The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1)

By Michael Mood

The Foglins are gaining strength. They are breaking the lines of the Vaporgaardians. They are coming for men, women, and children in the night. Raath isn't safe anymore.

At least that's what the whispers say. But even rumors are dangerous if ignored for too long. Fortunately, there are always heroes.

On the world of Raath it is believed that magical power is granted to you when you do good for others, and in times of great crisis five Chosen mages arise, each one representing a different face of God.

The Protector: Wren Heartfield is an abused farm girl who longs to see what lies beyond her family's fields. But when she gets a chance to go on that journey she finds that the world around her is anything but a safe escape.

The Devotee: Domma is a Cleric of the Sunburst Temple whose past is hazy. When one of the mental patients under her care is murdered, she begins to unravel the mystery - and herself as well.

The Monk: In self-inflicted exile, Otom Aldenburg is a man of few words. He is forced to retrace the painful steps and memories of his past when his Monastery is destroyed by marauding Foglins.

The Servitor: Krothair Mallurin is a boy too young and naive to be a Kingsguardian, but too driven to be stopped. When he finds himself apprenticed to a legendary sword master he has to make a choice - stay, learn, and suffer, or return to his life as an orphan.

The Benefactor: Halimaldie D'Arvenant is a powerful businessman at the head of a merchant empire. As he opens his eyes to the magic around him, he must admit something very difficult - that he's been wrong.

Five mages, five faces of God, five stories . . . one fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Mood
• Release date: Sep 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370677733

Michael Mood

Michael Mood has been writing novels since 2008. He lives in Cottage Grove, Wisconsin, with his wife, three boys, one cat, one dog, and a bevy of farm animals. Well, the farm animals live outside . . . and Michael lives inside . . . so he doesn't technically live with them, but you get the idea.

Book preview

Prologue

-1-

400 Years Ago

Something's wrong! Kollista was shouting. We've made a terrible mistake! Raath forgive us! God forgive us!

Dharm looked up to see the sky darkening. The clouds were parted as if shoved aside by huge hands and the sun was blotted out by something. The something was gigantic. Dharm could only see the shape of it. He couldn't tell what it was made of or what color it was, but he knew it was huge: many-armed, many-legged, swirling appendages stretched out, poised to strike as it roared towards the earth.

What have we done? Dharm whispered to himself as he stared heavenward.

It was his Familiar that finally broke him from his trance. The little lemur dug his claws into Dharm's shoulder and the man winced. He took a quick breath, his fear finally outweighing his shock.

The other four mages were already in motion.

Kollista was walking slowly backwards, a look of disbelief on her young face.

Thaan was sprinting towards where the creature would land, his sword drawn. The weapon was almost twice as tall as he was, but the man held it with ease.

Mareth, likewise a fighter, had her fists wrapped in Fire. She ran with Thaan, agile legs keeping up easily with the swordsman.

Prenson was standing still, surveying the situation, a thoughtful look on his face. He wasn't scared; he wasn't even worried.

Prenson! Dharm yelled to the calm man. We've gotta get outta here! He turned to his Familiar. "What is that thing?" he asked the lemur.

I don't know, master, the lemur replied. But it is certainly not God.

A shockwave expanded outward as the thing from the sky hit the ground with a deafening boom. The wet and muddy earth of the southlands rolled outward in a wave. Dharm watched Thaan crest the wave, running forward with confidence over the uncertain, roiling ground. He must be using his magic to keep him upright. Dharm was still amazed at the powers that a mage like Thaan possessed. The man was strong, impenetrable, resolute, brave.

Then Dharm watched Thaan die.

The swordsman's body exploded, one of the sky-creature's giant limbs smacking down on top of him. Blood flew ten feet in either direction. One instant Thaan had been charging forward, huge sword held defiantly, the next he was obliterated. Erased.

The creature was massive. Bigger than anything Dharm had ever seen. Or had even imagined. It towered over the trees, making them look like saplings. The cloud of debris was still obscuring the details of the creature. Dharm thought maybe that was for the best.

The creature turned its attention to Mareth. The Monk girl was able to dodge a few strikes before she also ceased to be, obliterated and mashed down into the mud, her Fire snuffed out.

Dharm gagged. The lemur tightened his grip on Dharm's shoulder.

We need to be away, the lemur said in a panic. But Dharm couldn't move. His body refused to respond to his mind. His legs were water. It had only been a few seconds since the mages had completed the ritual, and everything they had worked for years to create was coming unraveled in mere moments.

Prenson was yelling at the sky-creature now. He pointed at it and gestured, no doubt trying to use his magic to control it. It gave Dharm hope for the briefest of moments. If anyone can get us out of this mess, it's Prenson.

But he never got a chance to see what happened.

The initial shockwave finally hit Dharm and he lost his footing. Suddenly he was underneath the rolling wave of water and earth, wetness enveloping him, filling his eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. He scrambled to right himself, the elements battering against his body. He couldn't break the surface. Spots swam in front of his eyes as he groped in the darkness. He felt a hand and he gripped it for dear life.

Kollista pulled him out.

Dharm spat mud from his mouth and wiped the muck away from his eyes. He desperately wanted to see that Prenson had survived.

He didn't get his wish.

Damn it all! Dharm cursed.

The creature turned its face to Dharm then. He saw a thousand eyes, myriad limbs. The thing undulated, humming horrifically.

You need to ride away from here, Kollista begged him. You're the swiftest. Go to the citizens of Coraline! Tell them to run! Tell them what we did here! Tell them… how we have failed. I'm going to hold it off.

Don't be ridiculous, Dharm said. You'll be killed!

There's no time! Kollista pushed him away with surprising force. He stumbled backwards and tripped, sprawling on his back in the mud.

Kollista's feet were pounding against the sloppy ground towards the creature. She was screaming.

When Dharm found his footing again he Called around him. He found Prince, his horse, nearby. He felt waves of fear coming from the animal.

Dharm Commanded the horse to run to him and the animal came. As Dharm mounted, he fought the urge to gallop after Kollista. He saw the girl covered in mud, her skinny legs bringing her ever closer to the writhing creature.

If I try to help her I'll die and her sacrifice will have been in vain.

Dharm gritted his teeth.

Goodbye, my friends, he said. And God forgive us all.

Then he wheeled Prince in the opposite direction and Commanded the horse to run.

The animal had no problem complying.

Chapter 1

A Fox in a Trap

-1-

Present Day

The sun was starting to set and Wren Hartfield shivered in the cool spring air. She could smell - almost feel - the storm that was coming from the west, but she had decided she would walk the world for as long as she could before it came.

This forest was a far cry from the corn fields she was used to. The shadowy ground played tricks with her vision, at the same time exciting and terrifying her.

When the storm came she would have to race it back to her house. Her guts twisted when she thought of going back home, but she couldn't live outside on her own forever. Girls can't survive on their own at fifteen, can they? Wren wasn't sure. But she'd been told that the world was full of ghastly dangers and despite how much she hated her house she was almost more terrified of being devoured alive by Foglins, flesh ripped from her limbs slowly and painfully, her death drawn out over many days or months.

Or so she had heard that was what the Foglins would do.

Maybe the ugly creatures didn't exist at all. Wren had never seen one, but her father was convinced they were real. She wasn't sure her father had ever seen one either, but his belief stemmed from Wren's mother's beliefs, and Wren's mother - even though she was dead thirteen years now and Wren did not remember her - still had an impact on her life.

Wren had worn her work boots today. They were tough-leather and came up to her knees. Her legs were too skinny for them so they had an odd clunky look, but it was either that or her moccasins, and she hadn't known what the terrain was going to be like. She'd had to sneak the boots from the back of the house, being careful not to bang them against any walls as she exited.

Her heart beat faster this far out in the forest. She knew she was scared and exhilarated, but the feelings were muted somehow. The rest of her life tended to dampen things. This momentary vacation was the only disobedience she had ever allowed herself. She would deal with the punishment later if she was caught. But… how much worse could it really be? She decided that that was something she would consider more deeply later.

For now she would walk. For now she would be free. Or at least pretend to be free.

She heard the call of an animal over the breeze and swiveled her head to find the source. Her heart jumped when she saw something squirming in the shadows not fifty feet from where she stood. Images of Foglins from stories flashed in her head, but this animal was not a Foglin. It was a fox. She had only ever seen a handful of living foxes in her life, and never one up this close. As she approached it she found it odd that the animal let her get so near.

Then she realized that its leg was caught in the brutal metal teeth of a trap. Her father had one old rusty trap hanging on a nail in the shed, but the device this fox found itself in was polished, without a spot of rust. A new, gleaming trap. The blood on it was bright red, standing out against the golden metal. It was a beautiful combination.

Wren knew instinctively what she had to do.

Just hold still, she told the fox, which was now close enough to pet if she had wanted to. I need to find a stick.

She kicked aside piles of leaves and had to reject several branches before she was able to find a long, sturdy stick with a pointy end.

She went back to the fox and set her work boot down hard on its neck.

It won't hurt for long, she said.

She brought the stick up high and then drove it down through the fox's eye with a powerful stab.

The fox shuddered twice and was dead.

-2-

The storm did come. Wren had intended to race it back, but some of the fox's blood had spattered up onto her shirt, and the red stood out harshly against the beige. It bothered her. She didn't want her crimes to be known. So she walked in the rain with the intent to have the water from the sky clean the blood from her shirt.

She carried the bloody stick with her. My trophy. This vacation had been good. She felt relieved. She knew the feeling wouldn't last long, but every minute of that elation was worth it. Killing animals worked better than cutting herself. That had left terrible scarring on her right arm. Very obvious. Very noticeable. Can't do that again. Mustn't let anyone know: not the farmhands, not travelers, not my father, not anyone.

She looked down and saw how her clothes were wet and plastered to her body by the rain. The sight of her breasts pained her. She didn't appreciate that they looked like they did. Her father had taken to touching them long ago.

She brandished her stick at the sky to take her mind off her body. It was a gesture of defiance; possibly at the universe, possibly at nothing. It didn't matter. It felt good.

Wren was beginning to get cold and cursed herself for not grabbing her spun cloak, but it had been hanging too near the table that her father had passed out on and Wren hadn't wanted to take the chance of grabbing it and waking him. She cursed herself for not planning this better.

The rain came down harder. Lightning flashed behind her.

She looked down. Is the blood coming out or is it just smearing around? Her shirt was a stained mess. What am I going to do? There were plenty of animals on the farm that bled, maybe she could make up some sort of story. But her father always seemed to know. Even when he was drunk, breath reeking, he could look in her eyes and just know. She was already going to have an impossible time trying to hide this whole trip, she didn't really need extra lies piled on top.

Thunder rumbled and the sky grew darker, the rain turning from downpour to torrent. I have to get back, blood or no blood. She ran as fast as her feet could take her, boots sloshing at every step. She was panic brought to life. Suddenly, gripped by the emotion of the storm, she felt her old feelings rush back.

The adventure was over.

The stick dropped from her hand, a forgotten symbol of her temporary relief. Her wet hair slapped her in the face and she realized how she must look as if she had just gotten out of the bath. Her father loved to leer at her the most then, and no matter how she tried to cover herself he always found a way to see.

Tears streaked down her face, mixing with the rain. She considered just laying down in the mud and giving up. Just laying down and dying. But her father would be so hurt. He had already lost her mother, as he reminded her time and again.

What would it do to him to lose me too? I have to get home. Maybe I can beg for forgiveness. He might respond to that. He'll be there waiting for me. How long have I been gone? Oh God, he's there waiting for me. She would open the door and he would be drumming his fingers on the table, his eyes dark. There was no escaping.

I'm an idiot!

Panicked, jumbled thoughts crashed into her as she started to stumble through one of her farm's large corn fields. It was still muddy, not having been planted yet, and she had a hard time getting traction, her heavy boots sucking down into the mud. Lightning illuminated her voyage a split-second at a time. Her farmhouse sat in the distance, a hulking thing that the shifting lightning strikes brought to life. She could see the barn and shed, rainwater splashing off their rusty roofs.

She reached the back of her house a few moments later, but was hesitant to step onto the porch. I have to hide. Begging for forgiveness won't work. I can't go in like this. He'll look at me. He'll see me. Her clothing clung to her. She looked down in horror. She choked back a sob.

Wren ran to the barn. There was a pile of blankets for the horses that would be dry, and with luck she could find a place to stash her shirt, pants, and boots until she could retrieve them later.

When she entered the barn through the big door some of the horses whinnied, their storm-scared eyes following her.

What are you looking at? she shouted at them, ashamed of herself, trying to cover her chest, to conceal herself even from the horses. She used one blanket to vigorously rub her hair dry and then - in one of her braver moments - stripped off her bloody, soaked clothes and wrapped them in it. She stuffed the whole wet mess deep into a pile of straw, getting a few small cuts on her hands in the frenzied process. She reached hastily for another blanket to wrap herself in.

This blanket - with its pattern of red and gold checks - would have to be her armor as she went back into the house. She wrapped it up and around herself with shaking hands. It came down to her ankles and covered everything. It served as a dress and didn't cling to her body as her wet clothes had. She was still shuddering as she headed back into the storm.

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing!

Wren sprinted to the back porch during a brief break in the rain and then, summoning every ounce of courage she had, reached slowly for the doorknob and grasped it. She stood still, trying to calm her panting, shuddering, and sobbing.

He'll be asleep.

No. He's waiting.

She couldn't face him. She could. She had to. She wouldn't.

She would.

Just before she started to turn the knob it turned in her hand from the inside and suddenly she felt warmth running down between her legs.

-3-

Her father opened the door and stared at her for a brief second.

Wren stood frozen in place, her muscles turned to wood. She had the urge to flee, but could not.

Then her father got a strangely concerned look on his face.

Wren's heart lurched.

Where ya been? he asked softly. Ya been out?

I was out in the woods, Wren gasped through her sobs. Please. Please. She didn't know what she was begging for, but he must have understood.

In this storm? Ya need ta come in and keep warm. You'll catch your death. His strong arms scooped her up and carried her inside the house. He brought her to her room and laid her down on her bed, then went to the next room. Wren heard a few clanking noises and realized he was fetching the lantern.

You been out? he asked again, coming back into the room. He seemed confused. His face was now lit in the orange glow of the lantern. "I don't like you going out into the world like that. Somethin' coulda happened to ya. Ya coulda been killed."

I know, Wren said. She knew now that she could have stepped in a hunter's trap, been eaten by Foglins or wolves, or maybe even fallen down, broken her leg and died of starvation.

Feelings of grief and guilt collided. Perhaps her father had had a vision while he was sleeping. A vision from God telling him that what he was doing was wrong. The looking, the touching. Wren didn't know much of religion, but she knew enough to believe that sometimes, maybe if you were lucky, God would save you.

God could help you if you were broken.

I wasn't supposed to be out and I won't do it again, Wren said through chattering teeth. I went to check on the horses and got curious about the forest. It was only a partial lie. She had initially been going out to see if she could muster the courage to harm one of the horses. She hadn't been able to do so and had gone farther afield, looking for a smaller target.

Ya look like yer mother, her father said, hanging the lantern on a hook on the wall. His eyes were sad as he came to her bedside, gripping at the ends of the horse blanket.

It was now she truly saw the look in his eyes and smelled the alcohol on him.

Please don't, she said, her throat tightening. She had been a fool to think it would end. That was why she hated herself the most.

Her weakness couldn't hold him back. He picked at the places that held her armor together, and the blanket came undone.

He'll touch and leave.

Wren's flesh stood cold with goosebumps. She stared at the ceiling, fixating on a point - on anything but what was going on in this room. Her first reaction was confusion as her father lowered himself onto her. She felt him part her legs and then felt something much more horrible.

Everything went blank.

Chapter 2

A Man of Few Words

-1-

Crack!

The whip fell hard against Otom Aldenburg's back. He willed himself to not cry out. He took his punishment silently as the lashes echoed in the stone room. The walls of this place were covered in beautiful murals, painted by some of the most talented artists Otom had ever known. All of Raath might have known them if the world had cared to look this far up in the bitter, frozen north.

Crack!

His bare skin was cold. It was always cold in the north. The biting winds flung snow and ice through the air almost every day of the year. Otom always told himself that if a Southerner moved up here he would die within a few days, unable to handle the bitterness of the climate. This island in particular was frigid. The wind whipped west, driven by some maniacal force that was hellbent on flattening everything in its path.

Crack!

Otom drew upon a tiny string of power within and Calmed himself. It wasn't something he liked to do too often. Punishment should be taken without the need to use magic on yourself, but Otom was feeling vulnerable today. Normally the whip didn't bother him this much. Normally he could withstand it, but today was different. Today was the anniversary of his failure.

Crack!

That was the last stroke he could handle right now. He stood up and placed the whip in the drawer of a simple wooden table. That table and the small bed next to it were some of his only possessions. He had built them himself from the wood of the tall pines that grew near the Monastery.

He tucked his wool pants back into the tops of his fur-lined boots, then grabbed a brown robe from a peg on the wall and secured it around himself with a rope belt. Otom turned and kindled his Fire, letting the magic flow from his hands to the hearth. Life could be arduous for a Monk, but Otom would never complain about being able to create his own Fire. It burned in the hearth, the flames a physical manifestation of the power within him.

He had sacrificed his world and gained that power.

-2-

Otom sat on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed, recovering from his flagellation, which he had not technically completed for the day. He would have to come back to it later. For now, however, he needed a moment to reflect and then he had an appointment to make.

His room was one of the biggest in the Kilgane Monastery, with decorated walls, eight foot ceilings, and an ornate fireplace. At least, ornate for Otom's current standards. Candles burned with normal fire. Otom mostly put his own Fire in the fireplace. It was difficult to control tiny amounts of it. A healthy blaze was easier to produce. The powers of a Monk were stable and reliable. As long as he was Sacrificing - which he always was - he would have magic to draw on.

There was only one other Monk in Kilgane Monastery that had even a glimmer of the magic that Otom possessed. The man had trained him when his powers had bloomed. It wasn't a sure thing, getting that power from God. Many good men led lives of Sacrifice never to have magic bestowed upon them.

Otom was a rarity.

Kilgane Monastery had few allures about it: it was constantly freezing outside, the days and nights were of odd lengths, and the food was tasteless. Otom knew for certain that there were worse things than isolation and penitence. He hadn't left the island in thirteen years, and he wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

Here he had camaraderie, escape, purpose.

There was a small fishing village on the southern shore of the island and the people there mostly regarded the Monks of the Kilgane Monastery as a mystery, not really frightened of them, but not really wanting conversation either. Of course, Otom couldn't have given them that anyway. To talk would be to break one of his Vows, and to break a Vow was to give up a piece of your Sacrifice. He sometimes wondered what his voice would sound like. He remembered that it was deep and steady, but the last time he had talked was at the age of seventeen. He supposed his voice would sound different now if it even still worked.

He talked mostly in hand signs for unavoidable essentials. On every First Day he would make the trek down to the village to trade for fish and cloth and other things the Monks might need. Sometimes he would trade wood, beads, or furs, but oftentimes he would simply trade Fire or Calm.

Monkish Fire didn't consume wood, and could last a good long time, depending on how much magic was poured into it. There wasn't a person in the village who could turn down such an offer, even if they regarded the Monks with wary eyes.

Calm was more subtle magic, but just as desirable. If someone had nearly died from falling through the ice, Otom could Calm them and wash away their fears, saving them years of fear and doubt. If a fight was about to break out, Otom could stop it most of the time. These were the kinds of services that only a Monk like Otom could provide.

Otom walked over to the door and pulled it open, the heavy metal knocker on the other side clacking once. The dormitory hallway wasn't much colder than his room. The Monks kept the entire Monastery lit most of the time, Otom's magical Fires joining in with their normal ones.

Otom walked quickly down the hall so he could arrive on time for another scheduled Vow. The Vow of Bondage. He was actually going to be a bit late even if he ran. Everyone would probably be already waiting for him there. It was fine. Forgiveness was easy to receive here.

He had to pass through the cloister in order to get to the chapel and as he stepped outside the wind whipped at him, threatening to blow his hood off. He reached up and tugged it back down so that it covered his forehead down to the top of his eyes. His bushy brown beard took care of warming the lower half of his face.

It was snowing. The fat flakes drifted down out of a gray sky.

Thirteen years since my failure, he thought.

The cloister was silent as he padded through the snow, his fur boots would have been excellent for hunting and tracking, but today they were ceremonial. The chapel door had much the same design as his room's own door and fires burned around it, making a glorious arch that kept away the snow and warmed the wind. Otom swung it open and went inside, closing it heavily behind him.

It was quiet, but that was to be expected.

But not this quiet…

-3-

Something fell on him from above and Otom dropped to his knees on the hard stone floor, cursing silently at the pain. He could feel some sort of claws pressing through his hood and thought at once of the Coraline Beast from The Book. But this creature wasn't the Coraline Beast, for the Coraline Beast was much larger. Whatever it was, it let out an otherworldly screech as Otom reached up and grabbed hold of a thin leg, tossing the creature away. It smashed against the stone wall.

Otom threw his hood back now, balancing the advantage of its claw-stopping thickness against the way it blocked his visibility. He decided it would be better to be able to see.

He glanced around the room to find a macabre scene. At least thirty Monks - almost the entire population of the Monastery - were laying scattered about, bodies looking badly beaten within their brown robes. Blood pooled around some of them, limbs sticking out at odd angles, faces crushed and slashed.

Otom stripped the robe from his shoulders, not knowing if he could still move the way he had been able to thirteen years ago. But he felt the need now, staring down the monster he had thrown from his shoulders. The top half of his robe now hung on his waist by the thick rope belt, dangling down to look more like a martial arts Skada: loose, unrestricting.

Otom hadn't always been a Monk.

His body still rippled with muscles he had built before his time at the Monastery. He had maintained his form, often losing sleep and exercising late into the night to do so. Old habits died hard and Otom was stubborn. But he hadn't fought, really fought, in ages.

Otom's attacker looked more bird-like than anything else, but it had no wings. It was about five feet tall and had some kind of a beak-like protrusion, but it had teeth where a bird would not. Its beak and claws were wet with red blood and its tongue, a disgusting purple thing, lolled out of the side of its mouth like a dog who had finished running too hard. The creature skidded, claws scrabbling awkwardly on the stone floor, giving Otom more time.

Otom gathered Fire and although he couldn't attach it directly to the creature (it was impossible to attach Fire to another living thing, even an abomination like this), he let it sit hidden in his fists, burning there. A Monk could not be physically burned by their own Fire, but it still felt horrible, like gripping hot coals.

Otom reached out with yet another branch of his power. A wave of his Detection radiated outward. He could feel the presence of other beings this way. He couldn't feel this creature, though. It wasn't registering the same way human's did. What trickery is this? He did feel one other living thing behind him. Likely another Monk, wounded and clinging to life.

The creature reached Otom, and it struck out with a thin limb that looked disproportionately long for its body. It whizzed through the air, but Otom raised a forearm to block its path. Another strike came, this time a kick, and Otom caught the bird's ankle with his own, using the creature's momentum to pull it off balance. Then he opened his hand, revealed his Fire, and slammed his palm into the creature's stomach. He heard a satisfying crunch and sizzle followed by a surprised shriek as the thing reeled backwards.

Otom leaped forward, powerful legs closing the distance quickly. This time the creature stabbed forward with its beak, all the while gasping for breath. Otom saw the attack coming and, while turning just enough to