I’m pleased to announce THE WORLD BREAKER REQUIEM, the sequel to THE WORLD MAKER PARABLE.
Please enjoy this special preview of the first two chapters.
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BLURB:
Prince of Woe…
Avaria Norrith is the adopted heir to the Ariathan throne. But that means little to a man who, for the better part of fifteen years, has sought and failed to earn his mother’s love. Fueled by pride and envy, Avaria seeks the means to prove himself and cast away his mental chains. When he’s tasked with the recreation of The Raven’s Rage he sees his chance, for with the infamous blade he can rewrite history and start anew.
Daughter of the Mountain…
Erath has not felt sunlight for a century. Not since Ariath condemned her people to a life of darkness with their misuse of The Raven’s Rage. But when an old friend comes seeking the remnants of the ancient sword, Erath cannot contain her curiosity and resolves to lend her aid. Is it true—can history be revised? Can her people be reclaimed?
Toll the Hounds…
They are hungry—and they are here.
CHAPTER ONE—HOUNDS
Avaria Norrith was dead. Or dreaming. For how else could he have come here to this meadow with its silver trees and ocean-colored grass? He looked down at Geph, his faithful longhound, and the creature simply shrugged.
“Have you considered that you might be stoned beyond all comprehension?” Geph inquired. He did that a lot. Talking. Most longhounds retained some manner of silence even after they had learned to speak but Geph was the chatty exception. “Avaria?”
“You know I don’t partake,” Avaria said, starting slowly through the grass.
“Then why the hell am I talking?” the longhound asked.
“It’s what you do.”
“Well if you’re dead,” Geph said, “then why am I here? Am I dead too?”
“Maybe?”
The longhound heaved a sigh that fell into a yawn. “Fuck it all, Avaria, what have you gotten us into this time?”
Avaria glared at the dog.
“I’m just saying.”
“If you’re talking about the time we were interned for defacing Virtuoso Khora’s effigy,” Avaria said, “let me please remind you it was you who climbed atop and took a massive, runny—”
“I was drunk,” the longhound grumbled. “And the statue called my mother a bitch. What would you have done?”
Avaria rolled his eyes. “The effigies are incapable of speech, Geph. And your mother is a bitch. It’s the proper term for a female dog.”
“You keep saying that,” Geph said, “and every time I believe you less.”
Avaria shrugged. “Not my concern.”
“It should be.” Geph let out a hacking cough. “Where do you suppose we are?”
“If I were to venture a guess? The In Between,” Avaria said.
“Then where hell is Balance?” Geph asked. “I have a question.”
“I can guarantee you, Geph, that Balance remains incapable of manifesting you a jar of peanutbutter,” said Avaria, much to the longhound’s dismay. “Though I’m sure he’ll oblige you with an ear scratch.”
Geph gave a houndly grin.
They walked.
“It all feels the same,” said Geph. “Have we actually gotten anywhere?”
“Not yet,” said Avaria. He had come to this place enough to know the straightforward path was never as apparent as it seemed. “But we will.”
You won’t.
Avaria started at the words.
Geph cocked an eyebrow. “Are you all right?”
“You didn’t hear that?” Avaria asked.
Geph tilted his head. “Because I’m a dog I’m supposed to have spectacular hearing, is that it? Well—”
How long have you been on this path, Avaria? How many years now? Days, weeks, and months spent trying to win the affections of a woman who could give two shits about you, hmm? And she had the gall to call herself your mother!
Avaria whipped around but there was no one there.
Search, but you’ll not find me in the grass, hissed the voice. I’m where I’ve always been—here, inside your head. Comfy, cozy in this prison that you’ve built. No—that your mother built. If she had loved you where would you be now?
A howl erupted from Avaria. The meadow fell to ash, and from its ruin rose a silhouette of smoke and flame.
“I told you all those years ago,” the figure said, “that she would set me free.” It beckoned with an upturned palm and Geph obeyed, each step leaving gossamer threads of smoke. “Faithful as always.“
Geph grinned at Avaria, eyes glowing white, teeth like needles dripping blood.
Avaria retreated several steps. The figure and the hound advanced.
“You’ll not escape, Avaria,” the figure said.
Avaria turned.
“For I am legion here inside your head.“
Sputtered, looking at the blade protruding from his chest.
“And there is nowhere you can hide that I can’t find.“
Crying now. He tasted blood and tears.
“For then what kind of vulture would I be?“
Darkness.
It was cold this night as Avaria walked the streets of Helveden, Geph beside him as he always was. His brow was slick with sweat and his head stung something fierce. He’d had the dream again, stoked by vultures of his own design.
“Was it Wrath or Envy in the grass this time?” inquired Geph.
“Some amalgamation of the two,” Avaria said, fingering his chest. It was tender to the touch; he winced.
“Theories?”
“An answer,” said Avaria. “The Virtuosos passed on me again the other night.”
Geph nudged Avaria with his nose.
“Honestly…why’d she put me here if I’m never going to leave?”
“Your mother wants what’s best for you, Avaria,” said Geph.
“She’s got a strange way of showing it,” Avaria snapped. “Shoving me off to apprentice while while Avaness and Maryn took up arms and went to war for Ariath. I’ve been here half my life, a slave to erudition and abused by my own mind while they found glory in the heat of war. While they made mother proud.”
“And you think swinging arms is all that draws your mother’s praise?” Geph asked. “You think to her that mastering a blade is the be-all and end-all to life?”
Avaria scoffed. “In Ariath? Yes.”
“I think you focus too much on the glory of war,” said Geph. “Look around, Avaria. War destroys physically and mentally. Helveden stands half-erect, awaiting its resurrection by the Lightweavers who have drunk themselves into uselessness. The thought of facing vultures breeds fear, and that fear instills the urge to drink. It festers even now, an indomitable infection that has all but smothered Helveden’s glow. Is that what you really want of yourself? To go off and come back like…that?”
“If it would make her proud…”
Geph sighed. “Oh, Avaria…”
They walked the rest of the way to the Bastion in silence, Geph stopping to sniff the occasional tree and Avaria brooding all the while. He fingered the summons in his coat pocket as they crossed the courtyard. What could the queen possibly need of him this late?
A frowning stewardess awaited their arrival. “You’re an hour late.”
Avaria shrugged. “I got lost along the way.”
Geph nudged him firmly in the leg with his nose.
“Fine,” Avaria sighed. “I was drunk in bed and dreaming of the end.”
The stewardess rolled her eyes disgustedly. “Follow me.”
She led them through the Bastion, glorious in its whites and reds and various depictions of the raven god to whom they all implored. It was paradise where the Hall of Lightweavers was eternal hell.
Further and further they went. The walls, ceiling, and floor to a deep red. Avaria had never been to this part of the Bastion before, which was saying a lot. As a child he’d wandered where his legs and the Bastion staff would allow.
They came to a circular stark white door inlaid with various glyphs and grooves. The stewardess extended a glowing index finger and traced the innermost glyph. Illumination swam through the grooves and into the outlying glyphs. The door dilated, revealing the chamber beyond. The stewardess dragged him inside. Geph stayed put.
Avaria eyed three women sitting at the far end of the room. Shit.
“Ah. We were wondering if and when you might arrive,” said Virtuoso Khal.
“I was not so confident as Virtuoso Khal and Queen Ahnil,” said the Norema Sel, the shortest of the three. She dismissed the stewardess with a nod, leaving Avaria to the wolves.
Wolf, really.
He eyed the queen. “Hello, mother.”
Avaria stared at the queen. He hadn’t seen her in at least a half dozen years. She looked older in the eyes though no less hawkish and intimidating. Reluctantly, if not slightly mockingly, he touched his right hand to his left shoulder in the formal salute.
“How may I be of service?”
Norema Sel gestured to an open chair at the table. “Sit.”
Avaria gave her a prolonged stare before accomodating her request. He hadn’t seen her in a while either. His heart fluttered momentarily. They’d been a pair at one time. A secret kept in shadows, for what would people think if they knew General Sel had shared her bed with him, the Norrith family castoff?
“Virtuoso Khal says you’re developing well,” Norema said.
“Have developed,” his mother said. “You’re able to wield mirkúr as I understand it.”
“Have been for ages,” Avaria said, picking at a loose fingernail.
The queen drew her lips to a thin line.
“You say that with such nonchalance, Avaria, that it suggests ignorance on your part,” Norema said. “There are very few left who can do what you do, let alone as an apprentice.”
Avaria considered her words. “It isn’t ignorance Nor—General. I’m simply indifferent. What does it matter if I’m able to wield The Raven’s Wings? Mastering illum and mirkúr has gotten me nowhere. I’m almost thirty years of age and the Hall sees fit to keep me there until I die.”
An exageration, but it often times felt like he would never leave.
“I can understand you feeling that way,” said Virtuoso Khal. She offered a sympathetic nod. “Apprenticeships at the Hall are nortoriously demanding, but they can ill afford to be otherwise.” She passed him a slip of parchment. “We have need of you, Avaria.”
“It’s time for you to spread your wings, so to speak,” Norema said.
Avaria scanned the parchment. His eyes went wide.
“A simple yes will do,” his mother said.
Avaria looked at the women. “I—”
“Unless you aren’t up to it,” Norema said. There was a glint in her red eyes.
Avaria slipped the parchment into his pocket. “Of course I am.”
“Excellent.” Norema gestured toward the door. “We’ll be in touch.”
Avaria stood and gave the formal salute. Then he withdrew.
“You haven’t said a word since we left the Bastion,” Geph said.
Avaria nodded. He was prone to withdrawing into himself in times of stress.
“Avaria?” Geph poked him in the leg with his nose. “What is it?”
“Have you heard of The Raven’s Rage?” Avaria asked.
“In passing,” Geph said. “What of it?”
“They, um…” Avaria swallowed. “They want me to forge it.”
Geph yelped. “A weapon? That weapon? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to?” Geph asked.
A light snow fell, dusting Avaria’s hair and shoulders as he walked. “Maybe.”
Geph whined. “You told them you would. I know you did, Avaria. I can smell the truth on you a mile away.” He snapped at a snowflake. “It’s personal, isn’t it? Fuck all, but of course it is. Avaria, your mother—”
“She needs to see!” Avaria snapped. “I need her to see what she saw in Avaness and Maryn. I want to do something she’ll be proud of, Geph. I just…” Avaria heaved a sigh into the frosty night. “I want her to want me like she did them.”
Geph licked Avaria’s hand.
“You head on back to the Hall,” Avaria said. “I need some time to think.”
Avaria had always found solace in the woods, in the trees beneath the sway of night. Unlike Helveden they enfolded him in silence and allowed him peace enough to think. To brood as he was wont to do. To waltz with the monsters of his mind as they made manifest at his side.
“Envy, Pride, and Wrath,” Avaria greeted. They followed him as hounds, threads of mirkúr trailing their wake. He made no move to banish them, but held his arms out wide. “What do you think? Should I oblige them, forge this weapon they so desperately desire?”
Wrath snarled.
“It would make them see,” Avaria agreed.
Pride snapped its teeth.
“True. I am the utmost of apprentices.”
Envy whined.
“Swallow your fear,” Avaria hissed. If he were to fail… “I need to be worthy. She needs to see me as more than just a thing she and father found in the woods.”
A child, covered in snow.
Blood from his eyes.
Smoke from his mouth.
“If I were to perish would she care?” he asked the hounds. “Would—”
Pride growled. Wrath and Envy bore their teeth-like-knives as a distant-growing-nearer shriek destroyed the forest calm. Avaria formed a thread of mirkúr to a blade; he advanced behind the hounds.
At length the trees fell to ruin, and they entered a glade. At the center stood a shrine; before the shrine there knelt a girl. Avaria and the hounds approached with heed. His mirkúr pulsed with every step; the hounds dripped ichor from their mouths.
“Who are you?” Avaria asked.
The girl turned. Her eyes were dead moons and her flesh was burnt paper; her hair hung in silver strands. She cocked her head.
Avaria held his blade between them. “I asked—”
“We in this moment depart,” the girl rasped, “replacing all that we are.”
She stood and took a step toward Avaria, dark energy enfolding her from head to toe. Where once her face had been now hung a snow-white shroud; and from her back, six wings of black.
The hounds dissolved in her presence.
Avaria fell to his knees beneath her sway, cold in his bones. What was she?
“Are you going to kill me?”
She approached and pulled him up into a cold embrace, whispering, “Listen to your dreams, for things are never as they seem. We in this moment depart, replacing all that we are…” She was gone, and Avaria was holding mist.
CHAPTER TWO—SHE
The meadow.
Avaria was alone save a bird in a tree. A raven. It blinked its beady eyes and squawked.
“Am I supposed to understand any of that?” Avaria asked.
The raven clucked. It abandoned its perch in favor of Avaria’s shoulder, digging its talons into his flesh. Avaria cursed and the bird snapped its beak. He shooed the stupid thing but that only served to tighten its grip. Avaria hissed.
“Ease up, all right? What do you want of me?”
The raven gestured with its wing.
“A tree,” Avaria said. “What about it?”
More talons. An authoritative squawk.
“Okay, okay!” Avaria approached the tree in all its silver majesty. He felt a sense of peace beneath its branches. Peace, with undertones of…something. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
The raven offered a soft cluck.
“Did something happen here?” Avaria asked.
“More than you know,” the raven said, and Avaria jumped. “Compose yourself.“
Avaria massaged the spot between his eyes. Talking birds. Had he gotten drunk before bed? Stoned beyond belief as Geph was wont to say?
“We in this moment depart,” the raven said, “replacing all that we are. It would do you well to remember that. Lest she lead you through a forest dark.“
“Lest who?” Avaria asked. “The girl from the woods? That…thing?”
“Stay vigilant, Avaria Norrith, for things aren’t always what they seem.“
The raven gave a great flap, ascending as The In Between was cloaked in flames.
Midmorning.
Avaria sipped of his flask. He’d gotten fuck all for sleep. Had sat awake in bed pondering the girl-thing in the woods and the raven in his dream—his new dream. Word for word, they had said the exact same thing.
“We in this moment depart,” he muttered, “replacing all that we are.”
“Cryptic,” offered Geph as they strolled the western grounds. The Hall was the city’s pride and joy, though its occupants were often times devoid of both. Fifty weeks of intellectual abuse quelled even the strongest of wills.
“Hmm.”
“Are you sure you weren’t—”
“Stoned beyond belief? No, Geph, I’m quite sure I wasn’t,” Avaria said.
Geph yawned. “What do you think it—er, she was? Demon of some sort?”
“Doubt it,” Avaria said. “Haven’t seen vultures in these parts for years.”
War and extinction had a very intimate relationship.
“Spirit?” Geph asked.
“Maybe.” Avaria stroked his chin. “Though its been at least a dozen years since I encountered one, and it looked nothing like the girl I saw last night. And the way she…” He trailed off. He’d neglected telling Geph about his hounds.
The longhound cocked an eyebrow.
Avaria sighed. “The way she dispersed my hounds with her sheer presence”—Geph barked objectionably—”put fear in me like I’ve never felt before. Have you ever been cold in your bones?”
“I can’t say that I have,” said Geph, “but more importantly—”
“I was a mix of things last night,” Avaria said. “I didn’t mean to let them come—”
“But you made no try to hold them back,” said Geph. “I know you better than you know yourself sometimes, Avaria. I’m one-hundred and fifty years old—I can literally smell bullshit a mile away.”
“Does it help if I tell you they were leashed?”
Geph narrowed his eyes. “How the fuck does one leash a sinhound?”
Avaria tapped his head. “In all the time you’ve known me, Geph, have I ever—ever—let them run amok? Have I ever hurt anyone beneath their sway?”
“No,” the longhound muttered. “But you have let them influence the way you live your life. Holding onto all that rage, all that pent up frustration and jealousy—you’re only making them stronger, Avaria, and that’s the part that frightens me the most. One day you’ll lose control and the hounds will sow slaughter unlike anything you’ve seen before.”
“And how—”
“I’ve seen unbounded sinhounds in my time,” said Geph. “Long before I came to be your friend. Long before your mother came to be.” He sighed, a faraway look manifesting in his eyes. “She was a good girl. But she couldn’t quell them in the end.”
“Geph—”
“I’ve a thing or two to take care of,” Geph said, breaking from Avaria.
Avaria stopped and watched the longhound trot the opposite direction.
Rain fell.
It was going to be a long day.
Geph was a local at The Saucy Seahawk. There was something about watching humans dressed as birds that spoke to him. Probably the whiskey. If a human chicken sauntered toward you with a glass of amber yum-yum, pelvis-thrusting like the world depended on it, it was rude to tell them no.
He sat in his favorite window seat, paws on the table, having sipped his second whiskey of the day. One might say such early drinking was boorish, but Geph was one-hundred fifty years old and there were certain things about which he gave very little fucks, as was the favored colloquialism of Helveden’s many youth.
Geph was also a dog.
He perked his ears at the familiar odor of another who partook in young-sun drink. A sand-haired man with scars aplenty dropped into the seat across from him.
“Cailean Catil. What a wonderful scent you tote.”
“Been a while, mutt. See that tongue of yours has aged like wine.”
They eyed each other fiercly.
Then the laughter came and Geph presented Cailean his paw.
“Not seen you since my sojourn in the Peaks of Dren,” said Cailean, smoothing back his hair. He gave Geph’s paw a shake then signaled for a drink. “How’s city life treating you? Still trailing what’s his name?”
“Avaria Norrith, sole surviving Prince of Ariath?” said Geph. “Religiously.”
Cailean nodded. “Good of you to do. The Hall is brutal. Dark joke amongst its graduates—easiest course is Suicidal Tendencies, an Introduction.”
Geph wrinkled his face in disgust. “Is that really a—”
“Course not,” Cailean said. His expression softened. “It’s still an issue though.”
They sat in silence a moment, Cailean sipping his whiskey as it came.
“So. You asked me here for more than just a drink,” said Geph.
Cailean nodded mid sip and slipped a folded piece of parchment to Geph. The longhound pushed it open with his nose, scanned its conents with a furrowed brow.
“Avaria received a similar request,” said Geph.
“I know,” said Cailean. “I was briefed this morning. General’s words? They want me to accompany him ‘in case he fucks it up.'” He rolled his eyes. “Talk about good faith.”
“I assume you’ll not reveal that last part should Avaria acquiese to their request,” said Geph.
“Course not,” Cailean said. “I know enough about Avaria to know what makes him tick. Not a chance in hell I’d play to break his confidence.” He took another sip. “Think he’ll do it?”
“I’ve little doubt,” said Geph. “Like you said, I know what makes him tick. Although…”
Cailean cocked an eyebrow.
“Cold as she may seem I think Ahnil adores him in her way, as subtle as it seems,” said Geph. “I was in the woods that night when she found him as a babe. I can say with all the certainty in my bones that never have I seen a mother more in love.”
“Trouble must’ve started when she sent him to the Hall,” said Cailean.
Geph nodded. “Hopefully this business with The Raven’s Rage will abolish this masochistic desire of his.” He leaned closer to Cailean. “What do you suppose they want with it?”
“Nothing savory, I can tell you that much,” Cailean said. “If history’s shown us anything there’s a reason weapons like The Raven’s Rage are destroyed. Last time it was used the drenarians were eaten by the sun.”
“‘Thus the Peaks of Dren do dwell in night etern’,” recited Geph. Many a tragedy chronicled the drenarian’s cruel demise. “There’s surely something more than meets the eye.”
“Always is,” said Cailean. He rose from his seat. “I’ll see you ’round, old mutt.”
Geph gave a wave and Cailean withdrew.
He laid his head on the table and huffed.
Something is amiss.
“I’ll do it,” said Avaria. “On the condition that you tell me what it’s for.”
“Temporal alteration,” said Norema. “The chance to rewrite history and prevent the vultures’ wrath.” She leaned across the table so their noses nearly touched. “To bring back those we’ve lost.”
Avaria blinked. He hadn’t expected such a forthcoming, if not ludicrous response. “Is…is that even possible?”
“Anything is possible,” said Virtuoso Khal, “when one possesses possibility itself.”
Maybe they were stoned.
“The Raven’s Rage is more than just a weapon,” said the queen. “It is a key.”
“The key,” Norema said.
“How does it work?” Avaria asked. “How do you intend to rewrite time?”
“With enough energy it will open a way to the Temporal Sea,” said Virtuoso Khal. “And through the Sea we’ll sail to where it all went wrong and the darkness roused from sleep. We’ll slay the beast before it wakes.”
Now they really sounded stoned—but Avaria was intrigued. Avaness. Maryn. Could he bring them back? So many years alone. So many years reliving the news of their demise. Confined to the darkness of the Hall. Not even his mother had come.
“Your life could be different,” said Wrath.
“You could be with your blood,“Envy hissed.
“You could be free,” suggested Pride.
Free. Of these chains. Of this loneliness. Of this loveless life to which he’d been condemned. Better to have to died in the snow that fateful night than to have wound up here.
“I’ll do it,” Avaria reaffirmed. “Just point me on my way.”
Avaria walked the Bastion courtyard at a measured pace, burdened with purpose for the first time in his life. In the depths and darkness of the Peaks of Dren he would find the fragments of that old and ill-used sword, and with them forge a life worth living.
“Even when your steps are slow you’re faster than most.”
Avaria turned to the voice, waited as the queen approached.
“Quick when silent,” said Avaria. “Lest the Virtuosos beat you.”
His mother winced.
“You seem surprised,” Avaria said. “Or is that guilt?”
She said nothing. Avaria walked and she attended him.
“What we ask of you…it will be arduous.”
“I know,” Avaria said. “And I can handle it. I’ve trained and studied far too long to fail. But you only know that secondhand. Because you ordered Virtuoso Khal to keep you up to speed. Do I embarrass you? Does it make you ill to pay me mind? It seems to me we only speak when it’s convenient.”
The queen frowned. “You know you don’t, Avaria. You could never—”
“Then why the distance all these years?” Avaria hissed. “Fifteen years, mother. Fifteen years of torment in the form of erudition while Avaness and Maryn reaped glory and affection here at home!”
Avaria yelped; his cheek stung. His mother held her left hand firm and ready for another go. “How dare you… How dare you speak ill of the dead. Of your broth—”
“You struck me…” The words felt strange as they left his tongue. In all his years she had never hit him once. He touched his cheek and turned away, left his mother standing in the courtyard as the shock withered and the pain bloomed.
Walked.
Walked until he reached the Hall.
Until he reached his favorite tree at the northmost end of the grounds.
He cried.
An old city.
A grand city.
A dead city.
Avaria blinked. He was dreaming, but he had never dreamt this place before. A necropolis beneath a sky that threatened rain, the skeletons of spires rising up as if the ruin were the maw of something monstrous. Instinct drew him inward, and he walked with measured steps, the stillness sending shivers up his spine.
At the center of the city stood the greatest spire of them all. Despite the ruination it was more or less intact. Avaria touched the wall; whispers kissed his ears and a feeling of dread entombed his heart. There was sorrow here inside the stones; fear and fury warred for rule.
“This place was beautiful once.”
Avaria turned to the voice and met a man with midnight-feathered wings. There was a gentle melancholy to his face; his eyes were two gray pools of woe.
“They call me Ruin King. They call me Alerésh the Dread.” He held his arms out wide. “I have done horrible things.”
Avaria frowned. “I—”
“What do you mean?” a second softer voice inquired. “Why are we here?”
Avaria started as a figure passed through him; he realized he was little more than a ghost.
“We were rotten, she and I.” Alerésh closed his eyes. “We envisioned life, yet from our hubris we birthed only ash. Ash—and annihilation like this world has never known.” He opened his eyes. “You quelled the malediction once, but you will not do so again. The hounds hunger—and they are near.
“She is near.”
Scream.
Like an infant kissed by flames.
Scream.
Scream.
SCREAM.
She left him by the tree beneath which he had slept.
Her wings trailed behind her like the train of a tattered gown.
“So much ruin.” Her voice was ash in the wind; it ached to speak.
She walked—through the darkness, kissed by shadows she had mothered for millennia.
She dwelled—in thoughts of geneses and ends; of hounds and fowl.
She died—
and was reborn.
No sleep.