Cleelok: Chaos as defined by the limits of Eternity

By Sean Nuber

Cleelok, Chaos as defined by the limits of Eternity, is an epic fantasy story with four main characters, one for each race, one for each element. There is the world of their creators, a realm of Law filled with sentient elements made up of stone (Gaen), water (Fluen), air (Luften) and fire (Pyran). There is the world of our advent

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fritter and Boondoggle
• Release date: Nov 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735969619

Sean Nuber

Sean lives with his lovely wife in Portland, Oregon. There they enjoy the city's many beautiful parks, friendly neighborhoods and abundant rainfall. Cleelok, Sean's first published novel, is the beginning of an epic trilogy. There is more to come, stay tuned!

Book preview

Chapter 1

Darkness, emptiness, desolation.  Croy knew that he was dreaming.  He even knew the dream.  When Croy was a child he had the same dream, night after night, for at least a week straight; and it had always started the same, in darkness.  The end had always been the same as well: futile.

Movement…  He could feel himself being flung through the emptiness.  In the distance an object, appearing as a dot, came sliding into vision.  The rushing continued, bringing the object to recognition.  A wall.  Faster it fell towards him, or faster Croy fell, he couldn’t tell the difference.  Then, with an involuntary flinch, Croy was flung through the wall.  He could feel the wall sliding into his body.  The sifting of sand through a sieve.  More darkness as Croy slowed, the friction of rock tugged him back.

Light began again, as seen through a gauze at first.  Then, as the rock thinned out towards the exit, the light became distinct.  Still floating, Croy entered a spherical room, like the inside of a ball.  There was a ring of torches around the edge of the room, and a pedestal in the middle.  It was towards the pedestal that Croy floated; he came to a gentle stop about two rods from the pedestal.  Floating a full hand above the pedestal was a small wooden sphere.  It looked engraved, but it was a puzzle sphere, like the ones Croy’s uncle always used to bring him.  You would drop it on the ground to shatter the pieces, then try to put it back together.

The air started to grow thick, butterflies erupted in Croy’s stomach, his hands clenched involuntarily.  The sphere fell in melted dreamtime motion.  Everything blurred.  There was a great crack!  Like a tree being split by lightening.  The pieces of the sphere laid scattered across the floor, the world began to shake.  Croy was on his knees, weeping as a child would, as he was when he last had the dream.  He forgot years of his life, his growth, forgot adulthood, forgot his wife.  It was as if he had never aged, never left the dream, never left this room.  The pieces laid scattered across the floor, mocking him.  Pieces of the sphere, of his life.  Croy, mutated teary vision, crawled across the still shaking floor, trying to pick the pieces up.  Fear entered into Croy, fear that this would be like all the other dreams, fear that this was his life, that his memories were merely false fantasies that he had made to keep his sanity.

Always in the past he was unable fix the sphere, couldn’t figure out the puzzle.  A cloaked figure would enter the room and remove its hood.  Croy never got to see the face, he always woke up before the hood fully fell away.  He felt the fears from his childhood, fears he had assumed conquered, creep back to gnaw again on his spine.

Fumbling with the puzzle pieces, not really paying attention to them, Croy saw the figure enter.  Brown cloak, flowing, floating, with boots of gray peeking from underneath.  Cowl down, the faceless apparition walked straight to Croy and pulled a gloved hand from the cloak.  The hand pointed to the puzzle.  Looking down, Croy saw the pieces.  They were the same shapes that they always used to be, he knew that they wouldn’t fit together.  He started to work the puzzle again, to try combinations that his broken memory told him would not work.  They just wouldn’t go together.  Lifting his frustrated gaze to the figure, Croy showed the pieces to the figure again, hands raised in supplication.  He waited for the hood, waited for the end, waited for the frustration to cease.  The figure shifted uneasily.  It began to raise its arms, the gloves reached for the hood.  Behind a bootheel, never noticed before, never known before, lay another piece.

Shouting wordlessly, triumphantly, he snatched the piece and fitted it into the puzzle.  The other pieces snugly slipped into place over the core piece.  Light shot from the sphere.  Smiling, ecstatic, Croy faced the figure, for the first time triumphant.  The hood fell back.  Eyes, glowing pinholes through the rift of dreams.  Pure light pierced into the back of his skull.  Screaming…

The sun beat down on a small unassuming Gaen, the derlian race that was born of the stone.  He was short, even for a Gaen, only about one rod high.  His rough wrinkled hands looked like they had served more than one lifetime of service.  His stubby fingers grasped the grass as he awoke from his unrestful slumber.  His chestnut hair and short beard bespoke of his younger age; these contrasted with the lines in his face.  Croy stood and shook the last of the foggy sleep from his head.  His pale gray eyes found the path down the mountain that his leather-shod feet knew by heart.

With the sounds of bleating sheep cascading down the mountain, Croy Sie’tin walked blissfully down the trail.  He had a crook for a walking stick and moved it like it was an appendage.  Croy had lived most of his life on the trails in these mountains.  He was old enough now to remember sitting under most of the different trees he passed.  While he was whistling his way back down to the valley, he was thinking of his absent wife, Ilana.  She was away at Larelt, a school of sorts.  The thought of her sent little shivers of pleasure down his spine, and had since he first saw her almost nine sun cycles ago.  Looking off the ledge to his left he wondered if he should pick some wild flowers for her, to dry them out for her eventual return.  Smiling to himself, he started to meander off the path, toward a rift in the south, occasionally watching the familiar plants float by on either side of his feet, looking for that special flower that he could take back to save for Ilana.

Croy!  Croy!  Where are you?  The distant cry startled Croy from his reverie.  He sighed and turned back towards the trail, thinking of what might have happened to the sheep now.  Last year they had nearly lost seven of them down a steep ravine, only to spend all day hoisting the rebellious sheep back up and onto the trail with an ingenious set of pulleys and rigging.  Chuckling to himself he wondered what predicament the animals could have gotten into this time, and why the rest of the Sie’tin could never seem to handle a crisis without him.  He had just been married two cycles ago, and they had yet to have a child.  There was no real reason that the older Gaens in his caste should ask him for advice; he was a mere thirty-three sun cycles into an average derlian life span of a little more than two hundred.  There were even some that breached two hundred and fifty.

Where have you been?  We’ve been looking all over for you. Belg, one of the older of the Sie’tin, appeared in front of Croy.  He looked as if he had been running uphill all day the way he was panting.  Belg was a bit taller than Croy, with reddish hair and a beard that flowed midway down his chest.  His usual calm brown eyes flashed with his small panic.

I just went a little way off the trail to look around, can’t the boys get the sheep in?  Croy blushed secretly about his quick nap.  What happened?

Come, look for yourself.  The sheep are fine, Densal already has them in the caves and the shepherds are with them.  There is trouble in the east.  Look.  With a stubby finger Belg pointed down a ridgeline.  In the distance Croy could make out smoke coming from the forest line.

Who else is here?  Has anyone been sent to tell one of the ‘jin about the smoke?  He used the general term for the warrior caste, without adding any rank.  At the same time he was trying to figure out where the fire could be.  It had to be several spans off in the distance, maybe a league or two.  He looked up. The sun was halfway down from its zenith.

Densal was going to right after he got the sheep and the boys back in the caves.  He sent Nolt ahead to see if it was a wild fire.  We spotted the smoke a little while ago, Densal said it must be coming from the forest, but Nolt didn’t think so.  He thought the smoke seemed to be coming from the lower meadow, not up in the trees.  When he took off I thought it would be best to follow with someone, you never know, so I found you. Belg’s giggle sounded a little odd, like it came from too high in his throat.  He was usually more stolid than most Gaens.  It made Croy a little uneasy that Belg should be shaken so, especially for just a little smoke.

The smoke was fading by the time they topped the last rise, giving the thought that it was going out.  Croy was glad to see that it was thinning.  Trotting ahead he went to the top of the hill and leaned on a tree.  He checked the smoke hanging in the air one last time, then looked down onto the valley floor.  Searching the land for the source of the wildfire.

Gazing down he heard a small curse and was shocked to realize it came from his own mouth.  He dropped his crook and started running.  In the back of his mind he wondered where Belg was, but he only stared ahead at the meadow in the valley.  In the middle of the meadow were almost a hundred carts and wagons, all in dying flames.  As he got closer, he could see blackened bodies lying in and amongst the burned-out husks of wood.  As Croy ran along, finally reaching the valley floor, he heard Belg catch up from behind.

Wait!  You don’t know what’s down there.  What if it’s the Pyrans, or even a Yaven.  Croy!  Belg’s voice seemed shrill from behind Croy.  It sounded out of place.  All Croy could feel was the heat of the dying fire, and catch the occasional sound of popping wood.  He could see the embers snaking across the ground, winding around bodies and the shells of wagons.  He stared at the glowing red lines while he ran, he couldn’t think clearly.  The lines were spiraling outward and the pattern struck him as quite beautiful.  Croy shook his head and tried to banish the thought, to think only of who was left alive, who could have done this, and if they were still around, looting amongst the carnage.  He could feel wetness on his face and wondered why he was crying.  As he reached the center of the meadow, time seemed to displace itself.  To slow, stretch and lengthen, where every second tried to etch itself into his memory.  He ran through the wreckage looking for someone alive, for someone who could explain the questions that danced through him.  It was while he stared at a dead derlian with a child in her arms that he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Croy spun around, hands clenched, and half expected to see a Yaven staring into his face with eternal eyes.  It was said that you could forget you had a soul just by staring into a Yaven’s eyes.  Instead he saw a derlian, a Gaen, someone he should know.  He couldn’t clear his head.  The Gaen was about Croy’s stature and age, wearing the same loose wooly shepherd’s clothing that also adorned himself.  With short dark straight hair and light hazel eyes, Croy felt a soothing familiarity for this Gaen, even without direct recognition.  It was the soft but solid grip on Croy’s shoulders that brought Nolt’s name to his mind.

Croy, you’ve come.  I was hoping you would come.  I can’t find anyone.  We should tell the ‘jin, they will know what to do.  We should go back soon, they’re probably wondering where we are by now.  They’ll know how to handle this.  Nolt stated all this hopefully and looked at Croy with furtive eyes.

Croy wandered silently and looked around, not answering Nolt.  He watched a cloud of ravens squawk overhead.  He watched a flame no larger than a candle’s crawl along a wagon edge.  He looked at the charcoal husks of the dead.  He stared for what seemed like seconds, hours.  He heard a noise behind him, like that of someone being sick, coughing and coughing.  He whirled around, looking hopefully behind him.  He saw Belg doubled over, coughing, staring at the ground where his lunch stared back up at him.  Croy felt his own stomach clenching.  Gasping he held himself tight, turning, staring, looking for a place to escape to.  Maybe Nolt was right.  He had been here longer, he would probably know.  Croy chose a random direction and started to walk south through the meadow.  He tried not to look at all the death, and yet was unable to help himself.  He wandered aimlessly through most of the devastation before he heard a noise.  It was almost imagined, the faint cracking of a twig.  He headed in the direction it came from.

Hello?  Hello?  Is there anyone here? Croy heard himself repeat, repeat, repeat.  He waited for someone to answer, walking and wandering.  He followed his nose until he came to the edge of the meadow.  He looked towards the trees and thought he saw something back in between their branches.  Something moved against their silhouettes.  He stumbled towards the forest and picked up his pace.

Hello?  It’s all right.  It’s over.  I won’t hurt you.  Who is there?  The words tumbled out of his mouth, one after another.  He had not even noticed when he entered the woods.  He squinted, trying to see between the branches.  He heard a snap and whirled to his right, hands clenched uselessly.

Croy looked down at the roots of a giant birch and noticed a child.  The child appeared to be wounded, though asleep.  Staring, Croy did not move until he saw the child’s chest rise, then fall, slowly, ever so slowly.  The girl had long pale reddish hair, stringy with sweat.  Her soft jaw line was outlined by an errant lock of hair.  She was tiny, skin and bones that could only come from youth.  Croy watched her eyes flicker back and forth under her lids briefly.  He broke from his trance and bent down to check on the child, to make full sure it was alive.  While his hand was held tentatively out, he stopped.

Don’t move Gaen!  You touch her and your death will be slow and painful.  The voice sounded different than Croy was used to.  Still deep like a Gaen’s but faster, more insistent.  Croy lifted his head, without moving his hand, and looked straight into the eyes of a Pyran, those born of fire.  Croy stopped, tensed.  He noticed that the Pyran was bleeding and weak; he was leaning heavily against the birch, but the hand that held the sword pointed at Croy was as steady as a rock.  He was wearing close-fitting black clothing with a purple sash across his chest.  His hair was yellow, like the sun Croy thought.  Tall and lithe, the Pyran looked dangerous, like a cat was dangerous.  The eyes were a strange glow of green peering out from a smooth long face.

I wasn’t going to harm her.  She’s wounded, so are you.  I just wanted to make sure she was alive.  Croy spoke slowly, evenly, his chest tight.  I’m Croy Sie’tin.

The armed Pyran smiled, showing teeth with red streaks on them.  I swore to protect her, Gaen. I don’t go against my word.  If you don’t move your hand I will remove it for you.  Grinning insanely the Pyran shook his sword to show Croy that he could.  Not that I’d fear much from a farmer, eh?  Of course, you could be lying to me.  But you look simple enough.  My name is Synde.  I would probably be Cru’jin if I lived in a cave, but I’m bleeding in a forest, so it’s just Synde.

Croy thought back to the Gaen caste rankings. Cru’jin would have many fighters under him.  This Pyran was probably important in his world.  Croy cleared his throat, so as not to seem threatening, and said, I would help you if I could, but since you seem to have everything under control, I’ll just be leaving.  He smiled ingratiatingly and began to back away with his hands safely held up.  None of the ‘jin caste would strike an unarmed opponent and Croy was hoping that this Pyran had as much honor as he seemed to claim.  I should be getting back to my sheep.

Stop!  Wait.  There is something you can do.  I need water to cleanse the girl’s wounds.  If you will fill my waterskin, I will give you this ring for your kindness.  I can’t leave her in the woods alone, and I’m not sure how long I can walk, or where the nearest stream is.  Please help us.  The ring is priceless in my lands, I’m sure a farmer like you could live off of it for quite a while. Synde held his left hand aloft, and the ring on his middle finger shone like fire.  There was one large red stone glinting out from a golden band.  Croy thought he could live off that one ring for years if he were to sell it.  Smiling to himself, he thought of the streambed less than a span south of there.  Please, look at the child, she’s wounded badly.  Her name is Trela, Croy.  She’s young and innocent.  You are the only one who can help her.  Synde’s eyes were starting to unfocus as he talked, his voice dropped to a loud whisper.

Give me the skin.  There is a stream very close, I will be back before you know it.  Croy smiled softly as he picked up the skin.  Keep the ring, I couldn’t watch a girl bleed to death.  You don’t need to bribe me to fetch water.  Croy wondered if most Pyrans had to be bribed to help a little girl.  Giving an unconscious shudder, he started to walk down the trail towards the stream.  Life is simple, life is beautiful, he thought to himself, not realizing that you should never forget what you have finally remembered.

As Croy walked he hummed a bit of tune and brushed the trees’ leaves when he passed close by them.  The leaves were soft and pliant, almost like moss hanging from the branches.  He started thinking of what Nolt and Belg were doing; had they left, or were they waiting for him to return?  He resolved that once he had filled and returned the waterskin he would leave Synde and go back to the caves as quickly as he could.  He turned along the path and could hear the stream gurgle in the distance. He breathed inward and marveled at the feeling.  He had smelled the greasy stench of burnt flesh for so long that he had thought it was stuck up his nose.  It was good to be rid of that smell.  The air was crisp and fresh, numbing the twinge of fear.  Through the trees he could just make out the stream up ahead.

Croy knelt down and pushed out all of the dead air and the tiny bit of leftover water from the skin, then he put his head down and drank directly from the clear stream.  Finally, he filled the skin and headed back to where he remembered Synde and poor Trela were.  He caught himself wondering who Trela was and why she had a well-trained warrior to protect her.  Was she Synde’s daughter, or the daughter of a friend?  Or maybe she was royalty?  Croy laughed at himself. Royalty, indeed. His head was playing tricks on him.  The girl was hurt, that was all.  Croy never could get his mind to stay close to the task at hand.  Always dreaming, that’s what Ilana said.  Ah, he should pick up some flowers on the way back with Nolt and Belg, to dry them out for Ilana’s return bouquet.  He grinned to himself as he returned to the birch.

Glancing down at the bleeding child, Croy’s smile slipped a little.  He crouched down and pulled the stopper from the skin.  Still staring at Trela, Croy began to wash some of her wounds.  There was a large gash across her chest, starting from her collarbone, down between budding breasts, ending in the upper hipbone.  Croy wondered at the child’s tenacious cling to life, not sure if he would have survived a wound so grisly.  He ripped some of his shirt to wrap around the wound, almost making another shirt of bandages.  While he washed a minor cut on her left cheek, Croy realized that Synde was gone.  Synde had practically cut his hand off the last time he tried to touch Trela. Surely the Pyran’s trust wouldn’t run this far.  After he washed all the wounds out and wrapped them with makeshift bandages, Croy stood.  He decided to look for Synde. After all, an insane protector was better than none, and Trela would have to have time to heal before she should be moved.  He glanced at the ground and noticed where the grass was matted down from the Pyran’s clumsy pacings.

Synde! Croy’s urgent whisper carried through the forest.  Synde, where are you?  I’ve brought back the waterskin.  You need to look after the child.  Croy started to follow the depressed plants, wondering at how the Pyran could be so uncaring as to what he marked with his passage.  Croy figured this Synde had probably never hunted wild game in his life.  While looking at the well made path of Synde’s course through the trees, Croy noticed blood on a tree.

Staring at the bark he saw that the smear came from someone’s hand, grasping at the tree for support.  Croy tried to think of how badly Synde was truly wounded.  He could not remember seeing any major wounds, surely not anything like that gash across Trela’s chest, but there were certainly many minor ones.  Croy was not a good judge of wound severity, certainly not from a distance.  He started to speed himself up, trying to figure out if Synde had thought himself well enough to go look for water by himself.  Surely even a Pyran wouldn’t have become impatient enough to try to find some water in the small amount of time that Croy was gone and just leave the girl unprotected.  Following the trail as intently as he was and dreaming different possibilities that could have happened, Croy almost stumbled over a body lying on the ground.  The amount of blood laying around the body was prodigious, certainly not all of that could have come from one being.  The pool of blood was slowly being soaked up by the hungry plants.

Croy stood there for a second, staring at the back of a dead Pyran.  Though both races were naturally muscular, he must have been a Pyran for he was much too tall to be a Gaen.  Croy grabbed a shoulder and pulled him over, to look at the wounds.  Staring back through blank glass eyes was a stranger; the snarl of the lip was unknown to Croy.  He heaved a sigh of relief, for he had almost thought that the body was Synde’s, and he dropped the body back down to the ground and glanced around.

Looking through the trees along the trail of matted-down vegetation, Croy saw several corpses lying up ahead.  The forest seemed oddly quiet, and Croy strained to hear something, anything.  Some of the corpses were lying face up. They were all Pyrans.  A sudden chill went down Croy’s back.  Why would so many Pyrans come into the Gaen realm?  Staring emptily back at the corpses, Croy began to methodically make sure that none of them were Synde.  He wasn’t even positive if Synde had gone through here, but it was the only trail he could find.  It seemed to be getting harder to see into the distance.  Glancing upward he saw the splattering of red across the sky, a beautiful sunset normally, but to Croy it reminded him of the blood splattered across the forest.  Hurrying forward he wondered where the time had gone.  In the distance he thought he could make out some sounds, not natural sounds maybe, but the eerie feeling was lessened somewhat when he thought of other derlians.

Croy rushed forward, hoping he wasn’t making as much noise as it seemed.  As he stared through the trees at the sun going behind the mountains in the distance, he heard the sounds becoming louder.  Reaching a small dip in the trail, Croy slowed and crouched as he slowly came toward the rise in the land.  The noise was recognizable now.  It was a steady clashing, like near the ‘cha section of the clan, the blacksmith caste, but it had a more sinister ring to it.  Not one of making a master’s idea come to life, but one of tearing the artwork in half—with a giant metal club.  Croy felt his stomach drop toward his knees and he clenched his teeth against the feeling.  He climbed the rise with suddenly wet palms and looked out over the land.

There was Synde, with his back against a tree, and there were four other Pyrans in front of him.  All had their swords out.  Staring at Synde, Croy noticed new streaks of red on him.  Across his chest and legs, ribbons of red flowed down to feed the hungry soil.  From the distance Croy was at, he could not make out what the other Pyrans were wearing.  Their clothing looked different from Synde’s garb, though he couldn’t say exactly how.  Croy felt himself begin to move forward, slowly, quietly, like stalking a rabbit, but he didn’t know why.  Sure Synde was intriguing, especially with a charge like Trela, but that was no reason to die.  Still Croy’s feet pulled him along steadily toward the fighting Pyrans.

Grabbing a large stick off of the ground Croy slipped off the trail and into the forest edge.  In a low crouch, he quietly made his way around the path towards the fighting.  Staring in between branches and twigs, Croy could see one of the Pyrans go down on one knee.  Drops of blood fell from his mouth, sputtered out with each breath. With eyes clenched in pain, the Pyran jerked as Synde’s sword flashed back out of his stomach.  As Croy crept onwards he watched the Pyran slowly lean forward and topple to the ground.  He was almost directly to the side of the Pyrans and, still crouched fearfully in the trees, he kept trying to figure out what he was to do.  Every scene in his head ended with a sword flashing through his chest.  He looked at the stick in his hand and almost laughed out loud.  Looking at the forged weapons that the Pyrans handled so easily, he quickly realized his only real weapon was surprise.

C’mon Synde!  Give me your sword and ring and we shall let you live.  You won’t get that generous of a deal if we take you back to the King, his trials can be quite harsh as you know.  Synde!  You cannot just leave the Guard, you cannot just take warriors and run.  What were you thinking?  Your death is assured, there is no going back from betrayal such as this.  If you don’t give us what we want, we will just take it after we have killed you.  The Pyran in the front chuckled assuredly, moving back from Synde’s sword.  He had the same purple sash across his chest that Synde did, and Croy noticed that those two were the only ones with sashes.  The Pyran was smiling, eyes darting to the wounds on Synde and then back to Synde’s face.  I just want the sword and the ring, Synde, that’s all.  No more death, no bloodshed.  You have given up your old life as it is, what do you care?  You have run from your duty, to be hunted down like a sick dog in a foreign realm.  I promise you life and freedom if you will just hand me what I desire, otherwise your dying will take a long and painful time in arriving.  A little spray of spittle flew from the Pyran’s mouth, while his eyes glistened like a starving derlian who has finally found sustenance.

You are a cowardly lying fool, Brycca!  If you want my rank then you must slay me.  You know the rules.  If you fear my sword then let one of the others try me, or will you kill them for the ring?  Where will it end, Brycca?  Do you trust those around you to guard your back?  Synde’s voice filled the silence of the glade.  Even bleeding and leaning against a tree his body sung of a personal power.  His eyes were feverish against the setting sun, almost glowing red.  Croy had stopped, unseen, mesmerized, at the edge of the trees.  Glancing at the other Pyrans, watching their chests heave in and out, Croy wondered if Synde needed him at all.

Glancing back at the other Pyrans, Brycca said, Take him!  You will never have a better chance at killing a leader of the Guard!  Think of the glory!  Your names will be sung for cycles!  The light in Brycca’s eyes narrowed, became more focused, more intent upon their prize.  Croy looked at the other two Pyrans, one was smiling, the other thoughtful.  While Brycca leapt forward, swinging in a huge arc, Synde danced forward to meet him.  Croy could feel himself moving, gliding through the trees, swinging his cudgel, and he watched as wood smashed into a smiling Pyran face.

Time slowed.  Stopped.  There was no sound.

He stared into the Pyran’s face, unmoving, shocked.  Croy watched as the derlian’s face exploded red, as his head rocked back with the impact, at the blood droplets soaring freely through the dusk.  He watched a thoughtful Pyran’s back, at the steel punching through the back of the derlian’s shirt, being pulled back through again with a sucking noise.  And as if all the air were coming back into the glade, that noise brought all others.  Hearing screams, Croy stopped swinging at the immobile shape on the ground in front of him.  Staring toward Synde, he saw Synde sink to his knees, watched an unknown legend crash, watched a leader of the Pyran Guard fall to the ground.  Screaming, Croy wished the noise had stopped permanently.  Screaming, Croy leapt over a Pyran that would not think thoughtful thoughts again and, bringing the stick down on Brycca’s head, Croy listened to the screaming.  Seeing Brycca fall and bounce on the ground, Croy swung again with all his might.  Watching the body lift a little from the ground, Croy swung with all his might.  All to the constant howls that floated through the forest.  Watching the stick break on Brycca’s still body, the screaming slowed.  Losing volume, Croy stood with mouth open for several minutes, hours, days.  Finally the screaming stopped; the silence came crashing back, Croy almost wished the screaming had gone on.  Almost.

Dropping the end of stick he had been clutching, Croy crouched over by Synde.  Looking down at the body, Croy’s eyes became wet.  Watching the red bubbles come from Synde’s mouth, he wondered why Synde’s chest was still moving.

Please, take Trela.  Teach her what you can.  The rasping that came from Synde’s body convinced Croy that he was right and Synde was wrong.  Synde had to be dead.  The body was getting blurry, and Croy wondered why he could still hear Synde speak.  There is a necklace in my pouch.  Give it to her when she leaves you.  Prepare her for what must come, please.  Synde’s voice was dropping, becoming harder to hear.  When I was a child, my mother told me of the prophecies.  I grew up with them, as all poor Pyrans do.  We grow up with hope, only to get old and die.  The voice became a whisper.  Croy could no longer see the body behind the blur his vision had become.  She will unite us…she will lead us through the flames…she is the one…take her…teach her peace…she was born with war…  The voice flickered, died.

Grabbing at Synde’s body, Croy felt for the pouch.  Finding it he peaked inside.  Through the blur he saw a pale necklace, so he tied up the pouch and put it inside of his shirt.  Standing up, feeling ill, he lurched back toward where he came.  Not thinking about the bodies, not caring about the dead, he left them where they were, to feed the forest and the animals.  Nature was always hungry, Croy thought, always hungry.

Staggering back along the trail, Croy passed bodies seen before in a dream of life.  He made his way back toward where Trela lay.  Finally reaching the giant birch tree, he looked down at a peaceful child, sleeping in the arms of the tree, snuggling with its roots.  Croy felt himself start to cry again.  He tried to stop it, he had cried too much today, but did not even understand his own emotion.  He sat down at the foot of the tree.  For the first time in what seemed like a long while, he truly rested.

He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face, but there was no sound.  Staring down into the forest, Croy watched the grass wave back and forth, the trees bend and warp to the flow of silent air.  He looked around, glancing at the plants. They seemed too vivid.  They glowed with life, pure life.  Looking down at himself he noticed that he had that glow as well, that he was alive and at peace with his surroundings.  Smiling to himself, Croy started to walk down the hill, out of the trees, and into the meadow.  There were no dead here, no burnt husks of wood, no bodies.  Just the grass, blowing and flowing, all to the silent wind.  Laughing, Croy ran down the hill, stumbling, falling, rolling.  Croy watched the sky turn green, into grass, to blue again, rolling down the hill.  Watching the meadow floor come closer, Croy prepared himself for the jolt of stopping.  He kept getting faster, rolling with more speed, his laughter began to fade.  Everything seemed to blur, he couldn’t slow his decent.  Thinking he should have reached the bottom by now Croy started to feel the twinges of panic on the edge of his mind.  All he could see was blue and green, blurring into one sliding picture.  Suddenly, all was black.

Feeling sick from all that spinning, Croy looked for any splotch of color, any object to rest his eyes upon.  Staring into the blackness, Croy felt the panic rising, like a clawing beast, trying its best to overcome his own mind.  Spinning, looking, searching, becoming frantic, Croy saw a glimpse of light, like a candle in the middle of a giant cave.  Croy tried to walk, but his feet felt no resistance.  He tried to swim, but his hands had nothing to grasp.  Feeling out with his mind, he began to pull himself towards the flickering light.  His stomach began to drop, like when he used to jump from a cave ledge into the great Serif lake.  He could feel the movement of his body, but nothing else.  Watching the flame flicker in the distance, he could feel something clawing at him, trying to drag him.  Resisting it, resisting everything, Croy flowed towards the flame, his need to know starting overcome the panic and clawing.  The flame was coming closer now, he could see that it came from nothing, it was placed in nothing, and it burned with a feverish light.  He was close to it now, could look into its dancing flames.  He could see what seemed to be a volcano, a giant broken mountain.  He could see someone climbing up one side of it.  He could see two other figures climbing after it.  It seemed that the one figure in the front was trying to distance itself from the other two.  Peering closer, the fire fading, Croy could see a bow on the back of the first figure.  The figure was swathed in gray clothing and Croy couldn’t tell if it was male or female.  Only the mountain was contained in his vision anymore, with flame spurts shooting from crevices in the rock.  Small rocks slid about and hailed upon all of the figures, making their passage that much more distracting.  About three fourths of the way up the mountainside was a ledge with two statues on either side of a cave.  It was towards this ledge that the figure seemed to be heading.  The figure pulled itself up the ledge and lay there with its chest heaving.  Croy wanted to call out, to alert the figure that the other climbers were close behind, but his voice was not working properly.  Croy thought he heard something in the cave and turned to look.  The statues looked to Croy like they could move, almost as if they had started while he was not looking, but that they had been unable get any further so they stayed frozen.  They were so incredibly lifelike that they seemed to be stuck on the verge of movement.  The one on the left had armor of stone covering stone skin.  It had a helmet with a full faceplate, hiding its visage, and a staff of stone held in its hands.  The one on the right had armor as well, but different designs cut into it.  It too had a full helmet, but held a giant sword, point down, embedded slightly in the ground.

The first figure finally stood back up, face covered in cloth.  Then the statues began to move, a slow deliberate movement.  The figure glanced back at the two figures following it.  They were almost upon the ledge.  The statues continued their own uprooting from the mountain and began to move towards the figure.  Glancing one last time down the mountain, the first figure faced the oncoming statues.  They were speaking to the figure, walking onwards.  Croy couldn’t figure out what they were saying.  The figure nodded, raised its hands, and threw back its cowl.  Light seared into Croy’s soul...

Croy! Wake up!  I’ve been looking for you forever.  It’s well into night, we should be getting back to the caves.  I promised Belg I’d have you back before twilight.  Nolt’s voice sounded clogged.  It took Croy a moment before he realized it was his ears that were clogged, they felt as if someone had stuffed wads of cloth into them, keeping the muffled world at bay.  Shaking his head to clear his ears, Croy tried to remember where he was.  Are you all right, Croy?  I thought you were dead when I saw you through the trees.  You don’t know the relief I felt after seeing your chest move.  You aren’t hurt are you?  I think this is blood on your clothes.  It’s not yours is it?  Nolt’s voice wouldn’t stop. Its relentless sound beat upon Croy’s head until all he could do was hold up his hands in a silent bid for a reprieve.

Please, I need rest.  I can’t think clearly.  Croy tried shaking his head again, but it just seemed to make it worse. Is there a child under the birch over there?  Make sure she is all right, will you?  All I need is some rest.  Croy felt like he had worked for several days in a row, without rest, never rest.

Nolt stood and walked towards the birch, knelt down beside the child.  She is fine, Croy.  Sleeping like a babe.  Which is what you should be doing I suppose.  Nolt’s smile came beaming through Croy’s dim eyes.  Smiling to himself Croy thought of when he and Nolt used to go looking through old caves, searching for hidden treasure.  The world seemed to be getting darker to Croy.  Nolt’s voice jumped back into his world.  Belg will probably want to skin me alive, but there is no way we can carry a child with us tonight, not all the way to Serif.  Go to sleep, Croy.  I will make a litter for her and make sure no one comes snooping around.  We can head back with the sun.  Just hearing Nolt’s voice made Croy sleepy.  Closing his eyes Croy thought of a dream, and tried to recapture a volcano, but only peace invaded his sleep.

Light.  The brightness burned into Croy’s brain, it sifted him through the layers of sleep until all he could do was to crush his eyes closed.  The redness of his lids was a reminder that he could no longer hide.  Slowly he turned over, hoping that his life was a dream, one that could fade with the coming of the light.  Opening up his eyes, he looked toward where he knew the birch would be.  There among the roots sat a young Pyran girl. She was chewing on some bluish berry, smiling up at Nolt.  Nolt was describing searching through an unknown cave, using his thick arms to exemplify the fear and excitement of the dark.  Croy smiled to himself, lying on a warm patch of grass, listening to Nolt tell his wondrous tales. Breathing in the crisp morning air, he could forget the blood stains on his clothes.

We turn toward the last bend back to one of the main chutes, and there’s this gorge that we have to cross.  Usually this wasn’t a problem, we would tie a rope around a rock, and throw it to the other side.  You could usually get it to wedge behind a boulder or something and then we would cross one at a time.  We had crossed this same gorge so many times in the past, that even I had stopped getting scared looking down.  This time, though, I had forgotten the rope back in the cave where we had found those bones.  Nolt’s rich voice was well into the tale, one that Croy recognized since he had been there.  Croy always enjoyed the way that Nolt told tales and he had heard this one many times before.  Somehow Nolt’s tales were different each time he told them, as if they evolved beyond his control.  Chuckling under his breath Croy thought back to the gorge. He had been furious to find out that Nolt had forgotten their only rope.  How could you have left the rope?!  Rope is only the most basic equipment you could want in a cave!  What were you thinking?  Obviously, you weren’t thinking at all.  Nolt had tried to switch the blame to Croy, since Croy was also there when it was forgotten, but Croy would have none of that.  I still have the water that I was in charge of, so now we can slowly die of starvation instead of dying quickly of dehydration!  Croy could laugh now, since the moment was funny in retrospect.  And, after all, Nolt did go down into the gorge first.  Of course, Croy had to climb back out of it first, but he enjoyed climbing up.  It was down that was the problem.  His favorite cave exploring memories usually happened with Nolt, and sometimes with Kraftig.  They were inseparable as children.  More often than not they got their punishments together as well.  Croy couldn’t seem to stop smiling in his reverie even though he was trying to appear sleeping.

Halfway down the rift Croy starts tossing pebbles at me and saying how flaky the rock at the top seemed.  ‘It seems like it could all come tumbling down at any second.  You had better hope you spot some rope at the bottom.’  And he starts laughing!  Here I am, clinging to the rock, wondering how my mother is going to react when they find my dead body, and Croy is laughing his head off.  For a moment I thought he snapped, I wasn’t quite sure if he was really angry about the rope, and maybe the rocks falling down would start getting bigger.  So I yell back at him, ‘Listen!  If you want to be the one to tell my mother how I died, just keep it up!  I’m trying to find a way down for us!’  And Croy just laughed and said that the only way he would talk to my mother was if he was tied and dragged to her.  My mother can be a bit strict sometimes.  Nolt’s voice was filled with mirth.  His mother was known for being as stubborn as the rocks and she had quite a temper besides.  Croy couldn’t help but laugh aloud at Nolt’s mild description of her.

Ah, he becomes coherent.  Nolt’s glance said he knew why Croy was laughing.  You should bathe yourself before we set off. You are starting to smell like one of the sheep.

Croy grabbed Nolt’s outstretched hand and stood.  Wiping the sleep from his own eyes, he looked into Nolt’s.  Thank you, my friend.  Smiling, Croy turned towards the stream and tottered off to the sound of rushing water.  Reaching the stream, he stripped and began to get the grime off his body.  The caves seemed such a long way off, almost in another time.  Croy wondered what they were doing back at home.  Belg must have gotten back there by now and alerted the ‘jin as to what lay in the meadow.

After stepping back to the land, Croy stood and looked at his wet clothing hanging on a tree branch.  He had done the best that he could, but the clothes would probably have to be burned.  The dirt had come out, but blood never wants to leave.  Shaking his head, he put on his wet breeches, and carrying his torn shirt he walked back to where the birch was.

Nolt was showing Trela the litter, explaining that she would be carried back to the caves because of her wounds.  Why?  I am not your concern.  There is no need to drag me into a mountain.  Synde will take care of me here.  Where is Synde?  Her eyes gazed fully at Croy since Nolt had already explained he knew nothing.  Her eyes were a strange yellowish color.  They were haunting in their otherworldliness.  Croy had never even heard of such eyes before, such that he was unsure how to even describe them.  They were speckled lightly with green, but held that unnatural yellow.  He wondered if she was jaundiced or ill.  It was then that he noticed her jaw was only soft while she was sleeping.  Where is Synde?  Her voice was crisp, pronouncing each word distinctly.  Croy wished she wasn’t staring at him so hard.  He is my teacher and protector. He would never have left me alone with you unless he trusted you.  Do you know him from his travels?  Croy could tell Trela was beginning to panic by the way her voice sped up at the end.  He could feel her lack of air, could see her eyes get furtive.

Synde asked me to help you.  He had to go back for something, he should be back in a few moons.  We will take you to Serif and let you heal.  I will explain what happened later.  Do you remember what happened?  How you got here?  Croy couldn’t bring himself to tell her.  Later, he thought. She needs some healing time.  It made Croy uneasy though, to lie like that.  He knew he would regret it later, yet it was as if someone else was making him do it this way.  Of course that someone could only be the cowardly portion of him.  Tell me how you ended up in Gaen lands, Trela.  And who was chasing you.  He felt he had to change the subject somehow.

Well, I was born the Kriishan, you see, Trela said smiling.

Her pause was definite.  Croy knew she was waiting for his recognition. Um, that is wonderful.  What exactly is a Kriishan?

Everybody knows who the Kriishan is!  Well, I suppose every Pyran knows who the Kriishan is.  It is the savior of the people, but it’s much more complicated than that.  There is one Pyran who is destined to rule over the realm every generation.  They are the Kriishan, and the land flourishes under their guidance.  The other rulers, known collectively as antoshan, are those that become rulers for their own gain and benefit.  Synde told me that I was going to be a great warrior and unite the people under my sword.  Trela’s voice sounded far away and soft.  This was her dream—to massacre.  Croy couldn’t believe it.  He knew the Pyrans were violent, but this was a little girl.

You see, most of the Pyrans that work the land do not own it.  Some of the farmers are so poor that they cannot afford seed nor livestock; they are known as metayers.  So, the landowner provides everything they need to get started and then they split the profits.  This is all well and good, for the landowner at least.  However, the landowner is also the protector of the tenant.  This would be all well and good also, but sometimes the task of defense raises a prideful feeling of power.  Sometimes the landowners become insistent upon their own needs, feeling that they give so much to the poor metayers.  In short, the Kriishan rightly protects the tenants from their own protectors, while an antoshan is only concerned about protecting the landowners if they are concerned about protecting anyone at all.  Trela was trying to be serious now, to explain why a Kriishan was necessary.  Croy wondered if she had noticed his look, but she had not been watching him.

We are like that as well, except that we pay our guilds for our seeds and livestock.  It’s kind of a tax really, or a membership fee, but since everyone belongs to a guild, everybody pays.  They don’t have to protect us, because we have a separate guild for that.  Plus our status in the guilds gets us special things.  Like the ability to move to a nicer cave, and what not.  Nolt was smiling at Trela while he got the litter ready for her.

Wait, wait.  It’s not the same at all, Nolt.  She’s talking of oppression.  We aren’t oppressed.  Even as Croy spoke the words, he knew they sounded too nervous, too bothered.  But he didn’t feel oppressed by his people or his guild.

Wait, maybe you don’t understand.  Under the right ruler our system works very well, the king before Qizern, Rylco, was wonderful.  The land flourished, the people produced excellent craftsmanship and there was plenty of good harmony.  But then came Qizern. He killed Rylco and took his crown.  Now more and more land is lost to the deserts each cycle, the food and equipment goes to the warriors through purveyance and tallages, the jewels and scattered wealth all funnel up to Qizern.  He is greedy and evil, and to think, I am chosen to defeat him.

How will you defeat this Qizern?  He sounds like a nasty fellow.  Can’t you just overthrow him, or something?  Get him dethroned without violence.  Croy was looking at the slight girl being hoisted on the litter by Nolt and wondering how she could overthrow anything.

Don’t you know any of our customs?  Has Synde told you nothing?  The only way to become king, or even just to change kings, is to kill the old king in single combat.  The random revolt is much too hard on the land.  If the king is considered unfit by you, all you have to do is challenge them, and if you have enough warriors that follow you, they must accept or fall from honor.  Unfortunately Qizern is a sword-master, a sect of warriors who live in the desert that do nothing but meditate on war and practice fighting.  He killed his own teacher, they say.  Trela was strapped down finally.  Croy grabbed the litter at her feet, while Nolt, smiling down at Trela’s face, grabbed the litter by her head.  With an unconscious grunt, they lifted Trela and started to pack her down to the mountain.

Please, please, go on.  I have never heard anything of the Pyrans and find it fascinating.  Was Synde a sword-master?  Nolt’s voice held true excitement in it, and all Croy could do was flinch at the name Synde.  Don’t ask too many questions in that area, he thought to Nolt, for I can’t answer any of her questions yet.

No, Synde is a natural.  He never received any formal training, but he has traveled everywhere.  Each place he goes he learns a new trick.  He says that is the secret to his success.  The way he moves, it’s like he’s dancing.  Or like cats, playing and rolling together.  He has such a grace while fighting.  I can’t wait until he comes back and teaches me how to achieve that grace.  That is what I will need to defeat Qizern.  Grace.  Trela’s voice trailed off as she imagined herself victorious.  She was lost to the world for a moment, and Croy silently sweated.

The silence was getting long and ate at Croy due to his own guilt.  He either had to explain or to cover up.  He wanted to explain, to say that Synde was dead, that his last wish had been that Croy should teach Trela peace.  Peace before war.  For some reason...  Maybe because his mind had thought of a clever way out.  Or maybe because he felt he should teach this saviour peace.  Or maybe he thought he could avert some bloodshed by keeping her away from Pyran lands, especially her own bloodshed.  Or maybe it was simply destiny.  But Croy did not explain the truth...he lied and covered up.  My father always said that grace of the mind comes before grace of the body.  Synde asked me to show you the ways of the great thinkers, the Gaen philosophers, before he will teach you the way of the sword.  How will you rule once you’ve conquered this Qizern, will you be just?  You say you will now, but power has a way of making adults forget what they promised to their destinies as children.  For three sun cycles you will live with us in Serif, then Synde will continue your martial training.  Croy felt flush and heady, but good.  Like after a draught of good beer.  He didn’t even notice Nolt’s frown burrowing into his back.

I knew it!  I knew Synde wouldn’t just leave me with no reason.  I will learn then, everything you will teach me.  I will be like the sand, soaking up the rains from the sky.  How long have you known Synde?  Has he had this planned for a while?  I wondered why he turned the caravan towards the Gaen realm, but I never dreamed it was because he had allies here.  Is he going back to Pyran lands then, to set up Qizern’s demise?  Trela just wanted to believe, wanted it more than anything.  The wishful desire was loud in her soft voice.

Croy’s mind raced.  Not frantically, like it usually did when he lied, but smoothly, like a well-trained runner, pacing itself at top speed.  Not deeper, he thought, mustn’t get deeper into Synde.  I don’t know Synde very well, but I owe him a favor.  He saved my life once, in the forest.  He had said that he would come to me with a package for me to take care of.  It was several cycles ago and I honestly didn’t think he would ever come back.  But he did, with you, of course.  He said that you needed to be hidden for a while, and that you should be educated.  He had important business back home, and wouldn’t be around for a few cycles.  But I don’t really know him.  You should tell me about how you two met, he seems like a remarkable derlian.  How did he know you were the Kriishan?  Croy thanked Gunzgak that Ilana would be gone for almost another cycle. Never in the world did he think he would be glad of her absence.  He did not want to have to explain this to her right away.  He needed time to figure out what to say.  He needed time to figure out what he was doing.

Well, when I was a very little girl...  Trela’s voice was lost into a fit of coughing.  The coughing got bad enough that they stopped jostling her and set her down for a moment.

Maybe we should just let her rest, Croy.  Nolt sounded almost annoyed.  They picked her back up and walked for quite a while in silence.  At first the silence was a little uncomfortable, Nolt’s last words echoing through their minds.  Then, after their second wind began to wane, they hiked with heads down, saving their breath.  The silence turned into a kind of solace.

They finally came to the last rise before the trek through the foothills to the entrance to the cave, the entrance to Serif.  Hold up a second, Nolt, Croy said, slowing down and lowering his end of the litter.  Let’s rest a moment in the shade.  Nolt lowered his end of the litter. Looking towards his home, he wiped sweat from his brow.

You’re right, I don’t think there’s another tree from here to the cave.  It was meant to be sort of funny, but just came out tired.  Nolt arranged the litter slightly before he collapsed under a large tree.  Croy gulped loudly from his waterskin.  Sighing and wiping the sweat from his face, Croy offered the skin to Trela.  Holding it for her, he let her drink from it.  It’ll be nice and cool in the shade of the cave, Trela.  The heat won’t beat us down, like it is now.

I like the heat.  It was all she said, and she gave him a cute girlish smile.  After she drank, Croy gave the waterskin to Nolt and began to wander towards the forest, looking for flowers.

Hey, Croy!  What are you doing?  Nolt yelled to Croy’s retreating back.

I’m picking some flowers for Ilana, said Croy’s back.  He kept close to them, however, well within hearing distance.

You know, she’ll be gone for some time still, Nolt yelled back.  They’ll be all withered up by the time she gets back.  He never listens to me.  Nolt was half talking to Croy, half to Trela, and half just to himself.  You’ll like Serif, Trela. It’s the Gaen race’s greatest achievement in my opinion.  It has lakes, huge coliseums and stalagmite pillars that reach the ceiling, or maybe stalactite pillars that reach the floor.  It has everything.  Nolt’s voice was of one who is almost home.

"I’m sure it’s very wondrous, but I don’t like caves.  My brothers used to take me to the sand caves outside of Virkan, the village I grew up in, and get me lost.  They’d leave me in the dark, laughing, and they would go home.  I would beg the walls to show me the way out, crying with my hands bleeding, that they would finally release me to the light.  I don’t know if I can live in