by A. J. Smith
The Jekkan causeway was afraid of him. The servitor had not been trying to kill him, it had been trying to scare him off, to make him leave. But why? What power did he have?
He followed the story, lost in his journey between the pillars. The stone columns had appeared identical, but now each one was as different as steel and snow. Jekkan art was experienced in layers, depth chiselled out of stone by unknown craft. Or was it art? He was beginning to doubt. It felt as if he was reading a book or watching a performance. It was in his head, an experience both visual and sensory. Voon had said it was addictive, but he now drew his eyes away easily.
He looked around, taking in the still air. The metal was no longer heavy and his head was surprisingly clear. In fact, he felt good. Well, not exactly good, but certainly not as bad as his situation would dictate.
He kept following the Jekkan story, slowing to a stroll and concentrating on the images. Old bloods were forbidden in Jekkan lands. In ages past, the Great Race had been terrified of those with Giant’s blood, believing their presence drained the Jekkan magic. The last symbol was harder to translate. Maybe drained wasn’t the right word. Leeched, consumed. He wasn’t certain.
He stopped again, rubbing his eyes and swearing in a low mutter.
‘Fuck me, this is weird. I’m in a world of blue shit, lost, looking for a Karesian shit, while reading some carved shit... on stone shit.’
He turned away from the pillars and slumped to a seated position on the huge flagstones. He wasn’t tired, but defiantly he plonked himself down anyway.
‘Randall, what do I do? What’s my move, how should I react? Come on, you’re so good at moralizing... tell me what’s right.’
The blue glow began to fade. Slowly at first, the criss-cross lines disappeared. Centred on Utha, the immediate area darkened. The pillars still had their eerie light, but the blue of the floor was repelled by him. He could feel its fear.
He stood. ‘You are right to be afraid of me.’
The light held its position, pulled back in a circle, unable to encroach into his space. Every second he felt stronger, every second he leeched more power from the Jekkan causeway. Reading the story had unlocked something. The art was more than carved images, more than decoration. It had transferred knowledge to him. Knowledge that he struggled to put into words or any sort of usable form, but it was there, scratching at the corners of his mind.
Jekkan magic was bastardized from the divine spark of the gods. It was the remnants of the true magic of the Giants, mighty in the lands of men, but vulnerable to those who possessed a true hint of the divine.
With clarity, Utha the Shadow realized that he was more than he thought. The stories called him something else, something more than an old-blood. He was a demi-god. Millennia had wiped out his legacy, but the power remained, hidden in the depths of his blood. Somewhere, clinging to a vein or sitting in an artery was a drop of divine ichor, the blood of the Giants. It gave him power. The Jekkans understood this and knew what the old bloods could do and what they represented. Though he was still vulnerable. He and his Shadow Giant ancestors had no power of belief... maybe a distant sliver from the remaining Dokkalfar, but nothing of true worth.
‘Right, what else do you have to tell me?’
He returned to the pillars and located his place, letting the story take him where it wished. As he walked, the lights retreated from his step, illuminating nothing but the carved pillars. He felt stronger with each step. Larger, more upright. As more of the Jekkan power passed into him, Utha breathed in deeply.
‘You’ll show me what I want you to show me.’
He pushed his will at the Jekkan causeway, forcing it to answer to his command. His eyes took him back to the halls beyond the world. The pillars showed him the dreamscapes that had plagued his nights – or perhaps he was now reading his own story. Either way, he felt powerful and in control.
The shadow hall was still there, a broken wreck of black, twisting shapes, a graveyard for a long dead god. But there was more. The place called to him as if they were intertwined, as if his spark of the divine was all that was keeping the hall intact. There was no Shadow Giant, not any more, but Utha knew now what he had to do. Within him was the seed of a new god. In the lands of men, his destiny had been vague and unformed, but now that he was infused with Jekkan magic he was more confident than he had ever been. He was the distant descendant of a god, a creature of lands both terrestrial and beyond.
‘I can rebuild the hall. I can revive the Shadow Giant.’
* * *
As the hours melted together and formed an endless journey, Utha learned more and more. He could shape his story with a thought, forcing the causeway to obey him. He had been a simple man with a simple view of the world, but that view had been challenged, eroded, cut away and finally splintered.
‘You’re not so scary really,’ he said to the causeway. ‘You’re all big and tough with men, but you’re fucked when someone stands up to you.’
He had followed the pillars in meandering lines and chaotic circles. The stories were also a map, a guide through which a knowledgeable traveller could find his way. Oron Kaa was just a chapter heading, a place to bookmark the journey if he so wished. He could halt his journey at any one of a hundred different locations, none of which he had heard of.
Imrya, the Nar Scopian Deeps, Mordja, the twin cities of Klarkash and Skavan. He hated feeling ignorant. The magic he leeched made him feel powerful, but did nothing to alleviate his ignorance. These lands, these kingdoms, these cities, they had existed in the distant past of the world. Perhaps they existed now, but Utha didn’t want to visit them.
He located Oron Kaa and walked.
EPILOGUE
FYNIUS BLACK CLAW, captain of Twilight Company, was staggeringly bored. He sat at a table opposite a bunch of people, most of whose names he couldn’t be bothered to recall. There was the tall one, the drunken one and the one with bizarre eyebrows.
On his side, Mathias Flame Tooth, Al-Hasim, Federick Two Hearts and Lady Bronwyn spoke for the Ranen. Even recalling their names was a struggle.
‘The law is the law,’ said the one with bizarre eyebrows.
‘The law of Ro doesn’t apply here,’ replied the fat one, Mathias Flame Tooth to those who could give a shit.
‘Two hundred Purple clerics are dead,’ said eyebrow man. ‘Someone must answer for that.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ muttered Fynius, not realizing that he’d spoken aloud.
Everyone looked at him.
‘What? What did I do?’
‘You killed two hundred Purple clerics, you obstinate bastard,’ replied the eyebrows. ‘And a cardinal.’
‘I only killed five or so... but the cardinal, yeah, that was me.’
‘Fynius, keep your mouth shut for a minute,’ snapped Lady Bronwyn, the up-her-own-arse one. ‘Diplomacy is not one of your gifts.’
He slumped back in his chair. ‘Yeah, okay, just wake me up when the Ro bastards have fucked off.’
The tall one kept the peace as the eyebrows started swearing. The drunken one just smirked, sipping from a brass goblet and nodding politely. They whinged and bickered, making stupid threats and feverishly masturbating over their Ro superiority.
‘Please, gentlemen,’ said Bronwyn, interrupting their words with raised arms. ‘Fynius does not represent all of us. The Ranen of South Warden wish for a peaceful resolution.’
‘As do we,’ said the tall one, who appeared to be more reasonable than the eyebrows. Fynius thought he was Fallon of Leith but would continue to think of him as the tall one until he was sure.
‘Where are you bound, my Lord Frith?’ asked Bronwyn. ‘Tor Funweir could use its Red general.’
Good girl, she was flattering him. Old men liked that.
‘My destination is not pertinent to the current situation,’ he replied. ‘The murder of the clerics is.’
‘Murder!’ exclaimed Mathias. ‘Just so we know, where does conquest end and murder begin?
’
They carried on talking. Some of it may have been arguing. Most of it was dull babble, infused with a sense of entitlement. These men, this moment, all of it was a click of the fingers or a speck of dust in the ocean. They would never understand, so he let them argue. He let them argue and he gradually stopped listening.
Once eyebrows had stopped whingeing about the murder of the One God’s noblemen – a ridiculous title, with many levels of misunderstanding – he moved on to the state of his country. Fynius began listening again.
‘How fairs Tor Funweir?’ asked Lady Bronwyn. ‘We have had little news... little opportunity to ask questions. Since I left Canarn... seems like years ago... I really don’t know what’s been happening in the lands of Ro.’
Frith shrugged. ‘We’ve been on the road for months. The last I heard, an enchantress had turned up in Ro Arnon. Something about Hounds around Ro Weir, but that wasn’t our problem. The king commands and we obey.’
Another man of Ro appeared. An old man, robed in brown and with an open, friendly face.
‘I may be able to offer some information,’ said brown robes, standing over the tall one’s right shoulder. ‘I was in Canarn more recently than Lady Bronwyn.’
‘And?’ prompted eyebrows.
‘Well, the reports were sketchy... and obviously my Lord Bromvy wasn’t first in line to receive any juicy information.’
‘Speak!’ said Frith, his bizarre eyebrows dancing about on his forehead.
Brown robes flapped a little, uncomfortable at the Red man’s tone.
‘Lanry,’ said the tall one, ‘anything you can offer would be helpful.’
‘Yes, I’m sure... just give me a moment, I am somewhat flustered by all this activity.’
He looked around the table for a spare seat. When he saw none, he looked imploringly at a nearby Red servant, lackey, bound man, Ro idiot – what was the correct term? wondered Fynius.
‘If you wouldn’t mind, dear chap,’ said brown robes, ‘the old legs let me down sometimes.’
A chair was placed next to the tall one and brown robes sat down with a weary grunt.
‘Please, brother, if you would,’ said eyebrows, rapidly losing patience.
‘Well, it appears that the Seven Sisters of Karesia are steadily annexing Tor Funweir. Bromvy had a... friend, called Nanon. He had ways of getting information. I think Hounds already occupy Ro Weir. That was... maybe six months ago.’
Bad news. For Fynius it was bad news. For the tall one and the eyebrows, it was terrible news.
‘Is Brom...’ began Lady Bronwyn. ‘Is he alive?’
Brown robes nodded. ‘Alive and well, last I saw. Nanon said he was waiting for someone called the Red Prince.’
‘That’s Alexander Tiris,’ offered the tall one. ‘Maybe some good news.’
‘Maybe,’ replied Frith suspiciously.
His eyebrows rose and fell in tune with his inner monologue. He was a general, a cardinal, an important man it seemed, and his country was fucked. At least Ranen was free of Hound influence.
Fynius frowned. He didn’t like feeling sympathy. Especially for a man, or cardinal, of Ro.
‘Bastards!’ spat eyebrows. ‘We’ve been dragged to this hole in the One God’s arse while they strut around Tor Funweir unopposed.’
He started muttering to himself. ‘Ten thousand men here. Maybe five still in Arnon, another three or four spread around the north. Some knights in Du Ban and Voy. A few holds, some yeomanry.’ He turned to the tall one. ‘How many Hawks does Xander have at Ro Haran?’
‘No idea. He hates the Red, remember,’ replied Fallon. ‘But if the Hounds have occupied Weir, there would have to be a lot of them... an awful lot of them.’
‘As I said,’ interjected Lady Bronwyn, ‘Tor Funweir could really use its Red general.’
The eyebrows puffed out his cheeks. ‘Months here, months back. We don’t even know how many men they’ve got or how far they’ve marched. Weir is on the other side of the fucking world from South Warden.’
‘You could go via Canarn,’ said the drunken one, his eyes unfocused. ‘There must be hundreds of ships along that coast.’
‘Best get going then,’ blurted out Fynius. ‘No time to waste.’
* * *
Some time after midnight Fynius was slouched against a tree in Brytag’s grove. He deserved a rest. Everyone was doing more or less what they were supposed to do. The tall one and the eyebrows were mustering the Red men, Lady Bronwyn and her Karesian pet were waiting impatiently to return to Canarn, and the Ranen had moved into the city. Rowanoco’s Stone was in ruins, but the rest was intact. The men and women of Scarlet had lost thousands, but they were tough, tougher than Fynius had expected. They would survive. They might even get tougher.
As for the Red men, they’d be themselves. They’d be Ro, but at least they remembered their god and they were getting the fuck out of Ranen. Ro Canarn wasn’t far, but it was far enough. If they reached Tor Funweir they might even make a difference. Probably not, though.
The World Raven hadn’t told him what would become of the Ro, whether they’d triumph or be crushed under the weight of the Dead God’s rising. He imagined that eyebrows and his men would put up a fair fight, given the chance. But those that think with their swords seldom prosper in the long run.
Fynius didn’t think with his sword. He didn’t really think with his head either. Things occurred to him and he acted on them. Others saw how often he was right and began to listen to him, to follow him, even to kill for him. Apparently, he was divinely inspired. In fact, he just listened to the voices rather than try to silence them. They spoke clearly if you gave them the chance.
Still, a shade would be useful. His thoughts were flighty and hard to marshal sometimes. With someone to converse with, his moves would be sharper and easier to explain to others.
As a biting breeze cut through the darkness, Fynius saw a figure emerge through the grove. He strode purposefully over the snow, though his feet left no prints. It was a young man with short, black, curly hair and a close-cut beard. He wore a longsword, topped with the well-made cast of a raven. His eyes were haunted and his clothing poor.
‘I am the shade of Bromvy Black Guard and you are the exemplar of Brytag.’
‘Finally,’ replied Fynius. ‘Though I suspect Lady Bronwyn will be a little upset.’
~
We hope you enjoyed this book.
The World Raven, the next gripping book in the Chronicles of the Long War will be released in summer 2016
For more information, click one of the links below:
Bestiary
Character Listing
Acknowledgements
About A.J. Smith
About the Chronicles of the Long War
An invitation from the publisher
BESTIARY
COMPANION WRITINGS ON BEASTS BOTH FABULOUS & FEARSOME
THE TROLLS OF FJORLAN, THE ICE MEN OF ROWANOCO
History does not record a time when the Ice Men did not prowl the wastes of Fjorlan. A constant hazard to common folk and warrior alike, the trolls are relentless eating machines; never replete, they consume rocks, trees, flesh and bone. A saying amongst the Order of the Hammer suggests that the only things they don’t eat are snow and ice, and that this is out of reverence for their father, the Ice Giant himself.
Stories from my youth speak of great ballistae, mounted on carts, used to fire thick wooden arrows in defence of settlements. The trolls were confused by bells attached to the arrows and would often wander off rather than attack. Worryingly, there are few records of men killing the Ice Men, and those that do exist speak of wily battle-brothers stampeding them off high cliffs.
In quiet moments, with only a man of the Hammer for company, I wonder if the Ice Men have more of a claim on this land than us.
From ‘Memories from a Hall’ by Alguin Teardrop Larsson,
first thain of Fredericksand
THE GORLAN SPIDERS
Of t
he beasts that crawl, swim and fly, none are as varied and unpredictable as the great spiders of Nar Gorlan. The northern men of Tor Funweir speak of hunting spiders, the size of large dogs, which carry virulent poisons and view men as just another kind of prey. Even the icy wastes of Fjorlan have trapdoor Gorlan, called ice spiders, which assail travellers and drain the body fluids from them.
However, none of these northerners know of the true eight-legged terror that exists in the world. These are great spiders, known in Karesia as Gorlan Mothers, which can – and indeed do – speak. Not actually evil, they nonetheless possess a keen intelligence and a loathing for all things with two legs.
Beyond the Gloom Gates is a land of web and poison, a land of fang and silence and a land where man should not venture.
From ‘Far Karesia: A Land of Terror’
by Marazon Vekerian, lesser vizier of Rikara
ITHQAS AND AQAS, THE BLIND AND MINDLESS KRAKENS OF THE FJORLAN SEA
It troubles me to write of the Kraken straits, for we have not had an attack for some years now and to do so would be like tempting fate. But I am the lore-master of Kalall’s Deep and it must fall to me.
There are remnants of the Giant age abroad in our world and, to the eyes of this old man, they should be left alone. Not only for the sake of safety, but to remind us all that old stories are more terrifying when drawn into reality.
But I digress. The Giants of the ocean were formless, if legend is to be believed, and travelled with the endless and chaotic waters wherever tide and wind took them.
As a cough in Deep Time, they rose up against the Ice Giants and were vanquished. The greatest of the number – near-gods themselves – had the honour of being felled by the great ice hammer of the Earth Shaker and were sent down to gnaw on rocks and fish at the bottom of the endless seas. The Blind Idiot Gods they were called when men still thought to name such things. But as ages passed and men forgot, they simply became the Krakens, very real and more than enough when seen to drive the bravest man to his knees in terror.
