Life Descending (The Cry of Havoc, Book 1)

By John Hennessy

War, plague, and mad kings promise to rip the world of Leterra asunder.

With the memories of a loyal Scout for the Northern Army, Tom Navo endures to wrap up one last brutal assignment, with dreams of living out a peaceful life with his family. As chaos threatens the continent, his imagined life becomes more of a fanciful illusion. A journey home soon becomes a fight for his life, a search for a mysterious and powerful relic only rumored to exist, and a firsthand account of how greed and delusion can make humans do the unspeakable. Surrounded by the most unlikely of friends, Tom faces challenges that he never could have conceived of even in his most twisted nightmares, not just for his own sake, but for the survival of an entire world, whose future teeters perilously on the brink of doom . . . before all life descends into shadow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Hennessy
• Release date: Jul 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476434186

John Hennessy

Born in 1988, John Hennessy became entranced by the world of fantasy and sci-fi at a young age, playing video games and reading books for many long nights/early mornings. He started writing his debut novel Life Descending during his junior year of High School in 2005. He wanted to write something different for fantasy readers, something without any stock copy/paste characters, supreme evil lords, who you never see and who are just evil because they are evil. A story without class-defined skills, mana potions, and the usual D&D adventure group out on the same old quest. He wanted to write a new story that gets away from the stale fantasies with farmer boys, blacksmith apprentices, and peasants who turn world heroes. Oh yeah, and he really wanted to get away from stories with prophecies and 'chosen ones.'After he graduated from Western Washington University in 2011, he hired Sara Stamey, the editing/publishing professor at Western, edit Life Descending (The Cry of Havoc, Book 1), finally releasing his debut after six years of crafting, learning, rewriting, and absorbing caffeine as fuel so he could stay awake at the keyboard. Life Descending has since been praised by reviewers, even earning a finalist spot in ForeWord Magazine's 2011 Book of the Year Awards. Darkness Devouring (The Cry of Havoc, Book 2) has since been released in late 2012.In 2012 he released At the End (The Road to Extinction, Book 1) as a self-published book. Having spent all his cash on Life Descending (sadly without return), the book went unedited by a professional editor. Despite this major flaw, At the End was well received by most. In February 2013, Permuted Press approached him with an offer to re-release At the End and publish the rest of the trilogy. A second edition of At the End (fully edited!) is forthcoming 2013.John now lives in the Rose Lands of Portland, Oregon, with his wife Katherine, their furry feline Phoebe, and their two budgies Lola and Pablo. He is now at work finishing The Road to Extinction Trilogy. Visit his website at: http://www.johnhennessy.net

Book preview

By John Hennessy

Novels

THE ROAD TO EXTINCTION TRILOGY

Book One: At the End

Book Two: Into Cinders (Winter 2012/13)

Book Trailer

THE CRY OF HAVOC SAGA

Book One: Life Descending

Book Two: Darkness Devouring

Book Trailer

Praise for Life Descending

"As good as Game of Thrones."—Stella Blackmore, Night Owl Reviews

A masterpiece.—Reviewed by Rita V for Readers Favorite

A riveting read.—Midwest Book Review

Endlessly imaginative.—Kirkus Reviews

Hard to quit reading.—Robert Medak, Allbooks Review Int.

Finalist in ForeWord Magazine’s 2011 Book of the Year Awards

—fantasy genre

Short Stories

A Stalker’s Game (free eBook)

Facebook

Visit my facebook page and leave a comment.

Dedication

To my mom and dad, who have

always supported my dream.

To my love, Katherine, who has shaped

my life since the seventh grade.

And to Captain Ron and Lola,

who have serenaded me

during the many long hours it took

to complete a project of this magnitude.

Poem

In the North vigor Assembles.

Valiant aequi bred for Burden,

To cross the height that Devides

Between depravity and Truth.

In the North unity Triumphs.

Hallowed is our Savior,

True are His Faithful

With His strength our lines Prevail.

In the North purity Survives.

Heaven rallies under one Banner,

Voices of many meld Together

One sole chant thunders like a Gale

In the North valor Vanquishes.

Grass stained by wicked lives,

A feast for any Scavenger

Among those lingering Wails.

A poem for the swords—

Lord Lothkura

About 517: Ruin

Table of Contents

Also by John Hennessy

Facebook

Dedication

Map

Poem

Note from the Author

Chapter 1 – The Storm. Lost Friends. A Shadow’s Blade.

Chapter 2 – The Vultures. The Smoke. Some Strange Company.

Chapter 3 – Strange Company Gets Stranger. The Long, but Sufficiently Entertaining Story. A Straying Memory.

Chapter 4 – The Conclusion to The Long, but Sufficiently Entertaining Story. Gifts for The Road. A Swift Friend Arises.

Chapter 5 – My Annals: On The Promise of our Savior

Chapter 6 – The Devides. An Unexpected Guide. A Not So Quiet Morning.

Chapter 7 – Their Faces. Their Love. Their Distance.

Chapter 8 – A Soaring Patrol. Out-Line Post. Salvation.

Chapter 9 – The Reawakening. A New Direction. Job Opportunities.

Chapter 10 – A Lost Acquaintance. Noiseless Steps. The Wild Field Road.

Chapter 11 – The Great City of Heaven. A Crowded Market. One Final Judgement.

Chapter 12 – My Annals: On The Regicide

Chapter 13 – Three Flagons of Ale. Some Despairing News. A Disappearing Act.

Chapter 14 – Homecoming. A Trespasser. The Gift of Burden.

Chapter 15 – Their House. Their Toys. Their Names.

Chapter 16 – A Small Contact. A Very Old Map. The Betrayal.

Chapter 17 – A Darker Road. An Unforeseen Foray. A Captain & His Captain.

Chapter 18 – Quiet On The Waves. Sea Marauders. A Forgotten Treatise.

Chapter 19 – My Annals: On Frost The Mother of The Deathlar

Chapter 20 – Faces Full of Sand. The Home of The Leprechauns. A Decisive Plan.

Chapter 21 – Marendia. Revenge of The Leprechauns. A Tragic Escape.

Chapter 22 – A Despondent Valediction. A Battle to Remember. One Clout to The Head.

Chapter 23 – Their Breach. Their Cries. Their Execution.

Glossary

About the Author

Note from the Author

There is a glossary at the end of the book that will help with names, terms, locations, and units of time. There is also a colored map at www.johnhennessy.net

1

The Storm. Lost Friends.

A Shadow’s Blade.

"A storm is coming," Scout Burban predicted in a deep, clear voice as the fire licked the black sky above them. A dozen gray clouds rolled by with the promise of snow.

Tell us something we don’t know, Ranger Korshire growled with the slightest sneer.

Delighted, Burban smiled at the opportunity to spar with the gruff Ranger. He was an old dwarf with a snowy beard past his stomach. Your breath smells like piss, he answered.

Korshire brought the wineskin to his lips and squeezed. So it does, he laughed. But then the whole world smells like piss, isn’t that right, Tom?

Tom was looking at the stars, distracted. He heard his comrade repeat his question but chose to ignore it. He had learned it was never a good idea to step between the two on a cold night. And the nights were always cold in The Devides. He slowly drew his attention back to the three that sat around the campfire, which burned an icy gray, and stuck out his gloved hands for warmth. The Blest Gods are smiling on us tonight. There was a yearning in his words, a yearning for them to be true.

Ah, piss on your Blest Gods! Korshire roared. There was no argument that the Ranger was easily the tallest and strongest among them, with a reach like a giant, and arms as thick as the trunks around them. Tom had seen those arms in action, and he decided long ago that it was best to avoid them when they launched into an attack, even when only engaged in a friendly brawl.

He’s right, you know, Cleric Raben said in a calm but serious voice. There is only the Father and the Son. The clergyman was the stick of the litter, straight and narrow, and the only one who kept a close shave. Without a chiseled muscle on his body he was also the only soft-skinned one on the mountainside. His ability to cast spells countered all of that.

And piss on the Father and the Son, Korshire spat, and the Mother and Father to the South, and Ixsol, and the Polligio Gods, along with every other fucking Divine out there. I’d piss on the whole lot if I could.

Your insults won’t always go unheard, my friend, Burban snarled, his smiled fading into a grim leer. The dwarf stroked the haft of his Raven’s beak, his mighty two-handed war hammer, with a glint of rage in his eyes. Whetstone in hand, he began grinding away a minor chip into a smooth, flat surface along the pointed pick. Tom watched as the dwarf puffed up his chest, which was wider than a keg, and though aged and slower, he guessed the dwarf possessed a few maneuvers that would put the Ranger in his grave.

I could report you for such talk, the Cleric threatened Korshire. You too, Tom. You know it’s forbidden to speak out against The Sacred Church. You’d be wise to remember that outside your little town beyond The Spinebreakers.

Sorry, Cleric, Tom said quickly. I’ll remember my tongue next time. He had heard stories over the cycles, stories of men who defied The Sacred Church; none of them boasted much spirit after they were reported. The fire captivated him into silence. He concentrated so hard on the flames that he could almost see his reflection. It had been a long while since he had come across a mirror and could barely remember his own features. His skin had become chalkier up in the snowlands, but that was as far as he could go if someone asked him to describe himself. The last chance he had to scrutinize his appearance was back in Federol, at a small inn, the last luxury before they traveled beyond pleasant comforts. His hair had been jet-black then, and wrinkles were forming along his brow and around where he smiled.

He glanced over at the clergyman.

The Cleric, a young man in his twenties, wore a mixed robe patterned in white and blue, which showed his low standing within The Sacred Church. Tom remembered Raben saying that it was his first assignment, and it was a terrible one at that. But then all first assignments normally were, for clergymen and soldiers alike. He glared at Korshire, seeking the same apology from the Ranger.

None came. You need something, Cleric? The Ranger’s tone was as sharp as the single-edged shortsword at his hip.

Tom could see the tension swelling among his fellow Brigade members, the dwarf just as furious with Korshire’s words as the clergyman. The nights were growing colder the higher they climbed, and tonight was vowing to be the fiercest yet, with frost on the mild wind. This brought out the worst in his comrades. Burban’s jaw tightened. Raben’s grip on his sleek silver wand was so firm it looked as though he would warp his only weapon.

Trouble? came a soft voice from behind Tom. Master-Ranger Kornelius trudged up through a layer of knee-deep powder. Ah, what am I saying, there is always trouble with you three. He nodded at the dwarf, the Cleric, and the black-eyed Ranger. His commanding voice diffused the situation in a heartbeat.

Us? Korshire snickered.

No, not us, vire, Burban piped up. His thick white eyebrows pressed together as he smirked. It was Tom over there. He’s always the guilty one.

Kornelius gave a great chuckle. Tom Navo always has his head in the sky, thinking of his family; he’s no time for causing trouble. The commander sat down on the empty fifth stone that circled the fire. You lot, now, you’re a different story, aren’t you? A drunk. He nodded at Korshire. A storyteller. He indicated the dwarf. And a man of the cloth. How’re the robes treating you up here, Cleric?

Just fine, Raben said curtly. Are all mercenaries as without faith as your flock, Kornelius? Tom had learned that the Cleric was the only one who could talk to the commander on such level terms. A strange note, especially for someone with such a low rank, since in all the cycles Tom had served under Kornelius, not one soldier below his rank had called him anything besides the respectful vire. But all knew clergymen had their own way.

The Master-Ranger let out another laugh. Only from old Brigades north of The Spinebreakers. Once you join a proper attachment, you’ll be greeted by all the belief you can take, I’ll tell you that, Cleric. Maybe even more than you can stomach.

Tom eyed the old man, who was at least twenty cycles past his own thirty-four, and could not help but admire the commander. He was the only one in gray, wrapped up in a padded marten cloak, covered underneath by a boiled leather jerkin that sat atop his chainmail, the coat of steel rings hidden from the eyes of any attackers, to encourage them into hasty strikes as so many often performed when they thought their prey weak and poorly armored. The rest, Tom included, wore either light-blue or dark-blue shades of leather to point out their rank. The darker the color the higher the rank, but none of that translated to cycles of service, as promotion only came when one dared to asked for it, and any man could retire still wearing light-blue in The Hill Glutter Brigade, if luck shined on them enough.

Tom made damn sure luck favored him. His straightforward attitude had always done him good, and he made good money for it, better than most. It also happened to put him in the worst environments for long periods of time, away from his wife and two daughters, who waited for his homecoming in Bedal. He spoke nothing as the men continued their conversation and the weather turned against them.

Appreciate the fires, Cleric, Tom said, struck by a dangerous shiver. Five fires lit the camp with five men around each. The others slept as the wind picked up and the clouds grew darker. In the night, when snow fell three meters or more, the fire remained the only hope any of them had to survive. Not all did on assignments into The Bordergrounds, he had gathered, as words drifted around when the Brigade was looking for work. The storms in the mountain chain were the cruelest on Leterra, and no one lasted the night without the aid of heka, for without a magical fire the dark hours would freeze you in place before you screamed for home. A sad fate, one Tom wished to avoid, and no doubt so did the others with him.

Just doing my duty, the Cleric said, a tad grumpy now. He tightened up his robe, his metal wand clutched, his knuckles white from the intensity. Tom observed that the Cleric usually held his wand like so, as if afraid of dropping it.

The clouds above thickened and grew blacker than Tom had ever seen, while snow began to fall in a flurry. The beginnings of most storms they had weathered were abrupt, and twice they had not even set up camp before they were waist deep; an unpleasant hassle none in the Brigade wanted to contend with, and were almost consumed by white before they formed the pits required for the Cleric’s fires. As Tom thought of a reply, the white flakes piled up all around them. Soon they were sitting at the base of a deep bowl, the magical gray flames flickering, keeping a somewhat comfortable diameter clear for those around it.

And so the night begins. Korshire raised his wineskin. To the fieldlands, where it’s warm and women are plenty.

Here, here, Burban said. He lifted a lidded tankard above his head, toward the fire.

So, Cleric, tell me about your wand, Master-Ranger Kornelius asked, forcing their talk in another direction. I’ve never held one before, is it heavy?

You’d have broken the law if you had, Raben said with a bite, it’s illegal for someone outside The Sacred Church to touch one while in the North. He twirled his in front of the fire, as though thinking of casting a spell. To answer your question, no, it’s not heavy; it’s hollow.

Hollow . . . truly? Kornelius asked, surprised.

Raben only nodded.

Only a dwarven smith can do that, Burban said with pride. He glanced across the fire at the Cleric, then back at his war hammer. Your wands come from Lo’Darrow, you know.

Raben snorted. Unlikely, dwarf. As fine as craftsmen your kin might be, Alexandroz would never trade with such filth.

Kornelius threw up his hand before Burban exploded from his seat. It’s true we have to learn to watch our tongues, Cleric, but as long as you’re with my company, you’d be wise to do the same. The two met eye to eye, locked in a murderous gaze.

Aye, Korshire boomed, he thinks he’s different from us, but he’ll piss on his manners and insult us just the same; he is me and I am him.

You say that every time the Cleric missteps, Tom said with a smirk. He returned his attention to the sky and the falling pellets of white. The flakes evaporated just above his head, as if they had never existed at all. A shadow caught his peripheral, about to glance at the Cleric, to watch his agitation; it was a silhouette at the rim of the bowl. A long black cloak whipped in the wind.

Tom jumped to his feet, his double-edged longknife drawn, the dull metal dancing in the firelight.

All the others were on their feet a breath later. What is it, Tom? Master-Ranger Kornelius asked softly.

The plagued we’ve been tracking? Burban whispered.

Fucking Southerners, Korshire spat.

No, Tom answered, staring at the dark forest, nothing but trees within sight. There was a figure.

Seeing ghosts now, are we? Burban laughed, relaxing his hands around his war hammer.

Before Tom could reply, a man sleeping at one of the other fires called out. Within seconds, all Brigade members had scaled the snowy crater walls, weapons and torches in hand, breaths hard and steaming.

What happened? Kornelius demanded, rushing across the camp.

Didn’t come from here, a Ranger replied.

Tom, along with twenty-three of his brothers and the Cleric, scanned the forest. The falling snow was virtually impenetrable for his eyes to spot anything. A shadow swept through the camp, a wispy cloud of black smoke, and cut down Torance, a Scout of four cycles. Two more men fell before the shape disappeared.

That way, Burban shouted, pointing south with his war hammer.

I’ll get the bastard, Korshire roared, tossing his wineskin down beside the fire. Prone to reaction without taking the time necessary to draw a worthwhile conclusion, the Ranger was off, racing into the dark and the deepening snow.

We can’t let him go off alone, Tom muttered to the dwarf.

It was his stupid choice to leave the camp, Tom, not ours, Burban said with a heavy grunt. If we follow, we’ll surely die out there, and you know it.

Tom weighed their options. He had trekked around the North with Korshire for too long to just let him die alone in the cold; he was a good Ranger and a good friend. He gave a grunt and bolted off into the deadly night. He could hear the dwarf’s throaty breaths behind him.

You’ll be the death of me, Tom, Burban growled. Always trying to do right, you are, but it’s not always right to be so damn stubborn. Together they battled the snow, the torches threatening to desert them in their sincerest hour of need. Calls from the others reached their ears, beckoning them to retreat from such a mad chase.

He’s a bastard, Tom admitted, but he’s our bastard. He continued on, pushing aside the dense powder, fatigue creeping in. Korshire’s tracks were easier to follow than one might guess, his trenchlike impressions, thigh-deep, provided them with a laid-out course. All they had to do was catch up to the Ranger before he met an unfortunate, yet inevitable end.

A minute later, his torchlight revealed blood on the natural canvas, scattered in a five-nail pattern, as though slashed by a bear. AH! Burban bellowed, and a strange low howl fell upon Tom’s ears.

He spun around and sighted the dwarf swinging his hammer at the spectral shadow. His assault did not last long. By the time Tom reached his comrade, the dwarf’s chest was pierced a dozen times, as if the mail he wore were only thin wool. Then Tom glanced the blade that had butchered his friend, a blade so black his eyes barely registered it in the darkness, and only truly did when it hacked toward him.

Tom raised his longknife and deflected the blow. No song of metal on metal graced his ears; no, it was a treacherous call, a wolf’s howl, only strangled and corrupted and all the darker. The force driving the weapon blew him back, shaken by the malice, the pure hate he felt in the connection. The snow restricted his movement. He was stuck in place, blocking a tireless bout of swings.

He could feel the metal in his hands promising to sunder at any moment. There was no hope for him unless the Blest Gods answered his prayers. Enveloped in shade, the gods spoke nothing, and no defense rushed to his side. Only his strong arm was there to parry the next shower of blows. But it was weakening after every save.

Until finally a crack surged from the knife’s hilt to the tip of his blade and the steel shattered into a thousand pieces.

Tom’s back kissed the snow. He gazed up, stunned.

The airy black figure replaced its weapon into an unseen sheath. I am trying to help you, Tom, came a powerful voice that sounded like a windstorm. Faceless, it was impossible to tell if the cloaked apparition was staring at him like he was at it, and he could only guess at the meaning of its words. The hand of the shape rose as five knife-like fingers, bearing only shadow as its skin, curled into a fist.

Tom felt warmth erupt in his body as the punch bloodied his nose. Then, for the briefest instant, a memory shook him. A memory so buried by lies that the startling confusion was twice the blow the fist had dealt. Tom knew then with absolute certainty, he knew this was not his life.

The second hit plunged him into a devouring darkness that nothing could escape.

2

The Vultures. The Smoke.

Some Strange Company.

Tom lay face down in tall red grass. Overcome with exhaustion, he struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, barely able to move. The grass grew too high for anything to be visible but the long blades. His body ached in soreness. His head was foggy and his memories distorted, as if blocked by a wall, one he could not break down, only able to recall the faintest bits of who he was. He had no idea how he had gotten here. A few loud cries of an animal had woken him, but they passed shortly after he was roused from the darkness, and for the time he believed it safest to remain in the cover of the flourishing vegetation. He rolled over on to his back, which took great effort.

Vultures flew overhead, looking for scraps of carrion. Circling Tom, one of the vultures dove for his shoulders, thinking him easy prey. Four sharp talons landed next to his head, but he rolled twice to his side, out of harm’s way. His entire body ached from the effort, the sides of his stomach gnawing at him, but most of the pain centered in his head, pulsing.

The enormous bird jumped into flight once more, circling just a bit above Tom’s head. When Tom finally stood up, the bird flew to a distance almost reachable with an extended arm and a powerful jump. Three vultures glided above him, sweeping down every now and then, which tensed all his muscles. Their wingspans distanced over eight feet, and their bodies stood tall about four feet high, reaching just below Tom’s shoulders. The birds’ feathers glowed pure black except for a few small bands of red underneath the wings, and their flesh looked like molten fire; black covered the top of their faces and down their cheeks as though forming a helmet. He watched their soaring, ready to duck.

Tom scanned the area and spotted the rotting carcass of a nearby bison; red hair covered most of its body except where patches of brown splotched the animal. Flesh and bone showed in places around the creature’s gut, and its entrails were spilled on the ground, untouched, as if someone had gutted the unfortunate animal then left it there to roast in the sun.

He spotted a herd of red bison that grazed in the distance, with many similar carcasses scattered in bits and pieces across the plains. He nearly choked on the fetid scent of the bodies, but then he covered his nose, only breathing when necessary. The birds swooped down to the grass and landed next to the decomposing flesh. Tom stood closer to the dead bison than the three giant birds, but slowly they inched their way toward him and the rotting odor. The nearest of the birds cocked its head in a funny manner, peering up at Tom, and they made eye contact for a prolonged period of time. The bird squinted at him, and then it ruffled its feathers as it attempted to intimidate him, which worked, as Tom took a quick step backward.

The bird blinked. Its eyes never left him. It opened its beak and a sound came out, but not one Tom had expected from the enormous bird. It squawked gratingly, yet within the high-pitched noise, something else hid that he could not discern. He furrowed his brow as he observed the creatures, not wanting to make any alarming movements, and remained motionless.

I’m sorry, kid, you must have misheard me. I asked if you were going to eat that? the nearest bird spoke up, aligning its head upright. Its voice lowered since it first spoke, and became clearer too. The words shocked Tom’s ears, and he blinked in bewilderment, thinking that the incident only existed in his head.

Terrible times, these are terrible times we’re living in. I think we have another lost kid, the second bird said. He doesn’t want it. Tom knew he was dreaming then. The three birds bent over the carrion and began to feast upon the decay. They tugged on the meat and other body parts of the animal, carefully dissecting the dead creature. Two more of the birds flew over and landed on the far side of the bison, away from Tom. They blinked at him for a second.

What’s with this one? one of them asked, as the other one immediately started to gobble down the smelly flesh.

He’s lost. Might have been part of one of those small expeditions, replied the first one, who now cocked his head at Tom once more, and blinked his eyes a few times. We aren’t sure what’s wrong with him, he could be mute. Terrible times, you know.

Tom disliked dreams like this.

Suddenly he had the urge to speak. I’m Tom, he introduced himself, but only the first bird heard him, for the others busily yanked pieces of the animal’s hide away, exposing more of the foul smelling muscle.

Ah, so you’re not a mute after all, the first bird said, blinking rapidly. Well, Tom, it is pleasant to meet you, my name is Gregon. That’s Larry, Kizo, Bell, and Noizen, Gregon introduced the other birds in order from where they stood. They all dipped their necks slightly, half-bowing.

Not knowing what to say, Tom fell silent. He had never had such a real and vivid dream, especially one where animals had names and talked to him. He did not know how to respond, but he also did not want to be rude. Hi, he replied, and nodded to be polite. He could not remember what he normally dreamed about, but he had the sense that they were nothing like this one.

What brings you to The Stained Lands of Hell? Gregon asked, plucking a piece of meat from the carcass.

Huh? Tom uttered, but his indistinct speech sounded more like a groan. It might have been a groan, but thankfully, Gregon had a very aural keenness and perceived Tom’s confusion.

You really are lost then, aren’t you? Gregon said, after swallowing the chunk of meat. You, my sore compadre, are on the edge of Salenk, near the border of Lyree Plyth, and close to The Bordergrounds.

Tom met the bird’s eyes once more. Gregon must have seen that Tom wore the most flummoxed expression. So the bird went about his business, feasting on the carrion, and waited for the human to ask questions.

Tom had not a clue what the bird meant when he told him about his supposed location. Stained Lands of Hell—what could that mean? Maybe he dreamed about life after death; despite his confusion and lack of memories, he remembered he did not believe in Hell, yet somehow he had ended up within its borders.

The vultures voraciously attacked the remaining flesh of the dead bison, and they spoke no more to him, but he noticed that every once in a while Gregon stopped to peer up at him and waited for a second, as if he thought Tom would ask him something more. With the human’s silence, the bird returned to the carcass, pulling on the stringy and stretchy tissue.

Tom surveyed the land more closely and saw a trail of hoary smoke that billowed above a nearby woodland. He could see the tops of a massif that the forest covered up unto a point; the smoke remained visible as it flowed up the slopes of the mountains.

A dot soared in the skyline by the mountains, which appeared to be another vulture, but Tom could have been mistaken, since it seemed to be circling the area even though a surplus of carrion lay on the ground. To the north, he saw another chain of mountains that stretched far out of the range of his eyesight. Two suns hung in the sky, a smaller and dimmer Crimson one that traveled ahead of the second one into the west, over the tops of the massif. The second sun shined Golden, and illuminated much more than the Crimson.

The landscape that surrounded Tom reminded him of a sanguinary battleground, with blood soaking the fields; the deep scarlet grass slowly wilted in the sunlight. He watched the herd of bison while they roamed about the area; the large heavyset oxen ate at their leisure, careless about anything other than filling their bellies, and at times, observing their young that rested and grazed near them.

Tom decided he wanted to know more about his location, even if only a dream. So what exactly are The Stained Lands of Hell? he asked the small flock of vultures.

The land of the dead, Gregon answered, choking down a scrap of bloody tissue. There have been thousands of battles fought on these lands, and eventually the blood permanently changed the color of the ground and the grass that grows on top of it. And now, terrible times are a coming again, war is approaching.

I see, Tom said. He wanted to know why so many battles took place on the plain, but instead a more pressing question occurred to him. How do you know war is coming?

We’ve got a sense about these things, when mass bloodshed is a coming. Call it a gift, I do, Gregon replied.

Tom brushed aside the prediction and asked, Do you know where I could find the closest accommodations? He needed to escape the dreadful plains.

Gregon tilted his head and blinked. Accommodations? he said, perplexed. If you mean a city, then the closest one would be Brilam, and it’s a long ways south of here.

Yes, that’s what I meant, Tom said, a little annoyed by the bird’s tone. Of course he meant a city, what else could he have meant? Do you know how far away it is? He hoped for a time less than an hour. The two suns beat down relentlessly on his sensitive skin.

It’s at least a couple of sequences on foot, though I once tracked one of these bison down there for longer. But they are pretty slow walkers, Larry responded, who had been quiet, but listening the entire time.

Yeah, all they do is eat all circuit long, or mate, Kizo added, who had also been silent.

Gregon nodded. Yep, it will take you some time to get down there, and the suns are starting to get real fierce during the circuit, even for us while flying. Terrible times, I say.

A circuit? A sequence? Tom asked.

Where are you from, kid? Gregon said. A circuit: the thirty-seven hours it takes the planet to complete its revolution. A sequence is made up of nine circuits. You know it’s terrible times when kids don’t even know about time. Next he’ll say he doesn’t know what an orbit or a cycle is.

Terrible times, the others added, sounding off in a row.

Tom thought better of asking about the meaning of a cycle and an orbit, he just wanted out of the sweltering heat, and a good place to rest.

You won’t find too much shade neither, Bell apprised Tom of the lack of tree cover, with a strip of muscle hanging out of her mouth. She quickly swallowed it. At least for the first couple of circuits, but once you get south of that forest there. She pointed with her massive wing. You’ll start to find more trees in the southern grasslands.

Tom grew puzzled about their sudden interest in him, and why they talked about him not having shade when an extensive forest lay close by. Can’t I just walk in the forest? he asked.

Oh troubled graces, no! Gregon cried. You cannot travel in The Untouched Lands. That forest has a curse that scribbles anything that tries to pass through its borders.

Scribble? Tom inquired.

Kill . . . Larry responded calmly.

Yep, it is protected somehow, but by who or what we do not know. What we do know is that we do not see anything go in without finding half of itself our next meal, and we don’t see anything venture out either, Bell reported.

It has been good for us, though, Gregon added. We watch it circuitly for someone silly or stupid enough to find itself falling over dead when they try to walk into its enticingly green landscape.

Trust us, kid, you don’t want to try it, unless you think you would make a mighty meal for one of us, but judging from your muscle tone, I should think not, Kizo said.

Noizen had been noiseless throughout the whole discussion, a noticeably odd occurrence for a vulture when in a group, and they usually huddled together in groups, scavenging in collaboration. For the first time the bird took his attention away from the carrion and examined Tom. Yeah, you’re right there, Kizo, he’s not much of a meal, is he? Noizen said with a chuckle. The rest of the birds joined in on the laughter, but Tom scowled, not thrilled about being in a discussion of whether or not he made a worthwhile appeaser of hunger.

The herd started making long calls. Increasingly, other bison joined in, aware of something new in the fields. The majority of the herd began to move south. The nervousness of the red-haired bison made him uneasy as well, and looking around he spotted more bison approaching from the east at a swift pace.

Among the bison, something else caught Tom’s attention, where a few larger animals moved about the herd. The white creatures ran on four legs much the same as a cheetah and with apparently the same astonishing speed. Their curved, humped backs raised into the air, jumping onto the bison as they tackled one to the ground. The white reflected off the suns, making it unbearable to look at them for longer than a mere glimpse.

Thick scales covered the animals, like armor, impenetrable. Soon the herds mixed into a mass of chaos as the huge bison ran in all directions, with most of them traveling away from where he stood. Several of the white creatures ran amok within the herd, taking them down with ease, ripping at their stomachs with huge swipes of their claws, or once on their backs, positioning themselves under the bison’s well-covered throats and snapping into them to crush the animal’s windpipe.

Heart pounding, Tom feared one of the creatures would spot him. Do you see those? he asked the vultures. Gregon and Kizo swiveled their necks to search for what the human talked about. They focused their eyesight on the blinding beasts and saw them taking down bison after bison.

So that’s what killed these red-haired critters, Gregon said, interested in the beast. We arrived here too late to catch a glimpse of the butchers. Gregon’s eyes zoomed in on the white animals. "Dilapadae! he shrieked deafeningly. Kid, you best be off, these beasts are unforgiving, and uncontrollable."

Tom watched the great animals claw and bite viciously as they scattered the herd, and singled out the slower and weaker bison. There is no way I can outrun them, I have nowhere to go! He started to panic. Can you carry me? he yelled at the vultures in the commotion, as the bison wailed and stomped the ground like thunder.

Our talons are too sharp to lift you without injury, and you are too heavy for us to carry you very far, at least not far enough away to escape them, Gregon screeched. He cocked his head, then blinked once or twice before he took off into the air. The others followed suit, soaring higher and higher into the sky, but Gregon swooped back down in a circle around Tom. Your best bet would be to run along with the bison southward. Other than that, I don’t have any more suggestions. Terrible times are a coming. I’m sorry, kid. I truly am. Gregon flew after the group of vultures that hovered above, waiting for the madness to end and the feast to begin.

Searching the area, Tom saw a lone bison running toward him, with one of the savage predators scrambling after it. His body throbbed, moving at a slow pace, trembling in fear and exhaustion, but he pushed his muscles to their limit as he started to run southward. He realized he could not sprint fast enough to reach the herd, let alone run with them, so he adjusted his course west, toward the forest. He decided to take his chances dying in there rather than in the jaws of a beast. He rushed toward the woodland; the bison galloped not far behind him now, gaining distance faster than he had hoped the animal could move. He did not want the bison anywhere near him, for it would alert the predator to his own presence.

The eaves of the forest drew near. Green sprouted everywhere from north to south. It was a lush land that appeared to be untouched by animals and humans.

The bison caught up to Tom and ran next to him, their steps synchronized as the bison’s head slanted toward him. Unprepared, Tom heard a plea of HELP ME! from the animal. Stepping in front of him, the bison ran desperately ahead, leaving him in the direct sight of the blinding creature. Tom did not know if the words lived in his imagination, or if they were truly spoken aloud. He raced through the bloodstained grass, the thought slipping from his mind as adrenaline and fear overtook it.

The trees promised security, so close to Tom, almost within touching distance, but the beast was now a mere yard behind him. At the last minute before entering the forest, the bison turned south, picking up its speed. Tom ran so close behind the animal that the bison’s left hind leg hit him just below his knee in the shin, which tripped him forward. Falling hard, he reached out his arms to brace the impact.

Snarls and growls rang out over the plains behind him, the guttural sounds echoing across the sky, pounding his eardrums. The white creature’s ululation contacted its pack and soon more were answering with calls of their own.

Tom rolled over as fast as he could. He spied that the beast ceased its advance at the edge of the woodland; it paced back and forth along the border, crying out every once in a while, but making no attempt to pass in. Soon three other white beasts arrived, carrying the flesh of recently caught prey. The four predators gathered around each other and howled their displeasure to the heavens. Something prevented their crossing into the forest to tear him to shreds, but for some reason, he had made it through safely.

His heart thudded as if trying to break through his chest.

The trees groaned from the ululations that flew with the wind, and reacting to the annoyance, they shut out the noise, covering the edge of the land by sprouting new bushes and plants along the border. The small plants grew taller and wider in seconds, and after a few minutes, the beasts vanished, no longer visible to Tom. The thick wall of new brush somehow also blocked out their dreadful screams.

I made it, Tom muttered. Slowly, his blood settled, though not completely calmed. He clambered to his feet, twisting toward the tangled woodland before him. The smoke trail that he had seen earlier clouded around him; he waved it away with his hands, and it subsided within a couple of feet in front of him. The smoke followed a path along the floor of the forest. Looks like someone wants me here.

He walked along the trail, and with every step, the smoke remained the same distance in front of him. He followed the smoke and the trail in hopes that they would lead him to food and water, and shelter. He had never been so sore, or so famished in a dream before, and Tom started to have his doubts about his initial conclusion.

He could still see some of the sky above the canopy of the forest, and he noticed that the large Golden Sun started to sink behind the mountains in front of him. The light quickly fell with it. The dense forest grew dimmer, and queer sounds followed, echoing in the darkness. Fear kept him awake and alert for hours following the path in the gloom, but abruptly his depleted body could stand no longer. He stopped for the night beside the path, between three ancient, massive redwood trees. The smoke lingered along the trail, and waited there for him to take his next step.

Tom sat down, enervated and bewildered. His unanswered questions had worn him out. As the light disappeared entirely, he fell asleep undisturbed by the noisiness of the night.

Tom awoke to a dim light. Groggy, his blood circulated as if drugged. His head buzzed, and he waited a few moments until it cleared. Using the nearest giant tree for support, he climbed to his feet and staggered, trying to balance himself. The other two trees that he had fallen asleep next to had vanished. He examined his surroundings closely, recalling what he could before weariness had overtaken him the previous night.

Nothing looked the same. The bushes and flowers that grew next to him had disappeared, and the density of the trees shaded much less. A few redwood trees, like the one he stood next to, grew here and there, and as he turned, he saw the slope of one of the mountains. On the previous day, the mountains had been a great distance to the west, and once he determined the impossibility that he had traveled such a length on his own, the realization struck him that something mystical must have happened during the night.

The land near the mountainside cooled the blood more, but Tom remained warm and comfortable enough in his beige long-sleeved shirt and dark-brown pants, both of which were made from thick linen. The dirt footpath lay close by, so he made his way toward it, where he saw that the smoke lingered a short distance away. He took a step forward, and just as on the previous day, the smoke remained a steady few strides in front of him, unreachable.

Traveling along the path, Tom headed up the slanting surface of the mountain’s base while he followed the elusive smoke that continued to lead the way. Hours went by before he stopped to take his first rest, and conveniently, the trail had led him next to a small, clear

Reviews for Life Descending (The Cry of Havoc, Book 1)

[madamediotte · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Although the beginning was not very compelling for me, as it was very dark and violent, I must say the novel became more interesting in the following chapters. Despite the fact that the descriptions were, at times, a bit repetitive, I did enjoy the plot and felt that it was unique. I was especially intrigued by the way that magic works in this world. Overall, Life Descending: The Cry of Havoc was a good fantasy read.