Lineage

By William Sizemore

Welcome to the world of Lineage, where one's destiny is determined by the color of his skin. The Elite rule all, backed by the might of the Blooddread armies. The six purecaste races provide all sustenance, trade and commerce to and from Lineage, while the Calico, any of mixed racial heritage, are considered the dregs of society with no opportunity to change their lot in life, which is usually that of of servitude or slavery.
Follow the young Calico orphan, Hue, as he is forced by an attack of the vile beasts Hellfur from the protection of his hidden city of Ethni to go out into the world in search of a fragment of the mythical Onestone, which his mentor, the self-proclaimed wizard Gaunt Wheeling, assures him contains a powerful magic called Essence, and would bring ruin upon them if in the wrong hands. Stumble though the strange new purecaste worlds never before experienced by Hue as he searches for the stone to return it to Gaunt. Fraught with danger at every turn, not only from the purecaste, but also by the vile and other dangers keeping him from the fragment, Hue soon enough discovers a danger even more significant: that Gaunt may not be what he seems and has set Hue on a course destined to fail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Sizemore
• Release date: Jul 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311148872

William Sizemore

Currently an English Professor in Texas, I have had a varied and exciting life, including time in the military and several years as a police officer. My educational background includes a BFA in visual design and an MA in English. I am married with three children, 8 yrs., 3 yrs. and 8 mos. My interest in writing and art stem from a childhood heavily influenced by the comic books of the 60's and 70's.

Book preview

Confusion was not in Herald's composition. So why was his mind so befuddled? His head pounded fiercely. A bolt of agony shot through him and he screamed in pain. He dropped to the floor in a heap. Waves of pain, growing in intensity, wracked his body and blurred his vision. The entire room, the very walls and floor about him, seemed to ripple. At first, he thought it was his tears making the room shimmer, but slowly it dawned on Herald that he was not hallucinating. The room was actually shimmering, as if it were a distant desert mirage. He tried to wipe the tears away and rid himself of the illusion, but he could no longer move his arms. No matter how he tried, his arms would not reach up to his face. Even a miniscule wiggle of his fingers was beyond his ability. After struggling for what seemed an eternity, he gave up with a gasp and simply squeezed his eyes shut until the moisture went away.

When he opened them again he saw that he truly had not been hallucinating. No longer was he in the warm, comfortable quarters of Etheria discussing the Onestone and its possibilities, but instead was in a dark, cold, dank cave lying helpless on its floor. Somewhere, somehow, he became aware that he had been lying here for some time. Or what seemed like a long time, anyway, fading in and out of consciousness. I must be dreaming, he reasoned, no longer sure what was real and what was not. Herald tried to think around the pain that was racing through his body. If one thing was real, it was the pain. That was the most confusing part of all. Animals felt pain. Humans felt pain. Gods did not. Is this pain just a part of the dream, he wondered? But, gods also did not dream.

Eventually, it was the pain that was the deciding factor in Herald’s decision to believe that he was no longer in a safe place, or a safe time, and that Etheria could do nothing more for him. That must have been the dream of which he was incapable. This must be the reality. His body heaved once more, cramping intensely with the now too familiar feeling of pain, and then he lay still.

From somewhere nearby a bright light flashed, illuminating the tunnel where Herald lay. The flash was followed by a loud clapping sound that reverberated off the walls away into oblivion. The light and the sound triggered a memory. With a dawning horror, Herald remembered that indeed this was no dream. He also remembered why he had wished so desperately that it was. He had faded in and out of consciousness so many times he could not recall, but he did know for a certainty that he was lying on the ground deep within the caverns of Leer.

Herald looked up from where he lay on the cold stone floor of the cavern, wondering how he had come to this place. Why he had to die.

Another bright flash of light and a maniacal laugh came from somewhere far above. Herald twisted his neck, looking for the source of the laugh and a terrible pain shot down his arms, but he felt nothing in the rest of his body. It was as if he no longer existed below his shoulders. The slight movement he made attracted the attention of a nearby hellfur, who slunk over to his shattered body and sniffed casually at it. The stench of the beast was horrible. It reeked of excrement and death. As it closed in on the dying god, he could see the matted fur was dank with old urine and fresh blood.

Unable to stop himself, Herald cringed. The involuntary shudder caused his head to jerk slightly. Seeing the flicker of life in Herald’s eye, the beast bit deep into the nape of his neck and shook viciously. Blood seeped slowly from the punctures left by the sharp canines. Getting no response, the hellfur dropped him and padded away down the hallway, disappearing into the darkness in search of other, more entertaining prey. Conveniently, thanks to the Hellfur, Herald could now see into the cavern beyond his little hall of death. What he saw horrified and enraptured him.

In the center of the room stood a man. His movements were punctuated by the flickering and flashing of unseen lights as he pounded on a stone table with his bare and bloody hands. As if by a trick of the light, the mans skin seemed alive with a multitude of colors, swirling and bunching with the ebb and flow of his movement.

The Banded Man.

On the table lay several slivers of odd shaped stone. Probably the Heartshards, Herald thought. And then, in a moment of lucidity (or shock), he wondered if they were in the correct pattern. Inscribed on the surface of the table, Herald knew was there, but could not see, were the words to be spoken. Herald had never actually seen the table or the words, but he had taught the Banded One well enough. He would be able to speak them. Herald also knew that near each inscription was an inlay in the stone for each one of the Heartshards. The man was attempting to force the stones into the pattern. The stones were the right size. The stones were the right shape. The stones should have fit, but they did not, they could not. And Herald knew why.

The room went dark and silent for a few moments and Herald could hear the Banded Man quietly weeping. Suddenly, in a fury the man slammed his fist into the table top, striking one of the stones. There was a squishy thump when the man’s shattered hand connected with the table top, immediately followed by another blinding flash and the loud crack of thunder. The man picked up a stone from the table and looked at it incredulously, his cracked and broken fingers at odd angles to his hand. Setting the stone back down on the table the man scooped them all into a heap and then began placing them into the pattern, all the while chanting the words written in the stone, his face an iron mask of determination. Herald turned his eyes away in despair and looked down at his own waist where Ashlars hammer lay tucked away in his belt and cried.

Cried, and remembered a man named Gaunt Wheeling.

For the time will come when all who are created will be as one and the shifting of equity will no longer be. The foretelling of that time shall be marked in the heavens by the coming of the Demanarch, joining the Everlasting with Below, and bonding forever the light. Following this spectacle shall be born a child such as the world has never seen. Begotten of tainted purity, He shall be swathed in all mans skin, and will be of that judgment which is final. The end to the Banishment lies in his hands when he returns to one what was put asunder by many.

Excerpt from The Prophesies of the Tainted

Essence and Beasts

The boy hid behind a crumbling wall that lined the eroded escarpment and carefully checked his backtrail, unsure where to run next. From shadow to shadow he had flitted beneath the occasional spray of bright moonbeams punctuating the land from above a drifting cloud cover. Yet no matter his speed, subtlety, or direction, the shifting sounds of dogged pursuit remained. Who might be following, or why, Hue had little idea, and in the moment did not care. He could wonder why now, or he could run and wonder later. He chose the later. So, after catching his breath and calming his heart, once again he dashed through the rubble toward the protection of the vilewards.

Slim chest heaving, arms and legs pumping furiously, he could scarce afford the briefest glimpse over his shoulder as he negotiated the debris-strewn street at a full run. The meandering cloud cover interrupted the moonlight and mottled the ground over which he ran until it seemed as if he sped over the embodiment of his own smooth, supple Calico skin: light and dark and a multitude of color. Behind, fantastical skittering shadows pursued. Before, unknowable blackness yawned.

The ragged crater Hue knew as the Hole, a beauty mark on the face of a long forgotten battlefield, finally came into view. Two things about the Hole were certain: it was larger than it looked from above, and somewhere nearby marked the boundary of the outermost vileward. He reached the edge of the Hole and leaped into the darkness without pause. Somehow, he managed to tumble to the bottom, scramble over the thin sheet of mud covering the hard packed ground below, and clamber over the serrated far rim without mishap. Almost. As he rolled the last few feet down the outer lip of the crater and back onto the broken roadway, he stepped ankle deep into an ice-rimmed puddle, the freezing water soaking through his boot and stockings. A hiss escaped his lips at the bite of the dirty cold against his skin. He yanked his foot out of the water and ducked into the shadows of a broken, empty building and stopped, becoming as still and silent as the shadows within which he stood.

The echoes that had been dogging him stopped as well.

He waited for a moment feeling the night, plumes of billowing steam escaping his lungs in ragged bursts. But for a small breeze pushing the clouds overhead, the night was still and silent. Then, from nearby, came the soft echoes of something scraping pavement. The echo died and the sound did not repeat. Unconsciously, his hand sought to grasp the reassuring comfort of the knife sheath tucked into his waistband. He found the knife, but no comfort with it. Skinning small game and whittling tiny figures did not a walker make. Yet, no lurid darkness followed him from the Hole. Maybe he was imagining things after all. Or maybe the vilewards did as Gaunt claimed. Maybe.

Shivering and irritated at his skittishness, Hue stepped back onto the damp cobblestones, the squishy thud of a wet boot sole emphasizing his stride. Decaying carcasses of buildings long dead, some engraved with enigmatic runes that Gaunt had told him once identified a purpose to those who spoke them, littered his way back into the ancient, abandoned city and provided some concealment from within their hollow onceness. He stopped again inside one of these pockets of black and found a mostly intact stairway that stretched, fragile and with hesitance, to a floor above that no longer existed except as a mere remnant, a crumbling ledge attached to an equally crumbling wall. For Hue, though, it had purpose. As cautious as urgency allowed, he worked his way up the stair to the ledge and then shuffled along it to the empty orb of what presumably was once a window. From this vantage point he traced his way back to the Hole, scanning every shadow large enough to shelter a potential threat.

Nothing.

Anxiously, he scrutinized the darkness again, though this time more slowly, and with an effort to truly see as Gaunt had tried to teach him so many times. He made the effort despite his lack of belief in sight as Gaunt described it, or in Essence at all for that matter. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, stopping just short of completely emptying his lungs, trying to focus not on the absence of breathing, but on the resulting quietude that inevitably accompanied its cessation. It was this turning inward, Gaunt had said, this quelling of the involuntary, even to the spaces between heartbeats, that allowed for the outward push of sight. A push that had other consequences as well, only some of which Hue has experienced so far. Or so said Gaunt. Whatever.

As with his every attempt to see, this one began with a nearly imperceptible tingle deep within the base of his skull and a slight throb of pain at his temples, as if his innards knew better than to even bother, and were now doing their best to convince him as well. Gaunt had encouraged him, though, to push though that discomfort, to ignore it and recognize the fullness of silence, which made absolutely no sense to Hue, but he tried anyway. The pain did subside somewhat, but the tingle grew into a fiery itch; that kind that could neither be reached nor relieved by scratching. He ignored it as best he could and focused on the Hole.

The effort seemed fruitless as one by one each revisited darkness was still empty. Hue turned away ready to concede to an unwarranted paranoia. As he did so, at the very edge of his periphery there came a motion so subtle as to be illusory. He turned back and looked intently at the Hole and saw nothing. Yet, when he turned away again and allowed the Hole to settle at the edge of his visual field, the shifting of darkness he saw there was no illusion. And, when the suggestion of more than a mere shadow clawed its way over the edge of the Hole and onto the street at the very same place Hue had come out of the crater, he knew that it was not just his overactive imagination. Someone or something was following him.

It only occurred to him much later what his efforts to see that night might have cost. But, in this moment, he only knew that he had been right. For now, though, no more wondering; now there was just running. A nameless lurching fear propelling him, Hue abandoned wariness for haste and jumped from the ledge to the rubble below, snaked his way back onto the street and ran with all his youth and dread toward the safety of the Blowingoak Inn.

Shattered and empty structures slowly became displaced by occasional indications of life as Hue’s flight took him further into the city. Finally, near the point at which adrenaline could no longer sustain him, he came upon the fringes of his small community within this great broken place, Ethni, and the merchants’ quarter that lay at its edge. At this late hour it was mostly deserted, but not dead and deadly as were the outer reaches through which Hue had just traveled. Simply closed for the night.

Entrenched firmly between the merchants’ quarter and the residential zone, the Blowingoak loomed in the silence of wood and squatness of stone, set apart from the other tightly packed buildings in the area by an obdurate wall that surrounded its entirety. By tacit agreement that wall had served over the years as a line of demarcation beyond which neither residence nor storefront would encroach one upon the other.

Hue followed the wall to the rear entrance and rapped on the gate, then moved back to avoid being hit as it swung open just enough for him to squeeze inside, still breathing heavily from exertion. An enormous figure moved out of the shadow of the wall and into the broken moonlight, his patchwork Calico skin a perfect camouflage against the darkness and foliage. The man was abnormally big; nearly as big as a Blooddread, someone had once said, though not as tall.

Hue. Mottle rumbled quiet and low, like distant thunder, and with the same potential. It’s you. Where have you been? His blank, wide face spread even wider in the semblance of a smile.

Hue, still panting but now less afraid, spun and shoved the gate closed. Gaunt?

The boy’s unusually abrasive manner caught Mottle by surprise. Inside, with the others. He motioned toward the main building. Hue?

Hue had already started toward the door. He turned back. I might have been followed.

Followed? Mottle bent and opened a small slat in the gate, peering in the direction from which Hue had arrived.

Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not sure. It’s probably nothing. His recent dread dissipating within the safety of the innyard, he dismissed the notion and the giant man with a wave of his hand, leaving Mottle to ponder his own shifting shadows as he entered the inn.

Inside, the wafting aroma of baked bread waged its cyclical battle with fragrant pipe smoke and pungent ale, consumption always determining the victor. Though he hadn’t eaten since morning and his depleted body craved nourishment, Hue bypassed the kitchen and went straight for the common room.

Nod, at his usual place behind the bar, was polishing the wood surface with a rhythmic, hypnotic motion. Without interrupting the regularity of the sweeping cloth in one hand, he handed Hue a steaming mug of frothy milked cocoa with the other as Hue passed. He’s been looking for you. Sent Satch everywhere he could think of.

Hue grunted thanks around a mouthful of the warm drink and went on into the room. As he did so, far away at the city’s edge, and dampened by the intervening earth, the dull, heavy clanking of metal on metal preceded the slight vibrations of the floor beneath his feet. Automated sewer mechanisms, which had somehow inexplicably managed to maintain operation throughout the millennia, sporadically flooded the myriad of tunnels beneath the city and swept what little waste there was left to wash away from the dead, empty bowels of this long forgotten place. On every occurrence Hue half-expected the Blowingoak to crumble and fall into the decrepit intestines of the old city and be swept away. Yet, despite the trembling, the inn remained firm. The water passed, as it always did, the shuddering ceased, as it always had, and life went on, as Hue knew he must.

In the room, a group of Calico, some graying at the temples, others already silvery white, were gathered around a large table near the center of the room. A far corner contained a stone hearth, laid with wood set to blazing, that generated enough heat and light to offer welcome respite from the chill darkness outside. Nestled in a nook beside the hearth, the sleeping form of Nod’s son Satch was covered in blankets and books, neither less worn than the other.

Between the table and the hearth was a smallish old man, slight of build and primly dressed, with a thick, braided beard that hung nearly to his waist. His bare pate shifted and glistened in the uncertain dance of flame and brow, his multi-Hued skin so dark as to render the various and inevitable color shifts virtually indistinguishable from one another. And, though the man was ancient in appearance, he remained straight of spine and stiff of beard. His stance spoke frustration but any words of equal value that might have accompanied it went unsaid as he noticed Hue enter. Where have you been?

I returned as fast as I could, Gaunt. I didn’t know they’d go outside.

They? What do you mean, outside?

You know, past the vilewards.

Outside the wards? Who?

The messenger, Gaunt. He returned from the meeting in Lineage. You said you wanted to know.

So you followed them?

An incoherent murmur arose from those gathered at the table.

Well, yes. You said it was important… Hue swallowed nervously.

But I never suggested— nevermind. How far out? Gaunt demanded.

Over the Hole, a little.

A little over... Gaunt scrubbed at his jaw through the beard.

One of those at the table spoke up over the mumbling. What did you discover?

Focused on Gaunt, Hue did not see the speaker. He turned to the table. The accords have not been signed. Another more forceful murmur arose from the gathering. Hue continued, speaking carefully so as not to forget anything important. The Followers wanted the senate to include the guildmasters in taking the Trustoath. The guildmasters refused. The Mariners and Masons walked out of the negotiations, and the Drovers never even showed up.

Gaunt slapped the table. Damn them all for fools! The Avataran is surely behind this!

One of the others, a taciturn man Hue knew as Orand Riata, spoke. If the accords are not signed, the adepts will be called to Lineage to support the Botans, as a show of strength. Once the boy has been raised, if he has not been already, he will go to Lineage. Orand sat hunched and wrinkled beneath a wispy white crown of hair and authority, his otherwise deeply saturated and respect-worthy skin rendered insignificant beside Gaunt’s virtual blackness. Had Orand been purecaste, he certainly could have been a guildmaster, or at least consider himself such; Gaunt would have been something else entirely.

Yes. Gaunt agreed. But the fragment has not yet been moved. I would know.

Orand went on, If the boy were ever to realize what he carries—

Yes, yes. Gaunt cut him off. The boy must be brought to a place where the stone can be safely removed. Not Lineage. He must not go there. The risks are much too great. He must come to me. Only I can remove the stone from him.

No. Emphatic, Orand stood. That risk is even greater. The Collective would never stand for it.

There is no other way.

Yes, there is. Wait for Kneeler and his men, as we discussed. Let them take it from him.

Another voice spoke from deep within the shadows of an adjacent room beyond the hearth and light. Kneeler is a fool. He’ll be no help.

Gaunt responded over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from Orand. Torren.

A Calico unfamiliar to Hue stepped past the sleeping Satch and into the lighted room.

Orand was nonplused. Kiter. What are you doing here? This is not your business. You’re a walker. Stick to what you know. I speak for the Collective here.

A walker? Hue looked closer. This man was not what Hue had expected a walker to be, though in truth he did not know what he might have expected. He had never thought to actually meet one. Destination and urgency were the qualities Hue thought a walker might exhibit, but this Torren Kiter displayed neither. Garbed in drab grays and browns, he was tall for a Calico, with a hard, angular, feral frame. Neither loud in appearance, nor brash, nor hurried, he seemed a study in reserve, and his manner bespoke an abundance of caution. It seemed to Hue that the man might think more about traveling than engage in the act itself. Justoon Kneeler seemed much more suited to being a walker than this man, if not for his significant responsibilities to the Nomadii, as he had told Hue many times.

Torren said nothing in response to Orand, only offered a blank stare.

He’s here at my bidding. Gaunt had resumed pacing. To find the boy and bring him to me.

We’ve discussed this already, Gaunt. Kneeler and his men—

Gaunt’s pace did not falter. It cannot wait! Justoon Kneeler is days away. Torren is here and capable.

Then go with Kiter to him.

That is not possible.

So you say.

Yes, so I say. Gaunt repeated with finality. If the boy goes to Lineage with the stone and the Followers find the stone, all will be lost. Should I go to Northshore, the results would be very much the same. Trust me in this.

It seems you allow us little choice. I will share your concerns with the Collective, but I make no promises.

Promises? I care nothing for your promises. Make your decision, Orand. You cannot serve both the Nomadii and the Collective. They do not serve a mutual purpose. Share what you will. Promise or not. Gaunt replied. But Torren leaves for Northshore at the rising sun with or without your blessing.

Northshore? Hue whispered to himself. He was familiar with the distant caste town, but only in passing, as it was with every other place outside of Ethni because he had never been outside of Ethni.

A heavy thump against the thick front door of the inn interrupted any response Gaunt might have supplied. Another impact immediately followed and the heavy wood frame surrounding the door cracked in several places, showering the surrounding floor with splinters. More powerful blows in rapid succession forced the thick planks of the door to bow inward then snap flat again as the pressure suddenly released.

The door knob twisted and Mottle, covered in blood and grunting with rage, slipped inside, ducking a savage blur of movement that brushed against his back, leaving in its path a bloody trail of shredded clothes and ripped skin. He slammed the door shut, throwing the heavy iron bar down and locking the door into place. No sooner did he bar the door that something heavy struck it, shaking the entire wall, cracking the heavy overhead support timbers, and rattling fixtures inside. He braced himself against the iron bound wood and turned to the others. Get out! He yelled, crushed against the wall as the dense wood of the frame crumpled under yet another powerful impact and the door flung open.

Immediately a hideous thing leaped through the doorway. From a distance it may have been mistaken it for a wolf, albeit a large malformed one, but up close there was no possibility of such an error. As tall as Hue’s shoulder and thrice again as heavy, it was covered with a thick coat of filthy, matted gray-brown fur over which sprouted wiry close-set tufts of long hair creating a dense mane surrounding its deep chest and wide shoulders. Red-rimmed eyes atop a squat head and long snout surveyed the room as its slavering maw leaked murky saliva onto the floor.

No sooner did the thing see Hue at the rear of the room that it twisted and slashed again at Mottle, knocking him to the floor, then ran straight at the boy, ignoring all others. Time seemed to slow down for Hue as he watched the animal gather on its haunches to leap, moving as though it were slogging through hip deep muck. Terrified, but not incapacitated, Hue instinctively ducked under the thing as it launched at him and rolled against the opposite wall. The base of his neck tingled and a sharp pain intruded itself deep into his skull. Through the veneer of pain and sluggish lapse of falsely passing time he watched the animal crash against the wall where he had just been, fall to the floor and turn to leap again. Yet before it could do so, as if by magic a thick arrow was suddenly protruding from its haunch and another immediately followed, embedding in the dense tufts of hair near its spine. It was then that Hue noticed not