Wraithtree

By Siggi Storms

A ten-year-old runaway
An ancient priest
And a civilization that collapsed one thousand years before
Thus starts the coming of age story of Ashur of Elysia, who returns home after missing for five years.

But Ashur isn't the same little boy
He has power
And he has a dark secret
And when his world is turned upside down, he'll have to fight to stay alive.

Political intrigue
Assassinations
Revenge, even love

But when the drums of war beat the loudest
Will Ashur be able to save the people he loves?
Or will the dark past of Ancient Sythia come to haunt them all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Siggi Storms
• Release date: Jul 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201324384

Siggi Storms

Being a novelist was a lifelong dream. So was being an ordained minister, and that didn't turn out so well. One out of two Isn't bad. Siggi Storm's first published book, Wraithtree a Zombie Apocalyptic came about with his interest in Greek mythology, Dionysus to be specific. He has moved away from cult fiction and adopted a more humorous style of writing. The Mosquitobait Chronicles, his second book, is a funny adventure about a moose and a bear having a misadventure, Northwoods style. His next up and coming book is titled: The Cat, the Witch, and the Silverspoon. Book One of the Tallyho Grimoire Series. It is to be a trilogy designed for a YA audience, but the humor and satire in it will appeal to all ages. Humor is the gateway to a better life. If you can't laugh at yourself, at least smile and acknowledge it. Siggi Storms lives in Wausau, Wisconsin with his pet rock and a bunch of plants. The rock doesn't complain but the plants sure do. You can find him at [e-mail]

Book preview

For Dionysus

For without your myth

This book would

Not exist

Wraithtree

A Zombie Apocalyptic

Chapter One

Bloody fingers, bloody fingers

One leaf to rule the mind

Two leaves slave to the grind

Three leaves to court death

Four leaves the dead never rest

Five leaves, uncontrolled hunger

The lust for flesh

Never falters

Bloody fingers, bloody fingers

In the darkness

In the light

Balphor calls

Ending life

Bloody fingers, bloody fingers

When the wraith tree bleeds

Kingdoms fall to their knees

Bloody fingers, bloody fingers

We all fall down

Six Years Past

THE WEEK HIS PARENTS died from the Sickness, a slow pulsing reverberated through his mind. At first, he could barely hear it as it drifted into consciousness. He thought it was just his own  heartbeat but, as loud as it eventually became in his mind, you would think that people around you would notice. But no one took notice; no one was hearing it but himself. It became so persistent that it was hard to concentrate. It was his only constant friend, this pulse beating opposite his own heart. It was with him all through the day and night and greeted him when he woke up in the morning. It seemed to join the pattern in his life, a tapestry of pain, loss, and unbelief at being all alone at the tender age of ten.

His father was clan chief to one of the smaller villages in East Elysia and his mother came  from a merchant family that dabbled in textiles. That was apparently how the Sickness came to their village. Tainted cloth infected some members of his mother’s family and spread it to his parents. By the time they identified the source, it was too late.  Fourteen people total died. Red welts covered their bodies and fever took them to the Forever Lands.

They burned the linen and the bodies all in one big pyre, the smoke rising like a chimney. The people held scarves to their mouths so they wouldn’t breathe in the smoke. A priestess of the Divine Mother said some kind words and prayed over the dead and smoking textiles both.

The people of the village were forced to walk between two bonfires that symbolized the gates of death. Walking from the gates of death they marched next to a tent with two ends. Single file they passed through. When it was Ashur’s turn, he noticed upon entering, that the tent was filled up with a cloud of white smoke. The scent of sandalwood and cedar filled the air, and he understood. Incense was believed to help purify and sanctify the air. Cleaned of impurities it was believed that the Sickness couldn’t spread to the human body. Ashur passed through the tent flap on the opposite side and found himself back outside, breathing once again fresh air.

He was instructed to take a bath after the evening meal. It smelled of sandalwood as well, as he scrubbed the day’s dirt off his skin. The bath made him sleepy and he was nodding off. His older brother, Anchon, jabbed him awake to pay attention to the evening conservation around the campfire. He went to bed that night with the noise in his head tapping a two-tone lullaby that soon had him drifting off to sleep.

He dreamed that he was back in the tent of incense. The drumming in his head pulsed and he was on the verge of getting a headache again. The sandalwood and cedar smoke clouded the tent with misty fog. A coyote yelped beyond the smokey barrier and he began to smell wet earth. A breeze pushed past him and he noticed what looked like trees poking out of the mist. He heard the leaves rustle and branches creak. A gaping black hole appeared above the treeline. Silver-colored talons tore at this opening and a big beak of ebony punched through. Pulling its head back in, the bird peered out with one beady eye and gave a cackle that sounded  like something out of the prehistoric.

A wolf started to howl then as the full moon appeared high above, illuminating the area right in front of Ashur. Two totems stood side by side, ten feet apart, pressing against the darkness. These were not Elysian totems that portrayed stag, bear, or wolf. These were grotesque figures with bulging eyes and protruding stomachs. Their mouths gaped open with horrible smiles, teeth sharp. They portrayed more human characteristics than animals. They seemed to be caught in some kind of frenzy, ecstasy even, madness.

The bird exploded through the gaping hole in the sky and landed on the totem to his left, talons scraping the skull of the top totem figure. The huge crow tilted its head and looked down at Ashur through beady eyes. It gave a grunt and raised its wings and hopped to the totem on the right. It immediately began to peck at the wooden eyes.

Two mounted figures appeared through the foggy mist and rode between the two totems. Each wore leather armor and held shields. Hot breath steamed from the horse’s mouths and nostrils, their front legs pawing at the grass, exposing dirt.

The maw of the carrion crow was flecked with red. Curious, it stopped pecking to examine the newcomers, who shifted in their saddles. Ashur took a step back and immediately tripped over something stuck in the ground. He knelt down to see what he had tripped over. Clumps of dried grass and dirt were stuck to the object. The thing was long and narrow. As Ashur rubbed the earth away, he saw the shine of the reflected moon underneath. Ashur had to practically dig it out of the soil, and in so doing, a pommel became evident. It was a sword!

Then a new sound shattered the silence. The sound of marching drums and thousands of feet stamping to the beat of its repetitious clamor. Just then, the fog lifted and Ashur could see a long line of armed men, as far as the eye could see.

The blackbird gave the ten-year-old one last tilt of its head and winked at him with one beady eye. With a loud caw, it shifted its weight, bent down, and took flight.

Startled at the bird's sudden departure, one of the two mounted men drew his sword. His companion followed suit. The horses snorted and pushed forward, their shoes striking the hard earth.

Ashur had just gotten the sword free from the packed earth. He lifted it high and took a stance, balancing the weight of the sword into a fighting position. One horseman rode up and swung his sword and yelled, Die! The blade reflected brightly off the moonlight.

Ashur’s head was hurting, the constant drumming in his mind making it painful to do anything. He gritted his teeth through the pain and with a mighty swing, parried. Sparks erupted as the swords clashed and the sound it made jarred him from sleep. He awoke in a sweat. The drumming forever in his mind, still playing his favorite song.

When Ashur awoke his older brother Anchon was already up, dressed. Pulling his tunic over his head, he said, We are summoned.

Ashur nodded once, pushing his blankets off.

I’ll be right behind you.

Anchon sprinted for the door, his hair golden hitting  the morning sun.

Since all their adult guardians were dead, they said that he and his older brother would go live with their father’s brother on the shores of the Lake. That was the night when Ashur ran away.

There were no roads to travel by. Elysia was sparsely populated and its towns and centers were set up against a backdrop of heavily wooded forests and low-lying hills. Proper roads were a Southern invention, a utilitarian tool that promoted passageways of faster transport, and thus, faster profit exchange for the merchant trains and traders, covered wagons loaded full, bouncing along its cobbled paths. Although the land was congested, untamed, and wild, there were ways to get around the thick vegetation of pine forest and undomesticated hedges of buckthorn and low-lying bog alder. Game trails interconnected a whole system of traverse paths that one took from place to place. Sometimes a person could get lucky and find a portion of savannah where scrub oak with stunted, twisted trunks never reached full height, eliminating the canopy, opening up a vast portion to easy travel.

The absolute worst part besides the constant hunger gnawing at him was the savage swarms of mosquitoes and the battalions of biting insects that seemed bent on feeding on one slightly underfed, weakened ten-year-old. No amount of swatting or slapping deterred their aggressive attacks. And the fact that it was the middle of summer which made the environment hot and sticky and very uncomfortable, made traveling in these conditions almost life-threatening.

Finding water was a constant battle, as was keeping any sort of direction. Ashur wasn’t sure of either, his next drink or where the hell he was at any given moment. And all along he had this drumming in his head, beating away what coherency the present situation left him.

Ashur kept on walking, following game trail after game trail until, on a bright sunny morning, he happened upon a stream bed filled with crystal clear water, one of the smaller tributaries that ran south and that tumbled down somewhere in the Northcrest Mountains.

He stopped in amazement, startled at first, like a man in a desert coming upon a water source, when illusion gives way to reality, after miles upon dehydrated miles of putting one foot in front of the other, the water becomes real, substantial, breaking the spell of disillusionment and doubt. Ashur stood there in pristine silence, unable to move, almost fainting with exhaustion. Upon his body stood the test of his tribulation, having bruises and small lacerations from brambles and thorns, rocks and thickets. His tunic, now grimy and torn and badly travel-worn, was once the color of birch, but now resembled the camouflage of the environment around him, stained beyond measure. His trousers had holes about his knees and a rip by his crotch worn down by friction from the constant pumping of his legs. His hair must have resembled a bird’s nest after his unorthodox departure from the village. Ashur was too afraid to look at his reflection in the water for fear of confirmation of the latter. But he looked anyway, finding, not to his surprise, a thin face of a boy staring back at himself, that was dirty and scratched his cheek bleeding.

His war wounds, he thought.

Ashur blinked and snapped out of his paralysis, and for utilitarian reasons as well as survival, he got to work. He found that the water was quite warm to the touch. He drank as much water as his stomach could handle at one time, wetting his parched tongue and throat. His hydration wasn’t enough so he began stripping down to bare skin, and in doing so, checked himself over more thoroughly for any other injuries he may have sustained. Finding none, he crossed the bank and waded waist-deep in the rush, before plunging his upper torso and washing the stink and grime away that he had collected along his journey.

When he was done soaking he submerged himself one more time and waddled to shore, where cattails and tall grasses bobbed with the gentle breeze. Ashur noticed goose pimples on his flesh and he shivered a little, not from a chill, but the excitement of being refreshed, clean. Grabbing his soiled clothes he headed back in the rushing stream to wash them. He would rest here for the night and start again in the morning.

It was then when he came back to shore when he got a better look at his surroundings. A glade opened up before him that ran the length of the meandering estuary, dotted with beech, maple, and ash trees. The leaf-bearing trees bore silver plumage as the morning sun caught, casting its rays amongst these living sentinels.

Songbirds flitted among the cattails and rush with flapping wings, their chirping and audible singing pleasant to his ears. The rushing water was calming and began to make Ashur dreamy. Grumbling, his stomach protested strongly of its mistreatment with displeasure, causing nausea and hunger pains. He snapped back from the aesthetic picturesque scene to once again deal with the situation at hand, and to do something to abate his growing hunger.

The beating drum ticked away in his mind, more persistent now in its pulsing, culminating a sense of urgency. Ashur ignored it as best as he could, concentrating on his search for food.

He found a tree branch close to shore and then placed his wet clothes upon it to dry, making sure they were balanced correctly to protect them from falling, in case it got windy. They wouldn’t properly dry laying on the ground if they got knocked down by the wind, and he hated putting on cold, wet clothes.

Naked as he was, it felt good to be free of his soiled clothes and he was pretty sure that he was far enough away from prying eyes. Running across a female at this stage would be quite embarrassing, especially for him. Five years ago it wouldn’t matter to him for his nudity. Modesty didn’t matter to a five-year-old child. But the food did, he thought, reminded him of just how hungry he was.

Assured now that his clothes were secure, Ashur followed the stream as it tumbled south, keeping a watch on his footing to avoid sharp rocks. Along the stream a pool formed, created by rip currents that scored the sediment away, leaving the soft belly exposed among dancing reed grasses being tossed by the wind. It was there that Ashur spotted three trout safely tucked away from the rough current.

Upon seeing this Ashur began to formulate a plan in his mind. He remembered a way to trap fish by using rocks to block an escape route back to open water. He began eyeing his prey, and as to not spook them, gave a wide berth as he spied a group of stones he had easy access to.  Ashur stepped carefully around the opening of the pool and began moving the stones in a semicircle, filling in holes and gaps to deny the fish an escape route. He tried to be stealthful and careful not to cause any unnecessary splashing or vibration as to alert the trout of his trap.

Ashur smiled as he laid the last stone. Like a predator, he stalked up to the pool and eyed his prey with hungry eyes, in triumph.

Once Ashur had the three trout out of the water he hit each one over the head with a stone to instantly kill them and end their suffering. He mouthed a quick prayer to the Divine Mother to give thanks and started searching for a sharp stone to cut and descale with.

Ashur gutted and cleaned his catch and rinsed them in the stream water, washing his hands as well to get the blood and guts off.

Not a bad day so far, he thought, things are looking up, at least.

His fire-making skills were not that impressive but he had the procedure memorized from years of observation. Ashur had rocks but no steel. He had seen sparks produced by a slingshot’s stone projectiles when they crashed against other rocks. Ashur figured if his luck continued to hold together he could manipulate the two stones to ignite sparks.

Pushing a long stick through the fish mouths and out through their gills, Ashur made a way to carry all three trout.

The sun was bright and hot and the morning slipped into the afternoon by the time he made it back to where his clothes were drying. He checked his clothes to feel how damp they were yet. He decided they were dry enough to put on and felt much better for it. Walking around naked made one feel vulnerable.

By that time he was thirsty again, but his hunger became paramount and took precedence over dehydration. Soon Ashur had a circle of stones to make a boundary for a campfire and enough kindling and brambles to fuel a sufficient fire. Now all he had to do was ignite it.

Divine Mother, let this work, he thought.

He tried a variety of stones and found two that produced more sparks than all the others. It took him fifteen tries hammering the stones together to where the sparks landed properly on his tinder.

His problem was not producing enough sparks to create fire, for the stones did their job well. It was his aim that needed work. The sparks fell into the branches and missed the tinder. Gritting his teeth the ten old concentrated harder to get those sparks right above the tinder. His perseverance paid off in the end and he had a crackling fire with which to cook his fish.

As twilight neared he put the rest of the remaining wood on the fire and curled up near it. Hunger and thirst just a passing memory, he was asleep almost at once.

He dreamed of birds, their songs lulled him into a calm serenity and solace that had him feeling butterflies in his stomach. But then the songs changed to an angry chattering, tearing at him like vocal lacerations. All the birds flew all into one and became a dark thing with a huge black beak and coal-colored eyes. Its maw dropped blood and gore as it fed on a fresh corpse, its cackle heavy, sinister, its eyes staring directly at the ten-year-old.

The butterflies in his stomach fled and were replaced with a knot of undulating fear. He could hear the noisy drumming of his mind becoming a rapid pitter-patter sound like cold rain hitting against a window. Faster and faster it beat until the pain was so bad he screamed.

Go east, the crow whispered, pulling out one of the corpse’s eyes.

All of a sudden the drumming stopped. His headache was gone!

He looked closer at the rotting corpse. A deep vibration seemed to come from within its chest, maggots spilled out of various open holes, dropping to the ground.

The dead man’s head had turned, his torn eye dangled like a puppet on a string. The corpse’s good eye was closed, heavily lidded as the head moved again.

Beware the dead! Uttered the crow.

As it raised its wings to take flight, the dead man’s head positioned itself at eye level with