Emily's Saga

By Travis Bughi

Contains books 1 through 6 of the World of Myth Series, from Beyond the Plains to A Legend Ascends.

In a world filled with dangerous creatures of terrifying power, a courageous girl will grow from a naïve farmer’s daughter into a legendary warrior the likes of which her world has never known.

Emily’s Saga follows the trials and tribulations of young Emily Stout from her humble beginnings in the depths of poverty to her rise in prowess under an angel’s shadow. Forging her own destiny, Emily’s ambition will change the course of history through her perilous gamble to slay an immortal, her daring attempt to turn the tides of a centuries-long war, and her decision to oppose the monsters that wish to enslave her world. All the while, she finds love and betrayal, kindness and cruelty, and struggles to avoid becoming as twisted as those she hunts in her quest for vengeance.

A heroine for the ages, Emily will decide not only her own fate, but that of her world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Travis Bughi
• Release date: Mar 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310203152

Travis Bughi

I started reading young and have never stopped. My mother was determined to make me literate quickly, and she would read to me often. My grandmother, though, takes credit for my addiction to reading. She was a librarian and introduced me to the joy that is reading. It is no coincidence my first World of Myth novel is dedicated to her.My journey from avid reader to hobby writer took its first turn in High School after I read Dune by Frank Herbert. It was a challenge for me at the age of 14, but I was so impressed with it that I began to imagine my own stories. What I wish to accomplish is to give my readers the experience that I want: to be transported to another world and become so absorbed that I lose track of everything around me.Thanks for stopping by.

Book preview

Prologue

Surrounded by his siblings and worshipped by thousands, an angel named Quartus sat upon his throne utterly silent and alone, awaiting the death that only he could see.

The silence wasn’t by choice. He was cursed—or perhaps blessed, depending on one’s viewpoint—but in this case most certainly cursed with the lack of speech. Words could be formed in his mind, but his lips opened so rarely that he counted the occurrence in years. If a helmet were fashioned for him, it would be made with openings for only the eyes, for the only sustenance angels required was sunlight.

The angels, all five of them, were timeless and beyond beautiful by any human standard. They were the ones that created Lucifan so many ages ago, the grandest and oldest city in the world. To the people of Lucifan, that meant Quartus and his siblings were immortal, powerful, and deserving of worship. Quartus and his siblings never saw it that way, though. To them, Lucifan was merely a sanctuary, and they were its wardens. They deserved no worship, no payment, nor even thanks. The only thing they hoped for was the safety of its people, and they had succeeded for so long and so well that the only threat left was one from within.

But Lucifan, its citizens, and the world itself were doomed to death and slavery, and only Quartus could see it coming.

He mourned quietly upon his stone throne, high above the great city of Lucifan in the Angels’ Tower. His four siblings sat to the left of him on their own thrones, listening patiently to the knights give their report on what had occurred over the past day. The knights spoke plainly, reading from rolls of parchment that held what Sir Mark O’Conner thought most important to pass along. Most of the time it was the day’s recollection of crimes and punishments, though sometimes more interesting things occurred such as a foreign ambassador come to speak with the angels personally. Quartus looked forward to those times the most. They told him that civil societies existed beyond the stone metropolis the angels had created.

An interesting note, one of the knights said, a young woman with red hair and a high forehead, we apprehended a merchant attempting to sell a kobold. He said he bought it on the Great Plains outside the city.

We do not allow slavery here, Zarah said leaning out of her throne. This merchant should know that.

Quartus gave a nod to his sister. She was the kindest of them, he thought. Her heart the biggest, the light that shined from her eyes the brightest. Or perhaps it only seemed that way because it reflected off her yellow hair like the morning sun. Quartus briefly wondered how long she would weep after he was gone. Would she mourn for eternity? He dared hope not.

That is what he was told, the knight nodded. He tried to argue the kobold wasn’t smart enough to be a slave. It was closer to a pet, in his opinion. He didn’t seem to care that the kobold was capable of rudimentary speech and vocally disagreed with him. The merchant has been given a few nights in the dungeon to rethink his choice of words.

The kobold was freed, I trust? Ephron spoke up.

My dearest brother, Quartus thought. The others will look to you even more than they do now.

Quartus could not recall how long ago they’d all decided to follow their dark-haired brother without question. He took the role of leadership well, and as far as Quartus was concerned, had done a job more admirable than could be asked. Lucifan had lived centuries of peace due to his resolute integrity. The death that came for them was not his fault.

It was, the knight nodded. We gave it some food, as well, and a map to lead it back home to the Forest of Angor, if it chooses to do so. There are very few kobolds in Lucifan, after all.

Quartus only just realized he’d begun listening to the speech when the kobold was mentioned. He looked to his left to see his four siblings had become equally enraptured. They had not seemed so interested before then, and that was enough to make him smile, his lips almost parting.

How predictable we are, he thought. Our only concern is for those who need help.

The people always spoke of how kind the angels were. They were right in more ways than one.

The morbid side of him slipped into sadness again as the knight droned on into that day’s collection and dispersion of taxes. The leprechauns, as usual, shouldered a large portion of the burden. Quartus thought the whole concept a necessary evil, one of the few he and his siblings could perform. They took only what was needed from the rich to give to the poor, yet still it tore at them to do even that. It was pitiful, but for as powerful as Lucifan and the world thought the angels were, Quartus knew just how vulnerable he and his siblings really were. They could create, they could manage, but they could not destroy, and on the horizon was a terrible war that held the death of thousands.

Part of him said that it was only to be expected. This world was a dangerous place filled with nightmare creatures. Even the land itself could be relentless at times. Death came for every being, even one such as him. It was futile to resist it, disheartening to believe there was hope it could be stopped, and at the same time, woefully erroneous to believe there was anything wrong with death at all. With death would come peace. With death would come the long awaited sleep that he could only dream about when he closed his eyes.

Being timeless had a way of changing things. Death was not an inevitably for him, and this turned the concept from a fear into a curiosity. Quartus did not shudder at the thought of death. He rather thought the idea pleasant, the end of all pain, but he only thought that for himself. For others, for his people, for those that called themselves mortal, Quartus wanted nothing less for them than a wonderful life. He wanted them to live, to laugh, to love, and in the end, to forget that time was their master. Seeing their deaths coming, he wondered if perhaps it was best that he could not speak. Maybe they would be better off dead. How could he, a mere angel incapable of harm, ever hope to save this city and its entire people?

He did not know how, but he knew that he had to try.

Quartus looked left again. He looked at his siblings and felt tears well in his eyes. His love was great for every being, but for his siblings it was unfathomable. They felt the same about him, of course, despite the fact that he’d never spoken a word to them. To them, he was their eldest brother. Although the angels were timeless, Quartus appeared to be the oldest of his siblings, the only one with grey hair, and they gave that level of respect to him without thought. In return, he would give his life for them, and if his visions were correct, he may very well have to do just that.

The knight and her escort finished their report abruptly, prompting Quartus to wake from his dark broodings. The knights spoke words of thanks, and Ephron thanked them in return before granting the squad permission to leave their chambers. The knights bowed low and left, and Quartus was more alone than before.

A lone kobold, Ephron hummed, his voice echoing all on its own. We get so few of those here. I hope it finds its family.

Maybe one of us should fly it back to Angor? Zarah suggested. Uriah is the fastest.

Quartus heard the compliment and pictured Uriah sitting a little taller in his throne, but Uriah did no such thing. He didn’t flinch a muscle, not even to tuck away the hair—red as the setting sun—that had fallen over his eyes. Its strands broke slits into the light that shined from his eyes. Uriah was looking to Ephron, prepared to follow his brother’s wishes to the letter. At the wave of a hand, Uriah would take to the skies, and that little kobold would have a swift ride home.

The bravest of us, Quartus thought. I wish you knew the burden I carried, dear Uriah. If you did, you might just have the courage to save us.

The Forest of Angor is too far away, Ephron replied, voice heavy. We must trust in the kobold to find his own way home. We cannot save everyone, Zarah. Some must save themselves in order for us to save those who cannot. We are needed here, as always.

Quartus looked to his only sibling who had not spoken, Damaris. There were times that Quartus was convinced she competed with him for who could be most silent. It was a contest she inevitably lost, but there were a few years that she had given a solid fight. Quartus let his eyes fall on her brown hair, her long nose, and her stoic gaze. She was so different than the rest of them. Actually, they were all different. They called each other brother and sister, but not a single one of them looked alike.

They were family, though, and they even dressed the part. Quartus and his four siblings wore only one garment, a simple white gown with slits cut in the back for their feathered wings. No helmets or jewelry, gloves nor even sandals graced their bodies otherwise. They had no need of such things. Angels were warm as the touch of sun, and their skin never dirtied or stained. Quartus could not readily explain why that was, but neither had he ever bothered to find out. Perhaps it was the light within him—the very light that shined out of him from where a human’s eyes should be.

I pray that these eyes never see this city bathed in fire, he thought. I pray that my light will break the darkness.

Just as he could not readily explain why his body never tired, so could he not readily explain the foreboding that pained him. There was no face that plagued his dreams or villain tapping at his door. Lucifan had enemies, of course, like the vampires lurking in the shadows and ogres who had no respect for the laws, but Quartus could not say which one troubled his sleep. There were other enemies, too, ones beyond the sea who looked at Lucifan as a fruit ripe for the taking. That problem was shored up, though, thanks to three towering statues that guarded the city. Each colossus was an army in its own right.

Yet Quartus knew it wasn’t enough. He could feel it in his gut. All he knew and loved would die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. If he was the sun, then the night was surely coming, and no light would survive.

I must find my own shadow, he realized. I must seek one who can do what I cannot.

A gunslinger would be the best choice, he thought instantly. Their elaborate pistols made them a force to be reckoned with, even to an immortal. A gunslinger would be hard to find, though. They were a rare breed, as rare as their weaponry, and none swore allegiance to Lucifan. They traversed the Great Plains, hunting behemoths for coin. Quartus would be hard pressed to find one and convince him or her to join his cause, especially when he could not speak. Still, Quartus could almost picture a gunslinger now—dual wielding six-shooters with every shot belching black smoke into the air as he fought back against the death that sought them all. It was a frightening prospect, the image itself unsettling, and Quartus shuddered from the idea. Such violence, even the thought of it, was difficult for him to comprehend.

He wished that guns, swords, and bows had never been made.

Yet they had been, and he had need of them. Next, Quartus thought of the knights. They seemed even more the logical choice than a gunslinger, for the knights served the angels and Lucifan. They were dependable, most of them, and battle hardened. A rebellious one would be needed, one of the outliers not afraid to bend the rules. Perhaps that one Ephron had inducted, Sir Gavin. Yet, Quartus hesitated, realizing he was planning too soon. He was trying to find a hero before he knew his enemy. He was not just mute; he was blind.

Brother, Ephron whispered.

Quartus’ thoughts were given pause, and he looked up to see his siblings were staring at him. Their faces were pressed into looks of concern, and Quartus touched his cheek to find a tear had fallen there.

Now that is strange, he thought. How did that get there?

Is something the matter? Ephron asked.

Yes, Quartus frowned. Death is coming for you, your brothers, your sisters, and everyone we have tried to protect for centuries. Our only hope is to find an ally amongst an enemy we cannot see, an enemy only I know exists, and I cannot speak a word.

Quartus forced a smile, parting his lips just one more time for those he loved the most. He hoped that, when he was gone, they would remember him by it—that they would live to remember him at all.

Chapter 1

Emily Stout was born and raised on the Great Plains with her mother, father, older brother Abraham, and younger brother Nicholas. They were a typical plains dwelling family, farming the harsh soil, waiting for behemoths to migrate through their land, employing minotaurs when they could afford it, and traveling to Lucifan to sell their excess crops. For most of the families out on the Great Plains, this was everyday life, and it was as constant as the landscape.

The Great Plains were a vast spread of yellow grasslands. Everywhere, gold-colored weeds tall as a gnome sprouted over endless rolling hills. Occasionally, a lone tree would dot the landscape, short and thin, with leaves always brown and never bigger than a baby’s palm. The wind blew constantly. Sometimes it was a light breeze, other times a torrent of destruction. Houses had to be built with sturdy hands and firmly planted, lest a windstorm uproot the structure altogether and send it tumbling across the golden hills. Emily’s father claimed he’d seen such a thing as a boy, and she never doubted him for a second. Her father also said that was why gnomes built their homes into the hillsides. It was the best protection from the wind.

Out on the plains, only a few families were rich enough to afford division of labor. For the Stouts—and most every other family she knew—no task was considered too lowly, too skilled, or too physical to be learned. Emily had worked from the first moment she could remember, helping to plant seeds in the hopes that they would grow and helping to pick when harvest came. Her family grew primarily wheat. That was the most dependable crop on the Great Plains. When there wasn’t planting to be done, there were plenty of other things to keep them busy: clothes to patch, water to fetch, wood to cut, things to fix, food to store, and occasionally some fun to be had. Emily kept up with her brothers in all things, whether they were work or play, and her father said he was proud of her for that. She was a lot like her mother, he would say, and he loved her all the more for it.

Emily couldn’t remember when, but sometime in the past she’d realized how lucky she was to have such a loving family. The Great Plains was a tough place, making any comfort into a luxury. Even those that called themselves rich lived an uncertain life on the plains, one subject to the year’s harvest and the prices in Lucifan. That uncertainty had a way of enforcing conformity, unsaid and unwritten, as though the weather could be coaxed into consistency if all inhabitants followed a code. One such custom was clothing. Nearly all men and women wore similar clothes, the wealthy being the rare exception, and one could travel for months across the plains to any family farm and see brown pants, brown overalls, once-white linen shirts, and closed toed shoes. Straw hats were also a favorite, providing much needed protection from the sun’s rays. Emily knew this outfit well and had never worn a dress in her life, though she had seen a few. If anyone had bothered to ask her if she was upset about that, she would have had to stop her chores and think about it.

Houses were separated by nothing but miles of small hills covered with tall weeds. The gnomes were the only creatures that made community villages in the plains. They lived in burrows, built right into the low hills. They were small enough to do that, and there were always enough hills to house a small gathering of gnomes. Their small stomachs and stature made it easier for them to live in groups than alone. Humans on the other hand, like Emily and her family, needed large plots of land to grow enough crops to survive. The nearest human house to Emily’s family was a little less than a quarter-day’s walk from theirs.

This did not upset Emily, though. She had Nicholas and Abraham, whom she liked to call Abe, and those were all the friends she needed. Her mother and father were always good to them, too, which made life out on the harsh plains bearable. So, Emily made do like her ancestors and did what any smart plains dweller did; she kept a keen eye out for thunderbirds, was wary around behemoths, was good to the gnomes, and stayed indoors on the rare occasion a banshee was nearby.

Without argument, the banshees were the worst. Emily’s mother often said that banshees were so infamous and strange that foreigners knew and feared them. Death brought the banshees out, and it was death that they sought, roaming the land and wailing while searching for another life to take. The last time a banshee had crossed the Stouts’ farm, Emily’s mother, father, and older brother had gone up to Lucifan—the famous city and the lifeblood of the Great Plains—to sell their extra crops. It had been a good harvest, one of the few, and her parents would not pass up the opportunity to make some extra coin. Extra coin meant the possibility of extra hands or even hooves. The Stouts had a family unicorn that helped them plow the field, but nothing got them ahead of the season like a minotaur. The muscle those beast-men could provide was expensive but worth it. If the Stout family made enough money from selling crops, they could hire one to help plow for the next season.

So, her parents and Abe had traveled northeast to the market in Lucifan. Emily had been left home to care for Nicholas, because he had been too young at the time to make the journey. Emily had desperately wanted to go, having heard extravagant tales of the city from Abe. She’d dreamed of seeing a huge colossus, the glowing angels, and intimidating ogres. She’d wanted to see what a building made of stone looked like and how tall they could be built. More than that, she’d wanted to see the ocean, for her brother said that the city was actually a harbor, and it was the only place where one could walk down to the water.

But that time had not been hers. Thus, she stayed to care for Nicholas while Abe went to help their parents. They left early in the morning, just before the first rays of light crept over the horizon. Emily watched them go and then went about her daily chores. She tended to the barn, fetched water, swept, and performed many other tasks that were required for the day. She remembered cutting her hair that day. Emily looked like her mother, from the small feet to the light freckles on her cheeks, and so she chose to groom like her mother. Whenever her wavy, brown hair grew too far past her shoulders, she would cut it back to just below her ears.

Little did Emily know that, while she’d been cutting her hair, a few miles away, one of the neighbor’s sons had died unexpectedly. One moment he’d been pitching hay, and the next he was down on the ground, the dirt leeching the warmth from his body. His parents hadn’t found him soon enough, and a banshee materialized from his soul. It shrieked and wailed over the corpse, then set out across the plains to kill another. It was drawn to the living at the Stout farm and made it to the edge of their fields when the sun was low in the sky.

Emily had just finished closing up the barn for the night when she heard the distant shriek carried by the wind to her sensitive ears—a shrill noise, like the tip of a pitchfork scraping metal. Her back stiffened instantly, and she felt a lump swell in her throat. Sudden noise out on the plains was a rare thing. The sound of wind, the rustle of plants, and the creak of the house were constant, but beyond that any other sounds were a cause for worry. She listened again, straining to make sure of what she’d heard.

In the distance, a low, disembodied wail echoed across the plains. With lightning speed, Emily bolted from the barn and into the house, letting the back door slam against the wall. Inside the kitchen, she found her brother Nicholas, tilting his head to the side and straining to hear something muffled by the wooden walls. Shocked by his sister’s sudden appearance, he took one look at the terror in her eyes and started to cry.

Stop! she said. Shhh, shhhh. Don’t cry, Nicholas. Come here! Hurry!

The banshee was still a ways off, but Emily did her best to keep her voice down. Her mother had never told her how well banshees could hear, but Emily had no desire to find out.

Nicholas obeyed his older sister and dropped the wooden blocks that were his only toys. He ran into her arms, wiping away his tears. There were only three rooms in the Stouts’ tiny house: the parents’ room, the children’s room, and the kitchen. Seeking comfort and protection, the two siblings headed for their parents’ room. No comforting mother or father waited for them, but they knew of no better place to hide. They huddled in the corner below the window, and Emily held her baby brother close. In the fading light, only the shrieks and wails kept them company.

It was the longest night of her life. The banshee wandered through their farm, seeking the souls of the living, but did not find either Emily or her brother. Nicholas soiled himself in terror, and Emily promised not to tell anyone. For the briefest moment, she was tempted to look out the window and see what the banshee looked like, but the feeling passed quickly as the next horrid shriek shattered the air. After circling the house, the banshee moved on away from their land in search of another soul. It traveled past the Stout farm and found a wandering gnome. Without pause, the banshee took his life and then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Emily and Nicholas never moved from their spot. They stayed there the rest of the night and only moved in the morning when the sounds of wind and creaks were once again the only things to be heard. Emily’s parents and older brother returned a couple of days later. They had done well at the market, though not well enough to hire a minotaur. They had purchased another unicorn instead, but the joy of their new purchase was short lived when they found out what had happened while they were away.

Emily’s father sighed deeply at the tale, and her mother kissed her forehead, telling her how well she’d done.

Why do banshees come out of the dead? Emily asked.

I don’t know, sweetie. It only happens on the plains, she said. It’s probably because everyone’s so lonely out here that, when they die and aren’t buried quickly, death itself comes looking for a mate.

Emily contemplated asking her mother what a banshee looked like, but then decided against it. It was better to let bad events waste away in the past. Perhaps no one knew what banshees looked like except the dead.

That had been many seasons ago. Fortunately, banshees didn’t arise from mere animals, like thunderbirds or behemoths, and most families knew to bury their dead quickly. To add, there was enough of open space between the Stouts’ farm and its neighbors so that they heard a banshee no more than once a decade. Emily was just now turning sixteen years old, and no one thought it odd she’d only encountered one banshee despite living on the Great Plains her whole life. Abe was especially lucky as he had yet to hear one at all.

Emily’s brothers were separated from her by two years on either side. Both of them had been born during the harvesting season, but Emily had been born in the spring. Their parents had stopped at three children and never once fantasized about having a fourth.

It’s all the help we need and more than enough mouths to feed, Emily’s mother always said.

Emily didn’t know her actual birthday. Calendar days were meaningless out on the plains, and families used the crops as a timetable. Emily had been born just before the migration of the behemoths—an omen that she was meant to travel—but her mother told her that omens were created more for entertainment than anything else. Emily secretly wished them to be more. Emily often dreamed of what lay beyond the golden hills surrounding her home and coveted any information she was told by wandering travelers. This season was no different, and Emily celebrated another year with wanderlust in her heart.

This season was special. Now that she was sixteen, Emily was finally old enough to scout for migrating behemoths with her father. Behemoths were the greatest beasts on the plains, larger than a barn when fully grown. They walked on four short, stubby legs that barely kept their stomachs above the ground and were as wide as a unicorn was long. Each step they took shook the ground and left crushed grass behind. Their large heads stuck out on short necks that hung low at an even height with their stomachs. The only way for a behemoth to see behind it was to turn its body around. A male behemoth had a single, massive horn that sprouted from its nose, and all behemoths had a swishing tail that could collapse a house. Their brownish-green skin was leathery and thick. It was a natural defense, shielding them even from a gunslinger’s bullet. Their only vulnerabilities were their stomachs and their tiny eyes, which were sunk deeply into their skulls. The stomachs were too close to the ground to be shot, so gunslingers had to be excellent marksmen, otherwise they were out of a job.

Behemoths traveled once each year, right after the long winter season at the beginning of spring. They spent the majority of their lives near the far western edge of the plains, where the Forest of Angor started and where water was plentiful. When the winter months ended, just before it came time to till the fields and plant the seeds, the behemoths traveled due east towards the opposite edge of the vast plains where the ocean met the cliffs. One could not reach the water from anywhere except Lucifan, because the plains sat high above the sea on great cliffs. Unless you scaled the cliffs, you had to go through Lucifan to reach the ocean.

But the behemoths did not come to the eastern side of the plains for the ocean. They had a much deeper purpose. There, Emily had been told by her mother, the behemoths mated and left back for home the moment the courting was done. They made the great journey back to the west to the Forest of Angor to give birth.

Some behemoths died in the process—often the old, the sickly, or the malnourished. Emily didn’t know why those old ones bothered to make the journey at all, but her mother said that it was to cull the weak. All Emily could say for certain was the Great Plains thrived on behemoth deaths. The lucky plains families that found a dead behemoth ate well. The rich ones hired a gunslinger to kill a passing bull and thus ate exceptionally well. The unlucky ones found nothing, or found a carcass already scavenged, and survived off scraps until their new crops grew in. Emily’s family, unfortunately, often fell into the unlucky category.

But their father promised that this season would be different. He mounted one of their unicorns and rode out daily in search of a dead behemoth. Two years ago, he’d decreed that Abe was old enough to ride out with him, and now Emily would be old enough, too. The only trouble was that the Stouts had only two unicorns, which meant that Emily had to take turns with Abe. On the first day, he’d ridden out with their father, and the two of them had come back with nothing. Now, on the second day, it was Emily’s turn, and she awoke that morning with a burning determination and jittery hands.

For her, this would change everything.

Chapter 2

To say the least, Emily was excited that morning. When her father, Paul, shook her awake, she nearly leapt from her wooden cot.

Get dressed, Paul whispered. Meet me at the barn.

Yes, Father! She failed to whisper back.

Nicholas and Abe stirred in their cots nearby, and Emily covered her mouth in embarrassment. Her father just gave her head a rub, smiled, and left. She heard the backdoor squeak closed as she was tying her shoes.

She hadn’t left the room yet, and already her heart was racing. The chance to explore the Great Plains and ride unicorns with her father was the most exciting thing she could remember doing in a long time! It was a rare for her to travel beyond her family’s farm, so any such occasion deserved celebration, yet this moment felt special. It felt earned and momentous. Scouting for behemoths meant added responsibility, a sign of her growing and maturing, and she looked forward to proving her merit. She didn’t know what to expect, really, but as she slipped quietly out of the room so as not to disturb her sleeping brothers, she fantasized of extravagant scenes of riding through the plains with her father, chasing herds of behemoths just on the horizon. Maybe they would run into a gunslinger tracking a herd? Maybe she would see the gunslinger shoot! Now that would be something to tell her brothers!

Once in the kitchen, she sprinted to the table and sat down to eat her breakfast. Her mother, Molly, was already awake and had prepared stale bread and vegetable soup. Paul’s wooden bowl was already licked clean, and Molly gave her daughter a disapproving glance as Emily shoveled her food home, giving as little time for chewing as possible.

Than’ co’! Emily said with a full mouth before bounding outside to the barn, letting the backdoor squeak shut behind her.

Paul already had both unicorns saddled and was packing away their bread for the day’s ride. He scratched the small beard—a tuft of whiskers that sprung only from the bottom of his chin—while inspecting his work. His eyes flickered in Emily’s direction.

Are you ready? he asked.

Her stomach churned with anticipation, or perhaps half-chewed food, and she could feel her palms start to sweat.

Yes, Father, she replied with a grin.

With a day’s provisions packed up, they mounted and set out across the plains in search of migrating behemoths. Emily envisioned the two of them bursting from the barn like knights ready to charge, letting the unicorns kick open the barn door, and then galloping out across the farm. Instead, they moseyed along at a walk with Paul not even bothering to mount until they were clear of the barn. Emily rocked in her saddle, resisting the urge to press the unicorn’s sides and push it into a trot. The single, long horn on the beast’s head waved back and forth.

The previous day, Paul and Abe had traveled north from the Stout farm. That search had yielded nothing, not even tracks, so now her father traveled west with his daughter in tow. Emily smiled and looked around constantly as the unicorns’ hooves crunched the yellow, waist-high grass. At each hill, Emily stood as straight as she could in her saddle, swiveling her head. They were barely out of sight of their farm, and yet she still twisted to look every which way.

Relax, Emily, her father chuckled.

Sorry, she blushed but could not remove her smile.

Emily wanted so desperately to find a herd, or even better, to find a fallen behemoth, whether due to age, exhaustion, or a thunderbird’s attack. Her thoughts filled with visions of helping her father pack away the meat, going to get the unicorn-drawn cart, and loading up enough meat to last them all year. Her mouth watered at the memory of behemoth stew, and she smiled at the idea of enjoying a bowl every evening for a month to come. More so, she wished, for once, not to go hungry for another season in a row.

You have nothing to be sorry for, Paul said. You just might want to relax a bit, because it’s going to be a long day.

Yes, Father.

Emily stopped her wild search and took a few deep breaths. After a moment to calm her nerves, she realized just how excited she was. To be riding on unicorns with her father out into the desolate plains was an exhilarating experience compared to her normal day of shoveling manure, washing clothes, and tending crops. This was an absolute thrill she could not begin to explain in words, and they hadn’t even found anything yet! More than once, she wondered what it would be like to do this every day.

However, her father had been right. As the hours dragged on, her blood began to slow its pace. They trotted onwards through the never-ending sea of yellow grass—sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it—always hiking the tallest hills so as to get a good look ahead. Behemoth herds weren’t necessarily difficult to spot, but the Great Plains were a vast spread of nothingness that could hide even the largest of animals. After a few hours of empty fields and skies, Emily began to think that scouting for behemoths was not the grand adventure she’d thought it was. In fact, the only noticeable thing they reached by midday was a gnomish village.

Emily didn’t notice it at first, of course. She was following her father down yet another hillside in the middle of nowhere when he called out for seemingly no reason.

Hello there, Fred! Paul yelled.

Emily jumped in her saddle. Her head snapped forward to see that the hill they were walking on was actually a gnome hovel. A door had been placed in the hillside, and outside sat a gnome, casually smoking a pipe.

Eh thar Paul, the gnome said without removing his pipe. Though’ you be the Dylans, ‘til I seen yar younglin’.

The first thing Emily noted was that Fred was hairy for a gnome, and that said something, because all gnomes were hairy. They were a short and chubby race with hair everywhere humans had it, just more of it. The tops of their feet were coated with a thin patch of fur, which could be seen at all times because gnomes never wore shoes. Even the female gnomes were known to grow mustaches.

Beyond the hair, Fred looked to be an older gnome. His skin was wrinkled and dried—a gift from a lifetime on the plains—and his eyes held a perpetual squint. His nose looked too big for his face, but somehow that made him appear more friendly than comical. The gnome was shirtless, leaning against a bed of yellow grass alongside the door to his burrow.

You haven’t met my daughter, have you? Paul commented, waving a hand back to her. Emily, this is Fred Hoggins. Fred, this is Emily.

Hello, Mr. Hoggins, Emily nodded.

Mornin’, Fred replied, returning the nod. How goes the behemoth scoutin’?’

Very well, Emily grinned widely then paused, but we haven’t found anything yet.

Fred huffed a laugh into his pipe, making puffs of smoke billow out of the bowl. Emily lowered her straw hat to hide her reddening cheeks but left her smile visible. Wise plains families kept good relations with all their neighbors, but gnomes were given an extra special touch. The little villagers were known to be shrewd, only trading with those they trusted and only helping those they trusted even more.

Welp, Fred said, ya’ can see by da’ grass here, ain’t no behemoth passed this way none either, so I suppose we’re even, younglin’.

I’m glad you mentioned the behemoths, Paul drew in a long breath. You mentioned the Dylans, too. I take it they haven’t come this way then, yet, huh?

Fred let go a quiet chuckle again and paused in his grinning only to inhale a deep breath through his pipe. When he smiled once more, the tobacco smoke seeped through the cracks between his teeth.

Haven’t found nothin’ yet, eh? Still aftar dem behemoths, eh?

His voice was hinting at something, but as obvious as he made it sound, Emily could not figure it out. Paul seemed to understand though. He matched Fred’s smile and reached up to adjust his straw hat. Emily had to grip her reins tightly not to shout out her curiosity. Some sort game was being played here, and she didn’t want to hinder her father’s chances of winning.

I’m always after behemoths, Fred. You know that.

Fred nodded, blowing tobacco smoke through the side of his mouth.

And you also know that if I find a herd out here, Paul continued, I have to come right back this way to get back home.

Fred took another inhale from his pipe and said, Do ya’ now?

Yes I do, assuming you’re the one who points me toward that herd. I’m not about to stray from my path and get lost now, am I? The plains don’t exactly have landmarks abounding. We friends have to stick together.

Fred nodded. Paul watched him. A moment of silence crept by, and Fred thoughtfully patted the tip of his pipe against his lip before bursting into laughter. He slapped his knee and pointed his pipe at Emily’s father.

Ya’ know I always did like ya’, Paul! he exclaimed. You dun way better than them Dylans, I tell ya’ what!

What do you have for me, Fred?

Fred leaned forward off the grass until his hairy knuckles wrapped around his knees. He looked back toward the next hill, which Emily assumed to be his neighbor’s, and then back to Paul.

I been listen’, ya hear? Fred licked his lips. At night, I hear dis here beat if I put my ear ta’ the dirt. They comin’ this way. I’d bet my PIPE on it!

That sounded promising, Emily thought. She inhaled sharply and smiled at Fred’s reassuring face. The excitement was building up in her again, and Emily effortlessly shrugged off all the fatigue that she’d gathered from the morning’s ride.

Any idea which way? she asked.

It gets louder each night, but ain’t gettin’ that strong, he said, putting his pipe back in his mouth to take another long draw. Way I figure is they either comin’ from da’ north or south of here.

Well, I’ll start with the south then, Paul nodded. And you have my word, Fred. If I find a dead one from that herd, I’ll bring you back a fair piece.

Paul turned his unicorn to trot south, and Emily eagerly followed.

Better bring me a whole leg, ya’ hairless stick! Fred yelled to their backs.

Emily’s father chuckled and shook his head. Emily heard Fred chuckle, too, as they trotted on over a few hills and eventually out of sight and sound. Only when Emily was sure the wind wouldn’t carry their voices back to the gnome did she speak up.

If we don’t find any behemoths, are you going to take Abe with you to check the north side?

No, Paul said. Your brother and I already checked the north, remember? We went out this far, too. I just didn’t tell Fred that, so if the Dylans come and offer Fred the same deal, they’ll go north first. If I told Fred that we’d already checked the north yesterday, then he’d tell anyone who came by today and cut them a deal. This way, we get at least a day’s head start on anyone else. Remember, Emily, anyone you offer a deal will gladly accept that same offer from anyone else.

It was Emily’s turn to swell with pride. She was proud of her father and made the mental note he’d offered. However, she still couldn’t help but feel slightly hurt at Fred’s fickleness. In the few short minutes they’d been with Mr. Hoggins, Emily had taken a liking to him, and now she felt betrayed. She also wondered why the dishonesty had been necessary at all.

I thought we liked the Dylans? Emily asked.

We do, Paul said, and we’ll trade favors for meat if either of us finds a carcass, but I’d rather find it first. Wouldn’t you agree?

Emily gave a curt not before saying, So, if we do find a behemoth, are we still going to bring Fred some of the meat?

Of course! You can’t blame him for trying to do everything he can to get a behemoth. Besides, if we don’t bring any back, how can we expect him to give us information like this again?

Yes, Father.

And besides, you’re weighing your wheat before it grows. I happen to know that Fred has a whole case of pipes in that hovel of his. For all we know, this will just turn up more weeds. Patience is more than virtue on the Great Plains; it’s necessary.

Emily’s confidence dived a bit, but she remained positive. This tidbit of news from Fred was the best lead they had—far better than just walking in one direction and hoping to stumble upon a herd. Now, at least, they had a plan.

Their trot slowed to a walk once they were out of sight of Fred’s hovel. The unicorns snorted their relief at the slower pace, and Emily patted hers. They weren’t the best unicorns around, especially the one Emily rode, but that’s why they were cheap and affordable, and, thankfully, Emily was a lighter load. Actually, now that she thought about it, this unicorn ought to be grateful it had her atop it instead of Abe. He was a stick, too, but he was tall. Emily knew he weighed more because of how easy it was for Abe to push her around when they wrestled. It always took both Nicholas and her combined strength to bring their older brother down.

Emily started to get hungry midway through but held her tongue. She suppressed the urge to reach into her pack and grab the bread that was waiting for her, not wanting her father to think she wasn’t ready for this trip. She wouldn’t eat until he did and, instead, brought her waterskin to her lips and drowned the hunger with a sip.

They only traveled for about a half an hour when Paul came to a stop. He looked back at his daughter and then scanned the horizon slowly.

What is it? Emily asked, her throat dry despite the drink.

Fred may have good hearing for a gnome, but it’s not that good. He wouldn’t be able to hear anything through the dirt beyond here. We should have seen something by now.

Emily’s father whirled his head around at their surroundings, his eyes coming to life.

There, he pointed to the tallest nearby hill. We’ll eat lunch there.

He took off at a trot, and Emily followed. They hiked the hill, which was rather steep on their side but none too difficult as it was still just a plains hill. At the top, they got off their unicorns and reached into their packs. With bread in one hand and water in the other, Emily and her father stood and stretched their weary legs.

Emily was happy to finally eat. She’d grown progressively hungry and guessed that the morning’s excitement had used up more energy than washing clothes would have. She took large bites out of her loaf, looking into the wind so the ceaseless breeze would not whip her hair into her mouth. The shortness of her hair helped, and it was times like these when she wondered why more women didn’t cut their hair short, too. Besides her mother, nearly every woman Emily had met grew their hair out as long as possible, which Emily thought especially odd as they often ended up braiding or bundling it up anyway. It made Emily want to ask her mother about it, but Mother frowned upon questions like that, and then the moment would pass, and Emily would decide it wasn’t important.

Emily finished half her loaf and tucked it away in her pack. Next, she lay down in the tall weeds to stretch. The windblown grass danced around her, blocking out the world except for the blue sky, and Emily closed her eyes to take in the comfortable feeling of being nearly invisible.

Hey Emily, get up, Paul said.

Emily opened her eyes and stood up. She looked at her father, waiting for him to say something, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were locked and gazing west. Emily followed that gaze out to where the sun was beginning to fall. With a squint, she saw something different in the distance. Up over the rolling hills, she saw a small patch of brown in the vast yellow. Then she looked again, and the patch became a behemoth herd crawling over a hill, heading east, directly toward them.

Behemoths! Emily yelled.

Paul laughed, and Emily squealed with excitement before turning to hug her father.

We did it! Emily yelled. We did it, we did it, we did it!

Hey, we just found a herd, he explained, hugging her back with one arm. We still have to follow it, track it, and even then there’s no guarantee one will perish within cart range of us.

Paul’s words couldn’t touch his daughter’s enthusiasm this time. Emily gave her father another squeeze before detaching herself and leaping in the air. Her heart was pounding when she landed, and she turned to look at the behemoths once more.

The herd was traveling east, like every herd did this time of the season. Emily and her father waited atop their hill as the behemoths trudged away from the encroaching sunset, their massive legs crushing the ground with every huge step. Out of curiosity, Emily leaned down to put her ear to the dirt. At first she heard nothing, but then she put her hand over her other ear, and there was a faint noise—a beat, which was a sound dirt shouldn’t make. So this is what Mr. Hoggins heard, she thought.

To an untrained eye, it would seem that the behemoths were traveling slowly. Each step they took was a long drag upwards and forwards that looked like they were taking their sweet time. But each step was a giant leap to a human, and the herd ate up the land. Within the hour, the behemoths were passing by less than a field’s distance away from the two Stouts, and Emily and her father mounted up. Now Emily didn’t have to put her ear to the ground to hear the dirt beat. The vibrations from the ground trembled up the unicorn’s legs and coursed through her body. Her unicorn tensed with the presence of danger, but the behemoths were not close enough to cause panic. She calmed it with a careful stroke down its neck and watched the herd pass.

It was a smaller herd; she counted only about twenty behemoths. She knew from hearsay that behemoth herds could count up to one hundred, but her father said that only happened when two herds were traveling together. This herd was being led by the oldest male who undoubtedly had made this journey one too many times. Emily attempted to memorize its features, guessing it to be most likely to perish before the others.

So, what do we do next? Emily asked.

Well, we just follow them and wait until one peels off from the group. Behemoths know when they’re about to die and leave the pack a few days before—

A low, deep rumble shook the air itself. It wasn’t a vibration from the earth, and it didn’t come from the behemoths. It was louder, deeper, and came from above. Emily didn’t have to look to know what that sound was, but she did anyway. She and her father whirled around and looked far to the north. They saw a gathering of dark clouds that hadn’t been there before. Another rumble shook the air, and the clouds flashed with lightning.

Thunderbird, Emily whispered.

From the mass of dark clouds, a huge bird launched itself on enormous wings. Even at this distance, Emily knew what it looked like. The thunderbird would be as big as a behemoth but would fly with a grace born of power. Its eyes would be pure white and without pupils. Its colors, which were a mix of white and brown feathers, were visible, but its yellow beak was a speck at this distance. The thunderbird’s talons would be outstretched, able to rip a behemoth in two.

However, the most dangerous part of a thunderbird was its ability to create thunderstorms. When their wings swung down and clapped together, a bolt of lightning would leap from their feathered tips to strike the ground below, and thunder would echo across the plains in all directions. That was why they were called thunderbirds.

Dark clouds began to form around the creature again, mystically appearing out of the air to shroud the bird from sight. Emily lost sight of it for a moment, but then the thunderbird was moving again, soaring from its cover to screech a noise so shrill and loud that it made Emily wince.

Come on, let’s get moving, Paul said.

The thunderbird was still a long way away, and it was traveling in a direction that would not overtake them, but a thunderbird could change its direction at any moment. Only a fool waited to be killed by one. With a heavy heart, Emily followed her father. It wasn’t that she wanted to stay, for she knew all too well that thunderbirds were no small threat. She was sad because they had just found the behemoth herd and would now have to leave. Worse yet, tomorrow morning it would be her brother who would get to travel out with her father and follow the herd.

Emily would go back to tilling the fields.

Chapter 3

Emily’s father and Abe were gone before she was awake the next morning. When she did get up, her legs felt stiff and heavy from the long day’s ride, but it was her heart that felt heaviest. She moped over to her younger brother’s cot and shook him awake before heading into the kitchen and breaking off a loaf of bread for herself. Outside, her mother could be heard in the barn, preparing the tools needed for that day’s work. They’d be plowing today, and Emily tried not to think about it.

Nicholas took a long while to get out of his bed. By the time he was in the kitchen, their mother had returned and split some more bread with her children. It was a rather quiet morning for the most part, until Nicholas shattered the silence with a loud, whiny question like he always did.

"When do I get to go scouting?" he demanded.

In another two seasons, Nicholas, Molly replied. You know that. You have to wait your turn just like everyone else did.

Unsatisfied with the ruling, but knowing there was no greater authority on the Stout farm than Mother’s word, Nicholas settled with a humph! Although Emily’s enthusiasm was crushed this morning, yesterday, she’d come back from the ride pumped with excitement, telling Nicholas all about the gnome, the behemoths, and the thunderbird. In a short time, he’d been jumping up and down, too, demanding to go on the next trip. Of course, the demand had been mostly for show, and his actions this morning were along a similar line. Emily had seen it all before.

I wish I was a gunslinger, Nicholas muttered.

Emily failed to stifle a laugh.

You and your brother both, dear, Molly said. You two are going to make yourselves miserable dreaming about those fancy pistols they carry. You’d have to be a leprechaun to afford buying even one, let alone finding a blacksmith who could make such a weapon. I don’t think any such craftsmen exist anymore.

Nicholas sulked and looked sidelong at his sister, who shrugged apologetically. She hadn’t been laughing at her brother, just the absurdity of his wish. Gunslingers were known and named for their rare weapons. Every gunslinger carried two revolvers that they could fire from both hands with pinpoint accuracy. The pistols were sometimes called six-shooters, because each could fire six bullets before needing to be reloaded. They were different from the rest of the pistols in the world, which could only fire one shot before needing to be reloaded. Abe often joked that one gunslinger versus thirteen men was a fair fight.

The deadly firearms they carried weren’t the only way to spot a gunslinger, though. They all dressed alike, and Emily figured it was for two reasons: to advertise and to warn, depending on what message needed to be sent. There was no mistaking the wide-brimmed, leather hat, which shrouded their eyes in darkness if they tilted it forward, or the leather overcoat, which hid their guns from view and discouraged theft. Besides their hide pants, they always wore riding boots with spurs that clicked when they walked. Gunslingers didn’t care for stealth. There was nothing for them to hide from.

They roamed the plains looking for employment, and that was pretty much where they stayed. They were regarded with fear and awe out here, and their special skills made them a favorite among the rich farm owners. Most of their work came from hunting behemoths, rather than men, which kept them from gaining enemies who might slit their throats in the night. Emily only saw gunslingers when they passed by the Stout farm looking for a place to sleep for the night, and Molly almost always turned them away to the woes of her children. Emily wished to see one shoot their guns just once, but they never offered their services to the likes of such lowly farmers. Only one had made that mistake, and Emily’s father had scoffed at the man.

Perhaps you’d like to take my house as payment? Paul had asked.

The gunslinger had peered up from under the brim of his hat, gazed at the house, and made a clicking noise with his cheek.

I’m afraid that won’t be enough, he’d replied.

Paul had tried not to appear insulted and thanked the gunslinger for his time. Without another word, the gunslinger had mounted back up on his unicorn and trotted off. Not all gunslingers were that unfriendly, but that last one had left a bad taste in Emily’s mouth.

What if I found a pair of guns? Nicholas spoke up, snapping Emily awake from her memories.

You’d have to fight your brother for them, dear, Molly laughed. And he still weighs a bit more than you do. Not that it would matter who got them, because where would you find the bullets, hmm? The blacksmiths that can make ammunition for those strange six-shooters are just as rare as the weapons themselves. Even if you found a blacksmith, how would pay him? With a favor? Lucifan is not a place that deals in favors, Nicholas.

Nicholas slumped in his chair, defeated. Emily kept her mouth closed this time.

To say that she didn’t share his dream of being a gunslinger would be a lie, but then again, she dreamed of being anything that could take her away and give her the skills to live on her own—a gunslinger, a knight, even a thunderbird, anything that would allow her to escape and see the world at large. As a child, she used to play that she was a thunderbird flying high above the plains, squawking to warn others of her approach and clapping her hands to send lightning to the ground. She’d imagined flying to Lucifan to see the angels, across the ocean to some distant land, or to the Forest of Angor to see . . . well . . . whatever it was that lived there.

She wished she knew more about the world.

Molly rose from the table and swept away the bread crumbs. She collected the wooden plates and wiped them down with a damp cloth, because water was too sparse to rinse every dish daily. Emily and Nicholas needed no direction on what was expected of them next. Survival for them depended on hard work and competency—two things the Stout family prided itself on.

Emily and Nicholas let the backdoor squeak shut behind them as they went to the barn to grab their digging hoes. With a deep sigh, they went out to the field and began to till. They tore up the dirt with violent strokes, patch by patch, to prepare the soil for planting. It was hard work, to say the least, and it wasn’t long before Nicholas and Emily were giving the wooden plow near the barn longing glances. That tool would make the work easier, but it could only be used with the unicorns or by a minotaur. Of course, the behemoth migration kept their family unicorns out all day. So, for the first few days of scouting, everything had to be done by hand, and Nicholas wasted no opportunity to gleefully comment on how backbreaking the work was.

Emily’s mother joined them shortly, and the sounds of blowing wind, creaking wood, and rustling grass clashed with the grunts of harsh labor.

Why can’t we just wait until after the behemoth season is past? Nicholas whined. "I mean, they only pass by our farm for a week. Can’t we wait just one week?"

Emily’s mother paused in her stokes and caught her breath before answering.

"We go through this every year, Nicholas. You know full well we