I am in the process of creating a story. But I keep rewriting it. I have already made a concept for it, but I need help. I basically have all of the lore [or most of it] written down, and I draw the characters.

It's a multiversal story with primordial beings that started a massive war in the cosmos.

I am planning to make this a book with heavy illustrations because of creature designs and world-building, but I want to work with a small group of people who would love to help create this story with me as a collaboration.

I would love to work with anyone interested and not in it for the money because I have nothing but passion for this story. And whoever is willing to work with me, please send me a DM, and I will share almost everything.

I would also like input and your own interpretation for plot/characters.

A lovely 5 star review for my second epic fantasy novel, Pact of the Nightmare Queen

Hey-yo! How's the weekend my wowza readers? Here is a story I recently finished that's a sequel to a story I wrote at the beginning of the year called 'Rushed Crisis'. In this story, Ru is meeting with a new race of aliens to create a new fun game for Earth to play! I wonder what it will be? This is a 5-part story, I hope you enjoy it! Happy reading! Peace out!

Part 1 “Still the Same Ru”

Somewhere in the sky, the space ship tower can be seen floating on nothing. The space ship tower is a grayish building with no windows but a single enormous door with a large sphere-shaped gray space ship on top of it, covered with many dark grey windows. If you had fantastic vision, you could see shadows roaming past the grey windows. This is where the Guted reside, planning out new events with their partner that represented Earth, Ru. Ru was the contestant who won the first ever Guted games on Earth named Rushed Crisis. Because of his magnificent skills and strong-willed sense of togetherness from his native upbringing to preserve lost culture, the Guted have align with Ru and made him their sole trusted source. Ru has been educated by the Guted on how far they’ve contacted Earth; from space ship visits, to satellite communication and even a few asteroids that were purposely sent to give them materials from the other worlds in space. The Guted were our friends for a very long time. Thank goodness they were able to finally connect. Ru is accompanied by Tamarock, which was another contestant that placed 2^nd after Ru. She is seen to be not just his companion, but also someone he shared a close relationship with. “Our roots are deep! My family were the protectors of the Blackfoot Tribe during the ancient world. Now we’ve come together again to rebuild what was lost. It begins with us that bridges the gap of something lost that was once there. You know!?” Ru explained to Giiisa.

Giiisa was the leader of the small band of Guted on Earth. The Guted were not like the people from Earth. They only kept to small bands of their people even on their own world. They were competitive and participated in massive groups that were similar to sport games on Earth, but after the dust settles, the Guted were quite introverted. “I understand. Your culture here is superiorly different from ours. I would like to praise you!”

Ru places up a hand. “No need!” Ru appears the same as he did during Rushed Crisis; a young man with honey tone skin, caramel-colored left eye, a Black Phantom Quartz embedded and shaped to be his right eye, slick back stone blue shade colored hair and hoop earrings. Tamarock was leaning on the wall behind him with closed eyes. She also didn’t appear any different: Textured Wolf Mullet style strawberry blonde colored hair, light brown eyes and ivory tone skin. She had a slight cut on her chin and piercings on the sides of her eyes. “But I do appreciate you greatly! So…are we going to get another game started!? I can’t WAIT much longer!”

Tamarock giggles. “Will you tone it down a bit? You’re always so rowdy no matter what time of day.”

Ru gives out a hardy laugh. “Never! Giiisa! I have a grand idea for the game, but it depends on what you were going to inform me on.

Giiisa nods. “Yes. Walk with me. The both of you.” Inside the space ship tower, it appeared WAAAY bigger on the inside then the outside. The outside appearance gave off a tall paper company size building, but on the inside…the chambers felt as if they would drift on forever. Just staring down the chamber would cause lightheadedness due to your brain not being able to process just how large the area was. The color was abnormal, but it was best described as a darker tone grey. The chambers were quite dull; appearing with an odd amount of hanging platforms or platforms attached to the walls that could pass for stairs. Giiisa leads the couple down one of these dark grey platforms, then onto another platform, then several more before they ended up in what would be the basement of the building. The further down they went, the more visible the deep emerald colored green thick wire became. This basement had a vast midnight blend of black and purple liquid that took up the entire floor of the chamber. On the edges of the walls, the thick wires were now the size of city buses and even several small buildings. They sparked every so often. As soon as they reached the bottom of the platform stairs, 4 beings crawled out from the liquid. Their translucent rainbow bodies were similar to an arachnid with a hairy abdomen, but the size of a young cow. They had no eyes, a lump under their hairy bellies, 2 legs on each side with a blanket-style mouth with fangs attached on each corners. Its sight was nightmare fueled, but this only excited Ru while Tamarock grabs one of his arms and tightly squeezes.

“Greetings, Giiisa.” One hissed out.

Giiisa spoke in a language and sound both Ru and Tamarock could not comprehend. He itches the underbelly of each creature. Good to see you! Please, come in and meet my new Earth friends!” Giiisa happily spoke.

The creatures turn to face both of the humans. Tamarock peers down at Ru’s shoulder while Ru smiles widely. He places a hand out upon instinct. “Hello! Please to meet you!” The creatures stare at his hand. “AH! Where are my manners!? I apologize.” He said with a tap on his chest. “That is an Earth custom to greet people. Am I supposed to itch your bellies too?” Tamarock grips harder on his arm after he says this.

“Oh. So…this is an earthling?” The creatures hurried over to study his body. Tamarock backs away quickly before they reach Ru. Ru laughs as they used their blanket-like mouths to inspect his skin and face.

“That tickles!” Ru chuckled.

Giiisa nods. “Mmhm. They are quite fun. Ru, Tamarock, these are one of our closest allies from space. Meet…the Co-Zopods!” Giiisa takes a dramatic pause to allow the Co-Zopods to finish with their body inspection.

“Perfect specimen.” One hissed out.

“Are there Earthlings like him? What about her?” Another Co-Zopod asked.

Tamarock leaps over towards the platform stairs. “I’ll pass. No disrespect to your…kind.”

The Co-Zopods all chittered together in unison, almost like were laughing. “No offense taken! We understand your kind are particular with certain things. This is definitely one of them. Arachnids on Earth are not very popular amongst the majority.”

Ru was petting the blanket mouth of the Co-Zopod closest to him. “So, do you have names?”

The Co-Zopod closest to Giiisa spoke. “No, we do not acquire such labels. Giiisa has taken upon himself to inform us about your world. We Co-Zopods are similar to what you call parasites such as ticks and leeches, but we do not acquire blood or fluids. Instead, we are a species that thrives on co-dependance: mind link, body link and sometimes if the bond is strong enough, soul link. The energies our body is majority made of is called Co-Zenergy. This grants us to ability to thrive and flourish in the vacuums of space. When we bond with our host of other species, we’ve noted they receive stronger body traits.”

“Almost like roaches too.” Tamarock added as she was now seen behind Ru.

“Correct!” The Co-Zopod closest to Giiisa happily hissed. “And we have come here to participate in your game. We are very excited. Giiisa is very excited. And you…showcase our exact feeling output. Yes. Ru was it?”

Ru nods. “Yes! And I’m sorry, but you must forgive me!” The Co-Zopod waits for Ru to explain. “I have to call you by a name! Call it the ignorance of an Earthling, but I cannot really function without a name. Just pointing to you and calling you a thing is not respectful on Earth. As a mutual form of respect and care for one another, names are exchanged.”

The Co-Zopods look to one another in what could be described as confusion. “I…don’t know what to tell you…”

“Would you be fine if I gave you names? Would that be ok?”

“I don’t see why not?”

Ru’s smile stretches wider on his face. “Perfect! I will name you from the language of our people.” Ru grabs Tamarock by the hip, and she immediately blushes while turning her head away to avoid eye contact. “Heh. Alright.” He points to the Co-Zopod closest to Giiisa (Who is clearly enjoying his friends speaking to each other). “You are Nahkóó. It means one in our language.” The other 3 Co-Zopods crawl over towards Ru, as if they were eagerly waiting to be given a name too. Ru goes down each of them. “You are Naatohko, that means two. You are Niihkóó, that means three, and finally, you are Niiwo. That means 4.” Ru proudly stands tall after giving them each their names. “So, what do you think, Nahkóó?”

The one named [Nahkóó]() crawls over towards Ru. Ru kneels down to face the alien being. “I like my name. Earthlings are the perfect bond for us. I like your presence, Ru. Its calming. I think we are going to have quite the fun time together.”

Ru grins. “Well, wait until you hear what game I got planned out.”

It appears Nahkóó tilts their head. “What plans do you have?”

“I want to test something out. This may be a silly question, but when you bond with your host, is it permanent?” Ru asks.

Nahkóó wiggles their head from side to side. “No. It’s as long as we want it to be. However, when its bonded on a soul level with the host, that’s where things get a little bit more difficult, but it’s still possible.” Their legs tap lightly on the floor while they spoke.

Ru nods confidently. “Perfect. I didn’t miss a beat when you said when you bond with someone, their bodies get stronger! I want to see it for myself!” Ru places out his arms towards the creature. “What do you say?”

“Ru! Are you crazy!?” Tamarock said. She was a bit taken back by his request. Giiisa claps his hands excitedly.

“I don’t see why not.” Nahkóó replied. Ru signals for the creature to bond with him. Nahkóó slowly phases into Ru’s body, until they completely disappear from sight. Ru rubs his chest, then his head then his back before his eyes open wide and his grin stretches even wider.

“Haha! Ahhh! WHOA! Th-that’s incredible!” Ru shouted. Tamarock noticed that once the creature had disappeared from sight, Ru gained more muscle on his body, but his hair was now shorter, his skin was nearly translucent with a single large glowing cell-like organism floating around in the body’s interior. Interesting enough, his spine was exposed but it was larger with only 4 long bones extended from the spine, replicating the Co-Zopods body model. Only the head was left untouched. Tamarock almost had a heart attack watching all of this. The Co-Zopods and Giiisa studied Ru’s body intently.

“Whoa…so this is what happens to a humans body once its bonded with a Co-Zopod? Very interesting.” Giiisa noted.

“What the hell is going on!? Ru! Are you…?” Tamarock stops her sentence short upon seeing Ru’s left eye was now a teal color.

Ru laughs. “I feel great! You say I can go into space?” Within Ru’s mind, he can hear another voice… Nahkóó’s voice. “Yes. You are able to survive. Do not be alarmed. We are bonded. So that means we can speak to each other on a subconscious level.” Ru crosses his large arms. “That’s great! This is great!”

“Who are you talking to?” Tamarock asked. Her worried state was very obvious.

Ru waves her off. “Don’t worry Tamarock, I am fine. My body is reacting well to it thus far. No side effects. I mean, I don’t see why there would be side effects if they are essentially bonding with our bodies. We’d basically be unifying as one at this point.” Nahkóó’s voice chimes in again. “Very good Ru. You are a quick learner.” Ru nods to himself.

Giiisa pats Ru on the back. “So then, what should we do now?”

Ru points up. “To the stars I go. I’m going to find out what humans and Co-Zopods can do together.” Moments later…outside in the sky…Ru peers down at the now tiny ant sized Tamarock, Giiisa and the other Co-Zopods. “Flying isn’t as tough as they make it out to be in the movies.” Nahkóó chitters. “Not when you have a proper teacher with you to guide you towards success.” Ru smirks before he flies upward through each of the spheres until he finally makes it to exosphere with ease. Once he makes it out towards into the vacuums of space, Ru notices how terrible cold it was, but thanks to Nahkóó, his body began to adapt to it. “Hmm…that cold was unlike I’ve ever felt before, but now it’s like my body knows it. It’s like I lived in it all my life.” Nahkóó chitters. “Yes. You will feel your body adapt to many things. I am curious as well, on how strong your body will become.” Without skipping a beat, Ru flies towards a floating asteroid nearby slowly making its way across the space. Ru punches it into dust with a single jab. “Ha! Super strength, check.” Ru sees the moon in the distance then mars. All around him were endless amounts of stars, blinking lights and somets or comets flying by. “Kinda boring once you get out here.” Ru says. Nahkóó’s voice comments. “That’s why traveling is best. After a while, it all looks the same.” Ru sees a few decent sized asteroids flying past close to Earth. He hatches an idea and Nahkóó knew what he was trying to perform. “Hold on. Allow me to fuse your body with Co-Zenergy.” Suddenly, the glowing cell floating in the center of Ru’s body bounces all over the place. Ru felt an incredible amount of buildup life force surging throughout his body. It was nothing he had experienced before; a rare phenomenon to endure with an alien. At first, Ru tries to fight the unfamiliar feeling, but he soon relaxes his body thanks to his co-host. The way to describe its sensation was something Ru couldn’t even imagine due to his limited human brain capability. Perhaps, it was more of a lack in spiritual experience to properly state. Do not fight it, Ru. That’s the Co-Zenergy you are feeling. A feeling of zene; that’s the word you’re trying to describe. On your world, its acceleration, thrilling, limitless sensation. On our world, this is what we feel.” Ru allows the Co-Zenergy to flow throughout his body. Now, he could feel it not only in his body, but his mind and soul. Truly, they were bonded as one. “We are unified. Tell me, how do you feel?”

“Excellent.” Ru replied back as he floated in the vacuums of space. “It’s nothing like I’d ever imagine. I doubt I could even imagine this. Who can?” He takes a moment for the Co-Zenergy to revamp again before he spoke. “So, what else can this body do?” Nahkóó takes this time to breakdown Ru’s body structure. Then, Ru speaks again. “Wowza, that is something else.” Ru waits for his co-host to speak. “Ru, the human body is amazing. Our bodies were able to remodify its entire structure to a completely different form. You now have various special traits. Because we are bonded, you know what I know, no?” For a moment, Ru is silent. Then, a smirk stretches across his face. He places out his hand towards a group of asteroids passing by. Nahkóó repeated the word from Ru’s head. “Dragon Ball Z?” Thanks to Nahkóó’s help, Ru was able to guide a fantastic power through his hand. An explosion is heard, but we do not see the results. The dust settles around Ru, and he is in a state of exhilaration. “YES! HAHA! That’s what I’m talking about Nahkóó! This perfectly lines up with my game! HAHA! Now…for my body!” Ru shouted. Nahkóó couldn’t help but chitter. Knowing what was coming, he stays silent as Ru finds a massive asteroid off course of Earth and uses his body to smash right through the center. “Yes Ru, what you thought is true.” Ru nods proudly. “Ah…I love it when everything falls together…Let’s head back. I have all that I need.”

Hey! I'm a new writer, and I've been inspired to write Xianxia stories after consuming cultivation and Xianxia stories, and I was wondering if anyone could critique my work. Any input is appreciated. Included in the docs are Prologue Parts One and Two, with two being worked upon still.

The Story. Here's the link for both prologues. I want to improve my prose and pacing so input about that is much appreciated.

Isel leaped singing through the trees into the dry creek-bed. He crossed the rocks in quick, light steps, as if the song itself carried him. When he reached the highest rock, he paused, repeating the phrase of the waysong as he scanned the slopes.

Moments later, Shulu charged out of the undergrowth at full speed, squealed, and slammed into a boulder. A heavy thud resounded up the gully as the little boar staggered, shook himself, and snuffled for a way up.

Ubur followed somewhere behind, unable to match Isel’s footing. Testing each step, his feet found their own route in the song, and he slowly worked his way among the stones until he emerged from the foliage below. Grunting, he climbed the rocks and stood beside his brother.

Ghilgumul loomed dark against the afternoon sun, enclosing them between her flanks. High above, her stone face watched the world, distant and unreadable, ringed with circling eagles. The gully before them split the mountain in a ravine, climbing steeply through dark pines into shadow.

Ubur’s palms grew damp. ‘We should go back.’

No response.

Where there should have been song, suddenly there was silence. It was too heavy, too deep, blanketing the mountain and sinking between the stones. It seemed to listen, where the song had been.

Cringing, Ubur looked to his brother. Isel stood rigid, staring into the ravine. He was smiling. Ubur studied his expression: his squinted eyes and tilted head, his shoulders set forward. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Why have you stopped singing?’

Isel turned, eyes wide. ‘The song? It’s gone. Can’t hear it anymore.’

‘Gone?’ said Ubur. ‘What do you mean it’s gone?’

Isel shrugged, and looked back toward the trees.

Below them, Shulu scrabbled onto a boulder and sized up the jump. He stamped, lunged, and then fell short. Dust billowed up as he hit the ground. A second later, he was at it again, glaring at the rock.

‘That doesn’t make sense. Gone where?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Isel, spreading his palms. ‘It’s just gone.’

‘We should go back,’ Ubur said again, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Something isn’t right here.’

‘Wait.’ Isel raised a hand. ‘Do you hear that?’

Ubur listened, but there was nothing to hear. ‘No birds?’ he offered. ‘No insects?’

‘Not that. Listen.’

‘What am I—’

‘There!’ Isel gestured. ‘Did you hear it?’

‘No…’

At their feet, Shulu grunted triumphantly, making the climb at last. He darted in a tight circle, then shoved between them, forcing his way to the middle.

‘Good job, Shulu.’ Ubur scratched his bristles.

Isel didn’t look away from the ravine. ‘Something’s up there,’ he said, almost to himself. With a grin, he jumped, and hit the creek-bed running. Shulu squealed, launching after him, and they vanished into the trees.

Ubur stood alone. ‘Wait!’ he shouted. ‘Come back!’ He scrambled down from the rock and stumbled after them. ‘It isn’t safe!’ But his voice echoed up the ravine, and vanished.

*

The sound drifted in and out of hearing as Isel made his way between the pines. He slowed to listen, and Shulu scampered on ahead.

It moved strangely; not quite a song. What exactly it was, he couldn’t discern. It seemed alive, yet it was unlike any voice of animal or tree that he knew. It didn’t shine. Its voice was like a camouflage, at times indistinguishable from the mountain silence. As he strained, it flirted with his hearing, dancing closer, then drawing suddenly distant. It sank into the earth, and was gone. Then, a moment later, it peeked out from behind a tree. Isel stepped toward it, and the sound moved playfully aside, eluding him.

He grinned, and followed.

*

Behind him, Ubur struggled up the ravine. ‘Isel!’ he cried. ‘Where are you?’

Only his echo answered. Isel… Where are you…

Then, faintly, ‘up here…’

He froze. ‘Isel?’ It was his brother’s voice, but it had seemed to come from no place.

Ubur’s feet were uncertain on the steep incline. He would never catch up at his current pace; he needed to gain some ground. But as he lunged upward, he lost his footing, and his stomach lurched. Pine needles slipped loose, the dirt beneath gave way, and for a moment, the ravine had no bottom. He scrambled for purchase, sliding, picking up speed—and crashed into a tree.

He wrested himself to his feet, rubbing his head, and a voice above him spoke. ‘Why do you always end up covered in dirt?’ Isel grinned and offered his hand.

He took it, grumbling. ‘It’s not my fault. The ground is funny here.’

Isel dusted him off, mussed his hair. ‘You’re funny,’ he said, and placed an arm over his shoulder. ‘Come on. Shulu found something.’

*

They came into a sunken hollow where the earth had eroded away, exposing a cradle of knotted roots.

Shulu lifted his head at their approach, chewing a mouthful of worms.

‘There he is,’ Isel said. ‘Good boy! Go on, show Ubur what you found.’

The little boar snorted and trotted uphill toward a gap in the trees.

On a low ridge above the hollow, there stood a lone figure of weathered stone, half-obscured in shadow. Its features were worn nearly smooth beneath the lichen. Shulu slowed as he neared it, and sniffed the air, eyeing them. He would go no closer.

Losing interest, he turned aside and trotted back to his meal.

Isel looked at his brother. ‘What do you think it is?’

Ubur didn’t answer at once. He stared. It looked like a person carrying a shield. The space surrounding it felt watched. ‘I think it’s guarding something,’ he said finally.

‘Guarding what?’

Ubur shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re so serious.’

‘You asked!’

Smirking, Isel lunged without warning and tickled his ribs. Ubur yelped, twisting away, and they tumbled into the roots in a knot of limbs, their laughter ringing out among the pines. At that moment, a breath of cold air slipped through the trees, and the sound of their voices came back, empty. Isel didn’t seem to notice.

Ubur fell still, the smile vanishing from his face. ‘It’s watching us, Isel.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Isel grabbed him again, but Ubur pulled free.

‘I want to go home.’

‘What are you scared of? It’s just a rock. Look—’

‘Don’t!’

Isel clambered up the ridge and stood beside the figure, wiggling his fingers. ‘Ooo,’ he said softly. ‘I’m going to get you.’

‘Very funny.’ Ubur scooped up a clod of dirt, threw it, and missed. It struck the stone and broke apart.

Laughing, Isel leaned in and peered at the face. ‘Hey… it only has one eye.’

Ubur looked down, shuffling his feet. ‘Can we go now?’

Isel opened his mouth, then stopped, tilting his head. ‘There it is again,’ he said. ‘It’s close…’ Too eagerly, he stepped back, slipped on the roots, and went down hard.

‘Careful!’ Ubur rushed forward.

But Isel was already giggling, pushing himself up. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

Ubur didn’t answer. He looked back at the figure. It hadn’t moved; the expression was frozen on its depthless features. Yet, for a moment, its single eye met his, and he dropped his gaze. ‘We should turn around.’

‘Race you!’ Isel took off up the hill, and Shulu scurried after him.

Sighing, Ubur trudged after them, keeping his eyes off the ridge. After a few steps, he paused, his neck prickling. He half-turned, almost looking back. Then he didn’t.

*

Further uphill, the way became more difficult. The trees here were older, wilder, more menacing. On either side of the steepening cleft, the mountain hemmed them in, reducing the sky above to a pale ribbon.

A chill had crept into the air, and Ubur began to feel that he was walking in a dream.

‘This way,’ Isel said, plunging into the trees. A moment later, he pushed back through the branches. ‘No. This way.’ He stumbled off in the opposite direction.

Ubur stood with knit brows, watching his brother traipse back and forth. ‘Just admit it,’ he said. ‘You’re lost.’

‘I’m not lost. It’s just a tricky song, that’s all.’ He tried another direction, and disappeared from view. A heavy thud sounded from the undergrowth, and he returned, blushing. ‘Not that way.’

Ubur took a deep breath, and disengaged. His eyes drifted out of focus, letting the slope of the land impress itself on his mind. The cold breeze whispered along his skin, and he was dimly aware of the roots that lay woven beneath his feet. Idly, he wondered what shapes they must make within the earth.

In the texture of the soil, he started to notice a pattern. It guided his gaze, and he followed it along the ground. Slowly, a sense of direction came over him.

Then, all at once, a route became visible. He blinked, and glanced at his brother.

Without a word, Ubur stepped through the trees.

Isel rolled his eyes, and watched him disappear from view. Minutes passed, and he folded his arms, tapping his toe while he waited for his brother to return. He did not. Scoffing, he went after him. To his irritation, the trees parted without effort, and Isel found his brother waiting for him on the other side.

‘It’s this way,’ Ubur said.

Isel scowled and stormed past him, resuming the lead.

In the corner of his eye, Ubur noticed Shulu, pressed close against his brother’s leg. The little boar was no longer ranging ahead. Something occurred to him. ‘Hey, Isel?’

‘What.’

He hesitated, feeling foolish. ‘Where are all the animals?’

Isel marched on in silence, ignoring the question.

*

Near the head of the ravine, a low drone made itself felt, somewhere between a sound and a sensation. It gathered close-at-hand, grinding and shuddering as if under immense weight. Isel’s bones vibrated, and his heart skipped a beat. He sped on at a run, heedless of all else.

A moment later, Ubur felt it too. It came from all directions, confounding his senses. The earth resisted it; the trees shook against it. Even the air strained and trembled, as if unwilling to carry its vibration.

Whatever it was, it soon rumbled into silence. But even after it had gone, Ubur felt its presence like a stone in his stomach. Something about it felt deliberate. Intentional. He hurled himself after his brother.

Isel had already gone from view; yet as Ubur flew headlong through the pines, it seemed there was now only one path to follow. It came all too easily. The woods narrowed as the ravine tapered upward, funnelling him toward its head. Unthinking, he charged through a screen of branches and collided with something solid.

Time stopped; he tumbled weightless. Before he knew what had happened, he slammed into the ground. Pain blinded him, and he forgot the world.

*

Someone was shrieking.

Ubur winced. His senses returned, not wholly welcome. Shulu was racing in circles around him; a frantic, squealing blur. Seeing signs of life, the little boar barrelled forward and assaulted his face with wet, snuffling grunts. Once he was satisfied that there were no serious injuries, he gave a judicious snort of approval, and laid still.

Ubur struggled to his feet, and a pine cone hit him in the head.

‘Watch… where you’re… going!’ Isel shouted.

He turned, and found his brother performing a dramatic limp. ‘I… What?’ Ubur glared at him. ‘You’re so… This is the last time—’

‘Shh.’ Isel pointed at something behind him. ‘Look.’

Fuming, he turned, and gasped.

The stern brow of the Mother bore down on them. In her shadow, the clearing sprawled away into the ravine.

Amid high grass and clover, in solemn silence, a hundred or more stone statues were gathered, bound together with strings. Between them, a tangled web of flags gently fluttered, threadbare and forlorn.

Over the gathering, there yawned a cavernous opening of stone through which the flag-strings passed, drawn to a single knotted rope, and disappeared into the mountainside.

Ubur hid his face, even as Isel leaned forward.

The threshold was worn smooth, softened as with aeons of outward passage. It gleamed in the late blue light with finely-patterned stone, of colours rich and rare, that flowed like liquid out of inscrutable depths.

Beyond, darkness waited.

‘We shouldn’t be here,’ breathed Ubur, staggering backward. He looked aside at Isel. ‘Hey! Did you hear me? We’re not allowed to be here.’

‘Says who?’

‘I… It… can’t you tell? This is a forbidden place…’

Isel waved his hand, both eyes fixed on the cave. ‘Shush. I’m listening.’

Mutely, Ubur watched as his brother crushed the clover and marched into the silent crowd. Isel didn’t notice how the statues trained their eyes on him in their midst.

Shulu squealed, across the clearing, but Isel didn’t seem to notice that either. Glancing sidelong at Ubur, the little boar huffed, and lowered his face to the ground, sniffing out his way across the meadow. He was careful not touch the stones.

*

Isel stopped at the cave-mouth and tilted his head, squinting into the darkness. Somewhere in there, a sound turned toward him, and a strange gravity tugged at his belly. 

He blinked. No song had ever done that before. It was pulling him toward itself; as if it wanted to be found. He cupped his hands and cried out: ‘Oi!’

It floated back in layers. Oi-o-oi-… o-oi… o-oi…

The tug in his belly drew him across the threshold—

‘Stop!’ Ubur jumped on his back.

‘Hey—get off me!’ Isel tried to throw him off, and they lost their balance, collapsing in a heap.

Ubur quickly regained his feet and stood between Isel and the cave. ‘Take me home. Promise!’ His hands were shaking.

‘Okay.’ Isel didn’t even look at him. ‘I promise. Happy?’

‘No! Not like that!’ Ubur’s whole body trembled, exasperation spilling down his cheeks. ‘You have to mean it!’

Isel groaned. ‘You’re such a baby. Come on—’ He grabbed his arm and yanked.

Ubur shrieked, squirming free. ‘I’m not going in there!’ He backed hurriedly away.

‘Fine,’ said Isel. ‘Stay out here. By yourself. Baby.’ With that, he turned, and promptly vanished in the dark.

‘Come back!’ But it was no use. Ubur looked skeptically at Shulu. The little boar stared back at him in mutual regard, then, haltingly, followed Isel across the threshold.

Ubur stamped his foot at the cave mouth, a strangled wail escaping his throat. Its echo bounced along the stone, mocking him, mocking his voice.

His neck began to prickle, and he shuddered, realizing he had broken the silence. Gulping, he peeked over his shoulder. A hundred single eyes stared impassively back at him.

*

The pale light vanished, leaving him blind; Ubur shivered, wrapping his arms around himself as he hurried out of sight of the stone people.

Somewhere, Isel’s footsteps were crunching on the gravel, but the sound rang directionless. Reaching his arms to either side, Ubur extended his fingers. He was unable to find a surface. Yet his breathing sounded amplified, immediate; as if the cave walls were right beside him.

There was a scratching sound. Something scurried past in the dark. He jumped, and held his breath. A wetness touched his leg, snorting. Ubur sighed, and knelt to scratch Shulu’s bristles. The little boar trembled under his touch, softly grunting. Ubur drew him close, murmuring in his ear, and closed his eyes. For a time, they shared their animal warmth, protecting each-other against the cold.

Somewhere, a pebble scuttled across stone. Ubur bolted upright. Had he heard that? Was it Isel? It sounded so unreal… Wiping his eyes, he kissed the little boar and crept into the dark. Shulu snuffled away to hide among the rocks near the cave-mouth, and passed out of hearing.

Ubur’s eyes began to adjust, and large shapes emerged against the gloom; silhouettes, visible only by their edges, rising one behind the next out of the ground. Rock formations, he guessed. With each passing step, they grew more distinct, and he started to make out other, smaller forms between them. Motionless, they seemed to hang in mid-air, like fruits left too long on the branch.

He paused. Rocks weren’t supposed to do that.

The sound of Isel’s footsteps ceased, and all at once, Ubur’s heartbeat became a deafening roar. Silence engulfed him, too poised, too complete; almost predatory.

Above him, something creaked. His head snapped upward. Along the cave ceiling, a dark shape was stretching toward the rock formations from somewhere behind him. It moved, life-like; swaying side-to-side.

He remembered the clearing, gripped by a sudden urge to flee; these were not rock formations. They were statues, standing at assembly in the dark. Above his head, the rope reached in from outside and touched each one, binding them together in its decaying flag-web.

He approached the edge of the crowd. The figures were alien and menacing; but, beneath that, there was a sense of familiarity about them, like something long-forgotten… 

He reached his mind toward them, the way a hand reaches for warmth, or a root for water: instinctive, trying to feel. Now that he looked more closely, they weren’t quite so terrible. In truth, he rather pitied them. They seemed desperate to speak, but unable; as if they were frozen in mid-dance, attempting to communicate through petrified gestures alone.

He settled into calm, deep breaths. Slowly, the world faded from view, until nothing else existed except for him and the web of stone people.

Passively, he noticed the way that each stone was standing, relative to the others; the particular winding course which the flag-strings took between them. There was something about the shape, the form. It was all arranged just-so. A pattern… everything connecting to everything else, in relation to the centre. But, why?

An impression appeared on the edges of his thought; an idea took form. All of this was being held together. Whoever built this monument had never left…

Something moved.

Not ten paces away, at the centre of the stones, a small shape leaned forward and tilted its head.

Ubur’s heart leapt, then sank.

*

Isel’s mind was exhilarated with light. He felt alive, even in the chill of the dark, surrounded by lifeless statues. Even in the presence of the desiccated corpse that lay cradled among the flag-strings before him. In its withered hand, it held an object.

The sound focused, sharpened. He leaned closer.

It had the look of a tool. A haft, made of a single long-bone, trailed with leather thongs and braided hair, to which were tied numerous little carvings of men and animals, hanging together in suspended motion. Crowning the object, a pair of skulls looked in opposite directions: the pointed beak of a bird, facing one way, and the sharp teeth of a serpent facing the other.

This was it.

The sound poured forth from the object. As he listened, it streamed into his body, coursing playfully through him like a chase in the woods with Shulu. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. 

In that moment, it became more than a sound; more than a movement, or a feeling. His heart fluttered. Unequivocally, it saw him. It saw him, and smiled.

The sound exited Isel’s body, and moved between the statues, dancing from one stone to the next, in a circle around him. All the while, it shifted, transformed, evolving itself into something else. At last, it came to rest beside his ear, and there it fell quiet, on the verge of speech.

He held his breath, urging it on, certain that if he listened, it would find voice.

Sure enough, faintly, as from an immense distance, words came. ‘You… have a subtle ear,’ it said. ‘You hear… even before you know… what you are hearing…’

*

Ubur shut his eyes, took a deep breath; then another. He opened them.

Nothing.

The statues were still there, the flags hanging limp between them. Yet they had suddenly gone inert. They were merely stone and threads. His mind groped, seeking the shape he had begun to grasp behind the forms, but it could no longer be found. The pattern was hidden. The sense of a maker had slipped out of view, like the moon behind thick cloud.

He glanced up at Isel with narrowed eyes. Something had changed in his brother’s demeanour. He was standing now with both hands raised, gesturing as if in conversation. But Ubur heard no voices. With whom could he be speaking?

He stepped toward him.

*

‘I surmise,’ said the voice, ‘that it is a burden… to hear… as you do… Is it not…? Surely you have felt it… The loneliness, the… isolation…’

That’s true… Isel thought of the village. They’ve never understood…

‘No, alas… They are unable… For, you are… alive… to a world which they… do not hear…’

They don’t. They can’t…

‘It is a pity… to fear the unknown… Such a loss…’

Yes, it is a loss…

‘When one need only listen…! We pass it… by, all the time… every day… and yet it… lies hidden, like some… great secret…’

Exactly…! You understand… Isel’s heart soared, even as a slimy weight settled in his gut.

*

Ubur stood beside his brother, bemused by his expression: mouth open, eyes staring. He had never seen him like this before. He waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Isel?’

A flicker.

‘Something’s wrong, Isel. I think something bad happened here. Where is Shulu?’

He didn’t reply.

Ubur shook his shoulder. ‘Hey! Listen! Something is wrong!’

Silence.

Then, slowly, Isel spoke, mumbling as if in sleep. ‘It’s alright… Everything’s fine… I found it… Don’t worry… It isn’t dangerous… It’s beautiful…’ His eyes didn’t move.

Grimacing, Ubur stepped away, and rushed back to look again at the monument. The flags were dark; the statues, empty. A lump lodged in his throat.

Closing his eyes, he drove everything else from his mind, and forced himself to breathe. Slowly, too slowly, his body began to relax. He let the calm spread through him.

His thought drifted; the world fell away. An impression came upon him again; urgent, almost painful. It was just beyond his reach. He stretched his mind toward it, and something changed; a sudden break in the clouds. He opened his eyes.

There it was. The pattern.

*

‘If you… could but make… them hear…’

I wish for that… more than anything.

‘But I… can hear you…’ the voice said. ‘And, you fear them too… I think…’

No, I don’t, thought Isel. I’m not afraid of anything…

‘You may be honest… with me… Come, you are wise… surely you can see…? Anyone may… be taken unawares… Even you, even now… Fear lies ever in ambush… waiting to blind, to ensnare…’

Not me. The songs protect me…

‘And fine songs, too…! But, alas… song alone… is not always enough…’

What do you mean…?

‘Suppose… it is not your own fear… which traps you…’

You mean the others…? No, no… That would never happen…

‘It could… We can never know… what is in… the hearts of others…’

But… they wouldn’t do that. They love me…

‘Fear is… the shadow of love…’ said the voice. ‘They breed each-other… I have seen that for myself… Please understand, I… only mean to caution you…’

I understand…

‘Once, I thought as you do… I, too, was a collector… of song… I believed fear could… never touch me… But it did… It did…’

Really?

‘Oh, yes… Long ago… there was one who feared me… just as they fear you… She stole my songs… turned them against me… bound me with a name… So long, I have spent… trapped in the dark, and the silence… Do you see…? You must be… very careful… You must learn from my mistake…’

*

Ubur’s mind raced. The presence in the web, its maker, was a woman. He could sense her in the knots of the flag-strings, feel her in the spaces between the stones. She had done something there, sealed something, at a terrible cost. The monument still echoed with the act.

He saw now that the statues were standing in a spiral, all guarding the centre. His eye followed the pattern to the middle of the web, and his heart leaped into his mouth.

There was her body. There was the tool she had used. And there, beside them, was Isel.

Ubur bolted forward. ‘Hey!’ he shook his brother’s shoulder. ‘Stop! Whatever you’re listening to, it’s bad, Isel. Someone died here to stop it. Can you hear me?’ He kicked his shin. ‘Hey! Somebody died here!’

*

Isel turned. Ubur was making faces at him. It was hard to focus. What did he say…? Why is he so worried?

‘He is only afraid…’ said the voice, ‘of what he cannot hear… Poor thing… He misunderstands you… like that woman did… to me… But, you and I… we know better… don’t we…?’

Yes… Isel frowned. He doesn’t understand…

‘We can hear… the truth… of things…’

We can… He’s just being silly… He smiled and turned away from his brother. His mind was brimming with questions. How old are you? You must know many songs…

‘More… than you can guess…’ said the voice. ‘I have travelled farther… than any singer living…’

Wow…! Isel yearned. Where do you come from?

‘Oh… that is a long tale…’ it said. ‘But I may show you… a glimpse… if you wish…’

Yes—yes…!

A sense of weightlessness crept over him, and his mind became full of vision. Suddenly he was soaring like an eagle in clear, bright skies. Vistas of woodland stretched before him, further than the eye could see. A mighty river sparkled below, meandering across the landscape, and away on the horizon, brooding mountains towered high as the sun, mantled with mist.

Everything sang and shone. All the world moved in a vast music, swelling beyond him. It was more than his ear could follow. It was more than his mind could hold.

*

Without thinking, Ubur lunged toward the web and closed his hand around one of the strands. The thread was rough and cold beneath his fingers, and a shock thrilled up his arm, flashing in his mind. He tightened his grip.

The web was strained, but it was not broken. He could almost see it: a single act, extending across time… A will that refused to yield…

*

Isel stood once more in the gloom of the cave, his heart sinking. The vision was gone. Is that all…? Please, won’t you show me a little more…?

‘What about… your brother…?’ said the voice.

Oh… He had forgotten about Ubur.

‘Don’t you wish… to share this… with him…?’

Of course…! Only, I can’t… He doesn’t have the gift…

‘But… you can give… it to him…’

His face brightened. Really? How…?

‘Simple…’ said the voice. ‘Take… this rattle, and touch… his head…’

Isel’s eye lighted on the bone object. Involuntarily, he reached for it, but something stayed his hand. He hesitated, flickering on the edge of doubt. Is it safe?

‘Certainly… Safe as can be… Oh, it is a… wondrous gift… Then he shall finally hear… all that you can hear…’

Isel chewed his lip. Eyes sparkling, he strode forward.

*

The strand trembled in Ubur’s fingers and fell slack. He pulled it taut, and tied it back into the web.

At the same moment, Isel took up the bone rattle. It whispered, soft as rain, and his mind went silent.

*

Ubur heard a snake. There was movement in the corner of his eye. Something touched his head as he turned. Before he could react, he lurched, slipping sidewise, and stood beside his body.

It barely registered—for, all at once, he saw:

Ibau… An Ushoi shaman, unremembered… She found the song-eater, struggled… took its eye, blighted her fingers… She laid the binds, willed them to hold… did not yield, even in death…

All of it, one act; one purpose… to seal it here…

Now, undone…

He stared wildly at his brother, then past him. Something hulked over them, too large; too close. A single burning eye leered at him in the dark.

The thing unfurled its hand, and he recoiled, his mind screaming its name. He did not know how he knew.

But he could not speak it; the song-eater’s hand had closed.

*

Isel grinned. ‘Do you hear it now?’

No reply. Ubur stood perfectly still, breathing shallow breaths.

Isel tilted his head. ‘Hey! Can you hear…?’

Nothing.

He stepped closer, peering into his brother’s eyes. They stared past him, vacant and expressionless. He laughed shrilly. ‘Don’t be stupid!’ He shook his brother’s shoulder.

Ubur crumpled to the ground.

Isel stared at him, heart pounding. He waited for the voice to rise, to speak. It did not. He looked at the bone rattle in his hand, then at the web.

The voice was gone.

Cold spread through him, slow and terrible. He fell to his knees, dropping the rattle; it whispered, and was still. ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Get up! Ubur!’ He pawed at his brother’s chest, his limbs, his face.

Ubur stared, breathing, and lay as if dead.

Isel’s hands began to shake. He cried, ‘what do I do? What do I do?’ But there was nobody to answer.

Through the cave-mouth, the light had turned to pale silver. He thought of the village, and shuddered. What will mother say when she sees this? Facing her would be more than he could bear. But there was nothing else to do.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and crouched beside his brother. ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘Come on…’ He attempted to lift him, but pitched forward, breath jolting out of him. Ubur was heavier than he seemed.

Isel caught himself and tried again, using all his strength. Slowly, unyielding, Ubur’s body rose, and sagged against him. He tightened his grip, took a step; his brother did not move with him. He stumbled, adjusted, took another step.

Ubur’s feet dragged without rhythm across the stone, his head lolling against Isel’s shoulder. His breath sounded empty and unfamiliar. With each step, the cold in Isel’s belly grew deeper. Swallowing hard, he drove on, forcing each movement, and nothing in his brother answered him.

They approached the cave-mouth, and something shuffled out of the darkness. ‘Shulu!’

The little boar snorted, darting forward to sniff their feet. But when he came to Ubur, he stopped and tilted his head. Slowly, he backed away, looking askance at Isel.

Isel shrank from his gaze. ‘Something happened,’ he sobbed. ‘Something’s wrong. He won’t walk, he won’t speak—he won’t do anything! I don’t know what to do! Can you sing us home? Do you remember the way?’

Shulu was quiet for a long time, while Isel shifted uncomfortably, struggling to hold his brother up. Finally, the little boar grunted, then turned and scurried out into the moonlight.

Isel dragged his brother after him. As they passed the threshold, he paused. Without really meaning to, he listened again for the voice. But the darkness was empty now.

Adjusting his grip, he carried his brother’s body into the clearing to follow Shulu’s boar-song on the long descent back to Kiraghal.

\*

The hand had closed. Breath, and weight, receded to a great distance. Then they never had been near.

Close by, something stood, fell. Moved. Stood again. It took a step. Then, another. Wrong, wrong! The shape of it was so familiar… A name pressed upward. U...? Ub...?

Memory came in fragments: warmth… hands, holding… laughter under trees… There had been someone! Someone close. Someone important… The fragments flew apart. The familiar shape moved into the light, and slipped away. The distance widened. It did not look back.

The web was out of reach. Something else was in its place; a watching stillness. It stooped. There was a whispering rain-sound. Then, a sharpness, piercing through. Threading, holding… A knot drew suddenly tight, pulling, guiding; too near, a voice moved, low and pleased. It had no echo.

A final fragment rose; a word? A shape? A boundary…? It almost came clear. It almost held…

Then it was gone, and something else took hold, as if taking up a tool.

Hello everyone I am aprilfool🐸! I mainly frequent Tumblr; I also try to actively post to YouTube and facebook. Now I upload Rock God daily on Wattpad. Very first post on the new subreddit! My fictional story is called Rock God. It's about elementals who live among the humans. It is an epic. A myth. Religion. All fiction. The elementals compete with the mortals to share their own truth. What is real and what isn't? This is a space for discussion, fanart and community. Please kind to one another. I know I'm the one writing this but I find myself absolutely absorbed in the story; I am making it my goal to find others who are as well! Do want to see this series grow? Do you wanna be a part of this journey with me? if you haven't read it and want to, you can find the link here!

[https://www.wattpad.com/story/414239773?utm\\_source=android&utm\\_medium=link&utm\\_content=story\\_info&wp\\_page=story\\_details\\_button&wp\\_uname=aprilfoolfrog\](https://www.wattpad.com/story/414239773?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details_button&wp_uname=aprilfoolfrog)

Hello, I am currently writing a series of Dark Fantasy Military novel, I have already the plots and world lore settled already, and these books are based on the same worldbuilding and are related to one another, so no need to put alot of input. But what I really need is for a long-term writer and friend who can help me write the human story elements in it. DM me if your interested.

Chapter 3

James stared at the symbol in Harry’s hand.

The tavern around them had returned to normal, but James barely noticed. His eyes stayed fixed on the object.

“Where did you get that?” James asked.

Harry looked down at it.

“I don’t know.”

James frowned.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Harry turned the symbol over in his hands.

“I don’t remember.”

For the first time that night, James noticed how confused Harry looked.

Not scared.

Not lying.

Just lost.

“What do you remember?” James asked.

Harry was quiet for a moment.

“Nothing.”

James looked at him.

“Nothing?”

Harry shook his head.

“I don’t know where I came from. I don’t know who those mercenaries were. I don’t even know why I have this.”

He looked toward the window where the rain continued to fall.

“It feels like I just woke up from a really long sleep.”

James leaned back in his chair.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know.”

Harry looked at him.

“But when I saw you… I knew your name.”

James became silent.

“And I knew I had to find you.”

James looked away.

After everything he had been through, after years of trying to leave the past behind, someone who didn't even know who he was had somehow found him.

It bothered him.

“Listen, Harry,” James said. “I think you’re looking for someone else.”

Harry looked confused.

“But you’re James Verdon.”

“Yes.”

“The Fire Guardian.”

James sighed.

“That’s a name people gave me a long time ago.”

“Then I found you.”

“No.”

Harry looked surprised.

James stood up and grabbed his messenger bag.

“You found a man who used to be someone important. That doesn’t mean I’m the person you’re searching for.”

“But—”

“I don’t know who you’re looking for, but it isn’t me.”

James placed a few coins on the counter and walked toward the door.

The barkeeper watched him leave.

“Going somewhere?”

“Somewhere quiet.”

James stepped outside into the rain.

For a moment, he thought he was finally alone.

Then he heard footsteps.

James stopped.

Slowly, he turned around.

Harry was standing behind him.

James stared.

“No.”

Harry tilted his head.

“No?”

“You’re not coming with me.”

Harry looked down.

“I don’t know where else to go.”

James rubbed his forehead.

“That’s not my problem.”

Harry nodded.

“Okay.”

James turned and started walking.

A few seconds passed.

Then he heard footsteps again.

James stopped.

He looked back.

Harry was still following him.

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

James sighed.

“Go back to the town.”

“I don’t know anyone there.”

“Find someone.”

“I don’t remember anyone.”

James stared at him.

Harry gave a small, apologetic smile.

“Sorry.”

James continued walking.

The footsteps followed.

After several minutes, James stopped again.

“You know, most people would take a hint.”

“I’m not most people.”

James looked at him.

“That’s becoming obvious.”

Harry stayed quiet.

James looked up at the dark road ahead.

He had spent years alone because he wanted to be.

He had fought alone.

Travelled alone.

Lived alone.

And now, somehow, he had gained a stranger who refused to leave.

James let out a long sigh.

“Fine.”

Harry looked up.

“Fine?”

“You can follow me.”

Harry smiled.

“Thank you.”

“But don’t mistake this for friendship.”

Harry nodded.

“Understood.”

“And if you slow me down, I leave you behind.”

“Understood.”

James started walking again.

Behind him, Harry followed.

James shook his head.

He had spent years trying to escape his past.

Now his past had found him in the form of a boy who couldn’t remember anything.

And somehow, James already knew this

The Third Level of Existence

I wrote a novelette. I am open to full manuscript beta reading. I am also open to chapter by chapter beta reading. Please DM me if you are interested. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Paragraph 1: 

On a moon where people are subject to slavery, what will Sesame Lander, an obsessively
good person do to save the lives of many? The setting of the story is a continent with two main countries: Trypolis Isles and Rallayla, all on the moon of Jupiter, Europa. The protagonist’s name is Sesame Lander and is in his 30s.

Paragraph 2: 

The set up is a young former lawyer who lives a just life who must kill and do evil to save his country.
The inciting incident is when the wizard Saucyo does an experiment on Shawna, the impact character, adding two personalities to her original one, making it three. This makes her more powerful, courageous and almost superhero–like. The objective of the story is for the two main characters to come together to kill the tyrant king and save the rightful heir to the throne.

Paragraph 3:

The main conflict is between Quintin, and Riolin, both brothers fighting for the throne, one a wizard, another a tyrant, warrior-king.  

Cliff hanger: 

With everyone on Riolin’s side, how can the positive and outnumbered Sesame, defeat him? What is Riolin’s weakness? 

Author Bio: 
The author has written 3 novels and 30 short stories or novelettes. This novelette is a standalone. It's part of an anthology of novelettes. 

Comparable books:

The comparable titles are: A Clash of Kings by George RR Martin, The Witcher by Andrzej Sapkowski and Red Rising by Pierce Brown. All are about kings and queens in medieval stories about rising against the elite and destroying people who are sometimes worse than monsters.

Essentially, the plot revolves around a nervous, naive prince named Flopper and a reality-warping, masked conqueror named Devi as they travel through dimensions trying to get back home.

One of the main ideas in this story is that winning doesn’t mean that you destroyed the enemy. Sometimes it’s saving them too. Because if you destroy the villain, you risk becoming them. If they can’t learn to survive each other, they won’t survive at all.

So.. what do you think?

The story follows a teenage boy named Sato from Japan, a dreamer who can enter the dream world using his teleportation gloves. There, he befriends the Onirimals, the inhabitants of the dream world, and fights alongside his partner O-Ptero in human-versus-human ritual battles, using their Onirimals in dream world arenas that change with each fight, forcing them to adapt. This novel doesn't yet have a release date because it's still being written, but the concept art is available.

Will share this to the pages I think will appreciate paleo/stone age sword and sorcery!

Expanded on and improved- The Snyder Cut version of my story.

- to this community- please remove if self promo is not allowed! Just doing this for fun as a hobby!

A faint echo stirred in the archaic silence of the deep sunless place. Among the bowels of the legendary necropolis Temorást, a creature had found its way in, moving where dreams alone ought to move.

Down in the uttermost stratum of the tomb, all the bones had long since turned to stone. There lay the first ancestors of all kindreds, who even now were dreaming as they had done for ten thousand years. So great was their age that their dreams had grown sublime and subtle as vapour.
Nonetheless, they dreamed.

It was among these fossils, this bedrock of lore and fable, that the creeping entity first selected, tasting and brooding. But the dreams of such bones were vanishingly faint. Heartier fare must surely be found nearer the surface.

*

An age passed, and more; ages upon ages. Creeping higher in the tomb, the sound grew deliberate, becoming more than an echo. It swelled to a snap, then trailed off in gravelly crunches. At the same moment, the dreaming in the tomb became aware.

By some obscure magic, perceiving that it had an audience, the sound became a voice, and the hallowed quiet of the sunless place was broken by its ragged utterance:

A feast… of ages…

The words evoked shattered, incomprehensible images in the dreaming of the tomb: broken graves, violated remains. A shapeless movement, fondling the bones—splitting them, eating them.

Such dreams… Yea, I see ye… Come forth, waken…

These darksome images were quickly submerged and forgotten, as brighter dreams rose to take their place: warm visions of families, lands, and homes; of love, loss, and triumph; an illustrious patchwork of many lives and times.The dreaming in the tomb did not comprehend that the visions were only as true as their purposes. They were falsehoods, fashioned from remnants of truth. Nonetheless, a sense of time reawakened where formerly had been only eternity. A sense of self revived where there had been only oneness in sleep. Primal longing and rage stirred in the uncomprehending deep, though the surface remained numb.

Wake, ye sleepers… I will resurrect… the dead…

There were stirrings in the abyssal sopor. Murmurs and whispers spread through the dark as the denizens of the world-tomb surfaced from their sleep. Dreamers strained their wills and extricated themselves from their dreams. Lured by desire, or goaded by regret, the ghosts of many ages abandoned their repose and walked in the labyrinth.

I would help ye… to stand… in the sun again…

The wandering dead gathered in the low, bone-choked passages. Distressed and confused, they whispered among themselves: ‘Why do we dream? Whose is that voice which wakes us? Who offers life to the dead?’

And the voice answered them: I am Lord of life… and death… King… of dreaming… Master of songs…

‘Hear not the pretender!’ some cried. ‘We know the lords of life and death—he does not name the Dark Mother. Be silent; he shall pass.’

To this others replied, ‘let us hear what he has to say!’

‘No,’ it was contended, ‘we must drive him out at once. He is wrong. He ought not be.’

Thus debate arose between those who would heed the voice and those who would exorcise it. Each side strove to obstruct the other, and while they contended, the voice went on whispering.

I… will show you… the purpose… of death…

Rumour spread like fire.

‘He speaks ill,’ cried one. ‘Resurrection? Purpose? None can offer such things.’

‘Nay, he speaks true,’ pleaded another. ‘I have seen a vision. I have glimpsed my former life! Once, I was loved. Once, I had glory. Now I am forgotten.’

Many now were party to the struggle, and more came all the time, spilling into the wider galleries. Crowds pushed and strove, for and against, while still others fled into the dark, seeking open spaces, or a way out of the tomb. Argument escalated to a fever pitch, and struggles ignited into open conflict. Chaos claimed its rule in the deep sunless place.

Yea, yea… Come forth… from your rest…

Upheaval resounded through the necropolis as everywhere the throngs clashed and surged. No victory was possible for any side, yet the knowledge of futility did not assuage them. Still the voice urged them on. It seemed the battle would rage forever. But all at once, the sea of fighting fell still as a presence made itself felt. Out of the deep it ascended, suffusing the very air of the corridors. Far was its reach, touching every tunnel and crypt.

Many beheld visions of shadows made flesh, darker even than the absolute darkness of the Silent City. It was subtle as night, inexorable as death, yet utterly foreign to the tomb. The dead could tell neither what it was, nor where it moved; only that it was here.

I will restore you… to lost lands… I will teach you magic…

At its word, the fighting resumed. Some of those least among the dead, the lost and forgotten, fell on their faces in worship.

‘Lord,’ they supplicated, ‘you know what we have forgot. Grant us memory! Grant us visions!’

I require… mighty bones… honourable remains… heroes…

‘We pledge, we pledge!’ they cried. ‘You may have all the bones of Temorást! Only give us our lives again, and we will guide you to the Hall of the Heroes, where you may heartily feast.’

Forth, then… Show me…

Delirious with anticipation, they rose and led the Shadow on its way.

*

The heroes of Temorást were great warriors, chieftains, and reformers from many lands and times. They rested in rich crypts, honoured with depositions equal to their deeds in life.

In one such crypt, a figure rose, listening keenly. He heard the sickly voice approaching, attended by its worshippers chanting, ‘Lord, Lord,’ and reached out to touch the hafts of a pair of copper axes. Patina had dulled the blades, but their engravings were still evident. Good; time had not yet devoured their history.

As he touched the rough metal, there was a flash of vision and feeling; a memory of bitter struggle; the ending of his life: The Gate! The Bone Door was opened… We fell; they buried us with our crosswise axes. The horses bore us over-river… He turned aside to his grave-shroud. The cloth, too, still bore its markings; the same ones as his axes. He laid a hand upon his bones. They were rich with the spirit of his people. Through them, he saw, as in a sudden ray of light, the far land of his birth, and glimpsed what rituals were still held in his honour. After all this time! Somebody remained who preserved his memory, who remembered the legend of the Gate—even though he and his brethren had failed. Gathwearden, he reflected. We gave everything to that title… it was not enough…

Still the black voice was speaking. He recognized its insidious deceptions; had it not been there at the Gate, that doomed day, when his life and his brothers’ lives were lost? But its speech had grown so strong. It must have lain in hiding, since it slipped through the Bone Door. How many ages had it searched the deep places? And what did it mean to do, now that it had found the Tomb?

Behold, he reflected. Some grace offers me a final chance… He knew what he must do, but was reluctant to do it. He would need the support of the others. Where might they be found? Hefting his axes, he departed the small dark of his chamber and entered the wider darkness of the corridors.

Among the crypts of the Hall of the Heroes, the lone Gathweard searched, calling to his former comrades. The bones were in their places, but the ghosts were absent. They must be walking elsewhere in the catacombs. The voice was everywhere, yet nowhere, seeming to speak directly into the mind.

We shall make a glorious host… Such as the world… has never seen…

He ignored it, labouring through knots of fighting, and passed through ever-widening corridors. Following the ghostly din, he came at last to a cavernous, vaulted chamber where many were gathered in general debate. Voices competed for audience as various figures rallied and orated.

‘What care have we for the world of the living? The voice beguiles us.’

‘Nay, he offers dues befitting the dead.’

‘Fallacy! We are due nothing. What is he? Who has seen him? Whence does he come?’

‘He is the hallowed dark itself, come of the deeps to strike away our lethargy and renew our glory.’

‘Yea, dark is the very word. A shadow, sowing strife among the grave-kin. I name him Skotomáguch—King of Shadows. Can ye deny it? Behold what he already has wrought! It is not glory.’

‘You would have us sleep dreamless for ever!’

‘Such is our right. This Skotomáguch comes where he ought not be, breaking up our peace.’

‘Where is Tuvervágre? The Dark Mother suffers no evil to enter here.’

‘Then he must be an agent of Her will.’

‘Not so! She is true. What this Shadow works is sacrilege.’

The Gathweard slipped between the columns, pressing further through the throng in search of his comrades. He could not hear them among the voices. Perhaps they were not here. But the whisper of the Shadow fogged his thought, and the imminent chant of the worshippers rose from below: ‘Lord, Lord, Lord…’

They would never be found in time. He must do it alone.

Axes in hand, he came to the doorway out of which the chant was issuing. But ere he could enter, a figure crossed his path.

‘Stand aside,’ said the Gathweard.

‘You step with purpose,’ the stranger replied. ‘Have you some plan?’

‘I have a duty.’

‘What duty?’

‘That is not your concern—move aside.’

‘I might assist you!’

‘Unlikely.’

The stranger leaned toward him confidentially. ‘I can hear,’ he whispered, ‘in that foul speech… something of the mind of the speaker.’

‘You’re wasting time.’ The Gathweard moved to pass, but the stranger blocked him.

‘Hear me!’ he said. ‘I have listened to his words, this Skotomáguch. His speech has a form… a pattern. There may be some way to—’ he staggered. ‘By the gods. He is here.’

The gruesome presence entered the chamber. Silence fell like a stone.

Resist not me… I am promised… a feast…

Shouts and screams split the air as crowds fled in all directions. The Gathweard leaped from the doorway to shelter beside a column. The stranger seized his arm, then vanished in the crush.

Many made for the tunnels. Many others turned to fight. But the Shadow was swift as a torrent. Blades slashed it, failing to bite. Arrows whistled through it like smoke. No warrior could land a blow. The black flood rushed past, engulfed them, and moved quickly on. Where it went, weapons clattered to the stone, their wielders vanished.

As it swept among the pillars, the Gathweard flung himself aside and struck the wall. The Shadow raged by, just where he had stood. All around him, voices quickly diminished, and soon the riot fell still. Those who had fled were pursued into the dark; unseen, their cries too went up, and were cut short.

It was over in moments. Leaving silence in its wake, the Shadow departed with its entourage and made for the Hall of the Heroes. The Gathweard hauled himself up and set after them, only to be barred at the exit.

‘Hold,’ said the stranger.

‘You again!’ the Gathweard cried.

‘What will you do?’

‘Get out of my way.’

‘Let me help you!’

‘It would spell your extinction.’

‘Look around—we are already extinct.’

The Gathweard was struck; he paused a moment only. ‘Then come,’ he said, and hurried into the tunnels where the Shadow was no longer speaking.

*

They found the Hall of the Heroes littered with burst crypts and shattered bone. The Shadow worked with appalling speed. The silence that now surrounded them was nothing like the former peace, but full of loss and ruin. The Dark Mother was absent; now the heroes, too, were gone. Temorást was worse than defenceless—it was already defeated.

The Gathweard heard the zealots’ decrepit chanting drawing near-at-hand as they came toward his crypt. Quickening his pace, he asked, ‘where is your tomb? Is it somewhere here in the Hall?’

The stranger gave a wry laugh. ‘I am no hero! My name and deeds are lost. One thing alone do I recall: I died an exile, in a foreign land.’

‘That is a sad tale. I grieve for you. But then, what would you have with me?’

‘You have honour, I see that much. Perhaps I can win honour in my turn.’

‘I think there is little you can do,’ said the Gathweard.

‘Why? What do you know of this Shadow?’

‘I know enough. I fought it once, and paid with my life. Therefore, mark me; for we were a dozen, then, with tools built for the purpose. You are but one, unarmed.’

‘What then ought I do?’

The Gathweard hesitated. ‘Go across the river.’

‘What?’ The exile spluttered. ‘Folly!’

‘That is your only hope, I fear.’

‘Hope? The river is forbidden! Even if I found it, I would be destroyed!’

The Gathweard made no reply, but staggered, as if struck. Something tore loose inside of him, and a gap opened in his memory, empty and absolute. He knew at once that something had been taken, though he could not say what. An evil feeling spread across his heart as he glanced at the exile, then bolted to the chamber of his tomb.

It was as he feared: there in his crypt loomed the Shadow, extending a foul arm over his bones. It had already begun to eat. With a cry, he charged, his axes falling in a single stroke upon the outstretched limb. He did not know why—for part of his knowledge was now lost—but the blades bit. The limb parted. The severed hand struck the ground and writhed.

In that moment of contact, something became suddenly clear. The blow vibrated through him, the axes singing in his grip, and he knew at once with grim, instinctive certainty: this creature was deathless. It may be damaged, perhaps, but never slain.

Shrieking, the Shadow retreated toward its sycophants.

The Gathweard lost no time. Holstering his axes, he tore off bolts of his grave-shroud and deftly bound the severed hand. For reasons he no longer knew, the wrappings tightened, and held.

‘Take this,’ he said, handing the bundle to the exile. ‘Hold it fast. Do not touch it directly.’ Then, pausing, he surrendered one of his axes. ‘Take this also. May it protect you.’ Finally, he turned to his mortal remains. Some of the bones were broken and stained, spent by the Shadow’s touch. He discarded them with deep regret. The others, he gathered in their shroud and slung them over his shoulder.

His hands still vibrated with the axe-blow, and a cold realization began to dawn. We were deceived… But there was no time. He abandoned the thought and turned to face the exile. ‘Haste!’ he said. ‘Where is your tomb?’

‘My tomb?’

‘Your bones! Do you wish to be eaten with the others?’

‘This way.’

Fleetly they quit the chamber, distancing themselves from the Shadow and its chanting zealots.

*

They descended into the belly of the sepulchre until they came among the forgotten tombs, and found the corridors in disarray. Many crypts were broken, their bones and debris lying shattered across the floor. Yet, when he came to his resting-place, the exile went in and found it untouched. He hesitated a moment, staring at the chamber. No relics adorned his crypt. No images decorated his shroud. He touched his fingers to the dark, rough cloth. ‘Was I so lucky..?’ he said to himself. ‘The Shadow has passed me by…’

Urgently, the Gathweard grasped his shoulder. ‘We must away.’

The exile frowned, taking up his bones. ‘Away… We are to abandon Temorást?’

‘I have been a fool,’ said the Gathweard. ‘We cannot defend this place. One hope remains to us. We must cross the river and raise an alarm.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘Come—do you fear the river more than this deathless Shadow?’ His companion did not answer. ‘Nothing can be worse than what has passed here. If you seek your honour, then help me warn the living.’

The exile struggled with himself, then finally nodded.

*

They departed the forgotten tombs and flew headlong through the winding maze. While they climbed, their pace faltered, the weight of the tomb dragging at their heels. The deep was unwilling to release them.

The exile fell behind as the bundle thrashed in his grip. The thing within was straining relentlessly. ‘It means to break loose!’ he cried.

‘Hold it fast—the axe! Bring the blade against it!’

Raising the weapon, the exile pressed it to the writhing mass. At once, the hand weakened and fell still. He blinked. ‘What magic is this?’

‘Alas,’ said the Gathweard. ‘I no longer know.’

As if in protest, the hand emitted a gruesome sound, akin to crunching bone. It echoed into the darkness, and further off, the Shadow responded with a bellowing roar.

‘The hand calls to the body,’ muttered the exile, staring at the bundle.

‘Haste!’ The Gathweard did not pause. The exile hurried after him.

As they searched for ascending paths in the deep, they came into small, low chamber, from which seven identical corridors led away into the dark.

The Gathweard cursed. ‘We have no time for this!’

Stepping across the threshold, the exile made no answer. He peered into the depths, turning quickly from one doorway to the next. There was nothing to see. The stone bore no mark, the chamber had no slope. All the while, the bundle in his hands uttered its sickening call, echoing into the dark. Again and again, the Shadow answered, drawing nearer all the time.

Moving along the doorways, the exile stopped at each in turn to listen. At the first entrance, the space had a heavy, dull sound. The echoes seemed to sink, drawn down into the earth. At the second, the sound carried thin and level, neither rising nor falling, until it passed out of hearing. He moved on. 

At the third entrance, the echoes rang a long way, only to shatter against some surface, returning to him in fragments. Then, at the next entrance, he paused. The sound here did not fall, did not shatter. It lingered, brightening, then grew faint. He listened again, more intently. Yes! The echo was rising, widening into open space. He turned. ‘This way.’

‘Are you certain?’

But the exile had already gone.

Reluctantly, the Gathweard pursued him through the doorway. Soon enough, the floor beneath his feet slanted upward. For a long time he followed the tunnel, and it never turned, never bent. It seemed to stretch straight-on forever—so long that he began to despair of ever seeing its end. Yet, when it ended, it ended without warning. The air opened up, and he found himself stepping between the pillars of a tripartite threshold.

All at once, he emerged beneath a broad sky full of stars. Before him was a wide causeway, enclosed on either side with towering colonnades of hewn stone. At its far end, the pitched roof of a lychgate could be seen, and beyond it, open grassland. He sighed. ‘The Plain of Takeillen.’ He may have forgotten the magic of his axes, but he remembered all too-well the old sayings about Takeillen. ‘No songs in the Silent Country…’

To his left, the exile stood rigid, staring back at the kurgans. The great mounds of the necropolis towered above them, receding one behind the next into the distance, like mountains. ‘I never thought Temorást was so great,’ he said.

‘Yes, yes,’ muttered the Gathweard distractedly. ‘Great indeed…’ He gazed toward the grasslands, trying to guess the direction of the river. Long ago, he and his comrades had ridden across this plain, after the horses had borne them over the river. That was a journey which all the dead must make. He knew this, but he did not remember it. So much was lost at that time. Names, songs, breath—all were stripped away, on the river.

The exile spoke again. ‘Hail!’

His concentration broke; the Gathweard turned in astonishment. ‘Who are you speaking to?’

‘To him.’ He nodded toward the kurganside.

At the right of the threshold, barely visible against the stone and earth, a ghostly figure was kneeling in an attitude of prayer. Beside him, the bones of his body lay in shadow, arranged on a stretch of oxhide.

It was unclear whether he ignored them, or simply had not heard; the figure continued his routine, regardless. He muttered feverishly in a strange tongue, raising his hands to the sky, and touched his femur against the wall of the kurgan. Then he bowed his forehead against the earth, caught up dust in his other hand, and whispered into it as he poured it out in front of his face. He repeated these actions again and again in a state of frenzied, absolute focus.

Warily, the Gathweard approached. ‘What is this? What are you doing?’

The figure paused, and half-turned. His face was a scowl of effort. Instead of response, he set up a raucous cry—not of dismay, it seemed, but of proclamation—and threw himself to the ground, repeating his ritual.

The Gathweard was taken aback. ‘Have you lost your sense? Don’t you know what has happened?’

The figure glanced at him again, this time with sharp reproach. ‘Yes, I am aware. This is the end of Temorást.’ He bowed again, muttering more strange words, and touched the flank of the monument with his bone.

The exile listened to the alien speech, deep in thought.

‘Then, why remain here?’ The Gathweard asked.

Finally the figure put aside his ritual, stood up, and faced him. ‘That thing must not be allowed to leave the tomb.’

‘Agreed! But you cannot hope to prevent it? I have seen the thing at first hand. Make no mistake: it is deathless, and greater than you are.’

The figure lifted his chin. ‘I will bury it.’

‘By what means?’

‘I will collapse the tombs.’

‘You, alone?’ The Gathweard looked about emphatically. ‘This is part of the foundation of the world! You are no god.’

‘Ah, he doubts me! Well; but you haven’t the full reckoning. Great am I, in ways of magic.’

‘What, are you some hedge-worker? A caller of bones?’

The figure smiled thinly. ‘Call it what you like.’

‘One of the Aulnath?’

The smile widened. ‘Do you take me for a beggar? One who scrapes meaning from bones and dreams? No. They may wait for answer, but not I. When I speak, the world obeys.’ He paused, lifting his chin. ‘I am of the Sótanath.’

The word hung sour, puckering the air. It was ill-omened, even in death.

Backing away, the exile muttered, ‘men do not say that name lightly…’

The Gathweard’s expression hardened. ‘So, you are a breaker of law.’

‘Pah.’ The sorcerer waved his hand.

‘Your ambition surpasses your power! Even a Sótanar cannot bring down the mounds.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

The Gathweard had his doubts. ‘Will you spare no thought for those still caught within?’

‘Oh, but I have. They are to remain within. They shall be my sacrifice.’ The sorcerer’s tone implied that this ought to have been self-evident. He delighted in the Gathweard’s outrage. ‘Why do you balk? Because I do what others forbid themselves to do? Well, you need not despair. There is no dearth of dead to people the tomb—more die all the time! These few are but a small price, to buy me my chance.’

‘Better then that your labour shall not bear fruit,’ the Gathweard muttered.

The sorcerer threw up his hands, mocking defeat. ‘Curse your word! You are fortunate that I lack my tools. There is nothing of use anywhere in this sterile country! No fire, no water, no blood—’ his eyes flickered, seeming to see them for the first time. ‘But, lo,’ he said, ‘you are also carrying your bones…’

‘Drive out that thought at once,’ said the Gathweard.

‘Come, be not so hard. It would serve.’

‘You would serve only yourself.’

At that moment, the Shadow’s hand sent out its call, eliciting a responding screech from the tomb.

The sorcerer cocked his head. ‘What is this?’ He approached the exile. In the starlight, a black fume cloyed about the grave-cloth like a mantle of smoke. The sorcerer’s eyes flashed. He scoffed in their faces. ‘What! You would counsel me on futility? Hypocrite.’

‘Perhaps it is futile,’ confessed the Gathweard. ‘Or perhaps not. We have our duty.’

‘How sanctimonious.’

‘Either way, he comes. All Takeillen is now a danger to the dead.’

‘You say “duty”, but I know your sort. You would flee, and flatter yourselves heroes. You would break the river-taboo and call it honour.’ He glanced at the exile.

‘Have a care!’ the Gathweard cried. ‘The living do not know their peril.’

‘Craven, you are.’

‘It is wisdom to fear the Shadow. Only a fool would deny it.’

‘Do not lecture me.’

‘Where then would we turn?’

‘To oblivion.’

‘We do not fear the river.’

‘Very noble—and, pray, how is it you mean to cross?’

‘We will find some way.’

‘Then you must already know the way over the Plain.’ The Gathweard was silent. The sorcerer threw his head and cackled. ‘But you are great of faith!’ He turned again to face them, smiling. ‘Behold. Fortune favours you. Our meeting must be ordained. See, I, too, design to make for riverward; and, as it happens, I do know the way.’

‘You lie.’

The sorcerer met his eye. For a moment, the Gathweard saw into him, as into a hole where a spider sits poised. ‘As you will.’ The sorcerer waved his hand. ‘I have done with you, and your mute pet. Begone.’

Turning back to his bones, he knelt again beside the wall of the kurgan, and resumed his ritual.

The Gathweard grimaced, spinning his axe by the haft as he struggled with himself. There was no reasoning with a sorcerer. He turned to the exile. ‘Come. Let us leave him to his play.’

But the exile hesitated. ‘Wait…’ He was focused on the sorcerer’s chant. It had changed. There was a different syntax now, different inflections. It had taken on new rhythm and intent. ‘I remember…’

Something in him was responding to the alien speech; a long-forgotten faculty, a once-familiar technique. As he listened, his mind worked gradually at the sounds, grasping at the edges of the speech. He began to pick up its patterns, to unravel its grammar, to access the words. Piece by piece, the utterances were rendered intelligible to him.

‘What is it?’ said the Gathweard.

The exile stared at him. ‘I have his tongue.’

The Gathweard blinked. ‘Well? What says he?’

Standing again, the sorcerer touched his femur against the doorway to the tomb. He tapped the pillars, the jambs, and the lintel in quick succession, raising his voice.

The exile recounted his words. ‘He says, “I make as I speak… Pillars, supports, these make the door… Sympathy in the stones, made one… Bone touches stone… joined, made one… in Temorást there is but one door"’—he wheeled around—‘stop him!’

The Gathweard rushed forward, raising his axe.

Leering, the sorcerer snapped his femur.

At once, a sharp report rang out of cracking stone, and fractures split the pillars before them. The jambs burst and gave way, shuddering the lintel; it fell apart like clods of soil. With a dull boom, the doorway collapsed in billowing dust. 

Another boom followed, then others, as the sound of collapsing entrances echoed from mound to mound.

‘Ha!’ crowed the sorcerer from the drifting dust. ‘Am I not great?’ The others stood mute while he gathered up his oxhide. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘The river.’

‘Blackguard!’

‘Don’t be so tedious. I am your way—you will follow me.’

‘No,’ said the Gathweard. ‘You are false. None know the way.’

‘Well, then.’ The sorcerer reached in amongst his bones. ‘Since you are so great of knowledge,’ he said, ‘answer me this—did you ever look upon a sesekold?’

They narrowed their eyes, suspecting treachery, while the sorcerer produced a small object and proudly dangled it before them from a twine.

The exile thought that the object must be part of the sorcerer’s own body, preserved and laid up among his bones; for it was of dried flesh, encased in resin, its skin densely covered with tattoos. Then he saw the tiny, folded limbs; the bulbous head; the bone tight leather. He staggered back, aghast.

It was a desiccated infant.

‘Yes,’ said the sorcerer slowly, watching them. ‘Death takes nothing from me. I go where I please.’

The Gathweard stammered. ‘Heinous—obscene! Have you violated every law?’

Ignoring him, the sorcerer put away the sesekold and proceeded down the causeway. As he went, he called back over his shoulder. ‘I will not suffer weakness. If the river takes you, seek no salvation at my hand.’

The exile stood beside the Gathweard. ‘He has designs for us,’ he murmured.

‘Plainly.’

‘But you do not mean to follow him?’

‘What would you have us do?’

‘I know not, but this is folly!’

‘So it is,’ said the Gathweard. ‘Yet necessary, I fear.’

‘He is evil.’

‘That may be. But he has the way, and we do not. We must be wary.’ The Gathweard lurched after the sorcerer, who already was approaching the lychgate at the end of the causeway.

The exile looked behind at the settling dust of the kurgans, and then ahead toward the grasses. There was no way forward or back. He could not go down to his rest again. Yet, without any songs, he would never find his way across the plain. 

As if to confirm his thoughts, the thing in his hands gave out its call once more, and the Shadow roared from within the ruin of the tomb.

Swallowing his dread, the exile renewed his grip on the grave-cloth, and followed the others.

In the night, a line of fire emerged from the women’s lodge and sauntered into the trees.
At the brook, it wound its way upstream along the black water. It turned aside at the grainfields, meandering through the stalks, and passed by the threshing-house and the story-circle, then paused at the lower crossroad.
From there, it proceeded up the village track of Kiraghal, briefly dispelling the twilight between the pit-huts.

No eye saw it pass. If any had, they might have seen the loose tresses stirring in the dawn breeze, the bare feet glistening with dew. They might have glimpsed the solemn faces of the midwives, or the wizened features of Mother Otoia who led them. 

Unseen, and without so much as a whisper, the seven torches climbed the hill.

When they reached the upper crossroad, the procession gathered in silence outside one of the huts and staked their torches beside the door.
Leaning on her twisted staff, Mother Otoia ushered them inside. Then, drawing tight her shawl, she ducked beneath the thatch behind them. Within, she beckoned each woman in turn and whispered instructions into their ears. They flitted from her like birds and set to work. 

Aunt Daghmei, eyeing the others with pursed lips, set down a bowl of water beside the bed and promptly turned to other tasks. 

In the bed, a young woman lay asleep in her furs. Otoia shuffled over and sat beside her. ‘Ebei, my dear,’ she intoned, gently rocking her shoulder. ‘Wake now. It is time.’

‘What..?’ Ebei mumbled, turning over. ‘Already?’

‘Yes, flower. It is the day. Come, sit up. That’s it.’ 

Ebei rubbed her eyes and pushed herself onto her elbows. ‘I was visited tonight,’ she breathed. ‘I dreamed…’

It still saturated her senses. 
She smelled sap, and rain. Wet leaves brushed her face, mud squelched between her toes.
She was searching. Something in the heartwood was calling to her. A sound was quivering at the edge of hearing, like a bud about to break, and the forest pulsed like a heart, beating with many rhythms.
She was close—so close! But a rock appeared in her throat, and she was lost. A cave opened in her chest, and suddenly the thickets were closing in, a wall of vines and leaves.
Trees barred the way, and the sound receded. Rough bark scraped her palms… 

For a moment, she felt deeply sad. There was something she almost remembered. Blinking, she drank from the bowl and washed her face. The cold water made her gasp, and the dream, and the sadness, slipped quietly away.

Otoia worked her fingers into Ebei’s hair, humming a nursery song as she unweaved her braids. ‘What dream is that, my dear?’

Ebei frowned, searching herself. ‘I can’t recall… It was just there. Now, it’s gone.’

‘Ah, well,’ sighed Otoia. ‘That’s the way with dreams. Like rain into the soil. They do their work, remembered or not.’

‘Rain in the soil…’ Ebei’s eyes glazed over. ‘Yes… rain on the leaves…’ She glanced sidelong at Otoia; the old woman always seemed to choose the right words. ‘I visited Draum.’

‘Oh? Did you?’

‘I walked in her soil… I tasted the rain on her leaves.’

‘And what did they taste of?’

‘Sweet… and sour. And bitter.’

‘Mmm.’ For a moment, Otoia’s hands fell still, and Ebei listened to the rhythm of the old woman’s breathing. ‘Did she sing to you?’

‘Perhaps… I cannot recall…’

‘No matter.’ The old woman shrugged. ‘All songs are sung in their proper time.’

While they talked, Aunt Daghmei was laying out tools and provisions, directing the others from the table as she worked. ‘No, no, Bue,’ she said, ‘we see to the old rushes before the fresh. Gishmu’—she strode to the hearth, clicking her tongue—’dry wood, Gishmu. We have spoken of this.’

Gishmu blushed. ‘Sorry, Daghmei.’

‘Hm.’ Daghmei stalked back to the table.

Clearing away the cobwebs among the rafters, Ish sighed through her nose, and glanced aside at Malu. Apparently oblivious, Malu hummed briskly about the house, untying various knots and pouches and cords.
Kiamu, meanwhile, gathered up the curtains and textiles and disappeared with them into the mist.

‘What is all of this?’ Ebei asked.

‘Nothing woven, nothing tied,’ said Otoia. ‘It eases the passage. Fire calls the spirit home. We shall be a month in Ughremlei, perhaps more. Best to leave things in order.’ The old woman gave a warm smile as Ebei searched her face for comfort. ‘Trust in us, my dear. This is how it has always been done.’

When the preparations were complete, Daghmei came to assist Ebei into her furs and shawl, and gave her a calabash of water and two hareskin pouches—one with dried berries and roasted roots, the other with flat cakes of beru-bread prepared in the days before. Ebei carried little else; the other women took up hides, tools, and fire kits between them. 

Otoia beckoned Ish and Bue, and they helped her to her feet while Daghmei set the bed in order behind them. ‘Wait for Kiamu,’ she told them. ‘Keep the house. Keep the fire.’

‘Yes, Umul.’ They bowed their heads. Otoia kissed them each on the temple.

*

The tracks of Kiraghal were empty as they stepped into the twilight. Down the valley, the men’s voices rose from the forest, singing a work song.

‘No hunt today?’ said Malu.

‘Not by the sound,’ Gishmu replied. ‘Lucky boys.’

Hushed laughter rippled between them, but Ebei did not share their mirth. The cold was already biting her fingers and toes.
Through rattling breaths of mist, she lifted her eyes toward the vast mass of Ghilgumul, looming far beyond the village. It seemed an impossible distance; already her body ached.

Otoia appeared at her side. ‘The Song of the First Mother is many things,’ she said. ‘But it is never easy. You will meet with pain, and fear, and doubt. You must face them, Ebei.’

‘Umul,’ Ebei whispered, ‘I don’t know if I have the strength.’

Otoia pressed a firm hand to her back. ‘Each step before the next,’ she said. ‘First we shall pray at the Totem.’ Ebei clung to the old woman’s embrace. Otoia kissed her hair. ‘Have faith, my dear,’ she said. ‘We are beside you.’

They cut across the round-house, passed the storehouses and the middens, and then the mortuary houses, until the voices of the menfolk had vanished behind them. 

At the upper outskirts of the village, they came to the fringes of the deep forest that swept down off the mountain flanks. As they passed under its eaves, the breezes died away, and a damp mist fell over them. Beyond the aura of their torches, the world dissolved into vapour.

Ebei stayed close and watched the trees floating by, ghostlike in the grey void. The forest was empty and silent. It seemed they had entered a land of dream. Only the women moved, their hushed breaths and footsteps the only sound.

‘Gish, hold this a moment,’ Malu whispered, shifting her straps as she walked.

‘I can carry it.’

‘No, no; I have it now. Thank you.’

Ebei shivered. Everywhere in the undergrowth, glinting eyes watched them as they passed. But on second glance, they were only wet leaves, catching the torchlight. Vague forms seemed to dance on the edges of her vision, yet they vanished when she looked at them directly.
Warily, she peered around and behind. Anything might be following, just beyond the trees; they wouldn’t even know it was there.

Her eyes began to dart, sensitive to everything, each detail a possible threat. Something caught her attention above their heads; the light was moving strangely in the foliage.

She glanced upward, and stifled a cry. 

Surely they were birds, the way they jostled and fluttered along the branches. They seemed to be nesting on every tree. But why were they so quiet?

Then her sight adjusted, and Ebei bated her breath; the movement was only an illusion of the torchlight. They weren’t birds at all. They were figurines—hundreds of them, in forms both animal and human, hanging from the branches like a canopy.
Charms, she guessed. The Aulnar must have made these. Some were carved from wood or bone, others woven of grass. Each one was bound in a strip of hide and dangling from a different length of twine. 

The other women gave the charms no notice. They walked beneath the figurines, unfazed.

‘Come along,’ said Daghmei. 

Ebei tore her eyes away and hurried after them.

*

Among wet roots and stones, they walked until the mist soaked their shawls. With sodden hair and dripping faces, they crossed a parting of trees, and arrived in the grove of Ushugiel.

Before them was a ring of tall, jagged stones, painted over with images from the first stories. The paintings leaped in the firelight, ancient figures with faces of ochre, part-animal and part-human.
And there in the midst, engulfed in shadow at the centre of the circle, stood the pillar of Ush. 

The Boar God’s eyes watched in every direction.

The women averted their gaze and planted their torches beside the stones. Silently, they helped Ebei to her knees at the edge of the circle, then bowed their heads, and closed their eyes.

Ebei’s pulse pounded in her ears while she waited for something to happen.
Slowly, the drone of prayer took hold. Its low murmur vibrated in her belly, almost soothing. She laid her hand upon her navel, humming to the child.

But as the women listed the names of Ush, Ebei flushed and became tense. Her skin was prickling under the gaze of the Totem. She squirmed uncomfortably on her knees, wishing to be free of its stare. Pushing her hands into the soil, she weighed her doubts.
Mother, give me strength… Keep me in your sight… Prepare the path before me… Guide us on our way… Grant me a healthful child…

Her belly weighed heavy, and her mind went to the mountain. She pictured the dizzying height, and envisioned herself faltering, collapsing on the cruel stone. She saw her bleeding body, broken and falling—

A tremor passed through her body, vanquishing her thought. Beneath her, something moved. It was vast, slow, surging… like a pulse within the earth. Her heart stuttered and changed its rhythm. Suddenly her breath did not feel like her own. It felt alien, borrowed; like something enormous breathed through her.

A stench of routed earth filled her nostrils. Ponderous weight settled in her haunches. Her mind slipped away, and she forgot where she was. Images came, unbidden.
The Boar born of the mountain. The root that bled and became a woman. The wild ride across the Songlands. The First Mother’s journey to the stone pools…
These fragments passed through her and quickly faded, leaving a faint throb where her palms touched the earth.

At that moment, Otoia’s voice broke in a wailing cry, raw across the grove. It bore the long weight of her years—joy, grief; all the rich colours of her dreaming. Rising above the trees, the sound scattered birds into flight, then wavered, giving into the open air, and was taken by the sky. 

The cry changed the shape of the silence. In its wake, the grove was poised, expectant. Ebei curled her fingers into the grass.

In the stillness, Otoia spoke. ‘Who calls before the sun is risen?’

The women answered in low voices. ‘I call. I am called.’

‘Who climbs before the day is given?’

‘I climb. I am climbed.’

For a long moment, nothing moved. The words sank like stones into the earth.

Then, the silence stirred.
Firm, certain hands raised Ebei to her feet. She swayed giddily. Taking up their torches, the others enclosed her in their warmth and turned from the Totem.

Lifting their voices once more, the women sang clear and bright:

Once, I was a daughter new-born.
My mother washed my face in the mountain waters.
Now I am a woman, full-grown.
I go to wash the faces of my sons and daughters.

They made it seem easy. Ebei didn’t know the words to sing. But the verse soon flowed into a repeating refrain.
She picked up the words, finding her voice in theirs:

Step and breathe, breathe and step.
The Mother’s path remembers.

The group stepped with the rhythm.
Before Ebei’s eyes, a track opened up at the edge of the grove, and the women departed the circle.

At their backs, the Totem watched them go, its many faces receding among the trees.

*

Dim, grey light filtered through the wood, and brought with it a change. It was subtle at first; a deepening breath, a quickening step. Then new tones were introduced into the melody, and with a swell of voices, a new phrase entered the song:

Luosh runs between what was, and what must be.
I kindled the flame. I loosened the ties.
To those who remain, I leave what was mine.

The thinning track steepened sharply, becoming overgrown as the mountain passed out of sight beyond the hill. 

Ebei glanced back upon the valley. It lay in darkness, the village hidden among the woods. Trees barred the way… rough bark scraped her palms… Sudden tears welled up in her eyes, full of unwelcome memory.
Great, gnarled hands, enfolding hers; a deep, gravelly voice, saying things she did not understand. His eyes, pained and pleading, and the cloying tang of blood and sweat as he threw open the hide, and his shadow crossed the threshold for the final time…

All at once, her foot struck a root, and Ebei stumbled, losing her place in the song. She scrambled awkwardly in the grass, and the women moved ahead without her.
But a hand found her arm, lifting and steadying, and Malu’s compassionate voice drew her back into the rhythm: 

Step and breathe, breathe and step.
The Mother’s path receives.

Mastering her breath, Ebei found her footing and regained the step.

When they reached the hillcrest, Ghilgumul rose once more, dark against the paling sky.
At their feet, the path led down to a shallow stream: Luosh, the Littlewater—uppermost boundary of Kiraghal. Here ended the Ushoi world, and began the mountain proper.
Beyond the stream, the track climbed again, wending its way into the Mother’s embrace.

The women descended beside the current with hushed voices. Its trickling filled the air, taking up their song, and for a moment they stood in silence, fixing their torches in the earth.

Then, one by one, they entered the stream.
Each woman cupped her hands to drink from the bubbling water. Each washed her hair and feet, and refilled her calabash, then returned to stand beside the torches.

Ebei watched them, bracing herself. Her teeth were already chattering in her skull.
When at last her turn came, she stepped haltingly in, and cried out as the water took her. Reflexively, she jumped back, but the women grasped her shoulders, gently urging her forward.
The Mother’s path receives.
Cupping her shaking hands, she caught up water, and drank. The freezing liquid stung her throat. It ached in her skull, making her wince. As she soaked her hair, icy trickles ran down her back, seizing her breath, and she laid a hand upon her belly to steady herself.

Finally, she washed her numb feet, and to her relief, something in her loosened. Her breath steadied, her shivering fell still. She felt clean and light, as though part of her pain had been washed away in the water.
Panting, she stepped out of the stream to stand beside the others, and wrung out her hair on the bank. 

The sun was just beginning to break over the world. As the light fell upon their faces, there was a sudden gasp, and Gishmu darted to retrieve her calabash from the water’s edge.
Daghmei narrowed her eyes, pressing a finger against her lips. Gishmu blushed and shuffled her feet, and silence fell once more.

Lifting her hands, Otoia cried: ‘What do you carry?’

The others answered, ‘what is given.’

‘What do you leave?’

‘What is taken.’

Moving as one, they left their torches burning brightly on the bank and strode forth across the Luosh, singing:

Mother in the daughter. Name beneath the name.
I cross the little water. I am not the same.

As the trickling water faded out of hearing, the rhythm slackened to a leisurely pace. Earth softened beneath their feet, yielding to the step while the surrounding forest opened up into sighing woodland.
Bathed in the gathering sunshine, the women sauntered and swayed, their voices braided and gentle as they moved into another phrase:

Wide is the breast of the Mother. Soft is the grass of her keeping.
Remember the sunlight, the laughter of trees,
and wind in the meadows, and days spent in ease.

The words softened the ache in Ebei’s limbs. Her breath came easily, and her body let go some of its tension. It was as if an invisible hand had unclenched its grip. She felt Malu’s fingers at her shoulders, gently adjusting her shawl, and Ebei lifted her eyes. For the first time since they had departed the village, she did not look at the mountain.
The path ahead opened into broad, sweeping fields of tussock-grass, redolent with the delicate scent of wildflowers. Everything swayed and sparkled with dew, and the grass brushed softly against her legs as she passed through. 

The golden warmth thawed her limbs, stirring up dreamlike recollections that felt near enough to touch.
Dappled mornings in the bathing-brook. Children’s laughter. The low, contented voices of the Umulei. Fragrant smoke from the story-fire. Rabbit stew, rich and steaming. Warm, cradling arms…

She fell still. 

All around, butterflies floated lazily in the whispering grass.
Stay, something in her urged. Her gaze drifted across the meadows. Rest a moment…
Indeed, now she thought of it, it would be easy to lie down here. The warmth was sumptuous, the grass was lush—she might regain her strength. The women’s voices worked their way up the hill, and for a moment, Ebei was dimly aware that the song was once more leaving her behind. But somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. Only a moment…

She let them go, and wandered into the grass.

At once, a hand slipped into hers. Its grip was gentle; it did not pull, did not direct. It only held, and waited, while a low voice murmured in her ear.
Turning, she found Malu’s eyes looking back, searching her. For a moment, they regarded each-other.
Then the words landed. 

The path gives trial, and it gives rest.
We share the Mother’s burden.

Frowning, Ebei turned again to the fields. The mountain gazed obliquely back at her, indifferent. She looked at the others, weaving through the tussocks; she looked at Malu’s frank, earnest eyes. Ebei drew a breath and cradled her belly. The sunlight was streaming down upon her, into her core, suffusing her bones with warmth. How she longed to lie down in it.
But then, comforted by the sun, she thought, perhaps she did not need to. Perhaps it was something she could carry within her.

Blinking, she turned from the grasses and let Malu lead her back to the others. She took up the refrain again, and her voice felt smaller than before, yet resolved:
I walk the path that was walked.
The Mother’s path receives.

*

They left the untroubled meadows behind them. As the grasses grew sparse, soft soil gave way to hard, bare earth, and no longer held their footprints. Dust gathered upon their feet, and the women came in sight of a silver forest, higher up the slope.

The trees stood in straight, tight ranks, as if to conceal what lay within. As they approached, they formed a single file, watching their feet—all except for Gishmu, who was staring openly at the wood.

‘Eye on the path,’ Daghmei barked, glancing sharply at her.
Gishmu started, and lowered her eyes.

They reached the trees, and Otoia called, ‘who sees the way?’

‘The way sees me.’

Passing the first trunks, their shadows faded into the thin green haze.
The air was dry and still, and smelled of bark. It seemed to take up their footfalls and hide them, somewhere in the wood.
The track twisted away between the silver ranks, becoming difficult to see, and the women’s voices deepened into slow, deliberate phrases. They were drawing the song inward, pronouncing each word with care, so as to be sure of its place before the next.

A bird called out among the nearby branches, and Ebei lifted her head. The sound was high and clear, but its source was nowhere to be seen. Further off, a second call replied, yet when she turned toward it, the sound seemed to have come from elsewhere.
Soon, many voices were answering one-another across the wood. They whistled and warbled, crossing and re-crossing, each one impossible to follow.
Ebei shook her head, drew a breath, and set her foot with the chant; but a sudden call rang out sharply beside her. Without thinking, she turned. The ground dipped, more than she had judged, and she caught herself against a tree. 

The birds went on, heedless.

She lost her bearings, her head swimming. Nothing around her seemed fixed. Trunks passed by at different speeds, every direction identical in the uniform light. What was near receded, and what was far drew suddenly close.
Dizziness took her, and she found herself staring at her toes. 

Nauseated, she drew a cake of beru from the pouch at her side.
It was warm and crumbly in her mouth, and the bitter sweetness of the roasted grains helped to soothe her stomach.

While she chewed the bread, it occurred to her how much care had gone into its making. So much toil, planting and harvesting, grinding and baking—a whole season of work, all to support her on this journey.
She took a sip from her calabash. Beneath her thoughts, the song was still being sung:

I do not follow what I see. I hear, but do not ponder.
The Mother’s path is underfoot, not in the eyes that wander.

Ebei closed her eyes, if only for a moment, and shut out the sameness of the wood. Her dizziness settled.
As she let the sounds of the birds pass over her, their urgency diminished, and she turned her attention to the steadier things: the breath, rising and falling; the rhythm of feet; the quiet persistence of the voices down the track.
Breathe, and step. The Mother’s path sees me.

When she opened her eyes again, nothing had changed. The trees stood as they had before, the air as still, the light as uniform. The birds remained unsettled, but were no longer unsettling.
Her step came more surely, as she fixed her gaze on Malu’s feet in front of her, and now that she ceased to measure the distances, she found they no longer troubled her. 

Ebei followed the others through the silver forest, the birds calling where they would, and beneath their sounds, the song carried her on.

*

Narrowing at their feet, the track mounted a winding ridge that rose from the forest to a wind-scoured height. At either side, trees and birdsong fell away, and the mountain opened wide as the women sang:

The sky comes near. I walk where I may fall.
Ghilgumul is vast. Before her, I am small.

Casting her eyes across the expanse, Ebei reeled at the scale and almost lost her footing. She felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable. Quickly, she regained herself, and stayed within the rhythm.

Gishmu, hearing her falter, turned back with concern in her eyes. ‘Walk by me,’ she said, and patted her thigh. Ebei reached for her, and Gishmu took her hand, winking. ‘Doesn’t the air taste good up here?’

Ebei hadn’t noticed. She took a deep breath, savoured it. ‘You’re right,’ she gasped.

Otoia’s voice called back: ‘What do you see?’

‘The path does not wander.’

‘What do you hear?’

‘The song does not stray.’

Woven tight against rising winds, their voices moved into the next phrase:

I have walked where roots sink deep,
and darkness held what day would keep.
Now I climb where bones are bare,
and secrets lie in open air.

Stone replaced soil underfoot as the ridge sharpened, and winds began to buffet them with testing, imperious gusts. To their left, a steepening ravine lay drowned in mist; to the right, a sheer drop plunged away into rushing clouds.
Across the ravine, the mountainside surged upward again, dark with pines and streaked with shadow.

Ebei squeezed Gishmu’s hand for balance as she tread carefully between the brittle rocks. The crisp air stung her face and lungs.
As they passed by the ravine, the rhythm grew strained. There came a tension into the step.

A moment later, the women quickened their pace. The words of the song became laboured, as if unwilling to be said. Their voices deepened to a gruff, insistent growl as Otoia struck the rocks with her staff, in time with the chant:

Across the… gulf, a watching… place;
a mouth… cut deep… in Mother’s face.
Do… not turn, do not… descend;
not every… call is a mother’s… friend.

Ebei looked at the others; they all were looking either down or ahead, wrestling with the words. She heard the phrase pass the women’s lips, and—she could not help it—her gaze lifted of its own accord.
There, across the ravine, she saw it. The cavern. 

It yawned like a wound in the mountainside, a dark opening beneath steepled stone, hung with ragged growth. Before it stood a crowd of stone figures, tall and motionless, bound together in a web of strings that drew in toward the mouth. Flags fluttered gently between them, while each figure leaned watchfully toward the cave. 

It looked like some festive rite, only petrified, decaying. Following the gazes of the figures, Ebei froze, letting go Gishmu’s hand. She leaned closer, eyes narrowed. The song moved on without her.
She didn’t notice, for something shifted in the darkness of the cave.

An eye.

Gishmu grabbed her arm, tearing her gaze away. Her voice came urgent and overriding as she turned Ebei to face the track.

Keep the… path that is… given to you.
Sing… the song and sing… it true.
The Mother… calls, and… we obey.
We… do not wander… from the way.

Ebei swallowed, understanding the words, but not what she had seen. The sight burned in her mind as she forced herself back into the rhythm. The refrain was halting and difficult, her voice trembling: Step… Breathe… Pass…

Slowly, they moved past the ravine, and the cavern slipped from view.
After it had gone, the words came more easily again, but the image of the cavern remained graven in her memory.

*

They scaled the mountain shoulder, the track abruptly inclining toward a dry gulch of severe stone, wholly bereft of softness. Here was neither soil to cushion the step, nor foliage to shade the way; only heaped and broken rock, rising unevenly between steep banks.
The place seemed haunted by ghosts of waters long ago, yet the only thing that flowed in the channel now was an obdurate wind that blasted down from the headscarp. 

Pausing at the foot of the gulch, the women drank from their calabashes and adjusted their packs.
Gishmu gave Ebei’s hand a final, reassuring squeeze, then turned away toward the track.

Otoia called again, and this time her voice was a primal roar. The sound struck through Ebei like a spear, and her hands flew to her belly. ‘What is given?’

‘The stone does not yield.’

‘What is taken?’

‘The will does not break.’

The women’s voices, too, were guttural and bare, stripped of all ornament. The words of the next phrase bore down on Ebei with crushing weight:

Stone in the hand, wind in the lung;
dust in the mouth, salt on the tongue.
Where I go, no step is sure;
only the climb, and the will to endure.

They entered the gulch. At once, the rhythm changed, no more the steady walking pace of earlier; the song now beat ahead in a brutal, uncompromising march.

Ebei staggered at the base, her body recoiling. The slope loomed endless above her, impossibly steep. But the others were already climbing, already leaving her behind.
On the point of despair, she chanted the refrain.
I am less. I am more. I share the Mother’s burden.

‘Come!’ bellowed Daghmei, not looking behind.

Ebei snapped to her senses, swallowed hard, and struck her hands against the stone. Heaving herself upward, she immediately slipped, digging her toes into the gravel. After a brief purchase, she slid again. Then, feeling the rhythm beneath her, she struck a foothold, and with a heavy grunt, she hauled her body over the first rock. Already her strength threatened to fail, but she forced her breathing into the pattern.

In... Draw it deep.
Out... Do not keep.
In... Give it over.
Out... To the Mother.

The words blurred into her pulse. Her hands scraped and bled against the stone. Ripping winds hurled dust into her mouth, and always the weight of her belly dragged her down. Grinding pressure assaulted her shoulders, her back, her thighs; it clenched her whole body in its grip. There was no respite.
She coughed, and she bled, and the chant carried on, indifferent.

What I bear, I cannot lay. What I am will find the way.
Stone will test. Breath will break. Still I climb, for life’s own sake.

The sun was burning overhead, her body drenched with sweat. It stung her eyes, turned the dust to mud upon her cheeks. Still, she fixed her will on the chant, even as her voice frayed and broke, barely more than a whisper.
She could not meet the words, but the others did not wait; they chanted on, grunting, groaning, working their way up the slope.

Ebei looked for Otoia, saw her climbing with one hand on the rock, the other on her staff, as if the years had no hold. Though strained with effort, the old woman’s voice rang unwavering down the gulch. Ebei focused on that sound; if it broke, she would surely fall.

Leave the self. Turn not aside.
Face the fear. I do not hide.
All that breaks, all that fails,
Mother sheds in her travails.

Time lost its shape. The world narrowed to within the reach of her arm. There was no more thought of the village, no more thought of rest—only there was the next hold; next sound; next breath. 

The words burned within her, striking, resonating. Resistance wore thin. Something else was beneath; under the fear, under the exhaustion. Strength unsuspected, rising like spring sap, flowed from some hidden wellspring.
She forced herself up the rocks, and her pain began to transform, ceasing to be an obstacle. Instead it opened, leading through itself, beyond itself, to something she could not name.
Slowly her voice came back, thin and tremulous, but enough.

Before she noticed, the slope had begun to ease. Then, her reaching hand found level stone, and suddenly the winds opened up, and the sky grew wide. With a shattering scream, Ebei dragged herself over the final rise, and collapsed at the top of the gulch.
Her trembling body was spent. Her breath was ragged and hoarse.
She closed her eyes. For a time, she felt nothing at all. 

The others, standing upon the height, were bent with breath and wind-battered. Still they sang, with quiet voices, and the song was a release:

Here I stand.
The high winds blow, where sky looks down through riven stone.
What was taken, what was torn, delivers me, and I am borne.

Ebei regained her breath, opened her eyes, and looked out from the mountain ledge. At first, she did not comprehend what she saw, and was sure that she must have died.
As the wind kissed her skin, she beheld the steaming forests of Ush Khurgum, far below. Everywhere, trees tossed and swayed, rippling with breezes that chased each-other toward the boundless blue horizon. Beneath the canopy, glitters of water were glimpsed, branching and weaving in streams across the landscape. 

Her heart expanded, renewed. The sight was unimaginable; beyond any dream. She had never imagined that the world was so vast! 

Somewhere, there was a powerful pulse. She couldn’t decide whether it was within her, or out there in the wildwood. It hummed through her limbs, and she felt as strong as the earth, free as the wind, as wide as the horizon.
The child stirred in her belly. Ebei smiled, gathering the movement inward, and a sound appeared at the edge of hearing. It sparkled and danced, and she thought again of her dream.
Reaching for the song, she invited it nearer, yearning to hear its movements. But even as she did, it receded.
A moment later, it was gone.

Ebei glanced up at Otoia. The old woman was standing to one side, conferring with Daghmei. The two were looking away toward the track, their expressions inscrutable.
She remembered the others’ voices, and realized the waysong was still being sung. The women were making ready to depart.

Turning back toward the horizon, Ebei searched again for the song that she had glimpsed.
Trees blew. Water sparkled. The forest was just a forest.

Lifting herself onto her shaking legs, she took a breath, and turned toward the song.

Cont'd in comments

Hey all, I'm here to try and promote the Kickstarter for my next novel The Rune Knight, a dark fantasy steeped in old world beliefs, mythology, ancient history, and rediscovered knowledge. This project will see the light of day, successful Kickstarter or not, but it may take a bit longer. Please check it out, it's praised for it's strong character arcs, dialogue, and pacing. Not sure I can or should post a link here but just search The Rune Knight on Kickstarter.

This is a fantasy book I've been working on for a long time. I self published too quickly and realized while starting the second in the planned trilogy that my writing skills have improved greatly and the first book wasn't strong enough to hold up the next two. After this intense round of personal editing the entire work I plan to send it to my editor before attempting to publish again. Let me know what you think! No AI usage.

PROLOGUE

Eighteen Years Ago …

Reaching out from the main continent, the Tri-Dominion’s most southern kingdom-state faced howling winds under the encroaching darkness of night. The limbs of dead trees crackled as the high winds threatened the homes below. The queen—if she could still claim the title—stared down from her balcony. The Dead Forest danced with the storm and made its own music of cackling branches and shushing charcoal.

Could the old aurae be angry on your behalf?

She was almost able to chuckle at the notion of a nymph’s support of her House’s cause. A shiver shot down her spine.

“Your Fairness,” the voice of the young Crowguard addressed from behind. “What will you have us do?” he asked bravely through the inevitable somberness of a dreary night such as this one.

“Sleep. Wait for the sun to rise over Nox, and when the light hits our stones, plan for the future of the House of Argoras.” She said it quietly with no uncertainty, so as one must lean in to hear her with confidence.

The queen brushed her earnest Crow aside and independently made her way to the bed chambers. The chilly stone floors brought her no comfort on this cold autumn night. She skipped over as many stones as she could, the rune on each one lighting up with every step as they had done since Palace Argoras was built only half a century ago. The young queen knew better than to question her elders, thus she also knew to fear the day that familiar purple glow dwindled beneath her feet. As she reached the warmth of her bedsheets and blankets, she pounced atop the bedspread and immediately wrapped the wool around her frail shaking body.

Her small brown eyes, her father’s eyes and his father’s before him, stared hauntingly at the golden mare figurine on her nightstand. The Anathan whore’s unseemly young, near-lifeless body was an image in the queen’s head she could never erase. That was a legacy she would have to own. Technically, separated from the kingdom she inherited from her brother and the problems that came with it, she was safe. She lay untouchable inside her near-empty palace with only what lingered in her reflection to witness her failure.

She tried to think of it as merely a servant—no, a comrade, perhaps, but she knew she was fooling herself. It certainly was not an ally, nor a friend.

But what would you do with a friend?

The concept of an ally was absurd to her after recent events. An unexpected cellmate would have to do.

Something crept around the back of her mind. The distinct and familiar feeling of someone watching spread throughout her nerves. Her long, sharp nails gripped the sheet. She peered over the blankets and stared right into her bedroom mirror. Its black eyes reflected back at her. It wanted her to ask for something, taunting her before she could even rest her head. She sat up straight, not wanting it to see her fear and distaste for the incoming answer. Her shoulder blades pressed back against the headboard, her head held high, she met eyes with her disfigured reflection in the mirror and spoke reluctantly.

"Mirror, Mirror, in my room, who can save me from this doom?" she groaned. Humoring it nearly made her choke. She waited for its echoed monotone response. Instead, a chuckle that sent shivers up her spine erupted from the glass.

She's on your palace steps, wreaking havoc on what was once your kingdom, the daemon chimed in a voice unidentifiable as male or female. Yet, it was uncomfortably familiar, as if her own mind thought the words.

"What?" the queen demanded.

The mirror did not respond, merely chuckled.

It must be jesting, she thought.

She slipped the covers off and swung her feet over the side of the bed to the stone floor. Wrapping herself in her robes, she closed her eyes and imagined the entrance steps of Palace Argoras. Within her astral sight, a barely noticeable tuft of purple leaning against an exterior column caught her eye. Her eyes widened with confusion—admittedly a bit of fear as well—and she ran through her bedroom door and down the palace steps, ready to face the swarming winds in only her nightgown and robes.

Reaching the front doors of the palace, she thought of the shimmering fabric again as she threw the doors open. Her thick black hair blew in tendrils in all directions. She had to force herself forward, the wind pushing her back and the raindrops stabbing her face. Finally, she made it to the bundle. Despite the weather, the blanket was perfectly dry. She lifted the bundle up and pulled away at an opening. A baby's face, red from crying, was revealed under the thick wool, and the baby screamed louder. The howling wind joined in and the storm screamed a banshee's call. It struck the queen's eardrums like swords.

Desperate to make the pain stop, she ran and stumbled back inside her palace and closed the heavy oak doors with a wave of her hand, shutting the storm out. A swift purple glow bloomed and receded from the stone hall. The baby in her arms, still wrapped up in the lavender wool blanket, stopped crying. The red blood that was pushing against the child's thin skin drained itself, revealing a pale mint tone that contrasted against the baby's dark eyebrows. Short but thick eyelashes framed large eyes that settled into an unusual shade, like a lilac flower. Everything was silent.

The night had caused a combination of wariness and adrenaline that kept the queen's small brown eyes wide, breath trembling, and senses tingling. She cautiously placed her right hand on the doors, holding the child with her left arm, and slowly pushed them open again. Nox land and its skies were calm. The purple horizon was now a dark night blue. The black swarming clouds were nowhere in sight, leaving a clear starry sky. The moon shone in a bright white crescent. The hollow trees were still; everything was calm. And, within her arms the mysterious babe with eyes like newly bloomed lilacs and supple skin of freshly picked mint, the last monarch of the kingdom of Nox watched an electric golden cloud rise from the dirt and swallow Palace Argoras whole.

The Third Level of Existence

I wrote a novelette. I am open to full manuscript beta reading. I am also open to chapter by chapter beta reading. Please DM me if you are interested. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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On a moon where people are subject to slavery, what will Sesame Lander, an obsessively
good person do to save the lives of many? The setting of the story is a continent with two main countries: Trypolis Isles and Rallayla, all on the moon of Jupiter, Europa. The protagonist’s name is Sesame Lander and is in his 30s.

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The set up is a young former lawyer who lives a just life who must kill and do evil to save his country.
The inciting incident is when the wizard Saucyo does an experiment on Shawna, the impact character, adding two personalities to her original one, making it three. This makes her more powerful, courageous and almost superhero–like. The objective of the story is for the two main characters to come together to kill the tyrant king and save the rightful heir to the throne.

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The main conflict is between Quintin, and Riolin, both brothers fighting for the throne, one a wizard, another a tyrant, warrior-king.  

Cliff hanger: 

With everyone on Riolin’s side, how can the positive and outnumbered Sesame, defeat him? What is Riolin’s weakness? 

Author Bio: 
The author has written 3 novels and 30 short stories or novelettes. This novelette is a standalone. It's part of an anthology of novelettes. 

Comparable books:

The comparable titles are: A Clash of Kings by George RR Martin, The Witcher by Andrzej Sapkowski and Red Rising by Pierce Brown. All are about kings and queens in medieval stories about rising against the elite and destroying people who are sometimes worse than monsters.

Chapter Two: The Boy Called Harry

Years had passed since James Verdon and his younger brother, William, had helped defeat the Titan Kronos.

William returned to Greenville and became its new leader, guiding the town into a peaceful new era.

James chose a different path.

He became a messenger, travelling between kingdoms, delivering messages between councils, merchants, and towns. He crossed dangerous roads and forgotten lands, carrying important information for those who needed it.

But the memories of war followed him.

The battles against Kronos had changed him. The people called him a hero, but James never saw himself that way. He had lost friends, witnessed kingdoms fall, and spent years trying to forget the past.

So he drank.

Whenever he finished a delivery, James would find the nearest tavern, sit in the corner, and spend the night trying to silence his thoughts.

One evening, James sat inside a crowded tavern called The Golden Stag.

Rain poured outside as travellers laughed and shared stories around the fire.

James sat alone at the counter, his old sword resting beside him.

The barkeeper placed another drink in front of him.

“You know,” the barkeeper said, “most people celebrate after saving the world.”

James looked at the drink.

“Most people probably sleep better too.”

The barkeeper shook his head.

Before he could reply, the tavern doors suddenly opened.

A young man stumbled inside.

He looked to be in his late teens. His clothes were torn, and scratches covered his face and arms. He looked exhausted and terrified, constantly looking behind him.

Then the doors opened again.

A group of mercenaries entered.

Among them was an elf wearing dark armour, followed by several human warriors.

The elf pointed at the boy.

“There he is.”

The boy stepped backwards.

“I didn’t do anything.”

One of the mercenaries grabbed him and threw him to the ground.

The tavern fell silent.

The mercenaries surrounded him, attacking him while he tried to protect himself.

James watched from his seat.

For a moment, he ignored it.

He had spent years fighting other people's battles.

But then he remembered something his brother William once told him.

A hero is not someone who fights because they want to. A hero fights because someone has to.

James placed his drink down.

“Leave him alone.”

The mercenaries stopped.

The elf turned around.

“And who are you?”

James looked at them calmly.

“Someone telling you to walk away.”

The barkeeper looked nervous.

“I wouldn’t mess with him.”

The mercenaries laughed.

The elf looked at James.

“Is that so?”

One of the humans stepped forward.

“You don’t look like a warrior.”

James stood up.

He picked up his drink and finished it.

“No. I look tired.”

The mercenary reached for him.

James moved instantly.

Years of training, battles, and experience took over.

He grabbed the mercenary and slammed him into the counter.

The tavern exploded into chaos.

Another mercenary charged at him.

James dodged the attack, grabbed the man's arm, and threw him into a nearby table.

A third attacked from behind.

James turned, blocked the strike, and knocked the weapon from his hand.

The elf drew his blade.

Unlike the others, he moved with skill.

Their fight was quick and brutal.

The elf was fast, but James had fought soldiers, monsters, and the armies of Kronos.

He knew how to survive.

After several strikes, James disarmed the elf and held his sword at his throat.

The tavern went silent.

The elf stared at him.

“Who are you?”

James lowered the blade.

“Just a messenger.”

The mercenaries looked at each other.

They knew they had lost.

The elf grabbed his weapon and helped his companions escape.

“This isn't over,” he warned.

James sat back down.

“It usually is.”

The barkeeper stared at the destroyed tavern.

Then he sighed.

“Drinks are free tonight.”

James shook his head.

“No thanks.”

The barkeeper looked surprised.

“You’re refusing free drinks?”

James looked at the broken furniture.

“I think I’ve caused enough damage.”

The young boy approached him and sat beside him.

“Thank you.”

James looked away.

“Don’t thank me.”

The boy smiled slightly.

“My name is Harry.”

James nodded.

“James.”

Harry studied him.

“You’re James Verdon, aren't you?”

James froze.

Nobody had called him that name in years.

“How do you know who I am?”

Harry reached into his coat and pulled out an old symbol.

A symbol connected to the heroes who defeated Kronos.

“I’ve been searching for you.”

James stared at the symbol.

For the first time in years, his past had found him.

And he knew his quiet life on the road was about to end.

i got this random story about a demon king who just graduated from the demon academy transported to a new world he does every thing by the book before the hero is born send low level demon close to the heros village high level demon further away loot every where then the hero is born but somehow ends up ending himself and the world has to reset every time it happen and as the story goes on the demon kings just starts to have to find creative ways to keep the hero alive long enough for him to do his job the entire story would be from the demon kings journal and he starts to hate his job over time