Eris: A Tale of the Nether

By Follis Wood

Eris is the crown prince of Teluria, but when the king disappears his world begins to fall apart. Banished, and branded a traitor, he must learn about the mysterious Nether to defeat the usurper and regain the kingdom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Follis Wood
• Release date: May 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370426829

Follis Wood

Follis Wood was born in Chicago, but grew up in central Africa and western Wisconsin. He now lives in Indiana. He's been telling stories since before he could write, and writing stories since long before they had any hope of being any good. His children have convinced him that it's finally time to finish some of these stories and publish them. When he's not writing, he fixes computers and supports Bible translation around the world (especially in Africa).

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Bay For Beginning

Bay, I said, carefully tracing the shape of the rune with my stylus, watching the ink flow and catch in the fibers of the fine vellum. I glanced up at the aquiline nose of my tutor, noting the quick exhalation through the expansive nostrils. What do you think, Hosir? I asked, grandly.

Master Hosir, he corrected gently. You know as well as I do, Eris, that it’s perfect. ‘Bay’ for beginning, as every portal must. But it’s not the beginnings where you have your difficulty - it’s your endings.

I grunted a little in response. Master Hosir, I said, If we are insisting on titles, you will address me as ‘Your Highness’. I couldn’t resist a smirk as I saw the scarlet eyebrow rise.

Of course, Your Highness. I have been remiss. I knew that if he started using words like ‘remiss’ I’d better get back to my writing. It wasn’t his fault I could no longer call him simply Hosir. That was my father’s decision. You’re almost a man, Eris, he had said, and it’s time you began to speak like a prince. I turned back to the vellum. It really wasn't fair, I thought, that Father had to change things around like this. No matter what I did, it was never regal enough, or it wasn't respectful enough, or it wasn't manly enough!

Ey, I said, making the vowel mark that would link the next rune.

There was a knock at the door. As I turned, it opened, although Hosir hadn’t called for the intruder to enter. I knew the handsome head that would peer through the crack, as none other would get past the guards in this way. The hair would be the black of the Alataranu family, streaked with silvery gray that seemed to join the light crown - Dwarf work, that crown. The heavy mustache and beard were regally trimmed just so, and even just his head looked so far the king that I knew I would never be able to measure up. I would have to ban statues for years after becoming King, just so people could forget what he looked like.

Eris, he said softly, his large brown eyes finding me at the desk by the window, something’s come up in Scelus. I’ll probably be gone for a few days.

I rolled my eyes - pale and shifting hazel - although he probably couldn’t see them from the door. Yes, Father, I replied with a sigh.

He responded with a different sigh of his own, and pulled the door shut, retreating out of sight into the corridor. He rarely yelled at me, anymore. He just made it clear that he was disappointed. He couldn't understand that not everyone was a natural swordsman, or a master calculator, or a gifted orator. It came so easily to him, and I would never be like him. As I turned back to the parchment, I saw the eyebrow at full mast above the eagle-like nose.

What? I asked, picking up the stylus again, but not looking the Dwarf in the face.

Why do you treat him that way? Hosir asked me quietly. He was not above an emotional explosion, but I got the feeling he was tired of this particular question. You know he loves you as only a father can love an only son, but you act as though he interrupted a state function when he cared enough to tell you he’d be gone for a few days.

I don’t think the affairs of the royal family of Teluria concern you, Master, I snapped. You are here to teach me about portals.

Oh, aye, he breathed. Well, if it comes to that, you dropped the tip of your stylus when his majesty entered the room, and you’ve messed up your ‘bay’ rune. Get a clean vellum and put this one with the others to be scraped.

A cry escaped me as I saw that he was right, and I jammed the stylus into the ink pot, splashing drops here and there. I hate these dull exercises! I said. When are you going to teach me something useful?

How can I teach you anything more useful when you can’t master the lessons I’ve given you? he snapped back. Eris, you know how fond I am of you, and I trust that you will eventually be as great a portal smith as any journeyman back on Hrackmet, but you’ve got to pay attention to the details!

His rebuke pierced my pride in a way that my father’s sigh had not, and I deflated a bit, looking at the spilled ink on the writing stand. He was right, of course. If I had spilled the gold ink like that my uncle would have scolded me for hours on the wasted resources, but since I was only practicing, we were using common ink. I tidied the desk quietly, sanding the ink drops and dropping the soiled parchments on to the pile where servants would scrape them to make them usable again. When I looked back at Hosir, he had placed a parchment on his own writing stand and was dipping the stylus into the pot of golden ink.

Your Highness, he breathed, more gently now, portal smithing requires the most delicate of touches. I, myself, studied the basics for fifty years before I was allowed to try my hand at some real work. As he spoke, the stylus touched the paper, smoothly producing bay-ey-yod-oh-nay-doh, curving in the necessary arc to produce a perfect circle. As he began to ornament the circle, the center turned dark, beginning to swirl and shift as it sought the beyond. After he had made a few more touches, the darkness cleared, and I was gazing at a different blackness, filled with bright stars that couldn’t be the work of any pen and ink. Barely perceptible against the stars were the outlines of massive trees, blocking the sky, yet filled with silvery stars of their own.

Fletchet! I enthused, crowding close to look at the tiny portal on the page, as though a whiff of the air of that World would come through. But, I continued, why is it night? I glanced toward the window as though to reassure myself that I hadn’t been spellbound for hours, that it was indeed late morning in the sky outside.

Eris, the Dwarf said, you know very well that it is always night and always day somewhere on this World. It is the same on Fletchet, and the time of day in the city that I know is different than the time here. The days on Fletchet are longer than yours here in Teluria, too, so you will likely see night-time through this portal during the night as well before it finally turns around to day.

There was another knock on the door. I knew it well and dashed over to fling the heavy door open. Dalion! I cried, and flung my arms around my friend. The Elf reciprocated, then pushed me away and entered the room, the guards closing the door behind him.

Your Highness, he said, bowing at precisely the right angle and for the correct amount of time. I am pleased to see you well, and in good humor.

Well, look what the Nether dropped on the doorstep, called the Dwarf from his high stool by the window. Dalion smiled and strode swiftly to the writing desk, breaking off his greeting to the Dwarf when he saw the drawn portal on the vellum.

I didn’t realize we were making active portals to Fletchet today, he said, glancing from Hosir to me.

Oh, it’s just a little thing I tossed off, the Dwarf muttered dismissively, beginning to sprinkle sand on the page, drying the ink so he could put it with his stack of instructional vellums.

I’m surprised, the Elf replied, I would have thought you would have drawn a portal to Hrackmet, if you were just going to toss something off. His imitation of the Dwarf’s gruff voice was perfect, and I couldn’t suppress a snicker.

Your Highness, Dalion said to me, it is not fitting for a Human prince to laugh unless he laugh openly. A concealed laugh shows disrespect, and the King must respect everyone, though he be but a cottager.

I’m sorry, Ambassador, I said, deliberately using his title to calm the situation. Although my etiquette was worse than my portal craft, I never resented Dalion’s lessons. He had rocked my cradle after my mother had died, and I had grown up with him as a constant presence in my life. It was only in the last few years that he had revealed that my parents had hired him to teach me etiquette and the elvish language. I had sort of thought that every prince had a guardian Elf up to that time.

Dalion had plucked the page of vellum from the writing desk and was peering at it closely. Tangkelon, he said softly. I haven’t been there for twenty years. He glanced at me, then at Hosir. Why Tangkelon? he asked the Dwarf.

Hosir reddened more than he naturally was. The boy doesn’t want to look at dust and rocks, he said defensively. He wants cool water and green trees!

The trees aren’t very green in the dark, Ambassador Dalion remarked.

Well, how was I supposed to know it would be night? exclaimed the Dwarf excitedly. He quieted when he saw the sad expression on Dalion’s face.

I know the passing of every hour in Tangkelon, the Elf murmured. "The moon is just beyond the trees - setting directly across from the portal. It’s the last crescent, and the night is dark.

My sister lives there, he continued in a brighter tone.

Could we go through the portal and visit her? I asked, eager to encourage this sharing of new knowledge.

Out of the question, both the Dwarf and Elf said, so closely together it might have been rehearsed.

Why not? I asked plaintively.

Well, first of all, said the Dwarf, you haven’t finished your lesson.

But think how much more meaningful it would be if I could see what it’s like to cross the gulf of Nether that separates Teluria from Fletchet!

Secondly, Dalion interposed, I have heard that the King has departed for Scelus. Not only can we not ask for his permission to take you off World, it is against protocol for the heir to leave Teluria while the sovereign is away.

But we could go and be back before luncheon! I protested.

Thirdly, Hosir continued, how do you propose to squeeze through a portal drawn on a piece of vellum? Even a Dwarf isn’t that small!

Before I could answer their objections, the door opened without a knock. Elf, Dwarf, and prince all turned to see a tall, imposing man stride into the room, followed by three of the royal guard. Uncle Acerrimus was much thinner than Father, and his beard and mustaches were not so grand, but seemed rather stringy. His long chancellor’s robes almost brushed the floor, their gold ornaments tightly woven with the rest of the fabric. Second in line for the throne, after me, he wore no crown. His face was never kindly, but I had never seen him as openly angry as he seemed at this moment.

Seize him! he instructed the guards, who hesitated only a moment before striding forward. As unexpected as any of this drama was, I was shocked to feel their hard hands grip my arms, pulling them behind my back in a painful grip.

What is the meaning of this? I exclaimed, trying to draw myself to my full height (still at least six inches below my uncle’s) despite the steely hands of the guards on my arms. If this is a joke, Uncle, you will not find it funny!

Oh, this is no joke, the Chancellor hissed, drawing near to me now, as the other guards shouldered my friends away. I was almost surprised that one of them didn’t keel over at Hosir’s burning glare, but Dalion only looked mournful. Place him in the royal cell, Acerrimus instructed the guards, still glaring down at me. I shall convene the council to pass judgment this afternoon.

Pass judgment! I howled, rage eclipsing both my etiquette and my shock. How dare you lay hands on the Crown Prince? My father will have your head when he returns from Scelus!

When he returns… my uncle replied coldly. You know as well as I that he will never return. Not after what you did to him!

Shock now overwhelmed my rage. What had I done? What had happened to my father? What could I possibly have done to keep him from returning? I had no time for reverie, though, for the guards now carried out their orders and dragged me from the room. Before we had gone many paces down the corridor I heard my uncle calling more soldiers to remove this alien riffraff from the Royal Apartments.

CHAPTER TWO

Treason

Soon I found myself in the royal cell, designed for the housing of captives of war and hostages. Fine furnishings and elegant fittings did nothing to disguise the barred window or the small spy hole in the heavy door. I paced, having little else to do. Uncle is seizing the throne, I thought, rounding an ivory-inlaid table, but how? How could he have eliminated my father? I knew I could expect no help from Hosir or Dalion, since I had heard the order given to expel them. Duke Congero? He was another uncle, brother of my mother’s father. If he wouldn’t help me, no one would.

Guard! I spoke through the small opening in the door. Guard! I repeated, impatiently.

Your Highness, came the reply through the door.

Who rules in Teluria? I asked vaguely.

Alanthon, your father, was king, he replied. The council will need to crown his successor.

I am his heir, I insisted, boldly. Will you still serve me, or do you serve the Chancellor?

I serve the Crown, came the reply. You stand accused of murdering your father. How could I aid you?

Aha! So that’s his game! But murder? How could I have killed the King? How could anyone? Will you tell me how I am supposed to have killed my own father?

There was a long pause. Then, You’ll hear what you need to know at the trial. From his voice, I could tell that he was uncomfortable, and also that he was not interested in further conversation. I turned from the door, then, and threw myself onto the great poster bed. There were no useful weapons in the room, although the knives on the table were sharp, and one of the posts from the bed would have made a great cudgel.

No, I had trained with the royal guard for my weapons training, and I knew that I was not yet the equal of any of them. Protocol required at least two to escort a prisoner to trial, and my uncle might insist on four, given my title. No, I could not escape by force.

Evasion, then. I went to the window. It was not high in the wall, as it would have been in the dungeons. No, for the comfort of the prisoner, it was at eye level, looking down from the great tower over the sprawling capital city. The bars, however, were solid, and were clean of the merest hints of rust. King Alanthon made sure that everything in his kingdom was well maintained. I turned away from the