Tales of Piecora - The Emerald Cave: The Book of Urm, #1

By Jason Behnke

Serpendis Endium, Master Merchant of Kannoniah and sole survivor of a disastrous trip across the unmappable Wildlands visiting the Banwar east of Sienja, only wished to return home to his warm bed, but not until he found something – anything – valuable to at least justify this whole hell-rotten adventure besides his own soiled robes. But here in the chaotic Wildlands, his only chance of survival depended on his newly acquired Sienjan Guide, Piecora Tiorold, whom he despised despite her expertise in navigating the Wildlands better than anyone else in the world.

Things were going smoothly until the old, wealthy curmudgeon wandered into a forbidden cave and discovered the cursed emeralds, waylaying their journey into a hair-raising, reality-hopping, high-stakes adventure that neither of them asked for. But through grim determination, self-discovery, and the bonds of friendship old and new, they and others they meet along the way learn that the only way home is through a bargain with the Aeonwyrm of Kiahalla to save the Undying Lands of the Eldar from a powerful sorceress who has found the secret of intentional navigation between the planes of reality, threatening the very existence of humankind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Behnke
• Release date: Mar 2, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230981749

Book preview

Contents

Tales of Piecora 01

Copyright

Dedication

SONG OF SIENJA

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

Epilogue

A BLISSFUL PLACE

Tales of Piecora 01

The Emerald Cave

From the Book of Urm

Created by Jason Behnke

Copyright © 2024 Jason Behnke

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover art and design by: Jason Behnke

for Elizabeth,

otherwise none of this could happen.

SONG OF SIENJA

On the golden grasses

Equine thunder passes

In the land of wheat,

Cider and molasses.

Upon the wooden road,

Remove my traveled load

Within the sweet-smelling

Sienjan tavern abode.

Therein greets me a host

Of smiles and brown toast

Of honey and laughter

And stringed music to boast.

Bright eye and sturdy hand –

The people of this land;

Quick to love and vengeance:

The Sienjan woman and man.

Lo, Tielemark!

Kingdom of stone and wood.

Your log is hewn with axe,

Beam and pillar’d building.

Raptors soar above you,

Aloft on outstretched wing.

Alas! Alone you dwell –

The Hill and Valley King.

Among the Sienjan vales

And hills are many tales;

To share is to befriend,

And lack a friend who fails.

Prologue

Loathe was he to follow the counsel of his feral guide from that savage land in the east.

No, he would return to his home in the west bearing at least something to justify his troubles on this ill-fated adventure. He would return as Serpendis Endium, proud and great Master Merchant of the Kingdom of Mankind; a pillar of Kannonian mercantile supremacy and intellectual fortitude, loved by so many. But for now, he had nothing. His robes, soiled from weeks of hard travel, hung limply on his haggard frame and were all that remained of his traveling gear. They smelled like wet muslin and reminded him of his servants back home. He was alone in these wild and untamed lands — alone except for his guide, whom he despised.

The emeralds before him gleamed in the darkness of the muddy cave like tiny stars drowning in a murky night sky. He quietly muttered to himself as he gathered them hungrily into the folds and hidden pockets of his once-fine robes. He felt lightheaded, intoxicated, as if this were all a dream, and his hands seemed to move hazily on their own before him.

I commend thee on thy vision, good sir, he slurred in High Kannonian through sweaty, bearded lips as his hands sank deep into the mud. Only you could have found such a prize hidden beneath this muck, in such a dark place as this, in the wildest of places in this unruly world. His eyes squinted into shadow as his mind raced to gather his thoughts.

‘Stay away from those nearby mountains,’ she lectured me ceaselessly for days, he whined, rolling his eyes. Poor savage. What does such a girl know? One cannot blame her, I guess. ‘The Sienjan Guide’ they call her in Coast Haven. Being lucky enough to survive the trip a few times back and forth — enough to make a name for herself, I guess. Enough to be called a guide. I suppose she feels a certain entitlement by now to be so… so untoward.

But wasn’t it I who escaped unscathed and alone from the slaughter that the unruly Banwar visited upon my caravan on that fateful night while we slept? Barbaric Fae of the grasslands, wandering and nomadic, these primitive elvenkind of the steppes, covered in their black markings from head to toe, maybe to hide themselves among the reeds — all heathens less civilized than even the Sienjans, they are. Make the slightest eye contact and the entire tribe descends on you with knives and spears. None survived. NONE! he shouted, stopping to listen to his own voice echo through the cave’s moist walls. For moments he sat still, unbreathing, until his shout subsided. Then, exhaling, he gazed closely at one of the burning emeralds in his hand.

None, save I, good sir. I alone escaped, he murmured with satisfaction to the emerald, his head swimming. Let that teach you the difference, savage, between he who commands his own fate through instinct and vision, and she who stumbles through the fog of her own superstition.

Something moved behind him in the darkness, and he sighed while turning to look. He expected to see the light of his Sienjan guide’s torch coming to harass his good fortune. But he saw only the darkness. Briefly he swayed, but then caught himself, blinking himself awake.

If you are coming in here to scold me you might as well be useful and bring some light, his unsteady voice rang in the cave. I am not leaving until I have taken what I deserve after all the troubles I’ve endured on this hell-rotten journey. And no thanks to you, either.

He turned quickly back to his work and met the eyes of that which froze his blood and plunged his soul into an icy mire of paralyzing fear. He could not move, but his gut shook uncontrollably. A primitive fear gripped him, strangling his very will to breathe, and beads of sweat speckled his face like morning dew on a frozen corpse.

1

BRICKLAYERS AND BARBARIANS

Serpendis Endium, highly esteemed Master Merchant of Kannoniah, sat across the small campfire from his guide, Piecora Tiorold of Sienja. She had her strange companion with her, Hiero — a diminutive but deadly raptor faster in flight than anything else in the skies.

Serpendis watched them both intently while trying not to give away his fascination, as he found her behavior unnervingly contrary to what he considered rational and civilized. She was – in his mind – very Sienjan: coarse, abrupt, sometimes even rude, but what he hated most were her interruptions.

She sat across from him while feeding the small falcon bits of uncooked rabbit while eating cooked portions of her own meal. Hiero was somehow bound to her in a strange Sienjan accord that he would never understand. He studied them intently as one studies wildlife until —

What are you looking at? she asked suddenly, speaking the worldly Common tongue (also known as Low Kannonian) in her thick Sienjan accent. Her voice pierced the night’s ambience like a giant cricket. He jumped despite himself, blinking wildly at her uncanny ability to interrupt even his very thoughts. Her face, lit by the fire, resembled some ethereal demon from the Abyss – instilling within him a lurking, goading madness on the fringe of his calculating mind.

Like crescent jewels of obsidian set in deep auburn skin, her eyes were black portals into her primal Sienjan spirit, but opaque to any thoughts or motives. The sharp, multi-pointed deer antlers she wore through layers of thick, intricate braids of jet-black hair were bathed in orange against the dusky sky behind her. Black ink crawled over the contours of her tawny face in curving, linear designs emulating the antlers she wore in reverence to Stag, one of six animal spirits the Sienjans worship as gods.

Excuse me? What did you say? Serpendis rattled quickly, gathering himself.

Hiero turned and regarded him with a curious eye that gleamed in the firelight like a smoldering ember.

You’ve been staring at me ever since I lit the fire. Why? She took another bite of her food and continued with a full mouth, It’s not my fault you devoured your portion of the hunt already. You can’t have mine, but you are welcome to try your luck with Hiero’s meal.

Back home, Serpendis was not used to being addressed in this kind of fashion, and he wondered suddenly how long he could tolerate it. Her uncouth Sienjan accent made his eyes twitch when she spoke the Kannonian low speech so directly and informally at him, as if everything she said was in some way a rebuke, regardless of context.

All of Kannoniah loved Serpendis Endium of the mercantile town of Coast Haven for the exotic wares he brought to the ladies and children from parts of the world they would never see themselves. He surrounded himself with simple, agreeable people who marveled at the command of his personality, and he enjoyed weighing his formidable intellect against those he deemed lesser.

Oh, please, he dismissed. You Sienjans are so sensitive. I’m staring at nothing, of course, and yet everything: the fire, the stars, the surrounding hills, those mountains over there —

Stay away from those mountains, she cut in, returning to her cooked rabbit leg while Hiero, tilting his head left and right, stared at the wealthy Kannonian merchant.

This time he would have none of it. "Why? So far, this trip has been uneventful, dare I say even dull, given the reputation of these so-called Wildlands. These parts, between your country and mine, they are lauded as dangerous, filled with monsters and strangeness and –"

They are, she interrupted again. You came to Sienja with a full caravan and eight sell-swords. Where are they now?

Well, look, getting to Sienja we lost some people — he began.

Not so dull getting there, then? I wasn’t with you, she said.

— and… if I may... he went on, straining against his own patience. ... and then we visited the Banwar further east, to see if we could trade with them, and there we were destroyed. Murdered in the night while we slept! My whole company! I escaped before the slaughter reached me, and I arrived in Sienja through my own wits and survival instincts! You could learn a thing or two. I’ve been all over this world, now I just want to be back home in my own bed.

He watched her through the withering haze of the fire as she slowly ate her meal, seemingly in some silent discourse with Hiero who gulped down portions of his rabbit. Serpendis luxuriated in the allowance of finishing a complete sentence for once and wanted more.

Furthermore, those elves are truly savage, you know; uncouth, even for you —

And you were lucky to find me in Sienja, she said slowly, completing the rest of her thought without acknowledging his renewed initiative. And that I was willing to guide you back home, trusting in your word that payment awaits me in Kannoniah. And given that you left everything behind with those you let die at the hands of the Banwar, you would never make it home without me. I was a gift to you from Stag, she said while briefly tapping her antlers.

Serpendis looked away, grappling for a response he had ready only a moment ago.

It is no surprise to me that the Banwar were hostile to you and your people, she said softly, unexpectedly, while rising to her feet and letting the bones of her kill drop into the fire.

She was short in stature with muscular legs and wide hips, and she moved silently, gracefully, seemingly without weight over the rough savannah terrain. From years of traversing Sienja’s grasslands, steep hills and valleys, turbulent rivers, and treacherous forests, she was honed to exist effortlessly and wander harmoniously in the wild.

She wore soft fabrics beneath a loose Sienjan linen shirt tucked beneath a leather girdle. A hatchet – more of a tool than a weapon according to Serpendis’ observations – was slung on a belt that rode low on her hips, and a bow hung sideways against her lower back alongside a quiver of long arrows with black and yellow fletching. A pile of elaborate Sienjan braids kept her long black hair out of her face. Antlers from a young elk were attached to a leather band wrapped tightly around her head. Crafted many years ago by a Sienjan shaman in dedication to Stag when Piecora was a child – too big for her to wear at the time – the antlers were the extension of Stag, one of six animal spirits worshipped by Sienjans. So too were the markings of Stag on her face in silijan black ink that emulated the curves of her antlers.

She spoke the common Kannonian tongue simplistically and without embellishment, devoid of deceit. Serpendis realized she lacked the understanding of lying, or the relativity between truth and untruth, and therefore couldn’t relate to Kannonians properly.

No wonder their cultures never got along despite generations of alliance.

She circled around the fire towards him, and he watched her nervously, uncertain of what she might do next. Sometimes he found her strangely alluring despite his prejudice against her people, but always his fear of her prevailed, distilling his thoughts so he could better cope with them. Fear, as it turns out, simply made it easier to get along with her.

She stopped in front of him and looked down, waiting for him to look up and meet her eyes.

Sienjans like the Banwar. We trade with them often. Want to know how?, she said softly.

She suddenly knelt close to him, gripped his hand firmly, and held it to her face, slowly drawing it downward and smearing some of the black, oily ink onto his fingers. Serpendis shifted uncomfortably, having no idea what to do or how to respond. He could smell the wood fire in her hair, and her breath was warm on his face.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him. They taught us this, she said, gesturing around the black runes on her face with his pale, boney hand. "And they give us silijan ink — that only the Banwar make — to mark ourselves according to our beliefs, our feelings, our moods, even what we did that day — as this is also their custom. They cover their whole bodies with the marks of who they are, and the stories of their lives. They taught us how to do this, and why. We wear these marks when we journey, when we prepare for that which has meaning to us, but most importantly we wear these marks when we visit the Banwar. For only when we do this, is there peace with them. Thus, we are exposed to them. Our intentions are clear to them. They can read us, and we them — even without any knowledge of language, written or spoken — and there is no conflict."

Without this understanding, we would all die, she said, letting his hand fall back into his custody.

Serpendis studied her face as he absorbed the meanings of her words, confounded by the efficiency of her delivery. He hated the emptiness that she sometimes left in his mind.

And now there is only you, alone in the ever-shifting contours of the Wilds, and me to guide you home, she spoke softly, as if putting a child to sleep. If I say to keep your distance from those mountains, it is not that I care about you or you bricklayers of Kannoniah, but only that my payment awaits me there if I guide you home safely, should there be any truth to your words.

As if deciding for them both that the conversation was now over, she turned away to tend their two horses before bedding down for the night. The horses were fine Sienjan travel horses, bred and trained for navigating the rigors of the Wildlands safely. Their packs were laden with supplies purchased in Tielemark, Sienja’s capital and only city, with the last of Serpendis’ remaining money before embarking for Kannoniah. The estimated travel time between the two countries hovered around three weeks, but those familiar with the journey knew this could vary wildly and unpredictably due to the chaotic nature of the ever-shifting Wildlands.

‘Bricklayers,’ mimicked Serpendis to himself while struggling to shake off the strange effect she had on him. Ever the compliment from the horse-loving barbarians. I shall do more than just survive, savage.

He laid down grumpily on his bedroll and covered himself in his blanket, close to the fire. The ground was soft, and the tall grasses made for comfortable bedding when bent down in the same direction, which Piecora taught him. He stared into the low, flickering flames of the campfire, allowing his eyes lose focus and eventually relenting himself to the onset of slumber.

Despite a temperate warmth beneath the sun over the last few days while traveling across the prairie, the nights were chilly, and the breeze had a bite to it especially when the stars were out. No moon had yet visited the sky this evening, and no sounds were heard except for the soft rustling of Piecora rummaging through the gear on the horses and checking over their legs and hooves for scrapes, briars, lesions, wicked insects, or any other potential problems.

And yet, within the perceived stillness, there was movement everywhere for as far as the eye could see – too slow to be noticed as it happened, but irrefutable as the days passed. Mountains rolled over the lands like shifting waves on the open sea, forests marched through churning soils and clays, lakes changed their shapes and rivers altered their courses in response to the massive land movements surrounding them. This is why the Wildlands are claimed as unmappable - they are never the same when revisited.

For tonight, darkness lay over the sprawling grasslands like a muted void pierced only by the pinprick of their campfire’s light.

2

INSTINCT AND VISION

Serpendis Endium awoke with a start, wracked with shivers. He was warm, yet cold inside, and his muscles ached. His mouth was dry as a cadaver. Did he have a nightmare? Sweat streamed down his face as he sat up and noted the cool embers of the campfire’s remains, barely visible in the darkness. He wondered if he had fallen ill during the night, or if something small and poisonous had bitten him while he slept. Looking up at the stars, he could not guess when dawn might arrive. He swallowed hard and tried to reflect on his dreams as if they held answers to his present condition, but he could not conjure anything.

Then, in the hush between breezes, something tickled his ear. He heard the faintest of sounds, like little whispers in the shifting air currents of the deep night. He could not make out their words, nor could he place where they came from, but they chiseled at his mind like little fingers in soft clay.

Quietly, unsteadily, he rose from his blanket and shivered again, looking around for the source of the strange voices and swatting at the sides of his head as if harassed by insects. He gathered his weathered robes close around him and peered into the night, folding his arms tightly around his torso. His old eyes slowly roamed the enshrouded plains and stopped at the rise of the nearby shadowed mountains.

There. The voices came from over there, from those mountains.

He looked around the camp and found Piecora fast asleep in her bedroll. He searched the skies but could not find any sign of Hiero. But then his eyes caught a glimpse of Viridraluna, the Green Moon – one of the three moons of Urm – now just a thin sliver hanging low in the sky. Many cultures saw the green moon as a doom that beckoned evil deeds and ill portents, and Kannonians were no exception. Serpendis was often in conflict between his own superstitious upbringing and his academic adulthood. Thus, the sight of the green moon gave him pause, despite himself.

But then he spat at the green moon, declaring that he would not be swayed by the distant gaze of the sleepy green eye that watched him from just above the horizon like some celestial cat lying on its side, waiting to pounce. Gathering his tattered robes, Serpendis made his way softly through the tall grass toward the very mountains Piecora had warned him about. This was his moment, his chance, to make something out of this doomed adventure.

It took him a little while to reach the rising foothills. Once there, he stooped down and began scrambling up the rocky slope. Towering, monolithic stones broke through the soft earth, pushed upward from titanic forces ages ago. Roots and pebbles gave way beneath his struggles, making the going difficult for the elderly merchant. But a strange lust had taken over him, and his own self-awareness faded as he climbed onward.

The voices filled his mind now, and he was certain that they were coming from somewhere within these mountains. He could almost taste his fortune nearby – some treasure or remarkable discovery – and he had an overwhelming feeling that something here would finally change his miserable luck. He was never one to forego an opportunity if he anticipated one, regardless of how questionable the likelihood of a positive outcome might be. He considered himself to have a touch, a knack, for finding value in unexpected places, and people.

Instinct, he muttered to himself as he clawed his way along the roots of the mountains, his head swimming. And vision. You and I are not so different, Sienjan. We are both survivors, but you lack vision. Sleep away this night and let me learn of the secrets within these mountains. Then perhaps I may teach you of my discoveries, for a price.

Finally, after more mumbled conversations with himself, he came upon a flattened area surrounded by tall boulders high over the grasslands below. The green moon hung emboldened in the night sky now like a sharp tooth piercing the haze of the horizon. It mocked him.

He turned away from the vista, wrestling with his doubts and intoxicated mind, and there behind sagging roots and vines he discerned a black, narrow fissure between two large vertical monoliths of limestone. The strange discord of inharmonious voices haunting him emanated from the blackness within. He was certain of it.

He stared in dumb fear and curiosity, tilting his head slightly and furrowing his brow while approaching the dark, narrow fissure. These voices, are they not the Fae? he whispered to himself. Concern haunted his eyes as he looked from side to side. Indeed, they are like the Fae, but they are... unlovely, and without melody. The voices chafe against one another. The discord, this tumult… it sickens me, almost.

He then slowly stepped into the cave, brushing away the dangling roots, and all at once the humming whispers stopped. He blinked several times as if waking from a dream and took a step back out of the cave to see if the voices would return. But they did not. He was once again in full ownership of himself, here alone on this small plateau, high above the rolling fields below. He was afraid, but not ready to give into his fear, or quit on his calculating instincts. He had come too far by now, and the Sienjan would never let him hear the end of it, if he returned to camp, wherever that may be. Realizing that he was most certainly now lost in these untamed lands only further calcified his resolve to plod onward despite his trepidation.

More to the mystery, he whispered unsteadily, his eyes wide as they circled around the cave’s entrance. What was hiding within this cave? What had beckoned him here? And why? Is this the last time he would breathe pure, outside air? Again, he jousted between fear and ambition while lingering in the mouth of the cave.

Then, finally committing himself, he conjured his courage and strode clumsily into the quiet darkness before him while the green sickle moon watched on from its low perch in the sky.

High walls of limestone intricately laced with roots and weeds surrounded him. As he went on, he noticed the ground descending gradually as the walls grew ever higher above him. All was silent in the darkness save for his nervous breathing and soft footfalls. He was nearly blind, barely perceiving the subtle differences in shades and darkness before him. The air was thick, damp, like a membrane filled with unseen filaments that clung to his sweaty face. He felt the need to keep his mouth closed and breathed heavily through his nose. Slowly he made his way through the stagnant darkness, feeling his way along the walls, plodding through mud and sloshing in pools of murky, cool water.

Then, after a short while, he realized he could see, if barely a little better than before. He could make out the edges of the jagged walls around him and the soft, wet ground. He wondered aloud where the diffused light was coming from as the cave slowly revealed more of itself to him. But then, scrambling around a large, sharp boulder, he beheld a sight which stole his very breath away.

In the mud before him gleamed the source of the strange light: a green haze that emanated from the muck itself. But as he looked closer, he found tiny gems of all hues of green and amber growing from the earth. The gems produced a soft, ambient light like filtered sunlight through a forested canopy.

He hesitated for only a moment before kneeling in the mud and digging into the gems with his hands, picking at their roots and prying them upward. He did what he could to wipe them off as he filled his pockets and the folds of his robes with the strange emeralds.

I commend thee on thy vision, good sir, he mumbled in High Kannonian through sweaty lips as his hands sank deep into the mud. Only you could have found such a prize hidden beneath this muck, in such a dark place, in the wildest of places, in this unruly world.

He continued digging and gathering emeralds while speaking softly to himself, oblivious of the surrounding denizens closing in: sinewy humanoids with pale, translucent skin, and large, white, lidless, unseeing eyes – distant relatives of the elves, separated from the Fae long ago, living all of their lives beneath the ground and in fear the sun: Gwagorbennog, the Hollow Elves, lost from light and cursed in darkness.

3

MASSACRE

The caravan made their camp just outside of the nomadic Banwar Elves who lived their lives following the herds of the great beasts across the sprawling grasslands of Oon Vielend, east of Sienja. Banwar huts, tents, paddocks, and other temporary structures went on as far as the eye could see, with fires large and small dissolving like a carpet of blinking embers toward the night’s horizon.

The red moon rose high that night, open and aware so it could survey with casual ambivalence all that occurred below, bathing the lands in crimson. Many stories exist in Kannoniah of failed attempts to meet the Banwar and trade with them. It is thought among Kannonian scholars that the Banwar are highly temperamental isolationists, trading only with the Sienjans from time to time. Kannonian commoners, on the other hand, thought the Banwar to only exist in myth and folktale – wild and savage elves who roamed the windy savannah steeped in strange, shamanic traditions and totemic spirits, coexisting with great herds of horned thunderbeasts and soaring birds of prey the size of horses. The mere mention of the Banwar conjures fantastical whimsies among the collective Kannonian imagination. Therefore, the notion that the Banwar traded exclusively with Sienja only helps emphasize the Kannonian prejudice of Sienjans as also unruly and savage. Some attribute Sienja’s own societal spirituality – the identification and worship of six specific animal spirits, or totems, named Bear, Boar, Bull, Horse, Serpent, and Stag, as originating from Banwar influence.

In truth, the Banwar are an ancient line of elves long split from their origins within Kiahalla, the Encircling Forest, which is the great Fae Wood that has existed since the beginning of time according to the records of the Eldar, far to the south of both Banwar lands and Sienja. What compelled the split among the Eldar and ancient elves is lost to the decay of time and memory except for the Eldar themselves – the Sinthians, or the High Elves, who are immortal. Within the bright halls of Avanyamon – the crystal city on top of the Hill of Gurai which rests in the center of the Encircling Forest – they have records of everything that has happened in the world within their purview since their creation in the beginning of recorded time. The split, or the Dispersion, created not only present day Banwar (the Plains Elves), but also the Sunshiyu (the Canyon Elves) far to the west and south of Kannoniah, and the Elgin Elves (the Wood Elves) in the forested mountains of the northwest, as well as many other transient elves, or Common Elves (Grey Elves) like those who live in many places including Kannoniah. None of this, of course, was known to most Kannonians except maybe a few in secret places living in obscurity. To most Kannonians, talk of Sinthia, the Undying Lands, the city of Avanyamon and the dreadful Fae Forest of Kiahalla that encircles it, was all fairytales to be spread as light allegory or used to frighten children.

The company that traveled this far east was lesser now, having suffered losses from the chaotic wilderness that exists between Kannoniah and Sienja. They said that the lands changed – too slow for one to notice – but nonetheless the forests slowly marched on, mountains rumbled along, rivers and lakes moved about the lands on their own, and altogether the Wildlands were different each time one traveled through them. Thus, no map has ever been drawn of the Wildlands, for they were unmappable. But a few guides existed who  possessed the skills and capabilities to navigate these strange lands for a high price. One such guide was with Serpendis’ company, but he perished within the second week of their trip.

Morale was low among the mercenaries, and Serpendis Endium alone remained of the merchants and their assistants who set out upon this venture. He was vaguely beginning to fear for his own life, thinking that the remaining sell-swords would turn on him and return home to loot his mansion. He knew that in order to maintain their allegiance, he had to make the trip lucrative for them, and he promised that once they found the Banwar, the elves would welcome them with exotic treasures to bring back home. Then they would stop in Sienja on their way home to hire another guide – hopefully one better than the last – ensuring their safe return.

But on this night, he listened to them sleep in their blankets and bedrolls around the dying embers of their fire while his mind calculated. Earlier that day, upon discovering the vast nation of the Banwar far greater than any of them expected from a distant hill, he assured his remaining travelers that he would go alone to the Banwar the following day and present himself as representative of Kannoniah, humankind of the west, and to beseech trade with them, hoping to broker a longstanding agreement between their people and his own. He had no translator, as she died along the journey with their guide. But among Serpendis Endium’s greatest assets was his confidence in his own charisma, and he knew that only good fortune would come from his meeting with the Banwar. Such was the extent of his ambitions earlier that day.

But tonight, he crouched through the tall grasses and quietly moved away from the camp under the cover of rising Rubramiluna, the Kannonian name for the Red Moon, in its fullness. He was heading back to where he guessed would be the thing that he sought. Beneath the stars and the provocative glare of the red moon, he roamed around in circles until he found it: a large beast, almost the size of a small house, long dead with white bones reaching into the sky, lying on its side with its belly vacated of all its innards. They found the beast two days ago, and the mercenaries became nervous with one saying its presence meant they were very near Banwar lands, that they might already be watching them, so caution was warranted. They traveled around the huge carcass in a wide arc without speaking a word. Their eyes nervously surveyed the surrounding hills and tall grasses, keeping the beast and the circling vultures overhead barely within eyesight.

But Serpendis, curious by nature, was desperate to find anything that might cure the restlessness of his adventurers. A few pieces of ivory chiseled from the fallen beast would fetch a high price in the markets of Coast Haven, his hometown in Kannoniah.

Warily, Serpendis slowly crept from the tall grass into the trampled, blood-caked surroundings of the gigantic, dead monster. His eyesight had grown accustomed to the soft red hue of Rubramiluna bathing everything in eerie crimson tints offset by shades of impenetrable darkness. The resulting hellish landscape, seemingly lit by blood, induced symptoms of anxiety, lack of balance, and irritability. The Red Moon was the Moon Between – Lunami Intera, as Kannonians called it – and its presence in the night sky foretold unexpected events, intoxication to straightforward thoughts, confusion in conversation, and overall it seemed as though anything that touched its crimson light was subject to its unsettling influence, to many who believed in such things.

As Serpendis quietly approached the fallen beast, the Red Moon revealed hints and implications of things that caused him to pause nervously. The stomach of the giant creature was gutted open, large enough for a person to enter and stand fully erect. But now looking around anxiously, he noticed that the trampled debris field was perfectly circular, and the behemoth lay at its center, lying on its side. Within the excavated underbelly of the creature, Rubramiluna exposed for his squinting eyes glints of crimson highlights that suggested metals and crystals arranged intentionally.

His mouth had gone bone dry, and he licked his lips as he approached the creature’s gaping belly across the trampled grass ritual circle, his sandals softly crunching coagulated blood and dried offal under his weight. He expected an overpowering stench of death, but instead his sinuses received a wispy tendril of incense, both strange and comforting, emerging from the creature’s carcass.

Upon arriving at the belly, his fears and theories were realized: a shrine, or an altar of some sort, had been constructed within the cavity of the beast’s hollowed insides composed of bone, sinew, and flesh from the beast itself as well as foreign materials like wood and fabric. Looking up, the Red Moon revealed to him in nebulous scarlet the fabricated imitation of the beast itself rising on its hindlegs and roaring at the sky. At its base was a shallow bowl made from reeds, and within the bowl smoldered the embers of the incense he detected. He nearly fainted with fear as his mind wrestled with the implications of his discovery.

But there before him, worked into the giant sculpture as if to commemorate the killing of this creature, were precious gems, metals of many kinds, and even Sienjan coins. Some hung by strings, quietly clinking together like soft chimes. Others were nestled around the incense bowl, and still others were woven within the structure of the sculpture itself.

Was this some totem erected in tribute to this creature? Did they worship it as if it were their god? Was this even the work of the Banwar, or was it Sienjan, or something else? Serpendis gazed at the altar, summarizing the small fortune before him. A small part of him from his distant superstitious past berated him for even thinking of stealing anything from this sacred place, but he quickly distilled this fear with well-practiced logic and reason, ultimately deciding there was no way he could return to camp without taking something for each of the survivors traveling with him, as well as a few things for himself. With one last defiant glance up at the Red Moon filling the sky above him, he knelt and began gathering the treasures and trinkets left by the Banwar war party three days prior.

When he was satisfied with his collection, he turned back and jogged across the circle, but when he reached the edge, he heard a distant scream that froze him in his tracks. He turned his head and focused his hearing, and from somewhere in the night he heard more screams – screams and slaughter. He broke into a run and cresting a hill he saw flames below enveloping his camp and caravan, trapping his companions. No sounds of fighting or even resistance reached him, only dying.

Serpendis blindly ran from the slaughter in no particular direction that he understood. He

Reviews for Tales of Piecora - The Emerald Cave

[outandaboutblog · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

If you are looking for a well written fantasy series, mixing mythic, legend and quest fantasies, you are in for a great read with Tales of Piecora series.

Slow pace, strong character development and excellent, detailed world building, The Emerald Cave is one of the rare indie fantasy reads I read in the last few years, that hooked me from the very beginning.

The style is flawless, the writing is excellent and the descriptions are well built and smooth, allowing the reader to visualize pretty easily this massive world building while still enjoying the plot.

I love how flawed and diverse the characters are. It's not the typical quest/epic hero journey but more a tale of survival and inner lessons.

I definitely recommend this book.