond the great chasm to the north, and refused to let them go out wandering to be...
Continue Reading...Phaerys by Sanvean
Added on Jan 26, 2005A wind elementalist, Alana, adopts an orphan, leading to further adventures.
Alana was sitting in Flint's, nursing a leather jack of ale and a small shot glass of whiskey, when she spotted the child. It had been a long trip up from Luirs Outpost, and she had been enjoying the swirls of conversation and mild speculation about the latest sighting of Mukareb flowing around the table of guards where she sat beside the caravan master, Yao. A flicker of light from the doorway caught her eye and she glanced over to see Teleri entering the bar and the girl just behind the swordswoman, fingers in her purse. She almost opened her mouth, with the half-thought, well, hell, Tel's got coins aplenty, she can afford enough to feed that starveling moving through her head to stop her lips when the other woman solved the dilemma of whether or not to alert her by reaching out without looking behind herself to snag the girl.
"That woman's got eyes in the back of her head. Damn spooky," Yao grunted. "'Nother drink, Lana, my dear? And I'll tell you, Lymon, you see Muk, or any other damn sorcerer for that matter, anywhere around when you go hunting, you turn around and run the other way."
Teleri, her grip firmly on the young girl's ear, pulled the waif around in front of herself. "Thieves," the silver-eyed woman said in her usual deliberate tones, "usually lose a hand for a first offense, here in Tuluk." She tapped the fingers of her free hand on the hilt that hung at her waist.
Alana watched the girl square her shoulders and return Teleri's steely gaze. "Brave, the youngling is," she murmured, shaking her head at Yao's offer. She flicked a braid out of her face, watching the other two stare at each other, then rose in one lithe motion, ignoring the other caravaners' sideways looks, to pick her way through the crowd to Teleri's side.
"Teleri," she said, abruptly. "Give her to me. She didn't manage to take any of your coins, so you can't really charge her with successful thievery."
The swordswoman gave Alana a look tinged with amusement. "Is this Alana, ever solitary, asking me to turn over a child to her? Getting lonely in your old age?"
Alana grinned at Teleri. "No, this is Alana, who spent an evening buying you ales in Red Storm when the weather was too bad to step outside in, and watched you fleece that poor fellow who offered to instruct you at swordplay."
Teleri gave her a grave nod, though her eyes were still amused, before she returned her attention to the girl. "I am going to let go of your ear," she said. "When I do, you will not run away. You will go with this kind lady who is apparently offering to feed you." She glanced at Alana for confirmation and when she saw the slight nod, she let go of the ear in question.
The girl didn't move, other than to raise a dirty hand to rub at her ear. She stared at Alana, who studied her in return.
She was a small girl, and the pointed ears that poked out from the tangle of matted curls that might be blonde, were the dirt to be removed, proclaimed that she had at least a fair portion of sidhe blood. Her clothes consisted of a ragged, too long tunic, belted with a length of black cord. The long toes of her bare feet twitched uneasily on the rough wood of the bar's floor.
Alana leaned her lanky frame over to speak to the child. "Have a name, youngling?"
The girl continued staring, silent. Then she lifted a defiant, pointed chin and touched the ragged scar that ran across her throat.
Alana gave her a courteous half bow. "Well then, little speechless, let me invite you to dine with me." She gestured at her table. Nodding her thanks at Teleri and turning on her heel, she walked back to Yao and the others, trusting the girl to follow her.
Yao gave her a wry look as the child slipped into the space between Alana and himself. "Never figured you for the motherly type, Lana," he murmured before signalling to the server for more ale.
"And some bread and fruit," he shouted over the bar noise as the barmaid acknowledged his wave.
When the food was brought, the child sat eying it until Alana made an impatient noise and pushed the loaf at her. Then the girl seized the bread and began eating with ravenous haste, washing it down with long draughts of ale.
"Should she be drinking that?" Yao said to Alana.
Alana shrugged. "My parents never stopped me from drinking ale."
He gave her a dubious look. "And your point would be? That if you want to become a skinny, longnosed windwitch, you should drink ale at a tender age?"
Alana flashed him a brief grin before turning back to watch the girl eat. "For that, you're paying me double next trip, merchantman."
He waved a dismissive hand at her. "Keep my caravans safe, witch, and you know I'll pay any price you ask."
Alana nodded slightly, her eyes not leaving the girl as the last of the bread vanished and a piece of yellow fruit began to share its fate.
She was at a loss in thinking where to put the girl that night, but at last she shrugged and beckoned the child into her own bedchamber, one of the rooms above the bar which Flint rented out, a small space with a bed and a wash basin. She sat down on the bed and rubbed the bridge of her nose, considering.
"Your choice," she said at length. "Bed's got enough room for two. But you wash first if that's your choice, since the linen's clean. Or you can take a blanket and sleep on the floor. I prefer men to children, if that's what you're thinking." She turned her back and began to tug off her boots, shaking sand out of them and curling her toes with a contented cracking noise. Far below in the bar, someone shouted something unintelligible.
She heard the tentative splashing of the girl in the water.
"We'll get you some less disreputable clothes in the morning," she told the wall.
A shy touch tapped her elbow and she turned. The girl was a little cleaner, but streaks of dirt still marred the brown skin. Alana reached for the piece of linen Flint called a towel and wet one end.
"C'mere," she said, and as the girl stood before her, she dabbed away splotches of dust and grime, working her way around old bruises. The scar across the girl's throat looked to be a knife wound, several years old. As she worked, she whistled a repetitive three note tune, an old song from her own childhood. She broke off as she put the towel back and took a tortoiseshell comb from her pack in order to comb out the tangled hair.
The girl winced now and then as a particularly difficult tangle hit the comb, but Alana was gentle and deft, coaxing knots and snarls out of the matted curls. "There we go," she said at length. The child turned to her and opened her mouth, tapping her chest beneath the ragged tunic.
"Phaer-rys," she croaked, in a voice as hoarse as an unused hinge.
Alana blinked a moment. "So you can speak," she murmured. "Phaerys, then. I'm Alana." She stood and reached for the child, lifting her into the bed. "Good night, Phaerys," she said to her. "Sleep well." The girl curled into the pillows and fell asleep with the speed of childhood. Alana sat in the windowsill, long into the night, watching the street and letting the evening wind stir through her fingers before she unfolded herself and lay down beside the child. She lay for a while, listening to the unfamiliar sound of someone breathing beside her before at last her eyelids grew heavy and sleep claimed her.
She woke in the morning to find Phaerys snuggled up beside her like a cat, warm and drowsy. Alana stretched and yawned. "Breakfast," she said. "Then we coax Yao into taking a day off to go shopping with us."
Although he pretended not to be overthrilled with the very idea, Yao insisted on taking the pair to the same tailor he patronized.
"Sandcloth has always suited me well," Alana grumbled, patting her leggings and adjusting the collar of her shirt, woven in a checkered pattern of dark brown and beige.
Yao threw up his hands in mock horror. "We can't all be exotic desert women who can carry off an unfashionable look with your style, Lana." He winked at Phaerys. They were walking along the Moonway, slipping through the crowds of tourists and travellers on their way to the Temples of the Elements. Here and there city guards eyed the crowds, making sure they moved along smoothly.
Phaerys reached a hand up to touch one of Alana's white braids, tied off with a bright wooden bead. "Pret-ty," she said, her voice almost inaudible over the noise of the crowd.
"She is, isn't she?" Yao said to Phaerys. "For a skinny wind witch, she's got a certain appeal, in my opinion."
"And now," he added to Alana, "You've got this exciting motherly thing going for you. It adds a little trace of the exotic."
Alana frowned at him, and his tone shook off its laughter and became serious.
"No, come on, Lana," he said to her. "You've always been the most solitary person I know. Do the job, drink an ale with the guards, and then vanish off the Wind knows where until you're needed for another job. Have you and I ever had the pleasure of a conversation of this length before? I think not. Adopting a child is the most human thing I've ever seen you do."
Alana shrugged. "I'm on the road too often for many ties," she said. She glanced at Phaerys. "Dunno what we're going to do about that."
"Well, you can't take her with you when you're acting as a courier," Yao said. "I tell you what, witch. I'll take half shares in the little one here."
She felt her eyebrow twitch upwards in a startled motion as she looked at the merchant. They'd known each other several years now, ever since he had first hired her to make sure one of his caravans, loaded with luxuries, made its way successfully to the seaport of Allanak, unhindered by bandits or storms. She knew he was one of the junior members of his House, unmarried, and had been raised in the Luirs Outpost. Her own tribe had come from that same area. Aside from that, she thought, looking at his dark blue eyes, the long drooping moustache shot through with strands of silver, the slight sardonic smile hovering on his lips as he returned her look, she knew very little about him.
"I've trusted you with my life several times on trips," she said slowly. "And you've laid yours in my hands as well. But are you sure you want this responsibility, merchantman?"
His chin dipped in a definite nod. "Think about it, Alana. Only time I go out of the city is with the caravans, which means I can watch her while you're off running the roads. And when I go off caravaning, you're there too, and another passenger, particularly a small one like this, won't make too much difference." He grinned more broadly. "Not like you'll have any trouble clearing it with the caravan master."
She nodded back at him, then looked at Phaerys. "This all right with you, youngling? To have Yao watching over you as well?"
The child glanced between the two of them and smiled her assent. Yao bowed to both before leading the way into the tailor's shop, where he insisted on buying Phaerys clothing of a finer quality than Alana's purse could have afforded.
"If she's going to be seen with me, I'm afraid I must stand firm on this matter," he said. "Put your coins away, wind witch." The tailor beamed at him as he tapped a length of deep blue brocade. "A short cape of that, I think, and use some of it to trim gloves to match."
"The child's going to be afraid to get dirty in something that fine," Alana objected.
Yao only smiled. "Then we'll commission another set of clothes for her to play in. And what about something for you, Lana? A skirt in which to go dancing with me?"
"The lady would look very lovely in this," the tailor suggested, pointing to a flowered silk. His face fell at the sound of Alana's snort of derison.
"Stick to re-outfitting the child, merchant," she said.
"We'll work on converting our skinny friend into a lady some other day," Yao whispered loudly to Phaerys as the girl giggled.
The first time Alana left on a courier run, leaving Phaerys behind, she felt a touch of nervousness. But the majority of her income came from these runs, no matter what Yao said about the amounts he paid her. Nobles and merchant houses often needed messages carried by hand between the cities, and no one moved faster or less obtrusively than a skilled wind witch, who could both make herself unseen and use magicks to speed her mount.
"Be good," she said to Phaerys as she prepared to leave the gates. The girl and Yao stood watching, seeing her off. "And you, merchant," she said to him.
He raised a hand in farewell to her, and she wheeled her riding lizard out the gates. She'd been asked to carry a letter to the northlands, a two day trip, which meant stopping at the grove of an old friend, something she normally looked forward to. As always, he was waiting to greet her.
"Emon," she said. The stocky, square-faced druid smiled as he took the reins of her lizard. He ran a hand over the beast's leathery yellow skin over a gash left by a branch, the skin rippling as it healed in the track of his fingers. The lizard nosed at him, its green eyes blinking sleepily.
"Safe journey?" he asked. They walked together toward the pool at the center of the grove. It sat in the middle of a copse of pymlithe trees, their elongated leaves rustling in soft cadences, a rhythm broken by the lilting cries of hunting ghants, moving somewhere out of sight. Several large boulders, overgrown with shaggy moss, sat at the pool's edges to serve as seats. Brushing road dust from her cloak, Alana gathered a palmful of cool water to touch to her lips.
"Yup," she said. "So, Emon, what if I told you I'd become a mother?"
He gave her a startled look. "I'd ask who the lucky father was, first, so I could spread the gossip all over the plains."
"No, no," she said, feeling her cheeks redden slightly. "It's an adopted child, really."
He glanced at the lizard. "Ah. I take it you're not carrying him or her in your saddlebags then."
She shook her head with a laugh.
He rubbed his chin, eying her. "Alana, I've always thought you didn't like children. Back when we worked together in Allanak, I would have sworn you avoided them."
She spread her fingers out, studying them, not looking at him. "Emon... I was the oldest of seven. And then my brothers were all killed." She touched a few of the beads capping the multitude of thin braids containing her moonpale hair. "My brother Deinol carved most of these." Her voice faltered a moment before she went on. "It's just been that every time I was around a child, they reminded me of my brothers. Then I looked at Phaerys, and for once I didn't see my brothers. I saw me. Ready to face the world and expect no quarter from it. There are some people you love from the very moment you first see them. Daughter of my heart, she is."
Emon ran a hand through his hair, watching her. "How did your brothers die?"
Alana sighed, watching the wind ruffle the pool's surface. "My nameday journey," she said. "I went out on it, came back to find the village burned to the ground, the folk killed by raiders. I should have been there."
"Why? So you could get slaughtered by the raiders too?" Emon gave her a quick half-smile. "Do you think your brothers would have wanted that?"
She returned the smile, shaking her head slightly. "No." She stretched her legs out in front of herself, using a boot-tip to flip a pebble into the pool. "It's funny, Emon. With Phaerys around, I don't spend as much time thinking about them. Too many things to see to for her."
He patted her arm. "Glad to hear it." He tilted his head to study her saddlebags. "I don't suppose you..."
"Ha!" she laughed, rising in order to rummage through the bags. "This is why you like my visits, druid. Because I bring you ale." She pulled out two stoppered clay jugs. "Flint's finest."
His smile was beneficent. "Ever kind, m'dear."
It was with a light heart that she set back to Tuluk, and her eagerness to see Phaerys spurred her to the point of not stopping, but riding through the night. The first pink light of dawn lit the city gates as she rode through them towards the House compound.
The yard there was unexpectedly busy, small knots of guards moving around, preparing for some duty. She wondered if a caravan would be leaving soon, and a smile lingered on her lips at the thought as she brushed past a sentry and ran up the stairs towards the suite of rooms Yao occupied. It would be pleasant to travel with Phaerys on the road, to be able to point out some of the sights and sounds, to take her to see Emon, who might be able to heal the scar that marked her throat and make it easier for her to speak.
The door was half ajar, and she pushed it open. Yao stood near the window, staring out into the courtyard. He turned as she entered and she gasped as she saw the bruises on his face, the sling holding his right arm.
"Lana," he said. "Lanay, I'm so sorry."
She crossed the chamber in three quick strides. "What?? She looked around. "Where's Phaerys?"
"We went out riding," he said. "I thought if she was to travel with the caravan eventually, she'd need to know how to ride. And we ran into Mukareb."
"You took the girl out riding in the country where a sorcerer had been sighted?" She grabbed his shoulder and shook him, ignoring his gasp of pain at her touch.
"Where?" she demanded.
"Near the edge of the Grey Forest, where it meets the chasm," he said. "But wait, Lana. I'm gathering guards to ride out there after him."
"No time," she hissed. And with that, she broke one of her oldest self-prescriptions, and summoned magic in front of someone else. Winds swirled in the chamber around her, sending the curtains and bedding flying as she reached out for Phaerys's mind and then flung herself into the wind's grasp, looking for her child. Yao's shout followed her. "Alana! No!"
When the winds parted, leaving her staggering, dizzy, she stood in a small clearing. Phaerys lay in a crumpled heap in its middle, and across from Alana stood a lean, brownskinned man, dressed in worn black robes, smiling at her.
"Alana, I presume?" he said. As he spoke, he gestured, and before she could react, she felt invisible fingers around her own, holding them still and unable to cast.
"Mukareb," she said, her voice grim.
He smiled again. "Why, yes. How kind of you to come. Though I must admit I was expecting you." He pointed at Phaerys's limp form. "Touching, your simulation of mother love. And so beguilingly predictable." With that, he pointed at her, hissing out three sibilant syllables, and she felt the air grow still in her lungs. Gasping, she sank to her knees, hands still immobilized, as the world broke into a thousand shards of blackness.
When at least the blackness began to break and she wearily swam back up to consciousness, she found herself sitting upright, wrists bound behind her around the slim trunk of a rough-barked callandra tree.
"Awake?" Mukareb said from nearby. Alana decided that she had previously underestimated how intensely annoying a constant smile could be. She watched as the sorcerer moved around the clearing, dragging dead branches into a sizeable heap in the middle.
"Phaerys?" she said, trying to look from side to side.
Mukareb shrugged. "Didn't need her. I let her run off into the forest. Easier to let the predators there dispose of her. We sorcerers aren't totally bent on wiping out every life we run across. You, on the other hand, my dear, are going to be very very useful to me."
She shook her head, trying to clear it. "Useful?"
"Surely, my friend, you know that as an elemental witch, your blood is full of that element's essence?" He licked his lips, a slight unnerving greedy flicker. "It's the component I need to take on some of that element's power myself. And you came so running so beautifully, so predictably into my hands." He laughed at her look of surprise. "Alana, the solitary. I knew you'd come looking on your own."
Alana shook her head again, remembering Yao's shout, the despair and anger in it. She closed her eyes, feeling warm wetness beneath the lids.
Mukareb's voice continued, relish in its tones. "So easy to take you, wind witch, when you try to carry all the weight on your back"
Another voice broke in. "She tries, but there's a few willing to help shoulder the burden."
Alana's eyes flew open. Yao, flanked by two guards, stood at the edge of the clearing, swords drawn.
Mukareb laughed. "Think to take a sorcerer with blades alone?"
"Funny," Yao grunted. "You seem more interested in flapping your tongue than weaving magics." He nodded to the guards, and the three advanced.
With a flick of Mukareb's fingers, a dark rift opened in the air in front of the sorcerer and from it dark tentacles roiled, reaching out. As broad a man's shoulder, their surfaces were covered with a tracery of jet scales, glistening wetly with an indescribable moisture as they moved with a boneless sinuosity. Blades flashed, severing the writhing limbs as they reached for the men, but for every one lopped, two more sprouted. One guard backed up, eyes wide and terrified, but his fellow stood staunchly by Yao, whose sword, even fighting left-handed, moved like a lacework of gleaming metal in the air between them and the rift.
"He's awfully good for a merchant," Alana thought dazedly. "Who'd have ever thought?" She felt something touch her wrists behind the tree, and then the cool caress of a knife, cutting away the bonds, strand by strand.
A tentacle moved unexpectedly sideways, eluding the flashing blades in order to seize the guard by the leg and dragging him towards the patch of dead blackness hanging in the air. Yao interposed himself, hacking at the tentacle, and its fellow seized him by the throat. His face purpled as the black length coiled around his neck, cutting off the air, but his sword continued to rise and fall, slashing at the rift itself.
The last bits of cords fell away and Alana pulled away from the tree, trying to rub blood back into her cramped hands, her legs weak beneath her. Mukareb spun to see her as a branch crackled underfoot and began to move his fingers in a spell but she spoke a single word, hands moving clumsily and behind his slight form, yet another space opened, winds howling, reaching out for him, pulling him into the eye twisting colors of that hole His arms flailed wildly, trying to catch something, anything as he was irresistably pulled backwards until he was gone, vanished, with the noise of implosion sounding like a shattering pot.
And with his disappearance, the tentacles winked out of sight, releasing Yao and the guard.
Alana turned, to see Phaerys standing beside the tree, knife in hand, a shy smile hovering on her lips. Then the child was in her arms, hugging her, as she hugged back, eyes searching for any sign of harm to this, her daughter.
"Well," Yao said from behind her. "I hope this has taught you something, wind witch."
Her lips twitched in a very slight smile before she turned to face him. "That would be besides never to leave one's child in the care of a scatterbrained merchant."
"Alana, I swear . . . " he began, then broke off as he glimpsed the laughter mingled with gratitude in her pale grey eyes. He snorted and reached to ruffle Phaerys's hair.
"I suppose the trick," he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "is to make sure you stay near the merchant you've left the child in care of."
"I think the trick," Alana informed him. "Is not to try to underscore lessons when someone's already learned them. Particularly skinny, long nosed wind witches."
He smiled. "All right then. Let's go home."
Alana was sitting in Flint's, nursing a leather jack of ale and a
small shot glass of whiskey, when she spotted the child. It had been a
long trip up from Luirs Outpost, and she had been enjoying the swirls of
conversation and mild speculation about the latest sighting of Mukareb
flowing...
Continue Reading...
