The Dying of the Light

By J.L. Cooperstein and J.C.A. Sprinkle

Pastor Moriah Eisander and her young ward Zorin Fairwaithe travel to the strange continent of Relathor to meet its inhabitants and explore the untouched ruins that dot its lands, left by an ancient calamity. During their travels, they run into old friends and new comrades and the troubles brought by bandits and simmering political tensions—until a city is consumed by fire from the heavens, and strange beasts begin terrorizing the people of Relathor. In the aftermath of this disaster, they struggle to survive and return safely home, clinging to the hope that the hideous creatures will not follow to terrorize them further, only to find that the menace is far greater than they feared.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.L. Cooperstein
• Release date: Oct 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310284168

J.L. Cooperstein

Joseph L. Cooperstein spends most of his time lamenting the fact that there is currently only one human habitat in low Earth orbit, and none at all in the rest of space. When he's not doing that, he is either sketching dragons on napkins or running scenarios in his Skull-Mounted Reality Simulator & Thinking DeviceTM. In the brief moments between those strenuous and time-consuming activities, he—as you might imagine—writes. He has a degree in Theater and studied literature extensively during his college years. He is known, where he is known online, as Leisandir, although sometimes he spells it with an 'e' for no particularly good reason.

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The Dying of the Light

Published by J.L. Cooperstein & J.C.A. Sprinkle at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 J.L. Cooperstein & J.C.A. Sprinkle

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Maps

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Authors

Acknowledgments

The authors would like to thank their friends, foes, wives, and lovers for their undying support and/or antagonism. Thanks also to Smashwords, for providing such an accessible platform. They would like to extend a special thanks, in no particular order, to Alex, Mitchell, Stephanie, Elijah, and Art.

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Prologue

Once, the night sky was lit with the fire of billions of stars. Gods and devils strode across the sky, making a home out of every light, giving them names and meaning. These gods reached into the universe and brought into existence anything they desired. Over unknowable æons, the lights of space sputtered and died until only a few remained, their light cascading out into the void, and those who told the story of the sky, too, fell silent, until the universe could no longer bear the quiet. Deep within the sun, a great force stirred and grew until the Architects emerged from its boiling surface and surveyed the empty sky and the depth of the silence. Ariyeh, the great Titan, and Netasse, warrior of the deep, saw the rubble that remained of the kingdom of the old gods, and from those ruins they forged a marvelous world. They carved into its surface the intricate patterns of rivers, dug great deep oceans, pulled high mountains out of the earth, and sowed forests of incomparable beauty. They found the work unfulfilling, and so they returned to the sun to summon many followers, who made the world into a work of art.

But this paradise was not made to satisfy gods, and so the Architects placed it into the hands of Humanity. They grew and learned the ways of the world, and fell to love Ariyeh above Netasse, for she was kind and forthright, while Netasse was tainted with pride. So too was he clever, and he sought to supplant Ariyeh as the beloved guide to the people of his world. He went among the people and chose those whom he could manipulate, raised them up like unto gods themselves, and brought his army against the Titan. The clash reshaped the world; great powers were unleashed that had never been seen, and the Men of the earth suffered greatly for it. In the aftermath, Ariyeh stood victorious. The god-pretenders of Netasse were slain and the few survivors of the war came together on the newly risen continent Mirantar to rebuild. In the shadow of such a great disaster, they carried on, building up cities and clearing roads, delving mines and planting farms, and eventually forgetting the devastation. Before long, the Men of Mirantar were fighting wars of their own, petty compared to the great War of the Angels but real enough for those caught in the midst.

Centuries passed, and then millennia, and the lands of Mirantar became crowded and the people hungry. Pioneers turned to Sha-nundë, the great eastern sea, with curious and hungry eyes. Mariners and shipbuilders set their thinking toward crossing the insurmountable waste, and eventually discovered a fresh continent with broad, empty coasts. They called it the New World.

Those who already lived there called it Relathor.

Soon, Sha-nundë was dotted with the great sails of merchant ships, bloated wooden vessels carrying new colonists seeking the wealth of the New World. Some, though, had a different purpose. They sought adventure. Discovery.

Chapter 1

On the deck of a trim, seaworthy merchant-ship, there stood an adventurer. His name, he said, was Zorin Fairwaithe. He was young, perhaps twenty winters, and his eyes twinkled with a naïve glint. He had not yet learned to be jaded, as so many do.

Perhaps, his caretaker thought, he never will.

She watched him from the shelter of her cabin. It was only raining lightly, but her old joints ached in the humidity, and she preferred not to aggravate them.

Her charge gazed across the sea. The horizon was broad and flat, with no islands near enough to see. The sun was setting beautifully, a cascade of oranges, salmons, and reds crawling across the sky and peering through gaps in the rainclouds, but Zorin had this spectacle at his back. He stared ahead, toward the distant New World.

What does he hope to find? she mused, and stretched her joints. Zorin continued his vigilance. Her handsome young ward. Goddess, he was so small when she first took him in.

Moriah Eisander, the elderly pastor to House Fairwaithe, stepped away from her door, forcing it shut in its water-warped frame. She wrung her hands and walked to the center of the small cabin, where there lay a small ragged rug. Gingerly, she sat down into a meditative lotus and began to stretch. Her focus shifted inward as she spent several minutes in a variety of poses meant to strengthen the body and open the spirit. Suitably relaxed, she began to pray silently. The rain outside intensified. Despite the discomfort it often brought, Moriah always found peace in the sound of rain, whether it was a light dribbling or a heavy downpour; whether it fell on the leaves of trees or a solid roof above her head, the persistent percussion from the clouds always told an ageless, beautiful story. Her ancestors heard the same beat, and her descendants would, as well. It was like falling into a well of time, being joined with all who had ever lived; all who ever would.

She lost herself to the meditation. Some time later, Zorin returned to their cabin. He forced open the ill-fitted door but stepped more carefully when he saw his mentor lost in thought. It was too late, though: the noise brought her back to the present. She looked over her charge. He was becoming a handsome fellow, having shirked the awkwardness of early adolescence in favor of a sure step, a square jaw, and a sparkling blue-eyed stare framed by an oft-cocked eyebrow and close-cut blond hair. This journey was for him. Although raised in the house of Fairwaithe, Zorin was not of their blood and therefore felt out of place with the bloodsons of the house. He had always been more comfortable with the peasantry: the servants of the manor, the bards of the house, and the guardsmen who taught him to use the smallsword currently tucked away in their baggage. With the blessing of his Lord and under Moriah's caring eye, he had been granted a leave to see the world and find his place in it.

Has the rain finally gotten to you? she asked, amused. His coat, his hair, his underclothes—all soaked, dripping on the floor. He smiled.

It got a little chilly, that's all. The Captain came by and spoke with me for a bit. Zorin had shown some interest, although not much skill, in nautical matters, and had quickly befriended the crew to learn more. He spotted another ship traveling close to us. Might be headed to the same port.

Moriah rose from her meditative pose and sat on her cot. You saw it?

He nodded. It's smaller than ours. Probably not a cargo ship, he said. He thinks it's a scout vessel for the Fleet. He removed his coat and began to wring out his sleeves, squeezing more water onto the deck. Changing tracks, he asked, Have you seen the other passengers?

Moriah shook her head. I've mostly been in the cabin, dear.

Now a little drier, Zorin sat himself upon his own cot, drawing a small leather-bound journal from his luggage and flipping it open. They're both from the west, though I don't think they know each other. One of them—big guy, I think he might be a priest or something—he's Cormari. I've only heard the silly stories Dylan used to tell about Cormar. Moriah cringed at the name.

Well, did our fellow passenger clarify anything for you?

Zorin, flipping through the journal, shook his head. He wasn't very talkative. I guess I'll just have to find his interests and get him going.

There was a general cry overhead, the padding of bare feet, and the timbers creaked as the ship went about. Zorin barely noticed and wouldn't have known what it meant if he had. Moriah's honed senses told her that they had tacked—brought the bow of the ship through the wind to change direction. There was no reason for this, since they were on a steady course to the east, unless . . . She stood and went for her coat.

You said there were two?

Zorin glanced up from his journal. Hm? Oh, yes. The crew mentioned another, but he apparently gets seasick. Hasn't left his cabin. Moriah shrugged her coat over her shoulders and pulled the hood over her head before prying open the door.

I'll be back.

*

Zorin murmured something to let Moriah know he'd heard her, but his attention was fully absorbed by the journal. The worn leather binding and dry yellow pages were as familiar to Zorin's barely calloused fingers as a mother's touch should be. The journal was older than he was, and it was not—as Moriah had been led to believe—a repository for his own thoughts. It was written in a language many could not read, in a script older than memory.

It had been his mother's, the only artifact of her life Zorin retained. She had been a great scholar, ostracized because of her studies. All his life, Zorin had studied her journal, prying at the ancient secrets, but his success had been limited. With the exception of a few old tomes around the manor, he had no way to learn the old arcane script, and less opportunity to apply what little he had gleaned.

She had been murdered because of this book, and Zorin ached to know why, what knowledge had damned her to a death at the stake.

*

Moriah found the crew busy on the deck. Some were laying boarding pikes along the gunwales, others aloft in the rigging waiting to set or take in sail, and below she could hear the ponderous turning of grindstones and the sharpening of axes, knives, and swords. There were some men in the tops looking to their pitifully few muskets, and there was a group in the forepeak working on a strange item. It appeared to be a piece of sailcloth that they were stretching across a wooden framework lashed together piecemeal. The young Captain Taylor stepped from station to station, delivering orders to the crew in a calm but firm bass. The elderly pastor's eyes were still sharp, and she spotted the dirty white flecks of the other vessel's sails in the deepening gloom. It was some distance away, but clearly traveling to intercept.

Captain Taylor. My charge informed me there's another ship in our waters.

The captain looked at her, irritated by her sudden appearance and intrusion into his preparations. He shouted orders to a man in the foretop and then turned to her. Yes, ma'am, he said somewhat coldly. A neutral ship, and of no concern to us. Now pray go below until this dirty weather passes.

Captain, I am no fool. That ship is bearing down on us awfully fast, it has taken the weather gauge, and it is flying no colors. I know the reputation of these waters.

Taylor stopped and turned to her. He sighed. Madam . . . .

Eisander.

Madam Eisander, you can clearly see that we are in distress. You should also see that I am doing all that I and my crew can to keep us safe. Now if you please, I would like you to go below in case we do have trouble soon.

I can't speak for the rest of the passengers, sir, but I embarked on this journey expecting trouble. I didn't get to this age by hiding in cabins—my boy and I are both armed, and ready to defend this ship.

He looked her over. The diminutive elder stared back at him. Her piercing green eyes were unblinking and her wrinkled hands did not shake. The coat she wore was road-worn, covered in scratches and what looked like burn marks. Her unbound grey hair, now dampened, brushed her shoulders.

You say you're armed? We've no spares. A nod. All right, then, go get the boy and meet us back on deck. She nodded again and returned to the cabin, where Zorin had lit a lantern to read by.

Zorin, put down your book and get dressed. That adventure you were looking for has come knocking. She did not give him time to turn his puzzled frown into a question. Moriah began pulling her luggage out from under her bed as she explained. We've got a corsair ship looking to overtake us. When they catch us they will board the ship, at which point we'll be expected to drop everything, bend over, and let them take anything of value, and then more than likely we will be executed.

A pile of bags filled with clothing, camping supplies, and food had appeared behind her, and she finally found what she was searching for: a long leather case. She undid the latches and carefully opened the container, removing the old crossbow. It was worn smooth from decades of use, but the craftsmanship was undeniable: this particular weapon was worth more than some manors. As she busied herself preparing the string and quarrels, Zorin found his smallsword and belted it to his hip. He examined the flintlock pistol left to him by the old guard captain, considering the rain outside.

Take it. If you keep the cartridges covered, that pipe might save your life. The young man followed the advice, strapping the pistol to his waist along with the six shots his license permitted. He turned toward the door and began to make his way out.

Wait. He stopped. Zorin, listen to me. You do well against the guards. Our boarders are not friends. They will not hold back when you're off balance, they will not yield when you score on them. You must do the same; I didn't pack up and leave the sanctuary so I could watch you die on the first leg of our journey. He nodded. One more thing. Go find the other passengers and let them know what's going on.

The ship's crew were arrayed for battle, armed with a variety of weapons. Those nearest the gunwales hefted pikes of various lengths, capped with iron barbs. Others clutched hatchets, knives, short swords, clubs, belaying pins—at least one crewmember wielded a broomhandle. In the mix were only a few rifles.

The other half of the crew were either in the tops or near their assigned rope, ready to maneuver the ship at a moment's notice. There was a set of men near the stern of the vessel with the strange contraption she had seen them working on before. She looked long at the construct but could not determine its function.

It wasn't long before the corsair made the decision to join battle. The clipper let the wind fill its sails and charged headlong at the much slower cargo vessel. The rain had eased off, though the night was still foul, the seas turbulent. The Margaret was on the larboard tack, racing southeast as fast as ever she could fly, and her captain was staring over the stern-rail at the rapidly-advancing ship.

Osprey, muttered one of the sailors, like a man facing his death.

Silence fore and aft! called Captain Taylor; and a moment later: Hands to the braces, wear ship. Port your helm. Mr. Lockney. The oldest sailor amongst the group at the stern nodded and replied, Aye, sir, and they lowered the contraption into the sea. There was a shudder as it entered the water and the ship's way was checked, and the ship turned with almost alarming rapidity, passing its stern through the eye of the wind and bringing it upon the starboard tack once again. The sea-anchor was once again lifted, and they raced northward past the astonished corsairs.

The Margaret's crew cheered as she gathered headway and the sea-spray washed up over the chains. Silence, there! called Captain Taylor. To your stations, and silently. This is not a god-damned fairground.

The men rushed back to their stations, helped in their urgency with the growing of the Osprey's bow-wave as she was finally brought about. The chase lasted another half-hour as the two ships piled on sail and the captains attempted to anticipate each other's movements. The fatal mistake came when Captain Taylor tried once again to tack to the south-east. The corsair anticipated it this time and maneuvered to intercept. At the same time, the wind freshened as they returned to the larboard tack and carried away the foretopsail and its yard, wrenching the mast and causing havoc among the rigging. The predator closed immediately for the kill.

The Corsair’s mounted swivel guns belched flame and grape-shot tore through the crew. Two men fell dead, their heads broken open, and one man's arm fell apart at the elbow. A block disintegrated and the backstay parted, leveling a row of sailors and causing the mainmast to creak ominously. The pirates were reloading their swivel guns and closing fast.

Flechettes sailed through the air, tearing into sails and rigging, embedding themselves into masts and deck, and perforating crewmen. The mizzenmast went by the board with a crash, the shrouds severed by another volley of grape from a very zealous pirate gunman. The invading crew grappled the ships together and began to make their way across. There was a crunch as the two hulls met, and the pirates lashed the railings and the yards together. The crew fought valiantly, meeting the boarders at the rails, piercing them with their pikes and hacking them with their axes, but they were outnumbered and outgunned. The crackle of gunfire and the smell of burnt powder filled the air.

Moriah launched a bolt into the fray. Her dart caught one of the pirates in the shoulder, spinning him around and forcing his weapon from his hand. She dropped the front of her crossbow to the ground and began loading up another bolt. Zorin stood nearby, blade readied. As one of the attackers advanced, the young lad bravely stepped forward, engaging the foe while his caretaker rearmed her bow. His footwork was graceful, and he made his blade dance with precision, but he had never killed before. The same was clearly untrue of his opponent, who made vicious swings with his axe and fought with a rage in his eyes. He sensed Zorin's uncertainty and carried on with ever greater ferocity, pushing the youngster back until his backside was pressed against the mainmast, barely deflecting each enraged swing.

Moriah's hands fumbled with her new quarrel. Damn it all, it's been too long! Frustrated, she flipped her crossbow, hefting it like a club, and struck the man behind the knee, forcing him to the ground. Now with the upper hand, she brought the butt of the bow down on him repeatedly, beating his head and shoulders until blood poured and screams ceased. She looked up to see Zorin's shocked face, but there was no time to talk—their crew was quickly being overwhelmed. The smaller clipper had been over-crewed, and each crewmember was a fighter; theirs was a commercial vessel with but a few merchant sailors to defend her. The young Captain Taylor lay bleeding on the deck, and the bosun rushed to the flagstaff to raise the white flag. There were some conventions honored even by pirates, and following a series of commands barked out by their captain, the pirate crew ceased their savagery. Moriah stashed her prized crossbow beneath a pile of ropes and did her best to look meek, but the closest she could get was a sort of haughty passivity. Zorin followed her lead, hiding his flintlock in his coat and scooping his sword beneath the same ropes as the victors rounded up the survivors. Despite the amicable surrender, Moriah knew they were far from safe. Each defender was given a cursory search and relieved of any obvious weapons, and then the pirate captain addressed them.

Among the dozen or so survivors, Moriah identified the other two passengers: one a tall Cormari mountain man whose ceremonial club had brained more than one pirate, and the other a lithe nomad from the far western deserts. His dark skin and bald head were framed by the simple garb of a monk, and Moriah had seen him take down more than one boarder with his bare hands.

The captain stood before them, sword and pistol by his side. The way he smugly considered the survivors and the casual lay of his hand on his hip, thumb tucked into the belt, said that he could swiftly draw the weapons if he needed them. He stood on a level with Moriah, which meant he was a head or two beneath the rest of the crew, and he was wearing a big hat. Captains, Moriah mused, always seem fond of big hats.

Well. He began to pace before them. You should be proud of yourselves. My crew is less at least twelve men. He stopped in front of Taylor's first mate and leaned in. That's more than most can boast. He cackled at his inane rhyme.

Two of his crew stepped forward from the crowd, dragging the body of the poor Captain Taylor, who—though grievously wounded—seemed to still be clinging to life. His cheerful face had gone pale and his eyes were unfocused, but he still struggled weakly against his captors.

The pirate captain turned, leaned in, and whispered something to Taylor before turning again to address the survivors.

How many of you know my face? My reputation? The passengers stared on, bewildered, but each of Taylor's crew made commotion to indicate that, indeed, they knew this man.

How many of you know what . . . Captain Taylor has done to deserve this today? You! To Taylor's first mate. Enlighten us. The mate began to gibber, attempting to cobble together a response, but the little man in the big hat had less patience. The crack of his flintlock hurling a ball of metal into the unfortunate sailor's skull rang out before Moriah even realized he had drawn. Too slow. Doesn't matter.

As the captain rambled on, Zorin feigned an injury so he could lean down to Moriah's level and whisper, He seems a bit unstable, Iosi.

Moriah barely contained a derisive snort. Play cool. We may yet be able to get out of this.

Ultimately, the captain grew tired of his show. He had yet to elaborate on what wrong the young Taylor had done him, but he seemed uninterested in sating the curiosity of the four clueless passengers. In a fit, he hoisted Taylor by the collars of his shirt and dragged him, squirming, to the edge of the ship, spat in his face, and flipped him over the edge. The splash was almost drowned out by the captain's self-satisfied guffawing.

I need sailors! To the survivors: Which of you can sail? Who wants to live another day and work my mighty ship? The remaining crew, clearly cursed with unwavering loyalty to Captain Taylor, began calling out their skills. I can read the wind like the back of my hand! My knots are the surest you'll find on this sea! I can take lunars and read the stars like a right sage—never been lost in me life! I got the keenest eyes in four oceans!

The captain addressed the four passengers, who had kept their peace. You four! No idea how to sail a ship? At their cautiously negative reactions, he grinned. Good! To the crew: Come on! Stand over here so you can be counted! They rushed to the indicated spot, the relief on their faces as clear as glass. This lasted as long as it took them to realize the nature of this man's madness. A quick gesture to his crew and the pirates fell on the eager volunteers, hacking and cutting and beating them until little remained but ragged, bloody chunks of men.

Zorin. Moriah's whisper was tinged with the barest hint of fear. I'm sorry. I think I was wrong.

It's all right, Iosi. I've got an idea. Moriah saw him eying the rigging intently, and hissed, Zorin. Whatever you're thinking, please don't do it. This is really not the time for an acrobatic display.

The captain, after muttering inaudibly to himself for a few moments, approached the four remaining survivors—the paying passengers of this merchant vessel. Moriah began whispering under her breath.

For you, I have a gift! He took a step backward and raised his hands, indicating the deck of the ship. It's a fine ship. Just a few scratches, nothing you can't patch up! Another gesture sent his crew scurrying back across the grapple lines, and they set about disentangling the two vessels. May the good goddess Ariyeh be kinder to you than she was to Captain Taylor! One final gesture to the few members of his crew still onboard. They lit oil-soaked torches and set fire to the mainmast. The flames licked at the sails, enveloped the bodies, and began to settle in to the old boards on the deck. With the sun resting below the horizon, and the moon a faint sliver of its full self, these flickering fires served as the only illumination of the pirate ship as it faded away into the night like a phantom.

Chapter 2

Zorin was entranced with the flickering flames, but only for as long as it took the desert monk to set about issuing commands in a soft, rumbling bass.

We can save this ship, if we work quickly. The mainmast needs to be cut away before the fire spreads to the deck.

Zorin stared at the tottering post, unsure of how to proceed. The mountain man tossed a hatchet to the young adventurer, and with a shrug, Zorin began to hack at the mast itself. He was peripherally aware of the monk and Moriah working to detach the starboard shrouds. Each swing of the bloody hatchet ended with a very satisfying thunk and a chunk of wood flying away. The flames climbing the mast and engulfing the sail made it difficult to breathe, but Zorin kept swinging. He knew very little about ships, but he understood one very important thing: ashes don't float.

As he hacked away steadily at the thick trunk, he suddenly heard an ominous creak above. A tangle of flaming ropes parted high above him and the massive mainyard—the heavy spar from which flaming strips of the mainsail hung—fell violently toward the deck. Zorin barely threw himself out from under in time; but as the spar crashed against the deck, sparks flew up and the impact flung Zorin on his back. Dark squiggles squirmed at the edges of his vision and the world became an indecipherable blur. After some time—could be seconds, could be minutes, he wasn't sure—he refocused. The tottering mast, no longer supported by its shrouds, leaned slowly to port. It creaked and moaned, before finally splitting from Zorin's point of attack and falling to the deck. Unbalanced by ropes and sails, its top dragged it into the sea and off the deck. From there, the rest of the fires were easy enough to put out.

A hand reached down before Zorin, which he gratefully took to leverage himself back to a standing position. The hand belonged to the dark-skinned monk, who looked at Zorin—at everything, it seemed—with an impassive, stoic expression.

For someone who doesn't know anything about boats, you sure had an eye for which ropes to pull, said Zorin.

The monk cocked his head. I lied. And this is a ship, not a boat.

Zorin furrowed his brow at the pedantic distinction, then turned his grasp on the monk's hand to a firm handshake. Zorin Fairwaithe, at your service.

Artheriuren. Right. The name sounded like it came from an old Mirantine dialect, but foreign names were not Zorin's strength. Art would do fine. I'm happy you knew how to keep our ship from lighting up, but without that sail, how are we going to get to land?

Moriah, having dug her crossbow and Zorin's blade out of their hiding places, approached and introduced herself. Artheriuren? Named for the river Afreyen, or the ancient Desert Wind?

Art seemed surprised. Not many Easters know of the Desert Wind. The warlord was ancient history from a foreign land.

I traveled a bit, in my youth. Moriah Eisander of house Fairwaithe, lords of High Point. The monk did not react. Well. We'll have plenty of time to become acquainted, this hulk won't see land for a week at least.

The fourth traveler, having caught his breath, approached. Maybe these specimens are exemplary, Zorin thought, but Westerners were a big people. The shaman beat Zorin by a head, and the nobleman was no runt. The lands behind the Cormari border encompassed everything from desert to prairie, mountain and valley. This man had the look of a fellow who could till a field in his sleep, and he looked upon the world with a quiet wisdom.

It seems I will have to wait even longer to feel solid ground beneath my boots. Art began to pace the deck, surveying the damage, while the shaman introduced himself. Bragóc Tégren. I read the stones for the Nathum-dra of the mountains below Cormar.

Convinced that the ship would not spontaneously sink or reignite, Art suggested that they sleep through the rest of the night and take stock of the situation in the