Sapling: The Blade of Ahtol Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Ad Infinitus Creations

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN 978-0-9948428-0-0 (ebook)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  All graphics and layout by Dan Gillis

  Editing by Shawn Urban

  Special commendation to Tammy Khoong:

  Literary media genius and writing cohort

  To my dearest Trinell

  for bringing the sunshine

  needed for this first seed

  Map of Mehnin

  Table of Contents

  Map of Mehnin

  Prologue

  The Thief in the Storm

  Treasures

  Pain and Paraffin

  The Blade upon the Banners

  Drawing the Glyph and Dagger

  A Mihyl’s Dream

  Hidden Truths

  Quelling Demons

  Reflections of Duty

  Shadow and Fire

  The Blight

  Threads of the Past

  A Question of Loyalty

  Old Scars

  Glossary

  Map of Kenhar

  Aeredian Calendar

  Grey Encounters

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The Aerluin Weave

  THE YOUNG GIRL'S HAND stretched gingerly toward the worn door handle. Clicking and whirring sounds escaped through the cracks around the door frame. Mixed with the voice of industry was a warm and welcoming melody. The girl’s young heart swelled as the music struck a familial bond. As her fingers touched upon the cool wood handle, the singing stopped.

  “Come in, young one. I have waited for you.”

  The young girl smiled brightly at the sound of the voice and twisted the knob. The door creaked in resistance to her gentle push. As it opened, a vast array of colour and light greeted the girl’s eyes. Flecks of dust waltzed and mingled in a dance of colour through the warm rays cast about the room, giving the room a musical quality. The ornate glass above was decorative and styled in patterns which depicted scenes and characters of stories unknown to the young girl, for she had not obtained the years of knowledge. All the shapes and colours were bound into a large circle which was the frame for the window. Strange motions suddenly caught her eye and caused her to bend down to inspect the source. She stared in awe as the refracted images shimmered upon the worn wooden floor.

  She followed the vibrant shapes from one gem to the next. Soon her focus was drawn to another treasure. Rolls and rolls of bundled thread of every imaginable colour, gathered here and there, were stored upon numerous shelves and bound for use when needed. The shelves were built quite high as the ceiling of the room was vaulted far above.

  As the girl took her few first tentative steps into the room, the greatest spectacle revealed itself. A massive loom stood majestically in the centre of the room. The girl marveled as the loom dwarfed any other that she had seen in the village.

  Seated at the head of the loom was her grandmother. The old woman, bent with age, remained fixed upon the weave before her. The girl stared in wonder at the pattern forming upon the loom as she drew near. The warp lines stretching into the loom revealed harmonies of colours and yet within the centre of the pattern was a myriad of green shades.

  The girl spoke after a few quiet moments of awe, “What is it grandmother ... this pattern in the cloth you are making?” The aged woman slipped the shuttle through the shed with a simple flick and, with a firm press upon a loom pedal, the beater joined the thread with the pattern.

  She spoke as she moved her hands lithely and quickly - the hands of a master artisan. “This weaving is to honour one of our most cherished beliefs and traditions. That of the Sapling.”

  The young girl reached up and pressed her finger to the formed fabric and ran it across a part of the pattern which depicted the Sapling tree.

  “As you can see, this material is much like Aerluin's weave. Individually, each thread is vulnerable and limited in its use. When the threads mingle together they are strong, vibrant and lovely. This pattern can only be made by all these threads working as one. And so it shall be with the Sapling.”

  The girl looked up to her grandmother with wonder and curiosity. The weaver set the shuttle down and moved her foot slowly to the floor. The loom's voice was quieted without the master to guide its song. The old woman turned herself upon her seat to face the girl. Young hands and chin rested lightly upon the artisan's knee and silent eyes were cast upward. Kind eyes looked down in turn upon the child and the woman changed her craft from weaving thread upon the loom to words of song.

  “To understand the advent of the Sapling, you must first know the Song of Sorrow. For this song is truly how Aerluin came to be with us and how the legend begins.” The old woman's voice grew solemn in deep melodic tones as she began the Song. The images upon the stained glass glimmered and seemed to move in harmony with the music as it filled the whole room.

  Countless harmonies were bound as one

  From the endless skies to the resting stone.

  The Song carried low as it had once begun

  Then It lifted high; a sweet harmony intoned.

  The alluring music did yet own a task:

  It encircled the dark chaotic barrier between

  the heavens and earth; Chaos, a palling mask

  Struggled vainly against the song serene.

  Amid the harmonious chords that spun

  Two voices rang clear and bright.

  Ever they had been since the music begun

  Lithe-shadowed Aerluin and pure Llian of light.

  In the course of their enchanted flight,

  Aerluin pondered upon the world beneath

  Whilst Llian - eyes cast toward heaven light -

  Tired of her watch and sought relief.

  Llian strayed from the bounds of the song,

  And parted from Aerluin of enchanting night

  Who failing not to chant sweet music along.

  It was longing Llian who drifted from sight.

  Llian ascended upward, till she was afar.

  Aerluin called out from the barrier below.

  And as Llian's light became as a star,

  All Chaos was set out to overthrow.

  After long imprisonment, in all were contained

  All the horrors, agony, sorrow and fear.

  Formless creatures, wrath barely restrained,

  Drew to the barrier, opportunity near.

  The marvelous song which Aerluin formed

  Grew strained and pained in great dismay.

  So with the weakened song, Chaos stormed;

  A dark and bitter cage to repay.

  Late did Llian fly to her sister’s aid.

  Alas, Aerluin sang out in awful despair,

  As all Chaos swarmed her in a vicious raid -

  Falling deep into the land Aerluin fair.

  Weeping her tears, the luminous kin did cast

  A sorrowful rage upon the Chaos wave.

  The savage horde was consumed to the last

  Swept violently into a restless grave.

  Thus deep and wide the distance spans

  Between Llian and her silent kin.

  Neither can breach the great expanse,

  An emptiness where u
nity had been.

  Between the stars and skies Llian cries

  A lament for her kin and the song they lost.

  For Aerluin is silent. Within the earth she lies.

  Their melody broken at a terrible cost.

  Now ever so often, from within the land

  Hales a haunting whisper of a forgotten tune.

  For the listening heart it is grand

  Yet, never comes to Llian beyond the moon.

  The echoes resounded in the large room even as the singing ceased. The old woman turned her face back toward the young girl, for as she sang she had cast her gaze heavenward. Tears traced along aged lines and coursed downward until they fell silently and were gone. The young girl looked on, rapt in amazed silence.

  “Will she ever see Llian again?” she asked softly. The grandmother moved her calloused and wrinkled fingers through the golden weave of hair that cascaded along the bright face of her granddaughter.

  “If the weave is strong … she may yet … if the weave is strong when the time of the Sapling comes.”

  Her voice became suddenly distant as she turned and gestured toward the large circular window the girl had seen earlier. “Our world, Aeredia.” Suddenly the girl perceived the collection of small intricate images as one. Her grandmother discerned her discovery and continued. “With the coming and passing of countless cycles, the world has seen much of toil and suffering. Countless wars waged upon its soil, the cries of thousands as they fall under sword and fire. Yet for all the turmoil upon the world’s surface, the land grows lush and vibrant in her care. The times of all the world are known to Aerluin, for her power is bound to all living things. Though seemingly silent within the land, her works of spinning soft patterns of life are like whispers throughout the world. Slowly and gently she weaves the strands of life together, entwining them to adjoined fate. While she has no governance over life or death, she guides the weave with great care. All things connect upon the mystical loom to form the wondrous patterns of life. Yet always in her mind is her long separation from her heavenly sister. She is always in search of the means to return.”

  “I know she will grandmother. I just know it,” the young girl whispered. Her grandmother nodded politely and then continued.

  “Perhaps, dear. Perhaps. Yet, after countless years a fell stain appeared, consuming portions of the weave, and Aerluin wept for the darkening of her bright patterns. Always she could see them all, each strand bright and unique, and yet many were turning grey, blackened with a dark pall. Aerluin knew that if unchecked the shadow would engulf the whole weaving. However, she did not despair long - for, while the fabric held together, there was hope. She took her brightest and sturdiest threads and wove them carefully into the pattern. Individually, they seemed insignificant against the shadows. However, whenever the chosen threads mingled there came signs of brightness and strength.

  “So it was - the pattern was woven, the threads moving ever closer together …”

  The Thief in the Storm

  THE HARSH RAIN beat down upon the sodden ground, and the surface of great pools of water danced to the percussion of the heavens. It was late into twilight and the streets of Lenhir were especially vacant. All the residents waited with a subdued acceptance, being holed in against the relentless storm. For many days previous the weather had supplied a welcome sun and little in the way of moisture for the folk of Lenhir. This night, the storm’s wrath seemed focused upon the little town in Mehnin Province. Every layman and serving maid exclaimed that they had never witnessed such a torrential downpour. “Llian in the Heavens is trying to cleanse the land of its stains,” some said. It was all penance for the misdeeds of a previous Cycle of tyrants. The scarring upon the land and people was slow to heal. Myths of the past had persisted which spoke of peculiar beings who wielded wild potent energies. The stories were as diverse as the profiles upon the peaks of Tamers Reach which shadowed the town now at the end of the day. As such, regardless of any former strange workings in their country of Kenhar, life passed in relative peace in the mountain haven.

  Splish, splish, splish.

  Firah danced across mud and cobblestone deftly, skipping over particularly large puddles. She laughed gaily as she moved through the storm. The droplets were chased from her exposed skin as swiftly as the wind that rushed about her form. This kind of weather was what she enjoyed, smelling the fresh falling rain, arms outstretched and truly free. In her joy she ignored how strangely the deluge had come, where no cloud had been. The light was slowly failing and with the curtains of rain it would soon be too dark for the girl to work.

  Firah had never known a proper family and she relied on her own two hands to get what she needed. Her mind slipped away to the past even as an inner voice pondered upon the memory. ‘The life of a thief is not glamorous, but I'll never have to resort to begging like the others! Those waifs have no dignity, and I’ll never be like them.’ Firah shook her head in disgust, her mind a flood of justifications, each one bolstering her resolve. She had seen the suffering of those wretches in the winter months. I was clear in her mind, as she took from others (without their approval or notice) she would give back to the community in other ways. Did she not assist in removing part of the rat infestation only last harvest season? The thief had counted herself proud to have slaughtered a considerable portion of the rodents. Firah recalled as well the Dryke skirmishes in early spring where she actually killed one of the reptilian migrants herself. Well, barely, and she still had a scar to show where the poisoned spine missed her heart. When it all weighed out, Firah was a survivor.

  Movement caught her quick eyes through the thick deluge. Careful perusal revealed a lone figure walking slouched in the torrent. With a twinge of avarice she determined anyone who was foolish enough to travel about in this weather deserved a good dose of reality. Slowly, like a sodden cat, Firah moved ever closer to the slowly moving form. She drew out her small knife from her belt and performed a quick check to cover all contingencies. To the left, she had an escape route through the alley under windows which were shut up. No one else was about in the greying dark which was setting in. Firah glanced back up the street to mark her ‘patron’. The rain distorted figures so badly that Firah could not make out any distinguishing features. She concluded her check with the most critical part: raising the small blade to her eyes, she ran her finger across the cool steel. It was sharp, and it would need to be so every time. Firah knew that she needed only one swipe across the leather straps and she would be gone … melding into the night. The young sneak-thief moved in and out of shadows and slinked ever closer to her target. The person seemed in no particular hurry, which struck Firah as odd, but she deemed such distractedness would work to her advantage. Working in the rain had its bright side. With the thunder roaring and lightning flashing most senses were disorientated. However, it also meant that her target would be wearing extra clothing.

  Soon Firah was behind her prey, just to the left. She observed that the cloak was not a full piece pullover but instead it opened at the front. The belt had to be accessible for her plan to work; and were it not so she would have stopped right then. She was gambling on which side to hit from. It was possible a money purse was worn on the right, for this was most common in her experience. Occasionally, her ‘patron’ was armed which complicated things, but an attack from the left usually disrupted any removal of weapons from the left hip. She usually came in low and twisted around completely while making the cut through the spin. Her exit came from another complete spin which ended behind the baffled prey. Thus, if noticed, she had a head start as the patron reoriented himself and figured where to go to chase after her. She had thrown dirt into her patron’s face on drier days to improve her odds and further disorient her prey; however, she always felt guilty afterward and thus only resorted to using that tactic on down-days when she felt ill. During this storm, however, none of that would be necessary; Mother was being kind with the elements and so she would remember Her in a prayer.
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br />   Firah began to breathe deeply and shut her eyes. She shivered as the water flowed slowly down her lithe form. The thief became one with the rain and felt it weave like a pulsing blanket about her body, distorting her figure to the point where she had taken the rain's appearance. She was a shimmering shadow fully enveloped in the night. All thoughts and feelings were centered on the task at hand which caused her skin to crawl. It always did this when she focused her mind to create the strange effect. She embraced the feeling and steadied herself. The girl’s eyes opened slowly.

  The traveler would never see her.

  The moment had come. Creeping slowly, Firah moved next to the form, her body shifting with the rain. The plan was fixed firm in her mind. She waited for a moment when a great flash pulsed overhead. Like a coiled tendon, she snapped into action. In one swift motion she twisted herself around beneath the person’s arms. As the thunder boomed and shook the ground, she lightly flicked the cloak open, then coming around espied and cut the threads of a leather purse, all within mere heartbeats of time. The leather straps barely twitched as the keen edge whistled through them. Continuing to spin, she returned her knife and caught the falling pouch in one motion. Without a glance she dashed catlike and unseen through the shadows, her mind completely focused. Her chameleon-like skin shimmered as her heart pulsed with adrenalin and excitement.

  Finally, she paused behind a wooden midden-house, her breath coming hard after such an intense burst of effort. She glanced back and saw the form continuing along seemingly unaware of the crime committed upon its person. She laughed within herself gleefully, and let her focus go. It was so easy some days … she felt elated and completely free. It helped her forget the hard days of virtual starvation. She tossed the leather pouch lightly into the air, feeling the weight as it fell into her slender palm. About two and a half weeks of eating she estimated, possibly even some repair for her leather vest … life was good. Smiling, Firah moved down the alley towards the forest path which would lead her home.