Dark Clouds Rising: Black Star Saga: Volume One

By C.J. Staryk

Dark Clouds Rising is the first book in the Black Star series exploring the fantasy world Crux, a world of ancient falsehoods and broken nations. Within all this chaos, heroes rise to a calling even they cannot fully understand.

In Flesh and Dreams, Stephen, an amnesiac, is found in a forest, wounded. Adopted by a group of dragonslayers, Stephen travels in their quest to rediscover their fervor against Dragons.The quest takes them through the ruin of raided cities, the hall of a corrupt noblewoman, the fire of a battle against a barbaric horde, and the heart of the enemy’s lair.

All the while, Stephen searches for his past, but a shadow grows in his heart that whispers gleeful memories of bloodlust and rage.

In Reflections, Captain Serdis of the Nessus Law-enforcers hunts a cult that kills for pleasure.The religious cult worships a god of death from the country of Boncawa to the north, a country that warred with Serdis’s beloved nation.

He knows the cult would like nothing better than to start a war again, and Serdis plans to prevent such an event, but fate has assured his failure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 7, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595778072

C.J. Staryk

C.J. Staryk was born in Newport News, Virginia, in 1978. In the third grade, he wrote his first short story, and a dream was born. Staryk graduated from Christopher Newport University in 2000 with a B.A. in English. C.J. Staryk now resides in Hayes, Virginia.

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Copyright © 2005 C.J. Staryk.

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

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ISBN: 978-0-5953-3016-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-5957-7807-2 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 10/28/2019

Contents

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Prologue

BOOK ONE FLESH AND DREAMS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

BOOK TWO REFLECTIONS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

To my parents, William and Karen Staryk; their

kindness and tolerance toward my crazy dream

allowed all of this to happen. Thank you for not letting

me surrender to the rest of the world.

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The world of Crux is at a crucial stage. The societies and races that call the world home are about ready to see history change before their eyes. Ancient falsehoods will come to light, and nations will shudder as war engulfs all lands.

During this time, heroes and villains will rise to direct the destiny of a proud world. There is no prophecy calling for a champion of light to do battle with a champion of darkness; but forces will collide as their hopes, ambitions, and fears are inevitably drawn to one another.

Many beings, throughout the world and beyond, have personal stakes in the events of the present, and the destiny of one world is rarely changed by only one being. The story begins with three souls tied to the fate of Crux: Stephen, Captain Serdis, and Lord Nhiter.

Prologue

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I am not convinced, Mage Wifstern, that the idea you are proposing is, in any way, valid. I must admit that a few others and I are intrigued and entertained by the tales of those old salts, but listen more closely to the word entertained. A certain amount of folklore is healthy for any civilization; it keeps our imagination from being squandered and helps us find hope when none is present. You must understand, Wifstern, that you have been an asset to this family for seventy-two years; my father trusted you and so have I, but I believe your mind has become faded with age. The Land Beyond the Sun is nothing more than a collection of fables to impress young children and adventurous young men. I must request, fervently, that you do not pursue a quest that will damage your credibility as a man who can be relied upon and trusted.

They were words of disbelief, words of mockery, and all of them echoed from a friend. The lawbinder’s scalding words burned through the old wizard’s mind like a river splitting into a delta before entering the sea. The pain’s trembling sensation poured over his mind like a fiery rainstorm, wracking it and bringing the old man to tears. A chance for a new understanding about what was outside the confines of this sphere, this rock, had been blocked by another closed-minded fool; a friend, yes, but still a fool.

The old wizard shook those boiling words from his mind as he pulled a small dusty chest from the lowest drawer of his precious writing desk. The dust scattered before his hand as he blew the last of the doubts from the world Wifstern had now immersed himself into. The great visionary tapped the keyless lock with an index finger, and the hoop popped off, allowing the wizard to cast light upon the objects that had been in darkness for so long. As the lid opened, the light escaping from the box brightened the basement laboratory, more than the torches lining the walls and the candles across the tables. Five stunning gems sat confidently, displaying their hues to win the envy of the darkness while reflecting the old man’s smiling face. Wifstern cocked his head to one side and watched his many reflections cock back.

A fiery roar of laughter echoed from his throat. Soon I will be a man of many faces, on many worlds!

His laughter dissipated into a common coughing fit, wracking Wifstern’s aging body. The vibrations shook his numerous reflections, rattling them around the confines of their prisons.

Breaking from the fit, the old man stumbled over to a device on his good right foot, dragging his left one behind him. He took a moment to gaze at the smooth gold oval that had been crafted as the border of a man-sized mirror. The mirror’s reflection mimicked the look of long-awaited triumph across the wizard’s face. Five holes had been bored in the golden oval, one each at the north, south, and west, while two holes sat on the eastern side of the mirror-gate. The gateway stood there embedded in the stone wall, waiting for the wizard to place the final touches. Excitedly, breathlessly, Wifstern pulled out a beautiful clear gem spotted with white flakes of snow from his chest of reflections and placed the gem through a hole at the bottom of the golden oval. The hole fit the gem like two cradling hands, and two streams of light encircled the stone, locking the blizzard gem securely into place. The wizard squealed with scientific glory as he lifted a gem of ghostly rainbow hues from its prison and placed it at the northernmost tip of the golden oval. The same two ghostly lights circled the gem and held it in place; from one prison to another.

The glass of the mirror began to ripple slightly from the center as if a rock were thrown through the glass pond. The wizard took a moment to watch his image become distorted as ripple after ripple passed through his abdomen, down to his toes, up to his head, and out to his fingertips. Wifstern felt the power surge through him; he wanted to raise his hands to the ceiling in reverent understanding. The wizard, however, halted his growing ecstasy; the gate was not yet finished.

A golden gem, with all the brilliance of a sun, was brought out of the wizard’s box of dwindling illumination and placed on the western side of the glass-pond. Once the sun was locked in place, Wifstern stared into his box again. Two more opaque gems, the last segments of decades of labor and study, were removed from their confinement, darkening the room with their own brilliance. They were fastened on the eastern side of the pool. The wizard’s image began to lose form, ripped apart by the raging torrent that circled rapidly around the center of the mirror-gate, replacing the once calm ripples. The wizard watched his torn image vanish as the clear glass began to cloud in a bluish hue, which transformed the dull color of Wifstern’s laboratory into the captivating beauty similar to the Western Sea. The blue light began spinning rapidly in a clockwise direction, slowing when the mist within the mirror-gate resembled great spinning clouds: storms of nightmares and pain. This was it; the portal was open.

To knowledge beyond any normal mortal’s aspirations, Wifstern said confidently, holding his fist in front of him as if he were toasting at a social event in court.

And with those words, the wizard walked through the serene vision of a terrible storm.

The passage between worlds was disorienting, and the trip threw Wifstern headfirst into hot sand. Wifstern coughed and heaved while trying to lift himself to his feet. He brushed out the sand from his burning eyes, and then gritty sand crystals invaded the man’s mouth, soaking up all moisture within. While Wifstern rubbed his tongue with the vain hope of removing the sand, the wizard’s eyes viewed a new discovery, and his hands fell to his sides at the sheer horror of his predicament. The tales he had collected over the years from sailors at Port Aljarvé told him of beauty and peace beyond compare, but Wifstern found only a red sky and rolling sand dunes. There were no clouds, no sun, not even stars to guide him; just a crimson sky oozing like a river of blood over whipped sand dunes that reached higher than any mountain Wifstern had ever seen back home. The wind wailed through the dunes like a tumult of banshees hunting those that wounded them, kicking up the sand with their vengeful feet, searching.

A sudden gale kicked up behind the wizard. Something had come from behind him and knocked him across the back of the knees with a blunt object. The disheartened explorer fell headfirst again into the sand and rose quickly to his knees to face his attacker, only to have burning sand assault every pore and opening of his face as if a forest fire suddenly blew into it. The wizard screamed in dehydrated agony and tucked his head as the wind slowly passed over him. Blood seeped from Wifstern’s aggravated nose to the sand, dampening the sand around his burned feet for only a brief instant before the desert swallowed the dampness.

Crying in his failure, the wizard rose to his good foot with dry eyes, a cottonmouth, and a bleeding nose. His eyes widen in horror as the traveler realized that the torrent of blue clouds didn’t exist here; his portal could not bring him back home. Such a condition wasn’t possible; the notes, the experiments, and the years of research didn’t leave room for mistakes. Every possible part of the incantation had been checked and double-checked to be certain of success. Laws made it impossible to fail if all the right precautions had been taken. What did he miss?

Another fist of wind knocked the wizard across his face, returning him to the sand and flinging him down the steep slope of a dune. In the confusion, the wizard tumbled, uncontrollably, before stopping at the base of an ominous building. An immense vertical shadow speared through the sand, attempting to pierce the pulsing sky. A thin door made of black stone towered at twice the height of Wifstern. The door slowly opened outward, revealing only shadow: a dim invitation. Wishing to be free from the torment around him, Wifstern crawled through the dark portal and breathed in relief as the insatiable wind howled outside in anger, unable to blow across the threshold.

After a moment or two, Wifstern raised his ancient body to take a look around at his dark, safe shelter. It was black. The sorcerer put his hand out in front of him only to watch his forearm vanish into the darkness. From within the darkness, a frozen mass yanked at his lost arm; Wifstern screamed and yanked back his hand. The wizard allowed fear to take hold, and he turned to escape; the door had vanished, and only a sheet of midnight smiled back.

A great moan echoed from the darkness, forcing Wifstern to spin in wild directions hoping to catch a glimpse of his adversary before the creature got the first hit. His rotations grew wilder, and Wifstern still could not pinpoint the ravaging moan that echoed outside and inside his mortal being. The last spin Wifstern made twisted his ankle, and as the pain and its accompanying crack resonated around the stricken mage, he fell to the floor as he beheld his foe.

Wifstern, rubbing his throbbing ankle, viewed a horrible visage. What he saw was no foe, but a trapped being moaning to be released. He was raised on a vertical table strapped down by leather and metal, although the restraints seemed unnecessary. His face and body were so emaciated that blood vessels were visibly pumping a failing life source through the being’s limbs. His hair had fallen out and his open maw revealed the absence of both rows of teeth. His eyes could cry no longer, and saliva had long ceased to stream down his body, although the tracks of both tears and spit were worn valleys along the being’s face. His eyes probably had been a brilliant blue, but now a light gray color winced through his irises. Wifstern would remember those empty eyes forever, utterly desolate of a soul, of hope, now knowing only despair.

No, a force was wandering around in those eyes. Upon Wifstern’s instinctual revelation, the eyes of the tortured man grew black, like ink spilling from his pupils. The leather straps and metal braces broke as muscles began to ripple down the arms. The chest heaved and breathed heavily once again. The being’s legs, on the contrary, began to wither to dust particles, floating collectively in midair just below the powerful torso. The body faded to a gray, morbid translucence, matching the dust trail. Two horns rose from the being’s forehead: two inches of horns. The human face melted away, revealing skeletal features; the last vestiges of any possible humanity were burned away. Terrible claws as sharp as lion’s teeth reached for Wifstern, pleading for blood.

What are you? the wizard asked between grunts of agony.

The beast stopped, surrounded by an aura of thoughtfulness, and answered the question in a voice made of thousands of whispering echoes. We are you.

The beast rushed forward as Wifstern fell back to the floor, unable to react to the onslaught. Raising its ghastly arms above the defenseless wizard, the creature pounced and then vanished from sight, moments before the killing blow would have landed.

Blasting sand returned to assault Wifstern as he stared at the pulsing sky; the tower had vanished.

He was on the outside again, but no longer alone; many voices cried out in unison repeating the words, We are you.

NO! Wifstern cried in a futile attempt to silence the wind itself.

The wizard rose to his knees, and once he was steadied, Wifstern closed his eyes and began to mumble. The voices, for a moment, faded away; Wifstern had blocked them out. Once his chant was finished he opened his eyes to the blazing wind and saw his great blue storm to his east, calling him to safety. It had been hidden from him earlier, and Wifstern’s magic thankfully revealed his way home. As the wizard was preparing to escape this fumbled experiment, a disturbance caught his eye; all around the mage, the wind blew upward in wild arcs, forming a great sand wall that headed toward the portal.

The wind, thought Wifstern, it’s him. He is trying to escape; I led him to the exit. I cannot let this happen.

Wifstern rose from his kneeling position; the pain in his ankle was unbearable. He drew his arms across his face and, once again, closed his eyes. With one word echoing from his lips, in the language of law and the universe, the wizard threw his arms to his sides with great force and opened his eyes toward that blue hurricane of hope. In the time it takes to blink, Wifstern was beside the gate with the wind wall advancing toward him.

You will not pass, Dark One, Wifstern cried in a voice louder than the many voices around him.

Wifstern leaped through the torrent. The disorientation faded much quicker this time as the old man got his bearings and rediscovered the stone floor of his laboratory. Wifstern turned around to face the portal, and his ankle punished him for such a careless move. The pain brought the man to the ground, groping at the portal only five inches away. The voices could be heard traveling up through the floor; within a moment, they would all be free. The nightmarish choir chanted from the back of Wifstern’s mind, stinging his ears with a language of power and perversion; the demon must have placed it there to crack his spirit. Wifstern felt his reasoning leaving him like the blood from his nose, leaving only an expanding and useless pool on the floor, flowing underneath his legs. The voices pounded his head like ten thousand men beating war drums. The portal was still open.

The last of Wifstern’s sanity took control and forced him to his feet. Wifstern lurched toward the mirror-gate and crashed into the wall beside the portal. With the last ounces of energy, the old wizard grabbed the wall next to the gate’s golden rim, sank his fingers through the stone like a knife through butter, and grabbed the mirror-gate. Chanting in agony, Wifstern ripped the mirror from the wall and fell with it to the ground. The shattering of the mirror silenced those voices reaching from a nether world, leaving the mage alone within the laboratory.

And Wifstern lay in the broken pieces of glass, crying as tears returned to his dry eyes and blood poured down his robes. All he could do was whimper as his life seeped away through the stones in the floor.

Book One

FLESH AND DREAMS

CHAPTER 1

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Hot and sweaty steam poured all over his face. The stench assaulting his nostrils was easily the most horrific odor he had ever had the pleasure of discovering. The young man opened his eyes as the steamy breeze burned their exposed softness. Through his watery irises, the man saw a dark silhouette looming over him, eclipsing the rising sun, and grunting in agitation as the young man struggled away from the form. Rolling quickly from the silhouette, the young man jumped to his feet and wiped his eyes as dry as he could to spy the thing stalking him.

The sight was horrifying once his eyes adjusted to the light. The dark silhouette of a great-furred beast standing on two legs. The eight-foot tall creature had two curved horns sprouting from his forehead and two other horns curving toward his mouth, exiting from behind what could have been the opening for spiraling inner ears. The beast’s head resembled a feline predator with ragged fur, no whiskers, and hungry green eyes with vertical pupils. The creature carried a stone ax, with a blade the size of the young man’s head, in his clawed left hand and wore faded, spotted-yellow animal skins. It opened its huge maw and let out a terrible guttural sound that was sure to attract friends, if such a creature had any. Preparing to run at a moment’s notice, the runaway pivoted to find a clear path and nearly tripped into another being.

This second humanoid stood about the man’s height and slightly resembled the young man. His face was angled with the steady stance of a cool hunter. His angled, wolf-like ears moved independently of each other, responding to the sounds of the forest around them. His eyes, matching his ragged black hair, were dark, empty orbs, blocking any show of emotion. Pale skin with a minute hint of a tan covered him, and his slender frame deceived an onlooker’s judgment of the being’s strength. His tunic and breeches were colored with drab browns and greens, and a black leather belt with silver buckles was fastened around his waist. An intricately constructed longbow was slung across his back with a full quiver of arrows. Two of the arrows had a thin metal wire attached to them, and the wires were looped around belt buckles, one loop on each side of the being’s body. One longsword and one shortsword, were in plain leather scabbards at his sides.

The black-eyed man raised an eyebrow and spoke in a stern voice. What are you doing here, little one?

The furred beast roared back in victory, I found him on the ground. He is a good catch, yes? You skin, I eat.

The young man repositioned to keep a wary eye on both strangers, and he watched the beast’s pink tongue caress its upper teeth, almost as if the incisors were being filed sharper for increased dosages of pain.

No, Fenral, this one is not a good catch. You cannot eat this one, and I cannot skin it. It would not be proper. The black-eyed man winked at the beast.

He smells quite good. Are we just going to let him go?

The black-eyed man laughed for a moment and grabbed the young man’s arm. The young man shrieked at the sudden assault. The black-eyed fellow’s fingers followed two long blood-soaked slashes across the young man’s body, one on his forearm and another across the middle of his back. The hunter gazed at his fingertips and appeared satisfied, although bewildered, that he found no wet blood.

No wonder my friend here––the black-eyed man looked at his beast with a nod and returned to the wounds––thought you smelled good. You have two awful wounds across your body. They have dried, but Fenral could smell the blood from a two-week-old knife wound. Were you in a fight recently?

The young man tried to remember a fight. His memory was a blank, except for a pair of blue lights piercing through the dark in his mind, but the lights illuminated only fog. He felt cold, alone, and tired. Metal shot through the sky around the dome inside his head, knocking him to the ground with the pair of blue lights looking down and laughing. He shook himself from the vision.

No, I don’t remember, the young man lied.

What’s this then? asked the brown-furred beast named Fenral, holding a longsword caked in blood where the young man had been laying.

The black-eyed man looked up from checking the wounds on the young man’s back and, catching the metallic shine from the longsword, asked, Is that yours?

The boy searched again through his thoughts, only to meet a jumbled mass of frightening flashes. He couldn’t remember. I don’t know––a quick flash of a sword in his hand swinging at the darkness came to him––it could be.

Well, the black-eyed man replied, handing the young man the bloody sword, you are either a bad liar or you, well, I do not know exactly what else you could be, other than a fantastic healer.

What do you mean? the young man asked, desperately trying to crane his neck to look at his own back.

Well, your wounds have healed remarkably for their depth. By the age of the wounds, you should have died from loss of blood some time ago. By the way, the name is Celairis. I am an Elondethan, in case you did not know. The black-eyed fellow brought forth his hand in greeting.

The young man tried to remember his own name. A whisper echoed through his mind of a name that made him grow icy cold. The murmur erupted in his head; the letters and syllables rolled together like a blizzard. The name was unpronounceable and terrible. He shook violently.

Something wrong, little one? Celairis asked, lowering his hand.

The young man searched for a name, and then like a quiet child in the back of his mind sailed a name upon the wind, muffling the competing gale in his cerebrum. The man snapped his neck up quickly and shouted, Stephen! My name is Stephen.

For a second, Celairis was taken aback by the young man’s outburst, but he replied calmly, Very well, Stephen, this is Fenral of the Aldero tribe. He is my old friend from a few years ago; he is a Camingrin, rumored to be a barbarian race from the northeast.

A horrid smile came across the Camingrin’s face, and it waved with its teeth-like claws.

Will he still eat me? Stephen asked as the beast came up to him and placed its claw upon the young man’s shoulder.

Celairis laughed, No, little one, he thinks with his nose. If he smells blood, he investigates. To be honest, I do not think you would taste good to him anyway. He has a strong dislike for human flesh.

Stephen reluctantly accepted this beast’s quick friendship. Fenral’s face was quite serene, and hardly the feeling Stephen expected to get from the eyes of a predator.

Come with me, Stephen, said Celairis as he headed toward the rising sun shining through the trees. There is a town not too far away from here, where I have a friend who might look at your wounds. I want to make sure they are not infected, before I send you on your way.

Thank you, Celairis, Stephen replied as he followed, still trying to take in everything around him.

Fenral, check the rest of the traps this morning. I should be back shortly to help out. Do not eat anything from the traps! Celairis called back to his friend.

Fenral waved and yelled to Stephen, Good luck. The brute’s guttural voice didn’t seem as frightening to Stephen now.

Stephen’s journey through the forest was amazing as the world began to change around him. Crickets began to silence their nightly courtship, and the birds came alive in huge black masses in the trees, chirping in celebration as their guide rose from the east. Many day-stirring creatures came out of hiding, thankful to have slept another night without the disturbances of their nocturnal predators. Animals came quite close to the pair of humanoids, traveling through the forest. Birds flew to low branches and chirped to Celairis, giving the Elondethan a morning greeting. Now and again, Celairis returned with a perfect mimic of a bird’s call. His tone was sometimes higher or lower, and he bobbed his head in response to each bird’s awkward jerks. Stephen watched this display with a quiet reverence he couldn’t grasp.

You can talk to them? he asked.

Yes, I can. Celairis spoke as if such a feat were common knowledge. When you have lived out here as long as I have, you pick up a few tricks.

But you are a trapper? I thought animals would fear you.

I trap only what I need, Celairis replied as he waved good-bye to a mockingbird. Turning back to Stephen, Celairis growled, Yes, I sell furs to towns for a small profit, but I am not like the traitorous trappers who skin a creature and leave its body to rot.

Traitorous? Stephen raised his eyebrow at the word.

Yes, they have disrespected and betrayed the one spirit that gave birth to them so long ago, Celairis said, condemning the unnamed poachers. From the Great Mother’s womb came all the creatures of the world, or are you not familiar with the story?

I have never heard about any Great Mother before. If I did, I can’t remember such a tale. Stephen hung his head in shame at his failing memory. It must have been beautiful.

Celairis stopped in the middle of a musical speech with a second mockingbird and asked his new companion, What kind of Sangan are you?

Sangan? asked Stephen, curiously.

You have the chestnut hair, the tan skin, and the rare blue pupils of the Earth People––the Elondethan’s tone was one of mockery––well, those who used to call themselves the Earth People. Did you come from a town nearby?

No, I’m not sure, replied Stephen, looking over his tan skin, uncertain if his pigment were a clue toward his identity.

Celairis looked Stephen straight in the eyes, his unreflecting black eyes unnerved the young man. You know how to speak, you have a name, and you have a basic understanding of things around you; so you cannot be an idiot. However, you have no recollection of who you are, not even a glimpse of an ethnic background?

Stephen saw the blue orbs again, searching for him in his mind; he jumped back from the Celairis, arms held up in surrender. No, sir, he stammered, please believe me. I am telling the truth.

Celairis eyes softened their hold on the young man. I think I know how you feel, but your story is still hard to swallow, Stephen.

After passing through a tangle of underbrush, Celairis began to muse quietly, and, after winning a personal struggle within his own mind, said, Stephen, if you are interested, and since it will help to pass the time, I can give you what I know about the Great Mother. Perhaps it will jog your memory.

Stephen agreed, Yes, perhaps it would help.

Celairis cleared his throat as they moved forward through the thicket. The tale of the Great Mother has many twists on the same basic idea, he began. "The Camingrins have a tale of their one god, Fa’tauth, the deity who created their race, but the tale also spoke of an entity before Fa’tauth that gave birth to the ground, the seas, and the sky. It is mostly beyond the scope of the Camingrin religion to explain the origins of the world; it is a spiritual understanding no mortal should aspire to. The Boncawans, also in the northeast, have a collection of gods who function beneath the one Creator. Even the godless law philosophy of the Kashabans to the east, past the Fog Peaks, have a source they have deemed Ultimate Law. In any case, this tale I will tell you comes from Elondethan dogma. It is not complete truth, but it should be enough for you.

"In the blankness of the beginning, a soup of chaos and conformity floated in mass with no destiny or shape. It was great in size, and, supposedly, fed on itself. In the infinite blankness, there was only loneliness, and this soup of chaos and conformity talked to itself for eons. In time, it began to ask questions it could not answer with its own inner interrogations. This two-way conversation within one mind reached a decision to split itself into its component parts. What was to become the Great Mother reasoned that it was a being absent of the diversity it felt within its own mind, and it split itself into the blankness of infinity.

"For reasons never fully explained to me as a child, rivers of colors spilled into the emptiness and helped to form solid tangible forces, the earth, water, and vapor. As everything coalesced into this new form, another force was born to watch over everything and learn. Thus, the Great Mother gave birth to herself. Through the unknowable eons after the Great Mother’s split, other forces grew sentient from the changing universe. Crafted by the Great Mother, they were her sons and daughters. And under careful guidance by the Great Mother, the lives and spirits of plants, animals, and mortals were spawned by the Sons and Daughters of Her, and they all watch us at every moment, studying and learning answers to questions they could never answer.

Another idea that a number of mythologies suggest, mainly Elondethan and Camingrin tales, is that while the Great Mother is the force of Creation, she is also the land, trees, animals, and mortals that her Sons and Daughters spawned, so we are all connected. As a side note: I believe many have forgotten that.

Stephen scratched his head and dodged a thorn bush’s swinging arms. Why a female? asked Stephen. Why is it the Great Mother? Does the gender really matter?

Celairis shrugged. Probably not, but all races known have the female gender giving birth, so it gives us all a basis of understanding about a force as aloof as the force of creation. It is a way for any mere mortal to feel an attachment to Her.

Stephen and Celairis hiked on in silence. Stephen wanted to reach out to Celairis; he wanted to learn if the individuals who first found him in the forest could possibly have a connection to him.

Earlier, I remember, Stephen stammered, hoping to drive deeper into Celairis’s soul, you said you could possibly know how I feel. What I’m confused about is how you can have any inkling of my thoughts?

Celairis remained silent and continued on his trail through the forest, a trail that only existed in his mind; any normal man who attempted to follow would become lost in the underbrush and crowded trees. Weighty tensions hung over Stephen as he silenced his curiosities and trudged on. With a single glance from the Elondethan’s deep eyes, Stephen had made a connection, but it was one he regretted.

Throughout the morning, Stephen found himself falling into a rhythm that matched Celairis’s strides through the forest. Thorn bushes that had constantly punished Stephen for walking near them had become less problematic, even though the thorns never punctured his body, Stephen felt their sharp pressure. When the thorns became attached to his clothing or his dark blue cloak, it made him irritable. Over time, he was moving under and around brush like a rabbit through familiar territory. Crossing cold streams along dry rocks worn by the river’s assault became easy enough that Stephen once found himself twirling on a rock on one foot in the middle of the river. He fell twice, and Celairis, who didn’t seem the least bit interested in the young man’s antics, groaned each time and walked deeper into the foliage.

On one such occasion, Stephen rushed to catch up, dripping in chilly clear water. As he ran, the water froze into his clothes and the sun fell from the sky, blocked out by the clouds. The once absent sound of crickets returned in a wave of noise. Sweat, cold sweat, poured from Stephen’s body as he rushed through the dark trees. He had lost sight of Celairis. Looking up into the sky, Stephen saw the cloud that had hidden the sun, but the full moon peeked from behind the gray sailor. Night had fallen, but moments ago the sun was just passing its zenith. A pair of blue lights frightened the darkness around Stephen. He heard the autumn leaves crinkle under heavy boots and continued his rush through the forest.

Celairis! the young man screamed.

The young man lost his footing; he was running, forever tripping as fear seized his throat. Ahead of him, moonbeams peeking from the cloud lit a deep ravine of thorns and trees. Stopping only moments before careening into the deep gully, Stephen pivoted on his feet to run the other way.

Crashing into an immovable object, Stephen felt reassured. Celairis?

Looking up, Stephen saw a pair of glowing orbs staring from under a black hood. Something was familiar in those terrible eyes, but Stephen was only gripped by fear and could not understand what he should recognize. Nothing could be familiar in the darkness under that hood. Stephen screamed.

The hooded figure began to shake the young man violently. Stephen! he cried. Stephen! What’s wrong?

Stephen found his face embedded in Celairis’s solid, slender frame. Astounded, the young man fell to the ground, trembling.

Celairis still tried to gauge the problem. Stephen, are you all right?

The Stephen’s sparkling blue eyes stared at the sunlight breaking through the clouds. I don’t know, he mumbled.

Celairis took his hand and assisted Stephen to his feet, and they both headed to the forest’s edge.

It was about midday when the pair reached the edge of the forest and saw an endless field of rolling hills and green grasses. Wild grasses and farmland in the embrace of harvest sat aside each other like a patchwork quilt along the earth. Clumps of trees sprouted along the patches of farmland, the borders between the wild and the tamed, like strains of frayed thread on an old tapestry. A cool breeze blew in from the east and clouds moved past the yellow sun with increasing speed.

Celairis smelled the air; the woodsman’s nose seemed to read the fragrance like a book. The farmers will be bracing their windows and livestock for a good long time, Celairis ascertained with a hint of arrogance. An early autumn will be followed by a harsh winter.

You can tell that from the smell in the air? Stephen took in a deep breath through his nostrils, but could smell only distant fields of manure.

I wish I could explain it you, Stephen, but it is just an instinct I have picked up. Celairis’s tone was beginning to aggravate the young man.

The two journeyed across the fields to a wide wagon path. The trail had deep wheel marks reflection its heavy use. Celairis curved east on the road toward a small walled village on the horizon, dwarfed by the massive northern mountains in the distance. The earlier smell of manure was verified by a number of cattle and sheep herds roaming the open grasses further to the north, encompassing the city. Stephen could only imagine the smell in the center of those fields. His nose twitched in disgust.

As Stephen and Celairis closed on the village, Stephen asked, Who lives in that city?

The city’s name is Stockburg, named primarily for its excellent cattle and sheep herds, so it is mostly a village of farmers and herders. Stockburg belongs to the nation of Sanga, a huge expanse of cities and villages existing primarily on their farmland divided into three counties. This is the region I guess you may come from. An uncharacteristic smile crossed Celairis’s blank face. But from the look on your face you have very little love for farm animals.

Stephen gagged as the wind blew around them. Is it that obvious?

The Elondethan nodded and veered off the road toward a small copse of trees far from the city.

Where are we going, Celairis? Stephen asked, assuming they were heading for the city.

To an old friend who may be able to help you, replied Celairis. Be careful what you say around him, Stephen. He gets quite emotional and, at times, violent.

Thanks for the advice, the young man said, wondering what kind of monstrosity was next.

Within one hundred yards of the copse, Stephen noticed that the aroma of fodder had vanished, replaced with sweet incense. The young man was grateful for the shift, a hint that perhaps someone drowning out cow manure with such a sweet fragrance couldn’t be a wolfish humanoid or any other type of feral friend Celairis would have met. The copse of trees contained a large tree house made of strong oak, hiding in the thick branches of the three largest trees. A large ladder, which Stephen would have to leap to get to each rung, ran up the middle tree. A thick, knotted rope hung in the breeze on the right of the ladder, and Celairis was already ascending on his way to the door. Stephen followed and reached the base of the tree house. A huge nine-foot tall door was the only entrance to the building. Two circular windows were above the nine-foot door; no glass, just a wooden frame. Stephen’s hopes began to fade as he wondered if this friend could actually look out of those windows with relative ease; he shook at the thought. Celairis rapped on the door and, sure enough, heavy footsteps alerted Stephen’s adrenaline. With a loud creak, the wooden door opened into a shadowed room.

A deep, resonating voice boomed from the inside/Come in, Celairis, and your new friend.

Celairis walked confidently through the door, and Stephen followed slowly, reluctantly.

The room inside the treehouse was lighted by the two windows above the door and two at the rear of the room. Large tables and chairs decorated the room along with a pair of smaller, human-sized chairs. Awkward necklaces and other adornments were scattered across the walls and above the mantle of the fireplace.

Celairis’s friend was a monster, much more so than Fenral. The beast had a brown tint to his yellow skin and stood taller than the Camingrin. His hair was ragged and oily, and his face was covered in warts and other strange blemishes. His nose was long and crooked; if he had been a man, Stephen would have been certain the nose had been broken in a fight, but the young man had no idea who would have dared to break such a beast’s nose. Apart from the fellow’s monstrous appearance, he was well dressed in bright clothes made from a fabric that was as fine as silk, but much stronger. The being also wore large, wide-rimmed spectacles, which immediately added an extra element of the bizarre. Instead of being afraid; Stephen almost wanted to laugh. Seeing this beast standing next to Celairis was an odd sight, the rugged woodsmen and the monstrous aristocrat.

I suppose I must look strange to you, young one, the huge creature commented studiously.

Sir, it appears that everything to me is strange, Stephen replied, still coping with this new situation, even myself.

The creature laughed, and the wooden fortress around him shuddered. Then I can see why Celairis brought you here.

Sir? Stephen asked curiously.

Please, enough of the royal titles, the name is Jhangoten of the Iferus tribe. The creature winced at the name of his tribe. Then he added with a wry smile showing black gums and crooked but well-polished teeth, Of course, my tribe would rather forget that I even existed.

Stephen presented his hand, gauged the size of Jhangoten’s hand, and pulled his own back, realizing his stupidity. Stephen is my name, and I am not sure where I’m from.

I only know what I was told as a child, Stephen, admitted Jhangoten. Perhaps where I am from is actually a lie, too.

Stephen raised an eyebrow. I’m not following you.

Do not worry about Jhan, he likes to get cryptic now and again, Celairis said as he sat down.

Enough of you insults, you oversized pixie, Jhangoten retorted.

Celairis stared up at his friend and warned sternly, I am not a child’s tale, Jhangoten. I do not fly with invisible wings, and I certainly do not make silly little giggling sounds!

Jhangoten, not phased at the warning, grinned at Stephen. Touchy, isn’t he?

Celairis fumed in anger and released it all in a violent exhale as he said, Can we just get down to business? The Elondethan pointed a rigid finger at Stephen. I found this man, Jhangoten, lying in the forest. He has two wounds, one on his left arm and another across his back.

Jhangoten stepped forward and sat down on the wooden floor, shaking the tree house. Stephen braced himself as the building moved.

Don’t worry, Jhangoten said, this place is as sturdy as I can make it. Let me see your wounds.

Slowly, never taking his eyes off his yellow-skinned host, Stephen removed his bloody shirt and turned around.

Jhangoten murmured thoughtfully to himself. He looked at Celairis and asked, What wounds?

The commotion behind him caused Stephen to try to look at his back.

Celairis sounded upset as he spoke. I don’t know, Jhan. I admit I didn’t take off his shirt, but his shirt and the ferns he laid upon were all drenched from the blood. Look, Jhan, his shirt is torn in the same places and still has the stains.

I know, Jhan replied, but all I see are disappearing scars. Stephen, you have a remarkable healing ability. Did you know that?

Stephen shrugged. I didn’t. I am a mystery to myself.

Jhan handed Stephen back his shirt to clothe himself. Stephen, your body has healed wounds that would kill most men.

Once Stephen was dressed again, Jhangoten motioned to the young man to sit, and Jhan rubbed his protruding chin as he stared at Stephen.

Stephen was the first to break the silence. Jhan, what are you?

The sophisticated brute looked at Stephen as if the curiosity of the young man were a death sentence. I’m a magician, he said cautiously.

What about race or species?

I’m a southerner. I came from the deserts of Narshull on the Southern Continent, so I’m a Narshite, Jhangoten openly seemed to be avoiding a name.

Were you human once? Stephen continued to press his questions.

Jhan swallowed hard, staring out a back window. I am what is called a Yuanexa. Yes, we are creatures of brutality and an unswerving desire to kill anything we do not understand.

But not you?

No, not me. Jhan looked back at Stephen, asking for forgiveness through his eyes.

Why did you change?

Jhangoten immediately snapped a question back to avoid his past. So, Stephen, you say you are even strange to yourself. Why do you suppose that is?

Stephen fell into a comfortably cushioned chair near the large fireplace. He felt backed into a wall, but he gotten as much information from Jhan as he was going to get.

Stephen replied to Jhan’s question the best he could. Well, for starters, Stephen began, I only remember the last three hours since Celairis and Fenral found me.

But you must be at least nineteen by your race’s standards, and you know nothing of all that time? The Yuanexa continued to rub his chin, observing Stephen’s every movement.

That’s correct, only glimpses from a nightmare. Stephen glanced at Celairis uneasy at the probing stare he returned. Stephen added, At least, I hope it was a nightmare.

What type of nightmare? Jhangoten leaned in, trying to take Stephen’s attention from Celairis.

I don’t know; I feel cold and something is behind me, searching for me with eyes that scatter the darkness, Stephen answered, looking behind sporadically as if something else more sinister were watching. I hear a voice as if the one hounding me is all around, but I cannot make out what is being said.

Jhangoten stared down at Stephen in silence for awhile, the beast’s glasses sliding down to the bump in the middle of his nose.

Stephen broke the silence. Can you help me find my memory?

Jhangoten shook himself from his trance. To a degree, I can help you. However, every soul has to follow his or her path. As you work on a future within the present, the past may become clearer. Then again, it may be best to leave some answers hidden.

Stephen looked down toward the wooden planks of the floor, trying to comprehend what this meant for a person with no past to make a life. What he received from his mind was a puzzle of fear and negative emotions. Then again, what if those fears and visions are nothing more than a mind attempting to compensate for a missing past? He had blue eyes; the cloaked figure had blue eyes. Perhaps it was only the frightening manifestation of the unknown before him and behind him. Stephen rubbed his head as it throbbed over his life’s impossibilities. Where would he go? What would he do?

Stephen was about to speak, but he hesitated when he saw Celairis’s orbs and Jhangoten’s eyes locked in some mental tug of war. Stephen felt a chill in his chest that some secret sign language was being exchanged between old friends. He lowered his head enough not to be noticed.

Stephen watched as Celairis’s orbs quivered with emotions the Elondethan couldn’t hide. His muscles flexed with anger and the Elondethan began to rap his fingers incessantly upon the wooden arms of the chair.

Jhangoten’s yellow finger replied by pointing accusingly at Celairis.

Celairis turned away, hoping to end the mental debate. However, the woodsman found no comfort by looking at the wooden wall and eventually had to face his Yuanexan friend once again.

Jhangoten’s amber eyes narrowed, and his forehead wrinkled against his mental combatant.

Stephen was uncertain what this meant for him, but he did realize he would not let these beings make decisions without a word. The young man asked, What do I do from here?

Engrossed in his mental battle with an unmoving object, Jhangoten almost missed the question. He stared at the young man and answered, You must go, explore the world in any way you can. Perhaps my friend here can, and will, assist you.

Celairis stared at Jhangoten with cold, black eyes.

Jhangoten smiled back, and spoke to Stephen, his eyes still fixed on Celairis. He is wise to many ways to survive in a harsh world and has a colorful personality to boot. Perhaps through your wanderings and his ravings you will find a foundation to build your life, with or without your memories. The Yuanexa flexed his forehead rapidly.

Stephen, unsure of this verdict, commented, Sounds like a difficult and long task.

Jhangoten replied with a grin of success. Oh, yes, Jhangoten’s tone was full of good-humored victory, difficult for both of you.

Celairis’s eyes boiled so hot with black blood that his orbs threatened