Trift came back, crashing into the empty calm of Oren’s life like a stone through a windowpane. Three years had slipped away since the boy had broken free of their sleepy little town, longing for heroic adventure. He went chasing destiny, while Oren stayed home, content to chase frogs in the stream where they used to play.

Trift traveled far, yet failed to achieve the grand adventure he desired. Then, he stumbled upon the lost prophecies of a dying king. To his astonishment, there was one he was certain only Oren could fulfill. Fate, it seemed, had not chosen him for greatness, but rather the friend he left behind.

Even as this realization dawned, malicious forces were moving to silence the late monarch’s final words, and so shape the future to their own purpose. Their agents had been sent out, intent to slay all who might bring about the events he foretold. These dark mages carry enchanted swords, each with a living orb of magical energy imprisoned in its hilt. These weapons of sorcery allow their wielder to summon fire, or see through the eyes of others, or even animate the dead.

Desperate to save Oren, Trift returned, and with pursuers snapping at their heels, the two boys fled into the vast forest at the edge of their town, the dreaded wood known as the Devourer. All their lives they had heard tales of the labyrinth of its gnarled trees, of the vicious dragons and hordes of savage goblins that dwelled deep within its shadows. There were whispers of a giant skull made of black stone, and a strange old knight in rusted armor who may be a lost legend, or perhaps merely a madman.

Swallowed whole by the forbidden forest, Oren and Trift soon discover that not everything is what it appears to be. Will their friendship and courage be enough to guide them through what is myth into the light of what is real? Or are they hopelessly lost in a tangle of prophecy and fate beyond their control?

The Boy Without Destiny is a young adult fantasy novel, complete at 76,000 words. It could stand alone or as the first story in a multi-book series. This is my first novel, and I’ve recently completed the first draft of its sequel, which is now at 83,000 words. I use no AI in my writing process.

For twenty years I taught outdoor education and experiential learning in the forests of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Working with young people, family groups, and professionals, I led and developed immersive programs in science, history, team building, and high adventure. I’ve always enjoyed helping others explore new perceptions of the world around them. Writing a story about kids navigating a strange and fantastic forest while exploring their place and purpose in life, feels like an extension of that. Besides writing, my other interests include illustration, blacksmithing, sequential narrative art, film and animation.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Moriah Geer-Hardwick (he/him)

The Way of Wisps, Book 1: The Boy Without Destiny

By M. Geer-Hardwick

“Upon his death bed, the Great Patriarch Kyre Loque refused all into his chambers but his youngest scribe, a man named Nils Oskirk. There, with his dying breaths, he gave nine prophecies, to be written in the common tongue and presented to the people after his death. However, on the day Loque died, Oskirk and the prophecies vanished. Some say the young scribe was ashamed of what he had been asked to write and could not bear to make known the last words of the once revered Wizard King. Others say, in hushed tones, that the Ruling Circle had learned that the prophecies threatened their claim to power and quietly had Oskirk hidden away, or perhaps even killed. Regardless, for the people who live in the City Under the Shadow, Loque’s last words died with him. In regards to Oskirk, this is why, when they speak of things that cannot be known, or things better left unknown, they say, ‘Only Oskirk knows.’”

- From “An Explanation of Things,” by Mortimus Pale

Chapter 1: An Odd Place for a Frog

“What’s happening?” Oren’s whisper was breathless and desperate. 

Trift suspected there was more to the question than what he could see through the knothole of the old hollow tree. He shifted uncomfortably. 

“We’re not dying a horrible death.” Trift kept his eyes straight ahead. “For now anyway.” 

Beneath him, he felt Oren tense and instantly wished he hadn’t said anything. He pressed harder against the rough walls of the tree’s interior, trying to ease as much of his weight off his friend as he could. Oren was doing his best to hold him up, but was by far the smaller of the two boys. He actually seemed smaller than Trift remembered. After three years, he really thought his friend would have grown, at least a little. Of course, three years ago he recalled the old hollow tree feeling considerably less cramped.

Trift tried to remember how they had discovered it in the first place. From the outside it looked no different than the handful of other trees scattered around the field outside the cottage where Oren lived. Its gnarled trunk twisted upwards before splitting into three knobby limbs that rambled out into a lacework of branches. The opening to its hollow interior was right in the crook of the three limbs, impossible to see from the ground, higher than either of them could reach, and therefore impossible to get into without the help of a willing friend. Oren must have figured it out. He was clever that way.

A sudden, sickening crash outside the tree startled Trift's attention back to the knothole. He pressed his eye tight against the opening, wincing slightly as the rough edges scratched the soft skin above his cheek. He could see Oren’s cottage across the field. One side was collapsing and a billowing cloud of dust was rising from the cascading rubble. He could just make out a massive, hulking form emerging from the wreckage. Fear boiled up inside his chest, but Trift set his jaw and refused to let it show. Instead, he forced an impish grin. 

"At least you were alone when I got here," he said. “I doubt we could’ve stuffed Old Widow Kubble in the tree with us. Hopefully she won’t hurry home. Not that I wouldn’t be happy to see her, but I’m sure she’ll blame me for this. Do you remember that time we took all her best fire herbs, and put them in…”

Oren swallowed stiffly.

"What's the matter?" Trift sensed something was wrong.

"Kubble's…" Oren’s voice was barely a whisper. “Kubble's gone. Last fall… Well, it was the bone rot. She…"

Trift opened his mouth but couldn't find any words to push back the silence.

"We put her in the ground on the hill above the hatch pond.” Oren quietly nodded to himself. “I planted her fire herbs over her."

For a moment neither of them said a word. A scattered rush of memories flooded Trift's mind. A wrinkled smile, worn from use. A round, rosy face, with broad cheeks that crowded out her eyes. Stubby, knotted hands, with skin cracked and hardened from years of worrying reluctant soil into compliance. He looked down at Oren, but his friend was lost in his own thoughts.

“I guess I missed a lot in three years,” murmured Trift. 

Oren felt a warm swell of tears fill his eyes, but he blinked rapidly until it passed. This wasn’t the time to allow heavy memories to weigh him down. He stared up at Trift.

"Shouldn't we do something?" he asked. "Fight? Run?"

"If we go out there," Trift pulled his eye from the knothole and spoke very slowly. "We’re dead. Fight… Run… The only difference is which direction we'd be facing."

"So, we sit here and wait?"

"We sit here and wait." Trift tilted his head down to look at his friend. "Quietly."

"But…" Oren hesitated. "You have a… you have one of those swords."

“A casting blade?” Trift shook his head. "It's no good."

"Why not?"

Trift shifted around to face his friend, pulling his sword halfway out of its sheath and into the small beam of light descending from the opening in the tree above them. With a flick of his thumb he triggered a small latch at the base of the weapon’s ornate hilt. There was a slight mechanical whir and the top half snapped forward, revealing a small chamber. Trift turned the handle so his friend could see the compartment was empty. Oren looked up, somewhat confused.

“There’s nothing there," he said.

"Just a useless hunk of metal," Trift agreed. He snapped the chamber shut, and slammed the sword back into its sheath before turning back to the knothole. 

“Who… what are they?” Oren chewed nervously on the inside of his bottom lip. “What do they want?”

“Oh, there’s a rumor going around that you make the best butter root mash in Forestedge and they stopped in for the recipe.”

“Trift…” Oren was not in the mood for joking. He opened his mouth to say more, but was cut short by the clack-clack sound of metal gears directly outside the hollow tree.

Trift squeezed his eyes closed in frustration.

"Two. There's two of them." 

The whining screech of steel sliding across steel filled their ears. Then, a pause. 

"Down!" commanded Trift, as he frantically scrambled upwards. Without delay, Oren dropped down, as low as he could, and not a moment too soon. With a splintering crash, a giant steel blade came wrenching into the hollow tree, right between the two boys, narrowly missing them.

Trift caught the edge of the opening and launched himself up and out of the tree. Oren watched him disappear, but couldn't force himself to follow. He flinched as the metal blade was suddenly jerked back out of the trunk. Outside he could hear Trift yelling, and the gnashing clatter of machinery.

"Get up," Oren told himself. "Move." It was like he was talking to someone else, someone made of stone. "Trift needs you." Oren dug his fingernails into his palms and forced himself to his feet. Once standing, he leapt for the opening above him. And missed. He fell hard, his back and knees scraping against the inside of the tree. Wincing, he fumbled about until he was upright, and then leapt again. This time, his hands caught. Swinging an elbow over the edge, he struggled to pull the rest of his body up. It took every bit of strength he had, but finally, his head emerged. Outside, the sunlight of late summer poured over everything, thick and gold. Oren squinted in its brightness. Then, slowly, his vision cleared and he saw it.

Looming above him was what looked like a monstrous suit of metal armor. It was hunched over slightly, but stood nearly twice as tall as any man he had ever seen. At the joints and between the plates, where he would expect chain mail, he could see the razor lines and precise intricacies of complex machinery. Its hands were disproportionately large, as wide across as Oren’s chest. Held in one was a giant sword. The blade was broad and double-edged, flattened at the tip. On top of its massive shoulders was a normal sized helmet, with a narrow, cross-shaped slit down the face, completely hiding what was behind it. Clinging to the helmet, knuckles white and teeth clenched, was Trift. 

The armor lurched, turning toward Oren.

“Look out!” shouted his friend. 

The arm holding the sword shifted, twisting awkwardly, lifting the weapon upwards. Again, Oren heard the awful sound of grating metal as the blade rose above him. Ponderously, it hung there for a moment. Then, with blinding speed it came down, directly towards his head. Oren gasped, cringed, and without realizing it, released his grip on the tree. He fell back, and as he did the sword blasted through the place where he had just been, completely severing one of the tree’s three great limbs. 

“Oren!” Trift screamed.

Wedged again at the bottom of the hollow tree, and somewhat dazed, Oren noticed the opening above him was much larger now, and far easier to reach than before. Gingerly, he freed himself and moved to escape. He could grab a hold of the edge without jumping. Clumsily, he half climbed and half fell out of the tree, tumbling to the ground, and landing squarely on his back. He lay there, out of breath, with his ears ringing, looking straight up into the familiar blue of the sky. All at once that sky was split in two as a giant sword came hurtling down directly at him. He barely had time to squeeze his eyes shut before the blade slammed into the ground inches from his head. 

Terror rattled through Oren’s bones. His body began moving on its own. He writhed, his hands frantically clawing the earth beneath him, his legs thrashing until his feet gained purchase and he shot forward… straight into the leg of the mechanical giant, head first. Pain splashed through his skull and he rolled back, his hands clasped on top of his head. 

Trift, meanwhile, was still struggling to keep his grasp on the machine. He had both arms wrapped around its helmet, but without a place for his feet the rest of his body was left dangling. He tried to brace himself against the smooth metal of the armor’s back, but he couldn’t get a foothold. Every time the giant shifted its weight or pitched beneath him, Trift had to grip down as hard as he could to keep from being thrown off. His hold on the helmet was unintentionally covering the cross-shaped slit, effectively obscuring the giant’s vision. Blindly, it flailed about, hacking at the ground, miraculously missing Oren below.

Trift glanced up and saw that across the field the first mechanical armor had started towards them. It was moving deliberately, in no discernible hurry. The cottage behind it had been reduced to a scattered pile of broken planks and loose stones. In the machine’s hand was a huge sword identical to the one wielded by their current mechanical adversary. It was walking slowly, but Trift knew it would be there in moments.   

The giant underneath him staggered, almost flinging Trift into the air. It took every bit of his strength to stay on as the machine took an unsteady step forward, its foot catching on the large limb it had recently cut from the hollow tree. It wavered for a moment, then stumbled, catching itself in time by jamming its sword into the ground. As it tottered, Trift at last managed to get his legs braced beneath him. With his feet pressed firmly against the armor’s back, he grabbed the helmet in both hands and wrenched it around. It slid two-thirds to the left, then caught. The machine jerked upright, and Trift felt the helmet come loose. At the same time, he lost his grip, and was slung violently to the ground. Surprisingly, he landed on his feet. Even more surprisingly, he did not land on Oren, who was curled in a ball almost directly under the machine, hands still clutching his head. 

With a whining groan, the giant swiveled at the waist, swinging the sword in low arc, the flat end dragging across the ground. Trift snarled, and dashed forward. Narrowly missing the blade, barely inside the reach of its mechanical arms, he leapt, and got one foot planted on the edge of its hip joint. Without hesitating, he stood up straight and grabbed the helmet again. With a good yank it slipped off. For a moment, he hung there, balanced on his precarious foothold, the helmet in his hands, staring at what was underneath. 

Instead of a head the mechanical armor had a head-sized glass bowl mounted squarely in the middle of its shoulders. In the glass bowl was water, and in the water was a very large frog. The frog stared at Trift, with bulging eyes that glowed with a strange blue light. Trift stared back. Then, with a shiver, the machine pulled away, and Trift began to topple back. Feeling his balance go, he launched himself off the giant’s hip and in the same motion threw the helmet directly at the glass bowl.

Oren watched as Trift sailed over him. He saw him throw the helmet, heard the breaking of glass, but had absolutely no idea what was happening when a small green object seemed to pop right out of the top of the metal armor and land directly on his chest. Instinctively, he grabbed it. It felt cold, wet, and soft in his hands. He blinked rapidly, but failed to connect what he was experiencing to any kind of rational thought. 

Above him, the machine seemed to hesitate, looking somewhat disoriented. The hand holding the sword drooped, while the other rose gingerly towards where its head should have been.

Sprawled next to Oren, Trift opened his mouth to breathe, but it was as if he had forgotten how, or had somehow misplaced his lungs. He rolled over and, with considerable effort, got himself onto all fours. A suffocating panic was closing in, but if he took a single moment more they would both be cut to pieces. Very small, unrecognizable pieces. Across the field he could see the first mechanical armor was no longer taking its time. It was rapidly approaching, running at them with a clunking, unnatural gait. It was close enough now Trift could hear the angry chatter of its gears.

“Run.” His mouth formed the word, but no sound came. Trift scrambled over to Oren and grabbed a handful of his shirt. Feeling a tug, Oren looked over. He saw Trift was transfixed on something behind them. He snapped his head around to look, and saw the other machine was almost to the old hollow tree. In sheer terror, Oren scurried to his feet and started to dash off in the opposite direction. Trift kept a hold of his friend’s shirt and pulled him back. Frantically, he pointed over to their left, where the edge of the field ended and the forest began. 

Oren made no argument. Without wasting a moment, his legs began to churn and in no time he was running as fast as he could towards the trees. 

Desperation at last forced air into Trift’s lungs. He reeled to his feet as the now headless giant blindly slashed its sword through the air beside him. As the blade whisked by, the force of it tossed his hair against his cheek. Startled, Trift plunged into a full sprint after Oren. Behind him, the wild sound of screeching steel suggested the machine was randomly flinging its sword around in all directions, hoping to connect its edge to one of their skulls.

Abruptly, an awful metallic crunching sound rang through the air. Without slowing down, Trift glanced back over his shoulder. The headless mechanical armor had accidentally swung its sword into its counterpart as it was running by. The weapon destroyed the other machine’s sword arm, completely severing it in a shower of broken gears and bits of shattered steel. The force of the blow knocked the giant off balance and it was falling heavily to the ground.

I will have to laugh about that later, thought Trift. In the meantime, he knew he needed every bit of energy to reach the tree line before either of the machines recovered. He tried not to think about how far away the forest was, or how savagely the fire burned in his lungs.

With a burst of speed, Trift caught up to Oren. As he reached Oren’s side, Trift noticed his friend was still holding the frog.

“It’s… A frog!” gasped Oren, looking over at him. “Why are it’s eyes glowing?”

Trift didn’t have the breath to respond. 

Together, they ran. The tall brown grass snatched at their pant legs as they whipped by. Field-hoppers poured up from the ground ahead of them in torrents. The boys’ hearts chopped away at the centers of their chests, and blood roared in their ears. Oren began to slow, and Trift pulled ahead. The thick evergreens of the forest's edge loomed before them. Oren could make out the rough texture of the bark on the trees closest to them. Behind, an abyss of shadow lurked where even the summer sun couldn't penetrate the thick canopy of their branches. 

“Hurry!” wheezed Trift.

Oren slowed even more. 

“Wait!” he gasped. “The stream!” 

Where the field and the forest came together there was a fast flowing stream. It was not particularly large, but it was old, and had cut its way deep into the ground. Its banks remained level with the field, while the stream bed had sunk a good ways below it. In the summer, when the grass grew tall, it was almost impossible to tell it was there unless you knew it beforehand. In the stream the water was deep and the current was strong. 

Once, when they were younger, Oren had fallen in. They were trying to jump across so they could play at the edge of the forest. Trift had made it effortlessly, but Oren had hesitated, missed the far edge, and tumbled down into the depths below. The terror he felt when the cold, dark water closed over him, and the current dragged him to the bottom, had never completely left him, even all these years later. Trift, of course, had jumped in after him, pulled him back to the surface, and kept his head above water until they floated all the way down to Tiddlebit Bridge, where they managed to climb back out. Still, whenever he knew the stream was near, the old fear crept up into him.

“We’re going to jump it.” Trift sounded determined. 

Oren had really hoped Trift wasn’t going to say that.

“Wait, what if…” he stammered, but Trift had already reached the edge. Without stopping, he jumped. As before, when they were younger, he landed on the other side without any trouble. Oren, however, stopped short — too afraid to take another step.

“Quick!” shouted Trift. “You have to jump!”

Oren looked back to the old hollow tree. The headless machine had stopped flailing. It stood alone, slumped over slightly. The other one, now missing an arm, had staggered to its feet. As Oren watched, it began its clumsy, lurching run again, straight for them. 

“Jump now!” Trift insisted.

Oren groaned. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to find something inside himself that would make his legs move. In the darkness he could hear the clack-clack of the approaching mechanical armor. It grew louder and louder.

“Oren!”

Oren forced his eyes open and took a deep breath. Tucking the frog close to his chest, he turned and broke into a quick dash. He could see the stream’s edge through the grass, not far ahead. A few paces more and he was there. With every bit of strength he had left, Oren launched himself into the air. 

Immediately, Trift knew his friend wasn’t going to make it. In sheer terror, he shot out his hand, and somehow caught Oren by the collar. He yanked as hard as he could, and together, both boys tumbled awkwardly to the ground. Oren was very much surprised to find himself safely on the other side of the stream. He blinked and looked up at Trift. Trift was staring straight past him. He pulled on Oren’s collar, urging him to his feet. Oren looked back. The metal giant had almost reached them.

“Into the forest, now!” said Trift.

As they scrambled into the shadow of the trees, the sound of thundering footsteps and clattering gears surged over them. Then, abruptly, the noises were cut short by a sharp clang and the straining groan of distressed metal, followed by a horrific crash. Oren risked turning his head to look back. The metal giant had stumbled into the stream. One of its legs had gone completely down into the water, pitching its body forward, and slamming it headfirst into the trunk of a bulky, ancient looking tree. It grasped stiffly at the air with its one good hand before plunging over sideways and disappearing from view.

“Keep going!” cried Trift, sharply.

Oren turned towards the forest and they both started running again, weaving through the trees, doing their best to dodge the lower branches.

They hadn’t gone far when Oren stopped short.

“Wait,” he called. 

Trift dug his feet into the ground, sliding a bit in the thick pine needles that covered the forest floor.

“There’s no time,” he gasped. “That thing’s gonna get back up. We need to get deeper in, where the trees grow too thick for it to follow.”

“But…” stuttered Oren. “The… The frog.”

“The frog?” Trift raised an eyebrow.

Oren lifted the frog to show his friend.

“There was a frog in that thing,” Oren stated aloud in a very small voice. He sounded like a child who was not entirely sure what they said was altogether true.

“Why…” Trift hunched over, his hands gripping his knees, breathing heavily. “Why did you bring… the frog?”

Oren looked down at the frog. The frog’s large, glowing round eyes were beginning to look glassy. Oren looked back at Trift.

“Why…” Oren asked. “Why was there a frog in that thing? And why are his eyes glowing?”

Trift straightened, debating whether or not it was worth the time to answer. He glanced back at the curtain of sunlight that marked where the field ended and the forest began. It wasn’t nearly as far away as he would have liked. He listened for a moment, but didn’t hear anything that sounded like a giant metal monster crashing through the woods after them. 

“Fine,” he sighed. “You know there’s a rune that lets a spellcaster push and pull objects from a good distance away, right?”

Oren blinked. The frog did not.

“But,” Trift continued. “There isn’t a rune for seeing through something if it doesn’t have eyes. So, they stick a frog, or sometimes a rat, into one of those things and channel their sight through it. See?”

Oren didn’t see. “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said.

“Actually,” said Trift, gesturing weakly with one hand. “Neither have I. I heard people talking about it though. Not many mages can cast from two runes at the same time.”

Oren was only half listening. 

“I need to put the frog back in the stream,” he declared.

“What?” Trift looked startled. “Why? Leave him here. He’ll be fine.”

“No,” insisted Oren. “He belongs in the water, not in the woods. He’ll dry out, or something will eat him.”

“He can make it on his own,” insisted Trift. “The stream’s right over there.”

“I know,” said Oren. “I’ll be quick.” With that, he spun around and dashed back the way they had come.

“Oren!” cried Trift, scrambling after him.

Oren pressed his lips together and hurried onward. As he neared the tree line, his steps slowed. Still inside the safety of the forest’s shadow, he slipped behind the hulking trunk of an old pine. Trift caught up with him and grabbed at his shirt, but Oren pulled away. Cautiously, he peeked out from behind the tree. Across the field, the headless mechanical giant remained where he had last seen it, hunched and still. He looked up and down the stream, but saw no sign of the other machine. Maybe it had been swept away by the current, he thought, hopefully. Gently, he eased out from behind the tree into the sunlight. 

“Oren…” Trift hissed. 

Oren drew in a deep breath, held out the frog, and took a step towards the stream. At that moment, a colossal metal arm exploded up in front of him. It rose until it was almost eye level with Oren, and then smashed into the ground, barely missing his toes. Its massive metal fingers clawed deep into the soil. The arm creaked, straining to pull the rest of the machine up. Oren stood frozen in place as its helmet and shoulders heaved into view. 

Trift dashed from the trees and kicked the giant’s hand as hard as he could. Pain shot through his toe and up his leg like a bolt of lightning. He cried out, grabbed his foot, and promptly fell over.  

The machine swiveled its other shoulder, slinging what was left of its broken arm up onto the bank. Clumsily, it tried to use the stump as leverage to pull itself the rest of the way out. Its torso shuddered and rose slightly. At that moment, the ground beneath the giant buckled and the entire bank began crumbling away in a rush of shifting earth. With a frantic clack-clack of gears, the machine writhed and flailed, trying to keep from falling back, but it was too late. With a muddy splash, it crashed down into the stream and disappeared. 

Feeling the bank begin to give way, Trift started to thrash madly forward on his belly. For his efforts he was rewarded with a mouthful of dirt, and to his relief, a firm grasp on stable ground.

Oren, meanwhile, remained still as a stone. Even as the stream’s widening expanse chewed its way right up to where he stood, he never flinched. He didn’t look down at the thrashing metal giant as it collapsed into the water below. He didn’t look at how close his toes now were to the edge. With his arms still outstretched, he simply dropped the frog into the stream. 

The next instant Trift had him by the arm and was dragging him back towards the trees. Oren only had enough time to give one final, sad, little wave to the frog, the field, and what remained of the stone cottage where he had lived his whole life, before the great and terrible forest known as Klausghard closed in around them both.                                                                                                     

Far across the field, hidden away behind a shallow knoll, two figures silently knelt, side by side in the tall grass. They wore long, slate gray, hooded cloaks, reinforced around the shoulders with heavy, black leather. Each gripped a wicked looking sword, stabbed into the ground in front of them. Perched upon their shoulders, each had a large, black crow. The birds kept a vigilant watch while their masters remained still. 

The larger of the two figures was a formidable young mage named Artus Shail. Beneath his cloak gleamed the polished steel of a plate armor chest piece. The other, slightly younger, and at least a head shorter, was named Cerynn Skriss. She wore no armor. Wrapped loosely around her neck was a spider silk scarf, dyed deep red. 

 Skriss was the first to stir. With a start, her eyes snapped open and she drew in a quick breath through her teeth. The crow on her shoulder, a sleek, glossy creature she had named Vespra, began to bob up and down excitedly. Vespra was always eager when Skriss came out of a casting state, primarily because she tended to receive more treats when her master was awake. On this occasion, she was not so fortunate. Ignoring her, Skriss clenched the grip of her casting blade as hard as she could, squeezing it so tight she could feel the rune shift lever dig sharply into her palm. Then, with a sigh of despair she released it. She heard the display shutter snap closed and the soft hiss of residual energy escaping the invocation chamber. Still kneeling, she angrily yanked the blade from the ground and laid it across her lap. With a few sharp flicks of her gloved hand, she brushed away the dirt from its smooth, black steel. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, so loud she imagined it had moved directly to the center of her head while her mind was away. 

Things could not possibly have gone worse. 

Skriss glanced over at her companion. Still in his casting state, he appeared deceptively calm. Seeing him resting back on his knees and slightly hunched over, a passerby might assume he was asleep. Yes, a vision of peaceful repose, but Skriss knew that just out of sight, over the hill and across the field, his state of mind was anything but serene. She thought about what he would say when his consciousness returned and a fresh surge of anger washed over her. She had no doubt that Shail would blame her for this.

Seeing her looking in his direction, the crow on Shail’s shoulder, a disheveled specimen with the unfortunate name of Smudge, ducked his head at her, and offered a low, raspy call. She glared at him. 

“Oh, don’t worry. He won’t yell at you,” she said. Smudge cocked his head to one side, but otherwise didn’t seem particularly interested in her problems.  

Skriss’s brow narrowed. Nervously, she began chewing on her bottom lip. It occurred to her that Shail’s potential outrage was the least of her worries. Losing a mechanical, even in the best of circumstances, was a serious matter. Losing two, and having nothing to show for it? That kind of failure would have dire consequences. Their commander, a grizzled veteran of the Goblin Crusades, named Ulfbert Cask, had a temper that was legendary. Once, she watched him break a mage’s arm for leaving his sword behind in the training yard while he went for a drink of water. A sudden taste of blood made her realize she had absently bitten a little too hard. She spit on the ground beside her.

The invocation chamber on her sword began to softly buzz. Annoyed, she gave it an agitated shake and the buzzing stopped. She scowled down at it, then squeezed her eyes closed. Her head felt like it was full of water. She hated casting sight through most things, but frogs were by far the worst. Nothing else made her brain feel so… mushy. Even though she knew she could breathe the whole time, it still felt like drowning. She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes and massaged gingerly.  

“By the Seven Shrines!” Shail awoke with a curse. He snatched his casting blade from the ground, sprang to his feet, and hurled the sword as far as he could into the grass in front of him. Disturbed by the sudden movement, Smudge sluggishly beat his wings a few times and climbed lazily into the air. He circled just above Shail’s head, patiently waiting for the stability of his perch to return. His movements came with a gentle ease that suggested he had gone through this more than a few times.

Skriss raised an eyebrow. “They escaped?” she said.

Shail whipped around and shot her a searing glare. He stabbed a thick, gloved finger at her.

“This,” he growled. “Would be the ideal moment for you to choose silence.” He let the words hang between them for a moment, his finger still pointed at her accusingly. 

“This isn’t my fault,” Skriss stated, coolly. Vespra echoed her with a throaty caw. Skriss reached up and gently touched the bird’s shoulder, reassuring her.

Shail glared at Skriss. Slowly, he curled his finger back until he was making a fist, which he then clenched so hard his entire arm began to shake. Skriss waited patiently. Shail at last snarled something incomprehensible, and then jerked around, stomping away in the direction he had thrown his casting blade. Skriss rested the blade of her sword on her shoulder and watched as he kicked angrily at the tall grass, trying to find where his weapon had landed. After a moment he spotted it, cursed, swooped down his hand to snatch up the handle, and then started up the knoll, dragging the blade along the ground behind him. After a few jolting steps the invocation chamber in the hilt began to hum angrily. As if in response, Skriss’s own sword began resonating, tingling sharply against her shoulder. She sternly gave it a good shake.

“You want to get thrown too?” she grumbled. 

Skriss wearily climbed to her feet and reluctantly followed the trampled path Shail had made through the grass. He was already out of sight over the knoll’s crest.

“I told you using the mechanicals was a terrible idea,” she called ahead.

“Klausghard!” Shail cursed loudly in response. Skriss scowled and hurried her pace. She caught up quickly and fell in step behind him. Smudge had regained his perch and was clinging to Shail’s shoulder, swaying awkwardly to avoid losing his balance. Catching sight of her, the crow turned his head and clacked his beak. Skriss looked past him and her heart sank when she saw the broken hollow tree and the forlorn hulk of her headless mechanical armor across the field. Shail noticed it as well, and his pace slowed.

“Go on,” he growled. “Say it was the frog’s fault.”

“You know I prefer birds,” mumbled Skriss. “Or mice.” 

“Birds never look at any one thing long enough, and mice… blink…” Exasperated, Shail stopped and threw his hands in the air. “It doesn’t matter! Aren’t you supposed to be a mage of the Higher Circle of War? One of the few elite casters chosen to stand within the Circle of Wraiths? If you can’t cast like the rest of us, you could at least try and stay out of my way!”

“Out of your way?” Skriss snorted. “Who found them in the tree while you were stumbling around in the field, knocking down shacks like a deep woods troll? I told you the mechanicals were too awkward and slow for this kind of work. We should have gone in quick and quiet, with only our blades. Seven Shrines! They’re a couple of children, not an army of goblins.” 

“A couple of children?” grunted Shail. “Fate and prophecy side with the one, and the other? Who knows what dark sorcery the Witches of Korvient passed on to their apprentice?”

“Oh, so you think we lost two mechanicals because of fate?” Skriss rolled her eyes. “Or maybe we were both hexed? Which do you think Commander Cask will blame?” 

“I think,” said Shail. “If we want Commander Cask to blame anything other than us, we should finish this before he finds out.”  

Skriss swallowed stiffly. 

“So, what now?” she asked.

Shail rubbed his chin with his free hand. 

“They’ve gone into the trees. They’ll probably keep going until they feel safe, or at least until their fear runs dry. Then they’ll wait for nightfall and try to escape under the cover of darkness.”

“I don’t think so,” Skriss shook her head. “They're in Klausghard now. If they intend to fulfill the ninth prophecy, there’s no reason for them to come back out.”

Shail tilted his head back and groaned. He knew she was probably right. 

“So we go in after them?” asked Skriss.

“Into the Devourer?” Shail shook his head. “I doubt we’d make it a stone’s throw from the stream before we ended up lost. No, it’s a hopeless labyrinth of trees and thorns in there. They could be right next to us and we’d never know it.” He scowled and scanned the tree line across the field. The forest was dark, seeped in heavy greens and shadow. It rose up fiercely from the hesitant gold of the summer grass, like the ancient ruins of a long forgotten fortification. 

“What then?” asked Skriss. “Do we stay where we are and cast sight randomly until we find a bird or mouse close enough to see them?” She really hoped that wasn’t the plan.

Shail thought for a moment.

“Doesn’t the stream cut back into the forest a few leagues up from here. Isn’t there a waterfall or something?” he asked.

“I think so?” shrugged Skriss.

“Those two won’t get very far trying to go straight through the woods,” said Shail. “There’s a chance they’ll double back and use the stream to guide them farther in. If we wait for them at the waterfall, they’ll probably run right into us.” He started ahead, veering away in the opposite direction from where they had left the mechanicals. 

“A chance?” Skriss called after him. “There’s a chance they won’t go anywhere near the waterfall. If the trees are really that thick, there’s a chance they’ll slip right past us!”

“Once we’re at the waterfall, we’ll cast sight through the forest until we spot them,” shot back Shail, from over his shoulder. 

With a sigh, Skriss sheathed her sword and trudged after him. Casting their sight randomly into the forest was an act of desperation. Shail had to realize that. The possibility of channeling through something useful was woefully slim. They would have an easier time finding a specific grain of sand hidden on a beach. Even so, Skriss knew they were out of options. They couldn’t return empty handed. Not to Commander Cask. Maybe fate would be kinder to them this time. Or maybe the first thing she would channel her sight through would be another frog. Skriss shuddered.

The Way of Wisps, Book 2: The Lost Library of Lauris

By M. Geer-Hardwick

“When the sovereign city of Lauris fell, far more was lost than a realm. For nine generations, as the Immortal Kings cast their shadows westward across the Elderlands, those fleeing the darkness of their tyranny sought refuge there in the last glimmer of mortal rule. Carried with them in their escape were the writings of their kingdoms, delivered from conquerors who would suffer no teachings but what they alone allowed. Thus was collected in Lauris a vast library of knowledge and history, old magics and skills, philosophies and sciences, all that mankind had learned and discovered. In time the lights of every other domain were extinguished, leaving Lauris alone, a dying ember of hope on the far coast of the continent. It was then, in the twilight of their doom, those of the sovereign city constructed a great ship and within it placed the tablets and tomes, scrolls and parchments, all that had been written and saved. They set the vessel to sea, ostensibly to find safe haven somewhere out in the Broken Sea, but alas, once it crossed beyond the horizon, it was never seen again. Oskirk knows where it landed, but to this day no other has an inkling as to its fate.” 

- From “An Explanation of Things,” by Mortimus Pale   

Chapter 1: Once Again

“What’s happening?” Oren’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. Trift opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. Whatever answers or reassurances he might have had fell heavy into the pit of his soul and he was helpless to retrieve them. 

Korvient was burning. The meandering streets and quiet old buildings, once so familiar to him, now writhed strangely against the light of unfettered flames. Murky smoke seethed over the rooftops, rolling angry and black, darker even than the night sky above. 

“Is it… Is it a war?” asked Oren.

Trift forced his mouth closed and pressed his lips together as tight as he could.

Only a few moments ago the two boys had stumbled out of the forest, happy and excited despite their exhaustion. Trift was eager to show his friend what had been his home for the last few years, despite the undercurrent of loss he felt thinking of the night he left. Sensing the energy of her companions, Ky'lil danced through the air around Oren, close enough for her soft blue glow to play over his face. Dusk was sopping up the final remnants of daylight. A short way from the trees, the ruins of the Korvient Lighthouse sat forlornly atop a shallow knoll, silhouetted against the worn steel of descending night. The city and port of Korvient lay beyond and below, hidden from view. They were only a few steps from the trees before Trift knew something was wrong. A feverish glow, sullen and red, hung low in the air and an acrid stench was drifting in faintly with the ocean breeze. He dashed ahead, scrambling up and over the squat wall of stacked stone, then across the courtyard to the other side. Oren struggled to keep up, and was nearly out of breath when he at last climbed up beside his friend. Together they stared down at the scene below.

Korvient was burning. 

“I think those are ships,” said Oren. 

Trift tore his eyes away from the rippling flames and looked out to the bay. At first glance what he saw appeared to be little more than the glimmer of moonlight off the chop of an agitated sea. Then he realized the white splotches standing out against the dark waters were sails, the sails of more ships than he thought could possibly exist. A thousand? Ten thousand? More? He had no idea.

“I'd like to go home." Oren began to tremble. "I'd really like to go home now."

Trift slowly nodded. In all the time he'd been away, not once had he felt homesick, not really homesick anyway. He'd felt lost and alone, even scared and helpless, but it never occurred to him that going back to Forestedge would offer any sort of relief. Now, memories of his mother cascaded through his mind, flooding his heart with a longing to be small again, safe in her arms. He thought of his father, as quiet and stalwart as the old tree behind the barn. He thought of his younger sisters, all wild hair and skinned knees, always smiling, eyes bright. 

"Yeah," said Trift. "Let's go home, Oren."

Even as he spoke the words, the air filled with an ear shattering shriek of steel wrenching against steel. Startled, both boys snapped their heads around in time to see the ancient rusted gates across the courtyard clatter to the ground. 

Three figures materialized through the dust and darkness, all clad in silver plate armor, carrying large tower shields and broadswords, drawn and ready. Frozen with surprise, Trift and Oren watched as they swept directly toward the lighthouse, moving forward with an intense purpose. Obviously, the intruders were soldiers, but even in the dim light their armor looked unfamiliar. Ark’kthal mages covered their light armor with hooded cloaks, while warriors of the War Circle wore plate tinted dark as the walls of their capital. Korvient militia equipped themselves with an assortment of heavy leather and chainmail. These three were clad in metal so polished it seemed to radiate its own light. 

Trift glanced at Oren, who looked as though he was in the process of forming a question. Before his friend could vocalize it, Trift grabbed at the front of his shirt, and at the same time brought a finger deliberately to his lips. For the moment they were unnoticed, and Trift had no intention of attracting attention. Oren was about to nod his head to show he understood, when without warning Ky'lil shot out in a crackling surge of light and fury. She streaked angrily toward the intruders, but as she drew near the soldiers the one in front whirled to intercept the little wisp. An instant before the two collided, the armored figure swept their shield up and made a downward snapping motion, as though swatting at a fly. Steel and wisp crashed together with a deafening crack and blinding flash. Oren blinked, his vision clearing in time to see Ky'lil tumble to the ground. The soldier remained standing, feet firmly planted, shield dented and smoking, but still intact.

"Ky'lil!" cried Oren. He would have leapt down and ran to her, if Trift's hand wasn't still gripping his shirt, holding him back. 

At the sound of Oren’s voice, the soldier’s head snapped around and immediately they noticed the two boys on the wall. With an intent that was unmistakably menacing, they raised their sword until it was pointing directly at them, then deliberately stepped forward. 

"Oi!" they bellowed, in a tone that was fierce, commanding, and decidedly female. "Hold fast where you stand. I’ll have words, or blood." 

As the lead soldier advanced, one of the others rushed over to the fallen wisp, pulling something from their belt that resembled a lantern. Deftly, they swiveled open the top, scooped up Ky'lil, and then sealed her inside, all in a single fluid motion. 

Oren gasped and clutched at Trift’s arm. His friend was rooted in place, staring wide eyed at the approaching woman. She was near enough now the boys could see she was tall and broad shouldered, although her ornate pauldrons added quite a bit of bulk to her appearance. Her face was hidden behind an exquisitely detailed close helm, with what looked like a dragon, wings spread and fanged jaws gaping, mounted above a narrow eye slit. Or maybe it’s a wyvern, thought Oren. The broadsword she was pointing at them never wavered, which was impressive given the length and width of its blade.

“Draw steel and die,” the woman snarled. “Or loose your belt and drop your sword in its scabbard to the ground. Do it slow and you might sway me into prolonging your existence for a while more.”

Trift swallowed stiffly, realizing she was speaking to him. He had all but forgotten his sword. Its weight at his side had become so familiar over the last days walking through the forest, he barely noticed it was there. 

“Oh, it’s not… I mean, it’s empty.” He released his hold on Oren’s shirt, intending to open the chamber to show her, but the instant his hand moved the soldier tensed and an ominous energy seemed to crackle through air around him. He froze.

“It,” said the woman, coldly. “Is a sword. And what is a sword to you but a reason to die?”

“But we’re children,” protested Oren.

Trift shot his friend a sideways glance.

“We’re not children,” he said softly through his teeth.

The soldier stared at them, silent and unmoving.

“Whatever we are, we're not dangerous.” Oren’s words tumbled out in a rush. “With or without a sword. Even if we had a hundred swords. What could we possibly do to three knights in full armor? To anyone, really? We don’t want to hurt anybody. We just… We just want to go home.” 

“By the five crowns,” muttered the soldier. With an expert flick of her wrist she swung her sword up in a smooth arc and let the blade fall heavily across her pauldron. It landed with a sharp clang. She gave an almost imperceptible nod in the direction of the lighthouse, but the two other soldiers reacted as though she had yelled out a command. They shot toward what remained of the charred structure, with their shields up and swords held low. Oren felt his chest tighten as he watched the lantern with its soft blue glow jostle roughly as they ran. 

“Is your home down there?” The soldier tilted her head toward the red glow lifting skyward from Korvient. There was no softness in her voice, but Trift felt it was the first time her words came without an underlying threat. There was also the hint of an accent he couldn’t place. 

“No,” offered Oren, nervously. “We’re from Forestedge.”

“Oren,” warned Trift.

“Well, he’s lived here for the last few years”

“Oren!”

“Here, in Korvient?” Now the soldier spoke with an overt gentleness, in the way a hunter sounds attempting to coax prey from hiding. 

Before Oren could say anything else, the others returned. The one carrying Ky’lil rushed over to the lead soldier, leaned in close and whispered something. She gave a quick nod, then paused, as if considering her options.

“I am Vess Kyghten,” she said at last. “First Sword of the Red Banner, Honored Daughter of the One True Church of War, sworn and faithful servant to the five immortal kings, under whose shadow the city of Korvent now rests. By order of her eminence Wurgis Kon Cullis, War Mother of the Red Banner, we three have left our companions on the battlefield to secure custody of the seers Velia and Estle, known as the Witches of Korvient. Any knowledge you have of them, especially of their whereabouts, would go well in your favor.” 

“They’re gone.” Trift spoke without thinking, the words spilling past the lump in his throat almost on their own. “Velia… Estle… They’re gone.” He looked over to the wreckage of the lighthouse.

Vess Kyghten followed his gaze, then turned back to the boys.

“You know this?” she asked. “As truth?”

Trift hesitated. Truth? Why should he tell this armored stranger the truth? Whoever she was and whatever she wanted, something urged him to keep a close hold on both his sword and his tongue. The fear gnawing at his chest made him feel as though they’d already told her more than was safe. He wanted to run, to get away before it was too late. With a little luck they could retreat back to the forest, hide again in the trees. If they jumped down to the opposite side of the wall, they might be able to slip away before the soldiers could cross through the far gate and around to intercept them. He doubted they would attempt climbing over wearing all that armor. 

Trying to move as subtly as he could, he reached out for Oren’s sleeve. There was no way to tell his friend what he was planning, but he was certain if pulled the smaller boy with him when he leapt, they would both land well enough. Fairly certain, anyway. The wall wasn’t terribly high, and if Oren twisted an ankle, Trift could carry him on his back, at least until they were once again in Klausghard. He knew there was a little ledge right below them, barely wide enough for a footpath. He’d walked it countless times, collecting lichen and moss for the Sisters. Of course, beyond that was the cliff that dropped all the way down to Korvient, so he’d have to keep a good hold on Oren, and not jump too far out. He couldn’t risk glancing back to judge the distance, but he was sure he could do it from memory. Fairly sure, anyway.  

“He was there,” said Oren, before Trift could stop him. “He lived with them, worked for them. For the last several years, he…”

“Worked for them?” Kyghten interrupted. “Their apprentice?” 

 Trift did not like how interested the soldier suddenly sounded. Without another thought, he gripped Oren’s wrist and stepped back, yanking his friend with him. Oren gave a yelp, and they plunged down, their stomachs lurching into their throats, only for an instant, before they thwacked into the ground. Pain stabbed into Trift’s ankle, so hot and intense he almost dropped to his knees. His first thought was, “Oh no, Oren won’t be able to carry me.”

Oren, who had landed in a jumble but apparently without injury, scrambled to his feet.

“Ky’lil!” he cried, and started as though he were going to climb back up the wall. Trift, still holding his wrist, pulled him back. He was about to tell his friend they would rescue her later, which he hated to admit was a lie, but it was and he knew it, when beside them there was a horrific, thundering crash of metal against stone. A portion of the wall burst outward, and through a cascade of rubble and dust came Vess Kyghten. She was hunched low, her shoulder pressed against her tall shield, which she had used like a battering ram to smash through to their side. There, amidst the broken rock, she rose to her full height, standing before them in all her fearful, armored glory. Now that they were at ground level with her, she seemed to Oren and Trift even more formidable than before, larger than they had realized, a daunting monolith of glinting steel, cold and faceless behind her helmet, like one of the old gods of wrath, as impossible to conquer or quell as the ocean itself. Very slowly Trift unbuckled his belt and let his sword fall to the ground.

To their surprise, Oren and Trift were not bound when they surrendered. Instead the two soldiers herded the boys between them as Kyghten led the group back across the courtyard and through the wreckage of the old rusted gate. As they passed the charred husk of the lighthouse, Oren heard her mutter, “Who chops a tree down to collect its apples?” It sounded like she was quoting something, but he’d never heard the expression. 

Trift was trying his best to ignore the pain in his ankle, but it felt like the joint was on fire and every step fanned the flames like a blacksmith’s bellows. They were making their way down the steep and winding path toward Korvient at a brisk pace, and it was all he could do to keep up. He didn’t want to think what would happen if he couldn’t. Maybe one of them would sling him over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Maybe he wasn’t worth the trouble and they’d kill him and leave his body for the crows. Any hope of dashing away if given the opportunity faded as it became harder and harder to force each step forward. The next time he put his foot down his ankle gave out with no warning and he stumbled down onto his hands and knees, skinning his palms on the sharp pebbles strewn across the trail. He winced, anticipating a sharp rebuke or a sudden blow, but neither came. He glanced up and saw all three soldiers stopped dead still, their heads up, tense and ready. To his surprise, they weren’t looking at him. 

And then he heard it, the familiar clack-clack of machinery, an angry clatter of gnashing gears, heavy and in motion, louder and louder, drawing near. The last time that sound reverberated through his core seemed almost a lifetime ago, back in the field near Oren’s house, but he knew exactly what was coming.

“Mechanicals,” snarled Kyghten, raising her shield.

The next moment a monstrous suit of armor careened toward the group, its bulky arms thrashing madly against the sway of its awkward gait, a massive, blunt tipped sword clenched in one oversized fist. With a metallic screech it launched into the air, flailing its weapon around and slamming it down on Kyghten. Barely in time, she swung up her shield to catch the full brunt of the attack. The force of the blow, added to the descending momentum of the machine, drove the soldier to her knees, then toppled her. With a curse and an angry grinding of machinery, the two tumbled off the trail and down the hill. 

The other soldiers swept past the boys, right as another metal giant clanged down the hill toward them. All three clashed together, hacking and stabbing, screaming and grating, twisting and dodging. Oren watched in terror, flinching every time steel cracked against steel, his eyes fixed on the lantern and the little wisp imprisoned inside. 

“We have to go,” insisted Trift. He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, partially for support, and partially to urge him off the trail and up the hill, not back toward the lighthouse but west, straight in the direction of the forest. To his relief, Oren came away with him, giving only a whimper in protest. Together they struggled up the incline, Trift half limping, half crawling along, and Oren scrambling around trying to help however he could. Despite their best efforts, they found themselves drifting sideways across the hill, rather than directly up it. Trift told himself the important thing was to put as much distance between them, their captors, and those blasted mechanical monsters as they could. Once, Oren looked back in time to see one of the soldiers catch a slash right across the chest with enough force to send them flying. He saw with some relief it wasn’t the one carrying Ky’lil, but Trift pulled him onward before he could witness any more.

“If we can make it to the trees,” said Trift between heaving gasps. “We might be able to hide. Like we did before.”

"You mean those?" Oren pointed to a small cluster of saplings jutting out of the hillside a short distance away. 

Trift squinted, trying to make out what details he could in the scant light. He knew they were still a good way out from the edge of Klausghard. The four or five trees ahead were an isolated grove. Between their scraggly trunks he could see a handful of large stones protruding up from the tall grass. It was too dark to tell how much farther they needed to go before they reached the safety of the forest, but his ankle hurt so much now he was worried he wasn’t going to make it. Maybe they could lie low among the rocks, at least until he could catch his breath. He tried not to think about how foolish it was trying to avoid discovery in the only obvious cover nearby. Maybe both parties would be too distracted with each other to bother looking for them. 

“Yeah,” Trift whispered, tensely. “That will do for a bit.”

They pressed forward, moving as fast as Trift could limp. Even though Oren was considerably smaller, he made a willing and remarkably sturdy crutch. Trift strained to keep all the weight he could off of his friend, but before long Oren was all but carrying him. 

As they drew near the saplings, a raucous series of sharp calls cut through the night, stopping them dead in their tracks. The boys looked up and saw five shadowy blobs perched in the upper branches above them.

“Crows,” said Oren, sounding slightly confused. 

“Oh no,” said Trift.

At that moment one of the stones in front of them began to grow, stretching up from the ground, unfolding into the shape of a man. He wore a dark gray hooded cloak, with thick black leather reinforcing the shoulders. In his hand was a double bladed sword, its bulky crossguard glowing faintly blue. The crow that had raised the alarm fluttered down and landed with an indignant chirp on his shoulder. 

“Oh no,” said Trift again. 

Another of the rocks began to rise, and then another. The boys watched, panic clawing at their hearts, as one by one the dark shapes in the grass transformed into members of the elite warrior-mages of Ark’kthal, the Circle of Wraiths. 

“What are you doing here?” said the mage who had risen first. 

Neither boy had the slightest idea how to answer that.

“Seven shrines,” he cursed. “Get behind us. We’ll protect you.”

“You’ll what?” Trift blinked.

“Behind us, lads,” snapped one of the others. “That First Sword is coming.”

The Wraiths spread out, readying their swords, clicking hurriedly through rune selections as they moved. 

Oren was the first to react. Ducking under Trift’s arm, he grabbed his friend around the waist and pulled him forward. Together, they stumbled through the saplings, as fast as they could manage.

Vess Kyghten surged up the hillside with all the force and ferocity of a wave pushed by a winter storm, crashing against the shore, merciless and unrelenting. Her helmet was lost and her dark hair snapped and tore about her blood-streaked face in a frenzy of tangles and wayward strands. Her eyes, burning like a wildfire, swept hungrily over the five mages ahead. They were in the process of repositioning, moving out from the confines of a small grove of saplings. Before they could fully disperse, Kyghten closed the gap. The mage closest was a tall man, his features obscured under the shadow of his hood. He lifted his sword with an angry flourish and a billowing gush of flame spewed from the blade toward the approaching soldier. Kyghten never slowed. She ducked behind her shield and lunged straight into the stream of fire. It splashed and sparked off the heavy steel, but otherwise did little to deter her advance. The mage took a step back, but it was too late. Kyghten leapt up and brought her heavy tower shield down with a sickening crash, smashing him into a crumpled heap. She landed smoothly and without stopping swung her entire body into a spin, allowing the centrifugal force of her motion to whip her sword out in a low arc. The blade caught the next mage, a slender woman with thick auburn curls spilling down the front of her cloak, square in the middle, folding her nearly over, then lifting her into the air. 

The third mage rushed in, a burly man with a wide jaw and grizzled beard. He feinted, then sidestepped quickly to slash at the soldier’s flank. Unconcerned, she took the blow against her pauldron, then with a quick snap of her elbow crushed her ornate couter into the mage’s face, dropping him in a heap to the ground. The fourth mage, a young man with tight lips, lifted his weapon defensively, ready to block her incoming attacks. Kyghten brought her sword up high, exaggerating her stroke, inviting an attempt to counter. Keeping his blade positioned between them, the mage ignored the opening, and instead braced for his attacker's inevitable blow. The soldier, her weapon poised above her head, took a short stuttering step to cross the distance between them, then with a roar brought her heavy sword down as hard as she could. Blade crashed against blade with a crack like lightning splitting a tree. The force of the impact drove the mage’s own double edged sword back into his face, and with an agonized cry he toppled backward. 

Kyghten turned to face the remaining mage, an older man with weathered skin and sad eyes. He was the farthest back, a good six or seven paces away. He gripped his weapon firmly in both hands, the point held low, but ready. He stood stoically, his thumb resting on the rune selection switch of his sword. Slowly, he moved his gaze across his fallen comrades, then up to the soldier. 

“Ignes vaught!” Kyghten swore and spat blood on the ground. She swung her arms wide and leaned her head forward in challenge.             

The mage drew in a deep breath, then lifted his blade, holding it vertically in front of him, as though saluting. He moved a hand to the glowing chamber set in the crossguard.

“Into the light of the Seventh Shrine…” he murmured.   

Kyghten knew in an instant what was coming. With a snarl, she tossed down her sword and grabbed the grip on her tower shield with both hands. In the same movement she plunged to her knees, driving the base of the shield deep into the ground. Pulling as much of her bulk behind the heavy steel as she could, she turned her head away, flexed her jaw to relieve the pressure in her ears, and closed her eyes tight.    

There was the faintest click as the mage opened the chamber, followed by a sharp, mechanical snap. The next moment he was vaporized in an eruption of searing light, hot and bright as the sun, a sphere of pure energy bursting outward. The saplings bent, then shattered into splinters and were gone. The blast slammed into Kyghten’s shield and the thick metal buckled, then broke. The soldier was swept away, tumbling end over end like a dead leaf in a gust of wind. 

It was over in the blink of an eye. All was still. Vess Kyghten lay in a heap, unmoving, a tangle of mangled armor and bruised flesh. After a long while, she coughed and stirred. With labored effort, she heaved herself onto her knees, and for a moment rested there, breathing heavily. When she had gathered enough strength, she awkwardly struggled to her feet. One arm hung limply by her side, her gauntlet deformed, her vambrace torn loose and dangling at her wrist. The rest, up to her shoulder, was gone completely, leaving her arm bare and scraped raw. Blood trickled from her ears and flowed freely down her face. She swayed a little and stared numbly around. She was standing at one end of a great circle, ringed around its outer edge with burning grass. The ground inside was blown almost clean. She scraped at it with her foot, and it crunched thinly like delicate glass. 

“Bloody mages,” muttered Kyghten.

—

Oren smelled the cool dampness of earth. He tasted the sweetness of growing grass, and the deep richness of soil and decay. He felt the grit and texture of dirt on his lips, felt it pressing hard against his cheek. It dawned him that he was lying flat on his face, although he was not altogether sure how he got there. There was a terrible ringing in his ears. Not only his ears, his head felt like the inside of a bell that had just been struck with a rather large sledge hammer. 

“What happened?” he groaned. His voice sounded tinny and distant.

“Cataclysmic response to dissolution.” 

Oren could barely hear Trift’s reply. Blinking rapidly, he lifted his head and saw his friend next to him, sitting up, staring down the hill with a dazed expression on his face. Oren propped himself onto his elbows and followed Trift’s gaze.

“One of the mages.” Trift let a long breath slip slowly through his lips. “Their sword.”

“Oh no.” Oren’s heart fell. “The wisp…”

Trift gave a little nod. He strained, trying to peer through the darkness. Night had fully fallen, and he could make out little else but a ring of timid fires, burning out in the grass below them. Surely nothing could have survived an explosion like that, not up close at any rate. They were a good way up the hill and it had still knocked them both flat. He shuddered, thinking how near they had once again been to death.

“Is it over?” Shakily, Oren climbed to his feet.  

It was then that Trift saw her. She was little more than a silhouette, an almost indiscernible break in the circle of fading flames, but there was no mistaking the imposing figure of Vess Kyghten. Trift tightened his jaw. Of course she would be the last one standing. He reached for Oren. Maybe, if they stayed as low as they could, they could slip away before she noticed them. Or maybe they should try to hide where they were. They could lie still in the grass and remain unseen.  

“Oi!” Kyghten’s growl cut through the darkness straight to them. “Enough running for one evening.”

“Can she see us?” whispered Oren.

Trift’s chest tightened. 

“I cannot express,” called out the soldier, as though orating general fact to no one in particular. “The ire I will feel if forced to climb any higher up this maggot licking dung heap of a twice cursed hillside.”

“What should we do?” Oren turned to Trift, his words louder than he intended.

Trift sighed, and reached out, motioning for his friend to help him up.

“Do we run?” Oren grasped Trift by the hand, leaned his weight back for leverage, and pulled as hard as he could. With a short gasp of pain, Trift struggled to his feet.

“No,” said Trift as he steadied himself against the smaller boy. “She’s right. Enough running for one evening.“ 

—

The large raven landed heavily, slowing her momentum with a few short hops and an agitated flutter of her great black wings. In her beak she held the limp body of a decent sized jack rabbit. She tossed it to the ground with an air of disdain, and shook out the shaggy feathers around her neck.

Cerynn Skriss raised an eyebrow, but didn’t move from her seat by the fire.

“You will prepare a broth,” croaked the bird. “This at least you can do, yes?”

Instead of answering, Skriss glanced over at the man who lay beside her, still as a corpse. He was covered with an animal hide she found in the Great Stone Skull. She had tucked it around his slender frame, pulling it as close to his chin as was possible without leaving his legs completely bare. Wrapped around his eyes was a length of cloth torn from what remained of his shirt, serving as a makeshift bandage. It wrapped twice around his head and held down his long hair, dark as midnight, smooth as obsidian. The rise and fall of his chest was so shallow and slow it was practically imperceptible.  

“You are in need of instruction?” The raven cocked her head to one side, staring expectantly. “The task perhaps, too daunting?”

Above them came a piercing caw and from the darkness a crow swooped down to perch on Skriss’s shoulder. The young woman winced slightly as the bird’s talons dug into her unprotected flesh, but still she reached up to brush a comforting hand against her faithful familiar.

“Oh Vespra,” soothed Skriss. “Nevermind Rokka. She’s nothing more than a bag of feathers with no manners.”

Rokka remained silent, her glassy, unblinking eyes locked on the mage.

“Not sure the wisdom of feeding a sick man anything dropped from the mouth of a raven,” mused Skriss, without meeting the bird’s gaze. 

“The broth of course will be boiled,” clucked Rokka. “Thoroughly.”

“Oh, thoroughly?” Skriss wrinkled her nose. “That will do it, I’m sure.”

Rokka clacked her beak and gave what sounded like a rasping chuckle, although she could have been clearing her throat.

“He’s been like this for three days.” Skriss pushed the tip of her middle finger into the corner of her eye and rubbed at the dry grit which had collected there. “Or is it four now? Klausghard, it all runs together in my head.” She blasted air through her nostrils and glared at the raven. “How far have I dragged him through this wretched wood? How many times have I forced water down his throat so his thirst wouldn’t kill him? How many times have I held him still because he was delirious and thrashed about? I’ve done everything you’ve told me, but Seven Shrines, I’m sick of this place. Unless he wakes up I doubt we’ll ever get back to Ark’kthal. At this rate we’d have been better off staying back in the stone skull. At least we’d have shelter.”

“Shelter in stone,” growled Rokka. “Safe from wind. Safe from rain. Rabbit in beak. Safe from wolf. Safe from fox.”  

“Enough riddles,” snapped Skriss. “You throw them around like an unloved aunt trying to sound clever.” 

 “Br-o-o-o-th,” said Rokka, deliberately drawing the word out. “A riddle simple enough to solve, even for you?” She bobbed her head toward the rabbit on the ground.

Skriss sighed. Climbing to her feet, she pulled her dagger from her belt and trudged over to the dead animal. When she picked it up she was a bit surprised by its softness and lingering warmth. From her shoulder, Vespra cooed, in a supportive sort of way. The little bird was always quick to encourage her lady, especially when there was a chance for tidbits and morsels later.

“Broth,” snorted Skriss, under her breath. “No salt. No herbs. No spices. Nothing more than boiled meat water.” 

“He will need strength for what is to come,” said Rokka, ignoring her. The raven eyed Skriss critically as the mage knelt and began field dressing her kill.

“Exactly how much strength will he need to get dragged, unconscious through Klausghard?” Skriss cut a sliver of meat from the rabbit’s thigh and tossed it up to Vespra. The crow caught it deftly in midair, and ruffled her feathers with glee. 

“Was there time enough,” said Rokka. “That which has overwhelmed would on its own recede. Sentience lost would resurface. Was there time.”

“Riddles, and more riddles,” muttered Skriss. She slapped the naked carcass down on a flat stone and sliced away at its flesh, flicking the pieces into a small cast iron pot already half full of water. She had no idea where the little vessel had come from. Rokka had flown off the other night and returned with it in the morning. Of course the raven gave no explanation, simply demanded Skriss use it to fetch her master water. It was quite a useful thing to have actually, but she would rather burn than admit that to the raven.

"When the water boils," said Rokka. "I will wake Altwer Kon."

"Wait, what?" Skriss froze. "You can wake him up? Really? Do you mean this whole time you could have woken him whenever you wanted?"

"I am not without means."

"Then what in the Seven Shrines have I been doing for the last three days?" 

“Enticing the Dahne’shi to ease their grasp from a plaything carries risk.” The great bird spoke in a low, rumbling growl. “Great risk. Were there time, things such as this are best left to run their own course. Alas, the Immortal Kings have come to reclaim that which never belonged to them. As is their way.”

“What?” Skriss stared hard into the yawning abyss of the raven’s empty black eyes.

“Korvient burns,” said Rokka, simply. “Ark’kthal is in need of the Wraith Remorseless.”