by A. J. Ponder
The ships of power that sail the world.
If it haunts thee
This prophecy
Perhaps it is merely an Omen of things to come.
Tishke’s Prophecy: Beware
“Ruler’s robes in the dust
Crown upon the ground.
Heed the death of a country...”
“Beware the ruler that will tread
Down dark alleyways
Of dread
To seek salvation
And find only death
Gods Worshiped:
The God of War
The God of Death: A Blood Oath is sworn to this god who is supposedly directly connected to the Realm of Death.
The God of Pestilence
The God of Disease
The Harvester: Not associated with death, but life, food, celebrations and luck.
The Maiden: The God of beauty and Love and Compassion.
The Mother: The God of fertility.
Omens
Prologue
Looking into the past holds dangers unmeasured
Worst of all, you may find the truth — Potsie
Facing the bitter wind, Maey took a pail and strode out into the morning light, watery frost seeping into her ill-made shoes as she cut a green swathe across the grass.
Daisy was already at her milking post, swishing her tail irritably, udder bloated with milk. She mooed deep and loud.
“Hold on now, Daisy, it’s barely morning. What’s got you in such a hurry?” Maey lilted, using her best soothing voice. “Now, wait a moment.”
She tethered Daisy firmly and opened the gate; it would be no good if a hoof scuttled the pail in the middle of milking. She’d get a beating from Father then, sure as milk was milk, and eggs was eggs.
Thinking of her father wasn’t a good idea. Only yesterday he’d called her slug-a-bed and, in a fit of temper, added more jobs to her already-busy day. Daisy liked calm.
Maey breathed deep. There was the usual cow smell, but as she pressed her face up close to Daisy’s side, she was overwhelmed by the pungent, fishy smell. Something wrong. Daisy’s udder was wrong, too. Hard and bunched. Maey tried to ease the knotted flesh, softly, gently, bending to see how far the mastitis had spread. It was bad, very bad—and that smell…
“Good, Daisy, good girl. We can do this,” Maey said, trying to slow her own rapidly-beating heart and project calm the way her mother taught her.
Daisy lowed gently, her breath coming in plumes of mist.
Desperation slowly mounting, Maey continued kneading gently to clear the infection as best she could. The milk would be unusable, but Maey didn’t want to think about that. Not yet.
Daisy mooed, her whole body shaking violently. This time there was nothing mellow about the tone at all. It rose to a bellow of fear that would surely have been heard back at the farmhouse.
“Hush.” Maey patted Daisy’s nose.
The cow began to shake and thrash. Her heavy neck jerked to and fro as her legs kicked out, crumpling the milk bucket beneath her hooves.
A trickle of foul-smelling milk formed a puddle on the grass.
Terrified, Maey ran—head down, feet kicking. Her only thought to get away from the maddened cow, she plunged right into her father.
He grabbed her and shook. Hard. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“There’s something wrong with Daisy!” Maey shouted, trying to pull away. Fearing the beating she’d surely get.
Maey’s father’s iron grip was unrelenting. He dragged her back to Daisy, and dropped her on the frost-soaked grass.
Her father scowled, turning his attention to the family’s only cow.
Daisy’s eyes bulged. Her tongue poked stiffly from her mouth, her lead tugging at the half-uprooted fence.
“How could you have let her get into such a state!” he hollered, not asking. He took his knife and cut Daisy free from her tether, before slashing at her throat—once, twice.
Blood pumped from the wound into the slick of rotten milk. Daisy’s dead body threshed violently.
Maey screamed, eyes wide.
There was a crunching snap of vertebrae, and Daisy slowly collapsed like a badly-animated puppet whose strings had finally, mercifully, been severed.
§
“Oh gods, what’ve you done now?” Maey’s father implored. “How are we going to eat? Why didn’t you say—”
Maey wasn’t listening. She lay on the grass, eyes rolling back into her head, limbs thrashing in an evil parody of the unfortunate cow’s fate.
“Don’t play games with me, girl,” he said in a tone that might have carried true menace, if the words hadn’t caught in his throat.
Perhaps she’s fainted. He strode over to deliver the requisite remedy—and stopped in his tracks.
His daughter’s eyes flew open—white and sightless.
She opened her mouth—a thin scream emerged. It went on and on.
“Please stop,” he begged, staggering back and pushing his hands against his ears, unable to block out the dreadful sound. “Stop. Please stop.”
But she did not. Not as he picked her up by the collar. Not when he slapped her face. Or cursed. Or implored the many gods. Not until, at his wits’ end, he cried, “In the Maiden’s name, get thee hence. Depart!” Only then did Maey slump—still and senseless in his arms, barely breathing.
He carried her inside, barging past his wife who stood at the threshold wringing her hands on her greying apron, and laid Maey on a pallet near the fire. “Our only cow is dead of an evil blight. Whatever it had, I fear it now lies in Maey. Stay here, and keep an eye on her. I’ll go to the village for protection. Do not let her leave the house, even should she wake.”
§
His wife nodded. He was not a bad man, harsh but fair. He took nothing with him but his staff and a leather cloak. The village was a day’s walk away, but her old man would not be walking. He would run.
A few steps down the path, he turned back and shouted, “Burn the cow.”
Words of protest died on her lips. It was a terrible waste, but her husband was right. It must be done. Tears pricked her eyes as she watched him leave. She could not do both, tend the girl and burn the cow—and yet both must be done.
She prayed to the gods to look after her daughter and then ran out to destroy their only cow.
When she returned, Maey turned to her with wild, bright eyes. A muffled whisper crept through cracked lips. “It was an Omen, Mother.”
§
Omens
Out of small things is terror made.
Spilt milk and broken mirrors,
Something lurking in the shade.
PART I
SPILT MILK
Out of Small Things Terror is Made[80]
O, heed all ye of weak stomachs and uneasy constitutions,
Despair rides the world on the shoulders of unbridled power
Sylvalla sat ramrod straight, pretending not to notice the way the crowd gasped “omen” at every ridiculous story of two-headed sheep, spoiled milk, and missing livestock.
There were too many powerful people in the court who wanted to see her fail—and the more powerful they were, the more they hated her for taking the Scotch Mist throne from Phetero. She needed to prove her worth. To do that, she had to ignore the backstabbing sycophants and all the other distractions, and focus on the things that mattered: the soldiers who’d never come back from the war and were creating havoc out in the countryside; and the rumours that a powerful magician had taken over the Scotch Mist thieves’ guild, aiming to take both Avondale and Scotch Mist.
The Goodfellows had assured Sylvalla that Dothie was safely locked up at Bairnsley University. Could there be two powerful wizards out to destroy her kingdoms? Hopefully not, but there was no question that the thieves’ guild was escalating its jewellery thefts, extortion, and murders.
If only Dirk had been able to smoke them out. If only I could join him.
“Your Majesty,
the last petitioner is Granny Earwax of Highvalley Farms.”
Thank goodness.
An old woman shuffled forward, leaning heavily on her crudely-carved walking stick. She had a terrible hunch, her rheumy eyes half-hidden by her wild grey hair.
Sylvalla leaned forward to hear the old woman, who coughed and choked, rasping something about her crops, or perhaps the weather.
“The cold. Can you not feel the cold?” Granny Earwax said. Her eyes staring at something nobody else could see, she lifted a white-knuckled hand from the walking stick and pointed a gnarled finger at Sylvalla. Her voice rose to a shriek. “It is unseen and creeps into your very bones. Awake!”
The court erupted, the clamour so loud nobody heard Sylvalla exclaim, “Not another one.”
“Open your eyes to…to…” The crone gasped, clutching her throat, her eyes bulging hideously from their sockets. Desperately, her mouth formed silent words, her fingers clutched the air, and she toppled senseless to the ground.
Sylvalla rushed over, but a burly guard got there first. The old lady tried to whisper something to him.
“She wants to talk to you, Your Majesty.”
Sylvalla’s advisors waggled their heads, but Sylvalla wasn’t frightened of one little old woman. She bent down to hear what the old lady was saying.
The words were paper thin.
“Mighty are the fallen three
“Death stalks, evil walks,
“My words,
“My gift to thee.”
As the old lady spoke her final words, she gripped Sylvalla’s hand and stared at her with sightless eyes. It was clear the old dear was dying, and that she meant every word.
If Sylvalla closed her eyes, she could still see serpentine tentacles dragging a shadowy bundle and flinging the substanceless darkness over the edge of the abyss, into the world.
Maybe the omens are real.
Sylvalla’s mind shied from the thought. Keep it together. Isn’t Granny Earwax’s death tragedy enough?
Sylvalla
NAME:Queen Sylvalla Willetta Orlanda Roseblossom Dalrella
of the Kingdoms of Avondale and Scotch Mist.
CLASS:Ruler
FAMILIAR:Thunderbolt
SPECIALTY:Swordfighting
RÉSUMÉ:Sylvalla is known for killing the dragon Asumgeld, but among the aristocracy she is best known for her complete lack of courtly skills, and being married to Prince Francis of Havondale—Avondale’s much fêted and beloved hero and dragon-slayer.
Sylvalla’s unseemly behaviour is better tolerated in Scotch Mist—despite her attack on their country, usurpation of their throne, and her involvement in the death of their king. She is, for reasons unapparent to any educated person, extremely popular among the common folk. Although some blame her for an increase in souring milk, broken mirrors and the like, most point the finger at their former king, Phetero. It probably helped that Queen Sylvalla put out an effective propaganda campaign outlining Scotch Mist’s former king’s worship of demons and demigods. Now she spends very little time in Avondale, largely leaving that kingdom to the beloved Grehaum the Wise, and her dashing husband, Francis.
Sylvalla spends most of her time with the well-known swordsman, Dirk, and Torri, her part-time lady’s maid, who is best known for her towering chunkers, enormous siege engines that throw boulders large enough to destroy castle walls.
PASSED: Killing, Sword Fighting, Hand-to-hand Combat & Archery. Under protest she also managed to scrape through: Diplomacy, Deportment, Reading, Writing & Arithmetic. (Arithmetic being a fancy word for a subject that is little more than bookkeeping and so shouldn’t be confused with the more advanced magmatical concepts expected of wizards.)
Sylvalla woke drenched in sweat. Muffled footsteps echoed outside her door and she tumbled out of bed, clutching her new sword, Dragontooth.
Invaders? Murderers?
Her heart hammered. She didn’t remember wishing for excitement. Wanting it, but not wishing for it. It felt like she’d been shut up in Scotch Mist forever, when she’d only just made it back from her latest trip to Avondale. If only being a queen required less time cooped up settling disputes in court and more time out traversing the countryside. If only the talk of omens wasn’t getting to her.
Someone knocked at the door. “It’s only me,” Torri said.
“And Dirk,” Dirk said, squeezing his whip-thin frame through the door.[81]
“I hope you don’t mind, Miss, Queen Miss. I heard the yelling and—is it nightmares again, Miss?” Torri asked.
Sylvalla slumped back on her bed. “I’m not sure why my dreams of butterflies should be so frightening, but the blasted creatures seem to carry death and chaos on their wings, tearing all the Seven Kingdoms apart.”
“Well, that’s cheery,” Dirk said. “Do you think we should go back to Avondale again?” He grinned. “Avondale’s cook always has the best food.”
“I don’t know,” Sylvalla replied. “I do think it’s strange we’ve been in Scotch Mist so long and yet there’ve been no mists. Sometimes I dream the mists have turned into demons. Other times, I wake and expect to be choking in one, but there’s been no sign of the famous mist since we attacked.”
Dirk shrugged. “Maybe they were caused by a magical object that Phetero or Dothie removed from the castle. We should be thankful they’re gone.”
“Maybe…”
“Surely there’re other things to worry about?” Torri asked unhelpfully. “What about those thieves Dirk’s supposed to be catching? The court is saying that you don’t care if Scotch Mist farmers die.”
Dirk glared at Torri. “Those thieves are slippery as eels. And my job is protecting Queen Sylvalla. Can’t someone else be hunting turnip thieves and cattle rustlers?”
“No, Torri’s right,” Sylvalla said. “I wouldn’t want to get rusty by not adventuring enough…”
“What?” Torri said. “That’s not what I was saying…I was saying Dirk—”
“Good plan,” Dirk said. “Everyone’s happy if we both go.”
“Except Sylvalla’s mother,” Torri pointed out.
“I’m a warrior princess. Whatever I do will make her unhappy.”
“You’re a warrior queen now,” Dirk said. “You don’t have to make everyone happy.”
Francis burst through the door carrying a silver bowl piled high with dark-red sorbet. “So the guards were right. What are you deciding without me?”
“We’re going to hunt raiders. Don’t lose my kingdom while I’m gone.”
Francis nodded. “So long as you don’t die and leave me running two kingdoms.”
“We’ll be fine,” Sylvalla said. “A bit of fresh air will do us good. Ah—” Time to change the conversation. “What’s that you’re eating?”
“Plum sorbet,” Francis said.
Sylvalla shivered. “I don’t know how you can eat ice in the middle of winter.”
Francis laughed. “Talking about winter, the Scotch Mist Mountains have treacherous footing for horses this time of year.”
“Fine, stable boy,” Sylvalla joked. “I promise to look after Thunderbolt.”
“Why are you calling the prince of Havondale a stable boy?” Torri asked.
“Ah—” Sylvalla bit her tongue. She’d forgotten Torri knew nothing of how Francis had escaped his old life as an unappreciated and abused young stable boy with only the tiniest bit of encouragement from a young and naive princess. Worse, it wasn’t a story she could tell, it wasn’t part of his legend as Prince of Havondale, mighty hero. “It’s um, he’s—”
“It’ll be easier to pick up small groups of troublemakers,” Dirk interrupted, “if we’re not parading around on horses.”
Francis raised an eyebrow. “And Amarinda? Sylvalla, you can’t go without a chaperone, and you can’t expect a lady of the court to walk.”
“Amarinda insisted on staying on in Avondale and looking after the wounded until they were back on their feet, so I guess I’ll take Torri—that oug
ht to keep Mother and those wretched advisors happy. And you’ll walk, won’t you, Torri?”
Torri rolled her eyes. “I guess this is my fault for volunteering to take Amarinda’s place. But don’t be expecting me to be making no people traps for you, or nothing.”
Dirk shrugged. “Only if you want to save lives.”
“What are you talking about?” Sylvalla said. “We’re going after a handful of bandits. How difficult can that be?”
Francis laughed so hard he dropped his sorbet. It spattered like gore.
Sylvalla turned to her companions. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. It was not an omen.”
Emz’rial’s Fundamental Theory of Chaos
Deep in the shadows are the twin misconceptions
That which is unseen and can’t be seen
And that which can be seen and is unseen
Arrant
NAME: Arrant.
CLASS: Thief. Motivated by the lack of pay and prospects in his erstwhile profession of Village Idiot, Arrant has moved on from this career and turned to crime to make something of himself.
FAMILIAR: None.
SPECIALTY:Whistling and daydreaming.
RÉSUMÉ:Failed to do anything interesting in his early years except being pretty good at all sorts of Avoidance. Things like getting out of work, getting out of the way of accurately-thrown objects, failing to face up to the truth about anything, and shrinking from using his brains for anything other than the task of avoidance. Except for one notable exception—the pursuit of magic.
Despite originally looking for a respectable career, Arrant fell in with Bad Company, notably the wizard, Dothie, and has never looked back.
PASSED:Nothing.
Arrant cradled his favourite book, Emz’rial’s Fundamental Theory of Chaos in his hand.
He liked the colour plates of gem-encrusted butterfly-shaped trinkets, but they were nothing compared to the notes written alongside. Notes about how to create these masterpieces and use them to trap a person’s soul so they would do your bidding. Even better was the power that it promised—the power of the gods themselves.
