Gray Man Rising: Tales of Gythe: Harmonic Magic

By P.E. Padilla

The Gray Man's power is growing. Is there anyone on Gythe who can stop him?

 

From his fortress lair, the Gray Man, possibly the most powerful user of the vibrational energy called rohw the world of Gythe has seen in centuries, is gathering troops and increasing his strength. The only obstacles to his total domination are the order of Zouyim monks, themselves masters of the rohw, and the women who call themselves Sapsyra Shin Elah, the finest warriors in the world.

 

In this prequel to the Harmonic Magic series, Rindu Zose, his wife Ylleria, and their daughter Nalia Wroun, protectors of the common people, are caught up in events that quickly spin out of control, resulting in the destruction of the famed Zouyim temple. Will Rindu's magic and the martial skills possessed by Ylleria and Nalia be enough to combat the Gray Man's ever-increasing power? If they fail, everything they know and love could be destroyed forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oliver-Heber Books
• Release date: Feb 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215979952

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Mattim Jinka had never seen so much excitement in his small village, not in all his ten years. Ok, maybe excitement wasn’t really the word for it, but of the words he knew, that one fit best. His parents and the other grown-ups in the village were standing around with the part of their head right above their eyebrows all crinkled up and their mouths seemed to have shrunken down to thin straight lines. It was strange, more than a little scary, and, well, exciting.

He didn’t understand what was going on, but if he listened and watched very carefully, he might be able to. So far, his questions, and even his presence, were being ignored. Of course, he couldn’t blame the grown-ups. Four Zouyim monks were much more interesting than a young boy.

Matty, stay out from underfoot or someone will trip over you, his mother said as he tried to squeeze his way into the throng around the monks. He just wanted to see them. He pretended he didn’t hear his mother and wriggled his way into the crowd. His effort was finally rewarded when he broke clear of the last of the villagers and found himself standing right next to one of the Zouyim.

All four of them were dressed alike. Their clothes were light-colored, not quite white but sort of like a dirty white. They wore pants that were gathered at their waist and tied with sashes. Their soft sandals had strings on them that tied all the way up to their knees. Maybe that was to keep them from falling off. They had some kind of shirt on, too, but everything was covered by their robes, long enough to almost reach the ground.

The monk in front of Mattim looked down at him and smiled. He smiled back. He liked this man. He seemed kind. His long white hair was tied behind him and his beard, thin and sort of scraggly, sat on his chin like the reverse of a shadow, one of the shadows you’d see on a cloudy day, not looking like it was all there. His white eyebrows arched when one of the other monks, the only woman among them, spoke.

You must bring everyone to the cellar of the meeting hall. Things will go badly if you are visible when the soldiers get into the village, she said sternly. Mattim thought that she was maybe as old as his mother. She was a hefty woman, but she moved lightly, like all the Zouyim monks. Her yellow hair was cut short and looked like it didn’t want to behave, just like his own hair. He decided he liked her, too.

But, the mayor said, we have to parley with them. I’m sure we can discuss things and come to some agreement. We’re reasonable.

No, the old monk said. We, he pointed to the other three monks—the woman and other two men, who were both younger than the woman was and looked like brothers—will speak with them. We have had dealings with the Gray Man’s soldiers before. This force is not here to speak. They approach in an attack formation. We will try to reason with them, but I believe they will attack immediately. We have seen it before.

But— the mayor tried again.

No, the monk repeated, his wispy moustaches swaying as he shook his head. I must insist. For your own safety, go to the cellar. Any who do not may not survive this day.

Mattim goggled. Survive? Just what was going on here, anyway?

There was discussion among the villagers, accompanied by hand-waving, head-shaking, and tsking noises. To Mattim, it seemed like when he poured water on the cone of an anthill, all bustling around with nothing to show for it.

The mayor sighed, put his hands on his large belly, and spoke. We respect the Zouyim and know you to be truthful and honorable. We’ll do as you ask.

That is good, the monk said, squeezing Mattim’s shoulder absently. You must hurry. The soldiers are almost here.

The villagers all stopped moving and slowly looked around as if they were lost or didn’t understand. To Mattim, it seemed like they were all practicing the face he constantly practiced, the one that said, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I never saw that cake.

Go! the older monk said firmly, but not unkindly. The command seemed to snap everyone out of whatever confusion they were in and they all headed for the main village meeting hall.

Mattim made sure his mother saw him heading there along with everyone else and then, when she turned to look toward his sister, ducked out of sight and headed for one of his hiding places. He was not going to miss seeing the soldiers—whatever those were—or miss seeing the Zouyim talking with them.

Mattim waited in his hiding place, behind the provisioner’s shop near the firewood bin, for a good long time. He would have a perfect view of the soldiers as they came into town. Already he could see a large shape in the distance coming up the winding dirt road. A cloud of dust surrounded it.

As he waited for the shape to become clearer, he thought of all the stories he had heard about Zouyim monks. From their temple on Kokitura Mountain far to the south, they went out to help others in need and to look for more children to join them in their training.

The Zouyim were users of magic. He had heard it was called rohw, but didn’t understand what it had to do with boats and paddles. A single monk could beat up a thousand men or fifty pantors and if they got tired, they could use magic to make the day turn to night or the summer turn to winter, freezing their opponents solid in ice. They could see two hundred miles and could read your mind, even make you do things you didn’t want to, like take a bath. They could walk over a lake and fly if they wanted to and no one could tell them what to do. They were the most powerful thing in the world. And there were four of them here. Four!

No, he wouldn’t miss this for the world. He settled himself back into the shadow of the wood bin. This would be something he would be telling his friends about all year long.

Mattim watched as the shape grew clearer. He was finally able to pick out detail. There must be some mistake. These weren’t soldiers. They were men. Oh, and women. But still, they were people. The way the grown-ups were talking, he pictured soldiers as being monsters. These were people with thick clothes on who were carrying sticks and knives and other funny-looking objects. He didn’t understand.

A large man at the front of the group of people finally got close enough to be able to speak to the monks. He stopped his friends and walked forward a little until he was only twenty feet or so in front of the Zouyim.

What are you doing here, Zouy? he asked the old monk, in a mean way. Mattim didn’t think he liked this man.

We are merely passing through, stopping for a bit of a rest and some cool water to drink, the old monk said. What is your business here?

It’s none of yours, the man sneered. We are on the Gray Man’s business, so step aside and let us do our work.

No, the old monk said simply. Mattim thought that maybe he really liked that word. He seemed to use it a lot.

Don’t push me, old man. We have more than seventy men, carrying weapons and trained to use them. Step aside. I won’t tell you again.

I am afraid that is impossible. This village is under our protection. Flee from here and you will be allowed to leave unharmed. You attack at your peril. Mattim thought that the monk was the bravest person he had ever seen. The big man wanted to beat the monk up, but the monk didn’t seem scared at all. Mattim was shaking like a leaf in the wind, even out of sight and secure in his hiding place.

The big man turned and started walking back toward his friends. He took one step and then spun quickly around, throwing something as he did so. The old monk moved his hand, faster than anything Mattim had ever seen, and when it stopped, it was holding the knife the big man had thrown at him.

The monk sighed, bowed his head for a second, and moved again, so fast that Mattim couldn’t see what he did. He saw the effects, though. The big man clutched at his throat and started to wobble. Mattim could see the knife handle sticking out from between the man’s hands, and then he could see some type of red liquid pouring down the front of him. He didn’t recognize it at first, but then realized it was the man’s blood. The man dropped to the ground and didn’t move again.

To Mattim, it seemed that the entire world held its breath. He could clearly hear a fly buzzing a few feet away from him. He wondered what would happen next.

He didn’t have to wait long.

One of the men in the crowd screamed something and then they all rushed forward to attack the monks. Mattim saw the white-garbed Zouyim spread out across the village center and then he lost sight of them as they were surrounded by the soldiers. He found himself very afraid then. Not just for himself, but for the monks. He liked them and didn’t want to see them beat up or killed.

He put his hand over his eyes for a moment so he didn’t have to watch, but hearing the sounds without seeing was even worse, so he took his hands away and looked up again. What he saw would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Within the mass of all the soldiers, he saw flickers of the light-colored robes the monks wore. They were swirling and moving like ribbons in the wind. Catching sight of one of them in between the soldiers, Mattim watched mesmerized as the monk dodged all the objects the soldiers carried—he thought these were what they called weapons; he’d heard the grown-ups talk about it—and never got hit. Not once. He threw his hands and feet out and struck the soldiers or sometimes the soldiers’ weapons.

Every time the monks struck, something broke or a soldier went down to the ground. Sometimes he could even hear a loud cracking noise, like when he broke a tree branch, even though the sound of everything else was very loud.

In just a few minutes, he saw some of the soldiers running or limping away. He was able to see the monks better now because most of the soldiers were lying down on the ground. He thought maybe they got tired and had to rest. He was tired just from watching, just from his heart beating so hard in his chest that it felt like it wanted to come out. He took a deep breath, focused on the old, white-haired monk, and waited to see what would happen.

The Zouyim hit the last few soldiers attacking them. He could hear the breaking sound more clearly now because there wasn’t as much noise. The last soldier to fall was struck by the woman. She hit him on the neck with the side of her hand. There was a breaking sound, and then his head went all crooked away from his body. He laid down on top of his friends. Maybe it was his turn for a nap.

When the white-haired monk came toward Mattim, he stayed perfectly still, sure the old man couldn’t see him. Matty, is it? the man’s kindly voice said to him.

He breathed out. He had hoped he wouldn’t get caught or get in trouble for being out there watching. Yes, he said as he came out of his hiding place. He noticed as he was walking toward the monk that his robes were no longer white. They were red, as if he had dyed them during the fight. Realizing what it meant, Mattim gasped.

It is ok, Matty. The blood is not mine. He smiled warmly to the boy. We are fine, unhurt. Please go and tell your parents that they can come out now. We have much to discuss.

Mattim nodded once, too shocked to speak, and took off running.

CHAPTER 2

In the Great Hall of the Gray Fortress, the Gray Man steepled his fingers in front of his face, tapping his index fingers against his lips, as one of the soldiers who had just returned from Ox Crossing gave his account of what happened.

The man would not meet the Gray Man’s eyes. He knew his appearance unnerved people. His skin, pale and devoid of color marked him out as different. It was almost white, more the color of wet ash. He had no hair anywhere on his body and he knew that the firelight from the braziers would be reflecting off his bald head.

What really made people nervous, he knew, was his eyes. They were dark, almost solid black, rimmed in red as if bleeding internally and filling up with blood. He knew well how eyes such as his felt from the other side, from the receiving end. All the Arzbedim had eyes like that. They did, that is, until he killed his captors and took their fortress. He was the only one left with the physical appearance that was a result of dealing with the dark energies he wielded.

There was nothing we could do, the soldier said. We were ambushed by the Zouyim monks. They caught us unaware and before we knew it, they had decimated out ranks.

The Gray Man shifted his eyes to the other three soldiers who were standing behind the one speaking. He saw fear in their eyes as well, but in one, he saw something more, a glimmer of doubt. He spoke to the soldier who was relating the tale. So, he drawled slowly, you are telling me that four Zouyim monks lay in wait for you, springing an attack while you were merely marching toward the town?

The soldier nodded emphatically. He seemed relieved that his leader believed the story.

I see, the Gray Man said to him, eyes locked on him. Do you believe in honesty, in telling the truth?

The man looked confused. He shuffled his feet and glanced at his