Druan Episode 9: Hunt

By Mark Robson

Darkness consumed the world for centuries, under thick black clouds that blocked the sun. Without light, the plants withered and died, and the animals starved. Few survived in this wasteland of night. With a final, desperate effort, the shamans gathered together to form a great chant. They gave their lives to open the clouds and let sunlight shine back on the world.

When the scattered remnants of humanity step from the dark, with nothing but their wits and the waning power of an old shaman to protect them, they are faced with a cracked, lifeless desert. Led by a child, guided by the spirits, their deeds will become myth.

To survive, they must train a new generation of shamans to face the coming dangers. Thirteen students to guide the people into a new age. And, of those students, two young sisters will grow to stand at the heart of a legend.

Each episode is written as a short story, to be read in a few hours, but together they tell the story of two sisters growing up in a new world and facing responsibilities and dangers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Robson
• Release date: Dec 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370973224

Book preview

Druan Episode 9: Hunt

By Mark Robson

Copyright 2016 Mark Robson

Smashwords Edition

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Cover Art by Alan Mence

Cover Text by James Eden

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Spring

The Age of the Sun, Year Seven

Words poured from his mouth, a chant to nurture, a chant to grow. The pure, primal force of creation flooded his being, infused his spirit and connected him to the world in a way he never thought possible. He chanted, endless, unstoppable, giving his energy to the spell.

But the words were not his to control. They fed another, an insatiable spirit that twisted the chant to its own purpose. He chanted in darkness, feeling the raging flows of energy roil and braid around the central focus, the spirit.

And then it all stopped. He opened his eyes.

Pavandar turned full circle. He stood atop a high tower of white stone which perched on the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking a distant plain. White seagulls dotted the cloudless blue sky, their calls mocking.

He strode to the rampart, a waist high wall of white stone which encircled the tower top, and looked out over the edge. Water flowed over the edge of the cliff and plunged down into the deep distance to disappear in a cloud of vapour.

You should relax, came the old man’s voice from behind him. You will be here for some time.

Pavandar turned, fists balling. Let me go, Enkar.

Enkar Vardan sat in an old wooden chair and watched him with twinkling eyes. He leaned back. I don’t think that is possible, he said.

Where are the others?

The others?

The shamans. My friends. Pavandar took a step towards Enkar. Where are they?

Safe enough. Enkar took a sip from his frothing glass. Safe enough.

Why am I here? What did you do?

So many questions. So much passion. Well, I suppose you deserve a brief explanation. You are going to be spending the rest of your life here, after all.

Pavandar frowned. What do you mean?

Your chant brought me back to life. It allowed my spirit to occupy a living vessel and take form again. Thank you for that. Sincerely, thank you.

You lied, accused Pavandar, aware of how pointless those words were. The chant was supposed to create life. It was supposed to help.

And it did. I did not lie. Enkar Vardan leaned back in his chair. You have created a forest that covers the world. Believe me, the chant did as I said it would. I just added a little something extra.

Pavandar took a breath, forced himself calm. Fine. You have your new life. It is done. Now set us free.

Why would I do that? I have all the power I could possibly need at my fingertips. He chuckled. At my leaves, rather.

This is not a joke. Pavandar could not contain his anger any longer. He took two steps and swung a fist at Enkar’s old face. It passed straight through him. Pavandar stumbled into the rampart.

You are in my dream, boy, said Enkar, still smiling. What do you think you can achieve here?

You can’t dream, you are not a spirit any longer.

No, mused the old man. I suppose I shouldn’t be able to. But there are so few spirits who returned to life, and knowledge is scarce. We are treading new ground here.

Pavandar walked away, as far from the laughing old man as he could manage on the small tower top. Think. If this is a dream, then it is ruled by will. It can be left the same way.

He closed his eyes and immediately felt resistance. Picture the world. Picture the acorn, and the grass, and the sun rising over the lake.

It isn’t that easy.

Pavandar opened his eyes. Birds wheeled around the tower, calling, calling.

We are connected by the chant, explained Enkar. And that ties you to the dream.

No. Pavandar tried again. Grass. Tree stumps. Reeds. Lake.

Blue sky flickered. White ramparts blinked. Something dark and twisted overlaid his vision for the briefest of moments.

Try harder.

I won’t be a prisoner, growled Pavandar. The dream faded, shimmering, flickering, replaced by shadows.

He chanted. Barely a murmur, barely a trickle of power, but he chanted. Pavandar was a slave to the chant, unable to speak words of his own, unable to break free. The dream pulled at him, but he held on to reality.