Descent of the High Families of Greater Amar

Ok, so this is mostly to prove (to myself?) that, contrary to popular belief, I have been working on stuff. Now, the work I've been doing is all worldbuilding, but thats ok, cause I enjoy it :)

So, this is a (as yet incomplete) genealogy showing how most of the main characters in my fantasy story can ultimately trace their family lines back to a common ancestor.

95% of the nobility in Amar claim descent through some branch of this family tree . . . whether or not the claim is true or not.

More will come during the week.

Later . . .

Spawn of the Void 2/2

Ok, here at long last is a post from me. Sorry it's been so long. This finishes up my world-building short story. Here are my questions:

1) What do you think of Danel?

2) How about the voidspawn? I had trouble putting my mental images of the creature down on paper. What worked and didn't work?

3) How about the "gateway"? For those of you who read my earlier story "What May have Been" the doorway is a passage into the other world explained in that story. I don't think I'll stick with this version of the gateway, but let me know what you think.

4) How was the action sequence? I feel like action is really hard to write.

5) General Impressions

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“Gholem prefer high places . . . cliff faces, dead trees and the like.” Danel said. “Gholem usually follow Soulless packs, feasting on the dead, but they too serve the whim of the Blood Lords. They are spies and assassins, winged and cunning. But these webs”—swinging the lantern high he gestured to the ghostly bits of thread snapping fitfully in the wind—”these were spun by a different creature all together. They’ve been called many things through the ages: great-roaches or dread-spiders, the Black Swarm or simply the Hive. Myself, I’ve always preferred the druan name chaq’huar’ttiq. It means ‘all-consuming nest’.”

“They’re . . . bugs?” Jarrod managed, unable to take his eyes off the undulating strands. Webs! Faith, some of those threads were as thick as his wrist!

“Bugs, yes,” Danel said and he shuttered the lantern again, plunging the wall back into shadow. “Though not like anything you can imagine.”

“What do they look like?”

“There are more breeds than I care to recite,” Danel said and he motioned for Jarrod to follow him. “Each bred for a single purpose.”

The old man crunched over the gravel that dusted the pitted surface of the wide gray flagstones that surrounded the tower on all sides and Jarrod hurried to follow, juggling the strange waterskin to his other arm and shaking the numbness out of his now-free hand—the skin on his arm pimpled in the cold night air.

“In the swarm there are creatures that might remind you of spiders, others that seem more like wasps or yellow-coats. Some toil out their lives working like ants and others hunt living prey from dawn till dark. All of them, small as bees or large as houses, are slaves, bound to the will of the Mattron. Many centuries have passed since that black queen stirred from her deep catacombs in the far south, many centuries since her spawn spread death and pestilence from Treimonte to Laradesh. In those days she called herself the Dark Mother. Who know’s what name she fancies now.”

“She’s still alive?” Jarrod asked. “After all those years?”

“Never mistake the Dark Mother for a mere mortal, she is as much insect as any of her children. But an older blood flows in her veins. Much older. Her cunning is deep and her wisdom the cold calculations of a thousand thousand years. And, like the Blood Lords, she is bound blood and marrow to the Ancient Enemy.”

Rounding the tower they passed into the harsh moonlight that cast deep shadows and bleached the tumbled stone and ruined walls bone-white. The old man wound his way through the maze of shattered rock and  the dark roots that hoved up out of the earth without pausing, as if he passed this way every morning, and it was only by dancing from foot to foot like a hay-struck fool that Jarrod managed to keep pace.

The wall beyond the tower had crumbled away in the distant past, and the gap provided a stunning panorama of the mountains beyond, their blocky forms cast in sharp relief by the moon that was setting beyond them. Overhead, the diamond-dust band of the Wardwall glittered like silver, a broad band of stars that split the deep black sky in two.

Framed by moonlight and standing directly in the center of the broken gap in the wall was a square block of somesort, its long shadow stretching across the uneven courtyard to brush at Jarrod’s toes. From twenty strides away the block—it was stone, wasn’t it?—was featureless, as black as the sky above. But staring at it, Jarrod couldn’t help but feel that something was stirring just within the block’s inky shadow.

Skin prickling with a thrill of fear, Jarrod licked his lips and asked, “There wouldn’t be any darkspawn still lurking about, would there?”

“Hmmm?” The old man shook himself as if coming out of a trance, and tore his gaze away from the dark stone block long enough to frown at Jarrod. “Don’t be a fool boy. Didn’t I tell you the signs were all old? Now, hand me the bag.”

Only when he’d pulled the waterskin from beneath his cloak did Jarrod realize that the thing warm. Faith, whatever was in the ‘skin was warmer than soup fresh from the pot! And still glowing like the sun at noon!

The bulging ‘skin was halfway to Danel’s hands when Jarrod pulled up short, the light spilling from the seams of the bag throwing back the shadows around them and casting the old man’s face in harsh relief. For a moment, Danel only looked at the ‘skin, confusion wrinkling his brow, then with a grunt of displeasure he grabbed the bag and gave it a sharp tug. It barely moved.

“Give the bag over, boy!”

Jarrod held on tight, amazed at how weak the old man suddenly seemed.

“You said the Soulles killed my da.” Narrowing his eyes, he gave the bag a hard jerk, pulling Danel closer. “How’d you know that?”

Grunting, straining to pull the bag back, Danel hissed through gritted teeth, “I read the signs, you fool! They’re plain enough. Now give the bag over. I’m running out of time!”

“You and your bag can rot beyond the Ward for all I care. How’d you know? Were you there? Did you watch my da die?”

A low rumble moaned across the sky behind Jarrod—the last of the retreating storm no doubt—and Danel paled in the golden light from the ‘skin. For a long moment his wide jaw worked silently, then, passing his free hand over his brow, the old man said, “I would have done something had I known the ruqai were waiting. A moment sooner . . . I might have been some help. You must believe me. I never wished such a fate on Matinew.”

Jarrod went limp and only Danel’s quick fingers kept the waterkin from falling. He barely noticed. The sight of his da’s broken body tumbled through his mind over and over, the terrible way his throat had been slashed open, the gaping hole where his stomach had been. The men who’d brought the body in had tried to hide it from Jarrod, but he’d broken free and torn away the bloody canvas they’d thrown over his da.

His da.

Oh Faith, his da.

Then what Danel had said finally sunk in, and all other thoughts fled. He looked up, and Danel took an involuntary step back, towards the black stone between the broken wall.

“How do you know my da’s name?” The words came out as cold as a corpse three days dead.

Thunder groaned again, closer this time, defying the clearing sky.

“Now listen to me, Jarrod,” Danel said, holding up a hand to ward him off. The old man was breathing hard now, eyes wide. “Your father came with me willingly. He understood the importance of my work. I’ve no time to explain now, but if—”

“Shut up!”

Lunging at the man, Jarrod grabbed the waterskin, feet skittering over loose stone when Danel fought back. For a moment neither man moved, arms locked around the glowing ‘skin, faces nearly touching, chests heaving and breath fogging in the cold. Jarrod’s whole body was trembling, screaming to unleash the rage and fear that he’d kept bottled up for so long. Here was the one responsible for his da’s death. Here was the monster who’d taken everything from him.

Without warning, Danel’s leg snaked around Jarrod’s and pulled hard, sending him tumbling to the ground. Faster than thought the old man was on him, striking over and over with impossible speed. A clenched fist struck Jarrod hard just beneath his chest, driving the wind from him, and then in rapid succession the old man landed blows on his neck, stomach and back with blizzard of stiffened fingers, elbows and the heel of his foot.

Fast as quicksilver it was over: Jarrod doubled over on himself, scrabbling weakly at the muddy stones, Danel standing over him, the waterskin in one hand, the other held helf-out, like part of him wanted to help Jarrod up. The old man’s face was a mask of anguish, but finally his free hand dropped and he turned away from Jarrod, back towards the dark block.

“I won’t ask you to forgive me for what I’ve done, boy.”

Pushing himself to his feet was like lifting a haywagon with only one good arm, but Jarrod managed it and only swayed a little when he finally stood upright. His head was pounding like the all the drums in every army of every nation in the world and his chest screamed with every breath. Who’d have thought the old man had such an arm. Spitting blood, Jarrod drew his sleeve across his chin then followed after Danel, who was now standing directly beneath the dark block.

“I’m going to kill you, Danel Terram.” The words sounded strange in Jarrod’s ears; somehow, he’d never imagined himself the murdering type. But what shocked him more was that he meant it. Of course, after the hiding he’d just taken, he doubted he could actually carry through with the threat. He stopped two strides short of where Danel stood and doubled up his fists. “You hear me old man? I’m going to kill you!”

Again thunder crashed, and this time the earth beneath Jarrod’s feet actually trembled. Faith, it felt like the whole hill was shaking!

Danel turned around slowly, face still twisted in a mask of pain. “Oh Jarrod,” he said, and his voice was lower than a whisper. “How I wish you could.”

In a single, smooth motion the old man ripped away the drawstrings that secured the waterskin. Light—golden, pure and fresh as dawn—burned from the bag, rippling like the air on a hot summer day as it curled in a million tentacles up into the dark air. Jarrod stumbled backwards, hands shielding his eyes, crying outloud at the sudden brilliance. Grabbing the bottom of the ‘skin with one hand, Danel spun on his heel, spraying the shining contents of the bag in a blinding, arcing wave towards the black face of the huge block. For an instant the face of the block was revealed, a blank stone face, purest black and streaked with thin veins of silver and pearl that glittered like stars. Then the wave of light—was it really liquid?—slammed into the stone. Jarrod’s hands fell from his face and his jaw dropped as he watched the light sink into the rock, like drops of water sinking into a pot of oil. The blinding light faded as the wave sank deeper into the stone, growing dimmer and dimmer until the unnatural day that had burned in the ruined courtyard was gone, and night reined again amongst the ruins.

For a long moment silence reined, except for the blood pounding in Jarrod’s ears.

“Danel. . . What by the Faith and Ward was that?”

Before the old man could reply, the sky was rent with a massive groan, like a thousand peals of thunder striking at once. The ground lurched and swayed like a drunkard, throwing Jarrod and Danel from their feet. One arm curled protectively around his head, Jarrod lunged toward the dark stone block, careless of trampling the other man, the stones beneath his feet bucking like a horse new to the saddle. Pressing his back against the cold stone, he looked up over the far wall just in time to see the next hill crack in two.

For the space of a heartbeat Jarrod’s mind grappled with what he was seeing. The far knoll was shaking itself apart, rivers of dirt and loose stone sliding down its shuddering flanks, the larger rocks beneath cracking and grinding as they were torn apart and sent crashing down as well. Even as its sides collapsed the crown of the hill pushed higher with spasmadic jerks, almost as if something were pushing from below . . .

Hands were pulling at Jarrod’s shoulders, tugging him to his feet, and someone was shouting in his ear, but he barely noticed.

From somewhere deep within the crumbling hill a fire flared and grew. Clouds of smoke and black vapor gushed from the rending rock, churning and spitting fire and ash. Higher the hilltop rose, the fire at its base growing, spreading and splitting into twin orbs of crimson flame. Finally the last of the hill’s crown shattered and fell, some boulders crashing through the maelstrom of swirling ash and smoke, others melting in the heat of the twin fires that raged in the heart of the storm.

Something struck Jarrod on the back, hard, and reality crashed home. Danel was pushing him from behind and frantically shouting, “Run boy! Run!” in a voice shrill with terror.

They both managed two steps before the buckling ground threw them down again. Rolling onto his back, Jarrod cried out as the two burning fires moved through the swirling smoke towards them. Wind lashed their hilltop, stinging Jarrod’s face with grit and dust, but clearing the smoke and ash above just enough for him to glimpse a darker shape moving through the storm, crowned by the twin fires.

Suddenly Jarrod realized what he was seeing. There was a creature up there, as tall as a mountain and moving through the billowing plumes of vapor. Moving towards them. Those fires were eyes—eyes larger than a house and fixed on them.

A warm wetness spread from between his legs, and Jarrod realized he’d wet himself. They were dead men.

“What is that?” he shrieked, fighting at the panic that had frozen his innards.

“Voidspawn!” Danel shouted into his ear as he roughly dragged Jarrod to his feet and with a mightly last shove sent him stumbling towards the tower. “Go lad! Run!”

Jarrod ran, chest still aching, eyes burning from the ash and smoke and sulprous fumes. All around him the ruins were collapsing, shaking to dust with each massive step that the creature—the voidspawn—took. He reached the tower and flung himself against the ancient stone, unable to hold himself upright any longer.

Above him a firey chasm opened in the darkness beneath the voidspawn’s eyes, a mouth like a gaping pit large enough to swallow the manor whole--Faith, it was lage enough to swallow a dozen manors whole. Ash and smoke funneled into glowing maw as it yawned wider still, only to explode out seconds later when the beast roared. The blast struck the ruins like a hammer, tumbling the section of the outer wall nearest the voidspawn, what few stones that were still standing loose, and pressing Jarrod flat against the tower wall. Hands cupped around his ears, Jarrod risked a look back towards the black stone; back towards Danel.

The old man stood alone, feet apart, hands clenched at his side, cloak flairing in the hot blast from the beast’s mouth, head held high in defiance. Behind him, the block of black stone was—Jarrod’s battered mind struggled to understand what he was seeing—the stone was splitting open, revealing a brilliant white doorway that silhouetted the old man’s scarecrow frame. Slowly, calmly, Danel reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a shining vial—a small star brighter even then white fire of the opening gate, clenched in the man’s fist.

The voidspawn took another step closer—Jarrod could feel the tower crack and tremble against his back—and spread arms that seemed to span from horizon to horizon wide, as if it mean to embrace the entire hill.

Using his teeth, Danel uncorked the vial and downed its shining contents in a single pull.

The ground bucked again and the tower lurched. Loose stones showered from on high and pummelled Jarrod down.

He looked up, ears ringing, blood leaking from his ears—and gasped. Danel was gone. In his place stood another man—at least, Jarrod thought it was another man; some hero out of legend, maybe—taller than anyone he had ever met and half again as wide. The man turned from the voidspawn and met Jarrod’s gaze.

The man spoke, the words barely a whisper, and Jarrod reeled backward in shock. The face was new, but the voice . . . the voice belonged to Danel.

“I’m sorry, boy.”

With a roar that matched the voidspawn’s howl, Danel spun back towards the beast and brought one arm  up, fingers together, palm out.

Fire split the darkness, light like a thousand suns lancing from palm to voidspawn faster than thought. Where the beam struck the darkspawn it exploded outward, burning back the smoke and ash to reveal a vast pile of hard scales and twisted spines, darker than midnight that lunged towards Danel, pushing back the pulsing fire.

Then the darkness closed in again, obscuring the nightmare. Danel stumbled backwards, arm falling, the light about him fading. The voidspawn’s huge paw slammed down on the hilltop and the tower above Jarrod shattered. He had one last glimpse of the old man running towards the glowing gateway, ash and smoke raining from above.

Then the falling stone struck home, and he knew no more.

Spawn of the Void 1/2

Ok, here is another world building piece that explains the nature and history of some of the various monsters/expendable soldiers in my fantasy story. As far as questions, I'd mostly just like to know what you thought of the whole piece (especially Danel) and what you thought of the creatures/monsters introduced so far. I'll post the rest next week. Enjoy:

The old man arrived in the tall hours of the night, on the wings of a storm.

He had to have been pounding on the dog-door for hours by the time Jarrod roused himself enough to realize what all the banging was about—poor old blighter’s right hand was raw and bleeding at the knuckles and his thread-bare cloak clung to him, soaked through by icy sleet that was howling in off the sea, wind screaming near fit to cover the lower noise of the thunder.

“Well don’t ye be standin’ out there, sir,” Jarrod hollered, raising the lantern higher and letting go of the latch long enough to beckon to the stranger. “There’s worse coming behind this rain, or I’m a five colors of a fool. Come in! The master won’t like it if you lay down and die against his wall.”

“You are Jarrod Keppern,” was all the old man said, and it wasn’t a question.

“That’d be me, sir,” Jarrod admitted, trying—and failing—to hide a frown. Blast the rain and the dark! He couldn’t see a thing behind the stranger, try as he might, and the lantern was less than a help. Where could the old blighter have come from? Folk didn’t just wander the wilds between manor houses. That was a good way to wind up dead.

Turning back to the old man, he tried again. “Will you not come in sir?”

Shaking his head, the stranger used his bloody hand to motion Jarrod closer. “I’ve seen you before, wandering between here and Daerondal Hold.” The man’s voice was deep and vibrant, so at odds with the fellow’s cadaverous appearance that it gave Jarrod a start. “Do you know the lay of the land to the west?”

Jarrod should have held his tongue—honest Faith fearing folk had nothing to do with the dark hills and darker ruins of tumbled stone that lay westward—but he was nodding almost before he knew it. “Aye, sir,” he half shouted over the rising storm. “I do at that. My da and I have wandered our fair share amongst the hills.”

“Your father?” the old man sounded surprised. “I’d never noticed him about.”

Part of him wanted to demand just how long the stranger had been spying about the manor; instead he found himself saying, “Da went missing two summers back. He’d gone to the hills hunting. We--we never found his body.” The pain welled up inside Jarrod, like old wounds breaking open, and he was suddenly grateful for the darkness—it wouldn’t do for a stranger to see the gate warden crying like a wee girl barely off her mother’s aprong.

“Forgive me for prying,” the stranger continued, taking a hesitant step closer. Jarrod knew he should have put a stop to that—no one approached the gate without permission from the Master, especially not at at this Faith-forsaken hour—but again, he did nothing. The old man extended his hand—again the one he’d worn bloody with knocking; his left hand he kept tucked beneath his cloak—and Jarrod shook it reluctantly, insides still churning.

“My name is Danel Terram, boy,” the old man said, and his eyes burning with an inner fire like blue starlight. “I’ve come to ask a favor of you, and give one in return.”

“A favor?” Jarrod repeated, unable to look away from those brilliant eyes. “What favor?”

“I’ve a burden to carry,” Danel said, gesturing to his hidden left and hefting something weighty beneath the folds of his cloak. “A rather heavy burden and no strength to carry it in this weather. Come with me, share my burden and some of your good light, and I’ll show you what happened to your father.”

Jarrod was two steps out the door before he came to his senses and pulled up short, heart pounding fit to match the thunder. His da? This old man knew what had happened to his da?

“How could you possibly know what happened to my da?”

A thin smile split Danel’s lips. “Come and see.”

West of the manor the land rose in long, tumbled steps towards the distant peaks. The pitted lane that Danel followed wound ever higher among scattered, wind-stunted elderoaks and huge bone-gray boulders that dotted the slopes like half-buried skulls pale in the darkness. The rain held steady and the tall curtain walls of the manor were soon buried in shadow, but the old man ordered the lantern shuttered until they had topped the first ridge and passed out of sight of any prying eyes.

“I’ll take the light now, my boy,” Danel said, pausing at the base of a particularly large outcrop of stone. “And you may take my burden, if you please.”

Passing the old man the light, Jarrod in return received a bulging water skin that Danel produced from the depths of the cloak. It was much heavier than it appeared—much heavier than it should have been—and it was only luck that kept Jarrod from dropping it on the ground.

Danel must have seen the fumble, for he hissed and gritted, “Careful, boy!” But Jarrod barely heard the man.

The waterskin glowed. Eyes wide, Jarrod stared at the light—pure, clean golden light of the kind you only saw in autumn and that if you were lucky—shone through the tight seems of the sack, and he couldn’t help but wonder if a miniature sun was trapped within the leather.

Danel’s weathered face was hard in the gentle light, but for a half second his sky-blue eyes gleamed hungrily, then the old man jerked his gaze away and grunted, “Cover it up! Quick lad!” Then he spun on his heels and marched into the night, the lantern opened just a crack to light the path before him.

Head spinning, Jarrod plunged the waterskin under his cloak and hurried after the strange old man.

The trail climbed higher and higher, and however old he seemed, Danel showed no sign of flagging. Soon, Jarrod was lagging behind, shifting the strange waterskin from arm to arm and regretting ever having left the manor.

Three hours passed without a word passed between the two, and then Danel paused in the middle of the trail and asked, “Why did your father take up hunting in these hills, boy? Your kin and neighbors avoid this place.”

Jarrod nodded, eyes on the trail. “Ten years back the crops failed and then kept failing, a famine or some-such—I was too young to remember much—but we had no rains for three seasons.”

“I heard tell of your troubles,” Danel muttered, tugging at his beard, “But I was far to the south at the time.”

“All of the freemen on the estates pulled out after the second year,” Jarrod continued, “And by the third year many of the serfs had too. The Master kept promising that the High King would send aid, but none has ever come. Food was so scarce . . . the-the lowlands had hunted nearly clean so my da started stalking the game up here . . . what little there was.”

“Your father was wise not to wait on the High King’s help,” Danel said, and then: “Arvad Telmar was murdered on his throne five years ago, his wives and children slaughtered not long after. Even now a traitor—the fifth since the High King’s death—sits on the Last Throne and all Ellandar’s High Families and generals are carving out kingdoms of their own. Help was never coming.”

“I-I can’t believe . . .” Jarrod had to clamp his mouth shut to stop blathering. The High King dead? Ellandar fallen? The sun might as well refuse to rise tomorrow.

“With the High King’s fall,” Danel continued, “The watch on the northern marches failed, and the Blood Lords”—Danel ignored Jarrod’s fearful hiss—”the Blood Lords have sent their spawn forth, down from their mountain holds. Dark things now range freely between the holdings of men, wandering the marshes and wild places. Wild places like these hills.”

Jarrod jerked around to stare at the old man. “Are you saying my da was killed by . . . by darkspawn?”

When Danel turned to face him, his eyes were haunted.

“Yes.”

Jarrod had seen the ruined tower from atop the manor walls, a shattered ring of stones and a tumbled tower that crowned a far hill on the edge of the horzion. But now, standing in the shadow of the broken arch of the wall’s ancient gate, he was struck by how large the ruins really were.

The storm had broken only minutes past, and the clouds were thinning overhead. The full moon was a bone-white eye framed in the only whole window of the old tower. Danel was already threading his way between fallen blocks of stone into the shadows beyond.

“I can feel their stink even now . . . it’s coating everything like oil on water.” Danel gestured to a far corner, “Some of the ilk camped there. Can you see the firepit?”

Stomach churning, Jarrod turned away from the corner and tried not to imagine what ‘spawn had been cooking. “What were they?”

“You mean what breed were the beasts that killed your father?” Danel turned ‘round long enough to frown at him. “What difference does it make, boy?”

“I just need to know.”

Heaving a sigh, Danel turned around and strode back to Jarrod. “And what do you know of darkspawn, boy? What could I tell you that you’d understand? Your father is dead, killed by darkspawn. Accept it and be done with it.”

“Just tell me. Please.”

The old man shook his head in exasperation, then walked over to the darkened corner where he’d seen the firepit. He paused and toed the ground, head cocked to one side as if he was listening to something. Then he began sniffing, edging back and forth, nose thrust out like a hound on the hunt.

“Rukai camped here, though I cannot say how long.”

Jarrod edged closer, apprehensive of what he would find, but unable to keep away. “What are rukai?”

“Soulless,” Danel said, and it came out a growl, “Life-reaved, some call them, the Dead Who Live. They are the remnants of men and women taken captive by the Blood Lords.”

“Remnants?”

“The Black Kings feed on mortal souls, yes. The life energy of mortals is the source of their power, though it was not always so. What is left after the . . . feeding, is an empty husk, neither living nor dead and bound to the will of the Blood Lord who consumed its essence.”

Sniffing again, Danel moved closer to the crumbling wall. “But there were others here.” The old man unlatched the shutter on the lantern, spilling light across the broken stone face.

Stumbling backwards, Jarrod bit of a hoarse curse. The wall was drapped with thick strands of dark, mold-covered webbing that stirred fitfully in the cold breeze. The jagged rim of the wall was crusted with rough spheres of mud, some crushed and broken, only a thick rind remaining, others were whole—two paces tall and half again as wide. Dark holes gaped at the bottoms of the spheres, almost like they were huge . . .

“Nests?” Jarrod said in a strangled croak. “Are those nests?”

“Gholem prefer high places . . . cliff faces, dead trees and the like.” Danel said, and he shuttered the lantern again, plunging the wall back into shadow. “Gholem usually follow Soulless packs, feasting on the dead, but they too serve the whim of the Blood Lords. They are spies and assassins, winged and cunning.”

A brief summary of the Imperial Geographic Survey

A brief summary of the Imperial Survey, as commissioned for High Review by His august Majesty, Emperor Artegues Cynsab Ryatein Telmar, High Seat of Family Telmar, Lord of All Ellandar, Defender of the Southern Gate and True Father of the Faithful, in the year 1032 I.R. (Imperial Reckoning).

The Faith smile upon you and your mighty Family, oh Dreadlord, and the protection of the Ward be upon your realm and all those both within and without its bounds who look to Your mighty hand for all Guidance, Judgement and Mercy. May the Ancient Blood in your veins grant long Life and deep Wisdom to your reign, which has already blessed our People with grace and plenty.

Of old mighty Ellandar, empire of legend and fabled might, was shattered by the treachery of her noble Families against the High Family Telmar and her allies. As is well known to your Grace, when the Last King of Ellandar was murdered upon his throne and the Queen Mother cruelly tortured in her own chambers, the surviving heir to the crown was smuggled out of Kar Ramen. The royal line of your illustrius family was subsequently lost to history for over a thousand years, until your ancestors rose up out of obscurity to found our beloved homeland, Aladea. With the death of the King, Ellandar was broken, her peoples left to fend for themselves. It is the belief of your humble researchers that the following millenia of blood shed and strife would have been avoided had your ancestors remained on that most noble and ancient Throne.


In our day, all traces of glorious Ellandar have been erased, save in three nations. First to rise from the ashes of Ellandar was the ill-named Taiberian Empire, which was founded, indeed is led still, by the Family that was chiefly to blame for the instigation of revolt in the Old Kingdom and for the murder of the Last King (as per the Imperial decree of your great-great-great-great-grandfather, said Family shall never be named until vengeance is exacted). Second of the three is Luthilen, which was founded by the traitorous leaders of Ellandar's mighty army, who had deserted their King in his very hour of need. Final and greatest of the third is your own mighty empire, Aladea, last bastion of the noble spirit and very blood of ancient Ellandar.


Aside from these three powers, many nations--too many to recount in full--have risen and fallen since Ellandar's end. The kingdoms Teldevor, Nellethan, and Niyan were founded by mighty peoples that had been conquered by the kings of Ellandar, and in our own day have grown strong enough to rival both Luthilen and Taiberon in power and might.


Of the smaller nations there is little recount. Six of these smaller lands--Durnhar, Fallen, Fildwall, Kimn Avar, Limeg and Nesintal-- have banded together into the so-called Indharan League, which has come to dominate the northern lands as a center of trade and commerce. The petty Bradier-River states--Aeshymdal, Calla Oman, Dashier and Rasha Khan--continue their bitter in-fighting, much as they and dozens have since the fall of Ellandar.

And in recent years, some few smaller states have broken away from the larger powers, including--inexplicably--from our own blessed realm. We are pleased to report to your Grace that after decades of rebellion, the Free City of Torfin has thrown off the tyrannical rule of the Taiberian Empire. Kamar and Dorak, known respectively for their shipyards and rich mines, have both broken free of Luthilenian power. Violent revolts during the reign of your Grace's grandfather ended in the independence of the Cralian peasants, who subsequently founded the destitute nation Adan Crale. And at the moment, revolts against your rule have spread again through the Dalian passes in the south, though we have no doubt that the rabble behind the insurrection will soon taste of your justice.


In closing, we present you with a list of the mentioned nations, along with a short description of their size and military strength:

Taiberian Empire Overview:

Population: ~5,000,000

Military: ~25,000

Flag: A red Lion rampant on a quartered field of gold and

Capitol: Far Ramen

Luthilen Overview:

Population: ~10,200,000

Military: ~ 51,000

Flag:  A White Eagle on a midnight field

Capitol: Luthilen

Other Major Cities: Manwar; Sho Ramier

Aladean Empire Overview:

Population:  ~ 12,468,000

Military: ~ 60,000

Flag: A serpentine Dragon, Black and Gold, on a field of

Capitol: Ter Nevron

Other Major Cities: Thar Falor; Kern

Teldevan Overview:

Population: ~3,000,000

Military: ~15,000

Flag: A Crimson Pine on a field of Lincoln green, bordered

Capitol: Taylon

Other Major Cities: Kar Verana

Nellethan Overview:

Population: ~700,000

Military:  ~3,500

Flag:  A Crimson Heron on a field of diamond white and blue, bordered in crimson

Capitol: Nirov

 

Niyan Overview:

Population:  ~ 8,470,000

Military: ~ 42,000

Flag:  Sigils of the Ruling Family in white, on a field of crimson

Capitol:  Niyan

 

Indharan League Overview:

Total Population: ~6,600,000

Individual Nation Population:

            Fallen: ~1,400,000

            Fildwall: ~1,200,000

            Nesintal: ~1,200,234

            Kimn Avar: ~50,000

            Durnhar: ~1,500,000

            Limeg: ~1,100,000

Military: ~33,000

League Flag: Six gold stars arranged in a circle, on a violet field.  Fringed in colors of League nation in which it is flown.

National Flags:

            Fallen:  A white bear, rampant on a field of dark

            Fildwall: Three thorny crimson roses on black.

            Nesintal: A black Raven on gold.

            Kimn Avar:  A silver Wheel on a quartered gray

            Durnhar: A crimson sunrise on a field of Lincoln Green

            Limeg: A standing Green Bull on a field of brown

Capitol: Indhara

National capitols:

            Fallen: Indhara

            Fildwall: Fildwall

            Nesintal: Intas

            Kimn Avar: Kimn Avar

            Durnhar: Durnhar

            Limeg: Limeg

Aeshymdal Overview:

Population: 860,000

Military: ~6,500

Flag: Four blue hounds rampant on a quarted field of yellow and white.

Capitol: Mallas

 

Calla Oman Overview:

Population: ~1,090,000

Military: ~7,500

Flag: A Golden Swan on a field of Sable

Capitol: Mallas

Dashier Overview:

Population:  ~680,000

Military" ~4,300

Flag:  Two Silver Wolves on a field of black

Capitol: Khatal

Rasha Khan Overview:

Population: ~100,000

Military: ~1000

Flag:  Three Blue

Capitol: Rhashad

The Free City of Torfin Overview

Population: 400,000

Military: 2,000

Flag: Four Golden Leopards on a field of sky blue

Kamar Overview:

Population:  ~140,000 in the city at any given time, 50,000 on the islands and enclaves

Military:  Only called together during times of war

Flag:  A Golden Caravel on a sea-blue field

Dorak Overview:

Population:  ~500,000

Military:  ~2,500

Flag:  A Blue Ram, rampant on a quartered field of orange and white

Adan Crale overview:

Population: ~2,340,000

Military: ~11,700

Flag: Three golden stalks of wheat on a field of Lincoln

Capitol: Torah

Other Major Cities: Oldus

Dale Overview:

Population:  ~850,000

Military:  ~4,250

Flag:  A Crimson Boar on a field of quartered brown and blue 

What May Have Been

Ok, so this is some world-building disguised as a short story. Think of it as exploring setting for my fantasy story, without having anything to do with the main characters in that story. It actually takes place a few thousand years before Spear of the Ancients. As far as questions that I have, 1) After reading the story, what do you understand about the Sundered Earths and Minyavaethan? 2) Does the concept behind the Sundered Earths and Minyavaethan seem like an interesting setting, one that you'd be interested in reading more about? 3) Any other comments.

Enjoy (and sorry its a little longer):

Adalwhin ta’Doren found the old druan lying in a ditch just off the way.

The weather had been foul the past month—longer, really—with storms of sleet mixed with true snow rolling in from the sea like soldier marching to battle, a new one pounding the coast every other day. The Faith be praised, the skys above were clear at the moment, the sun a pale ball hovering just above the far western horizon, though a stiff easterly tugged at Adalwhin’s thin, in some places ragged, cloak and toyed with his shoulder-length hair as he scrabbled down off his horse, careful to keep from disturbing his clerical supplies. Bad enough that he, a scribe of no small renown among the western princedoms, was forced to travel alone through these Ward-abandoned lands on horseback; kicking his inks, sands, quills and papers would only compound the mess.

The druan groaned—a deep sound like rocks grinding—as Adalwhin splashed through the ankle deep runoff, but otherwise remained still. He was a huge creature, easily twice as broad as Adalwhin at the shoulders, and just as thick all the way down to his thick, sausage-like toes, which were bared to the biting cold. In truth, Adalwhin could hardly believe the druan was still alive . . . a thin skein of ice had begun to form along the edge of the pool.

One tug on an arm twice as thick as Adalwhin’s thigh was enough to convince him he’d never be able to haul the druan up out of ditch unaided. Some old cord he’d packed away in his saddlebags over a year ago soon solved the problem. His horse managed to drag the creature up out of the muck and into the tall grass west of the road with minimal protest, and was soon munching placidly in its feedbag while Adalwhin set lighting a small fire. He unloaded a small kettle from the bag opposite his clerical supplies, and using most of the day’s water, soon had some tea warming over the hissing flames.

The druan began to come round just as the tea was ready. Adalwhin had cut the creature’s sodden clothing off using his knife then wrapped one of his two blankets around the druan as best he could—it was like trying to cover a child with a single kercheif. Aside from his shirt and pants, the druan had only a small satchel strung around his neck. Adalwhin cut this off to, hoping that inside he might find a clue about where the druan had come from, or where he’d been headed before luck had dropped him in the ditch.

All he found was a single smooth stone, black as midnight and a little larger than the palm of his hand. It was shaped like a plain disc, save that it tapered towards its edge, so that its center was a good finger thicker than its outer circumference. Thin streaks of some white crystal that gleamed in a dozen soft colors like mother-of-pearl cut through the smooth black rock, and the black parts were flecked with small points of light that didn’t seem to reflect the waning light of the sun so much as gleam with an inner glow of their own. Turning it over in his hands, he found that the top had been inscribed with a strange device: in lines made of the same crystal that cut through the dark stone, a twelve-sided star had been set.

Adalwhin shivered, and it wasn’t at the wind. The twelve-sided star was an old symbol, as old as the earth itself, some said. Men claimed that in the past it had meant something other than it did now: faith and hope, maybe. Now though, it only mocked men and all they had lost.

Words had been inscribed along the outer edge of the disc, but they were in what looked to be haelyren, and Adalwhin had never learned that language—no man had, not if he wanted to live among his own kind and be regarded as a Faith-fearing soul.

“I see you’ve found my great treasure, Son of the Earth.”

The deep booming voice caught Adalwhin so off guard that he actually dropped the strange disc. The druan was eyeing him with its great jewel-colored eyes. The creature hadn’t moved, but now that Adalwhin was looking at him, the druan pushed himself up into a sitting position, groaning laboriously and adjusting the blanket around his huge shoulders.

“Well,” the druan continued, scratching at the long side burns that sprayed from its blocky face like strange black fans. It met his gaze again with those huge eyes. “Did you pull me from the ditch just to rob me afterwards?”

Hastily scooping the stone back up, Adalwhin used a corner of his robe to clean the mud off of the smooth black disc and then proferred up to the druan, who accepted it with a hand that could have swallowed both of Adalwhin’s hands, and probably both of his feet as well.

“Forgive me sir, I only opened the pouch to see if I could learn where you’d come from.” Settling back down on the opposite side of the fire, Adalwhin pulled out his battered tin cup and poured some tea. “You must understand my surprise at finding one of”—his tongue stumbled, but he hid it by passing over the steaming cup. “It is rare to find a druan this far south.”

The huge male chuckled and nodded his head in agreement, savoring the warm steam from the tea with his hatchet nose. “Quite right, Son of the Earth. Quite right. And it is only unhappy chance that finds me this far from hall and kin. But now you must forgive me, I owe you my life and more, but have neglected to give any thanks.

“My name,” the druan intoned, touching his bare forehead with the index and middle fingers of his right hand, “Is Huaroq, and I and my kin are forever in your debt, Son of the Earth. May the Ward bring safety to all of your days.”

Silence fell over the two, broken only by the rising wind. Adalwhin poured what was left of the tea into his canteen, then filled the kettle with the rest of his water and set it to boiling. Digging around in his packs he produced a few shriveled potatoes, some woody carrots, an onion and a few sprigs of dried goodleaf and added them one by one to the water. A soup would do the druan well, especially if he hadn’t eaten in some time, and the warmth wouldn’t go amiss with Adalwhin either.

While he waited on the kettle, he tried to compose a few lines of poetry, his eyes drifting over the empty plains to the east, where the wind played idly with the tall grass. The first few stars were gleaming like ice on the horizon.

It wasn’t until the druan spoke again that Adalwhin realized his eyes had drifted back to the black disc and with the strange carvings on top and around the edge.

“You’ve taken an interest in my treasure, have you, Son of the Earth?”

“I’ve never seen its like before,” Adalwhin admitted, “Is it old?”

“Ah, yes. A good deal older even then I am.” The druan turned it over in his hands, one thumb, nearly as thick as Adalwhin’s wrist, caressing the sparkling rock fondly. “It is a Mapstone.”

“A mapstone?” Adalwhin repeated, confused. “But there’s no map on it, only that . . . that star, and the writing.”

“The dosestreya, the star was called in ancient times, before the raising of the Ward and the fall of the Defenders.” Huaroq held the mapstone up so that it caught the growing light of the fire. “You are right of course, there is no map inscribed on the disc, but in the Old Days, before the Defenders raised the Ward, this disc truly was a map, though of a different kind than you are used to.”

“Can you,” Adalwhin swallowed, suddenly and inexplicably nervous. “Can you read what’s written around the edge?” His voice was nearly a whisper.

Huaroq smiled and nodded, but instead of reading the writing, he closed his eyes and began to recite:

This earth is no bound to my vision,

A Stone without eye sees no end,

Through all the earths of Creation,

All bounds and holds I shall rend.

The druan’s lips turned down at the end in an apologetic smile, and he said, eyes still closed, “Or something close to that. I’ve never been very talened at rendering the High Speech into the mannish tongues.”

“What does it mean?”

Huaroq’s smile deepened, and when he opened his eyes again, they gleamed brilliant orange in the firelight, like a cat’s eyes. “The verse is, simply, a description of what the mapstone does; or did, rather, before the Ward was and the Shadow fell or this earth and all earths.

“You have heard, no doubt, of the Sundered Earths and of the gates that led to them along the winding paths of Huaq’choaqnar, or as the haelyr term it, Minyavaethan.”

Adalwhin fished out two bowls and pair of spoons and began ladling out the thin soup. “I’ve heard some tales that speak of the Sundered Earths.” He passed one of the bowls to the druan who murmured graciously, then tossed the old male a spoon. “But I’ve never heard of this Min, er . . . Minya-”

“Minyavaethan,” Huaroq rumbled. “In your tongue it would be ‘What May have Been’ or perhaps ‘What Could Be’.” He smiled good naturedly around another spoonful of soup. “The haelyr and their High Speech have always been a bit to . . . well, fluid, for my tastes.”

“I’ve never heard mention of that place,” Adalwhin admitted, careful to avoide repeating the word. “Not in any tale.” He leaned back against his packs and began eating. The soup was less than he could have wished for, but the warmth was welcome. Huaroq had already finished his.

“You wouldn’t have a pipe and some leaf about you?” the druan rumbled, and his eyes turned mournful when Adalwhin explained that he’d lost it all in a storm three weeks past. “Well, the food is some comfort yet, and the fire is welcome.” Leaning forward and cupping his broad hands around the flame to catch the heat, the druan began to speak.

“The Sundered Earths were a creation of the Aradlim, fathers of the haelyren, powerful beings who were at once the greatest champions of Creation, and her greatest enemies. Long ago they broke the Heartflame and shattered Creation. Where once there was one earth, whole and bright and good, there were now untold numbers of earths, but each of them only a dim reflection of the Master World’s original glory.”

Adalwhin nodded. This much of history, at least, was familiar to him. Nearly all of the stories spoke of the mighty Aradlim and their pride. A pride that had broken Creation, killed untold millions, and eventually destroyed the Aradlim themselves.

“Yes,” Huaroq continued, “it was the Aradlim who created the Sundered Earths, but it was my kin, the druanei, who discovered them, and in doing so, discovered Minyavaethan, gateway to them all.” The druan held the mapstone up to the light once more. “These mapstones were the keys to entering Minyavaethan, and the guides that led from there to the Sundered Earths.”

“What were the Sundered Earths like?” Adalwhin asked. “More lands like our own?”

Huaroq shook his great head, the fans hair on either side of his chin rustling softly. “All of the Sundered Earths are in a way reflections of the Master World, and as such, resemble this earth to some degree or another. But you must remember that our world, the Master World, was born from the fires of the Sourcebloom when that well of power was whole and uncorrupted. The Sundered Earths were born from the shattered remnants of the Sourcebloom, some—like the burning earth Turiel—were created from a single element of the Heartflame; fire, in the case of Turiel. Others, such as the fabled Colony Worlds, were created of nearly all of the elements of the Sourcebloom, and nearly as rich and varied as this earth.”

“A world of fire?” Adalwhin whispered, staring with wonder into their own tiny cooking fire. “How could anyone live in such a place?”

“Live?” Huaroq grunted, shifting closer to the heat. “No, no one could live on Turiel or any of the Inner Earths. Such earths, created from a single element of the Heartflame were never colonized by any beings, mortal or immortal. Even the Middle Earths, created from a combination of two elements, were too unstable to habitable. The Inner Earths . . . shifted, if you will. The very reality of those earths was constantly in motion, unseen storms that were constantly tearing those worlds apart and reforming them. Even the Middle Earths were deemed too dangerous to be populated . . . though the boldest of adventurers did map what they could of those lands. The Outer Earths, though still much more unstable than the Master World, were colonized by mortal folk and the Aradlim. And, of course, there were the Colony Earths, shining jewels that, in the height of their power, very nearly rivalled the splendor of the Aradlim’s seats of power on this earth.” Huaroq fell silent, for a moment, eyes closed. Then he murmured, “That was, of course, before the End. Before the fall of all things good.”

Rousing himself, Adalwhin fished a rag from his packs and, after rubbing the inside of the kettle with a handfull of grit from the road, began wiping it out. “And all of these worlds were connected by this Min . . . Min”— he growled in disgust. Faith, it was no wonder men didn’t learn the High Speech! It was impossible!

“Minyavaethan,” Huaroq said, and then a fit of coughing took the druan, wracking coughs so deep that Adalwhin was surprised when the druan wiped his mouth and the hand didn’t come away red with blood. He passed Huaroq the last of the tea, and the druan took it gratefully. “Minyavaethan, What May have Been.” He took a long drink, throat bobbing, then said, “That land was a mystery from the beginning.

“The first of my ancestors who found Minyavaethan never returned. After a time we sang more ch’aqnim open, and sent more searchers through, but none ever returned. I doubt very much that we would have discovered the Sundered Earths that lay beyond Minyavaethan if the Aradlim hadn’t taken a personal interest in our discoveries. It was they who first made the True Roads that lead through Minyavaethan, and after those paths were laid, my kin entered and sang open more ch’aqnim, which then led us to the Sundered Earths.”

“But what was so dangerous about that earth?” Adalwhin asked. “What happened to your searchers?”

“Minyavaethan was not like other worlds.” Huaroq lifted his hands, palms up, and shook his bald head wearily. “I make no claim to understand the old writings, but some texts suggest that Minyavaethan was . . . detatched, somehow, from the rest of Creation. In Minyavaethan, reality was in constant motion, like the surface of a river. Everything around you could change in an instant, so that at one moment Minyavaethan might be identical to our world, and in the next instant it might appear as our earth might have had the Ward never been erected. Or, perhaps, it would appear as our earth did ten thousand years ago, or two days ago, or twenty years in the future. Sometimes it reflect one of the Sundered Earths, as tempestuous as Turiel, or as idyllic as Islla Valar.”

Huaroq sighed, like a great bellows deflating, and leaned back from the fire, eyes turning upward to gaze at the bright stars. “Imagine it, young one. In Minyavaethan the future is an open book to read, the past an experience to be relived.”

“Then there are people there?” Adalwhin said, scratching at his chin. “How do they live, if time and reality is constantly changing?”

“Only the shades of mortals walk Minyavaethan,” Huaroq said, and then he began coughing again. Adalwhin had no more water to offer—he wasn’t worried, springs and creeks were fairly common in the area—so he merely waited while the elderly druan caught his breath. “But you bring up an excellent point. Minyavaethan is a dangerous place, and those caught in its ever changing grasp were forever lost. It is believed that our first searchers met their dooms thus . . . torn from reality and cast adrift in Minyavaethan.

“Only the True Roads were safe, islands of calm in the storm. The Aradlim anchored them to the rest of Creation, so that mortals could tread through Minyavaethan unscathed and so enter into the Sundered Earths. Once my kin had sang open the ch’aqnim to the Outer Earths and the Colony Earths, many of your kind braved the True Roads and founded the first cities in the Sundered Earths.”

Adalwhin could only shake his head in wonder as he began repacking the kettle and various utensils. “I wouldn’t mind seeing these lands you speak of, Huaroq,” he confessed. Setting the packs aside he began unstrapping his horse’s saddle. “They sound wondrous.”

“I fear that you would find them less than welcoming, Son of the Earth. The Shadow has claimed all but this Master World and Minyavaethan, and even that land has grown more perilous with time, hard as that may be to believe. Besides, the Ward has shut us in. We are trapped here as surely as our ancient enemies are trapped without, Son of the Earth.”

Pulling his own blanket out of his pack, Adalwhin wrapped up as best he could, then lay down next to the fire.

“My name is Adalwhin, by the way.” He’d completely forgotten to mention that.

Huaroq grinned at him as he settled down among the high grass. “Again I thank you, Adalwhin, Son of the Earth. I owe you my life.”

“Your tales have more than made up for any services I may have provided,” Adalwhin said with an easy smile of his own. He liked the druan, and that in itself was surprising. Making friends had never come easy for him.

“Oh, these are more than tales, young one,” the druan rumbled—Adalwhin could almost feel the earth trembling beneath him as Huaroq breathed. “They are truth. Faded by time and worn out by passing from tongue to paper and back to tongue again, but truth nonetheless.”

They both fell silent for a moment, eyes lingering on the dying fire.

“Perhaps now I’ll tell you have the Palace of Ten Thousand Mirrors that lies beyond the True Roads in Minyavaethan. It is said to be the only thing in that world that does not change. Anyone who reaches the Palace, it is rumored, can peer at will into any time and place.”

“Sounds nice,” Adalwhin murmured, sleep thickening his tongue.

“More than nice, I should say, Son of the Earth. It is not for nothing that my kin say, ‘For a prophet, all roads lead to Minyavaethan”.”

The old druan was still talking when Adalwhin finally fell asleep.

Chapter One: Storms from the North (Part 3)

“And you expect the boy to believe that, Uthar?” Danel interjected, “Even a man as . . . eloquent as yourself may find it hard to explain eighteen years of secrets and lies.”

If Uthar’s face had been a thundercloud before, now it was a firestorm, staining his face red as he whirled back and forth between Ethyn and Danel like a cornered polecat, first shaking a fist at Danel with a strangled, “Get out of here. Now!” then spreading upturned palms towards Ethyn and—in a pleading tone that was somehow worse than the unrestrained rage directed at Danel—said, “Ethyn, please. Don’t pay this fool any mind. I will explain everything.”

“There is no time to explain anyting.” Danel cut in smoothly again, taking a bold step back towards Ethyn—which conveniently put him a little further away from Uthar. “I understand your mistrust of me. Yes, I even your hate. The Ward alone knows you have a good enough cause for it. If it was in my power to bring your father back I would. But that authority is not given me, and you’ll have to resign yourself to that truth another time. Tonight you have a decision to make. If you value your son’s life, you must put your feelings aside and do as I say. The Enemy has found you out.”

The color drained from Uthar’s face and he glanced over his shoulder, back towards the house and the road to Grand Crossing. When he turned back, however, his features may as well have been etched from the steel he worked with.

“Leave now.”

Danel grunted. “Didn’t you hear me? Your secret is lost, Uthar, your precious Family located.” One frail hand pointed west, towards the village proper. “The darkspawn will descend on this village just as they did on Mattham.” The light from the forge sputtered, flashing like blood on Uthar’s suddenly drawn face.

For his part, Ethyn could only gawk, his mind reeling with each new word. Each new word spawned a thousand questions, but the Ward ban him, the only question he could focus on was: Mattham? Who was Mattham?

Danel’s voice drove forward, relentless as a pounding hammer. “Your friends and neighbors will be slaughtered, farms and buildings burned, just as it was in the north. With luck you and some few of your Family will escape with your lives, the pitiful remnant of a bloodline hunted since the end, five thousand years ago, a diminished remnant of a promise broken long ago.”

As he spoke, Danel seemed to regain some of the confidence he had exuded back when he’d first appeared, voice gaining strength and shoulders squaring back. For his part, Uthar shrank in on himself. Danel’s words were a knife in the blacksmith’s gut, and the old man just kept twisting the blade deeper.

“You’ve played the fool for the better part of twenty years, man,” Danel growled. “Don’t make your son suffer for your mistakes.” To that, Uthar said nothing, and Danel pressed on, real emotion lacing his ragged deep voice for the first time. Hope. Hope and something else. Could it be excitement? “Let me take Ethyn. Let me take your son away where the Shadow will never find him. With him gone, you and the Family will be forgotten. You’ll be free. Free to live out your life in peace and plenty with your wife and daughters at your side. Free, Uthar. What more can a man ask for?”

The flow of words ended, Danel pressed his parchement lips closed, and still Uthar said nothing.

“Da?” Alarm fluttered in Ethyn’s voice, but he barely noticed. Was Uthar actually listening to the old man? Did he believe Danel’s wild tale? Darker questions lurked deeper, ice on his spine, but try as he might Ethyn could not ignore them. Would Uthar really trade Ethyn for a promise of peace?

Seconds—less than two heartbeats—passed before Uthar gathered himself, but it felt like an eternity to Ethyn. His da shook his head and rolled his great shoulders, lips writhing in an argument only he could hear. Then deep sea gray eyes met Ethyn’s, and his da smiled gently.

Striding past Danel, Uthar ducked into the smithy only to return and plant himself alongside Ethyn. His da wrapped one heavy arm around Ethyn’s shoulders, pulling him close, and a flood of relief so strong it set Ethyn’s knees trembling and his eyes stinging. He barely noticed the horn Uthar held up in his other hand, waving the old battered instrument under Danel’s nose. The old man must have smelled the dust and old metal—Ethyn had never seen the hunting horn taken down from its pegs on the wall, not in all his life—because Danel stifferend, his mouth turning down in a deep frown.

“Uthar, don’t be rash.”

Uthar’s voice made ice seem hot. “You’re a bigger fool than I ever guessed, Danel Terram, if you think I’d ever let my son walk away with you. My father would rise from the dead to stop my own heart if I ever let that happen, and I’d welcome him to it with open arms.” He jabbed Danel in the chest with the flaring mouth of th horn, forcing the old man back a step. “I’d tell you that ten of my kin live within the earshot of this place, but no doubt you already know that. Walk away right now Danel, and there’ll be no more trouble between us. But this is your last chance. Say one more word and I’ll call the Family down on your head, and mark my words, there will be a hanging tonight.”

Ethyn stiffened, pulling away just far enough to turn and stare incredulously at his da. Hang the old man? This was a side of Uthar Hardric he’d never seen, never would have guessed existed. Anxiously he searched his da’s blocky face for some sign that the older Hardric man was bluffing. He found none. If Uthar’s deep-set eyes had been swords, Danel would have already been dead.

Danel, too, seemed to sense that there was no lie in Uthar’s threat. The old man swallowed once, then swallowed again, nervously fingering the last remaining button on his threadbare coat. Any man facing two hundred pounds of murderous blacksmith would have run—should have run—and Ethyn wouldn’t have thought any less of them. Faith, he would have died of fright had his da even been a quarter so angry with him. But Danel Terram’s spine must have been slow-forged twice over, because the man didn’t move. The opposite, in fact. With a deep breath that sounded like it might be his last, Danel actually took two measured steps forward and leaned in until he was almost nose to nose with Uthar.

“I ran once, Uthar Hardrc,” the old man whispered, and his voice chilled Ethyn to the bone. Faith. How could a man sound so . . . so empty? “I ran once and have paid for it a thousand times over since then. I think, shoudl it come it, I would welcome death now. But I have a work to do, one chance to redeem myself.” Danel leaned back and squared his shoulders, a man ready to die. “I cannot leave. Ethyn must come with me, and he must come now.”

For a moment, Uthar just stood there, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. Then he growled, a feral rumble deep in his throat. Ethyn closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer for Danel’s soul. Danel and Uthar’s souls.

Then Uthar blew the horn.

Ok, my main question is: how is the thread of the story developing? Too fast, too slow, or just right? Are you interested in what's happening? Does this post alter your perception of any of the characters? How is the dialogue? Does it seem like Danel is revealing enough of his purpose to you, or too much or too little?

Danel's Theme

So, continuing with out little inspiration thread, here's a link to a song that--to me, at least-- really seemed to capture Danel's character (if you don't remember who he is, check out my last post labeled under Spear of the Ancients.

After you've listened to it, tell me if this seems like a good fit or not . . . I'd be interested to know. Of course, I know the entire story and you don't, so its a bit unfair.

Later . . .

Chapter One: Storms from the North (Part 2)

“My name is Danel Terram boy,” he said, taking another step into the smithy, “And I’ve come to save your life.”

The words hung in the air for one long moment, so that Ethyn could almost feel them, like charged air during a thunderstorm, or the faintest odor of smoke after a summer wildfire. His mind kept turning the stranger’s words over and over, like some kind of puzzle that just needed enough working to be made plain. Save his life? From what? The notion was ridiculous—mad, really—and a detatched part of Ethyn felt like chuckling at the thought; no, more like doubling over with laughter.

What he said was, “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir.” Everything fell into place then, and he realized the poor ancient was some sort of beggar, likely up from Bartrime and the highroad in the south. He hadn’t a even a half-penny on him, but not wanting to seem rude, he added, “Are you lost? I can point you to village and the inn, if you’d like. Grand Crossing isn’t more than an hour’s walk from here.” He frowned. “But then, you must have passed through the village on your way”—

“I am not lost, Ethyn Hardric.” For all his frail appearance, the stranger’s voice boomed like spring thunder, filling the smithy with its broad sound. Taking another step closer—Ethyn tried to back away, but was stopped short by the hard angle of the anvil pressing against the small of his back—the old man, or Danel Terram, if he could be believed, parted his lips in a broad smile that was as hard and cold as ice. “Though I’ve not seen the light of day for some years now, I walk by a different light. It has guided me here, to you, so that I might save you from the Shadow that is coming.”

They were nose to nose now, Ethyn trying to sink into the anvil and Danel grinning at him like a loon. Were it not for the scum-crusted bandages covering the upper half of the old man’s face, they would have been staring eye-to-eye. Ethyn’s throat had gone so dry that it took two tries to swallow, and even then, he could only manage a scratchy whisper.

“You’re mad.”

He instantly regretted speaking, for his words wiped Danel’s cold smile away so fast that Ethyn almost thought he’d imagined it, replacing it with a face that was a blank slab of angles and deep furrows, harshly lit from one side by the fire. He loomed over Ethyn, though only seconds earlier Ethyn would have sworn he’d had a good hand and a half on the old man. The fire in the forge sputtered, then gained in intensity, peppering Ethyn’s brow with fresh beads of perspiration.

Chest heaving, Danel spoke, and seemed to fight for every word like it was his last. “I . . . I—am—not—m-mad.” Without warning the beggar shrunk back in on himself, trembling, one long-fingered hand reaching up to press at the bandages covering his temples. He was panting like a man who’d just run the length of the township and back, but when he spoke, his voice was as strong—and as empty—as ever. “I am not mad, boy, and you are in very great danger. If you hope to survive the night, you must leave with me. Now. This very instance.”

Ethyn hadn’t even realized his mouth was hanging open until he snapped it shut. “Leave Grand Crossing? Tonight? You really are crazy.” Danel harrumphed loudly, drawing himself up angrily, and Ethyn used the momentary break to slip out from between the anvil and the beggar and put some distance between himself and the old man. “I’m not going anywhere,” he repeated, jabbing a finger at Danel. “And you’d best be on your way. My da will be checking in any time now and he doesn’t take well to strangers poking about.”

For the first time Danel looked nervous, aiming his covered eyes over one shoulder—a habit he must have clung onto—and licking his parchment-dry lips with a bruise colored tongue. When he turned back to Ethyn, his lips were bending in what must have been an attempt at a placating smile.

“Now, now,” he said, patting the air soothingly with both hands, “There’s no need to rouse your family.”

“Then leave.”

“I can’t boy!” the old man hissed, leaning in close again and grasping one of Ethyn’s wrists. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve been saying? You are in danger, more danger than you could possibly imagine. I’ve come to save you, to snatch out of the wolf’s mouth, and not a moment too soon.”

Something in Danel’s voice gave Ethyn pause. However crazed the man sounded, he honestly believed what he was saying. That hesitation was all the old man needed.

“Dark things—creatures more evil than you can imagine—are prowling the bounds of this township; they may already have crossed its borders. They are coming for you, Ethyn, and they will kill anyone who stands in their way.”

“Dark things? What things? Why would they be hunting me?”

Danel snorted through the wirey tails of his mustache and gave his wrappings a sharp tug. “Bah! Don’t play the fool with me boy. Darkspawn have been hunting you and your kin from the beginning. They nearly caught your father and the rest of your pitiful Family”—the sarcasm the old man invested in that single word brought Ethyn’s hackles up and he opened his mouth to give the beggar as good as he gave, but being blind, the man just went on talking—“nearly killed all of them eighteen years ago, the night you were born. Now they’ve returned to finish what they failed to do then: kill you and yours.”

For a moment all Ethyn could do was stare in slack-jawed astonishment at Danel. Then, coming to himself, he shook his head and brushed past Danel, angling for the wide smithy door as fast as he could and holding up one hand to forestall anymore idiocy from the old man.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Danel Terram—if thats truly your right name. My da has lived in Grand Crossing from the day he was born, and the only family he has are the four other folk that live in our house—me, my ma and my sisters. Good night and good riddance.”

He was halfway across the yard, hens and chicks scattering around his ankles and the sun’s last light bathing his shoulders, when Danel finally spoke, a whisper so low Ethyn almost didn’t catch it.

“Uthar never told you?”

The question—and the dishonesty it implied on Ethyn’s da’s part—hung in the air for what felt like forever; it felt like it took even longer for Ethyn to gather himself enough to round on Danel, and when he did, he was actually trembling with rage, fingers flexing like the claws on a cat. What gave this old beggar more covered in mud than clothes the right to wander into his family’s yard and slander Ethyn’s da, a man who had never given Ethyn even a penny-weight of cause to doubt him?

When his voice did come, it was a growl so low and . . . and so feral, even Ethyn was taken aback.

“You get out of here. Get out of here right—”

Uthar rounded the west corner of the house, the merry tune he’d been whistling freezing on his lips and a half-dozen logs of firewood tumbling from his suddenly lifeless hands, and the rest of the tirade died in Ethyn’s throat. Across the yard, Danel gathered his cloak more tightly about his frail shoulders and took a single step backwards, further into the smithy and the shadows, almost visibly seeking comfort from the shed’s close walls.

“Da,” Ethyn began, moving towards his father, “I was just—”

Uthar help up a his hand, bringing Ethyn to a jerking halt. “Stay back boy.” The words were cold, harder than Ethyn could ever remember hearing from his da, but they were like sunlight at midsummer next to those Uthar proceeded to direct toward Danel.

“Get out of here, Terram.”

Grand Crossing’s chief blacksmith was a mountain of a man—one of the few features Ethyn and his da did not have in common—twice as wide as most men at the shoulders and after a lifetime of working the forge, half again as strong. Sea-gray eyes, a matching pair to Ethyn’s own, were set deep in a bluff face that was framed above by short-cropped hair the color of brushed steel and below by a flairing beard that only served to accentuate his lantern-jaw and bold, twice-broken nose. There wasn’t a man in the township that Uthar didn’t tower over, but he nearly always compensated for his looming presence with a ready smile and rough laugh that seemed to come to him more easily than breathing.

But not now. Now the man was more a growing thundercloud—lightning fit to spit from his eyes—than a mountain, a great storm that threatened to vent all its fury on the frail man who was now visibly cringing away from Uthar.

Ethyn moved to gather up the fallen timber, but Uthar brought him up short with a second jerk of his hand. The blacksmith took another step towards Danel.

“I thought I’d made myself clear the last time we met,” Uthar said, jabbing a finger at Danel. “You—are—not—welcome—here. Ever.”

Tugging at his cloak in a vain attempt to gather himself, Danel drew himself up and said, “There is no time for this, Uthar Hardric. I remember our last meeting—you saw to that yourself—but my business here now goes beyond any ill will we might bare each other.”

“Ill will?” Uthar repeated Danel’s words slowly,face set like he was chewing on nails. “Ill will?” He took yet another step forward, balled-fists trembling and the veins on his neck standing clear like knotted cords. “You led my father and a dozen men to their deaths, and you call it ill will?”

Uthar was on the point of throwing himself at the old man—who, to his credit, hadn’t turned and fled before the human avalanche staulking towards him—when Ethyn finally managed to unroot himself from the ground and launch himself between the two men, spreading his arms wide and puting his back to Danel.

“You know him?” he demanded, half-shouted really, eyes boring into his da’s face.

Uthar reeled back as if slapped, and immediately began studying the ground between his feet. “Ethyn, I—I’ll”—he stopped and drew in a deep breath and gestured to Danel, “I’ll explain everything once he’s gone. I promise you that.”

Questions:

1) How is the dialogue? Does it feel natural, or are there problems with it?

2) How is the introduction of Uthar? Does it change how your perception about him in any way?

3) Does it move too fast? Too slow?