Four Cries Break the Silence [Prologue 2/3]

Offering his thanks one last time, Uthar leapt back through the gateway and sped around to the back of the house, calling off Nob with string of curses that sent the hound scampering back to the smithy with its tail between its legs.There were two horses hitched to the post behind the house, but Uthar barely saw them.

Faith, she had to be all right.

He pounded up the low stone steps and was two full strides into the house—the door just crashing open behind him—when he abruptly found himself being propelled back the in the opposite direction.

On tiptoe Widow Hafwood wouldn’t have been able to do up the top button of Uthar’s shirt, but ancient women more than made up for it in sheer force of will. Her knobby hands were empty, but she may as well have been switching Uthar across the seat of his pants for how quickly she forced him back out the door.

“Fool man!” she spat when she had him back on the steps, one hand tugging her dark shawl tighter across her thin shoulders, the other boxing Uthar’s ear with all the strenght of a woman half her age. “I’ve sent off half the village searching for you, and now you’re too late.” She glared lightning at him over her hawkish nose, head shaking in resigned irritation. “The Cleansing was good and done an hour ago, and where were you? The Ward take you and all men; not an ounce of patience between the lot of you. If you’d waited here in the yard as you were told you’dve been able to see the missus afore the parting started.” Uthar opened his mouth to protest him, but it did him no more good than if he’d tried to turn back the sun with his own arm. The Widow quashed his words with vicious glare, a well aimed kick at his shin and a final, “Not another word out of you, Uthar Hardric. You’ll see Lenora and your child soon enough. Now you wait out here as you were told, and don’t let me hear so much as a peep out of you. There’s women’s business needs doing inside this house tonight.”

The Widow planted a frail-looking arm on his stomach and gave him one final, not-so-frail-feeling push off the steps, then turned and shouted back into the room, “You hear me, Masters Givens and Eldun? Women’s business in this house, and we don’t need any of your meddling.” There was a brief scuffling of boots on the floor inside followed by muffled protests, and then the Widow was propelling two more men out the door.

“You three wait as your told, and you’ll be called for shortly,” the whisp of a woman said, her scarecrow form silloutted in the bright rectangle of the open door. She snorted at them collectively, and then grumbled, “Go try and make yourselves useful, though I doubt you’ll manage that without supervision.”

The door slammed shut, leaving the three men in darkness.

“The Widow is a forceful woman,” the man on Uthar’s right—Evin Givens—said after a long, silence-filled pause. He clapped a hand on Uthar’s shoulder a steered him around away from the door. “Your wife is fine, Uthar, a far sight better than my Anida was with our first child.”

Uthar nodded absently, and tried to give the burly man an acknowledging smile. He was sure it came off crooked.

If he noticed, Evin gave no sign of it—the man was already fishing around in his coat pockets, probably for his pipe—and Matias Eldun cut in heartily, “Aye, she looked more than fine, man. A fine woman, to be sure, and a fine mother for the child.”

Evin had his pipe out now, and was fumbling to light it. He paused long enough to give Uthar a significant look. “‘Tis a momentous birth, Uthar. A momentous birth. Faith, how long as the Family been looking forward to this day?”

Reflexively, Uthar glanced over his shoulder, checking to make sure none of the native folk of Matham were nearby. The Family had been living in Matham for nearly a quarter century, but small villages breed long memories—or so the saying went—and the Family tried hard not to give other folk any reason to remember that the Hardrics and the others hadn’t always lived in Matham.

Master Eldun was nodding in agreement with Evin, his close-set eyes gazing up at the night sky. “And you proved us all wrong, my boy.” He sighed, a long tired sound that for some reason made Uthar look back towards the house worriedly. “Lenora has made a fine addition to the Family. I’ll be the first to admit that not everyone was pleased with your choosing Lenora—but then, the Family always grows nervous when its time to mix in new blood.”

Bristling, Uthar turned back to Matias. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but I didn’t marry Lenora for her blood.”

“And thats just it, Uthar,” Evin cut in, scratching at his short-cropped beard with the stem of his pipe. “You were head over heels for Lenora, we could all see it. And seeing as how your choices would affect the whole course of the Family, some in the Council thought as you weren’t using your head . . . not enough, so to speak.”

“But, all’s well that ends well,” Matias drawled, latching an arm around Uthar’s broad shoulders and smiling to himself. “The Blood has been strengthened, and now you’ve an heir to carry our hopes.” That bright smile faded, then disappeared completely. “All our hopes and fears.”

Uthar opened his mouth to point out that Lenora wasn’t exactly through the thicket yet, when suddenly the world . . . lurched.

There was no other word to describe it. One moment Uthar was standing with Matias and Evin in the cool night air, the wind sighing through the trees beyond them, stars shining bright as jewels just above the treetops, and then next moment he was on the ground, writhing in agony as the world compressed around him, reality twisting until he could no longer see, he could no longer breathe. His longs screamed at him, burning inside his chest, and he opened his mouth, trying desperately to suck in air—but none would come. It was as if the very air had turned to stone. He clawed at the dirt with both hands and felt the earth beneath him buckles, steel bending between an invisible vise. He couldn’t see anything, his head felt like it was being torn apart from the inside out, and his heart seemed to be trying to claw its way out of his chest. He opened his mouth to scream—

And abruptly the world relaxed, sprining back to normalacy, like a wadded up banner suddenly unfurled to in the wind.

Sagging back to the ground, Uthar stared up at the night sky wildly, chest heaving and ears ringing. The night was alive with sound, birds screaming and thrashing in the trees, and voices too—Matham had come wide awake, folk flinging open doors and windows, rushing out into the street. The harsh sound of women and children and even men crying out in pain and terror assaulted Uthar on all sides.

Lenora . . .

With all the force of the ten pound hammer he used in the smithy the thought came crashing home. Head still spinning, Uthar twisted around and forced himself forward, scrabbling on his hands and knees.

Lenora . . .

“By the Ward, Evin! Speak to me Ev!”

Uthar turned to see Matias craddling a limp Evin. The other man looked up at Uthar, blood running freely from his nose and ears. “He’s dead, Uthar. By the Faith, he’s dead. What was that?”

Uthar barely heard him. “Lenora.”

The word tore raggedly from his throat and he turned back to the house. Nothing could be done about Evin, the Faith protect him. But Lenora could still be saved.

He was halfway back to the house when it happened again. Everything buckled—the earth, the sky, Faith even his mind—and Uthar crashed to the ground again. This time he did managed to scream, but it was a roar of frustration rather than fear.

Lenora!

Stunned, Uthar clawed his way back to his feet and staggered towards the door, hands outstretched. By some miracle he made it up the steps, but then it was all he could do to lean against the door and not fall over. His trembling hands fumbled at the latch, but he couldn’t seem to direct them, couldn’t make them work. His thoughts were muddled and cloudy, he could barely remember where he was. Cursing thickly, he leaned back and threw himself against the door, shoulder lowered. The oaken door shuddered in its frame, but held firm. Roaring, Uthar crashed into it again, and again. Once, twice, three times—with a splintered snap the door caved and Uthar fell into the room.

A third time the world twisted, contorting in on itself like some kind of nightmare knot—only instead of a rope, creation itself was the cord—and Uthar fell to the floor. Faith, he felt like he was being squeezed through the eye of a needle!

When it was over, when he could breathe and see and hear again, Uthar struggled to his knees. He tasted blood and when he put a hand to his nose his fingers came away bright red. His ears were ringing.

Widow Hafwood lay sprawled out on the wooden floor, hands covered in blood and some other sort of fluid, eyes wide and staring, mouth ajar and blood leaking from the corner of her lips. Dazedly, Uthar crawled towards her—unsure, even as he moved what he intended to do—and then the ringing in his ears faded just enough for him to hear another voice screaming.

A young girl was standing by the bed, head thrown back and throat rattling with an unending, almost inhuman scream. She was the Widow’s apprentice, Uthar had seen her before, he knew her family, but for some reason he couldn’t bring her name to mind. For all her wild screaming, the girl’s body was cupped protectively around something that Uthar couldn’t see; but he couldn’t spare the time to wonder what it was—he had eyes only for the woman sprawled amid the twisted, red-stained blankets, her golden hair a sweat-matted tangle plastered to her forehead.

“Lenora,” he croaked as he pulled himself hand over hand along the bed opposite the screaming girl. “I’m here, Lenora.”

Illusions of Control Prologue

Alright, lets get this sucker off the ground and going. Here is the prologue in its entirety (2.4k words). My main questions that I want answered are as follows.

1. Does it make sense? Who everyone is? Who their motivations are? Actually, answer it anyway, with your perceptions of who everyone is.
2. What about the setup? Do you understand what is happening?
3. What could be made better? What did you particularly like? What needs work or needs to be expanded?


Illusions of Control
Prologue

The Grand Shaido of the Shai Empire glared across the table at his counterparts. His own Supreme Doctrine was irrefutable law in this regard, and if even the slightest hint of this meeting becoming known would implant dissention among the ranks of his ministers and underlings throughout the entirety of settled space. There was to be no contact with heretical outsiders, with no exceptions. The Doctrine had flawlessly served the Shai Empire for countless Galactic Rotations, keeping them alive and safe from the dangers of vile aliens and heretics alike. Yet here he stood in the company of those that he was sworn to shun and destroy.

However, he stayed his hand. Instead of immediately destroying these vile abominations in a torrent of cleansing fire and destruction, he listened. His fine ornamental robes folded on top of themselves as he shifted in his position, doubtless from the restless anxiety that played through his mind. Absent-mindely he stroked the ten graspers that hung limply around his mouth with his hand. Only his eyes remained visible to the others through the veil that completely covered his head, and he spent every moment he had, using those eyes that had made generals and clerics back down, to glare at the assembled beings in the room. His long sinewy arms rested down across his lap, but his digits still thrummed with obvious unease.

His eyes caught the sight of the Archon looking at him, and he focused his glare towards the being, trying to force the monstrous warlord to shift his gaze elsewhere. The Archon, the supreme commander of the Kassadar, was easily twice as tall as the Shaido was, and probably four or five times his own weight. The massive biped was covered head to toe in gold plated ceremonial armor. Resting across his shoulders, the neural linked railguns aimed up, toward the ceiling, but the Shaido knew that the Archon could activate the weapons in a moment. The Archon shifted his gaze elsewhere, and the Shaido was unsure if the Archon had shifted his gaze from fear or disinterest. The very thought of being in the same room as the alien heretic made his fingers clench and wrap around each other. The alien was an obvious mockery of life. Too few legs and his posture is completely wrong. Even the archon’s eyes, what he could see of them, were wrong. The wrong color, the wrong shape. All of it wrong.

But even the Archon was only a lesser perversion compared to the three hideous maggots basking on top of gilded palanquins to the side of the chamber. Each one was probably as bulky as the archon but rather having some sort of bipedal form, each looked like some vile worm. Each had coiled into a position where their heads rested in a posture that reminded the Shaido all too well of a predator coiling to strike. Tiny arms, looking almost atrophied sprung from below their glistening heads, each one looking comically small, being only single jointed and ending in two brittle digits. The arms rested now, coiled up against their bodies, as the bulky beings sat on the hover chairs, no doubt communicating to each other in their vile languages. Each head was covered with at least four or so eyes, and their mouths were nothing more but a thin crease against their face. Each was covered in rare glittering gems and jewels, and finely woven fabrics that spoke of their own impudent almost hedonistic beliefs. They were the Lorp-ral. But the Shaido knew them by a more common nick name. Game masters.

The Game Masters thrived after competition and their own belief in a creed known as the Universal Game. Such a blasphemous creed was insane in its own perverted way. The very idea that the universe is nothing more than some great game, the Shaido thought with disgust. They conquered planets and systems, viewing the subjugated inhabitants as nothing more but a new game piece to test and use in their battles. They fought each other, or occasionally united and battled other species. Always in the pursuit of great glory for themselves. The Dominion had hunted them down some rotations back, and killed almost the entirety of the population, deeming them too dangerous for existence. But even now the game masters slowly were infiltrating their way back into the galaxy. No doubt their desire for challenge and competition was what had brought them here. The Shaido looked away from them in disgust. He was definitely not here to deal with their kind. He had made that abundantly clear to the being that had gathered them here.

That being had only called itself The Emissary, and it was the reason that they were gathered here, in this Creed-forsaken hell-hole. They were far above the galactic rim, able to view the entire galaxy from end to end. It was a majestic sight, one that almost completely distracted the Shaido from the presence of the others. But even such a painfully beautiful sight could only mask their presence for a moment. He glared back at the others, keeping his gaze on them, watching for any signs of them falling back to their barbarous practices even here. The room was small and circular with a rounded table in the center and viewpanes along the walls. No obvious entrance or exit existed in the room. All he had known was for him to be at an appointed place at an appointed time. Then in a flash of light he was here. He suspected the same occurrence for the others assembled here.

He was becoming impatient for The Emissary to arrive. He didn’t know if the Emissary was part of the Shai Empire, a member of some honorless coalition like the Dominion, or even part of one of these parasite’s own sects. Whoever it was, they claimed to follow the Supreme Doctrine of the Shai, and seemed to be competent enough in the Doctrine’s laws and creeds to satisfy the Shaido. The Shaido didn’t believe for a second that the Emissary was an actual follower, but even the vague details offered in the Emissary’s proposition had proven to be enticing enough for his own aims.

Assuming the Emissary ever shows up, he thought. Every moment spent in the company of this filth was another moment he would have to spend in personal penance, to drive the unclean taint from his body. He had no desire to be here any longer than he had to be.

As if in answer to his prayers, the holo-projector in the room flickered to life. A brief moment later, and the outline of the Emissary appeared, hovering motionless above the central altar in the room. While the Shai Empire had access to such technology, this projector worked fluidly, flawlessly. The outline was perfect and the image remained motionless, framed in detailed resolution and not ever fading out of focus. Even then with such high quality, he couldn’t see the features of the Emissary, only the outline. The Shaido’s fingers uncoiled themselves, and then recoiled as he waited in anticipation.

The Emissary began speaking almost as soon as its image had materialized there. “Our plans are set to go forward. As you have no doubt figured out by yourself, you are not the only ones with a personal stake in this endeavor. I want your word of honor for this cause that you will not splinter into infighting and backstabbing until and only after our main goal is completed. If it cannot be given, then we cannot proceed.”

The Shaido remained motionless, even as the others did as well. Such an oath was unheard of. The Shai Empire united with infidels such as these? He would be lucky if he kept his head attached after making such a claim. Surely the clerics would see to a merciless execution the moment he made such an alliance known back at the homeworld. And no doubt the other filth in the room shared the same apprehension, Creed burn them all. The Kassadar were just as likely to unite with some other race as ascend to the heavens. Unlikely. The Game Masters on the other side would unite with anything provided the prize at stake was worth it. It would have to be worth it to get them to agree. Promises were almost meaningless to ones such as these. Would he have the chance, he would kill any of the others at the slightest opportunity and it was naïve foolishness to believe they wouldn’t do the same.

But still… The Emissary had hinted that the cause itself would be something that would send him down in the Great Codex as the greatest Shaido that had ever lived. Such an idea was quite appealing, but he was still wary of any tricks, of any false promises. The Emissary had only hinted about such a cause that could solidify his legacy. The Emissary had not provided anything set in stone.

“If the end game is worth it, you shall have our word,” one of the game masters said. The Shaido thought it might be Armar the Immovable. The being was a legend throughout military circles in the galaxy. On the occasions that the Shai Empire had been engaged in fights with the game masters, Armar had made it clear to everyone involved that his honorific was not simply a petty detail. The game master was a genius of the defensive game, and virtually every thrust of the Shai Military had been deftly turned aside with ease by Armar.

“But, be warned. No tricks. No false promises,” another of them spoke. This one the Shaido knew as being Pulram the Butcher. The polar opposite of Armar, Pulram was just as legendary, a tactician of the highest ability, his offensive attacks against the Shai Empire had forced a stalemate, when the game masters had at first seemed on the verge of collapse. The Butcher was unafraid of burning through his soldiers in order to find the tiniest advantage that he could. If rumors were to be believed, even his own compatriots saw him as an insane killer.

“We want solid details. A strategy cannot be formed until at least a modicum of intelligence is known,” the last said. Narman the Decisive. Not a master of defense, nor a master of offense. One of the greatest tactical minds possibly alive in the galaxy, the Shaido had to admit. The game master seemed to have almost a psychic ability to get into the mind of his opponent, out thinking and out planning, winning battles with only the lightest of forces. The Shaido had been surprised to see this one here. He had heard that the game master had been killed in an engagement against the Dominion Armada. Too much to hope for, he thought.

“And you shall have them. I don’t doubt that any one of you here is unmotivated to their own cause. And you shall not have to abandon them. All I ask is your support. The goal? The unmitigated destruction of the Dominion,” the Emissary proclaimed.

The Shaido’s eyes widened in surprise, but they shrunk back down to their normal size a brief moment later. The Dominion was the ultimate power in the galaxy. The organization was a massive conglomeration of species, sworn to their own blasphemous cause. Since the Shai Empire had first encountered them, the two sides had been thrown into a never ending conflict. A conflict that the Shaido suspected was seen as little more than a containment action by the Dominion. It almost seemed like the Dominion was simply satisfied in keeping the Shai inside their own little sector of space, stopping any encroachment made beyond their current boundaries, but otherwise apathetic to whatever they did to themselves or some other organizations.

The complete destruction of the Dominion had long been a dream of the Shai Empire, but one might as well try to kill a gargant, one of the apex predators back on the homeworld, with a stick, than destroy the Dominion. The Dominion was too advanced, too populous for any hope of destroying them. He glared at the emissary. He had at first been suspected the Emissary had simply wanted to strike several critical blows at the Dominion, but he now knew such thoughts to have been ignorance on his part. The Emissary had contacts and powers beyond the norm. Whoever it was, they were certainly ambitious. The destruction of the Dominion required a war on a scale almost unheard of. Hundreds of billions of soldiers, if not more. The Shai barely numbered some twenty billion, not enough to make a serious dent in the juggernaut that was the Dominion.

“How? Even with these… others,” he started. He almost had said something else, something that would have probably caused a fight to break out. “Even with them, the Dominion is far too large to deal with.”

The Archon glowered at him, but instead spoke to the Emissary. “The Shaido is correct. Dominion forces have expanded to greater proportions than are manageable. I will not send my own into that grinder again.”

The Shaido felt his own anger rise that the Archon had spoken his title in his own vile language and didn’t even notice that the Archon had agreed with him. The translator spoke the actual words into the Shaido’s mind, but simply the fact that the Archon had spoken such was vileness beyond belief. Before he could reprimand the vile wretch for his impudence the Emissary spoke.

“Such matters will no longer be an issue soon. Everything is in hand.”

“Words mean little. Actions, more so,” the Shaido said.

“Then I shall lay it out for you in its entirety and you shall see,” the Emissary said. And the Emissary delivered on its words.

Even before the Emissary had finished speaking, the Shaido’s mind was racing. Possibilities were constantly forming, his own Doctrine fading to the back of his mind. The destruction of the Dominion. If he managed things properly, kept the knowledge of the presence of the Kassadar and the game masters out of the knowledge of virtually any but his most trusted advisors… It could work. It could definitely work. It was now as inevitable as the rising sun.

Character Building

While I've been character building for Illusions of Control THE FINAL DRAFT, i found a really decent character builder for defining your characters. basically answer the following questions and see how your character develops. I've found it really useful so far.



PHYSIOLOGY
Height:
Weight:
Appearance:
Defects/scars:
Clothing:
Build or Figure:
Hair/eyes:
Health/strength:
Physical Skills:
Attractiveness:
Voice Quality:
Complexion:
Athletic Ability:

SOCIOLOGY
Occupation:
Work History:
Education:
Birthplace/upbringing:
Past/present home life:
Hobbies:
Ethnic Roots:
Political Views:
Affiliations:
Work Environment:
Criminal Record:
Religion:
Social Status:
Private Life:

PSYCHOLOGY
Fears/phobias:
Prejudices:
Pet Peeves:
Superstitions:
Ambitions:
Personal Problems:
Intelligence:
Secrets:
Values/beliefs:
Complexes:
Habits:
Motivations:
Imagination:
Disposition:
Attitudes:
Inhibitions:
Addictions:
Moral Stands:
Temperament:
Likes/dislikes:

What’s Their Dominant Trait:
What Do They Feel About Themselves:
What Do They Feel About Others in Story:
Most Important People in Life:
How Do They Relate To Each Character:
What’s The Worst Thing That Could Happen To Them:
What’s The Best Thing That Could Happen To Them:

How do they handle:
Stress:
Pressure:
Relationships:
Problems:
Emotion:

Are they:
Extroverted or Introverted:
Intuitive or Analytical:
Active or Passive:

What’s their most:
Traumatic Experience:
Thrilling Experience:

AUDIENCE STUFF (do they have the following):
Outside goal that the audience will care about:
Powerful, personal motivation for achieving said goal:
Opposition character capable of doing great damage:
Human emotions, traits, values, and imperfections that people can identify with:
Their own point of view:
Details, extensions, idiosyncrasies and/or expressions that are uniquely theirs:
A life and voice (dialogue) of their own:
A key event from the past that has given rise to a character flaw:
An inner need that they’re unaware of at first:

CHANGE:
How do they change throughout the story:
How are they different at the end of the story:
What do they know that they didn’t know at the beginning:
What is their perception of reality:
Does that perception change by the end of the story:
What emotion should this character evoke:
Will the audience identify with them on some level:

Four Cries Break the Silence [Prologue 1/3]

Reading held no comfort for Uthar Hardric. Not now. Not this evening.

He accepted the fact with a resigned sigh, looking back down without really seeing at the page he had been rereading for the seventh time in half as many hours. Seven times through the page, and he couldn’t recall a word of it. Faith, he couldn’t even remember how far he’d read before his eyes had finally given up on his wandering thoughts and drifted up from dark brown ink and spotted paper to gaze up at the gently murmuring leaves above his head.

Long years had passed since Uthar had discovered the huge oak with its broad trunk perfect for resting against, near the crown of Mathamhill. He’d been a slip of a boy with no more than ten years under his belt and no desire to spend the first day of summer in the smithy with his father, when his feet had carried him into the woods west of Matham and up the cool, shaded slopes of the hill. A crumbling wall of dark limestone too high to climb had ended his upward climb, so he’d followed the small cliff ‘round the face of the hill instead, south and west to a bowl-shaped hollow fenced in by the wall of stone. There he found the oak, its roots dipping into the cool water of a small brook that rippled down the moss-carpeted cliff, pooled in a sandy depression at the oak’s waist, and then disappeared into the woods below. The oak spread its might branches from one end of the hollow to the other, and its thick head of leave blocked out both sun and ran as well as any roof might.

Uthar had immediately fallen in love with the hollow and the oak, and soon his returning feet alone had worn a bare path from the edge of the village to the hollow. Years passed, and the hollow and the oak changed from a hidden nook where a small boy could hide from chores to a reflecting place where a young man could rest and think and read.

No book in Matham had been safe from him, and all too soon Uthar was hoarding what coins he earned as his da’s apprentice on the off chance that a passing peddler might have a book or two stuffed somewhere in his packs. Gaven Hardric never shared his son’s love of books and stories, but he didn’t discourage it either . . . at least as long as the smithy work was still getting done.

Even later in life—His da long buried with his ma and the smithy his to work as he saw fit–he’d continued to come to the oak, still reading and still thinking the thoughts of a boy who’s body had grown up almost without him realizing it.

He could admit to himself—sometimes—that he’d whiled away far too many hours alone, his back propped up by the sturdy oak, but through all the years not a soul had breathed a word of complaint. Not his da, not his ma, and especially not—

And that quickly Uthar Hardric was jerked out of his ruminations and slapped down hard in the here and now.

Lenora. His wife. Was she all right?

Marking his spot with a slip of ribbon he closed the book, careful to not fold any corners, and stood, trying to ignore the sudden sweat that tickled his brow while his eyes flashed over the forest below to the village and his–their, and it would be their’s for long years yet—home, like iron filings drawn to a lodestone. He was a fool to look, he would be sent for when the time came and not a moment sooner, and even more of a fool to worry; but the Ward Ban him, he could not help it.

Matham was nestled at the foot of Mathamhill, a hundred paces below Uthar’s feet and twice that distance to the east, a scattering of houses wreathed in smoke from fifty chimney’s and ringed about on all sides by a dark, some peddlers said grim, forest of fir and pine. The land rose from the village’s edge, first gently up to where Uthar stood and the bare pate of Mathamhill twenty feet higher, then it swept higher still, westwards and upwards. From where he stood at the lip of the hollow, Uthar could follow the swelling rise of the land: forest-clad hills of which Mathamhill was the smallest, mounting up in gently rolling waves ever higher, until the trees thinned out and then finally ended, giving way to brown slopes of scree and gray cliffs—the bones of true mountains—that vaulted higher still, until even those dark shoulders gave way to white snow and blue ice half hidden by wings of cloud stained red and orange by the setting sun.

Uthar couldn’t quite suppress a shiver when he saw those jagged peaks, and he pulled his coat tighter about his broad chest almost without thinking. The old tales—the sort he’d favored as a youth—spoke of dark things and dark men living in mountains. Fearfull things that most folk–even most folk in Matham–believed were no more than stories.

At times Uthar envied those other folk, safely wrapped in their own ignorance.

At time he wondered if he’d read to much—but as always, the thought brought a fleeting smile to his lips. No, he doubted that any man could read too much.

Besides, ignorance was a double edged sword. It protected some folk, kept them safe from the dark horrors that roamed the empty places of the world, things evil enought to drive a man mad to his bones. But there were some dark things that hunted men, had been hunting certain men—certain families—so long now that whatever causes had begun the hunt were buried in history so old that neither the hunters or the hunted remembered them. And all the books in the world couldn’t change that fact—as much as Uthar hated to admit it. Ignorance could kill such Faith-cursed men, kill them as sure as a bolt of lightning can split an oak to its core.

So he shivered when he looked at the mountains, and didn’t feel a fool in doing it. He shivered and envied his neighbors who had read less than he and had the blood of common men—blessedly common men—in their veins.

His gaze drifted from the far peaks down to the book he held in his hands, and his lips turned down in a thoughtful frown.

Not all the books in the world could unbury some secrets. He brushed his hand to his lips, his thumb tucked beneath his first finger—a simple sign to ward off watching eyes—and then touched his heart, inviting the protection of the Ward. Tonight he was grateful for buried secrets. The Faith send they stayed that way.

A light gleamed, flickered once in the far corner of his eye, and he jerked upright, his gaze snapping back to the dark mountains now veiled in coming night. The light—whatever the source—was gone now, but he searched out the spot it had flashed from quickly enough: a wedged gap that split the imposing wall of the mountains between two towering peaks, as if a giant had taken an enormous plow to the crust of the earth itself. His frown deepened as he watched the gap, eyes straining to spot any light. There had been an orange tint to the flash he had seen. A torch? A lantern, prhaps? Not lightning; not with that color, though the clouds lowering around the peaks were heavy enough.

The folk in Matham had no name for the gap or the peaks around it; they left the mountains alone and prayed each night that they’d be ignored in turn. But Uthar had come across the name, some years back, in a book of history he’d accepted from a peddler in lue of payment for a job done well and quickly. The book had called the gap the Pass of Althalair and had even named the two peaks, though Uthar couldn’t remember them. A thousand years ago a highway paved in stone had ran through the gap, connecting two nations whose name even the book hadn’t known. Now the road was dust—less than dust, it was buried in trackless forest along with the two countries who’d built it—and Uthar doubted that any man had walked the old highway or climbed up to the Pass of Althalair in five hundred years.

Who then, was lighting fires?

“Faith, Uthar! That face of yours looks fit to split nails on. Why, you’d think”—

Practically climbing into the air at the sound of another human voice, Uthar leaped around, landing in a wide-legged crouch, arms and hands extended to either side. He hadn’t thought to bring a knife of any sort with him, he hadn’t carried a weapon in years, and now he cursed his luck and moved forward onto his toes, ready to—

Renan Sorenth was staring wide-eyed at him from beneath his wide-brimmed, felt hat, the grin that seemed a permanent ficture on his long face sliding crookedly into a long frown. Uthar didn’t have a better friend in the world than the rail-thin farmer standing before him, but at the moment, Renen’s eyes were those of a man meeting a stranger; an unwelcome stranger at that.

“Renan, I”—Uthar sagged back onto his heels, the energy draining out of him like wine running out of a shattered battle. Scrubbing at his chin with a trembling hand he gave his friend an apologetic shrug, “I’m sorry, Renan. I don’t know what came over me.” His eyes moved of their own accord, back to the pass and the light that was no longer there.

Renan chuckled, but it sounded weak, almost an after-thought, and the farmer stepped up beside Uthar to joined him in watching the distant mountains.

“I’ve seen men fearing for their wives before,” the lanky farmer said, not turning to look at Uthar. “But you’ve a different fear on the mind, or I’m ten days dead and don’t know it yet. What did you see?”

For moment there was no sound but a growing wind out of the west. The gap was motionless, blank as a slate wiped clean and gathering more and more shadows about its rugged slopes by the moment. For a split second, Uthar tried to convince himself he’d seen nothing, just a trick of his eyes or the like. It didn’t work. He’d known it wouldn’t work.

Praying Renan wouldn’t think him Ward-struck, he turned to his friend and said, “I saw a light.”

“A light?”

“Yes. A torch or lantern moving at the base of that pass,” he gestured with one hand. “It was gone as soon as I saw it, but it was there, or I’m ten days dead and a stone-blind fool.

Renan was silent a moment longer, now studying the pass as intently as Uthar had been only moments before.

“Do you think we’ve been found out?” the farm said finally, and slowly too; the words came out as reluctantly as a fir trunk lodged in solid stone.

Cut to the chase—that was Renan Sorenth to the core, and Uthar smiled in spite of himself. Whatever trouble came Renan’s way was dealt with as calmly as another man might flick away an offending fly. The farmer was a comfort, a pillar that Uthar had relied on since the two had been no more than toddlers just off their mother’s apron strings.

There were some secrets that could never be unburied, but—the Faith be praised—Uthar Hardric did not have to share them alone.

“Could be,” he said in reply to the other’s question. “The Family has been here twenty-three years now. More than enough time for word to get to the wrong ears.”

Renan grimaced, still staring at the gap. “And it couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

That comment grabbed Uthar by the scruff of the neck and shook him. He had Renan by the shoulder before he himself knew it, jerking the man closer. “By the Faith man, thats right! What are you doing here? There’s no call to wander up here just because you can’t enter your own house!”

“The Cleansing is over and done with,” Renan said, the absent grin reforming on his thin lips. “The women called me in nearly an hour ago.”

“An hour?” Uthar repeated. It sounded more a curse when he said it.

“Aye, more than an hour now. They’dve called you too, but no one could find even rumor of you.” Renan slapped him on the back, “I had a feeling you’d be up here.”

“Well come on!” Uthar said, giving the other man one more squeeze on the shoulder before turning to lope down the narrow trail back to the village. Back home; back to Lenora.

“And what of the light?” Renan huffed, when he managed to catch up to Uthar again, fifty paces down the trail. “You can’t have forgotten already?”

“You should have sent someone, Renan,” Uthar said, not really hearing the other’s question. His mind was too full of Lenora, he ached to hold her, but was content just knowing she was safe. She had to be safe. Renan would have said said something if anything had gone wrong. “Nilana could be through the worst of it now. Faith, you could be a father already.”

“Widow Hafwood said Nilly had a good four hours left, and she’d have boxed my ears if I’d as much as looked doubtful. The light, Uthar?”

“And what of Leni? How long does she have?” She had to be all right.

“The widow seemed to think your missus’ time was a bit more in doubt. Two hours, maybe; three at the most.”

I could already be a father. The thought hit Uthar like a thunderclap and he stumbled on the trail, nearly falling before he could catch himself. Only an idiot ran after sundown, especially on a hillside trail. My child might already be waiting. Making a sound that was something between a laugh and a sob, Uthar ran faster.

Seconds later—though it seemed like hours to Uthar—lights began to wink between dark pines, and Uthar caught the first hint of cooking smoke in the air. They were there. They’d made it back to the village, and probably set a record doing it.

Renan was shouting something at him, but Uthar didn’t respond, almost didn’t hear the man, as he raced the last few steps—scattering a handful of hens like so many pins as he went—to the tiny cottage with its windows glowing gold in the darkness on the edge of Matham.

It wasn’t until he was fumbling with the gate latch—why did they even have the cursed fence?!—that he realized Renan was still making noise behind him.

“By the Faith, Renan, what is it?” Uthar shouted, and finally giving up on the latch he kicked the gate open. He turned to his friend, “Go home to your wife, she’ll be wanting you.”

“The light, Uthar.” Renan said again, and Uthar blinked. “What are we to do about the light?”

Pulse still pounding, Uthar tried to think. They needed to tell someone, that much was clear. But who? “I-I’ll go to Edin Carr,” Uthar said, setting the broken gate against the fence and stepping back onto the road. “He can rouse the rest of the Family, get the word out.”

He made to step past Renan, but the other man held up both hands and gestured back to the house. “I’ll go. You get inside and tell Leni you’ve a gate to mend tomorrow. I’ll be back here in two whistles.”

“Here?” Uthar asked incredulously, “But Nelly will be wanting you”—

“The girls insisted on being together for this, Uthar.” Renan said, already walking further into the village, “Nelly is put up in the front room. If I were you I’d go ‘round back. Leni is in your room.” The farmer waved him off, “Now get going.”

Clouds Chapter 1

August 12, Somewhere beneath Lake Nasser, Egypt

His hands felt raw as he gripped the crusted rocks. They were the only thing keeping him from tumbling down the steep slope in the darkness. Several times his tattered hiking boots had slipped out and Isaiah Conrad lurched on the edge of the precipice. The trail wound downward like a snake in the enormous cave. They had walked for what seemed like a full day without stop. The tunnel had grown wider and wider, as they walked deeper and deeper into the earth. Isaiah had held a glowing shaft in the darkness to guide his way for much of the trip. It was a simple tube of glass, but when Isaiah touched it, a blue light emitted in the darkness. Isaiah was a Mariner, and thus had a gift to charge certain artifacts made from viduro-glass with an energy known as the Mist. The Mist glowed in the darkness from the shaft giving him a vision of his foot placement.

But the path soon became illuminated from another source. Tiny twinkling lights, like stars, flickered somewhere far above. Isaiah pondered on them for many hours, wondering how such a light source could exist in the dark of the cave. He had naturally wanted to call them cave stars. They illuminated everything in a dull blue light. Isaiah could now see the vast expanse before him. It was like being in the largest cathedral that ever existed. But instead of pillars, there were large rounded rock walls curving up to the ceiling at least a couple miles above them.
Below was a vast expanse of water. Isaiah could not see the far end of the chamber but in its center, jutting out of the water, was a large island. The island looked like a perfect disc that rested on the water. Its diameter was at least 20 miles. And though they were in a cave, deep beneath the earth’s surface, Isaiah felt like he was on top of a mountain staring down on a great lake.
The island was not vacant however. It was covered in crumbling structures that seemed covered in moss and mud; large stone buildings that were crumbling against the weight of long rains, and a damp ocean like air. There were large roads, completely empty, that ran through the groaning city, and a perimeter wall that rose to full height in some places, but vanished from destruction all together in other spots.
Isaiah paused on several occasions to stare out at the dim broken city below. Marinthe! A once great nation was now rubble and history. Isaiah’s heart jumped with the sight. He wanted so badly to spend the rest of his life digging through the city. Discovering what his ancestor’s lives were truly about. It was an archeologist’s dream world. It was a completely dead city. All of the cities inhabitants had died with the cities destruction. Isaiah’s ancestors had been some of those that had escaped. They carried on much of the traditions and brought with them many artifacts, but the Mariner world was still a secret and a myth, little known to the outside world.
Nevertheless, Isaiah could not help but get excited. He imagined that his current emotions were on par with those that had discovered Pompeii after Mount Vesuvius erupted and buried it. Or like the man that discovered the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. Marinthe had suffered a similar fate, only not by volcano; Marinthe had been sunk and destroyed by hurricane, tornado, blizzard, fierce winds, and lightning—all in the same moment. Each weather form had contributed to its current state. The few accounts Isaiah had encountered described it as though the island had been flipped upside down completely and forced into Lake Nasser, which was where the island had originally existed.
For that reason Isaiah had searched Lake Nasser for years in search of any remnant or archeological sign of the once great city of Marinthe. But his flaw was thinking the city would be under water. Isaiah didn’t understand how but the city had somehow been pushed deep inside the earth...
“Conrad! Keep moving.” A raspy winded voice echoed through the air. Isaiah looked forward again. His only companion on the trip, a man who claimed to be called Triston Howard. Isaiah shuttered to himself. He openly admitted to hating the man in his mind. He wished he could push him off the cliff face, but Isaiah worried the fall would not kill him. It was only water below, and he might survive. It would be too risky. Mr. Howard was dangerous; dangerous for whom he really was. Isaiah was no fool and it did not take him long to realize that Triston Howard was in truth a man so old, he was worthy of archeological study. His right name was Amun Chenzira, and he had been an original inhabitant of Marinthe some 3,000 years prior. Chenzira had been the Emperor for a short time…
How did I end up in this predicament? Isaiah thought as he began trudging forward again. His frail knees wobbled with each step. Isaiah was beginning to feel his age. He did not think 65 year old men capable of such. That was another reason of why Isaiah had relied on Chenzira to find Marinthe; a man who had seen it, who had walked its streets and lived to the current day. Chenzira had been there, over 3,000 years prior and had been the catalyst that brought the city to its destruction. Yet somehow Chenzira was still alive. He was a man shrouded in secrets and dark endeavors. He would not have good intentions for this journey to Marinthe.
Isaiah knew Chenzira was returning to find something, probably some artifact that had aided him in the past to conquest. But what exactly that meant, Isaiah could not be sure on. He found himself, however, wondering if coming was the right thing to do at all. He was risking so much, and for what? To get a glimpse of an ancient civilization? Conrad reviewed his reasoning in his mind to comfort a swollen conscience. In all reality Isaiah had little choice in the matter to begin with. He stumbled upon something so valuable many would kill for it.
In either event Chenzira would have managed the trip with or without himself. He would have simply killed Isaiah, and taken the map to Marinthe, had he not agreed to the journey.
It had only been 2 week prior that Isaiah had made a major archeological discovery there in Sudan. It was a large glass box the size and shape of a coffin. At first Isaiah had hoped to use it as data for an analogue he was working on which proved that glass had been first created by the original inhabitant culture called the Mariners near lake Nasser. But inside the glass coffin, Isaiah discovered several artifacts of more value than a simple analogue.
Isaiah tried desperately to keep the contents of the box secret. One of the artifacts was a map, the other a weapon.
Isaiah quickly wrapped the weapon up, and shipped it FedEx to one of his colleagues, Tannon Daecraw in Oregon. Tannon would know what to do with it. He would know how to hide it.
The map, on the other hand, Isaiah kept in his possession. It was his backup plan. Too many eyes were there to witness the glass coffin. There were loose lipped traitors, and Chenzira’s persuasion was absolute.
Isaiah thanked his lucky stars for the map however, for not 2 days later, a man came knocking at his door proclaiming to be Triston Howard, a curious descendent of the Lost Mariner civilization. Isaiah knew instantly that Triston Howard was a liar and somehow in league with the Marauders. He did not realize at first though, that he was the leader of the Marauders.
Isaiah proclaimed that the map was the only thing found in the box and he agreed to accompany Mr. Howard to find the lost entrance to Marinthe. It was enough to fool Chenzira for a time. Chenzira had agreed to the trip and not made mention of the weapon. Isaiah only hoped that the weapon would remain occult. Deep in his heart he doubted that though. Whisperings would lead Chenzira to Oakridge eventually. That was another reason Isaiah regretted his decision with each step. His family was in Oakridge.
Isaiah took a few more steps and tried to shake his consciences constant mutterings. At least now Isaiah was still breathing and he would witness what Chenzira was up to… and seeing the walls of Marinthe somehow made it all worth it. For the moment, anyway.
Isaiah kept moving down the slope. Witness? The word stung his mind. Witnesses to crimes were liabilities. Chenzira would not leave him alive. Once they reached the city he had to escape. He had to hide and find his way back out before Chenzira. Then inform the academy and they could stop the evil again before it started.
There was still so much risk. The day before Chenzira showed up, the same day he sent the weapon to Tannon, Isaiah wrote a hasty letter to Patrick, his grandson. Isaiah was not sure why he did it, but he felt the need to warn his family, but he had sworn to Stephanie, his daughter, that Patrick would not get wrapped up in the Mariner world like his father had.
As long as Patrick got his letter everything would be fine. He hoped he would understand their importance. Isaiah could only hope Patrick would notice any out of the ordinary people hanging around. There would be many trying to find the weapon. Patrick would be getting the letter any day now.
A twinge of remorse etched his brow. This could all go very wrong. He would surely be killed, done away with once his purpose was fulfilled, in fact, he was already becoming more of a drag than a necessity. Chenzira had found Marinthe, and beyond doubt no longer needed Isaiah’s presence.
Chenzira was not the type to leave innocent bystanders breathing. Then Patrick and Stephanie would be next on the list. Then anyone who opposed Chenzira would be obliterated. There would be a war. A war between the Mariner’s and the rest of the world; Chenzira versus the entire world civilization above. Was it right to risk all this just to see the lost city? Isaiah’s archeological ambitions had long put distances between him and his family. It was another subject of remorse. He pushed it from his mind.
Isaiah came around a bend in the trail to find Amun hunched and staring out over the city. It was the best view yet of the large roadways and crumbled buildings. Isaiah’s heart almost stopped. There was so much history here. He imagined finding artifact after artifact that would help piece together what life had been like for the original Mariners. Isaiah couldn’t help but let his jaw drop. It would be worth it. This moment made it all worth it.
The city was covered in shadows of the cave though. The small blue lights hovering somewhere above like stars illuminated only certain angles. There was so much Isaiah did not understand. He thirsted for the knowledge though. Years down the road, Isaiah would be bringing his students from the university to witness this site. The thought was little more than a wish, however.
Chenzira groaned. He was hunched over wearing his cloak and hood. Isaiah could make out a hand gripping intently at the fabric on his chest.
“This had all been mine. Truthfully, it still is mine. Every stone, every wooden parapet, every archway, every grain of sand...every shard of glass.” The raspy voice was like listening to an old radio. He hadn’t spoken this much the entire journey. It was as though seeing the lost city, caked in shadow, was like seeing a loved one in the casket of death. Isaiah almost felt sorry for the cruel man.
A few more moments passed as both men gawked in the darkness. And then Chenzira urged them forward. He said at dawn there would be light and they could cross the channel to the island. Isaiah did not understand what Chenzira meant, or how he presumed to know so much about this underworld.
Isaiah stared downward again. It was a dizzying height, but he could now make out the movements of deep waters in the shimmer of cave twinkles… or whatever it was that gave light in the cavern. Isaiah put a hand to his forehead as they walked. He was old and he could feel the tension on his joints. He couldn’t do this much longer. He did not know how he would make the trip back out. Isaiah was convinced there was an artifact in Marinthe that Chenzira was after, perhaps even one of the 8. He did not know what exactly it would be. None of the original artifacts would be of any use though after so many thousands of years. If the Glassblower that created an artifact was deceased, than the artifact would be useless. Except for a few of them. There were 8 of them created by the hand of Demetri Idero Idune himself. They had lived on beyond his death. Many believed it was because Demetri never died, but was simply taken home to a palace prepared by the Maker inside the sun. There was legend of 8 artifacts, which Demetri had used in the destruction of Marinthe. And that these artifacts still functioned. A legend Isaiah now had reason to believe was true, after finding the weapon in the Sudan which He believed to be one of the 8 artifacts of Idune.
The thought cinged his own brow. Isaiah glanced around as though his secret might be discovered. Even thinking about it made his hands tense and his brow sweat. In Chenzira’s presence… if Chenzira only knew what he possessed, what was on its way to Oakridge in a express FedEx package. There was no telling how Chenzira would react. Isaiah had hung on his every word hoping to learn more about Chenzira’s history. How he had lived for so many years. Hoping to discover some part of his plans, but Chenzira was no fool. He had no reason, or intention of allowing Isaiah to know his schemes. Isaiah had to get away. He had to discover what Chenzira was after, and then somehow reach the surface before him and warn the Counsel at the Academy. All this before anyone discovered what else he had found in the Sudan.
Isaiah stared back at the stony cliff path they were trotting down. His legs seemed to shake with each step.
Ahead Chenzira began hacking and wheezing and grabbing at his chest. Isaiah relaxed knowing that whatever had kept Chenzira alive for so long, it was not holding him together so well these days. Chenzira looked like a sallow carcass of a man.
A wind crept up from the water below. They were treading down a steeper path and the surface seemed closer with each step. Isaiah could now smell the wet air. It smelled of seaweed and old dirt. The waters must be ancient. Isaiah wondered if there was an outlet or an inlet of any sort… if these waters ever moved? The scientist in Isaiah was coming out again. It was that curiosity that made him risk it all on this adventure. He had known from the beginning that the man who offered to take the trip to Marinthe was an enemy. But the daunting urges to see the lost city at last, to see it before he died, to be the only man to know his roots…
Isaiah sighed. He had risked it all for truth about his heritage, and he was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. It had to be. He would figure out Chenzira’s plans and disclose them…somehow. That would make his vain sacrifice a more noble cause. Then the Haloes would speed his mission. The Clouds would be guiding him.
Isaiah stared down again. They were low enough now that he could jump. He could hit the waters without dying on impact. The height was still dizzying though. Isaiah could not bring himself to do it. Not yet. Why am I such a coward?
Suddenly Chenzira stopped dead in his tracks. He was staring again out across the city. Isaiah began to wonder on the wretched man’s delusions.
“Take this!” Chenzira said, as he revealed a silver hilted pistol from a side bag. Isaiah furrowed his brow. What was this madness? Isaiah took the gun in his two hands. Was Chenzira preparing him for a duel? Was he going to give him an honorable last moment? A chance to defend himself before he died?
Isaiah cocked the gun and pointed it at Chenzira. He would not give him the chance. He would kill the Dark Seed then and there. The pistol began to glow blue as Isaiah’s touch charged the glass capsule interior. He gently nudged his finger against the trigger. All he had to do was pull, and a blue ball of liquid fire would explode from the barrel of the gun and incinerate Chenzira.
“Don’t you move…or I’ll…” Isaiah’s words sounded hallow. His hand was shaking as well. He was wavering in his boldness. Chenzira began to laugh.
“You are a fool Conrad! It never ceases to amaze me.” Chenzira removed a second pistol from his bag and pointed it out over the water. Chenzira nodded with his head for Isaiah to look. Slowly, expecting a trap, Isaiah glanced out across the water. He could hardly see anything now. A low hovering mist was gathering around the city. After it gathered like an army of mist, it ventured across the water. The mist was rolling and tumbled gently in their direction. With each bounce it became a larger heap of cloud matter. Though it did not seem to be moved by the wind, it was now channeling directly for them like a large mountain of dark and gray cotton.
“You can go ahead and kill me, but what are you going to do about the Dark Mage on its way to prevent us from reaching the city?” Chenzira’s smile was now gone. He held the pistol out, pointing at the rolling mist. The clouds tumbled to the cliff face and then pushed upwards. In seconds they would be enveloped.
“On my mark human!” Chenzira spat the words, knowing that Isaiah would obey. It burned Isaiah that somehow Chenzira still held the charge of a leader. Isaiah pointed the pistol at the cloud mass. “Wait for its core to appear.”
“How will I recognize it?” Isaiah whispered.
Chenzira snorted. “With all your clout and arrogance, the Academy still knows nothing of the Mariner world. Clinging to petty traditions, but you don’t know anything of what it means to be a Mariner!” Chenzira shook his head. Isaiah wanted to strangle the man then and there. He was not a soldier, he was an archeologist; a teacher at the university. He did not profess to know the workings of the Mages. That was left up to others. “You’ll recognize its core because that will be the first thing it reveals, in the shape of some monster, just before it smashes us to bits.”
Isaiah held his breath. He watched as the rolling, tumbling clouds pushed upwards. It all made Isaiah feel very small in a large world of danger. At the head of the tumult a large ball of mist began to churn in a circle as though it were spinning. It began to take shape. The ball of mist seemed to condense and solidify. There was an oblong ball of cloud out of which grew to large horns of mist causing it to strongly resemble a very large ram’s head made of cloud matter; riding at the head of a torrent of smoke—this was the Mage’s core.
Isaiah had heard stories, even seen some photographs, but never had he actually witnessed a Mage fully revealed to the naked eye. They were creatures made of the clouds. They were the clouds. Large roaming beasts that hid themselves placidly in the sky from the human world unless compelled to a manifestation. And now that he was seeing it, he no longer wanted any part of it. The white demon sped upwards none the less. A huge massive river of fog with the head of a ram.
Chenzira opened fire. He relentlessly pulled the trigger of his silver pistol. Blue charges sped toward the Mage. 10, 11, 12 charges were fired by Chenzira before Isaiah gathered his courage and followed suit. The cobalt bursts crashed into the cloud matter and exploded like Molotov Cocktails. They seemed to ignite large chunks of the cloud with blue laces of fire that spread, slowing the Mage’s progress until they fizzled out. The Mage shifted and 2 enormous arms began to form from the fog. It used the large arms to block the last few charges.
Isaiah wanted to run. His sole desire was to drop the pistol and run for his life—but where could he run to while the enormous creature sallied upwards.
Chenzira was stone faced and did not budge. He continued to fire the pistol at the Cloud beast whose arms were within 20 feet. Isaiah stumbled backward and fell onto his butt. He was turning to run when the Mage reached them. Its large arms and boulder sized fists began swinging at the mountain side. They crashed into the rock, as though they were solid objects, no longer just a wisp of cloud.
The whole cliff side shook and sent shards of rock tumbling to the water below. Isaiah ducked as a large arm smashed the cliff just above his head. He looked back to see Chenzira collapsing to the ground. The Mage must have had a direct hit on the Dark Seed. Isaiah watched in horror. He was frozen in place. He wanted to leap from the ledge but the desire to see what happened prevented him from moving.
The Mage hovered above them for another moment. It reached its massive arms out, that were the size of a semi-truck, above its head preparing for a final blow. But before its beastly hands came crashing down, Amun Chenzira sprung from the rock face. He jumped with a youthful energy that surprised Isaiah. He cleared the gap like a flying squirrel between the cliff and the Mage. He crashed into the cloud monster’s chest, all the while Chenzira continued to fire shots from his pistol at the Ram’s head.
Isaiah gripped his pistol and let it charge for a moment, until it was glowing, a jagged blue light. Then Isaiah fired more shots at the ram’s head. If Chenzira could keep fighting in such a circumstance, than so could he. The Mage was pounding at its chest, but somehow Chenzira managed to hold on. Hold on? To what? Somehow Chenzira was floating there in the clouds, which Isaiah did not understand at all. The cloud matter must have somehow condensed and become more solid.
The ram’s fists came crashing against its own chest, but Chenzira was beginning to get a full blue fire burning across the Mage’s face. The fire seemed to spread slowly onto the Mage’s shoulders and down its arms, until the entire storm was a mass of burning clouds. Then the Mage fell backwards and began to disintegrate into the rest of the oncoming fog. Chenzira rode the flailing monster into the bleak fog below until he was lost from view in the fog below. Isaiah expected there to be some sort of splash on the water as the massive torched ram collided with the surface, but no such sound was made. The ram seemed to disintegrate back into the mist from whence it had come, without a sound. Chenzira was gone as well.
Isaiah was left alone on the cliff face holding a small pistol and wiping his forehead with a dirty hand. He sat up and rubbed his chest. His eyes glared into the mist below but they had become a swirl of unintelligible fog once again. Chenzira was gone? Isaiah doubted it. He looked behind himself at the winding trail he had come down. He could walk away in that moment. He could return to the surface and inform the academy… he could run home and protect Patrick and Stephanie and Tannon…
Then Isaiah paused. There was a light breeze on the air. In his heart Isaiah knew he needed to press on. He needed to see what Chenzira had planned with Marinthe. His letter would be enough to warn Patrick…
Isaiah trudged forward in the darkness.

Chapter 7 Part 2/2

Alright. continuing on.

Seamus looked out over the city. They had just barely arrived, and were now surveying the metropolis that laid before them. During their travels, they had kept a watch out for any sort of satisfactory crossing point that would be usable by more than just Seamus and Zhanna. The two umbramancers could easily find their way across without any difficulty, but everyone else didn’t have the same opportunity presented to them. Disappointingly for some of them at least, no such crossing point presented itself. The supply lines ran through a very wide open area with very little tree cover.

Having reached the city, they now conducted some simple reconnaissance to figure out if they really could pass through the city. He had briefly wondered if they could skirt around behind the city up into the mountains. However looking now, that thought was dismissed quite quickly. When they said it was set against the mountains, I didn’t think it was literally up against the mountains. Sheer cliffs that had been hacked and blown apart lay behind the mountains and Seamus could see no way around that way. He briefly wondered how much difficulty they had with falling rocks. A good size boulder falling off one of those cliffs would no doubt flatten a house with little difficulty.

Barossastadt was for all intents and purposes a city. It looks much like most modern cities did, with several tall skyscrapers rising out of the ground, reaching for the sky, only to be overshadowed by the massive volcanic mountains behind them. Smaller buildings, such as homes and small businesses spread around them reaching out into the plains beyond them. Looking now, he realized that his map must have been incorrect. The city seemed to stretch from the mountains all the way to the ocean front, several dozen miles. While the metropolis section was focused around the mountain base, homes and their like stretched out for some distance. Pockmarking the surroundings, massive industrial factories belched smoke far into the sky, leaving a massive cloud of haze that hung over the city. Several roads let out of the city, most converging into the supply line that led to the portal. What had once been the main roadway that led out of the city and to the portal, and inevitably back to German to such cities as Berlin and Munich now had been appropriated as a roadway to transport weapons of war.

No matter where they went they would have to cross through the city. If only the topography had been stretched out a little further, and the elevation change from sea level to the mountains had been gradual they might have found an easier way through the city. As it was they were probably going to go right through the heart of the city. Right into the belly of the beast. He watched Adara looking out, simply observing the city, not so much conducting reconnaissance as she was simply awed by its scale. There was something about her, something almost intoxicating that had drawn him to her, since they had first met. He had heard stories about love at first sight, but he had never believed them. Now he was as devout and pious a believer as there could be.

I can’t just come out and say “I love you!” he thought. They hadn’t even met until the day before. One can’t simply fall in love with a person that fast. These things take time, they always do. That’s what he had figured with Zhanna. Things take time. Maybe in a different situation, or a different time, he would have fallen in love with her instead, but that time and place was not now. Perhaps if he kept in contact with Adara over time, and kept his mind focused and straight, rather than getting caught up in a momentary madness, things would work out fine. That sounds right.
He crept over to where Adara sat, observing the city. He looked briefly at her. Her hair glistened in the sun, and her eyes were shaded for her angling her head to keep the sun out of them. It was a very enchanting look, and he briefly forgot what he had come over to even talk about. Focused and straight. Dammit! “What do you think of the city?”

“It’s so large. How many people live there?” she asked.

“Hundreds of thousands. Seems like a lot of London has more,” he said.

“And you’re searching for one man among hundreds of thousands. It sounds incredibly difficult,” she observed.

“We’re not searching here first. You saw him at the portal. If we go there we can probably find some sort of a clue there that can help us figure out where he went from there,” Seamus said.

“But even when you get there, it is not likely that he is still there,” Adara said.
“I don’t think any of us believe that he is there for a second. But it’s a better clue than anything else we have,” Seamus said. He gestured toward the city. “In all likelihood, he’s probably somewhere in the city, but who knows where.”

Examining the city, he tried to pick out several notable locations that he remembered from the map. He was pleased to see that those sections at least hadn’t changed. The massive factory district lay in front of them, where massive smoke stacks left clouds of smoke into the air, like some field of metallic volcanoes. The Charleswelt Reichstag, the seat of government modeled after the very building in Berlin sat off to the side on a hill that overlooked the rest of the city. It seemed like an obvious spot for Crowley to be at, and if their search at the portal turned up nothing that would be the first place they headed to. It was too much of a gamble to simply storm the seat of government without reasonable suspicion, but they were at a loss as to where else they should be looking for the man.

Broussard walked up to them, while they still looked out into the city. “I think we’ve got an entry point to use for getting into the city. We’ll need to mug a few civilians to get in, or some army regulars. We’ll iron out that detail when we actually get inside the place. Let’s get moving.”

Without another word, Seamus and Adara filed in after the rest of them as they proceeded toward the city. As luck would have it, this side of the city was still fairly heavily forested so they had little difficulty in moving through the area without being seen. However as they reached the side of the forest that terminated in a great field that lay between the forest and the city, they all immediately noticed the apparent obstacle.

“Guard post,” Broussard observed.

Dammit. So much for an easy entrance, Seamus thought.

Seamus looked out at the guard post. It was a simple house with several guards sitting out in front of it. Theere wasn’t a large amount of them, but they occupied a position that made any attempt to bypass the area difficult at best, and disastrous at worst. They were going to need to take care of the problem themselves. Seamus gauged the distance between their position and the tree line before deciding that it still a little too far for him to shadow jump to.

“I’ve got this one,” Grigori said.

Broussard paused for a moment, but then nodded his head and Grigori walked forward, boldly moving out into the open, pacing directly toward the guard post. His cloth rippled in the wind and his hair curled about his face as well. The guards noticed him almost immediately, but no shots were fired. They seemed unsure what they wanted to do, and they took no actions.

Grigori waved his hand at them in greeting and called something out to them in German, They holstered their guns and one of the guards walked up to talk with Grigori. Either they didn’t notice that he was Russian, or that he had just walked out of the wilderness, or they didn’t care. The guard that was talking with Grigori casually led him inside. Another of the guards followed suit. Suddenly Seamus noticed an opening, where there was no one watching in their direction. He started to move forward, but Zhanna grabbed his arm and shook her head. He held where he was and looked at her with curiosity. She simply smirked, and pointed toward the guard post.

He paused, watching the guard post for several moments. Suddenly there was a bright flash of light, and several seconds later a guard ran out of the post, screaming as he held his face in his hands. Even more surprisingly, he was also on fire, and his skin was obviously charred and burned. The other guards outside yelled out in surprise and brought their guns out. Two run to the man on fire and knocked him down, trying to pat the flames out. He screamed in pain as they patted him down. As one, they immediately looked toward the entrance to the post, where smoke was starting to billow out from the room.

Grigori casually strode out of the building like some fiery god of war. His hands were wreathed in flames, even as he stepped through the door, his footprints remained imprinted on the ground in glowing red spots. The soldiers backed off, their eyes gaping wide open in horror from Grigori’s display of power. He stretched his hands out, and fire erupted from the palms of his hands, enveloping several soldiers in the huge gouts of flame. Some of them sprayed off shots in some futile effort to hit him, buit Grigori suddenly became a blur, using cover and shelter to avoid shots. As several soldiers fell to the ground, engulfed in flames, Grigori leaped out, and flexed his muscles. Several dozen balls of flames exploded into being behind his head and shrieked across the ground, impacting with the different soldiers. Each one exploded when it impacted on each soldier, knocking them to the ground, blowing limbs off and creating a general mess with.

A small trail of smoke crept from the top of the building as the area fell silent. Some corpses still smoldered slightly giving off the faint fumes of burnt flesh. Grigori immediately went about grabbing the corpses and hauling them into the building. Seamus looked around, checking to see if the coast was clear, and joined Grigori in his grisly work. The rest of the group headed down toward him as well to help out. Seamus noted that Adara stayed farther away with an almost sickened look on her face as he picked up a severed arm and threw it into the building.

Their effort wouldn’t keep their attack hidden, but they would still be able to bypass the area before anyone found out about it. Seamus looked toward the city. They’d need to head in now if they wanted to start making good progress. Broussard thought the same thing evidently, as he gestured for them to hurry up and move out.

Fall, part 1

All right, so what I'm looking for here has to do primarily with your reactions to the characters. What made you like/dislike them? What felt natural/unnatural? Secondarily, I'm wondering about setting and plot. What questions do you feel like were alluded to but not answered about the setting? If this was the beginning of a 250-page novel, are you interested in the plot and setting enough to put in the effort required to make it to juicier action? Muchos gracias, amigos. You're my heroes (and I'm not kidding, especially in the cases of those who are actually approaching the ends of novels!)


Fall

There was, as Connnor awoke and unhitched his sleep harness, a distinctly electric smell to the air. He closed his eyes again and took three deep breaths. His hair stood on end, his toes burned and tingled as his racing heart flooded blood back into his legs. Still not fully in control of his still-stiff muscles, he drifted into the right-hand wall at an awkward angle. His nerves sparked a brief wave of glorious natural pain from his skin to his brain when he made contact. He basked in the sensation and as he rubbed the sore spot on his forehead he laughed aloud. As he did, he felt the indescribable joy of feeling his diaphragm contract and his vocal chords focus air into a jet. His chest and sinuses shook from the force of it, and he had to laugh again, more heartily than the first time. A glowing blue light forced him to squint while his pupils slowly contracted. He was alive again, fully alive – and this time, he would stay alive. Today was the day that he left Ark behind forever, with its sleeping thousands, and would enter a real world.


The door of his cryo-pod hissed as it depressurized and opened. Connor pushed gently off of the pod wall with his still-tingling toes and drifted out into the chrome access corridor. Even after half a dozen times, entering the corridor was disorienting as down suddenly became left in the two-man wide rectangular passageway. But Connor adjusted after just a moment and took hold of the ladder on the far wall quickly and pushed himself down, where the dim arrows were pointing to “Departures.” The corridor's dim, unblinking light followed him down at a distance of about ten feet before and behind. Lower, the arrows indicated that he should go down as far as he could see.

As he descended, he twisted to look through the dim light at dozens of capsules that whizzed by. In just a few seconds, he passed no less than one hundred lives still peacefully asleep, unperturbed by the nightmares that might wait for Connor on the planet surface below –

The surface below –

Panic.

Conner was suddenly falling. He frantically grabbed the nearest ladder hold with his right hand to catch himself before he hit the ground, but he didn't give himself enough leverage to slow down. With vicious force, he slammed his cheek, ribs, right leg down against the ladder-holds, dislocating his shoulder in the process. Connor screamed and let go, which sent him bouncing slowly over to the other side of the corridor. He twisted his arm around until it popped back into place, crying out again from the pain of it. He curled up, clutching his ribcage as he tried to force his breathing down from hyperventilation. Spheres of blood stood suspended around him and on his sleep suit as he drifted slowly between the four walls until he came to rest on the left-hand side, by now tearing up with the pain of it. His whole body burned and his head spun long after he had stopped moving himself.

As the pain slowly subsided into a sharp ache, Connor wiped the blood from his mouth with his left hand and tried to control his breathing. Wiping as much of his blood on his slick sleep suit as he could, he used his fingertips to slowly bring himself in reach of the ladder again. His still-throbbing ribs convinced him that he had better not try to uncurl himself. One-handed, he slowly pushed himself down again, past the dark screens which hid lifelessly sleeping faces. Connor shivered at the thought and tried to focus instead on getting himself down, rung by rung, meter by meter.

* * *

There was only one other member of the landing group launching in Connor's shuttle. As he approached the airlock on the “floor” of the corridor, readjusting his perception of up and down back to the way it was when he came out of the cryo-pod, he paused to check one last time for blood. Looping his foot in the ladder rung, Connor patted his face down and his sleep suit. Then he rubbed the drops of blood between his hands into dust. He tried to see his reflection in the chrome walls, but the light was too dim and he was starting to feel ridiculous. Gazing up the eerily dim corridor one last time, with its hundreds of sleeping souls, Connor slowly turned himself to face the door below him – in front of him – and waited as the door scanned him, glowed green briefly, depressurized, and retreated into the walls. He pushed off the sides with his good arm and drifted through to the narrow corridor leading to the docking bay.

As he slowly drifted along, occasionally pushing himself forward against the side rail with his good arm, Connor tried to prepare himself to meet Adán Castillo face to face. Connor didn't like him much in the net, and he couldn't imagine that he would like him better in person, but he would know him in person. The idea made him a anxious, but it also had an attractive idealist element that led him to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. Between those and the clobbering he'd given himself in the stomach, he felt as if he wanted to vomit, but of course there was nothing in his stomach to eject. His progress was slow, and he began to wonder if Adán would assume he had quit at the last moment and initiate the launch sequence without him. It seemed like something he would do in the net, where he was brash and bold in stories and often played the villain, once as a Colombian drug lord with a taste for torture during a six-month super-novella that had gained some notoriety. Connor had seen him around, but he hadn't ever played with him, and he didn't relish the idea of spending the next two weeks solely in the company of a man who clearly enjoyed acting out complicatedly sadistic plots, even if he was working from a script.

The corridor ended, another door opened, and Connor found himself in a small alcove opening into a brightly-lit room about 50 meters square. Its walls were smooth and white and contained twelve little alcoves, each numbered in red and the words “Ready for launch” above the door. (Up was apparently followed with the column, so it was sideways to Connor.) The walls had little other ornamentation other than the occasional cross-shaped hand hold. A bright red column, about two meters in diameter and covered in hand holds, ran horizontally to Connor in the middle of the room. At the very center of the column were four user interface panels and some other equipment which intended to hook into your sleep suit, presumably to give departing personnel an opportunity to release their bowels before takeoff. Rule number one of Ark, especially in reality: nothing wasted. If you took your business out of Ark, there was that much less to support the tens of thousands of souls that it kept alive, Connor realized.

Holding on to a hand hold to his left, he surveyed the room, looking for a sign of Adán, but the room looked as if it had been undisturbed for the centuries since Ark left the Solar System. The thought made a shiver run through him, which made his ribs ache a little. He pushed himself gingerly toward the panels at the center of the room, but in his caution he pushed off too weakly and it took him what felt like five minutes to get to the red column, but he was able to easily stop himself with his good arm and his legs. “I need access,” he said as he hooked his feet in the hand holds and pushed himself upright. His voice felt dry and he coughed to clear his throat. The user interface panel drifted toward him until it was in front of him.

He was looking as if through a door into an office with a young man sitting cross-legged on the floor behind a short desk. Behind him, there was no wall, and the office looked out onto a tropical beach where some people were playing in the surf. The young man smiled a broad smile and bowed. “What can I do for you, Connor?” he asked, pushing aside with a pair of fingers a few windows of work to the air at the right side of his desk.

“I'm looking for Adán Castillo. We were both supposed to launch from here. Do you know where he is?”

The young man looked thoughtful for a moment and then, motioning for Connor to wait just a second, started to check something in one of the windows he had pushed away. Before Connor could respond, the young man nodded and jerked his head toward the wall across from the one where Connor had entered. “He's already here, in port C8. Also, before you go, you look like a wreck. I can have a medical exam ready for you in the shuttle.”

“Is that really necessary?” Connor asked, putting on his best healthy grin. The headache, the aching joints and muscles were a very unpleasant novelty, and honestly he wanted nothing more than to slip into a virtuo bath and basking in warmth while his body was slowly healed – but that would mean going into virtuality and postponing his arrival on the planetary surface, neither of which seemed worse than aching for a while.

“I'm afraid so. You'll remember what kind of g-forces your body underwent in training, and that was in virtuo. The planet's gravity would do quite a number on your insides if you've got any internal damage, and besides, as soon as you reach the surface, you've got a lot of work to do.”

Connor grimaced and rubbed an eye. “All right, fine. Hey, listen, what's your name?”

The young man smiled amicably. “Jan. Nice to meet you.”

“Well, Jan, excuse me for being rude, but what do you know about internal injuries?”

Jan's eyebrows raised just a bit, but his smile stayed fixed. “Same way you do, Connor. It's in the public domain.”

“But have you ever had internal injuries, or even a bruise before? I mean, have you ever spent enough time outside of virtuality to get hurt?”

“That's kind of a silly question. No one has, but everyone has plenty of experience playing in scenarios to know what it feels like. In fact, as far as I know, you're the first person to show those kinds of injuries for centuries.”

“Jan, let me tell you, even the dull ache I'm feeling in my ribs right now makes scenario injuries look two-dimensional, but you know what else? It feels really good. It feels good to breathe.” Even so, Connor had to shift his ribcage a bit to take the pressure off of the sore side.

Jan's smile finally faded and he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes just enough to be inquisitive. “Are you trying to brag about causing yourself physical deformity?”

Connor stood up a little straighter, soreness notwithstanding. “No, I'm just saying I might know something about it that you don't. You don't even know how it happened, so don't tell me you can diagnose me through a virtuo panel.”

Jan suddenly seemed a good deal older as he looked out incredulously from beneath his eyebrows. Probably virtuo had shifted to change his appearance, but the knowledge didn't soften the intimidating effect very much. “Well, let's see, you slammed into a ladder, crushing your right side. Judging by the speed that would have been necessary to cause the bruises on your face and pull your right shoulder out of its socket, your dull ache might be cracked bones and you are not cleared to enter the atmosphere with a compromised internal frame. That can lead to permanent damage, and you're not allowed to hurt yourself permanently.”

“How did you know–”

“How many ways can a person hurt himself on Ark? You've been favoring your right side this whole conversation and you rubbed your eye with your left hand. It doesn't take a detective. The only question is what made you forget months of training.” Jan paused but Connor didn't have anything to say to that. Jan blinked and softened his tone slightly. “C8. He's been waiting the fifteen minutes it took you to limp your way here.”

Connor nodded and averted his eyes. “All right. Thanks. Access ended.” Jan nodded cordially and pulled his windows back to the center of his desk. The tropical vision faded and Connor was alone again in the big, empty, white room. He pulled up a bit with his toes on the foot hold to keep from drifting too much, but he over-corrected and drifted the other way. He swung back and forth for a few minutes until he was able to put his thoughts back in order.

Then he carefully pulled himself down to the column and scrambled hand and foot to the other side and pushed off carefully towards C8. He paused at the hatch and tried to shake the thoughts out of his head, but that hurt. Then he took a deep breath, but that hurt too. He closed his eyes and smirked ironically.

The question that really bothered him, though, was that he couldn't tell if Jan was a person or a program. The thought that somebody's arrogant creation could order him around, even in reality, even after he had escaped the virtual world, left him unsettled.

Finally, he opened his eyes for the retina scan, the hatch depressurized, and Connor stared into his dim, painful, realistic future.

It took him a second to realize that he was staring at the docking passageway. Grateful that no one was watching, he pulled himself in and onward to the shuttle.