Novels

Raiselig was walking before they even felt the tug. Their feet were moving once more before they even knew which direction to go. It didn’t matter, their feet knew.

They had only felt such a pull some time before; a darker time in their life. They had hoped to never feel it again. A small piece of their mind was grateful they had not been studying some finer point in case law or researching important precedent, lest they had been forced to leave important documentation behind. As it was, they only had to reach out and pull their yellowwood cabinet onto their back before they continued to walk.

Hollis set his youngest down and handed his spade to his eldest. “I will be back before dark,” he said. “Keep working the rows until they are clean, and then help your sister feed the cows.”

His eldest nodded, taking the spade with reverence and not a little fear. His children had learned from a young age not to touch their father’s tools. To be given the responsibility, even though it was not the first time, held weight.

When Hollis was a young boy, he wanted to work with his father in the fields. He saw men and women both young and old toil in the rich earth, growing green plants and roots that became delicious and nourishing meals. In his young mind, farming was what his people did, and he wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to join in.

He didn’t know that was what he wanted, he just knew he wanted his own spade, his own hoe, his own water-pail.

The ceremony was perfect. Raiselig was pleased.

The gifts of thanks came quickly and with little celebration. Raiselig was not surprised at this, as the people of Yolan were a proud sort, and didn’t take kindly to any suggestion that they were less pious or devoted than they could be. It was an odd dichotomy that Raiselig had never been able to understand. As a Scrivener, they were idolized by the Yolan people, and yet these proud and happy citizens couldn’t see Raiselig’s back soon enough.

The earth shook as Levret leaped to the side, barely evading the thick oak tree-trunk. Tucking into a roll, Levret swung their sword up and over, hoping against hope that the Ogre was clumsier than it looked.

His hope was for naught; rumbling laughter shook overhead. “Foolish boy of woman born, I’ll strip your skin like fleece is shorn!”

A gust of wind ruffled Levret’s long blonde hair as he turned to face his hated foe. “You’ve plagued the countryside for too long, Gob. Once you are slain, the valley villages will at last be able to live in peace!”

Hate.

It was like a sauna inside her skull.

Pressure. Hissing through leaks and cracks in the skin. Moist air flecked with sparks and flashes of venom and bile. Aversion. Desire. Inflamed. Hate.

Years passed.

Only once a year did she open her single eye, to gaze upon the black stalagmites and stalactites that were her prison. Her home.

For centuries she saw nothing, and so for centuries she went hungry.

No one is at Binny’s place anymore.

I showed up there once or twice, and it was just me and him.

I don’t say anything to him, and he doesn’t say anything to me. What is there to say? Word gets around, so why talk when you’ve heard it all?

Raiselig was allowed a maximum of seven days of vacation a year. It was a paltry amount for most, but Raiselig constantly had trouble finding times and places to indulge.

Relaxing was such an odd concept to Raiselig. When your being was your purpose, pausing in your efforts was akin to a kind of suicide, wasn’t it? If you weren’t working, then why were you?

Calchona had tried to explain it several times. Raiselig understood the idea of sleep, rest, even the idea of taking a moment to catch one’s breath — which was no small feat for someone who didn’t breathe.

The courtyard of Doom Keep was little more than a pile of mud. There were no paths walked by mortal feet anymore, save the aimless drifting of the soulless bodies clad in rusting armor. They stared, unblinking, into the dark skies that rained with black ichor.

Raiselig and Shosushai walked side by side down the slick stone steps, each holding onto the other so they did not fall. The corpses watched them pass.

Fitting, that the thunder split the sky like a sword. Well did it suit the mood of the warlord that rain fell like arrows, piercing the heart with their chill. It was meet that the distant fogs billowed like acrid smoke towards the fortress gates.

Drozior, the Dark Lord, Slayer of the Seven Moons and bringer of death and blood to the lands of Illshir, had slain thousands of men and women. He slaughtered the peasantry with no hint of fear nor dissatisfaction. For all of Drozior’s reign, the great palisades of Doom Keep rose high over a land run wet with red blood. So they said it was this that gave the stones their dark red hue.