Song of Simon

By C.A. Sanders

The award-winning debut fantasy from C.A. Sanders is back!

 

Life was never sweet for Simon Kale. He lived in suburban New York, dodging high school bullies and strumming his guitar. Things were about to get much worse.

Simon is drawn into the land of Algavar, where High Priestess Teretha has imprisoned their god in amber. He falls into a holy war led by Ilyana, a renegade priestess who claims to be the Messiah. Simon agrees to accompany Ilyana on a quest to kill Teretha, and he sinks hip deep into the violence and despair that permeates Algavar.

Will Simon become the hero Ilyana believes he is, or will he lose his humanity in a bloody world so different from his own?

A novel that explores the nature of violence and the ways it affects different people, Song of Simon has won several awards, including the All Authors Certificate of Excellence and an Honorable Mention in the Steel Gauntlet Book of the Year Prize, 2013. It has also reached the Amazon Top Ten Best Sellers in the Dark Fantasy genre. Now in its third reprint, this is a novel that should not be missed

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.A. Sanders
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393253143

C.A. Sanders

C.A. Sanders is an author, journalist, and teacher. His debut novel, Song of Simon, was published in 2013. His latest release is Cold Iron: The Watchmage Chronicles, Book 2, based on the popular serial of the same name. C.A. has a BA in Creative Writing from SUNY New Paltz and an MA from The City College of New York. After graduating in '00, C.A. took on a variety of unique, interesting, and occasionally terrible jobs, in order to gain experience for his writing. C.A. has worked as a tarot reader, a writer/actor in a dinner theater, an ambush salesman, a non-profit solicitor, a Human Resources pencil pusher, a music journalist, a guitar instructor, a limo driver, and a Special Education teacher, to name just a few. He currently tutors and teaches creative writing. A native New Yorker, C.A. lives in the suburbs of NYC with a turtle, a life-long friend that he has had since he was five years old. He is patiently waiting for MetroNorth service in his area. C.A. is an unabashed geek and Dungeons & Dragons addict and member of the SCA. He is convinced that this is the year that the Jets win the Super Bowl...he says this every year.

Book preview

Cover art for Song of Simon by C.A. Sanders.

Song of Simon

By

C. A. Sanders

Credits Page

Damnation Books, LLC.

P.O. Box 3931

Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

www.damnationbooks.com

Song of Simon

by C. A. Sanders

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62929-043-0

Print ISBN: 978-1-62929-044-7

Cover art by: Dawné Dominique

Edited by: Kim Richards

Copyright 2013 C. A. Sanders

Printed in the United States of America

Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

Worldwide English Language Print Rights

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedication page

In the past year, I have lost the two most important women in my life.  This book is dedicated to my dear mother, Barbara Sanders, and my beloved girlfriend, Valerie Lewis.  I will love you both forever.

As you might expect, with a first

novel comes a long list of people to thank. 

First, I would like to thank my family, my Mom, Dad, and my brother Scott, for all of their love and support. 

Thank you to Profs. Tony Robinson and Larry Carr, for those first trembling steps as a writer. 

To Nicole, thank you for helping me flesh out the original idea, and for the baby dragon. 

To Shannon, thank you for cookies and critiques. 

To Mike and Michael, for looking at an early draft. 

To Jennifer, for hating the Ratlings. 

To Osvaldo, Sean, Ken, Jesse, and everyone I’ve ever dropped a 20 with. 

Most of all, to Valerie, for believing in Simon and for believing in me.

Prologue

The Great Horned Tower, City of Gil

Lightning flashed across the temple windows, leaving an ugly scar in the air that faded just as fast. The thunder was a belly groan from the earth that ached with the weight of a thousand dead men.

Lady Teretha, High Priestess of The Stag, Lord of the Forest, gently caressed the statue carved in her god’s image. She ran her hands lovingly over the antlers, the back, the powerful hind quarters. It was constructed completely out of amber, giving a translucent property to the entire piece. It was her finest work, a testament to her magical and artistic prowess.

She was a pretty woman of middle age, with honey brown hair who had never seen a blade. She kept her hair in several long braids wrapped artfully around her head and shoulders like latticework around a throne. At one point in her life Teretha was one of the most beautiful women in all of the Kingdom of Gil. Hers was the kind of beauty that stunned men at first sight, and loosened the seams of minds until they came apart in her presence. Her beauty was almost painful, like staring into the Sun. Now her sky blue eyes carried burdens hiding their former intensity.

Lord, forgive me for what I must do. Please, do not hate your servant.

Teretha gestured to her assistant, a strikingly pretty child of no more than ten. The child wore her hair much like Teretha’s, though it had not yet reached the length of the Lady’s. In one hand was a small gemstone, a tiger’s eye. In the other hand was a long leather thong that traveled into darkness.

The child raised the gemstone and it melted in her hand like wax. The former stone dripped down her arm and pooled in midair at her waist. The child closed her eyes tightly, and the melted stone undulated down the thong and into the darkness, wrapping itself around the black leather like a woman wrapping herself around her lover.

A bestial call from the darkness startled the girl, but she quickly regained her focus. A battle of wills was taking place. Salty sweat dripped down the girl’s forehead. She grunted with the effort and bit her lip.

Her efforts paid off. The thong slacked, and from the darkness came a huge Red Deer. The massive, 600-pound hart—the pinnacle of the species—shook his head back and forth, trying to resist the invisible pull. His antlers waved like a dozen iron knives.

The girl gave the leash and the liquefied stone to Lady Teretha, who thanked her. The child was crying.

Teretha turned to the deer. Come here, little one. The quarter-ton beast obeyed, walking up to her like a tamed hound. She patted him on the rump, noticing the perfect likeness between the live deer and the statue next to him.

Our people have grown fat and selfish, Teretha whispered to the deer. They use the power you give wantonly, selfishly, without due praise to you. They use it to kill each other. Teretha thought back to the great purge of last year. King Ellis dared to imprison, even kill, some of Teretha’s own priests for their caches of gemstones. To keep the Church under his thumb, that bastard king took their lives. This is not vengeance, milord. They are unholy. They do not deserve your blessings.

Lightning crashed again and the child huddled in a corner, sniffling and wiping back tears.

From her simple brown robes, Lady Teretha drew a knife of shimmering obsidian. It glowed, but did not lose its shape like the Tiger’s Eye.

Obsidian, the soul stone, Teretha thought. She opened her robe and drew the black blade across her breast, leaving the blade just underneath the wound to collect the blood now dripping down her body. She hissed with the pain, and her sight swam momentarily.

Blood magic. Normally Teretha would be disgusted at the thought. Blood was for the Wolves, and indeed, Teretha stole much of this spell from the Brotherhood of the Wolves, sworn enemies of the Stagmen. For a spell such as this, she needed more than just the Stag’s power.

Teretha disrobed completely and chanted. In the beginning, Man was made. Birthed in the waters of the Salmon. Weaned in the Eagle’s nest. Given life by the Stag. Given death by the Wolf.

The High Priestess took a deep breath and held tight the bloody knife. The wound on her breast burned like heartache.

Forgive me, she whispered. "Do not hate me for my love.

Lord of the Forest, in the name of the Four-fold pact, I bind you!

Teretha whirled and pulled the knife across the stag’s throat. Hot blood spurted across the priestess’s face and naked body. The creature tried to roar despite its slashed windpipe. It could only manage a piteous gurgle as it drowned on its own blood.

Lady Teretha pulled back on the deer’s neck, completely exposing the savage wound. She twisted towards the statue and washed it in the beast’s lifeblood.

I bind you!

With unfathomable strength, she pulled the corpse that it might cover the entire statue with blood.

I bind you!

In a dark corner, a small girl wept.

Rings of energy rolled from the statue, shaking the drab stone walls of the temple. Teretha collapsed in a heap and knew no more.

Many hours later, Teretha awoke. The child still huddled in a corner whimpering. The high priestess moved to comfort her, but halted, shocked at her naked body. Her skin hung loose from her arms and belly. Her breasts were flat and lifeless.

She raised her hands to her face and felt the wrinkles and hollow cheeks.

Teretha looked over at the statue. The amber shone through the blood, glowing from within. She felt the throbbing magic aura around the statue and it almost overwhelmed her. It was a perfect prison for her god.

All for you, she whispered. All for you.

Chapter One

I’ve done a lot of stupid things, but I think yesterday wins the cookie, Simon Kale thought. He plucked a series of strings idly on his guitar, letting the rich tone fill his ears. He pictured the notes wafting like smoke into the trees around him, then the clouds, and finally the planets themselves as his song takes off for the edge of the universe. It made him feel small, but not insignificant. It made feel like he belonged.

Simon sat on a tree stump in the woods not far from his condominium complex, a large collection of wooded trails called Dell Park. It was an oasis of green silence away from the wild minivans and SUVs that prowled this part of Westchester, or as people called it, you know, Westchester—a little North of the City.

Dell Park was a half mile down the road and it never took Simon long to reach it, even with his guitar and case strapped awkwardly across his back like a rock ‘n’ roll turtle.

Besides the ever-present guitar, Simon’s most obvious physical trait was his shock of flame red hair—not the common ginger—but a fierce, angry red that leapt from his head from all angles. No comb could tame this beast, and the best he could do was to keep it hidden by his vast collection of hoodies and baseball caps.

The sixteen-year-old was small for his age, only about five foot four. He was a bit on the thin side, but fit. His muscles, though small, were clearly visible due to the lack of fat over them. Simon’s eyes were gray and his skin was clear—he was the Sun peeking through a cloudy day.

Simon kept picking his guitar, moving easily from a thick Piedmont blues tune to breakneck jazz, a few measures of Zeppelin, and then finishing up with some Tom Jones for irony’s sake. He breathed in the pollinated May air and did his best to think about nothing at all. It had not been a good two days.

It started the day before in gym class. Simon weaved his way silently through the crowded halls, a will-o’-the-wisp on a sea of screaming, laughing, fighting children. Sometimes he was able to sneak away from gym class and use the music room—the music teacher loved him and let him do what he wanted—but not today.

He changed for gym quietly in the back, away from the jocks and bullies beating on each other. He wasn’t afraid. He didn’t need to fear because no one noticed him. Even his gym teacher couldn’t remember his name. When Mister Metcalf needed to call him, he snapped his fingers at Simon and said, Hey, Red. Come over here.

He wasn’t afraid of being bullied, but he hated them down to his soul. That was the problem.

The squeak of sneakers echoed through the gym while the sound of a basketball pounded a snare drum rhythm on the hardwood floor. Simon ran up and down the court, making sure that he was never open enough for someone to pass to him. Making waves in the gym led to problems in the locker room that he would rather avoid.

There was a crash in a corner and Simon turned around. One of the boys, a white kid named Ray who wore even his gym shorts a good three inches below his boxers, slapped the glasses off a smaller kid. Simon knew the victim but couldn’t recall his name. Like Simon, he was a ghost at Riverland High School, floating from class to class without anyone seeing, hearing, or caring about him.

Something clicked in the back of Simon’s head. He heard but barely registered Mister Metcalf blowing on his mighty whistle of authority. Simon grabbed the basketball from his teammate’s hands. He passed the ball high and hard into Ray’s face. Ray’s head snapped back with a satisfying thud and he sprawled awkwardly to the ground, his shorts slipping down to his knees.

Your ball, Simon said.

The class fell silent as Ray held his face in both hands, trying to stop the blood flowing from his nose. Ray got up and charged Simon, but Mister Metcalf blocked the way.

Red. In-house. Now. That’s exactly how Mister Metcalf spoke.

Simon obeyed, but walked down to the In-House Suspension room with his head high. For years, he watched boys like Ray torment the different kids, the quiet kids, the ones that nobody cared to know. He was never brave enough to stand up for them. Nobody said thank you, but for just a moment Simon Kale felt like a hero.

His head wasn’t quite as high when he got home. His mom sat half-melted into the couch, a Tupperware cup of boxed wine—probably white zinfandel—in her hand. Her eyes gained and lost focus, like a birdwatcher spying on his neighbor through the window.

Your school called and told me what happened, Iris Kale said, her voice slow and steady. She paused, invoking a silence that hung in the air like stale smoke.

Mom, he totally deserved…

Here is your punishment. Iris climbed to her feet and walked to the calendar on the wall. Today is April twenty-fourth. I will not speak to you until May fifth. You will not speak to me, or to anyone, inside of this house. If you speak, you will be slapped. If you grunt, groan, or cry out in pain, you will be slapped. Nod if you understand, but do not speak.

Simon nodded. He underwent this punishment before, but never for so long. The complete isolation, the loneliness, and fear that he might make a mistake and suffer his mother’s wrath, were too much. Simon stood up to bullies before, he could do it again.

It’s not fair, he said, making eye contact with his mother.

Like a drunken jungle cat, Iris lurched forward and swung wildly at Simon. She missed, but grabbed him with her left hand. Simon broke the grip and ran upstairs to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Iris walked up the stairs with a deliberate step, holding on to the railing for balance. She reached Simon’s door, turned the knob, and pushed. There was no lock on the door, but Simon had wedged a book at the base of it. The more Iris pushed, the tighter the wedge.

A half hour later, Simon opened the door to go to the bathroom. His mother stood waiting at the door. She had waited the entire time.

Iris forced the door completely open, and slapped Simon hard across the face, sending him sprawling to the bed. Don’t disrespect me again.

Iris returned to her bottle, leaving Simon on the bed, tears welling in his eyes. She has not spoken to him since.

* * * *

Simon played another song on his guitar, and then put it back in its case. He walked further into the woods, moving away from the gravel trails and onto the dirt one. He tried, but no matter where he went, he always felt like something was watching him. He laughed and said it was the birds in the trees, but his words never quelled his fear that something was after him, that he was a marked man.

It was a little past two in the afternoon. He had snuck away from the house with little problem, as neither his mother nor his grandmother had paid him any mind for years. Simon’s mother crawled into a bottle the day they took Simon’s father away and hadn’t come out. His grandmother, Mary, never gave a damn about anything except Jesus. She was convinced that Jesus would punish Simon for all of his sins, and she told him this loudly and often. If Jesus had a cheerleading section, she would be the top of the pyramid, an image that Simon never wanted in his brain.

Simon walked down a dirt trail where few people went. Most people who walked the park stayed to the flat, groomed trails or the fitness trails with their fancy blue-green press machines and monkey bars. Simon was not that kind of person. He wanted the deep trails, the ones only he and his father knew.

Simon hiked this trail for as long as he could remember. His father used to run here, and Simon would run after him, literally following in his father’s footsteps. When Simon got tired, Daniel Kale would wait up for him and carried him home.

Simon’s trail was hardly marked, but he knew the way without thinking. After a little more than a mile, he came to a creaky wooden bridge about ten feet above a murky pond. Originally painted a rich forest green, time and vandalism took its toll on the wood. The paint was peeling—completely gone in some areas—and it had graffiti on the rails.

Simon leaned against the rail, letting his mind slip into the mist of memory. He saw his father and his six year old self-casting fishing rods without hooks into the slightly less murky pond. They sat on the bridge with their feet dangling off of the side.

Simon, this is what it’s all about, Daniel Kale said with a New York accent thicker than pizza dough.

What is?

This is.

Oh…okay.

Daniel laughed and wrapped his arm around his son’s shoulders, pulling the boy close.

Simon doesn’t remember much more, but he remembers love. He was loved.

Daniel Kale was a fireman and a hero on 9/11. He personally carried several people from the burning buildings on that warm New York morning. His firehouse lost four men inside Tower One when it fell. Daniel helped search through the wreckage for survivors. He saw terrible, unspeakable things.

Several years later, Daniel began having nightmares of smoke and blood, of bodies grey in the sun and ash. He heard screaming but he couldn’t tell from where. The voice was always just out of his reach. Daniel stopped sleeping.

His nightmares grew worse, and migrated to the day. Daniel left work. He couldn’t leave the house. No medication or therapy would stop the madness taking him over. He became obsessed with holes. Simon once caught him digging a hole in the woods of Dell Park. He said that he was looking for them. He didn’t say who, but Simon knew.

Simon could barely remember 9/11, but the day those towers fell was the day his family began to die. Then five years ago, Simon came home from school and his father was gone. There was no note, no goodbye. He was just gone.

His mother wouldn’t tell Simon where his father had gone, but the boy eventually got it out of her during one of her drunks. They took Daniel to the mental hospital over the river in Orangeburg. Simon’s heart broke. There’s no justice for heroes.

He took his guitar out of his case once again and started picking an old Lead Belly song. This was Simon’s one talent—he could play guitar with a depth and ingenuity that few others his age could match. He dreamed in key: he heard a song once and could play it note for note, chord for chord.

Simon didn’t particularly like to share his talent with others. Nothing bothered him more than when some musical moron would ask to see his guitar, then play the riff to Smoke on the Water and think that he was Jimi’s bastard child. Almost as bad was when people asked him to play the popular songs. He hated them; they were soulless, over-produced nonsense. He always did as he was told but a little piece of him died with every barre chord.

Simon’s mother was once a singer/songwriter back when people cared about singer/songwriters. Before Simon could talk, he was strumming on a toy guitar. He spent his summers going from festival to festival—dancing in brown corduroy overalls to forgotten jam bands and folk singers. He was the little boy in the mud at every show, chasing butterflies down by the riverside. That music stayed special to him. Sometimes he felt like he was the only one who knew these old folk songs. They were his private treasure, and he refused to share. Besides, nobody cares about old songs and dead singers any more.

* * * *

Simon cleared his throat and sang. He thought his voice was awful, but here—in his place of protection—he was not afraid.

Brady, Brady, Brady

Don’t you know you done wrong.

You come into my grocery

When the game was on.

You sprung my lock,

And you broke my door,

Now you lyin’ dead on that barroom floor.

A breeze blew through the trees, and Simon smelled something unusual carried on it, something sticky sweet like bad incense. He heard laughing, and off to the side of him, a trio of his schoolmates crunched their way through the heavy bushes.

Goddammit, Simon muttered when he realized who it was. In the middle, joint in his hand, was Ray, the kid that Simon had smashed in the face with the basketball the day before. His left cheek was swollen and the color of raw steak. Both of his eyes were half-closed and red, but that was more likely due to what he was smoking.

Hey! It’s that guy that jumped me in gym! Ray’s friends, Jordan and Lance, laughed at the recollection.

Simon shuffled back a few steps.

Come get your beating, little boy.

He’s in my father’s woods—my woods. The image of these boys trampling on something so precious to him triggered that same rage. He knew he should run. The right thing would be to run, but he would not be bullied here—not where he felt his father around him.

Simon casually put his guitar back in its case and locked it. I’m ready, are you? He raised his hands and balled them into fists.

Jordan laughed, while Lance made that oooh sound so necessary among boys to start a fight.

Ray grimaced with rage clear on his features. You talk big for a little guy. Ray stepped forward and pushed the boy. I’m gonna beat your ass, then I’m gonna stop by your house and fuck your mother.

Ray pushed Simon to the ground, but Simon was up with surprising speed. Screaming something indecipherable, he grabbed Ray’s shirt with his left hand and punched him on the chin. Simon pulled hard with his left, and Ray, already stunned, spun into the dirt.

Jordan and Lance stared at the scene, dumbfounded. Even Simon looked surprised. He hadn’t been in a real fight since third grade, and now he’d been in two in the last two days.

Ray rose to his feet seething, a drop of blood on his lip and dirt all over his hands. Now you’re a dead man.

Simon turned and ran, but Jordan and Lance grabbed and pinned him. Ray kicked Simon hard in the ribs and legs, and Simon fell to the dirt. Ray jumped on top and punched Simon in the ears and back of the head. Snarling, he pulled Simon to his feet.

Simon would later recall almost none of the beating. However, he did remember what happened next.

That’s a nice guitar, Ray said, picking up the thing most precious to Simon. Does it float? With a false casual attitude, Ray tossed the guitar and case into the water.

Simon yelled and reached out for the guitar, but it had already hit the water. The case kept it from sinking, and it floated on the top like a lily pad. Without thinking, the boy leapt over the bridge’s wooded guardrail and into the murky green water below.

Simon felt the splash more than he heard it and he sunk deep into the thick, filthy water. He began to swim, but unable to see, he became disoriented. His clothes were heavy and binding. They filled with water and sapped his strength.

He felt a pull and swam toward it, thinking that it was his natural buoyancy lifting him up. No matter how hard he swam, he couldn’t reach the surface. His lungs burned and every instinct told him to breathe. He tried swimming away from the pull, but he was too weak. Fear gave him the will for one last push, but it was hopeless.

Simon Kale prepared himself for death. He sank into blackness.

Chapter Two

The land of Algavar gave birth to Simon Kale in a feral burst of sound and fury. The pond erupted, launching Simon into the air. The ground shook, uprooting nearby trees, sentinels that had stood for hundreds of years. A wave of pond water drove Simon to the muddy bank and washed over him. The soaked boy groaned, but did not stir.

The Sun went down in the West and rose again in the East. Simon awoke shivering to a whole new world. Instead of the bland, nothing smells of Suburbia, the air was rich with newly budded leaves and soft, wet moss. The ground underneath was thick black mud, not the pale brown of the suburbs. Even the pond he assumed he pulled himself out of was different, cool, blue, and pure, though well below its banks. Everything was somehow different, somehow more than real.

Simon stretched his soaked and bloodied body and looked around. He took a few steps away from the pond toward where the condos should have been. Simon picked his way around the fallen trees and reached the crest of a hill. The houses should have been visible, but there was nothing there—only stout trees with rough, brown bark.

So, this is what it’s like to be dead. They killed me. I can’t believe they killed me. Simon sat on the ground and cried—fat, salty tears rolling down his face. The tears became a torrent as his whole body shook with the unfathomable comprehension of Death. He cried for his father and mother as only a lost child can cry, the kind of agonized soul-wailing that makes even the hardest heart break.

A branch snapped in the distance, and Simon looked up, suddenly embarrassed. There was something out there.

He looked up, half-expecting an angel clad in white—preferably one with large breasts—floating there on a cloud of marshmallow fluff. Hello? He sniffled. Is anybody there?

His calls were shortly answered by a loud grunt much closer than he expected, followed by excited, guttural shouting.

Hello?

Simon peered around a tree and his stomach fell to his feet. There was something, not more than ten feet away, and it looked about as far from an angel as possible.

The creature was larger than any animal he had ever seen outside of elephants at the Bronx Zoo. It was at least eight feet tall, with long arms and a physique a pro wrestler would dream of. Its skin was a dirty red, with black tuffs of hair sprouting sporadically along its arms and bare chest, which bore numerous scars. The beast’s fingernails were black and sharp; its bare feet as black and hard as stone. Its face was elongated, resembling something between a man and a bull, but too hideous to be either. Its horns were black as sin.

The creature wore leggings of hard leather, with small metal plates sewn into the hide. In one hand was a spear as long as the creature’s body and loaded with wicked barbs for no other reason than to inflict pain.

A wave of terror washed over Simon, and his stomach threatened to drop out of his jean bottoms. Maybe I’m in the other place, he thought.

Slowly, Simon tried to creep away, but he was a boy from placid suburban streets and not a woodsman. He heard the ground crunch under him.

So did the creature. More shouting, and Simon saw two more of the things moving towards him. He heard one shout, Don’t kill him, but have your fun.

For the second time in his last thirty minutes of consciousness, Simon Kale ran for his life.

Simon trampled through the unknown forest and the three creatures took off after him, roaring in the delight of pursuit. A panicked scream rushed from Simon’s lungs. He leaped over a dead log and crashed headlong into a thorn bush. The thorns tore at his skin, but he never noticed. He kept running.

Behind him, Simon heard the red beasts raging behind him. Every stomp echoed like an earthquake. Simon heard the splintering of branches, and possibly small trees, as they thundered after the boy.

A spear thocked into a tree just a few feet in front of Simon. It struck with such force that the weapon snapped on impact. Simon yelped in surprise. You said ‘don’t kill him!’ What happened to ‘don’t kill him?’ Simon braked and quickly changed direction.

No! Don’t kill him! The General wants proof!

A dead body is proof.

Another spear rushed by him. Simon felt a lick of air across his neck as the spear went past. Simon changed direction again, running uphill and into the descending Sun.

When he saw the beast in front of him, Simon realized his mistake. They had been herding him with the spears to encircle him.

The creature reached out for him with his brachial arms, but the boy ducked the clumsy grapple and dove between the giant creature’s legs. The beast took off after him, but lost its footing and stumbled. Still Simon ran.

Simon ran until his lungs could no longer hold breath, and kept on running after that. He still heard trampling behind him; he could not lose them.

He leaped over a rotting log—not even realizing that it there—but tripped on the way down.

His breath blasted from his body, Simon turned to face his fate. He whimpered a little as the creature came closer; stepping over the log like it wasn’t there. The creature grunted something unintelligible and smiled.

The beast lined up Simon for a killing strike. Simon closed his eyes and hoped that he would die painlessly.

Thwap thwap. Not the sound Simon expected. He opened his eyes. Two feathered shafts stuck out of the beast’s chest. It looked down, confused, and then plucked one of the arrows out of itself. Two more arrows thudded into the beast and it dropped to one knee. Suddenly the creature didn’t look so fearsome. It rose to its feet and ran. Another arrow struck it in the back and one in the fleshy meat of the thigh. This time the creature fell through a bush and did not rise.

Two cloaked men stepped out of the brush. Oren, one of them said to the other. The figure drew a sword and walked towards the beast, keeping an eye wary for others.

Just one? asked the other, a large, well-muscled man with a hefty sword on his back and a bow in his hand.

The swordsman shook his head. They’re never alone. They must’ve found the camp. He paused to regard the downed giant. Still breathing. He paused for a moment, then plunged his sword through the beast’s neck and twisted until the thick bones snapped.

By now, Simon noticed that there weren’t just two men, but at least a dozen concealed in the foliage. Their mottled grey-green clothes hid them well from prying eyes. They must be soldiers, Simon thought. What the hell did I walk into?

Every soldier was armed the same way: each held a short bow, curved back on itself at the tips. On one hip was a small quiver of arrows, and they all carried either an arming sword on their hip or a larger sword on their back.

Only the man who slew the Oren dressed differently. He wore a brown leather jerkin with metal rings attached for extra defense. Over this, he wore a white tabard. Painted on the tabard was an iron horn.

Set in the pommel of his sword was a rough, brownish black stone that appeared rusted. Simon recognized the lodestone from his Earth Science class, his favorite class, and the only class where the teacher actually praised him.

Not that it matters now, the boy thought. Wherever I am, I doubt they’re gonna grade me for good Geology skills.

I’ll take the patrol and find them. We can’t let them report or we’re all doomed.

What about Little Red? The big man asked, pointing at Simon.

You bring him to Sir Wiktor. If he slows you down or tries to run, the armored man said calmly and pointing with his blood-slicked sword. Put a sword in him.

* * * *

Lady Ilyana stood over the altar, confusion wrinkling her near perfect features. On the table was a silver mirror with a colored viscous fluid coating the surface, and on that were several different gemstones set in a pattern. Ilyana picked up a white moonstone with blue flecks and rolled it around in her hand.

"What is it, Yani?" Sir Wiktor moved closer. The veteran knight didn’t understand anything about the powers that he was beholding, but he understood when Ilyana was upset.

I don’t know. Ilyana turned and shook her head, avoiding the older man’s gaze, as she usually did when he used that awful pet name from her childhood. Something terrible just happened. No, not terrible…just strange. This isn’t right. There’s something blocking my view.

Ilyana raised her scepter. Like the mirror, gemstones also covered it with a jagged piece of amber on the tip.

Teretha? asked Wiktor.

Maybe, although Ilyana shook her head as she said it. She’s never been able to reach us here, I don’t think anything’s changed. No…this is something bigger than her. Ilyana tapped the moonstone in her hand with her scepter. The stone glowed. Ilyana put the stone back in the center of the mirror and squeezed it. The moonstone melted in her hand and spread across the surface of the mirror, swirling with the fluid already there. It shimmered and an image appeared in the mirror.

Ilyana saw the Orens chasing something, but she couldn’t say what. It was like a shadow running through the woods, a moving smudge in the mirror. She saw the rangers put down the Oren, and she saw Jaym carrying something large,