The universe is populated and many worlds are far-flung,
forgotten. Until the day Gabryl, a man both alive and dead, his body reposing
in a sarcophagus, his spirit roaming as a shifting being, bellows a call to
arms. Eurue, as world and civilisation, after ages of isolation, will now step
into the ultimate arena.
Tristan and Alusin of the Kaval hasten to answer the summons to where tentacled miasmas are consuming people body and soul. Savier, as Keeper of the sarcophagus, sheds light on an ancient legend. Tianoman, Vallorin of the Valleur, brings the Valleur host to Eurue, and Emperor Teighlar of Grinwallin pledges his army.
But how does one fight miasma?
Who is the true enemy?
Meanwhile, as the spaces become frantic, a woman in a turret somewhere, elsewhere, plans her revenge. The schism between what went before and the reality of the present presents to her the power to control the fate of all.
Who will stop her?
CHAPTER 1
Like white powder upon the hazy dunes, light
drifts without direction, shedding spurious glows.
~ Cullin
of Balconaru ~
Petunya
Sunrise
The
Present
ALUSIN squinted
along the path, moving his head from north to south and back.
Reverberations in the soles of his feet revealed to him someone on horseback
approached, perhaps two horses, but the trail remained clear in both
directions.
“Do you feel that?” he asked, hunkering to
touch fingertips to cold and damp gravel.
Tristan stared back the way they had come, his
shoulder length fair hair wafting in the strengthening breeze. No sign of
anyone behind them. The morning mist further obscured view. He too sensed something
on approach.
Facing north, he murmured, “Difficult to say
where it’s coming from, and this lack of decent light will aid whoever it is.”
Straightening, Alusin gestured to a nearby
copse of denuded trees. Winter’s presence was everywhere, evident in bare
branches and the renewed promise of ice by nightfall in the air currents. “I
suggest we conceal ourselves.”
Nodding, his companion moved in his
long-legged manner towards the grey boles, a hand silencing his sword against
his thigh. Metallic sounds carried in cold air. His dark green tunic and
leather breeches matched their surrounds. Alusin fell into step beside him,
tucking white hair behind his ears. He wore grey, the camouflage kind that was
both light and dark patches.
Goddamn it, a fire would be welcome right now,
he thought as he hastened for cover.
Hoof beats sounded, closing in, and they
hurried to concealment, dragging their dark, somewhat besmirched cloaks
tighter, lifting the cowls to hide their fairness.
Shadowed and in shadows, they hunkered,
scrutinising the path.
As the white sun sent its first tendrils onto
the land, two forms on horseback wandered around the far bend further along,
seemingly unhurried. Both were swathed against the cold, in the drab colours of
the region. Old woollen tunics covered burly frames, while filthy scarves
wrapped around their faces, leaving only eyes clear. What colour those orbs
were remained invisible, which had more to do with distance than subterfuge.
Fingerless gloves adorned rough hands and knee-high leather boots rested in
dull stirrups. It was difficult to tell skin colour also.
The men did not speak; they simply ambled by,
looking neither right nor left. A definite sense of tension surrounded them,
however. Unhurried was therefore not entirely relaxed. Either they chose the
slow pace to minimise noise, or they hoped their apparent unconcern would mask
them.
Eyes appeared to scrutinise every bush and
bole, the actions evident now that they were closer.
That screamed the concept fear.
What were they afraid of?
Unmoving, Tristan studied them. Alusin’s eyes
narrowed.
The horses were strong and in good health,
although the tack and saddles had seen better times. Nothing seemed amiss. Two
men on their mounts were on their way home or heading towards the labour of the
day, and yet …
Tristan covertly gave a hand signal. It is a trap.
Indeed, but a trap for who or what? Were the
two men prey or distraction? Lure or victims? No one knew he and Tristan were
in the area, other than the one who dispatched the messenger, and he or she had
not yet been informed of their arrival. In fact, they deliberately chose to
commence this journey to the meet from an added distance in order to garner a
feel for the situation, whatever that was. No
one therefore knew of their presence, and thus the trap could not be about
them.
Who, then, was meant to draw what out into the
open?
That answer was not long in coming.
BEYOND the
coppice, opposite the path, a field slumbered in winter’s guise. Vapour
tendrils lifted from the cold earth as the weak sunlight arrived. Seed pods,
summer’s husks, adorned scraggly bushes. More than morning mist arose from the
deserted field, however.
Tristan gripped Alusin’s forearm, and pointed.
The miasmas swiftly took on form.
Eight-legged - no, tentacled - creatures waddled in an ungainly yet horrifying fashion
towards the two men on horseback and, even from the distance they watched,
Tristan and Alusin discerned the dreadful hunger prevalent in the nightmare
beings. There was also the faintest sense of despair.
“Fight?” Alusin whispered.
“We have no idea what they are,” Tristan
denied him. “We watch.”
The horses were more aware of danger than the
men were. Neighs echoed through the still morning air, and one reared on hind
legs, pawing in desperation. Cursing, the men attempted to control their
suddenly skittish mounts, seemingly giving no thought to what caused the panic,
although that was more the perception of the watchers, for the men soon
screamed as loudly as their horses did, as terribly aware.
Ethereal octopi clambered over and into the
melee of horses and men.
Seconds later, nothing remained.
Not horse. Not man.
And no otherworldly miasmas either.
“What the fuck just happened?” Alusin demanded
after many minutes had passed without further sign of danger.
Tristan cautiously stood. His hands trembled
and his gaze probed every shadow. “All gods, this is why we are summoned to Petunya.”
Alusin released an explosive breath. “Have you
seen these before?”
“These, no. Something teases at the edge of my
subconscious, but right now the closest comparison I have is the Mysor from the
Forbidden Zone,” Tristan murmured. “They were real, though, according to the
stories. Massive harvestmen with eight legs, but easily dealt with. Not this.”
Standing, Alusin asked, “What do we know?”
“Belun said the summons came via a third
party. A messenger collared Jonas while he oversaw the raising of grain silos
on Lax, said there was trouble here. Wasn’t too specific.”
“I am aware of all that; what else do we know
of this place?”
Tristan gave him a sidelong grin. “Worried,
are we?”
“Damn right, I am. Those creatures were
waiting for warm blood. It could have been us that went poof. The messenger should have given proper warning.”
Nodding, Tristan stared across the field. “Our
cloaks masked our warmth, thank Aaru. What do we know? Well, Petunya is rural,
but not without allies. This world of farmers feeds many out there. I’m
guessing folk didn’t want to talk about this, for it would put trade in
jeopardy. Therefore, the single messenger and the lack of detail.”
“Or most here are dead already. This place
feels emptied.”
“Bloody hell, I hope not.” Tristan swiped at
his hair. “Someone lives, and sent an
envoy, and where have we been focusing recently? Lax. A messenger was bound to
bump into one of the Kaval at some stage, and Jonas got that prize.”
“Therefore that someone has some clout. Has to, to send a man on a space flight to
pass on a message, cryptic and less than forthcoming as it was.”
“That worries me,” Tristan frowned. “And clearly
that means no one here is able to communicate as we do across distance, or able
to transport either. Maybe those able to transport were taken first. If misty
monsters are eating the locals, they are prey wherever they are. There’s no
magic here, but what we just witnessed is sorcery.”
“This may also be an elaborate trap for the
Kaval.” Alusin moved openly yet cautiously towards the path. “Or you. If so,
someone messes with the wrong people.”
Following, hand on hilt, Tristan muttered,
“Indeed.”
JONAS revealed
that the messenger - nondescript, no accent speaking in the common
tongue - gave a location for a meeting, and requested minimal Kaval presence.
In itself that was suspicious. If murdering
miasmas with eight appendages decimated the local population, surely one would
summon the entire Kaval in?
Tristan ruminated on the situation as he
walked beside Alusin. The messenger asked for one, no more than two, when it
was already clear to him he would need his full team on site to quell whatever
this was. The man, according to Jonas, then vanished amid Lax’s populace.
Was the trap for him, Tristan, as Alusin
suggested? Even those unaware of space politics knew the Kaval engaged in
succour on Lax after massive flooding virtually drowned all crops there. If
anyone was to follow a call for aid elsewhere, it was him. His team was engaged, but he was able to answer a summons.
Anyone with half a mind would know that. He would leave his team to go on doing
what they were meant for - succour - while personally reconnoitring a potential
new threat.
“You think too much,” Alusin muttered. “Your
thoughts are bloody loud, too.”
Laughing, Tristan rebutted with, “Elianas used
to accuse Torrullin of the same.”
“We are not them.”
Tristan’s face wiped clear of all expression.
“I am well aware of that.”
He obliquely studied the man keeping pace with
him. White hair; long and straight. Alusin wore it tied in a loose knot at his
neck, bound with bleached leather, claiming his hair got in the way in a sword
fight. Vanity, of course, did not allow him to cut it shorter. Tendrils escaped
to flutter about his face. Blue eyes, a darker shade than was usual, and
exceptionally pale skin. Alusin did not tan even under the harshest sun. In
that condition, he was much like the Siric of yesteryear. Excellent bone
structure, a straight nose, proper chin, lips neither too thin nor too fleshy.
He was tall, like to the Valleur. It was a truth that he was attractive and
possessed nobility of features. Alusin absolutely reminded him of Elianas, but
Elianas was dark of colouring, while Alusin was all light.
Only an immortal heard the summons to Dome
duty, and Alusin heard it after Erin died, leaving a post vacant in the Kaval.
As an immortal, the last of his kind, he had been alone a long time before that
summons, and therefore no one needed to pay the ultimate price in order for
him, as sole survivor, to take his place on the team. He was a sorcerer and a
seer, highly skilled in weapons and fighting. Having passed the Recognition
test in the Dome, Alusin, as lumin kindred, fought with the Kaval in the
present only for the light.
This man was a brother-in-arms, a true friend,
and also his Eternal Companion. A century after Torrullin vanished with Elianas
into another realm, Tristan still could not face that particular fact.
Growling, he spat, “Concentrate on this
mission.”
Alusin sent him a look, and did not say a
word.
Together, yet apart also, they headed for the
place of meet.
Somewhere
MOSQUITOES danced on the surface of the water in the pail she had hidden in the shadows of her prison, but there were sufficient stilled sections to view events beyond her confines.
Releasing a breath, she shuffled back to the
narrow window slit.
It
has begun. At last.
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