Paradigm: A Novel

By Elijah Quinn Carlson

Who do you trust in a country ripping apart at the seams, with two species at war?

What do you fight for when granted a power unmatched?

Who do you turn to to save what little you have left?

Five unique lives will intersect, and in the end, you will have to make a decision:

Save everything that you know

Or save yourself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491741030

Elijah Quinn Carlson

Elijah Quinn Carlson wrote his first book in second grade and has been reading and writing ever since. He wrote Paradigm, his first novel, in his final year of high school as a senior project. He lives in Spencer, Indiana.

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PARADIGM

A NOVEL

ELIJAH QUINN CARLSON

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PARADIGM

A NOVEL

Copyright © 2014 Elijah Quinn Carlson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse LLC

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4102-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4103-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014912435

iUniverse rev. date: 09/15/2014

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

PART 1 GENESIS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

PART 2 THE PURSUIT

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

PART 3 PARADIGM

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Codex

About The Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to Ryan and Hope East, my editor and encourager, respectively, Kelli Maxwell, who was an invaluable help with publishing, Will Parmenter and Ashley VanArsdale for their edits, refinements, and visual contributions, and everyone else who helped make Paradigm a reality.

I want to thank all my friends and family who encouraged and supported me through the lengthy writing, editing, and publishing process, plus those who bugged me to get it finished (you know who you are!).

I’d like to thank the late Brian Jacques, whose books inspired me to begin writing and took me on wonderful adventures with his colorful and memorable characters.

And finally, a huge thanks to all of my teachers who kept me learning, especially my English and foreign language teachers, without whom both languages in this book (English and Wyntish) would be a mess, if they had even been written in the first place!

To you, the reader,

the director of your mind’s eye.

Without you, this world would have no feeling;

The characters no face and no voice;

The words would be nothing more than ink on paper.

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PART 1

GENESIS

The man awoke with a violent cough, spouting a mist of water that had collected in his mouth. Rain drove into his eyes, falling from the night sky, the bright moon barely breaking through a thick layer of black clouds. He blinked away the moisture, yet it returned within seconds, and as he tried to sit up, he flinched and cried out in pain. Gasping and laying flat, he raised his head to find he was covered in blood. The darkest blood and the greatest pain came from his abdomen. My blood, he thought.

Slowly, he rolled onto his stomach. Pain flared through his legs and his chest as he lay on the cold, wet ground. The dirt was hard-packed, as if compressed from years of traffic. Wait. This isn’t dirt; it’s stone. This is a road. He ran his hand over the tough granite blocks.

He sat up slowly, managing to keep the pain at bay. Squinting ahead through the darkness and the rain, he saw nothing but trees.

Where… he managed before he began to cough uncontrollably, launching his body into violent spasms. When it subsided, he wiped the back of his hand on his mouth, and it came back bloody. As the blood dripped off, scrubbed clean by the rain, he noticed his right arm was covered in a large, flowing tattoo that spiraled around his forearm from his wrist to his elbow. From there, he studied the rest of himself. He had average, yet strong-looking limbs, long and tanned. He wore a dull grey cloak that was nearly ripped to shreds, and both his feet were bare.

It was then that he realized he had no idea of who he was or where he now sat. Only one way to find out, he thought grimly.

He finally managed to stand up, although he was nearly doubled over from the pain in his chest. Without a second thought, he stumbled forward into the night, a steady downpour still falling. After a few minutes of slow limping, he managed to straighten up, an ember of pain still burning, and paused to observe his surroundings. Although the darkness impaired his vision, along with the driving rain, he could make out dark trees with droopy branches and needles that exuded a pine-like scent.

The only sign of civilization so far had been the road; as the man stepped forward into a small clearing, a feral growl reached his ears and he froze. The full moon cast a dim light onto the dark eyes of a wolf not two feet from him. He eased out of his half-step and tensed his body, raising his hands, as the wolf began to circle him. Its growl became a quiet purr, and the man had trouble keeping track of it; the moon barely shone through the dark clouds, providing minimal but adequate vision. The wolf’s fur shimmered with rainwater; it prowled with slow, powerful steps and let loose a snarl that rumbled from a primordial depth.

As fast as lightning, the animal leaped at him. The man ducked and grabbed the wolf, hurling it over himself. The animal twisted in midair, trying to land on its paws, but instead slammed into the hard stone with a yelp. The man was on it quickly, pounding the wolf’s face over and over. The beast bit his left forearm, sinking its long fangs deep into his flesh, and the man fell back yelling, the wound on fire. The wolf quickly got to its feet and came low at him, as he swung his fist downward and caught it in the eye. The wolf barked in pain and stopped the assault momentarily; that was all the time the man needed. He leaped onto the animal, wrapping his legs around its body and forcing it to the ground. He grabbed its head, his hands grasping its skull and jaw, and twisted, breaking the wolf’s neck with a resounding crack.

The man dropped the carcass and stumbled back, surprised by his own strength. Resisting the urge to retch, he held his stomach and grimaced in pain, surveying the damage done. The bite on his arm was beginning to bleed freely. I need to stop the blood flow. He stared blankly at his arm for a few seconds before his brain began to work again. A tourniquet… I need to wrap my arm up. Using the sleeve from his cloak and a stick at his feet, he made a simple bandage, which managed to slow most of the blood loss from his arm, but he was already starting to feel light-headed. The man stumbled forward down the road, having no other place to go. The rain eased, and a light mist fell on him through the trees, cool and damp against his burning skin. Adrenaline and blood loss were beginning to take their toll, and stars burst in his vision.

After what felt like an agonizing eternity of stumbling through the rain, the tourniquet began to loosen, and he encountered a fresh wave of nausea and dizziness. He coughed softly, his throat burning, and he swallowed with difficulty. The bandage fell to the ground, and he stared deliriously at the ragged flesh. He fell to one knee as he began to gasp for air. I… just need to rest for a bit… I just need to lie down for a few minutes…. The man fell to the ground, but as his mind drifted away, he heard something: a hum, low and steady, and then a voice. He couldn’t understand; everything was muffled. He thought he saw a shimmer in the air, but his mind must have been playing feverish tricks on him. He slipped into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER 1

The man awoke with deep breaths and blurred vision. He blinked slowly, his vision gradually sharpening along with his consciousness. Sitting up, he saw that he was in a bed, and dressed in a soft cotton robe. The wounds on his arms were still visible, but they were now only terrible and sore scars.

He was in a room built of dark brown wood, and a black thatched ceiling. His bed was high off the floor, and a simple dresser and table with a mirror sat adjacent to it. Slowly, the man climbed out of bed and went to inspect himself, his bare feet noiselessly crossing the dusty wood floor. Gazing into the old mirror, he saw that he had tanned skin, with bluish-green eyes and long, thick brown hair that flared slightly at the ends. A face with a round jaw and a strong brow complimented his appearance, along with a number of scars and bruises all over.

As he delicately felt his wounds he heard someone approach from outside. The door opened, and a stranger entered; he was very thin, with wispy black hair and small spectacles sitting upon a round nose. He wore a loose black shirt and an apron, and was in the process of cleaning a cup with a dishrag. A bartender.

So, the stranger said with a slightly nasally voice, looking the man up and down. You’re finally awake.

‘Finally?’ How long was I asleep? the man said. And who are you? How did you find me?

The bartender set the cup on the table and crossed his arms. First question: nearly three days. You gave me quite a scare, he said. I was beginning to think your wounds had gotten the better of you. Second: my name’s Navan. Third: I was actually returning from Rain Grove. I was riding pretty briskly; you were so hard to see I nearly trampled you! Navan then nodded towards the tattoo on the man’s right arm. And are you trying to get caught? The Liberators see even an inch of that, and you’ll be in prison for months. At least.

The man studied the tattoo, which seemed to have more detail than when he had first seen it. The designs almost seemed to curl in on themselves, like a wave in water, encircling his arm three times, starting from the side of his elbow and ending on the top of his wrist. What is it?

Navan gave a soft chuckle as he opened the dresser. Had a little too much to drink lately? Been sneaking out of the room when I’m not watching? The bartender turned, grinning, but when he saw the man’s blank face, he became serious again.

You really don’t know? he asked. The brand of the wynt? He paused, looking the man in the eye. You a sympathizer? I mean, I don’t have anything against them, he said quietly.

Well, the man began. I… His brow lowered, and he paused for several seconds. I don’t know who I am.

Navan’s eyes narrowed. An amnesiac, eh? Your condition has always fascinated me, he mumbled to himself, then shook his head. Never mind, I’m rambling. He scratched his chin. You know, he continued. I could suggest a name for you, if you wouldn’t mind.

The man smiled. That would be fine. I probably wouldn’t be able to think of one myself, he said.

You remind me of my cousin from Stonefalls. You could go by Roark.

The man stood and clapped Navan on the shoulder. Roark it is, then! he said with a grin.

You’ll take it? Really? said the bartender.

Sure, until I find my real name. Though I might keep it anyway- it’s a fine name! Roark laughed. By the way, where am I?

Navan returned Roark’s friendly grasp. You reside in the Drunken Tankard, the finest tavern in the majestically dreary city of Darkwood, my friend! With that, he gave a flourishing bow and left the room. Roark stretched and studied his brand. It began to feel warm, and, overcome with dizziness, he sat down on the bed. As hard as he strained his mind, his own identity was frustratingly out of reach.

A few minutes later, Navan returned with a pair of large leather bracers. I remembered I had these stowed away in a cupboard somewhere. I figured you’d have much more use for them than I would.

Roark fastened them on. They were made of expertly tanned leather, and would likely have gotten a fair price at market. The one on his right arm covered his brand almost completely, but he looked a bit odd wearing armor when he didn’t wield a weapon. Navan seemed to notice this as well.

I’d give you a weapon if I had one, but sadly I haven’t lifted, much less owned, a sword since I was in the Battle of Lake Fell, ten years ago. I couldn’t bring myself to fight at all after that, he said.

Suddenly, Roark grabbed his arm in agony, gasping through his teeth. His brand felt like it was on fire, and needles of agony jabbed it from every angle. His fingers curled in pain, making a tight fist.

Roark? You alright? asked Navan, grabbing Roark’s shoulders.

Roark almost cried out from the pain. My arm! he gasped.

Navan could do nothing but wait until the pain had dissipated. Roark shook his head in frustration. If only I could remember something!

I promise you we’ll get your memory back, Navan said as he helped Roark to his feet. Now come on, I’m sure you’re hungry.

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Roark stepped out onto the wide main street of the city with a much fuller stomach. Looking to his right, the city wall, a somber monolith formed from hundreds of heavy tree trunks tied together with thick rope, curved gradually around Darkwood. To his left, the street went further into the city, where smoke curled from the chimneys of houses and larger buildings. The name of the city was instantly explained, as every building that Roark could see was made of an incredibly dark brown timber that looked rich and solid. The city was, in fact, darker because of it, as the little sunlight that shone did not reflect off of the wood like it did on stone, instead being dismally absorbed.

A light rain fell on Roark as he started down the street, heading left, hoping to find a suitable smith for weapons. Roark was taller than most of the people that he passed, who kept their heads bent down, both to avoid the rain and to avoid making eye contact with the tall stranger. Many looked miserable and exhausted, as though the city itself imposed a spirit of bleakness upon the residents. Everyone wore long cloaks that shimmered slightly, and appeared to be water resistant. Most cloaks were dark colors, black or grey, though a few other hues were visible. Most wore boots, as well, to counter the mud that covered the streets.

Along both sides of the street, colorful booths starkly contrasted with the buildings, as vendors called out prices to every passerby. A wide variety of game, including birds, deer, and many species Roark couldn’t recall hung from racks, and smells as diverse as the colors of the booths mingled with each other to create a chaotic yet pleasant atmosphere. As he got near the end of the street, he spied a building with a sign bearing a hammer and anvil.

He entered the smith and found himself in a room with a high ceiling, and walls covered in stuffed animal heads. A large, decorative chandelier hung low, casting dull yellow light on the mounted trophies. Roark walked up to the counter to find it abandoned. Muffled shouts reached his ears through a cracked door behind it.

You need to hit with more force, from your arm, not your wrist. Get the blade thinner than that. No, no, that edge is sloppy. See how it isn’t totally flat? Turn and hit it at this angle. No, like…

The fast pounding of a hammer could be heard as the apprentice tried to salvage the blade. A weathered old man stepped out from the doorway, smoothing his hair back, with an exasperated look on his face.

I assume you’re here for a sword? he asked.

Roark nodded. Yeah, I was wondering if…

Sorry. We don’t have anything. The Liberators decided to relieve me of all my weapons, he said. And by the way things have been going, it’ll take forever to get my collection back up.

Roark frowned. Are these ‘Liberators’ still here?

The smith nodded. They only left about five minutes ago. Don’t know why you’d want to deal with them, though.

Roark thanked him and left the smith, walking back toward the Drunken Tankard at a brisk pace. The rain had eased significantly, but people in the street still kept their heads down. Roark arrived at the tavern just in time to see someone get thrown out onto the street. It was Navan.

Roark was about to help him up when a man came striding out onto the street. He was tall, slim, and hawk-like, with high cheekbones, pale skin, and long black hair. His face had a permanent sneer written across it, and he had flat blue eyes. He wore an impressive suit of leather and light chain mail armor, and had a flowing crimson cape, which swept back to reveal a sword sitting in a black leather scabbard, hanging from the right side of his hip.

Liar! he spat. You pay us or your sorry excuse for a tavern belongs to The Order!

He kicked Navan in the side. I paid the tax! the bartender growled though his teeth. Or have you already forgotten?

A crowd had gathered to watch the scene unfold, and Roark slowly worked his way through it. As the man began to wind up for a hard kick, Roark spoke up.

Hey! he shouted.

Navan’s assailant paused. Turning slowly, he began to speak when Roark hit him in the face. He fell back, his red cape ruined as he splatted into the mud, and the crowd let out an audible gasp. Two similarly dressed men, lacking capes, moved to restrain Roark. He resisted, sending his elbow to one’s jaw, and his fist to the other’s nose. They stumbled back to where they had started, this time with sore faces and wounded pride.

The man Roark had knocked into the mud struggled to stand up, wiping mud off of himself and glaring at Roark with a look of pure astonishment.

Do you know who I am? Imbecile… he muttered, his left hand going to the hilt of his sword and his right hand clutching an almost-broken nose. "I can- should- have you thrown in jail for years for that."

Roark stared defiantly back. I don’t care who you are. I do care how you treat my friends, though, he said.

The man appeared as though he was contemplating on how he should run Roark through with his sword. Instead, he smirked slightly and asked, And who might you be, peasant? What miserable city do you hail from?

Roark, of… His mind raced. Stonefalls.

Is that so? the man said, and he glanced at Roark’s right arm. My name is Captain Kesch, the leader of the Liberators of Darkwood, he continued, as he slowly turned his eyes back to Roark’s. I suppose that because you are a stranger here, and because I am merciful, I will let you live. However…