Song of Sundering

by A. R. Clinton

  Copyright © 2021 by A. R. Clinton & Dark Matter Publishing.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Song of Sundering

  Sundering Series, Book One

  A. R. Clinton

  Edited by

  Leslie Watts

  Leslie,

  Thanks for helping me unleash my solar system ending contagion of creativity on the world.

  Jimmie,

  Thanks for aiding & supporting me spelunking through the caverns of madness and funsies.

  Contents

  Prologue

  After the Dust Settles

  I. The Birth of a Discipline

  1. James

  2. Shara

  3. Ayna

  4. Hafi

  5. Tani

  6. Ayna

  7. Tani

  8. Fiher

  9. Shara

  10. Ayna

  11. Hafi

  12. Shara

  13. Ayna

  14. Tani

  15. Ayna

  16. Hafi

  17. Ayna

  18. Shara

  19. Fiher

  II. The Price of Power

  20. Kingston

  21. James

  22. Shara

  23. Fiher

  24. Hafi

  25. James

  26. Ayna

  27. Tani

  28. Shara

  29. Fiher

  30. James

  31. Shara

  32. Ayna

  33. Fiher

  34. Tani

  35. Hafi

  36. Ayna

  37. Shara

  38. James

  39. Shara

  40. Hafi

  41. Tani

  42. Ayna

  43. James

  44. Shara

  45. Fiher

  46. Hafi

  47. Tani

  48. Ayna

  49. Shara

  50. Fiher

  51. Shara

  52. Tani

  53. Ayna

  54. Tani

  55. Ayna

  56. Hafi

  57. Ayna

  58. Tani

  59. Shara

  60. Fiher

  61. Tani

  62. Ayna

  63. Shara

  64. Hafi

  65. Ayna

  66. Shara

  67. Tani

  68. Kingston

  III. Progression And Regression

  69. Shara

  70. James

  71. Shara

  72. Hafi

  73. Tani

  74. Ayna

  75. Jon

  76. Ayna

  77. Tani

  78. Hafi

  79. James

  80. Fiher

  81. Tani

  82. Hafi

  83. Kingston

  84. Tani

  85. Vin

  86. Tani

  87. Fiher

  88. Yorgen

  89. Shara

  Thanks for reading Song of Sundering!

  Also by A. R. Clinton

  Prologue

  The dark song is rising

  The blood in the heart of the mountain

  Resonates in stone and spire

  Echoing throughout the infinite

  From the encrypted journal of Kingston Cross, 84 AS

  After the Dust Settles

  209 AS (After Sundering)

  It had been thirty years since Holt went through his Initiation, but looking at the cautious faces around him, he remembered every second, the pulling and tugging on his organs and the burning pain consuming his body—It was all they had to look forward to.

  The five children, forming a half circle around him, looked up at him with eager eyes. At eight years of age, each one was deadly—more deadly than most grown men left in the array of worlds his kind guarded. He knew most would die in their Trials and not even see Initiation.

  He took a moment to survey the land around them and was pleased to see them turn their heads and observe.

  "Laila, what do you see?"

  She was the smallest of the group and the quietest. She never spoke unless asked, but beneath her shyness lay the most gifted of the children. She was a Second Blood, like him.

  Her deep blue eyes stared into him, her long silver hair curling around her face creating a strong contrast from the near black matte armor that wrapped around her, as if forged to her body rather than being part of it. Seeming to see his intention to bring her into the group, she rejected it with a nod and kept her response short and to the point. She raised her arm to point at the rock formations behind Holt, "Creation—manipulation."

  The red rock rose from what looked like craters in the ground, twisting like a wet rag. The loops and whirls from its forming motion rose seven feet in the air, ending in a spike. Time had worn it down, but even after a hundred years, it was deadly. The top of the formation was a darker red than the rest of the rocks.

  "Chaman, what is the significance of this?"

  The tall Illara boy looked surprised, "This was the ambush that started the First War."

  Holt nodded, "Yes, but why do we come here? Why do we study it?"

  Chaman squirmed and the girl next to him, Serra, sighed, "We study it because this is the Origin of the First Blood. The war made her, and she made us. Without this, we would not be Palors."

  Holt nodded again, "Yes, but why do we care? Isn't it just ancient history?"

  Sera huffed, "We care because we guard the balance of the worlds. Without knowing the story of when they were unbalanced, how can we prevent it from happening again?"

  "Good." Holt turned and walked through the source-forged stone, waving for the children to follow. Approaching the nearest twisted stone, he reached out and placed his hand upon it. The children gathered around and did the same. "Close your eyes. This rock has a story to tell. Find it."

  Obedience was the first thing they learned; they all closed their eyes and fell silent. He heard the shift in each one's breathing as they each found the answer he had asked them to seek. Laila was the first to settle into the slow, deep breaths as she attuned herself to the formation. There was a catch and a near inaudible gasp. Good. She opened her eyes and dropped her hand back to her side, standing quietly while the others searched.

  After each child had finished the task, they gathered in front of him. Holt turned again to Laila, "Tell us the story."

  "It was cold that night. The rock was part of the shelf, until it was ripped apart—into dust—then put back together, forming the sharp section first and the rest behind it, thrusting it up into the air. It happened so suddenly, the guards couldn't get out of the way. The dark sections are from the blood of the soldier that stood on the ground as it collapsed beneath him, then impaled him. The blood mixed into the stone as the source remade it."

  Holt heard Chaman sigh. He had likely not realized the blood was the reason the top of the stone was a deeper red. He said nothing to the children, but turned to look over the field before them. He knew they were looking too, seeing the story of the stone repeated all around them. The field stretched in front of them for several hundred feet, just as wide as it was deep and filled with the strange formations. Where one crater ended, the next began.

  The silence pressed against them for several minutes. Behind him, he heard a shuffle. One of them was growing bored. Likely Chaman. He emphasized the point of what they saw, "How many died here? How many sisters, brothers, fathers, and mothers bled into this stone, Chaman?"


  "Um, a thousand?"

  Holt held in the growl of impatience that threatened to escape, "I asked how many died here, not to guess how many source formations there are. Sera, you will probably interrupt anyway. Do you know the answer?"

  "One thousand, two hundred and fifty-one."

  "Chaman, you get another chance. How many lives were lost in the war that followed?"

  He heard the shuffling behind him again, but eventually Chaman answered, "Ninety-six thousand, three hundred and six."

  "Good. You get another, Chaman. This one is easy. How many people do you love?"

  "Well, my family and my two best friends and—"

  "I want a number not a list."

  He heard the boy's shoes scraping over the stones again.

  "Um, seventeen."

  "Each of you, come up with your number of everyone you love. Picture their faces." He waited a minute for the children to conjure up their loved ones inside their minds. "Leila, how many died in both the wars and the Sundering combined?"

  Holt had barely asked the question when Leila answered in a quiet but clear and firm voice, "Sixty-two billion, seven hundred and ninety-seven million, eight hundred and twenty-five thousand, five hundred and seventeen."

  He said nothing and let the number hang over the children as they looked at the spire filled valley. He wanted them to feel the weight of death. It was an important lesson to learn before they were free to kill.

  I

  The Birth of a Discipline

  133 Years Earlier

  69 A.S.

  1

  James

  James kept his head under the blanket. He could not see any better in the darkness when he dared to peer out of it. But, it was warm. It was a barrier. It suffocated him in its safety. Papa had headed out with the other men to check the fields. James had never known that a cow could scream, but they could, and they had tonight. Not long after he had heard the pitiful yelp, someone had knocked on the door. There were many sharp, hurried whispers between the adults. He knew their attempts to be quiet was because the adults believed he was sleeping, so he stayed still and pretended. His father had gone to grab his shotty and his coat, then left.

  James knew his mother was there, sitting with a view out of the window. Waiting. He wanted to crawl up into her lap and sleep against her chest, but he could feel her tension filling the room. She would hold him gently, rock him softly, whisper kind words to him and put him back into bed to return to her worry-filled vigil. So he stayed in bed. Best not to make her worry about him not sleeping on top of worrying for papa.

  He lay as still as his little restless body would let him. He was grateful that his father was not the one left at home. His Illara father likely knew James was still awake before he had left. The sense the Illara shared with each other and their Inari children was a strong bond. James shared the same bond with his mother, but it was one way. He could feel her, sense her thoughts at times, but she was oblivious to it. Without facial expressions and gestures in the dark room, she was unaware of what her son was experiencing in his bed in the far corner.

  He closed his eyes, reached out mentally and felt for his mother. He found her in his mind, just as he had sensed. He held her there in a youthful hug and found that she relaxed slightly. The air in the room around him, even under the blanket, felt lighter. He smiled softly to himself and leaned into the mental image further. He slowly began to drift off to sleep.

  The scream woke him up. It was close. Closer than the fields. He sat up in bed. He was covered in sweat, even though the night was not very warm. He could feel the fear rising around him. It seemed to be pouring into the air from everywhere in the town at once. A series of soft steps made their way toward his bed. The air thickened and pressed against him, as if trying to choke him.

  “James, we have to go.” His mother’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

  A light sparked up outside the window and he saw his mother’s face in a quick flash. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes wide and she was half-crouching beside the bed, ready to burst forward into a sprint.

  He slid out of bed next to her, grabbing his pants and shoes and putting them on. No words were needed. Once he was ready, he slipped his hand into hers, and she led him to the bedroom that she shared with Papa.

  She opened the back door. There was about 20 feet of open space beyond the door before a copse of trees that would hide them from whatever was happening on just the other side of the buildings. James felt her body tense up, preparing to move. He also felt the shadow in the copse. He squeezed her hand sharply and pulled back, hoping she would trust his senses. Something was there.

  As he hoped, she shrank back and shut the door slowly. “Xenai?” she whispered.

  “In the trees.”

  She said nothing. He could feel her terror grow. The heavy air grew cold and felt as though it was sticking to him. He could feel the air like it was a cool lake; a cool lake with monsters in the depths, waiting to consume them the moment they relaxed and began to float.

  She walked him over to the closet. There was no door on it, so she scooped up the packs and books that lay on the floor as quietly as she could. She pushed him into the back corner, then replaced the items in front of him.

  “Stay here. Quietly.”

  She walked to the other corner of the room. There were various jackets and implements leaning against the wall that would hide her from being seen, as well.

  They sat in their hiding spots, listening.

  Screams were accumulating. At first it had seemed like they all came from the south end of town. Now they were surrounded by them on all sides. There were flashes of light — warm light that crackled.

  Fire.

  Occasionally, he caught a flash of bright blue light. Several people in town had lightning-source amulets. Either the township was fighting back, or they were being attacked out of the darkness by source power Xenai.

  He heard Terran cries. The lady that lived next door with her daughter began to yell, “Please! No! Stop!”

  The crackling grew louder. He heard a loud pop and debris hit the front side of his home.

  “Jump! Jump! I got you!”

  Thud.

  Another scream, fueled by pain, broke through the other sounds of chaos.

  “My leg!”

  “We have to go!”

  It felt like everything was converging outside of their home. It didn’t occur to him that being the house in nearly the center of the town, that was exactly what was happening. He sat quietly, drowning in the thick air.

  There was a roar. Not Terran, not Illara, not Xenai. It was loud and crashed down on his ears so hard it made him feel dizzy. The shotty. Papa was back and he was fighting. James felt the elation and fear bear down on his chest. He glanced over to his mother’s hiding spot. He could not see her, but could feel her position shift. She knew that it was Papa out there, too. In the middle of it. Saving them, or dying trying.

  She moved out from her spot, moving to grab the sword that Papa had left behind. She was going to join Papa and leave him alone in the darkness.

  He felt the presence from the copse again, just outside the back door. Before he could warn his mother, he felt it shift. The shadow weighed down on him, pushing into his mind, and the back door burst inward, shattering to pieces. The shadow seemed to fill the room, the flashes of light from outside dimming. He felt his mother’s explosive burst of movement as she lunged the final foot for the sword. She had it in her hand, sheathed, as the darkness swallowed her up. Her screams were so oddly far away. The cool air transformed into warm droplets, which landed on his face. He was drowning in the warmth of them. He stayed quiet in his corner. He could no longer feel his mother’s presence.

  The sun rose and reality flooded in with it, an endless wave of thick, warm fluid, pouring over the boy.

  His father came inside just before dawn, calling for him. He found him in the closet, scooped him up, and marched him out to his bed. They sat
together in silence for a long time. The flickering light of fires dying down came in through the front window. There were no more screams; no more cries. No one begging another to jump out of the window to escape the flames.

  The sun rose and, as the light began to fill up the front room of their home, James became aware of the flakes of blood that covered him. The skin on his face was stiff and hard to move. He sat silently, his head against his father’s chest. Somehow he was crying while not crying at all. The tears streamed down his face, even though he made no noise. An occasional breath would tremble and ache inside of him as he let it out. But he was not crying.