Beyond the Sea of Storms

By Larry Kollar

The newly resettled town of Vlis seems an ideal place for Mik to recover from battle-shock—quiet, remote, and on the edge of the Deep Forest. But the Deep Forest has a mind of its own. Soon, Sura’s compulsion to return home takes them farther from home than ever.

Befriended by a Lesser Dragon, hailed as a prophet by the locals, Bailar and his apprentices must find their way in an unfamiliar place. When an invasion forces them to choose sides, Mik must come to grips with his deepest fear to save his friends and innocent folk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Kollar
• Release date: May 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311157423

Larry Kollar

Larry Kollar lives in north Georgia, surrounded by kudzu, pines, and in-laws. He writes fantasy, science fiction, and horror, and now leads the #TuesdaySerial project for online serial fiction. You can find news and snippets of his strange fiction at http://www.larrykollar.com/ For Larry's even stranger reality, check out http://farmanor.blogspot.com/ Follow Larry on Twitter at FARfetched58.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Nightmares

Wandering in the dark, searching for… for something. Or was something hunting for Mik? He was never sure. The stone walls closed around them in the feeble torchlight.

How do we get out? Sura whispered.

I don’t know, he replied, opening a door and looking down another tight passage. Indeed, he was not sure where they were, or what out meant.

Then the whispers began. A feasssssst. Eyes glowing in the dark. They are not sssstrong. The boy cannot defend her.

Claws flashed. Sura fell, and there was nothing Mik could do to stop it.

Uh! he shouted, struggling to reach his boot knife, suffocating—

He thrashed at the blankets, gasping for breath, and threw them off. The air was cool, almost cold, but Mik had slept in colder rooms. This one—his first night in the Forest Keep, near Vlis—had its own fireplace, and he looked around until he found the glowing embers. Too dark, he chanted, too dark. Need light. He groped for the candle on the nightstand, found it, and lit it with Fire magic. Holding it high, he looked around. Shadows cloaked much of the room. This is not Nightwalk, Mik repeated, until he convinced himself that no Gaunts were hiding in a corner. At last, he scrambled off the bed and built up his fire, keeping the candle close by.

The fire slowly warmed the room, and Mik lit his oil lamp using the candle. With the brighter lamp burning, he blew out the candle and sat on his bed. Memory of the battle with the Gaunts intruded, despite Mik’s best attempts to forget. He had been convinced at the time that his mentor and the girl he loved were dead, and took on the Gaunt himself. That had not ended well, but Mik cared little. He hated the dark now, because it had so nearly swallowed Sura and Bailar. And he hated himself because he could do nothing to stop it.

It’s not my place to protect her. Sura had said that many times since his lack of vigilance allowed her to be wounded outside of Isenbund. Still, he burned with shame to recall Aleya’s words to Sura: Had that Goblin’s arrow been lower by a span, you would have died. The words had not been meant for him, but they had carried down the hallway and burrowed into him.

His memories jumped back to when he was eight or nine, when Mother had cut herself in the bakery. She had let her knife get dull without taking it to the cutler, and it slipped at the wrong moment. A Healer sewed up her gashed hand, but it was a terrible day for husband and son.

Hard it is, a Matriarchy man to be, Father had said, sitting before the fire with a jug of ale. Mik remembered how sad he looked. To protect our women we wish, yet their own way they go. And stop ‘em we shouldn’t. Other ways we must find.

Mik had not understood those words until recently, but now he understood them too well. Still, at the time he thought he understood. He taught himself how to sharpen knives, so he could keep Mother’s blades keen. She had not hurt herself that way again. His parents had only learned of Mik’s self-taught skill when he told his aunt about it, and she had said something to them. After that, Aunt Morcati kept his secrets.

As a child, he had found a way to protect Mother. He should have done something to keep Sura from getting hurt as well. Something he could do when nobody was around.

Crazy talk that is, his aunt’s voice opined. He knew it was his imagination, but sometimes he felt that Aunt Morcati could somehow sense his thoughts—and speak to him—from hundreds of miles away. What could you do?

He could have done nothing. And to Mik, that was the problem.

Setting the oil lamp on the nightstand, Mik opened the cabinet door below. There was his helper, a wine bottle and glass. He emptied the bottle into the glass and frowned. He had procured this bottle… four days ago? Three? No matter. They usually had a bottle of table wine with their supper, and the Conclave covered their expenses. A bottle here and there was hardly worth mentioning.

He took the wineglass to his writing desk, and opened his journal. As a way to take control of his wayward mind, he had begun studying anything he could find about battle-shock, under that or its many other names (one name, feral soldier, made him shudder). None of the books he could find on the subject included any direct description of how its victims coped, and Mik thought perhaps he could rectify that omission with his own book. If he found a cure, he could share his findings with the world, serving all Termag in a way that few sorcerers had. He already had the most comprehensive list of names for the malady that he knew of, and that was a start.

He wrote down all he could remember of his dream, and the thoughts he had afterward. Somehow, the dry recitation of facts and feelings calmed the fever in his mind… or perhaps it was the wine, now gone. As a sorcerer, he wrote at the end, I am supposed to conquer emotion with reason. But some emotions are harder to conquer. As strongly as I love my fellow apprentice, I already knew that. And yet, even if there was not this love, I believe the event would still have left me with battle-shock. Fortunately, there is no way to prove that.

• • •

The next morning found Bailar, his apprentices, and their serving-woman Docena walking through the market. There was little fresh produce this time of year, mostly foragers with gathered greens and farmers with livestock and root vegetables. Still, the market dominated the open central square of Vlis. The scents of cooking meats mingled with those of cut greens, and the less pleasant smell of livestock droppings, but it was a cool morning in early spring and the latter was not overpowering. To Mik, it was much like the market in Lacota, his home town. He found the familiarity comforting.

Did the cook give you a list, Docena? Sura asked.

Of course, the serving-woman replied. But we may have to modify it somewhat. Fish and game look rather scarce this morning.

Come back this afternoon, Mik suggested. Hunters and fishers are still at work. They’ll come later, when they have something to sell.

Docena gave Mik a curious look. That sounds sensible, young Lord. But what tells you this?

Mik laughed. Experience. Father would send me to market in the early afternoon for meat. He would catch our fish.

Ah. I keep forgetting, you were not born a Lord.

Indeed, Bailar added. Nor were any of us, tell you true. But shall we split up and make our purchases? It may go quicker.

It is my place to do this, Docena insisted. Go and see what you will, and I shall make the purchases. But if you see a vendor with something we need, please let me know.

Father. Mik. Sura stood with Docena. I will help Docena, if she needs it. You two look around. Find where the local merchants have their shops. We will need them all, sooner or later. Mik watched his love depart with the serving-woman, as the mentor looked around.

I wonder if she’ll charm the vendors here the way she did at home, Mik thought. Sura was considered a beauty at home in the Stolevan Matriarchy, with solid shoulders and broad hips, and Docena was of similar build. But men in this part of the wide world preferred a more wispy, willowy kind of woman, and that bothered Mik not at all.

Let us look for a cobbler, first off, Bailar suggested. Noted Aleya asked us to join the local sorcerers in surveying the boundaries of the Deep Forest, and that involves a great deal of walking. So we need new boots, and our old ones could stand a little repair.

Indeed. My boots could use—eh. Mik flinched away from a man with wild red hair and a matching beard, sitting between two vendors’ tents with a begging bowl. One of his arms ended at the elbow. Bad luck. Mik made a warding gesture.

Apprentice, Bailar chided. That is superstition, and more than a little rude.

Apologies, mentor. But…

The only bad luck was his own, to lose his arm. Bailar turned, digging into his pockets, and dropped a gold octagon into the beggar’s bowl. The beggar looked up, gaping without sound at his benefactor; Bailar smiled and turned back to Mik. Now his fortune is a little better. Remember, apprentice, you can change someone’s luck for better or for worse. If we are serving all of Termag, it is our duty to improve the luck of folk when we can.

As they walked away, looking for a cobbler, they heard shouts go up behind them. They turned to see a man running toward them, looking back at his pursuers. He clutched a small sack. Before Bailar or Mik could do anything, the beggar stuck his staff into the man’s way, bracing it with his maimed arm.

The running man tripped over the staff. His strangled cry turned into a grunt as he sprawled headlong into a sturdy Northern woman, carrying flasks of ale on a tray. The woman shrieked as her flasks went flying, drenching them both.

You stupid oaf! she snarled, slamming her tray across the hapless thief’s head. He staggered, and she backhanded him again with the tray.

Stop, you cow! he cursed in return, still clutching his prize and slapping at the tray with his free hand as she brought it around again. But he was yet unbalanced, and the force of the blow knocked him backwards.

Hoy! a vendor shouted as the thief fell onto his table. Before the vendor could back away, the table collapsed, knocking him to the ground and scattering his wares.

As the thief scrambled to his feet, the vendor clutched his leg. You ain’t going anywhere until you help me set this to rights! he shouted.

Eighth Hell take you and your table! the thief grated, jerking his leg free.

Second Hell take you! the Northern woman cried, giving him a kick where he wanted it least. He staggered, doubled over, and fell against Bailar’s legs. Bailar lost his balance and fell backward, and Mik dug the end of his staff into the man’s chin.

Are you well, mentor? Mik asked, sparing the briefest glance backward. He extended his magic, and the would-be thief fell asleep at Mik’s feet.

Just hold him there, Bailar replied. I’ll get to my feet. I have much practice, as you know.

The pursuers, two city guards and a soft-looking man, hauled themselves up. Good work, lad! one of the guards said, as Bailar rejoined Mik.

He just fell at my feet, Mik insisted, reversing his spell. The beggar tripped him. Then a… He pointed, but both the beggar and the Northern woman were gone.

Bad luck should be for bad folk, eh? he heard a whisper behind him. But we both know it ain’t always so.

Mik jumped and turned, but the beggar was already striding away, staff tucked under his half-arm. He stared for a moment. Indeed, the man had spoken true. Does he know somehow, Mik wondered, or was he speaking in general?

Soon after finding the cobbler’s shop, Bailar’s hip began to hurt again. While he hobbled around the shop, waiting for his boots, Mik went to find Sura. He found her near one of the farmers’ stalls, watching Docena bargain for a pair of chickens and resisting the urge to step in. Hoy, he sent to her, and she glanced around until she found him.

Another storm’s on the way, Mik whispered, taking her hand.

How do… oh. Father?

Indeed. I hope it holds off until evening, for Docena’s sake. I’d hate to send her to the market for meat in the middle of a storm.

The cook can make do with chicken, if it comes too soon, Sura pointed out, nodding as the farmer dropped two chickens in a sack. He took Docena’s money and gave her the sack. I’ll let her know.

Good. We found a cobbler. The mentor’s boots should be done by now, but we need to have ours repaired if we’ll be hiking the Deep Forest.

"I’d like to hike through the