The Last Circle

By Ryan P Freeman

It has been a long year of drinking, and searching – but now Path Finder Esse thinks he’s finally ready to lead another exploratory caravan out into the mysterious eastern desert in search of strange trinkets washed downstream of the River. While he’s still devastated at losing his fiancé’s parents on last year’s expedition, Esse is determined this year will be different.

Welcome to The Last Circle. Join the elven caravans as they strive to outwit and outpace their rivals in a race into the ravishing desolation of the Desert of Redd – a place littered with otherworldly technological marvels, ancient vacant cities, and madness. Already, the caravan finds itself in peril. If the spring snow storms don’t kill them, the intricate family relationships of the Winds might. All the while, Esse obsesses over redeeming himself, no matter the cost – even at the price of lost friendship and the unwitting release of powerful wards better left untouched.

What is personal redemption worth? That is what Esse is determined to find out in The Last Circle. What will it take to forgive himself? Can he truly allow himself to move forward in his life, or will he, like so many more powerful beings he’s encountering, insist on allowing their own self-righteousness to consume them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan P Freeman
• Release date: Feb 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224556694

Ryan P Freeman

Ryan was born in Portland, Oregon on February 24th, 1988. She's the (upper) middle child out of four (three sisters – how she survived them is a secret). Currently, she has family scattered all over the western states.Ryan was always a big reader growing up. Ever since her second-grade teacher, Mrs. Yorth spent extra time after school helping her learn how to read, she's been devouring books (so to speak). Growing up in Oregon meant plenty of time for reading since there’s about 7.3 fully sunny days per year there.To this day, she loves the smell of rain, the rumble of storms, and the scent of pine forests. Her favorite stories growing up were old tales with Robin Hood and King Arthur - along with a ginormous rambling list of other myths, legends, and fantasy works.Ryan graduated from high school in 2006 and first attended Central Christian College of the Bible in Missouri, where she met her wife and began writing what would later become Rienspel. Then, by happy coincidence, since they were both already planning on it anyway, they transferred to Hannibal LaGrange College (now University). In 2010, Ryan graduated with a B.S. in Communication Arts.Stephanie Lynn Worcester (aka ‘Steph’ aka ‘Stephalughagi’) and Ryan were married just after graduation. Still writing, she started working in talk radio out of Albuquerque. Later, Ryan and her wife moved back to Hannibal, MO in 2011 where she eventually worked in marketing for an area non-profit, was offered a job as a pastor, joined the St Louis Writers Guild, and founded the Hannibal Writers Guild.She began publishing her fantasy works in 2016. As of June 2018, she is represented by Patty Carothers of Metamorphosis Literary Agency. Ryan lives with her wife in an old Victorian about 300 yards from the Mississippi River.

Book preview

The Last Circle

By Ryan P Freeman

For Jonjon,

who once gave me a fascinating story idea during a Star Wars D&D game.

Chapter I

An Expedite Expedition

Just follow the river!

That’s what they’d told Master Inventor Lepranto at the local Green Siren Cafe the first time he’d been able to track down a stray guide willing to lead his caravan drivers into the East. Even the bravest didn’t try exploring the Eastlands… and those who did never came back. Except, that is, for Master Lepranto’s last caravan. The inventions and discoveries they had found lying strewn along the only known river bank, which flowed down from those desolate deserts, had shocked his people. Strange metals and sweet drinks – otherworldly books and oddities of such fantastic quality it would take even he, Lepranto, years to puzzle out their purposes and inner-workings. Once more, the unrivaled potential for discovery and an obvious craving for new knowledge had driven Master Lepranto out of his cozy studio into the vast wastes known only as the Desert of Redd. Now, knee-deep in snow and ice, a week out from his warm, cozy studio made him bitterly regret his laissez-faire attitude about the whole venture.

You know it’s bad going when even elves have trouble staying on top of the snow! said the Master’s only guide through chattering teeth.

Hm… you’ve got that right, Esse. Lepranto managed through chattering teeth. Out of the warm fog of his mind, the inventor began remembering the first time he had hired on Esse. Capable lad – good sense of intuition… usually. Shaking his head, Lepranto dissuaded himself away from lying down and falling asleep in the snow and continued trudging forward.

Esse looked around. From what very little he could make out, they were still plodding along a broad river valley. The watercourse had dried out some time ago, leaving sparse vegetation and mounting snow drifts. Something about the place, though, fed his growing foreboding.

The land was desolate.

With each step into the East of the world, the wind-blown juniper trees shrunk. Even the reeds shivered here, whistling death-rattles as the wagons trundled onwards as best they could. At first, the frozen ground had made for good going. After the expedition had left the glittering lights of Ryven behind, the hills rose up all around them. For some time, dots of dark brown shrubs littered the sweeping vista. The slopes and curves of the land had reminded Esse of the delightful blankets his grandmother had made for him before she had left for the south long ago. The elf shook his head. Clumps of snow fell. Burr…. Even his cloak was beginning to soak through.

I don’t think the party can take much more of this, Esse! called Lepranto, now barely visible through blasting ice and sand.

Me neither! The young pathfinder spat grit, which refroze before hitting the ground. "Springtime was easier, you know! Flash-flooding I can deal with – but this…"

The bundled brown form of Lepranto trundled over to him. The inventor raised his hands signaling a halt to the three wagon teams trailing behind them. Esse wasn’t sure if he was nodding or shivering. You… y…y..y You’re right, Esse. Spring w..w was easier, Lepranto said, looking straight into Esse’s periwinkle eyes, But far more dangerous.

Esse did his best to nod back, but it only came out as another shiver. He remembered that expedition. It had been his first one with Master Lepranto. We’ve got to find cover. Some place we can circle the wagons and get out of the wind. At least for the n n n night, Esse agreed.

My mind works a bit slow for my tastes n.. n… now, my boy. What d… d… d… do you suggest?

Esse squinted into the east, following the vague lines of the tall river banks. He couldn’t see a thing but an inkling of a memory tugged at his muddled mind somewhere. I…I’ll g…g…go take a look, then! If I don’t c… c…come back…

Master Lepranto nodded gravely at his guide.

Compelling his body to obey, Esse scrambled up the embankment and was almost pitched back down. Whatever weather conditions they were dealing with down in the river bottoms was nothing compared to the skin-flaying ferocity of the bitter north wind up here. Straining his eyes eastwards again, Esse scanned the faded canyon lines as best he could.

Memories he had tried so hard to purge from himself the last expedition sliced through his concentration. Trying his best to prepare himself, Esse resorted to the best thing he could think of:

Slap!

His face should have stung. But all Esse could feel were two puffy pieces of skin bounce off each other with the impact of his palm striking his face. Struggling not to fall into a sleep, which would spell his death, Esse closed his eyes and continued concentrating. After a moment, he could feel his heart-beat slow. Drowsiness and frost attempted to seal his eyelids shut. The elf would only have a minute at best.

Please work, please work, please work, he chanted, prayer-like.

An agonizing minute passed. Esse was just about to pry his hopeless eyes back open when he noticed something.

He blinked.

The tundra had become silent. All sounds of moaning wind or sand stinging his face had faded. With an otherworldly stillness, the desert lands stretched on and on into the utter obscurity of the sundered east. There before him stood a tall woman, imperious and beautiful in the shards of moonlight, which went streaming down between ragged clouds. Her long dark hair flowed over her pale, smooth shoulders like some starlit waterfall, tumbling down into darkness and dreams.

Esse’s own frozen numbness dulled his astonishment. For a lingering moment neither spoke. Please… help us, Esse whispered, half-daring to speak, unbidden, in this mysterious queen’s presence.

The tall woman gave him an odd sort of look one often gives a lost child. Elf though Esse was, even he remembered the old tales from his childhood long ago about how there are far older powers, which still live and walk in his world today.

Individual grains of icy sand danced, frozen in mid-air around the pair. It is good to see you again, little Esse, she finally said, Welcome to my home, in which there are many rooms.

Esse marveled. How was he not cold anymore? And why did the land remain so still and inanimate? Had… Had he…?

The midnight-haired woman laughed in high, sparkling tones, which glittered like starlight in the air. "No. No little Esse, you have not crossed that great threshold yet. What you call inside is really outside my home. And, likewise, whatever you call outside is really just one more of my many rooms."

Esse’s senses told him he ought to be freezing to death. Yet here he was, neither hot nor cold. Esse still shook in spite of himself. Af… after we returned from the last expedition, I sought for you, and when I heard you not, I chased you across all our histories and stories.

She nodded thoughtfully. I only cease speaking when my youngest sister comes, bringing her wild parties from the south, the lady smiled. But I always clean up after her, and in fact, I am now doing so once more. Tell me, little Esse, do you know who I am? Can you truly guess my Name?

Esse nodded slowly. He was shivering with excitement now. I was down at the Green Siren Café one evening many years ago. The last of the whalers were there in port before they set sail, away west and south, as they always do when the Great Dragon and the Two Hunters appear in our stars. I had to trade my best knife for it… for a little book with strange words. Something, something about it drew me, enchanted me in a way I’ve never known before.

Oh? The Lady’s eyes beamed a smile wider than mere lips would ever hold.

Yes. I… the book would reappear and disappear… almost of its own will. I had to keep it in a special chest to ensure I wouldn’t lose it. Those men from the far isles, the Isles of the Sea Kings, as they call it… some from there who visited Ryven helped me decipher it over last winter.

Then you know of the Dreamer… the Knower… the Writer from the other land?

I’m not so sure about any of that, my Lady… but…

A deep silence filled up all the hills and dells around them.

"You… you’re actually… You’re the Northwind herself."

The woman’s grin was as much in her eyes as it was in her red lips. "I go by many names, the Northwind being one of them… and I am always speaking, for I was tasked with carrying messages since before you were a dream."

Esse bowed low.

But the Northwind only laughed and raised him back up on his feet. "Hush, you flatter. We are both but servants about our business. Ahead on your path, you will turn to your left and find a strange place. It is called the Shadow Inn and you will find friends there. But I warn you: beware. Touch no flower nor wander from within the river canyon. Each mile brings you closer to growing peril."

Esse’s thawing mind burgeoned with questions, which never quite reached his mouth. Finally, he asked, Will I ever see you again?

The Northwind only shook her head and smiled once more. Her long tresses of flowing black hair glimmered faintly. Esse, you always see me. Whenever the bright holly bends, you see me pass. Wherever the tall pines roar, they are answering my greeting as I pass away toward other lands and realms. When the great blue ice floes of the north whistle and crack, you have witnessed me as I go past. I am not here only but am sent with messages to and from many places. You will understand better in but a little while.

The moon rose higher and higher, sparkling across the brilliant silvery heavens where the stars wink blue, green, gold, and purple. Their celestial fires filled Esse’s mind with wonder, from the tips of his toes to the ends of his ears, and then the elf knew no more.

…

Buzzing noises skimmed here and there like dragonflies across deep lake waters amid the high western mountains of Ryven. Cheery smells wafted up, like the aroma of fresh, flaky bread – the crackle of hearth fire – and the nutty scintillations rising to the top of good brown ale.

Don’t touch the flowers! Esse yelled, shooting straight up out of a pile of warm blankets.

His cries were lost in the silence of a thick, wood-paneled room. Blinking, he gazed around his new surroundings. A small round window to his left was full of blowing snow, crystalline in the light of the wavering lamps on either side of his bed. Esse rose, carefully feeling his own nimble frame’s inner working for injuries.

Nothing, just some lingering frostbite.

Twangy groans erupted underneath the elf’s form as he stood. Startled, Esse peered cautiously underneath the boxy pallet. Cobwebs fluttered down like silver curtains. Waving these away, he felt along the underside of the bed. At first, Esse expected to feel hay or maybe even heather but instead found a cotton-like material stretching tightly between wooden slats. And… and there! He inspected a corner made out of some strange hard substance. Not wood, not metal, at least Esse didn’t think so.

Running his fingers along the bed’s construction, he wracked his mind on everything he’d ever seen back at the Dwarven Heart Forge smithy in Ryven. But Esse knew nothing; absolutely nothing, had come to so much as a winter storm’s breadth close to this. Another mysterious piece rattled and dropped to the plank-board floor. Fascinated, Esse picked the small metal piece up and rolled it between his thumb and pointer fingers. The nubby shaft ran up and down with tiny, uniform grooving spirals. Upon closer inspection, Esse discovered the hole from which the object most likely fell. In the dim yellow light, he made out identical grooves lining the interior.

Perhaps if I… muttered the elf, straining awkwardly on one elbow. With a concerted effort Esse couldn’t remember last having to summon since he began learning elemental magic, he tried stuffing the silvery object straight in like any common nail. But here he only managed to bruise his hand. Holding the spiteful metal piece up in the lantern light, an idea struck him. Deliberately switching elbows, his concentration was bent now on swiveling the stubborn thing into its hole. At first, Esse tried twisting the object left and only just managed to sweep it back out from the under-regions of the bed after it fell. Trying once more, this time he twisted the metal object right. Finally, Esse succeeded – and the metal grooves bit into each other, screwing the mysterious metal piece into place.

Esse let out a whoop and banged his head painfully against the bed’s underside. Behind him, he heard a wooden squeak as the door opened.

Scrambling, Esse successfully banged his head again and then half-swam, half-clawed his way out from under the bed into a ruffled standing position.

A plump, bemused woman grinned up at him. Dinner is ready.

With as much dignity as Esse could muster, he spluttered.

The woman only giggled and left, her auburn curls bobbing away out of sight.

Esse felt his head gingerly with his good hand. Ow.

Looking down, the elf found he was already dressed in cozy wool, woven in strangely satisfying checkerboard patterns. Esse gave the bed one last lingering look, especially where he knew the metal piece was now firmly lodged. Satisfied, he turned and exited, following the tantalizing fragrance of fresh bread. Tottering downstairs still holding his throbbing head, Esse missed the last step and stumbled into a cozy adobe hall arched with wooden beams.

A group of thirty or so figures lounged around a long table which took up most of the hall. Here and there, Esse spied normal hallmarks of everyday culture: knives, plates, and forks all in good order, but then there were strange metal cylinders the men drank from. Women in all number of outlandish clothing chatted gaily back and forth across a plethora of dishes – most of which Esse had never imagined before. Here and there, lights hummed without tallow, wax, or even the telltale buzz of magic. Twangy music and words Esse didn’t understand wavered out of a spinning contraption in the far corner.

"I mean, sure, I’ve seen some weird stuff… Dwarves and Elves dining together in relative harmony and all. But what about those humans?" he puzzled.

Overwhelmed, he spied dozens of people, wearing dozens of different clothing styles, speaking in accents beyond count. Humans drifted here and there around the polished table or stood aside conversing in little cliques. Through a long half-circle glass frame on the elf’s right, a wintery vista sparkled, at once both breathtaking and chilling.

Esse shivered; he felt cold just looking out across the windswept mesas under the diamond moon’s glow.

Somewhere from further inside the inn, a great bell clanged. Hearty laughs rose up from one corner, cheering the elf’s cheeks despite the noise’s eerie detachment. Esse’s mouth watered with the tingling scent of winter ale. Somewhere around the corner, a faint ticking sound of a grandfather clock clipped. Strange heraldic banners wafting high above upon a thick wooden beam (from a type of tree Esse didn’t recognize, and, being an elf, felt rather guilty for not knowing).

Where in Esse’s world, the marks of powerful families, leagues, and nations were commonly ensigned with trees or animals, swords or shields, here instead were bold bars of blue, green, or even orange. Here rows of stars and exes shouted untold valor with the faintest glance. Even Esse, an elf of the Second House of Ryven, guardians of The Memory from ancient days from when beings of Light and Darkness still alighted and spoke, felt as if he now stood before strange and powerful masters.

With a will, the elf withdrew his gaze from the rafters and back down to the charming yet raucous table. I wonder if it’s held up by those metal twisty things, too, Esse thought.

Pathfinder Esse, come! cried one of the throng.

Master Lepranto! By the Winds, it’s good to see you again, Esse said, taking one of the few vacant seats.

The brown-haired woman with the bobbing curls from earlier came whisking over. Welcome to the Shadow Inn What’ll ya have, sir?

Esse’s head went smashing underneath a bed again, "Huh? Sir? I’m not a knight."

The woman shook her head. Geeze, what is it with you folks?

Lepranto shrugged. It’s just how we talk, he added with a meaningful glance. "The stars are as bright as the sea here sir."

Wine? asked the serving woman.

We haven’t had that spirit here since the sixties! guffawed a bearded man, wearing what appeared to be cow-skin pants dyed blue along with an oddly checkered shirt.

Ale then, please, Esse answered. Turning back towards Lepranto, he fought to control his composure. "Is this the…?"

Lepranto gave a quiet grin.

"And are we actually near?"

The wizened elf took a long swallow from one of the curious metal cylinders and made a face.

Oh.

Esse gulped and looked around the table. Here and there, dotted around the steaming piles of strange food and outlandish folk, were little crystal vases with ominous, ashen-grey flowers. He felt an eerie chill settle along his spine.

Thank our stars they’re at least in water, Esse muttered.

But the squinted pupils of so many manic dinner guests did little to quell his mounting terror.

A gruff voice boomed from Esse’s left elbow. Well, well… I remember you, ol’ pointy ears! Weren’t you the one tried to up and swindle that book from my forge shelf just a summer or two ago?

Composing himself, the elf deftly slid the nearest flower-vase as far away from him as he could manage, but a tureen of buttered peas eventually blocked a good deal of his progress.

Gimel, is that you?

Nay, nay! said the dwarf after an incredibly long swallow of something pitch-black and alcoholic. He grinned and pointed, "They call it… they call… oy! What do you call it?"

A severe man with a thick, stabbing sort of accent which elongated his ‘a’ sounds and punched his ‘r’s smirked darkly. Esse was sure the smile never reached his dim blue eyes. "They call it Rushan Imperial Stout."

EE’s some kind a’smith too, Gimel slurred proudly. A flick of the dwarf’s finger drew Esse’s gaze to a faded red patch on the uniform the man wore. Or… maybe a farmer… can never…. Hic… nev… never be too sure with that hammer and scythe looking thing there, too.

Below the din, Esse kept asking himself over and over whether or not this was all some sort of hilarious nightmare or some equally bizarre afterlife. Yet, every time he was able to sneak a glance back out the arcing window into the bleak and blue desert heath, the scrub brush and reeds reminded him of one thing: The Northwind still blew. And as long as the Northwind kept blowing, this madhouse was neither a dream nor an illusion.

Deadly serious, Esse muttered.

Eh? What’s that? asked the dwarf.

Esse forced his whirling mind to concentrate on the sodden dwarf. I said, what are you doing way out in the wastes, Gimel?

Gimel’s free hand waved, Now, now… Pathfinder, you and your outfit can’t be the only ones out here in this truly hospitable nether-region of an ice shadow’s… well… unmentionables. He shook his head, wagging his beard. Haulin’ away stuff I’ve never even invented, the-likes-of-which even on my best daydreams I could never have imagined.

Esse felt his neck twitch towards Lepranto. What do you mean?

"What do I… hic… mean!? What do I mean?"

An uncomfortable amount of time