Books, Writing

Divinity – Worthy of a Chapter 2?

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The other day I posted a screenshot proving that there are Cithria Book 5 words happening as we speak. The book is coming, even if I can’t say exactly when (although I hope by early 2017). But anyone who knows me knows I’m always in the middle of about 5 different things at a time. That’s where Divinity comes in.

Divinity was originally a story idea from Patrick. He pitched it to Alistair and I a couple years back and I decided to run with it and see what I could make of it. Every so often, I’ll do what I call a Chapter 1 exercise. I’ll write Chapter 1 of a story, and if it’s good enough to warrant a Chapter 2, then I’ll try and flesh the whole thing out and turn it into a short or even a novel. Sanctuary started out in this exact same way. So I’m doing the same with Divinity.

Take a look at the first chapter below and let me know what you think. Is it worthy of a Chapter 2? Or maybe even more?

 

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Chapter 1 – A New God

 

“Who is it, Seer?”

The sentry’s question barely penetrated the tempest of Janara’s thoughts. She stared out across the dusty field before the High Altar, seeing nothing save for a vast, unending plain of dry, cracked ground surrounding a single figure on horseback. A small plume of dust rose into the sky as the rider approached them quickly, no doubt galloping across the lifeless desert.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. The sentry looked at her in surprise from under his gold-trimmed helm. Sparkling gold and silver armor covered him from head to toe, and a white cape with thick gold trim hung down his wide back. A long sword hung from his belt, sheathed in the finest leather, and he held a majestic spear in his hand, its base resting on the ground before him. His mouth moved to question her, then stopped. Janara answered his unasked question. “I have not foreseen this.”

The sentry blinked. He hadn’t expected that answer.

“What of the High Prophet?” he asked.

Janara shrugged, feeling her worry gather into the pit of her stomach. The other Orders only sent emissaries once a year, and all eleven had made their trips in the first weeks after the new year. Kings, Queens, and Emperors each had their visits negotiated, but none were allowed here more than once every three years, and all had used up their allotted visit for some time.

Learning what the future held was not a trip one postponed.

“He has said nothing to me.”

The sentry fixed his gaze on the approaching figure, a frown of concern on his normally stoic face. Whoever this visitor to the High Altar was, he wouldn’t be here for some time.

“I will meditate on this,” Janara said. “If I’m not back in time, keep him, or her, outside the Altar.”

The sentry nodded. “I obey, Seer.”

Janara tirelessly bounded up the Five Hundred Steps of Wisdom, the wide staircase that led from the base of the Altar to the Middle Entrance, a wide opening on the near side of the great pyramid that served as the home of their Order. She glided down the hall, her floor-length white and gold robes wafting behind her as she entered the White Room, one of several meditation rooms used by the Seers of the Order of Cenembor. She found it empty, so she hiked up her robe slightly, and knelt on one of the square mats lining the outer edge of the room. She faced the plain white pedestal in the center, upon which rested a smooth, glassy statue of a large eye, roughly the size of her head.

She pushed back her long, tightly-curled, red hair, slipping it into a golden hair clasp to keep it out of her face. She pressed her hands together in front of her chest, then took a deep breath to steady herself. She closed her eyes, found her center, and let herself be one with the High Realm.

“Allfather Cenembor, Allseing Eye of the Universe, Granter of Wisdom and Foresight.”

The words tumbled out of her in monotone chant, a little faster than she intended. The High Prophet told her once that she sometimes said it too fast, a sign of impatience, which did not serve their Order well. But this was no normal situation. She composed herself and focused on the words. The Allfather would see her, he would smile at the power and clarity of her words, and he would bless her with his gift.

”I ask a boon of you, Allfather. I humbly beg for a vision of the future. Show me who entreats your High Altar this day. Show me their intent, and I will praise your glory.”

Nothing happened. She repeated the prayer, focusing all of her will into the chant. Again nothing happened. A novice could spend all day trying to gain the Allfather’s notice. She, however, had never had to do this more than three times. She tried again, fervent in her desire, and her worship. She must have that boon!

The magic came. It flowed through her body, from her toes all the way up her back and into her head. That’s where it held its greatest power. In the mind. She opened her eyes, seeing nothing save the foresight the Allfather had now given her. Anyone watching would see a shimmering aura emanating from her entire body. She’d never seen her own aura, though. She only saw the visions.

In this one, she was high above the plain outside the High Altar, desolate as always. The vision brought her forward, to the structure itself, the massive half-pyramid with the top lopped off. The four outer corners of the pyramid continued upward from the base like raised swords, their points nearly meeting far above the top platform. A massive stone eye rested on the four points, carved to face both east, toward the Blackpeak Mountains where followers of the earth gods roamed, and west, across the Ohan Desert and into the Everlands, where the storm gods held sway. She’d seen this vision before, many times. The High Altar was built in remote, desolate lands, making the power contained within hard to abuse by the other Orders. This was where she’d spent most of her adult life. It was her home, and she knew it intimately. But something about it was different this time.

It was empty.

No Seers walked the top platform. No sentries patrolled the base. The village just south, populated almost entirely by servants, workers, stable hands, and craftsman who supported the High Altar, was lifeless. The entire structure stood empty in the vast expanse of the dry, dusty plain. Completely silent.

She blinked, and the vision vanished. She looked around, finding herself still alone in the White Room. A sinking feeling in her gut spurred her back to the gate.

She returned to the path leading to the stairs. The sentry still waited at the bottom, his eyes fixed on the visitor who was now almost upon them – a young man, riding a brown horse. She debated going back to see the High Prophet, but still she waited. There was no need to warn of something he must surely already know about. She forced herself to stay calm and she walked slowly down the stairs to the wide stone porch at the base. The sentry looked at her, seeking some sort of reassurance. She gave none. She only stared straight ahead at the rapidly approaching visitor.

Within moments a man no older than herself reached the base of the porch, rearing back on his horse until it stopped only a few paces ahead. The horse trotted back and forth on the grass, breathing heavily, while the man rubbed its neck, calming it. Stable hands arrived from the stable at the southwest corner of the High Altar, but the man waved them off. They stood by mutely, watching Janara for any sign of what to do next.

The man hopped off the horse, keeping the reins tightly in hand. He wore simple riding clothes, dark brown woolen pants, a lighter brown linen shirt, leather boots and belt. His wavy, dark hair was shoulder-length and unbound, hanging over the front of a gaunt face lined with beads of sweat. He had no weapons or armor, no accoutrements of the other gods or kingdoms, no visible sign that he intended harm.

“Welcome to the High Altar of Cenembor. I am Janara, Seer of the Order of Cenembor. What is the purpose of your visit?”

The man regarded her with a barely concealed smile.

“You don’t know?”

Janara fought to keep her composure. She said nothing in response.

“I have come to speak to the High Prophet of Cenembor,” he said. “Obviously.”

Janara blinked, and tried to retain the polite smile on her face. One did not demand to speak to the High Prophet. The High Prophet foresaw all visitors, and made preparations for their arrival far in advance. This man had not been expected.

“You are not expected.”

He opened the saddle pouch and pulled out a small cloth. He used it to dab the sweat from his forehead.

“Tell the High Prophet I am here. He will want to see me, for I bring news.”

Janara visibly frowned.

“Your name?”

He raised an eyebrow. “He’s the High Prophet. He will know my name.”

Janara suppressed her annoyance. Both at this man and at her failure to foresee anything about him. Was this her failure or was it the Allfather’s? Surely he had a reason for not showing her of his coming.

“Wait here.”

He bowed his head, and then finally waved the stable hands over. They gladly took the horse away to be fed and watered. Janara hurried back up the steps to the Middle Entrance. She followed the hallway back until she reached the next set of stairs that led to the platform at the very top of High Altar.

Janara found him sitting cross-legged on the pedestal that overlooked the rear of the structure, facing the Blackpeak Mountains. He routinely meditated there, searching for visions of the future that foretold of great prosperity or dire troubles. The entire world paid begrudging tribute to him, the one man who could tell them anything they wanted to know.

“High Prophet,” Janara began, finding the words difficult to form, “a visitor has come. He asked to speak with you.”

For several torturous moments, the High Prophet did nothing. Then, he slowly turned his head to look back at her.

“That cannot be,” came a raspy reply.

Janara lowered her eyes.

“It is true, High Prophet. He waits now at the gate. He said you would know his name.”

She felt his eyes boring into her for a long moment. Finally, he turned back toward the mountains.

“Give me a moment.”

The High Prophet closed his eyes and began his own meditation. After a brief moment, a golden aura surrounded his body, much stronger than Janara’s. She stared in silent awe as the power of Cenembor wrapped itself around the High Prophet, granting him the gift of sight, not just of the future, but all possible futures.

The aura faded and he turned back to her. His eyes were troubled.

“Bring him to me.”

Janara bowed her head and hurried back to the front. She reached the gate where the sentry still waited with the visitor.

“Follow me.”

She led him back up the steps, through the Middle Entrance, then up the central stairs leading to the platform. She walked across the smooth, stone floor toward the rear platform, where the High Prophet still sat, now facing them as they approached. Janara moved to the side and beckoned the visitor to move ahead, while she knelt on a mat nearby.

The guest stood before the High Prophet, who watched this young stranger carefully. The man bowed, then sat cross-legged on the thick rug in front of the platform, mirroring the High Prophet. They watched each other, both waiting for the other to speak first. Eventually, the High Prophet could no longer contain his curiosity.

“I have not foreseen you.”

The man nodded slowly.

“Why?” the High Prophet asked.

The man licked his lips, glancing around at the palatial platform.

“I’ve come to deliver a message.” His eyes came to rest on a smaller eye statue sitting to the right of the High Prophet. “There’s a certain irony involved in what we do. You are the High Prophet of Cenembor, the man who has proven his worth to the Allfather, his devotion, his reverence, to such an extreme that the Allfather has granted you the greatest gift he has to give. His sight. From here on your perch, you can see all things, all futures, all pasts, all possibilities. But you couldn’t see me.”

The High Prophet sat completely still, giving no indication as to the truth of this man’s words.

“Why?” the man asked. “Why couldn’t you see me?”

The High Prophet’s expression hardened, and Janara’s unease turned into worry. She’d never seen him this way. He looked… nervous.

“Perhaps,” the High Prophet began, “there are things beyond the Allfather’s sight?”

The man smiled broadly.

“You are most certainly worthy of his boons, because you are wise. Wise enough to know that even with the sight of a god, you can’t see everything.”

The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Janara tensed, unsure what to expect, but the man simply opened his eyes and resumed speaking.

“My message is this: For far too long, you have all labored under mistaken beliefs. This world has rebuilt itself around the Twelve. Twelve gods who fight, and bicker, and taunt, and gloat. Twelve gods who crave acknowledgement, who are desperate for worship and adoration. Twelve gods who grant their boons to those whose beliefs are the most fervent, so that they may carry on the fight for veneration.”

He glanced at Janara, who shivered under his gaze.

“I’ve come to tell you that there is a thirteenth. One who sits outside the circle of the Twelve, banished for his generosity to them.” He stood, smiling as he turned back to the High Prophet. “He has returned. I am his Champion. And I am here to reclaim his gifts.”

The tone of his voice changed and Janara sensed the malice in them. She got to her feet, ready to either run or fight, but unsure which of those would do any good. Her gift was sight. She had no martial abilities.

The man held out his hand. He slowly squeezed it into a fist, and Janara watched as the High Prophet jerked forward onto his hands and knees. His aura appeared, but instead of shimmering around the edges of his body, it flickered, and then pulled away, floating through the air straight into the man’s fist. The High Prophet’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in silent protest. Once the magic left him completely, he fell onto his side, breathing in spurts.

“Sentries!” Janara shouted. The man turned to her and she felt her insides shudder. The magic that flowed through her body now ripped itself free, escaping through the very pores of her skin. She cried out from the searing pain, watching in horror as the power she’d devoted her life to wafted through the air and into this terrible man’s clutches. She fell limply to the ground, her skin suddenly cold and brittle.

Gold and silver-plated sentries charged forward, the metal footsteps pounding on the stone as they rushed forward. The man opened his hand slightly and a blade appeared there, made entirely of light. It gleamed as it cut left and right, slicing through the metal weapons of the sentries as if they were parchment. He drove the blade through the chest of each one, and they fell to the ground, their eyes devoid of any life. Within moments, all of them were dead.

“This is not a punishment,” he said, facing the High Prophet, who lay on his stomach, wheezing. “This is a cleansing. The Age of the Twelve has come and gone. They must be wiped from the world, in order to start anew.”

He drove the blade into the High Prophet’s back. The old man’s eyelids fluttered, then closed. The body fell to the ground, unmoving.

“Help!” Janara managed to scream as the man approached her. “Help me!”

He stalked toward Janara, who crawled backward across the floor. He raised his blade of light up into the air.

“You will know peace. That is my boon to you.”

The blade came down.

Like a vision from the Allfather, she watched as her soul twisted and writhed, the light within bleeding out, leaving a shriveled husk behind. She fell away from it, pulled upward, high into the sky, and then beyond.

Into blackness.

 

 

 

 

 

Books, Short Stories, Writing

Nightmare Consolidated

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You may have noticed that I’ve been posting weekly chapters for a short story called Nightmare, set in the world of Rise of Cithria. Now that the story is complete (well, part 1 at least) I wanted to make it easier for new readers by consolidating all the Nightmare links into this one post. If and when a part 2 comes, I’ll update the links again to include the new chapters.

Also, if you haven’t read Rise of Cithria yet, I encourage you get started with the first book, The Chosen, for FREE. Use the link below to see all the current Cithria books out right now, and see if the hype is deserved!

Check out the Rise of Cithria series on amazon!

 

Nightmare

by Kris Kramer

An ancient being, imprisoned long ago by powerful jailers, escapes to another realm via dream magic.

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2 

Chapter 3 

Chapter 4 

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Books, Short Stories, Writing

Nightmare Chapter 6

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By Kris Kramer

A Rise of Cithria story

 

Chapter 6 (of 6)

Read – Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3 – Chapter 4 – Chapter 5

Alayna stepped quickly through the tall grass, fate driving her through a distant, lightly-trod forest path blanketed in darkness. Clouds covered the sky, blocking out the moonlight and the stars, giving them cover as they’d crossed the river and began their trek to the castle’s secret entrance. A good omen, she thought, although, not without its problems. The men in front her, Centnar Sevris and Decnar Joah, were little more than black silhouettes bobbing left and right through the unseen brush, navigating the path with ease. Alayna stumbled occasionally on a branch or a rock, but she handled it much better than Gunnar, who seemed to trip on something every third step. After a while, she’d taken to holding his arm to help steady him.

Twenty-four soldiers followed the two priests, walking in a single file line as they left the protection of the forest and approached the small millhouse nestled at the base of the wide hill ahead. Alayna had seen the place a hundred times in her youth. The stonework marked it as Thandaran, as did the long, crumbling wall in front that stretched out along the northern base of the hill – the remains of the actual breakwall the town was named after. Legend told that the wall had once circled the entire hill, built as a defense by the Thandaran general Verterax against the native Anduains over five hundred years ago. With that wall, the Thandarans held off wave after wave of Anduain savages in a battle that lasted an entire summer. Their victory helped secure a foothold in Andua, and led to the rebirth of the island as Caldera.

She had no idea that mill, a fixture of her childhood and a source of pride for Breakwall, sat on top of a secret tunnel leading into the castle. A tunnel that, according to Gunnar, had been built to allow former lords of Breakwall to ferry secret consorts in and out. It somehow cheapened the city’s history.

A wide creek wove along the side of the hill which was funneled into a narrow, man-made ravine that pushed the water underneath the mill, driving the slow-moving wheels that at one time ground flour and cut wood. The water still flowed, but the wheels were in disrepair, as all of the mill’s operations had long since moved into the town along the river bank. No one lived or worked in that place anymore, and hadn’t for hundreds of years. Which, as Gunnar had explained, made it a fantastic secret entrance.

They entered through the front door, which creaked loudly upon opening. Once inside, Sevris motioned everyone to stay where they were as he fashioned a torch, then stepped into the storeroom and crouched down next to the back wall. He reached his hand into what looked like a large mouse hole on the floor. A twist of his arm produced a loud click, followed a moment later by the middle of the floor dropping away. Alayna gasped as a dark hole appeared only a few feet in front of her. Sevris stuck his torch into the hole and peered over. After a quick check, he lowered his legs into the abyss, and then climbed down on an unseen ladder.

Joah followed, and then Gunnar. Alayna went next, doing her best to ignore the slippery residue on the rungs. The ladder went down a few dozen steps before depositing her onto a damp, rocky floor amidst the others. Water from the creek seeped down the walls, disappearing into recesses below she couldn’t even imagine. Sevris had already moved down a narrow tunnel, lighting torches that lined the walls. Gunnar followed, motioning Alayna to do the same.

“You go ahead,” Joah said, giving her a gentle nudge on her shoulder. “I’m staying behind to make sure the rest of these ladies follow us to our doom.”

He grinned, and she forced a wan smile in return before following the sentinel into the long tunnel. The air was warm and thick with moisture, making it hard to breathe. Sweat beaded up all over her skin and she constantly wiped the sleeve of her robe across her forehead as the stepped gingerly on the slick floor. Every sound carried from one end of the tunnel to other. It struck Alayna as odd that no footstep, grunt, cough, or whisper went unheard. She supposed secret didn’t have to mean quiet.

She marveled at how fate had led her here. She was sneaking into Breakwall Castle, to kidnap the Lady of Breakwall, a woman who had once been as close to her as a sister. Alayna’s father had been the town’s dock master, but both her parents had died when she was young and Lord Morgantin took her in. She’d always assumed he’d done it mostly to give his daughter an extra plaything, but she never held that against him. She’d enjoyed growing up in the castle, her and Violet running through the opulent halls at night, handmaidens chasing after them with threats of whippings, or worse. Violet never let her forget that she was essentially a princess and Alayna only an orphaned dock master’s daughter, but they were young and carefree and she never took the insult seriously.

That changed once they became teenagers, and Violet took on more of her courtly responsibilities. They grew apart quickly, wanting different things and taking wildly different routes to get them. But she still cared for Violet. She still thought of her as a sister, if an estranged one. And she had to wonder, how much of this was her own fault? If she hadn’t fought that creature so harshly back in the caves, he could have taken her instead of Violet, and Breakwall wouldn’t have suffered. She’d have gladly sacrificed herself for her people. That was her responsibility as a war priest, and it was doubly so as a citizen of Breakwall. She only wished she’d known at the time what was at stake, because she might not get another chance.

Eventually, a brick wall blocked their way, with a narrow iron grate in the center. Sevris waited as the rest of his ragtag army caught up, then lifted a thick latch set in the grate. It clinked loudly, echoing far down the tunnel and then back again, and Alayna winced. No one else seemed to be nervous, though, so she forced herself to be calm.

They stepped through the grate and into a room with stone walls that matched the build of the castle above. Sevris led them through a door at the far end and down a hallway that ended at a circular stairwell that looped up a good forty feet before disappearing through the ceiling. The centnar held a finger to his lips and carefully climbed to the top.

Alayna held her breath as her own steps brought her closer to the castle proper, where bustling servants and curious guards could be found around every corner. Would they have to fight to get to Violet’s room? Would they have to kill or hurt anyone who accidently stumbled upon their little army? She hoped not. She prayed silently to the Goddess, begging Her to get them through this with as little bloodshed as possible.

The ladder ended in another storeroom with wide, barren shelves, save for small trails of grain and flour. Sevris had already opened the door and Alayna almost didn’t recognize the kitchens beyond. They were empty and lifeless, devoid not only of people, but also of food, barrels, and cooking utensils. A stark contrast to the lively, bustling place she remembered as a child.

The men congregated near the storeroom as they came up the ladder, although Sevris sent a few to monitor the three doors leading out to two hallways and the dining chamber. Each one indicated with a shake of their head that no one was near. Once everyone had reached the kitchen, Sevris motioned to Joah.

“Take your men and bar all the outer doors. I don’t want to be surprised by a night watchman or a servant who might be wandering the halls. Once you do that, set up patrols to watch the halls between here and the back stairs, to cover our escape. When we leave, I want to do it fast. And quiet.”

Joah motioned to some of the soldiers nearby and hurried off. Alayna watched with some trepidation as he disappeared through one of the doors, taking half the men with him. She suddenly felt naked, wandering about the castle in the middle of the night, like a thief, with only ten men to watch her instead of over twenty.

The rest of them filed into one of the halls, their pace quickening until they reached a wide, stone staircase at the back of the castle that led to the bedchambers above. They moved up to the third floor, where Sevris again signaled them to stop.

“We split up here,” he whispered to his waiting men. “Dirk, take five men and check the Lady’s old room. I’ll take the rest and go to the lord’s chambers. She could be in either one, but if you find her, make sure you keep her tied up and gagged and then bring her here. We rally here with the Lady, and then we make a run for the tunnel.”

Dirk nodded and left with his men, splitting the number in half once again. Alayna and Gunnar followed Sevris and his remaining four soldiers toward the lord’s chambers, the floors and walls bare and bereft of any adornment. Again, nothing like what she remembered. Her heart thudded in her chest as they approached the double door leading to the lord’s chambers. Except for that horrible dream, she hadn’t seen Violet in over six years. Would she still have some semblance of her old self? Would she even look the same? The creature’s true form, revealed to her in that original nightmare back in the caves, sent a chill down her spine. Even more so because she’d seen Violet herself morph into the creature. That image suddenly seemed far too fitting.

Sevris paused at the door, gathering his men to charge in without any hesitation. He opened the door and rushed inside, followed by the other four soldiers. Alayna and Gunnar went in last, only to stop at the sight of an empty room, dust outlines on the walls and floors signaling where furniture had once been. A single, half-melted candle sat on the center of the floor, it and Sevris’s torch providing the only buffer against the all-encompassing darkness.

“She’s not here,” Alayna said. She let out the breath she’d been holding, and the tension eased from her shoulders. Dirk and his men would have to do the hard part of taking Violet by force, tying her up, and dragging back to the meeting point. Alayna was quietly grateful for that.

“Maybe you aren’t looking hard enough.”

Alayna spun to see a female figure standing in the doorway leading to the sitting room. The woman stepped through with purpose, the candlelight quickly revealing the pale skin, black hair, and calculating smile of Lady Violet. She wore riding clothes under a thick, red coat, along with leather boots and gloves. They hadn’t caught her sleeping. They’d caught her just about to leave.

“Violet,” Alayna whispered. “Is that… you?”

Violet pretended to look offended.

“Who else would it be, dear? Don’t you recognize me?”

Alayna’s heart went cold. She recognized exactly who she was speaking to.

Sevris stepped to the front. “If it is you, Lady Violet, then you wouldn’t object to joining us in Corendar, where the Church can make sure of that.”

Violet’s smile faded, and she eyed the men in the room like a snake sizing up mice for dinner.

“This place reminds me of my home.” She stepped deliberately to the center of the room, throwing a dissatisfied glance across the empty walls. “If not for the light from the candle and your torch, we’d be standing here in near total blackness, unable to see each other, our minds racing to imagine the worst horrors possible stalking us in the dark. But that torch, or a single candle on the floor,” she leaned over to pick it up, holding it close to her face, “illuminates everything, casting aside the horrors we imagine for those we can no longer deny.”

The smile returned.

“Let’s not pretend anymore, shall we? I know what you’ve been told by Alayna and Gunnar, and I know how much you want to believe in their words. That makes this so much easier for you, doesn’t it? It gives you a reason to act against me, without sacrificing your honor, or turning you into outright brigands.”

She held out her arms.

“Well, if it makes you feel better, then it’s all true. I am far more than just Lady Violet, the lord of Breakwall. I am the ruler of a realm none of you feeble, weak-minded beasts can even fathom. Where I come from, I am a god, and I have every intention of making that true here.” She examined her fingernails, as if bored by the conversation. “It’s already happening. The longer I stay in this realm, the stronger I become in it. The more I can make it mine, just as I do to your dreams.”

Gunnar coughed. “No more of that, my Lady. The Church sentinels and inquisitors will be busy for some time investigating your claims, which you can tell them all about in person.”

Violet glared at the sentinel, then sniffed.

“You.” She pointed at the man at the far left. “Your name is Alec. You have a wife here in the city who begged you to see reason when you questioned her desire to serve me. She’s carrying your first child, and you want nothing more than to find her and drag her out of here. You only serve this man,” she motioned to Sevris, “as long as you think he can help you with that. Otherwise, you’d have done the same to her as you’re about to do to me.”

Alec’s eyes darted back and forth between Violet and Sevris.

“She’s lying.”

Violet frowned. “Alec, you let me into your dreams eight days ago, and you never pushed me out. I see everything inside of you now. More than that, I own everything inside of you.” She pointed at the soldier standing next to Alec. “Kill him, Alec, and I’ll return you to your wife.”

Alec slowly drew his sword, but his hand shook. Sweat poured down his face. Alayna couldn’t tell if he was fighting Violet, or himself.

Sevris dropped his torch to the floor and pulled his own sword. “Don’t do it, Alec.” The rest of the men followed suit, all of them turning to surround the suddenly isolated Alec.

“I… I can’t…”

“Alec,” Violet said, reprimanding him, “I’m not convinced you want to see your wife at all.”

Alec’s expression went blank, as if he were seeing something in his mind. Suddenly, his face twisted into horror and he charged the man next to him, who defended himself just as furiously. The others came to his aid, while Gunnar grabbed Alayna’s arm and pulled her out of the fray. Within moments, the rest of the men had disarmed Alec, and two held his arms tightly while he struggled against them like a rabid dog.

“You. Richard.” Violet pointed at another of the men. “Do the same. Kill the others.”

Richard looked at Sevris and the other soldiers, his eyes wide with fear as he pointed his sword at them.

“Stop it!” Alayna shouted. Violet turned to her, and Richard froze.

“Are you impressed, Alayna? I couldn’t do this when we first met. Now, it’s almost too easy. It makes me yearn for the days when some of you actually stood up to me.”

Alayna stepped forward, shrugging off Gunnar’s attempts to hold her back. “Violet! I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. You have to fight this monster that’s controlling you. It’s doing terrible things in your name, but you can cast it out, just like I did. I know you’re strong enough!”

Violet smirked. “It’s not about strength anymore, my lovely. It’s about desire. Violet is getting everything she ever wanted. She will be the face of a goddess. Remembered forever as the woman who united all the peoples of this world into one. In fact,” Violet raised a hand, pointing at Gunnar, “she’s eager to get this over with.”

Gunnar’s eyes bulged and he cried out in terror at some unseen being before him. It lasted only a moment before he crumpled to the ground, cradling himself and moaning. Richard, held at bay by Violet’s speech, leapt into the fray, attacking the two prone soldiers, before Sevris cut him off. Alayna ignored the fighting and ran to Gunnar. She couldn’t get into his head to help. She had no skill with Domination, yet, only healing. So in a panic she did the only thing she could do. She cast a healing spell to soothe the sentinel. His agitation seemed to lessen but he was still unresponsive to anything she said.

Alayna glanced back to see that Sevris had disarmed Richard, and was pinning him to the ground.

“Sevris!” she called out. The centnar glanced at her, only barely looking away from Richard, who still struggled mightily. “We need to get her before she hurts anyone else!”

Violet laughed. “Get me? You have this all backward, my dear. I know everything that’s happened in this castle tonight, or in your caves this morning. I was in Gunnar’s head the entire time, listening to every word as you planned your attack. I’ve been waiting here all night for you to show up, just so I can tie off every last loose thread from this little adventure. You won’t be getting me. I will be getting you.”

She glanced at Sevris, who blinked a few times, as if just remembering where he was. Without warning, he plunged his sword into Richard’s chest, who squealed like a stuck pig. Alayna cried out in horror, but it made no difference as the centnar turned to the other soldiers and attacked. Distracted as they all were, he cut them down easily. Killing each man with simple, precise strikes. Once they were dead, Alayna watched in horror as the bloodied warrior turned to face her.

“Now the sentinel,” Violet commanded. “Leave the girl.”

Sevris stepped toward them, and Alayna moved to stand in front of Gunnar, heedless of the danger.

“Don’t listen to her! She’s controlling you!”

Sevris paused, his eyes narrowing.

“Do it now,” Violet said, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

“Be strong,” Alayna said. “Remember who you are, what you care about. Think of your honor.”

Sevris remained still. He stared at Alayna, but it wasn’t her he saw. He’d retreated back into his mind. He was fighting the nightmare. Alayna froze, silently praying to the Goddess that he was winning.

“No!” Sevris suddenly shouted. He turned and charged across the room, reaching Violet in four long strides. He grabbed her, then spun around behind, clutching her with one arm and holding his sword to her throat with the other. Violet dropped the candle, which rolled across the floor and settled in the corner. For the first time tonight, her face showed true fear.

“You’re coming with us, my Lady,” Sevris growled.

Violet squirmed in his iron grip, finding no recourse. She went still, and locked her eyes on Alayna, who felt a deathly chill in her bones.

“Ilsan,” Violet said calmly. “I need you.”

A man appeared from the sitting room, having hidden there this entire time. He wore loose, black clothing that covered every part of him, including a hood wrapped over the top of his head and a facemask that revealed only his cold, dark eyes.

He darted out from the doorway and Alayna caught a flash of steel in his hands as he charged straight at Sevris. The centnar turned, trying to use Violet as a shield but Ilsan was too fast. The black-clad man ducked around the lady and jabbed his blades into Sevris’ side. Sevris cried out, pushing Violet away so he could face his attacker properly, but it was already too late. Ilsan darted in again, his hands moving faster than Alayna thought possible. A moment later, he retreated from the centnar, who stared down at his bloody torso in shock.

“Aron?” she said.

Sevris’ mouth fell open, but no words came out. He looked up, his face wrenched with pain, and pointed his sword straight out. He managed a single shaky step toward Ilsan, who regarded the soldier coolly. Before he could take a second, though, he dropped to his knees, his sword clanging to the floor.

“No!” Alayna cried out. Sevris’ eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he toppled to the ground, moments from death.

Violet calmly adjusted her coat. “Now the sentinel.”

Ilsan moved toward Gunnar. Alayna ran to stop him but a quick punch to her gut dropped her to the floor, struggling to catch her breath. By the time she looked up, Ilsan had already cut Gunnar’s throat.

She tried to scream, but there was nothing left in her lungs. Instead, she coughed and sputtered, wheezing to get some air.

“Hold her.” Violet’s voice. “Don’t hurt her.”

Ilsan’s iron hand clamped down on the back of her neck, pinning her to the floor with incredible strength. She struggled at first, before giving up entirely. What else was there to do? Violet approached her slowly, then leaned over and grabbed Alayna’s chin, lifting it up to look her in the eyes.

“It was a valiant effort, my friend. You continue to not let me down. But your fight is over. I’m leaving now. I don’t know where, yet, but it will be somewhere quiet. Out of the way. Without an oppressive king or church looking over my shoulder. When I find that place, I will start over. My new followers will build me a home, a home that will grow along with my power over the minds of men. My home will turn into a kingdom, and then an empire. When I return to this island – and I will return – it will be at the head of an army of millions. I will be more than a god. I will be the God. I will rule this world. And then… I will abandon it for a new pleasure.”

Violet stroked her old friend’s hair.

“I want you to know that I won’t kill you, Alayna. I respect you. I have since the very beginning. So much so that I’ve chosen you to bear the responsibility of knowing that I will cover this world like a blight, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

Violet leaned in close to whisper in Alayna’s ear.

“What good is a nightmare, if no one is left to suffer it?”

Violet let go of her, and Alayna’s head dropped in defeat. The Lady of Breakwall left, followed by the silent Ilsan. Alayna sat on the barren floor, hunched over, weeping, as their footsteps echoed softly through the hallway, eventually fading away entirely. Only then did she dare to move from her spot, crawling over to Gunnar’s body and cradling his head in her lap.

She cried for some time.

Finally, she rose, her tears spent, and she ventured out of the room, Sevris’ torch in one hand, his sword in the other. She wandered the castle, tentative at first, waiting for another nightmare to spring out from the darkness. But none came. Emboldened, she explored, finding only empty hallways and bare rooms, the only sound her own footsteps. She found more dead soldiers, men Sevris had sent off. She didn’t find all of them – Joah was missing, along with a few others – but she found enough.

She went to the courtyard, and then through the open gate. The town below was dark and lifeless. The streets were empty. The houses abandoned. Nothing was left. No one remained save for two dogs that watched her curiously from the door of the tailor’s shop.

She went to the dock and looked downriver, seeing only the faint glow of light from a distant boat, just before it disappeared around the bend. That was the ship that carried Violet – her body if not her mind – off to some unknown land, where she would cultivate the terrible power inside her.

Until the moment she came back to terrorize them all.

There were no stars, and Alayna remember how she’d thought that was a good omen when they first set out that night. Now, it only added to her crushing loneliness. She sat down on the dock and stared at nothing, losing herself in the still, silent darkness that surrounded her.

Her nightmare had only just begun.

 

***

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Books, Short Stories, Writing

Nightmare Chapter 5

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By Kris Kramer

A Rise of Cithria story

 

Chapter 5 (of 6)

Read – Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3 – Chapter 4

“Looks like the whole town is running away with their plunder.”

Sevris handed the bronze telescope to his decnar, Joah, who twisted the cylinders, adjusting the focus so he could watch the Breakwall docks on the far side of the river. At least a hundred men, women, and children formed a line – a surprisingly well-mannered line – from the town to the main pier. Each one loaded crates or sacks or chests onto a waiting merchant ship, already sitting low in the water from excess weight. Four boats had already been filled to the brim and set off down river, to a destination Sevris could only guess at. Another five ships waited in line behind the current one. A few he even recognized from the regular stops they made here.

“Can you tell what they’re taking?” Sevris asked. He and Joah stood at the top of Barrow Rise, a tall, tree-covered hill on the west side of the Vitrix River. He kept men here daily, as it provided the best vantage point over Breakwall.

“We’re too far away,” Joah said, scratching the thin beard that covered his square jaw. “But if we’re to attack, then we should do it now, while they’re all distracted with their thieving.”

Sevris took the telescope and looked again, squeezing the focus as tight as he could on one of the men carrying a small chest. He recognized it as an old Anduain treasure box kept by Lord Morgantin. An oak chest, with carvings of birds on the side and a wide tree on the front. It sat on a thin table pushed up against the wall of Lord Morgantin’s chambers, and it held a collection of pocket watches the lord had collected from far away cities.

He looked away, tired of watching an army of refugees looting every last scrap of worth from Breakwall Castle. He understood his men’s zeal for combat. They wanted to fight for their home, and consign these thieves to the justice they so richly deserved. But they were horribly outnumbered, they would be fighting against some of their own kin, and any attack they ventured would either fail, or turn them into wanted men throughout the kingdom, instead of just Breakwall.

So instead they sat here, trapped in the woods on the wrong side of the river, watching helplessly as their home was ransacked.

“Not yet. We’d die on the steps of the castle, surrounded by two hundred of those scum.”

Joah turned back to the river. He said nothing, but there was no mistaking the disappointment on his decnar’s face.

Footsteps crunched on the ground behind them. Sevris turned to see two of his soldiers, Orik and Pait, approaching through the forest’s underbrush.

“Sir,” Orik said with a wave of his hand. “Got some visitors down in the Barrow. The sentinel, Gunnar, and some pretty blonde little thing. They asked for you soon as they showed up.”

“Gunnar?” Sevris repeated, a flitter of excitement in his belly. “He’s here?”

“Aye.” Orik dropped a small pack on the ground, provisions for him and Pait while they scouted Breakwall during the night. “Says it’s important, too.”

Sevris turned to Joah, who raised an eyebrow.

“Guess the old man finally came up for air.”

Sevris nodded. He hadn’t expected to see Gunnar again. At least not alive. If the crafty old sentinel had managed to survive the chaos of the last few weeks, then he could prove useful to Sevris’s band of outlaws. He tossed the telescope to Orik, who caught it easily, then motioned to Joah.

“Let’s go see what he wants.”

 

*

 

A bundle of thick vines covered the narrow cave entrance leading to their hideout, making it hard to spot if you weren’t looking for it, especially in the darkness under the forest canopy. Sevris pushed the vines out of the way and slid sideways into the opening, which wasn’t much more than a large crack in the side of the hill. A short, jagged tunnel edged downward, eventually depositing him and Joah into a small room with carved walls and a broken stone slab lying on the floor. He walked through an opening on the far side and into the passageway leading to his new home these days, a place he feared was all too fitting for him.

Barrow Rise got its name from a series of catacombs built beneath it called Eldritch Barrow. It was carved out by Anduains long ago, in the centuries before the Thandarans even had this island on their maps. The Barrow’s crypts had been looted and desecrated by those same Thandarans, leaving it nothing more than a collection of moss and vine-covered passageways, with depressions in the walls where bodies had once been interred. Stories were told to this day of the ghosts and spirits that wandered the tunnels of the Barrow, seeking vengeance for the disturbance. Not that Sevris paid them any mind. Unfortunately, some of his men did, which made for some harsh convincing when Sevris decided to make the Barrow their new home.

Sevris and Joah walked through the darkened passage, heading for the faint light at the end of the hall. He turned the corner, finding a modestly sized room filled with blankets, packs, armor, and food, along with two dozen of his men, each looking somewhat haggard and dirty. Sitting at the side, in stark contrast to the dirt-covered soldiers, was a young girl with gleaming blond hair, wearing the brown Resurrectionist robes of a war priest, along with white-haired old Gunnar, his lord’s sentinel, sporting his typical gray robes.

The priest turned and smiled at the sight of a familiar face.

“Aron Sevris,” Gunnar said. He stood and reached out a hand as they approached. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

“You as well, Gunnar Baelson.” They shook. The girl stood up and glanced at Joah before looking away and brushing the dirt from her robes. “I have to say, I’m surprised to see you.”

“Sober,” Joah whispered from behind.

Gunnar’s smile faded at the comment. “I’ve been away for too long. I apologize for that. But I do have a reason for leaving, one that I hope to explain to you now.” He glanced at the other soldiers nearby. “Preferably in private.”

Sevris crossed his arms. “My men can be trusted.”

Gunnar nodded, then leaned in to whisper. “This isn’t about trust, I’m afraid.”

Sevris frowned at his friend. “Explain.”

“I only ask because what I have to say might be unsettling.  If you want your men to hear it, then I’d suggest you listen to what my friend Alayna and I have to say first, and then you can choose what to relay to your men. Issues of morale and all that.”

Sevris furrowed his brow. He thought to argue, but the serious look on the sentinel’s face warned him otherwise. He sighed and then motioned Gunnar and the girl to follow him around the corner.

“Speak,” he said, once they were alone.

“You remember Alayna? A former student of mine?”

“The dock master’s daughter,” he said to the girl, who blushed.

“Centnar.” She bowed her head.

“We think we know what’s happening in Breakwall. And,” Gunnar held up a finger to emphasize his point, “we think we know how to stop it.”

“Go on.”

Gunner turned to Alayna. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning. That will make this easier, I think.”

She nodded, then swallowed.

“I was assigned to the Esteran Army, under Lord Rondell. We were sent to the Endless Caves, in the Red Hills, to search for enemies that might be hiding there. I was part of a patrol scouting the caves ahead of the army when these strange creatures attacked us. They used magic to put us into dreams, all of us. At least ten of us were completely overtaken in one fell swoop.”

Sevris felt the hairs on his neck stand up. Was this some new Anduain magic he hadn’t heard of?

“When I woke from the dream, I was standing outside the caves, in a field not far from Trenant. I ran to a nearby village–”

“Tell him about the dream,” Gunnar said, nudging her shoulder.

Alayna nodded. “Yes, of course. When I was in that dream, something… spoke to me. Some demon who was testing my will, to see if it could control me. It saw everything in my mind, my training, my childhood, my parents, the castle. It tried to take me, to sway me like some sort of temptation demon, but it failed, and then it left, telling me it had found someone else. I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now.” She glanced at Gunnar and then back at Sevris, her eyes pleading. “It saw Violet in my dream, and it decided to take her instead. Somehow it escaped those caves and came here, to prey on her vanity and greed. That creature is inside her mind now, and it’s turned her into some kind of twisted monster.”

“A demon?” Sevris glanced at Gunnar. “Sounds more like Domination magic.”

“It’s not,” Gunnar said. “I’ve already tested her for that and found nothing. And whatever it is, it’s affected me, too. That’s why I left. It was wriggling its way into my head, trying to take me as well. It wasn’t quite as vociferous with me, but I’m convinced it’s real.”

Sevris frowned. He appreciated that Gunnar had come to him, but his explanation could be the product of ale, and Alayna could just be an excitable young girl.

“An interesting story. I can think of a better one. Lady Violet has always thought of herself as a queen, so she arranged for the deaths of her father and the steward so that she could take over and rule like one.”

Gunnar nodded. “That is the reasonable assumption. But think beyond the death of Lord Morgantin and his steward. Hundreds of refugees appeared here, out of nowhere, almost all at once. No rhyme nor reason as to why, but there is one important clue that no one managed to piece together.” Gunnar’s eyes lit up as he talked. “They all came from the same place.”

Sevris felt his interest in this story spike. “Where?”

“On our way here, we spoke to some of the refugees, subtly of course. They all come from villages or outposts stationed along the Banner Road between Corendar and Trenant. The exact same path Alayna took only a few days ago. If what she says is true, this creature abandoned her and found someone else, then came to Breakwall by that very same road, infecting people as it went.”

“Coincidence. Thousands of people use that road.”

“To travel to Corendar. Not Breakwall. As much as we love our home, Aron, we are but a speck in the shadow of the great city.”

Sevris’ mind raced. Maybe these two really were on to something. “It still doesn’t mean some creature is infecting their minds.”

“What about the boats? Who sent for them? What messengers sped off to contact every merchant ship between here and Norlinn? That is an impressive feat for a girl who only a few months ago couldn’t be bothered to wipe her own arse.”

Instinct took over and Sevris shot Gunnar a look before softening his glare. He had to remind himself that she was the enemy now.

Gunnar raised an eyebrow and looked around the cave. “I heard you were fighting off waves of refugees. Looks pretty quiet to me.”

“They stopped bothering us two days ago. We’ve been using the time to scout the town, but we aren’t learning much. Save for the fact that they’re plundering the castle and then running away downriver.”

“They stopped attacking? All of them?” Sevris nodded. “At the same time?”

Sevris pursed his lips. He knew what Gunnar was getting at, and he was almost inclined to agree with him the more he thought about it.

“A directive from the Lady,” he offered.

“True,” Gunnar said with a thoughtful nod. “It could just be more coincidence.”

Sevris frowned. “Let’s put aside why this is happening. You said you had a plan to stop her?”

“We do. Although it’s slightly unsavory.”

“Tell me.”

“We sneak into the castle, find Violet, and take her to the church in Corendar. We let the sentinels there determine if she’s… tainted.”

Sevris’ eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “You want to kidnap the Lady of Breakwall?”

“She’s not herself!” Alayna exclaimed before catching herself. “We have to do something.”

“She is the law of this domain. You and I can see the darkness in her eyes, whatever that may be, but without any proof of her corruption, Artoran justice will not be kind to us if we act against her directly.”

“Sevris,” Gunnar said, “I know this is dangerous, and perhaps a tad bit foolhardy, but what else can we do? What are your options, now that you’re relegated to a mausoleum? You’re already acting against the recognized lord of this land simply by being here. You’re a fugitive, and worse, most of the town sees you as the leader of a rebellion against that same lord. If Violet asks for help from Corendar, which she has every right to do, they will send troops, and flush you out of here without a second thought.”

Gunnar pressed a finger into Sevris’ chest, and the centnar raised an eyebrow at the intrusion.

“Your head is already on the chopping block, Aron. The only question is when it gets taken from you. If we can get Violet to the Church, and we can prove that she’s tainted somehow, then we can either cure her, or find a new Lord of Breakwall. Either way, you get to go back to the castle as a free man.”

The words stung Sevris to his core. Gunnar was right. He had held back because of his devotion to Breakwall, its people, and his men. He couldn’t attack without losing some or all of what he held dear. But if Gunnar was right…

“Tell me the rest of your plan.”

Gunnar raised his eyebrows in thought. “Well, it’s only part of a plan. I was hoping you could help me fill in the gaps.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, a direct attack seems like a waste of men. Especially since I don’t see any siege weapons in your cozy little crypt. So maybe a sneak attack?” He lowered his voice. “Like, perhaps, through the entrances that only a few of us know about?”

Sevris nodded. There were two secret entrances to the keep, one from a drainage gulley leading out from the kitchens and another from an underground tunnel that started in a rarely used storeroom and ended in the basement of a small millhouse on the outskirts of the castle. Only half a dozen people knew about either entrance, and all of them were dead now. Except for Sevris and Gunnar.

“Would Violet’s father have told her about them?”

“So she could sneak out?” Gunnar asked. “I doubt it.”

Sevris nodded to himself as the plan formed in his head. Suddenly, he could act against his enemy, without worrying about his numbers disadvantage.

“We go in at night,” he said, mostly to himself, “when most of the castle is sleeping. We strip ourselves of armor and wear light boots. We move fast and strike without hesitation, making for the Lady’s… ahem… chambers.”

“Then we sneak her out and get her to Corendar as fast as possible,” Gunnar finished for him.

Sevris pursed his lips. “It feels dishonorable.”

“Don’t put the burden on honor only on yourself, Centnar. There are some cases where the ends justify the means.”

Sevris looked away, letting the plan form in his mind. He could finally do something about this tragedy, something that wouldn’t see his men and their families destroyed by open warfare. He turned to Gunnar and nodded, allowing himself a quick smile before returning to the main room. The soldiers under his command all looked over, curious as to what news he might have.

He turned to Joah. “Ready the men.”

Joah got to his feet. “Sir?”

“We go to do what we should have done three weeks ago. We fight to save Breakwall.” He smiled broadly, sharing the excitement welling up on his men’s faces. “And we do it tonight.”

 

***

Chapter 6 coming next week!

Want more Cithria? Check out the Rise of Cithria series on amazon!

Get started with the first book for FREE!

Books, Short Stories, Writing

Nightmare Chapter 4

Leave a comment

By Kris Kramer

A Rise of Cithria story

 

Chapter 4 (of 6)

Read – Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3

Gunnar’s eyes dragged open, fighting the intrusion from reality every step of the way. He rolled onto his side on his lumpy, straw-filled cot and stared at the fuzzy brown wall across from him. Why was he awake? Had someone called his name?

“Gunnar?”

A knock on his door. Damnit, someone had called his name.

He groaned and glanced over at the window to see sunlight. It was daytime, so he couldn’t very well chase off any visitors under the pretense of it being too early or too late in the day. He’d have to find a completely different reason to chase them off. He reached over the side of his bed and found a jug on the floor. He shook it, feeling the comforting slosh of ale within. That would make getting out of bed easier.

“Gunnar, are you in there?”

More pounding. He lifted himself into a sitting position and took stock of his situation. His head pounded, and his thick, white hair quite literally stuck out in every direction. His joints ached, his back was sore, and his ankle itched from some rash he’d picked up while foraging through the woods.

He’d had better mornings.

“Gunnar!”

He recognized the feminine voice yelling at him from outside his door and furrowed his brow. He hadn’t expected to hear from her for some time. He forced his old bones off the bed with a groan and shuffled over to the door. A quick twist of the latch unlocked it and he opened the door to find his former student staring up at him.

“Gunnar?”

“Alayna?” He squinted. Her long, blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, showing off round, blue eyes and the kind of smooth, oval face that made old people like Gunnar especially bitter. She wore brown Resurrectionist robes, but last he’d heard she was off with the Esteran army, doing Goddess-knew-what over near Trenant Keep. “What in the nine hells are you doing here? Why aren’t you in the Red Hills?”

Instead of answering his question, she frowned at his general state of dishevelment.

“Gunnar, you look awful. Are you sick?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Sick of life, maybe. Nothing more serious than that.” He walked back over to his bed and sat down, reaching for the jug as he did. A good swig of ale would wake him up.

“What are you doing?”

He looked up to see young Alayna crossing her arms and fixing a stern glare at him. She’d always been good at casting judgment on him, and he’d usually roll his eyes and acquiesce. But not today.

“Surviving.” He took a drink, wincing at the warm, barely palatable flavor.

Her glare softened.

“I went to the town and it was overrun with people I’ve never seen before. And I didn’t recognize any of the guards.”

“Heh!” he chuckled. “You went to Breakwall, eh?” He took another swig, this one tasting worse than the last. He’d just have to keep trying until it got better. “That little hamlet isn’t what it used to be.”

“Where is everybody? And why are you out here instead of in the castle?”

“The guards you know are gone.” He waved his hand, dismissing them. “No use to anyone, now.”

“What? Why?”

“Haven’t you heard? Lord Morgantin is dead. The Lady of Breakwall now rules, and she does so with an iron fist.”

“Violet?” Alayna’s eyes bulged. “What happened to Lord Morgantin?”

Gunnar shrugged. “Who knows? Tavern rumormongers claim the steward poisoned him, and then Lord Selvan’s guards cut down the steward in retaliation. But Centnar Sevris says otherwise, and because of that he had to flee the castle with about thirty of his men, accused of aiding the steward. Now he hides in the caves, fighting the refugees that seem to show up in droves. Me, I left the castle a few days before Selvan’s death. Wicked sorcery going on in that place, I can feel it in my bones. And I’m a sentinel.” He tapped the side of his head. “I should know.”

He took another drink and a thought came to him. He pointed an accusing finger at Alayna.

“You didn’t answer my question, young lady. Why are you here? Did you give up the priesthood already?” He wagged his finger at her brown cassock. “You know you can’t keep that thing if you do.”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t quit. I just… I needed you to do something.”

He narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t feeling in the mood to do anything of worth today. “And what’s that?”

She pursed her lips, adopting a pensive look. Whatever this was about, she wasn’t eager to just blurt it out.

“I need you to check if I’ve been tainted by a dominator.”

He blinked.

“There’s a hundred and one sentinels between here and Trenant who can do that.”

“I know. I just… I wanted you to check first.”

He sighed, his bones suddenly feeling heavier than usual. Magic left a bitter taste in his mouth lately, and he hesitated to use it.

“That’s a very expensive way to say hello to your old teacher. And I’m grateful you’ve finally recognized just how much better I am at sentineling than all those other hacks. So, seeing as how you’re here and all, I’ll do what I can.” He stifled a belch. “Later. I need to sleep first. My vigor has run away with a younger woman I think, leaving me high and dry. Well,” he reluctantly put the jug back on the floor, “mostly dry.”

She looked at the jug with disdain. But then her eyes widened, as if a realization had hit her.

“Have you been having nightmares?”

“Huh?” He squinted at her. “Nightmares? Why do you say that?”

“Have you?”

“Of course I have! World’s going to hell in a handbasket. The nightmares help me forget that lovely little fact.”

“Have you had any lately?”

“Nothing more than usual,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

“Is that why you’re drinking so much?”

Gunnar frowned. He hated when she saw right through him. A useful trait for good sentinels, but particularly annoying right now. He’d had plenty of nightmares these last few weeks. Terrible ones. Drowning in pools of his own blood; standing on top of the mile-high Silver Spire in Thandar only to get knocked over the side by a gust of wind; chased by a big, hairy, frothing-at-the-mouth Vargava in a wide open plain with nowhere to hide. All of them suitably horrendous. But none quite as terrifying as the ghastly corpse of his once-beautiful wife climbing back into his bed, caressing him like a lost lover, and then pinning him down and eating his flesh.

Of course, he hadn’t told a soul. His value as a sentinel was in controlling the mind, not in falling prey to childish dreams.

“I drink, because it makes me feel young again.”

“Or, it helps soothe your mind,” she said, undeterred in her assumption. “You’ve always been sensitive to the ripples of Domination. That’s why you’re such a good sentinel.”

“And you’re a brat. Stop dissecting me before I’ve even gone cold.”

She crossed her arms.

“I need to know, Gunnar. It’s been too long already.”

He squinted at her. “What does that mean?”

“Check me for Domination, first, and then I’ll tell you.”

He sighed. She would win the argument, as usual. Mostly because she faced the conflict head on while he wasted his time trying to hide under the bed. He waved her over and she stood in front of him, her back straight and her head held high. He took a deep breath and gathered what little of his will remained. He reached out and rested his fingertips on her temples, looking for the telltale vibrations of lingering magic.

All magic left a residue of some kind. A good sentinel simply had to know how to read it. Domination magic was one of the easier ones to sense, since the enchantments were so vastly different than body or elemental magic. It stood out like ink on parchment. And fortunately, he found none of it on Alayna.

He removed his hand. “Nothing.”

She didn’t seem surprised.

“You’re sure?”

“I know what I’m doing, girl. If I say there’s no Domination magic, then there’s no Domination magic.”

She looked away, retreating to a distant thought.

Finally, “Something’s wrong, Gunnar. Something’s very wrong.”

“Welcome to our lives, Alayna.”

“No. You feel it, too. I know you do. I can see it in your face, and your behavior. Everything about you is changed because of it.”

Inwardly, he seethed. As much as he liked Alayna, he didn’t need her to tell him what a wreck of a person he’d become these last few weeks. Especially when she was right.

Something was terribly wrong.

“That’s why I’m here,” she continued. “I… I had a dream. A nightmare, actually. Except, it was more than that. I felt a presence in my mind. It was watching me, reading my thoughts, and dredging through every single memory I hold dear. It was a creature so vile and disgusting that I cried when I woke up and remembered what happened.

“I thought it might be just that – a nightmare. But it was too real. It spoke to me. It taunted me. And I could almost feel its hands rummaging through my mind like a wicked little child playing in the dirt.”

Her face went pale as she told the story. She was frightened, and Gunnar knew how rarely Alayna let herself be scared of anything. That only made his unease grow.

“So I tried to convince myself that I’d somehow been attacked by an unseen Dominator, trying to play tricks on me. I prayed that was the case. Letting the Anduains get the better of me would be a thousand times better than what really happened down in that cave. But if you weren’t able to sense any Domination magic, then…”

She left the rest unsaid, except through the fear in her eyes.

Gunnar looked away. He reached for the jug again, mostly out of instinct, but he let it sit on his lap. His taste for ale was gone.

“I have failed in my duty,” he said.

Alayna stepped closer. “What happened?”

He let out another deep sigh. “You’re right. Of course, you’re always right. Damn girl.” He shook his head, angry at himself more than anything. “There’s a darkness in Breakwall, something malevolent and vile, and I’ve known about it all this time.” He stared out the window, unable to look Alayna in the eyes. “That’s why I’m here. When I was in the castle, I could feel it chipping away at the back of my mind each night, trying to slither its way in. This went on for days, a churning in my head like a wench stirring soup, but instead of fighting it like I should, and warning people, I ran away. Been hiding here ever since. I serve the Lord of Breakwall, and I failed him with my weakness.”

“No!” She crouched down next to him and took his hands in hers. “Something did this to you. Violet, too. She’s not who you think she is. That… thing in my head has her, I’m sure of it. That’s why this is happening. It told me, in the dream, that it wants to be a god in this world. Somehow it’s using her to make that happen.”

Gunnar leaned his back against the wall.

“What does it matter, now? Lord Morgantin is dead. So is Ansen. All the trustworthy guards have fled across the river, and we’re stuck out here in a shack in the woods.”

“We have to get to her, Gunnar. We can fix her. You,” she poked a finger in his chest, “can fix her.”

“We can’t get to her, and even if we could, what would I even do? It’s not Domination magic. I don’t even know what I’m fighting against.”

“We have to do something!” Alayna said, desperate for a solution. “What if we go to Corendar, and warn the Church?”

He frowned at that suggestion. He liked to avoid stepping foot in that overly sanctimonious city.

“They wouldn’t believe us. In fact, they’d probably lock us up for treason.”

“Unless,” Alayna’s eyes brightened, “we bring them proof. What if we bring Violet to them, so they can test her?”

“How? I already said we can’t get to her.”

“What if we had help? You said Sevris was hiding out with some of his men. We can convince them to join us. With soldiers, we could get into the castle, find Violet, and take her to Corendar.”

Gunnar let the idea float about in his mind for a few moments. It wasn’t perfect, but he had to admit he didn’t dislike it.

“Kidnap a Calderan Lady? That’s a bold strategy. Dangerous, too.”

“Not as dangerous as this creature will be once he wins.”

Gunnar sighed. It turned out he would be doing something of worth today.

 

***

Chapter 5 coming next week!

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Books, Short Stories, Writing

Nightmare Chapter 3

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By Kris Kramer

A Rise of Cithria story

 

Chapter 3 (of 6)

Read – Chapter 1 – Chapter 2

“How many are there now?”

Ansen Havarton, Steward of Breakwall Castle, leaned over the massive mahogany writing desk that filled the center of his stark office. Dozens of parchments lay scattered across the top, a regular fixture of his daily routine as he pored through notes, letters, inventories and budgets. Two soldiers stood opposite him, a centnar and a decnar, both wearing polished breastplates, flowing red capes hanging from their shoulders, and stylized helms nestled in the crooks of their arms.

“We chased away around thirty,” the centnar said, “but there could have been another dozen or two hiding on the far side of the river. We don’t have an accurate count right now.”

Ansen slammed his fist onto the desk.

“Why here? Why are we suddenly a refuge for these people?” He looked at the two stone-faced officers, neither of whom appeared to have any more answers than he. “Is someone spreading rumors about buried treasure underneath the castle? Or a legendary sword? The tomb of a lost Thandaran Emperor? Tell me, because I am at a loss to explain why over a hundred vagrants and refugees have come from all over Caldera to Breakwall looking to find charity.”

The soldiers averted their eyes. Ansen huffed at them, then moved from the table to stand next to the narrow window that overlooked the courtyard of the castle from three stories up.  He’d claimed this room as his office twenty years ago, after taking over as steward from his father, also named Ansen. The view allowed him to see much of what happened in the castle from on high, but he also secretly enjoyed the fact that no one liked climbing three long flights of stairs to come see him.

As usual these days, the courtyard was busy with merchants delivering goods, soldiers sharpening swords, villagers coming and going, and couriers hurrying through the gates. The castle was as it always had been – the hub of a bustling Artoran town lying in the shadows of Corendar. His work organizing this castle and the town it lorded over had been much of the reason why some of the earls seriously considered his lord as a successor for Tanchet’s debacle of a reign as King of Caldera, before Thaine Trannoch was plucked from the army. But now a disease had taken root in the town, and though he couldn’t see it, he felt the symptoms.

“Twenty at the docks, fifteen at the village church, another eight at the castle chapel, ten or so near the way house along the Corendar Road, and now upward of fifty hiding in the forest?” Ansen shook his head. “On top of that, Lady Violet has somehow found the motivation to personally provide them with food and alms, which means they have no incentive to bugger off now.”

The centnar grunted. His name was Sevris, and he’d been captain of the guard in Breakwall for almost as long as Ansen had been steward. “Poor timing for her to suddenly find her heart.”

Ansen gave him a warning glance, but nothing more. Lady Violet, despite being only a lord’s daughter, normally carried herself like the spoiled, whiny princess she imagined herself to be. That was probably inevitable when her father once aspired to sit on the Calderan throne.

The decnar, a dashing young man named Joah, cleared his throat. “People are saying all the refugees bring her gifts. Expensive ones, too. Seems easy to understand why she likes them if that’s true.”

Sevris grunted in agreement. Ansen leaned against the window with a resigned sigh.

“Keep sending men out to the forest. At the very least, make the Lady’s new friends see the value of congregating on the other side of the river.”

Sevris bowed his head and left, along with his decnar.  Ansen continued to stare out the window, watching the chapel specifically. A young woman in stained, muddied clothes stood at the open door on the far side of the courtyard, looking out as if waiting for someone. Another newcomer to Breakwall, with a story that didn’t line up and a purpose that was fuzzy at best. Most of these refugees offered eerily similar tales about why they’d come to this place – they all claimed that they needed a new home, and Breakwall was where they wanted that home to be. As flattering as some in the castle found that notion, Ansen had trouble understanding why they didn’t go to Corendar, only a day’s travel to the north. The Church there was far more capable of handling such a large number of poor and homeless migrants. And they’d find more help in the form of alms and charity from the cluster of nobles there.

He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. He wasn’t himself these days. Troubling nightmares had plagued him the last few nights, bringing with them gruesome visions of black-robed men dragging him from his bed and taking him to the darkest part of the woods where they cut him and smeared themselves with his blood. Once he woke from the nightmare, drenched in a cold sweat, he couldn’t go back to sleep. Nor did he want to after such vivid horrors. But his lack of sleep lately was keeping him irritable and exhausted. And far too excitable. Worst of all, the fatigue kept him from making sense of this new dilemma.

He’d simply have to focus on his work. When life refused to make sense, Ansen had learned long ago to keep his hands busy until it did. He returned to his desk, picking up a small stack of documents that his lord would need to review. He left his office and walked down the spiral stairs to the second floor of the castle.

He found the door to the castle’s drawing room, where Lord Morgantin held private meetings with visitors or officials. He knocked gently and opened the door to find a large room decorated in the finest of Calderan luxuries. Red and gold-trimmed curtains framed two wide windows that overlooked the northern reaches of the Breakwall domain. Numerous elegant tapestries hung from the dark stone walls, and a thick, plush red rug covered the middle of the floor. Small wooden tables were arrayed around the edges of the room, each one displaying silver or gold artifacts, or fancy collections of mugs and dinnerware.

Lord Selvan Morgantin sat in a high-backed chair in the rear-center of the room. He was thin and impossibly tall, an imposing man who literally looked down his nose at everyone. But he was also a good man, for a Calderan lord.

Seated on a plush bench to his left was his only child, Lady Violet Morgantin, who engaged him in conversation with a furious scowl on her face. Upon Ansen’s entry, however, they both stopped and looked at him.

“Ansen,” Lord Selvan waved him in. “Enter.”

“My lord,” Ansen bowed his head and took a few steps into the room. “Can we speak a moment?”

Lord Selvan nodded. The steward hesitated briefly to see if Lady Violet would leave the room, but she remained seated, turning only slightly to face him. She was twenty-two years old, having been only a babe when Ansen took office, and still unmarried. She’d had suitors, but she’d tired of them all for various reasons, usually a lack of money, or a lack of manners. A few simply stopped calling on her, providing decent enough excuses, although everyone in the county knew the real reason they lost interest.

“I bring word about the recent troubles we’ve had.”

“The murders?”

“Yes, my lord. I believe it to be a symptom of our refugee problem.”

“Problem?” Lady Violet balked. “Why do you use that word, Steward?”

Ansen blinked. The Lady of Breakwall had only recently become involved in the day-to-day affairs of managing the Morgantin domain and he still wasn’t used to it.

“Lady Violet, the mercy you show these people is commendable, and lauded throughout your father’s lands. But the fact remains that these people are unknown to us. They are draining us of food, water, supplies, and coin, and they all give us different reasons for being here. Sometimes two different reasons on the same day. And now, immediately after they blacken our shores, we have two murders to address.”

“So you assume the killers are amongst these refugees? Despite having no proof of that fact?”

Ansen tried very hard to remain calm.

“My lady, we haven’t seen anything so vile in these lands for a decade, and the last time it happened, the killer brazenly declared himself in the West Gardens after killing a man he accused of improper relations with his wife.”

“It still sounds incredibly circumstantial to me.”

“We have three witnesses who claim that a man in mud-stained clothes was near the Redbird tavern when Eric Gavelson was killed. As for the boy in the village, another refugee had been bothering his family for food only the day before. No one else is suspected in either crime, and the people of Breakwall believe that these murders were committed by someone hiding amongst the refugees. It is my duty as steward to see that these criminals are found, and I must start with the obvious suspects.”

“Your entire argument is based on nothing more than–”

“Violet,” Lord Selvan said, casting an annoyed glare at his unruly daughter, “that is enough. You’ve had your say on this matter. Please leave us.”

“Of course, father.” She gave a slight bow of her head and left the room. Ansen watched her for any sign of annoyance, but she left with as much grace as she could possibly muster. She really had changed. A few weeks ago, she would have thrown a tantrum before storming out red-faced.

Violet closed the door behind her, and Ansen turned to the lord, who shook his head with a weary smile.

“That girl does nothing but perplex me, Ansen. One day she’s screaming at her handmaiden for leaving a speck of dust on her dresser. The next, she’s bringing food to men and women living in filth or hiding in caves.”

“Perhaps she has finally discovered her noble purpose in this world.”

Lord Morgantin shook his head. “If only that were true.”

“You should have faith in your daughter, my lord. Some people find their calling late in life.”

“Perhaps. As I always say, my friend, I pity the fact that you’re fourteen years younger than I. When I die, and she becomes the true Lady of Breakwall…”

“I will have my hands full, yes. But I welcome the challenge. And if I find that I cannot rise to it, I can still retire to my home in Artalia.”

Lord Morgantin laughed.

“You would sooner leap to your death from Goldcliffe than leave anything here undone.”

Ansen smiled. His lord knew him well. “I live to serve, my lord.” He set his papers on the table near the lord’s chair, before taking a seat of his own.

“Now,” Lord Morgantin adjusted to face his steward, “to the more pressing issue, justice must be done. You wish to send for sentinels from Corendar?”

“Yes, my lord. I spoke with Didach Antonis at the church, and he says some of the sentinels there claim they can read the truth of a man’s intentions. I would like to summon them to question the refugees and see if they sense anything amiss.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Morgantin’s eyes. “Sentinels can read a man’s thoughts, now?”

“Antonis claims that it’s actually more subtle than that. They use their magic to sense changes in feeling or mood. When someone lies, they get scared, or angry, and the sentinels can see that in the man or woman’s temperament. Apparently it’s an old Inquisitor trick.”

“Don’t we have a sentinel?”

Ansen shrugged. “Gunnar is not in Breakwall, as far as I can tell. He left two days ago, without any notice.”

Morgantin sighed and shook his head. “That man… He used to be dependable. Now, he drowns himself in the vices of his church. What sort of message does that send?”

“I agree wholeheartedly, my lord.”

Selvan reached out for the documents, flipping through them with little interest.

“Send for the sentinels. And do what you must to resolve this. I have faith in you, Ansen.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

 

*

 

A knock on the door pulled Ansen from his work. He looked up to see a red-faced young man standing in the doorway of his office, fidgeting with a piece of paper in his hands.

“Yes?”

“I-I have a summons for you, from Lord Morgantin.”

Ansen squinted at the man. Evening had come, casting the room in darkness, save for the candles on his desk. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Lord Steward.” He bowed, awkwardly.

“Just Steward. I’m not a lord.”

“Yes… Steward.”

“Where am I being summoned to?”

The man looked at the note in his hand.

“The gardens, Lor-,” he paused, “Steward.”

Ansen nodded, glancing down at the pile of papers still cluttering his desk. Oh well, if the Lord of Breakwall wanted to summon him for a leisurely walk in the gardens, he couldn’t very well say no. He could probably stand to take a break, anyway.

“Tell the lord I will be there momentarily,” he said to the man, who bowed again and then disappeared down the hallway.

Ansen stood, stretching out the stiffness in his back and neck. He grabbed his coat from a rack in the corner. He’d become a bit more susceptible to the cold in his later years, and it wouldn’t do to be shivering all evening. He threw the coat over his shoulders, closed the door to his office, and went downstairs.

The castle was nearly empty, as it usually was this time of day. A lone servant carrying an empty platter scurried past as Ansen strode down the wide hall leading to the gardens. Ansen opened the thick wooden door at the end of the hall and stepped out into the cool night air. A cobblestone path meandered through a thick copse of hedges, ending at a clearing with a round gazebo in the center, typically the starting point for his walks with Lord Morgantin. The gazebo was empty, though, and he looked around, seeing no sign of anyone.

He heard some conversation in a nearby work shed, and decided to ask the gardeners if they knew where Lord Morgantin had gone to. He approached the door, turning as two dark-robed figures appeared at the edge of his vision. He began to ask the question of them, but as he discerned their appearance, he froze, seeing only the attackers from his nightmares.

No. This isn’t real.

His rational mind took hold, reminding him that he was awake, and in his own lord’s garden. He relaxed, ready to dismiss his fright as mere paranoia, nerves from his lack of sleep. But as soon as he opened his mouth to question them about their suspicious clothing, they lunged at him, knives flashing in the moonlight. He cried out as they jabbed deep into his flesh, over and over, until he fell to the ground, writhing in the throes of death.

The dark-robed attackers backed away, and a new figure emerged, standing next to Ansen’s head. A woman, with black hair and a bright red dress that somehow shined in the darkness.

“Lady…?” he croaked.

Lady Violet leaned over and ran a finger next to one of his wounds, her face devoid of emotion. She pushed on it, and for a moment he thought she might be trying to stem the flow of blood. Instead, she held up a hand stained dark red, the blood dripping from the glittering rings that lined each of her fingers. She rubbed the blood across her face, tasting it on her lips. A wicked smile greeted him as she exulted in the act.

She crouched down next to him, turning his head to face her.

“Had you been a weaker man, you may have been useful to me. But I have no place for servants of your will. Go in peace, Ansen Havarton. Your time as Steward of Breakwall is at an end.”

He tried to fight, to shout at her. But he only managed to get out one single word.

“Why…?”

A curt laugh escaped her lips. She looked around at the garden, surveying her realm.

“Your world pleases me. What other reason could there be?”

 

****

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Books, Short Stories, Writing

Nightmare Chapter 2

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By Kris Kramer

A Rise of Cithria story

 

Chapter 2 (of 6)

Read Chapter 1

“… okay?”

Everitt lifted his heavy head to see the burly, thick-bearded barkeep watching him from the other side of the bar, his hands squeezing out the last drops of grimy water from a wash rag onto the sticky wood countertop. Streaks of sunlight slipped between the wooden planks of the wall behind the barkeep, and Everitt squinted as one slashed across his face.

“Huh?”

“I said, are you okay?” The barkeep leaned forward, planting two meaty hands on the bar. He squinted at Everitt’s face, examining him. “You don’t got the Rylish fever, do ya?”

“No,” Everitt said, forcing a weary smile on his face. “I’m fine. Been a long walk home, is all.”

“Mmmhmmm.” The barkeep frowned, not believing a word. “Walking makes your head hurt?”

His fears are many. But he offers me nothing.

Everitt froze. It had been days since he’d last heard the voice in his head. It whispered to him sometimes when he met people, opining on the strength of their will. He was fairly sure the words weren’t his own, but that only begged the question ‘then who?’ The Goddess? The Grim King? An ancient Anduain spirit or a Bergsbor deity? Any of those possibilities made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Men who heard voices tended to get thrown into a Church hospice and never seen again. So he did what he’d done since leaving Trenant Keep. He ignored it.

“Nah. Just been hit in the head too much. Like any good soldier, I don’t know when to duck.”

The barkeep nodded slightly as he wiped down the polished wood between them, unconvinced but also unwilling to debate the issue. Everitt faked his good humor until the barkeep finally wandered away, into the storeroom in the back, and then resumed rubbing his temples. His headaches were getting worse.  And they weren’t happening due to any lack of skill in ducking.

He reached down to feel the worn leather satchel hanging at his side, its touch reassuring. For a moment, he couldn’t remember why he even had it. It carried something heavy, something someone would find important back home. A gift, he thought. The details escaped him, so he let it go. All he needed to worry about right now was getting to his new home as soon as possible.

The front door opened with a creak and late morning sunlight flooded into the small tavern, illuminating every dank corner. Once Everitt’s eyes adjusted to the harsh light, he saw a sailor standing in the entrance, wearing dark brown pants that ended at his calves, and a thin, linen shirt with streaks of brown tar across the front. Everitt hadn’t heard a peep from the high-pitched signal horn, blown from the town’s lookout tower to signal the arrival of a new ship at the dock. Had he missed it? The sailor rapped on the wall next to him to get everyone’s attention. Other than Everitt, though, no one else was in the bar, save for a sleepy older fellow named Jax sitting in the corner.

“Trade ship from Evidsar is in. Setting back out at the next bell for Conovaria and then Corendar.”

Everitt straightened up. “Taking passengers?”

The man nodded. “The captain handles goods mostly, but he’s got a few cots down below.”

The sailor left and Everitt quickly fished through his coin purse for an unar, a small copper coin engraved with a Thandaran crest, and tossed it on the bar. He gave Jax a quick wave and then left the tavern, a neglected little shack nestled in the trees alongside the Vitrix River. He worked his way down a riverbank crowded with tall grass and weeds and onto the docks of Rylicum, a small port town a day’s ride west of Corendar. He’d been here two nights, waiting for a boat that could take him on the last leg of his trip. Several times he’d almost given up waiting, opting to walk the rest of the way, knowing that would add days to his journey. Indecision had kept him paralyzed on that bar stool for two days, too impatient to leave, and too impatient to stay.

Now, salvation had finally come.

He found the ship, a long, narrow sloop with a single mast, tied up to the only dock in town. Two sailors dragged a large cart toward the town center a few dozen paces up a wide dirt path, while the captain, an older man in finer clothes, stood at the end of the dock, yelling at two other men still onboard. Everitt approached the rickety wooden dock, hailing the captain, who waved him over.

“I’m looking for passage.”

The captain regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “Headed south?”

“Aye. Breakwall. You stopping there?”

“I can.”

“I can pay.” He held up a large silver coin, stamped with the Thandaran flame. “A tren should be more than enough, right?”

The captain gave him a sidelong look. A tren was worth three vinars, the standard silver coin of nearly every trading post that accepted Thandaran money. “A tren just for hitching a ride to Breakwall?”

“A fast ride. That’s it.”

The captain rubbed his chin. “We gotta stop in Corendar for a few hours and pick up a load.”

“Nowhere else?”

“I usually dock at Conovaria for the night, just to see what furs they got. But the tanner there’s been overcharging me the last couple trips. Maybe if he sees me skipping him this time around he’ll be a little more forthcoming the next one.”

Everitt nodded. “So, one stop at Corendar for a few hours and that’s it? We sail through the night?”

“I can manage that. I can get ya’ to Breakwall tomorrow night.”

Everitt felt a huge load come off his shoulders. A weary smile formed on his lips. “Done.”

“Hop on, then, if you’re ready. We leave after the noon bells, or as soon as Enick and Roj come back with the cart.”

Strong willed, but can be bought. Useful.

Everitt winced at the strange words in his head and immediately looked away from the captain. He never had the stomach to face anyone after this demon – it had to be a demon – so prominently announced their weaknesses in his head. He stepped onto the boat and handed over the tren. The captain tapped it, then tried to bend it between his fingers. He grinned at Everitt with crooked teeth.

“Can’t be too careful. I’ve seen folks press unars together and paint ‘em silver. Fools some people, but not me.”

The captain signaled one of the deckhands to show Everitt to a cot below.  A skinny, gold-haired boy, barely into his teens, led Everitt down a narrow flight of stairs into the bowels of the ship.

“You from Breakwall?” the boy asked.

“No.” Everitt shook his head. “Not yet, at least.”

“You fought any Anduains or Bergsbor?” He glanced back over his shoulder at the sword hanging from Everitt’s belt.

He fears the captain’s lust. He will be mine completely.

“Some,” Everitt said, looking at the walls, the floor, the flickering candles hanging in glass lanterns on the walls. Anywhere but the boy. “But not lately. Not much happening up near Trenant these days. A few Anduains and Bergsbor sneaking around here and there, but that’s it.”

“You been to Hannerkeep? My brother’s there a lot. Says it’s a bit of a dump. Compared to Trenant.”

“Your brother’s right.”

The boy showed him to an open storage area with a few cots pushed up against the far wall. Everitt nodded his head in thanks and sat down on the cleanest one he could find. He listened as the boy clomped his way back up the stairs, then leaned his elbows on his knees and continued rubbing his temples.

They will corrupt easily. Quickly. They will beg to be mine.

“Stop,” he whispered, despairing at what he’d gotten these men into. The voice never responded to him, but he had to try. He rubbed his temples again, even though it made no difference.  “Please.”

This entire ship will be mine. Soon.

 

*

 

The following day, just as the sun touched the western horizon, Breakwall came into sight. Everitt waited up top most of the afternoon, eager to be off the boat and on his way. He’d tried to avoid the sailors as much as possible, but it couldn’t be helped. Every time one came by, the voice returned, claiming how easy it would be to take them. He tried in vain to convince himself it was only meaningless words. But something deep down told him that he knew very well what those words meant, and what the voice had said about him not so long ago.

The boat slowly floated down the river before the sailors brought out steering poles, pushing the boat toward the eerily familiar docks. They edged up to the nearest one and the deckhands tossed a rope to the men on shore. One of them pulled until the boat bounced off the side of the wood, then tied everything down. Everitt didn’t even wait for the bobbing to stop. He hopped onto the dock and hurried up the path that led through the town and then up the hillside to the castle. He’d never been to Breakwall before, but he somehow knew the path as if he’d run it a thousand times as a boy.

He reached the castle gates, still open during the daylight, and threaded his way through the crowd of craftsmen, merchants, and laborers leaving Breakwall Keep for the night. Once through the gates, he paused, unsure where to go next. He racked his brain for a place, a destination, anything that would finally grant him peace.

The Garden.

Everitt shivered. He’d be done with this soon, he reminded himself. As soon as he reached the Lord’s Garden.

Most Calderans knew the story of the Lord’s Gardens in Breakwall. Lord Morgantin had opened the Gardens to the public as a way to garner support from his people and to project a magnanimous air while campaigning amongst the earls to be king. He’d lost that battle to the former general, Thaine Trannoch, but to his credit, Morgantin kept the Gardens open during daylight hours ever since.

A soldier eyed Everitt curiously as he hurried across the courtyard and through the entrance to the Gardens. Everitt jogged down the cobblestone path, and then around the hedge maze, searching for his quarry. The sun would set soon, and any minute guards would kick him out. He’d have to wait until the next morning to resume his quest. Another night might kill him. He needed to finish this now.

There. Walking down the west path with her handmaiden. The Lady of Breakwall. Lord Morgantin’s daughter.

His spirits soared as he approached the beautiful young woman.

“My Lady.” He bowed, catching only a glimpse of her annoyed look. “My name is Everitt Jonus. I’ve come to beg succor in your celebrated lands, so that I may witness my Lady’s charity in person.”

The Lady of Breakwall stared back at him, her stern expression unchanging. She had long, black hair, pulled back into a thin gossamer netting, and searching brown eyes. Her face was oval, with flawless porcelain skin, save for a small, flower-shaped birthmark over her left eye.

“Charity?” She blinked at him, taking in his unkempt clothes with the practiced disdain of a noble. “Do you not have any sense?” She waved him off. “Go to the Church and beg there.”

“I brought you something.” He held up the satchel. “A gift, from the north.”

The woman and her handmaiden tensed as he reached into the satchel. Their anxiety turned to wonder, though, when he pulled out a finely cut pink gem set in a circular brooch. He’d stolen it from a lord in the Red Hills who’d been visiting Trenant Keep. He’d never stolen anything before in his life but this magnificent gem he’d simply walked up and taken from the lord’s quarters while he was at a feast. It was the most brazen thing he’d ever done, and he wasn’t even sure why he did it.

“A singing crystal?” Her expression softened. He handed it to her, bowing his head slightly, and she looked at him in genuine surprise. “It’s beautiful.”

“You’ve wanted one since you were a child, yes?”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know that?”

Everitt smiled, feeling the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. “A very old friend of yours told me. She was very persuasive.”

 

*****

Read Chapter 3 now!

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Books, Short Stories, Writing

Nightmare Chapter 1

Leave a comment

By Kris Kramer

A Rise of Cithria story

 

Chapter 1 (of 6)

I see everything now.

For eons, I ruled a domain void of light and color, consigned by my jailers to a place where darkness bred horrors too twisted to imagine. I knew no peace, because my subjects screamed and wailed in terror, begging for release from their hellish existence. I felt no warmth, for there was none to be had in a realm without soul.

My world was dark. Lonely. But it was my home.

My life.

My prison.

Then the lights appeared. They came to me like distant stars twinkling through the veil of a night sky, a comparison I’d forgotten until a short time ago. They never lasted long, many times winking out of existence before I could reach them with my clumsy and overeager hands. But still I sprang at each new light, desperate to discover what treasures lay hidden beyond. Occasionally, I found one that lingered long enough for me to finally see what I’d so long been denied.

A glimpse into another world.

I exulted at the chance to stare through these windows into the minds of creatures who lived and breathed and died under clear blue skies, walking on soft green grass, surrounded by others of their kind. They laughed by roaring fires, the light gleaming off of their metal clothes and tools. They ate hot food and drank frothy cold drinks with each other, praying, crying, touching each other’s warm skin. They stopped to watch water running through a brook, or down a waterfall. They smelled colorful flowers and danced to cheerful music. They stared at the distant horizon, or gazed at the night sky, which reminded me too much of my own world, but also gave me a sense of camaraderie with people I did not know.

Through these windows I watched, and heard, and felt, and experienced what it was like to be part of this beautiful new world.

And I envied them all.

They call them dreams. As they slumber, they imagine their own world in their minds, but with a twist. Some things are less, others are more. They describe it as a warped mirror, an imitation of their own reality. Others believe them to be visions of the future, or lessons from the past.

For me, dreams are unadulterated joy.

I slip into those dreams, and I look around in awe, like a child watching a prism. But just like a child, I start to touch things, and when I touch things, they change. They grow black, diseased. They crumble. They twist into something that induces terror in the dreamer’s mind, and delight in mine. When I do this to their dream, they give it a different name.

Nightmare.

*

I was clumsy in my first attempts, but after some time I knew what to look for, and I slipped from dream to dream with practiced movements and effortless grace. But still, they faded away so quickly that I never managed to truly know the people of this world.

But then, something changed. Thousands of new dreamers appeared to me, all at once, and they didn’t wink away after a few moments. I’ve learned much about these new dreamers. They come from all corners of an island called Caldera, though a few have different names for it. Andua. Sudmark. Elegant names, and fiercely espoused by the people who live there. I know the island well. I’ve seen its great cities – Corendar, Tan Arbrel, Casuuld – as well as its villages, where people live and work and farm. Some train their bodies to use weapons, so that they can slay their enemies. Others tap into The Remains, which they call magic, and they use it to reshape their reality, just as I reshape their dreams. But one thing common to them all is war. They prepare for it, fear it, embrace it, despise it.

These are not their dreams, though. Not dreams of their own making. Merely a facet of their thoughts that works to keep them docile in their reality. An interesting trick, and one I make sure to remember.

Some of them use their magic to create dreams for others, keeping them imprisoned in their own minds. They call themselves Nameless, although many of them have a name, a holdover from the laws of their gods who, strangely enough, do not dream. Ever. These Nameless learned the magic from an outsider, a trick called Domination, and they’ve cultivated it ever since.

I care little for their motivations, only that they are successful.

They do not understand the pleasure they’ve given me. I visit each one, careful not to touch anything. I only observe, searching for the handhold that lets me grab on and stay. The strong ones can throw me out of their dream, no matter how much I hold on. The weaker ones submit to my touch, but only if I come to them in a form they can accept. Then, I can do what I want, and stay as long as I choose, and the longer I stay, the more I learn.

At first, I wanted only to join them, to live amongst them in a world full of light and color. But would I have power in their realm? In their dreams, I can do as I wish. Would I be as powerful if I had substance? I did not know the truth of this question, though I suspected the answer to be promising. I needed to find a way into their world, and I would have to do so through the dreams. But people only dream when they’re asleep, or unmoving. Useless to me in my endeavor. But I did not give up, and after much searching, my persistence was rewarded.

I discovered a way to stay with them, even after the dream ended.

*

Her name was Alayna. She was the last one I tested before finding my true way into their world.

My journey had taken me through a large number of soldiers and their holy men, Calderans who called themselves Esteran mostly. Some of them were priests who worshipped a goddess with no name, and learned magic that let them heal and strengthen their fellow warriors. They came from other areas, lands with names like the Red Hills, Venria, Brinwall.

Alayna was a priest from a place called Breakwall, the name for both a town and the castle that lorded over it, in a county called Artora. Breakwall was close to Corendar, the gleaming white city I’d seen in so many other dreams, the city that lured me like a moth to a flame. Alayna had visited there, and she dreamed of it again when I found her. That’s what drew me to her initially, the chance to revel in the glory of Caldera’s magnificent capitol city.

But it was Breakwall that made me stay.

“You’ll never amount to much out there. The Didachs will treat you like a commoner.”

The words of Alayna’s friend, Violet. She was angry, and she showed it through insults and derision. A common trait of these people. In her dream, Alayna walked through a garden in Corendar with her friend, sharing last words before leaving to join the Church that was ever-present in the dreams of many Calderans.

“How I’m treated doesn’t matter to me as much as how I treat others. That is the way of the Church and its healers.”

“Pathetic.” Violet’s anger grew. She craved power, and control. Alayna did not. Perhaps that’s why I was intrigued by her. “The Church is the refuge of peasants and lesser born. Why would you associate with that?”

“Because I enjoy helping people.”

Alayna blamed the other girl for her troubles. They were friends once, but no longer. Violet had become distant and petty once the carefree days of childhood left her. Alayna, meanwhile, had seen the horrors of the world and wanted to mend the scars her people scratched upon it. The enmity between them drove Alayna away from their home, to this cavern, where she healed the soldiers fighting their war against Andua and a place called Bergmark.  I reached out with my hand, caressing the tension between the two girls as it writhed between my fingers.

“Helping yourself, I think.”

“Violet! How can you say that?”

“Who’s really benefitting from this, Alayna? People who deserve to die already, or you, who gets to think she’s saving the world? The Goddess Reborn.”

Alayna’s eyes somehow grew larger, and she saw her friend in a new light, one that revealed every dark spot in Violet’s heart. Something about that look intrigued me, and in my race to understand it, I became Violet. I wanted to see Alayna’s eyes on me, and feel her wretched disgust with what her friend had turned into. Humans despise that feeling, but to me, every emotion they experience is the sweetest dessert.

“Who are you?”

At first, I think she’s asking the question of Violet. But then I realize the truth. My touch has corrupted the vision, and Violet is now something less than human. Alayna has seen through the illusion. Few people are so quick to sense my intrusion. She’s much stronger than I thought.

I am Violet, I told her. I am your friend. Love me, as you do her, and you will see the truth.

Alayna backed away, and the garden around her disappeared. Suddenly, she was back in that cave, only now the torches on the walls rage, spewing torrents of flame all around us.

“No,” she says, reaching for the sword that suddenly appeared at her side. “You’re lying. You’re not Violet.”

My touch is now toxic for her. Stone rises from the floor between us as her will pushed me away. She’s exceptionally strong in this realm. I break it apart as fast as it comes, but we both know the effort of taking her is too much. Not when there are so many who will embrace me far more willingly. The image of Violet fades away, and as I drift off to my realm, I show her my true form. Her panic is palpable.

“You’re a-a-a monster!” she screamed. “A nightmare!”

Yes. Nightmare. That is not my true name, but it is a name I embrace, for you have given it to me. You and your people, who perform for me, and provide the only light in my world, have bestowed upon me a title reserved only for the most fearsome of things.

That is what you think of me. Therefore, that is what I will be when I find my way through the dreams and into your world. Where I will stay. And where you will know me as a new god.

“No! You’re not real. Your words are lies!”

I am not real. But your fear is. The terror that claws its way into your heart is no less true than my words. I am not in your world, but I will be. All I must do is find a suitable host. And now I have.

“What?” she asked. “What does that mean?!”

I left her, retreating back into my domain slowly, so I could hear her screams as she begged to know who I would take next.

She would figure it out soon. But by then, she would be too late.

 

*****

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I know you’re all eagerly anticipating the next entry in the Rise of Cithria series (Book 5 – The Exodus). So are we (we’re looking at you, Patrick). So during this little downtime period, Alistair and I have written a couple short story/novella entries set in the world of Cithria to tide everyone over. The first of these, a prequel adventure starring your favorite nuathreen trackers, Bruce and Gil, is now available on amazon!

Rise of Cithria Origins: Bruce and Gil

Supplies are limited, so go grab a copy RIGHT NOW!

In addition, yours truly will be releasing a brand new Cithria story in the next week or so called Nightmare. I’m inclined to make it available the same way we used to release our Cithria stories, one chapter at a time on the4threalm.com. Only I’ll probably post them there and on this site. Either way, you’ll be able to start reading Nightmare as soon as next week!

I’ll post more details soon, but I wanted everyone to know that we haven’t forgotten about our Cithria fans, and while we’re hard at work getting that next book out, we’ll be doing additional spot stories like these when we can. So keep your eyes posted here for more information!

Writer, storyteller, independent and/or self-published author, and all-around procrastinator…