Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth

by J. Kyle McNeal

  “How’s the cut?” Kutan asked.

  Whym was inspecting the gash on his arm. He grimaced as he yanked his sleeve free of the scab and rolled the material up to his shoulder. Fresh blood trickled down his arm and dripped off his elbow into the moist black dirt. The cut was deep, but not serious. “It’ll leave a sca—” He stopped. Kutan’s mood had improved so much, he didn’t want to risk spoiling it. He’d seen his friend tracing the horseshoe brands—at least the two he could reach—when he thought everyone else was sleeping.

  “It’s okay.” Kutan forced a pained smile. “What’s the saying? ‘Scars maketh the man.’”

  “I’m just glad you had the rope. If you hadn’t stopped me, there’d be a lot worse than a cut.”

  “If I’d not held the rope, there’d only be two of us left.” It was likely true. The fall could have been much, much worse.

  Chip-chip-chipperee.

  “I thought you said it would quit when we left the forest?” Kutan challenged Tedel.

  “It did.” Tedel pointed back toward the cliff where a red-tufted chattertail perched, watching them from a scraggly tree that clung precariously to the rock face. “It’s not made a peep since we started down.” He looked worried.

  Chip-chip-chipperee. The call sounded like it was coming from higher up, near where they started their descent.

  “You think someone’s following us?” Whym asked, concerned by the look on Tedel’s face. “The Forgotten Forest’s not a place where people just happen to travel.”

  “It’s a bird call.” Kutan pushed his neck until the bones yielded with a crack. He cracked the other side as well. “Nothing but a stupid bird call.”

  Tedel again scanned the cliff above. “Are we going to camp here?” The question sounded more like a plea to leave.

  Kutan swung his pack on in answer. “I don’t trust this river. Look at the banks. A good rain, and this whole area will flood. Better get to higher ground while we have light.”

  Chip-chip-chipperee.

  They all—even Kutan—looked back at the sound. “You hear something?” Tedel asked, his eyes returning once more to the top of the cliff.

  “Yeah, rushing water and an obnoxious bird. Let’s go.” Kutan headed away from the river and the Mysts. Whym was pleased to follow.

  The Mysts, Chapter 43

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  It Is Better To Be Feared Than Loved

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  The blooming spring,

  The birth of a child,

  The life-bringing rain on desert sand,

  .

  These things are cheered,

  Applauded and feted

  In every place, cross every land.

  .

  The cold hungry winter,

  The last gasping breath,

  The all-consuming rage of fire,

  .

  These things are feared,

  Reviled and hated,

  But life doth death require.

  .

  Death is undying

  It is better to be feared than loved.

  .

  —Unknown

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  The Mysts

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  As Smeit spun the fog through the trees and hills, the fetid water sloshed against his body—against skin cracked and stiff with disuse. He’d grown lazy, or perhaps it was less laziness than the product of an unyielding boredom that left him bereft of pleasure. Whatever the cause, existence was a chore. He’d slipped into a state of near-hibernation, doing only what was necessary to fulfill his basest needs.

  He lured all manner of creatures—deer, rats, birds, lizards—into his lair within the Mysts. Their deaths sustained him, but provided no enjoyment. Unlike other predators, he didn’t hunger for flesh. He hungered for revenge.

  Smeit craved death—extinguishing the power innate in every living thing, the power the Makers had used to create life. He was a Maker himself. Long ago, when the inchoate world was being separated into many lands, he’d created a land of balance and beauty. Yet his creation, lacking a creature akin to the seven great races, had been judged unworthy. He’d been deemed unworthy. The Makers of the seven races had moved on to a new world, consigning Smeit and the other lesser Makers to the role of caretaker. When they’d left, he’d vowed to instead destroy what they’d built, using the seven great races as his tools of destruction.

  When, over the ages, the borders separating the lands had weakened, Man had spread across the world. Though some of the lesser Makers had tried to repel the men who’d settled their lands, most Makers had sought influence, positioning themselves as gods to be worshipped. Some had transformed themselves into idols, so the men who worshipped them could carry them like seeds to be planted. Others had been content to be worshipped by only the few who discovered them. Smeit, as well, sought influence. But to him, securing men’s worship was but a method to focus them, like a hammer drives a nail.

  When the men of Old Allyria had found his land, Smeit had released his bond with his own land, freeing him to return with them to their homeland. Over time, he’d co-opted the Allyrian Code, changing it gradually, until they’d placed his altar next to that of their creator, Jah, and had worshipped them both with equal fervor. Then he’d rewarded their devotion, leading them to conquest, generation after generation. They’d conquered; he’d vanquished the Makers of the conquered lands. One by one, lesser Makers had become his victims, and he’d driven four of the seven races to extinction. Only Man, the Stewards, and the Dragons remained.

  Despite his many successes with the Allyrians, though, after he first encountered the Dragons in the Land of Amon, Smeit had forsaken his long-time followers. He’d been seduced by the Dragons’ destructive potential, and had tried to manipulate them as he had the Allyrians for countless generations. It had been a grave mistake. The Allyrians had bowed to Smeit’s prowess. The Dragons recognized Smeit’s strength, but were too headstrong and independent to be led. Instead of heeding his advice to drive first Man, then the Stewards, from the land, they’d attacked them both, creating an alliance between the two races.

  Smeit had taught the Allyrians how to forge metal. The Stewards had shown them how to use it to kill Dragons. The alliance had turned the tide of the struggle, and the Dragons had been forced to retreat from the Land of Amon. Defeated, Smeit had returned to the Allyrian conquerors, who’d surprised him by rejoicing at the reunion instead of dwelling on his betrayal. Under his renewed guidance, the Allyrians had spread rapidly—transforming forests into farmland, rivers into lakes. The Stewards, unable to maintain the harmony for which they strived, had abandoned their homeland and holed up in the Crags. If only the Allyrians had shown patience, the Stewards would have been the fifth race eradicated.

  But success breeds pride, and the Allyrians, too, had ignored his guidance and overreached. They’d tricked the Stewards with deceit and massacred them as they slept. Smeit had had nothing to do with that treachery, but the Stewards, bitter over his involvement with the Dragons, had blamed him anyway. The surviving Stewards had shaken the Allyrian structures to rubble, then washed the people out to sea with waves that had swallowed whole regions. Then they’d imprisoned Smeit, rooting his legs in the stinking muck of the Mysts.

  In the swamp, time itself was also stuck. There was light and dark—or, more precisely, dark and darker—but no seasons with which to measure change. The bubbling sulphur ponds fed the swamps with a constant damp warmth, so the Mysts remained unaffected by the changing weather of the surrounding areas.

  But the men of Jah were like weeds in a garden, a testament to Jah’s genius. Though ripped from the ground like weeds, like weeds they returned. Once the briny water evaporated, men repopulated the flooded regions,
and Smeit was rediscovered. As word of his presence spread, the remaining Allyrians, led by the brothers of the Oracle of Bothera, had sought him out. Under his guidance, Bothera had grown and prospered.

  But then the Faerie had appeared. Although at first they’d been too much like the Stewards—seeking harmony in all things—he’d foreseen great potential in the mongrel race, an intriguing blend of Jah and Amon. Again, he’d forsaken his Allyrian devotees to champion a more powerful tool—a tool he hoped would one day free him from the Stewards’ swampy prison.

  With access to the ears of the Faerie leaders, over time, he’d shifted their mindset, teaching them that they were superior to common men. He’d convinced them they were meant to rule, with men fit only to serve. With his assistance, they’d divided the land into nine kingdoms and ruled absolutely. But again, success had bred pride. They’d quit seeking his counsel and fought among themselves. Worse, they’d underestimated the men they’d enslaved. Assisted by Faerie who’d rejected Smeit, these men rose up against the Faerie and banished them beyond the Barren Plains.

  Once again, Smeit had been forced to start anew. He missed the Faerie even more than he missed the Dragons. Their magic made them interesting—and delicious. But they were gone, and only men were left. He found the prospect of championing the few surviving Allyrians in Bothera unappealing. They’d squandered their chance. Instead, he’d set his sights on the emerging power in the land—the Council of Truth. As he’d done ages before when he’d manipulated the Allyrian Code and sent the followers of Jah on a spree of conquest, he’d planned to again appropriate Jah’s message. He’d resolved to make the Truth his own.

  Imprisoned far from Riverbend, though, Smeit had found progress to be excruciatingly slow, even for one as far-seeing and patient as he. He’d worked for generations to achieve only a modicum of influence among the Council of Truth. Not until the Reformers Rebellion had he taken control. In those five turns of conflict, he’d accomplished more than over the twelve previous generations. But he was still disenchanted. Despite their increasing influence and their dominance over the other lords of the Council, Smeit found the Fens the least of the creatures he’d championed.

  Fetor, Chapter 44

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  The Monster In The Mysts

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  Most trav’lers’ tales are far from true,

  From sounds in the night they were weaved.

  I’ve journeyed far and found but few

  Of these stories should be believed.

  Gremlins, goblins, and elves and sprites,

  I’ve sought in the land far and wide,

  But not once have I set my sights

  On creatures these stories decried.

  Not bogles, nymphs, nor imps I’ve found,

  Not sirens, nor satyrs, nor gnomes.

  No surprise, ghosts only abound

  Where creaks of old boards make their homes.

  But monsters are real, this I know.

  In mist a monster abided,

  In a swamp where once I did go,

  Ne’er to return I decided.

  The gray fog did nightmares beget.

  Though unseen, a foul soul exists.

  I smelled the death, I felt the threat.

  A monster awaits in the Mysts.

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  —Amin Strell

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  Fetor

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  “I don’t like the look of this place.” The crumbling village reminded Whym too much of Aldhaven. The shadows thrown by the late afternoon sun made it even creepier.

  “What did you expect of a village bordering the Mysts?” Kutan kept walking, leading the way. “The only people who’d live here are those who can’t live elsewhere.”

  At some point between the edge of the Forgotten Forest and the climb down the cliff, Kutan had reassumed his position as leader. Whym was glad. He liked Tedel, but the Faerie was neither tracker nor soldier. To his credit, Tedel seemed relieved to relinquish the role.

  “What do you mean? What’s to stop them from leaving?” Whym asked.

  Kutan returned the expression he reserved for dumb questions unworthy of answers. The area was ungoverned, far from the populated regions of the Lost Land. For generations it had been a place where deserters or outlaws could flee. Though from the stories Whym knew, death might be preferable to living in the swampy refuge.

  “But doesn’t it remind you of—” Whym started to mention Aldhaven, but Kutan’s glare stopped him. Despite the daily improvement in Kutan’s mood, the memories from their captivity still troubled him. He only spoke of that period when in the grip of the nightmares that stalked his sleep.

  The town, if it could still be called that, was being swallowed by a jungle of vines that spread across every structure in sight. Some of the vines were the width of full-grown trees, and looked like giant tentacles pulling the crumbling buildings back into the earth. If not for the wear on the trail and the rising smoke, Whym would have thought the town abandoned. When Tedel had spotted the fires, Whym had expected huts, not ruins. It made no sense to find two-story buildings so far from everything. “Who’d have built a proper town in this place?” he asked as they crept through the overgrown paths that had been streets.

  “Them who built it done gone,” a voice answered from above. Whym and Kutan drew their swords as they all three searched for the source.

  “Where are you?” Kutan demanded. “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” Their heads swung toward the direction of the voice just in time to glimpse a filthy face and tangled brown hair duck behind a vine growing through a second-story window of the building to their left.

  “Explorers,” Kutan replied. “Adventurers come to study the Mysts. We mean no harm. Just looking for someone who knows the area.” Kutan sheathed his sword and motioned for Whym to do the same.

  The face reappeared. “Ain’t nobody knows better than me.” Whym noticed several more sets of eyes peering at them from the surrounding buildings.

  “I’m Kutan. These are my assistants.”

  “Weevil.” The speaker stood so his body could be seen over the vine.

  He’s only a boy! The dirt on his face had concealed his age, but based on his body, Whym guessed Weevil was no older than eleven or twelve turns. He was short—at least two hands shorter than Whym—and scrawny, with protruding rib bones.

  The boy slid down the vine and landed with a thump. “I’m king here in Fetor.” He stepped toward them, skinny chest puffed out, but remained safely out of reach. The owners of the other eyes had started to show themselves as well—emerging from the buildings in which they’d hidden, brandishing sharpened sticks. None looked older than Weevil; most were younger.

  “Your Grace.” Weevil’s brown eyes lit up as Kutan bowed his head. “It’s most fortunate we found you. Would you mind if we picked your brain?”

  The boy flinched as if he’d been stung. The other boys pointed their sticks threateningly.

  “Ask questions,” Kutan corrected, hands held palms out

  in front of his chest. “Just an expression that means ‘ask you

  questions.’”

  The boy eyed him suspiciously. “You got food?”

  “Some.” Kutan didn’t elaborate.

  Weevil looked at their packs, then started down the road they’d been traveling—the path leading toward the spiraling smoke—and waved his arm for them to follow. As they walked, the other boys followed. Whym counted their number. Twenty-one. Seven each, should it come to that.

  “Your Grace—” Kutan had closed the gap, so he was walking beside the boy. “How is it you came to be king here in Fetor? Was your father king before you?”

  Weevil sto
pped abruptly. He spit on the ground, then scraped dirt over the spit with his foot. “I’m king ‘cause I’m immoral. Means I cain’t be killed.”

  “Is that so?” Kutan raised an eyebrow as he caught Whym’s gaze. “I’ve never met someone who can’t be killed.”

  “My mum done tried her all to get rid of me when I was in her belly, but I come out kickin’ ’n screamin’ no matter. She didn’t stop, neither. When I growed up some, she throwed me in the river. I was hardly walkin’.”

  “And you survived?” Kutan played along.

  “Nobody but silver robes come back from the swamp. But the Master of Death knowed I was special.” Weevil held his chin high and pushed his thumb into his chest. “Next mornin’ I come toddlin’ right back. Least tha’s what I’m telled. I was too little to remember.”

  “Is that why they named you king?” Kutan probed.

  Weevil looked at Kutan like a dog guarding a bone when another dog comes sniffing. “Why you so int’rested? Thinkin’ you’d like to be king?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not fit to be a king like you,” he flattered the boy. “But as an explorer, I’m the curious type.”

  Weevil nodded, satisfied by the explanation. Every few steps, though, he checked to make sure no one was following too closely. “Them fellas don’t talk much, huh?” He dipped his head toward Whym and Tedel.

  “Had to whip’em into shape, but they know their place now.” Kutan gave a look Whym interpreted to mean he expected them to maintain their silence. “Have to do the same to yours?”

  “Nah,” Weevil answered, but gave no indication how he kept order.

  While Kutan spoke with the self-professed king, Whym watched the boys behind him, fingering the hilt of his sword as he walked. The sharpened sticks they carried might look like playthings, but they could do real damage.

  “Whoa, what’s that?” Kutan blurted as they turned a corner and the path opened into a square ahead of them. In the middle, taller than any of the buildings around it, stood an enormous carved stone statue.