The Scourge of Godspear

By Dean Kinne

Dean Kinne's debut novel, The Scourge of Godspear, introduces the reader to the island of Vidrey where gigantic trees called godspears, grow. It is here we meet Ralm, heir to the office of overseer. The responsibilities of overseer are vast, encompassing roles of mediator, organizer and leader, all of which Ralm wants nothing to do with. He&

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Davis
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781734033212

Dean Kinne

Born a woodsman's son, Dean spent much of his life in the forests of eastern Connecticut. While his peers spent Saturday mornings watching cartoons, Dean was out with his father cutting, splitting and stacking cords of wood to sell. It were these weekend "retreats" which instilled in Dean a deep appreciation of the woods and all the beauty and splendor they held.

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The Scourge of Godspear

by

Dean Kinne

The Scourge of Godspear is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 Dean Kinne

The Scourge of Godspear

All rights reserved.

For Ella. You bring magic into my life every day.

Acknowledgments

Though an author may set out alone to write a novel, many will join to aid in the endeavor. Without them, the journey’s end could never be reached.

A special thanks to those who accompanied me on this odyssey.

To my editor, Lisa Gilliam. Her keen eyes and meticulous attention to detail discovered errors and inconsistencies I had overlooked during my repeated reworks. This manuscript wouldn’t be the same without her.

To my best friend, John-Paul. On many a night he served me dinner and made sure I didn’t become a starving artist. He epitomizes all I aspire to be: giving and selfless, thoughtful and considerate, intelligent and pragmatic. J-P, you’re a better man than I.

Without my beta readers and their feedback, I’d never have learned the strengths and weaknesses of this story. Bonnie, Cheryl, Dawn and Mike, I’m indebted to you.

Full credit for the cover art goes to Hollie Haradon. She is a true artist. I encourage you to visit her website, Mischief Circus.

To Tiffany, for making tangible the world in my mind with her magnificent cartography skills. Check out all her great creations at Feed the Multiverse.

Without my family, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Each and every one of you has contributed to my character, whether knowingly or not. I firmly believe family is the strongest foundation one’s being can be built upon, and its because of my father, mother, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews to which I owe such beliefs.

And to Kim, for tolerating my idiosyncrasies on a daily basis.

Last, but certainly not least, thank you to you for reading this novel.

CHAPTER 1

A godspear flourished at his mother’s grave. On the island of Vidrey where the mighty trees grew, death served a purpose. It nourished life. Rich soil was necessary for godspears to reach the lofty statures that shamed the tallest of firs and to achieve girths the broadest of oaks envied.

Ralm worked methodically to shape and detail a chunk of godspear with his small knife. He’d snatched the scrap from one of the island’s many workshops, a petty theft gone unnoticed. Lopped off to square a plank, the small piece had fallen to the floor, joining countless others destined to become chip-bricks. Thanks to Ralm’s rescue, it wouldn’t be lost to the fires, but rather hang from the neck of the island’s most beautiful woman. Vidrey once boasted another woman of extraordinary beauty, but his mother was five years gone.

Leaning against Ona’s tree, Ralm found it no longer swayed under his weight. A year ago he could wrap his arms around the smooth trunk and touch his fingers, but no more. It was growing fast and strong, though many years remained before the godspear would reach maturity and be counted among the giants of the surrounding forest. A stray curl of black hair hooked his equally dark beard. Ralm brushed it behind his ear and continued whittling.

Climbing over the horizon, the brilliant sun’s light pierced the forest, stirring drowsy animals and warming Ralm’s ebony skin as he caressed the pendant taking shape in his hand. Fingers followed its surface in search of subtle flaws: hard edges and soft ripples. Imperfections were nibbled away in flecks of honey-colored wood, which gathered at his feet.

The blade began to dull.

Godspear’s reputation for punishing tools was notorious. Chisel chipper, saw binder, blade bane and drill killer were but a few epithets the dense wood had earned over the centuries. Craftsmen spent a lifetime perfecting their skills. For apprentices, it was a grueling trial which left many tearful and frustrated. The uninitiated were often too impatient when working godspear, scoffing their master’s prescience. Without exception, those ignoring two thousand years of collected wisdom frequently revisited the grindstone to sharpen blunted tools, all while haunted by their master’s words and taunted by their laughter. Ralm was no craftsman, but after thirty years he was certainly no apprentice. His eagerness and patience were balanced. Nibbles were what godspear demanded. Don’t rush the work. Respect the wood. Let it decide the pace.

Another nibble, and another shaving tumbled to the forest floor.

Something moved behind him. Save for woodland creatures, Ralm thought he was alone. Hair on the back of his neck prickled in alarm. Pausing his efforts, Ralm strained to listen. Sweat gathered on his brow as Ralm’s fingers tightened around his knife. The unknown presence closed the distance and was now directly behind him on the opposite side of Ona’s tree, its location betrayed by the softest crunch of forest bedding. Ralm turned, knife ready to slash, and discovered Cyji crouching like a predator ready to spring.

Knots, he said, lowering the knife. You gave me a scare.

Cyji grinned, causing the dimples in her onyx cheeks to deepen. You’re getting better. Last time, I was within arm’s reach before you noticed me.

I think you make noise on purpose. You want me to hear you.

She straightened and shrugged, her ponytail swinging from the gesture. Maybe. But you make good practice.

Practice for what?

Hunting, of course.

Is that what I am to you? A deer?

You’re much more than that, dear. She glanced at the godspear in Ralm’s hand. What have you got there?

Ralm quickly stuffed the pendant into a pocket of his buckskin pants. Nothing. Just a knife.

Just a knife? Cyji mimicked with unmasked suspicion. What are you doing out here with just a knife?

Nothing. His heart skipped, and it was Cyji’s fault. Not because of the recent fright she’d given him or her playful interrogation. Simply being in Cyji’s company was enough to flutter Ralm’s insides.

Her gaze sank to the fresh bits of evidence near Ralm’s feet. What’s that?

Nothing. He hastily kicked dirt over the shavings.

Nothing and more nothing. You’re supposed to tell your wife everything. Including the truth.

I am telling the truth. Just not all of it. I wanted to spend time at my mother’s tree.

Cyji’s eyes narrowed. Fine, Ralm Willowsong. Keep your secrets.

What are you doing out here? Aren’t you supposed to be at the landing?

Aren’t you supposed to be at the dock? You’re going to be late.

I’ve plenty of time. Ralm glanced at the hurriedly retreating forest shadows and the godspears’ green needled crowns already awash in light. Morning was quietly and quickly slipping away. Knots. You’re right. Brun won’t be happy about this.

We better get going. Go on. I’ll give you a head start.

It was all the prompting Ralm needed. Dashing for the coast, Ralm knew he’d need every advantage to outrun Cyji. As he sprinted by godspears, Ralm counted the strides it took to pass them. Five strides. Two strides. Seven strides. It was a game he’d played as a child to measure the trunk’s width. Now, Ralm used it to measure his lead. He expected Cyji to appear any moment at his side and begin outdistancing him. When she didn’t, he glanced over his shoulder to find her strolling in the opposite direction. Ralm lumbered to a breathless stop.

Aren’t you coming? he shouted.

You’ve your obligations, I’ve mine, Cyji said over her shoulder without bothering to stop.

Traitor!

You’re late. Remember? Her voice withered in the distance as she vanished behind an enormous godspear.

Ralm bolted with renewed urgency. Leaving the godspears, he entered a wood populated by their lesser cousins: oaks, elms, maples, hemlocks and pines, before reaching Vidrey’s rock-strewn coast. He followed the meandering shore beaten to jaggedness by wave and wind, until happening upon a lone dark figure staring into the distance at the end of a battered dock.

Brun.

The sun rose to four finger widths over the horizon. Ralm was indeed late. Stepping on the balls of his feet to muffle steps usually made loud by the dock’s planking, he stalked toward the man staring at the sea, seemingly unaware of Ralm’s arrival. Perhaps, if he crept beside Brun, he wouldn’t notice Ralm’s tardiness. Perhaps, Brun might believe Ralm had been on time and standing there all along. Perhaps, but first he needed to pass Vidrey’s only export.

Three stacks of godspear lumber tested the dock’s limits. Each pile was identical to the next, with uniform-length boards, though thicknesses varied. Beside each of these was an accompaniment of three hundred chip-bricks arranged in pyramids, the sun’s glancing light revealing within each block a myriad of shavings and scrap wood bonded together. The dock sagged under the load it had carried many times before. Ralm sneaked by the last of the godspear and was almost to Brun’s side when a dock plank, cupped and warped from decades of weather, creaked under his step. He halted and cringed against the blare, hoping it was lost in the crashing waves and howling wind before it reached Brun’s ears. If only he possessed Cyji’s stealth.

You’re late, Brun said, eyes still fixed seaward.

Ralm joined his father in staring across the waves. A thin fog clinging to the Cryptic Sea’s surface was soon banished by purifying sunlight, leaving a clear view of an unblemished horizon. I don’t see them yet. How can I be late?

You were supposed to be here when I told you to be here. You weren’t. That makes you late.

Further down the beach, two squawking gulls quarreled over a dead fish washed ashore.

I was busy.

What could be more important than this?

Removing the pendant from his pocket, Ralm admired his work, noting the ovoid he’d painstakingly made perfect. Two vines were etched into it, each originating at opposite ends of the egg before entangling in the center. He held it against the new day’s light, inspecting for flaws while also displaying it for Brun.

His father’s gaze flicked to the pendant before returning to the sea. You’re overseer now. Focus on today.

I’m not overseer, yet. My inauguration is tonight.

The ceremony is tonight. Your inauguration began this morning, and you were late for it. Brun’s words carried the familiar mixture of disappointment and criticism. Of all days, I expected this to be the day you were on time. I thought even you would understand the importance of today. Instead, you dawdled. Like you always do. Like you’ve done since you were a sprig. The defeated sigh which followed emphasized the diminishing physique of a once-robust man, now paunchy from neglect. Always late, no matter how often I scolded you. Knots. I hoped after thirty years you’d have matured, but you haven’t. Never around when I need you. You’re always off doing something foolish, like squandering time on a trinket.

It was more than a trinket. It was a distraction. For the past several weeks, whenever Ralm’s thoughts drifted to this day and what it signaled, his throat tightened. Working on the pendant allowed him to forget about what was going to change and what he was going to lose. I never asked to be overseer.

It’s your duty. Your birthright. You need to shake the moss out of that head of yours and accept the responsibility. People should be looking to you. Not looking for you. If problems arise, and they always do, you need to be available. No more disappearing into the forest, Ralm. No more reading and napping under Ona’s tree. You’ve a job to do.

The job would strip him of freedom just as it had his father. Since a sprig shadowing Brun while he conducted the daily obligations of overseer, Ralm repeatedly witnessed the post’s demands. Brun was always attending meetings or settling disputes or coordinating affairs. Frequently, while on his way to one of these, a distraught villager would intercept him with an urgent need, diverting Brun from his original course. Petitioners were commonplace in Brun’s home, too, their visits coming in early mornings well before breakfast landed in the frying pan and far into evenings when lamps burned low. For the overseer, privacy was an elusive luxury.

You look slipshod. Brush yourself off. Brun still watched the horizon yet somehow managed to notice Ralm’s appearance. If you’re not going to be on time, at least look presentable.

Tiny curls of wood clung to stitching and peeked from the folds of Ralm’s buckskins. He swatted until the stubborn bits were shaken loose to slip between dock planks.

There they are, Brun said.

Three black motes floated on the horizon. Quickly, they began taking form. Ships. A sudden gust caressed Ralm’s cheeks and tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. It was a good wind for swift sailing. The ships would arrive soon. Ralm fidgeted at the thought.

Are you ready? Brun asked, his gray-streaked beard wagging in the wind.

Of course Ralm wasn’t ready. The position of overseer was a lifetime commitment. Until six months ago, he’d expected Brun to be overseer for many years to come. In the interim, Ralm hoped to continue a carefree lifestyle, but Brun’s resignation changed those plans. He wanted to tell Brun no, but knew it wasn’t the answer his father wanted, or expected, to hear. Instead, Ralm managed an unconvincing, I think so.

You need to be certain, Ralm. From this point on, there’s no room for doubt. You must be confident in every decision you make.

Ship sails were visible now, gray and plump with wind.

I’ll try.

That’s not enough. You’ve watched me since you were a sprig. I hope at least some of it rooted in your brain, Brun said for the hundredth time this month.

It did. It’s just…I didn’t think it would happen yet. You were supposed to be overseer until death. Like every overseer before. I shouldn’t be it yet, Ralm argued for the ninety-ninth time.

What if something unexpected happened to me? At least now you’ve had time to prepare.

Something unexpected? Like what happened to Mother? Ralm had considered the rebuke countless times before but never dared speaking it aloud until now. With circumstances as they were, there was no reason to keep silent, but as soon as the words passed his lips, Ralm regretted speaking them.

Ona, Brun said, his tone softened by remorse. I think about her every day. If I had done things differently, would she still be alive? Brun turned to Ralm, his tone hardening. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You need to trust yourself. Believe every decision you make. My judgment is compromised. It has been since her death. Vidrey needs a worthy overseer. I’m not him. You must be what I failed to be.

Her death wasn’t your fault. I miss her, but she’s gone and I accept that.

Ralm did miss her, but he missed the father he once knew as well. Ona’s death had affected them both, but Brun was changed most by it. Before, he’d been a stubborn and prideful man, unyielding in his convictions, respected and admired by the people for being a fair and compassionate leader. Such qualities were expected of the overseer, and Brun had excelled in the position. After Ona died, Brun became indecisive and isolated, choosing the company of mead kegs over fellow islanders. Eventually, the Grove Council intervened and offered Brun a choice: resume his duties or resign.

Wrinkles at the corners of Brun’s eyes were carved deep by years of servitude and hardship. It is my fault. That’s the burden of being overseer.

You can’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault.

Everything is the overseer’s fault. It’s his responsibility to realize the consequences of the decisions he makes.

You speak as if the overseer must predict the future.

He does, in a way. The overseer must consider all possibilities. No matter if something goes wrong by his hand or another, ultimately, the responsibility rests on him. You search for compromises, but the scales are never balanced.

His lecture shredded the little scrap of confidence Ralm managed to muster over the past weeks. Was there reason to argue any longer? He’d cobbled stories together told by the elders about his grandfather’s overseeing and his failings. On many occasions Ralm tried to convince Brun all overseers erred, but Brun refused to listen. Now, with ships so near their crews were seen moving across the decks, it was too late. Brun’s time was over. Ralm’s was just beginning. If Brun, the man once remembered to be sturdier than an oak, was broken by the position, what chance did Ralm have? If Cyji died, would he behave any differently?

You want to try to please everybody, Brun continued. You want to be liked by all, but every decision you make will upset somebody. They may even hate you for it, but it’s your job. It’s not about friendship. It’s about how the island, not the individual, benefits.

Ralm almost laughed at his father’s hypocrisy. He wanted to tell Brun his words were hollow, to heed his own advice and think of Vidrey before himself. Instead, he gave an argument which had staled long ago. Maybe the council will reconsider. It’s not too late.

Brun shook his head. Their decision is final. As of today, you’re overseer. He pointed at the ships. Two anchored a few hundred paces from shore while the third furled sails and rowed toward the dock. You’re to deal with them. I’m here to advise only. You’ve watched me plenty of times. You know what to do.

Ralm’s heart tapped so rapidly he thought it would burst from his chest as the weight of the moment pressed down on him. He released a quivering sigh. I hoped one day to see Azazura. I suppose there will be no time for that now.

More of your pointless daydreaming. There’s a good reason no islander has ever left the island or visited Azazura. The Cryptic Sea is dangerous, filled with whirlpools and monsters able to swallow boats whole. And if you did make it, you’d find Azazura quite different. Chalk and char. Their ways are not our ways. The ship was almost to the dock. Slack rigging and taut lines wove like spider webs behind a man standing at the ship’s bow, his jacket yellow like the sun glinting upon the sea. You’re rooted here, Ralm. This is where you belong.

I remember as a child being told stories of the magical flying De’ laNir ships, Ralm said, trying to find common ground with Brun. Every trade day I hoped to see one, but these are just normal ships. Their appearance still invoked excitement in Ralm. The hulking vessels were marvels of engineering that rent the sea when under sail. Aside from the few dinghies islanders used for fishing, these were the only seafaring ships Vidrey saw. On any other day of the year, the seascape knew no interruptions.

Brun’s words were hard and scolding. Magic. Flying ships. Stories. Nothing more than boyhood fancies. I don’t know how such nonsense ever took root in you. Quit thinking about it, Ralm. Focus on what’s real. What’s now.

An ox snorted behind him, drawing Ralm’s attention from the ship. On shore, dozens of villagers huddled together. Dark skin contrasted the light buckskins hanging from their frames. Shawls draped over women’s shoulders warded off the cool morning air. Behind them, empty wagons hitched to teams of oxen waited to be filled with treasures and supplies from Azazura.

Stiff expressions commanded the islanders’ faces. Some whispered as others nodded grimly in response, impossible for Ralm to hear from his distance, but he could guess the topic. Eyes spoke of doubt. Pursed lips told of disapproval. They were uncomfortable with him being overseer. Words like untested, incompetent and unreliable were certainly exchanged between the hush. Ralm couldn’t fault them. He shared their uncertainty.

The crowd parted, and three figures in gray robes with hoods concealing their faces strode through the gap. A harassing wind flapped the edges of the hoods, allowing brief glimpses of the pale-skinned visages hidden inside.

Ralm shuddered as his attention returned to the ship. The watchers will be the hardest part of the job.

Like them or not, you must learn to work with them.

I’ll never understand the need for their presence here. We’ve been doing this for centuries. You’d think by now Azazura would trust us to complete our tasks without having consuls watching us at every turn.

Azazura requires specific dimensions of lumber. The watchers are here to see those requirements are met.

I think they’re here for other reasons, Father. For the lumber, but also Lavak.

Brun shrugged. They certainly don’t hide their interest in him.

Now that I’m overseer, maybe I can put an end to it.

Careful, Ralm. Don’t do anything which will upset our relationship with Azazura. We need the trade.

But why the secrecy? Why can’t we see their faces? And why robes? Useless in the forest. They’re snagged by the smallest of branches. Not at all practical or rugged like buckskin. He slapped his leg to emphasize the point. Not that it matters. I’ve yet to see a watcher do any work.

Oars retracted and the ship coasted to the dock, where it was moored by practiced sailors in threadbare clothes.

Do you have them? Brun asked.

Have what? Ralm asked, confused.

"The papers. Knots. Don’t tell me you were late and forgetful."

I didn’t forget. Ralm reached into his shirt for two sheets of folded vellum. The first listed supplies ordered at last year’s trade, while the second were requests for next year.

A gangplank extended from the ship. With long strides and a confident smile, the man in the bright yellow coat descended the brow, halted before Ralm and Brun, and bowed.

Silence lingered, and after a moment Ralm realized he was expected to speak. Each year prior, he had been an observer only, watching his father greet the Azazurans. Now it was his turn.

Welcome to Vidrey. We’re pleased to see you safely arrived. To his own ears, Ralm’s greeting sounded noticeably rehearsed.

The man shot Brun a questioning stare. Long days at sea under an unforgiving sun had tanned his skin to the color and texture of leather. A few shades darker, he and his crew may have been mistaken for islanders. A thick accent muddied his words. Who’s this? He talks like Brun, but he doesn’t look like Brun.

My son, Ralm, Brun said. You should know him. He’s been at my side for every trade since he could walk.

The man’s mouth curled into a grin. Of course I do, though that’s the most I’ve heard him speak in all my times here. Until now, I thought he was your shadow, always close but never making a sound. Ralm wondered if the shadow reference was aimed at his skin as much as his silence. He only had the watchers, sailors and Brun’s stern warnings of Azazura for comparison, with color being the most remarkable difference between islander and Azazuran. Chalk and char. Having some fun with the lad is all I’m doing, my swarthy friend.

Ralm is the new overseer, Brun said. All matters will be conducted through him.

The man appraised Ralm as if measuring his worth as overseer by mere appearance. It’s no concern of mine as to why, as long as the trade isn’t affected.

It’s not, Ralm was compelled to say, feeling like an outsider to the conversation until now.

The man tucked a hand into a pouch hanging at his waist and removed a folded parchment. The ship’s manifest.

Ralm exchanged his list of next year’s supplies for the manifest and compared it with his list of goods ordered the year prior.

Everything ordered last year is aboard, the yellow-jacketed man said.

Ralm didn’t doubt him. Never had the island been denied a request, whether it was a child’s toy or an ox. Azazura was trusted for its deliveries.

The yellow-jacketed man glanced at the nearest stack of godspear lumber and its companion pile of chip-bricks. I see our shipment is ready as well.

It’s all there, Ralm said. Shall we begin?

The crew stevedored Vidrey’s supplies from the ship’s hold to the dock. Many of the men were barefoot, risking injury to unprotected toes from a slipped grip or clumsy toss in favor of sure footing, but such an incident had yet to be etched into Ralm’s memory. Each barrel, crate or sack brought topside was briefly inspected by Ralm before he scratched it from the list, just as he’d seen Brun do in previous trades. Awaiting villagers hauled goods off the dock and loaded them into the wagons. When the ship’s cargo was exhausted, the crew loaded the first stack of godspear and chip-bricks into the ship’s hold.

Your arm has changed, Ralm said, gesturing to a symbol sewn into the man’s jacket. Since childhood, he was fascinated by the encircled shark fin and always wanted to ask its meaning, but chose silence at Brun’s side instead while his imagination wandered over the symbol. Now, as overseer, why not ask?

Eh? What’s that? the man said, his attention torn away from watching his men work.

For as long as I can remember, Ralm said, it was a shark fin inside a circle with two squiggles I think were meant to be waves. Now, there’s a third.

The man glanced at his arm and smiled. You’re quite observant. And correct. He paused, as if forming the explanation in his mind before committing it to words. The fin is a nautical symbol, while the waves denote my rank. The more waves, the more rank.

And the circle?

Simply a border for the emblem.

What rank are you?

Captain. I’ve been a captain. I’m just a higher captain than before.

So you’ve authority over captains with two waves?

Yes. As well as captains with one wave. You understand quick.

Azazura’s rank structure intrigued Ralm. Vidrey didn’t operate in such a way. He wanted to know more, but then came the last exchange, which was neither goods nor supplies. A watcher strode from shore while another emerged from the ship. Identical in dress, they met on the dock beyond earshot of Ralm and Brun. Subtle gestures hinted of conversation. At every trade the watchers were replaced, and every time a brief, secretive discussion was held. The watchers were enigmatic and aloof, with the only distinguishing characteristic being a thin band of crimson, amber or indigo cinched about their waist. Almost always they were men. As a boy, Ralm once glimpsed inside the hood of a watcher. Absent were the whiskers hanging from chins many watchers favored, replaced by a slender, feminine jawline. He hadn’t seen another female watcher since.

After a few moments, the watchers parted. The new arrival joined the two watchers still onshore while the departing watcher boarded the ship.

Until next year, the captain said with a deep bow.

Until next year, Ralm echoed. Safe sailing. Be wary of monsters and whirlpools.

The captain cocked an eyebrow. Eh? Oh, yes. Of course.

He rejoined his crew aboard the laden ship, its hull more submerged than when it arrived, and soon the vessel rowed away. The entire process was repeated twice more until all three ships had docked, traded goods and swapped watchers. Shadows began to stretch when the ships finally raised sails, but no islander lingered to watch them disappear into mystery beyond the horizon. There was still much work to be done.

You did well, Brun said, patting Ralm’s shoulder, but it isn’t over yet.

Ralm slouched under the weight of Brun’s hand and the task ahead. I know. We still need to put things in storage.

And get you ready for your inauguration.

I don’t know if I have the energy. It’s been a long day already.

And the night may be longer still.

Both men gave one last gaze at the departing ships before heading to shore. They had taken only a few steps when something crunched under the heel of Ralm’s boot. Kneeling, he discovered the crushed remains of a small, unidentifiable creature. He glimpsed another skittering toward a crack in the dock and snatched it before the animal could escape. It was the size of his fingernail, with a tan carapace striped black, but the most curious feature was its serrated mandibles, which resembled the teeth of a saw blade and were disproportionately large compared to its body.

What do you have there? Brun asked.

I’m not sure. A beetle, I think.

Nothing I’ve ever seen.

You can’t expect to know every insect, Father.

"When you live on an island for the better part of