Audience: YA
Genre: Introspective, Mystery
Author: Gabriella Batel

Orbit al-Kattani is not of Arclight Hollow. He knows this. Not as you or I would know. Not with pictures tiptoeing, pirouetting, skating through our minds, murals that overlay our drowsy eyes, or with the shivering scent of cinnamon in the rice and cumin in the lamb and our mother’s lotion with a whistled lullaby.

He knows this in dreams. Slips of a world that should not, cannot exist. Yet, his soul remembers. He wakes and believes them.

Not all do. He’s paid the price for that.

How?

Bear with me. Come see.

Look at him, amber face tilted to the lilac sky. He sits in the bazaar, crisscross on a knotted rug of purple and crimson, stitched through with flaxen paisley. Hawkers under dyed-silk canopies shout their wares: lapis, coffee, soaps, shellfish, henna. And of course, stories. Poetry crooned over the burble of a pebble fountain, comedy delivered from behind a grill toasting a peppered leg of beef, prose recited by barefoot wanderers passing carnations to anyone who bats an eye, scripts performed by lovesick actors, gleaming with incensed sweat and palm oil.

With a tweak in his chest, Orbit recalls—imagine if déjà vu were a verb—that the hawkers in his old world were aggressive. Grasping, guilting, voices like tobacco smoke. Here, a woman with skin the rich brown of a dunedrake, her coiled hair wrapped in a gilt violet scarf, waves and smiles to a man twice her height, who offers the same glassfin repair. Both stretch their hands—snicked and burned by years at the forge, from blowing and teasing cracked sails into so fine a crystal that they cup the wind. Their bones hook parallel to the great wyrm ribs guarding the Hollow. The evening brings a freckling of stars.

Children patter through the byways, kicking up clouds of dust, trailing puppies or tame caracals. They pause to accept a carnation, slaver over a dripping pink slice of meat draped on charred flatbread, dip their toes in a trickle of water, gasp at the swoon of an enraptured lad. They pause to listen. To watch. To read. To know.

They stop at Orbit’s rug. Settle in the sand. The puppies sit and wag stubby tails; the wildcats lie down and lick their paws. Mothers in headscarves and cropped trousers—stepping from portals like galactic spirals, calling their little ones for dinner—see the cluster and gather. Retired soldiers, sipping sparkling barley, gather. Even two acolytes, adrift in the bazaar for the evening, swaying between stalls in their sandy linen robes, yield to the forbidden pull.

They watch as Orbit dips his fingers into a basin of water, then sinks the dripping tips into powders: chartreuse, indigo, scarlet, murky silver. One soldier sporting a birthmark the size of an apple lifts an eyebrow at an acolyte with long braids and pinched lips. A child pulls his calico puppy into his lap and squeezes. A mother daydreams about her children’s water paints at home, acknowledges for the first time the itch in her palms to brush out the likeness of festival kites, oceans she’s never seen, and not the sandstorm, but the sandstorm’s giddy rage.

Orbit picks up a lyre. A snakeling of nerves curls in his belly. He’s never tried this before. Painting, yes. Concert work, yes. Martial dance, mime, wordless song, sketches on hundreds of sheafs of paper that moved like magic when he flipped through. But never this.

Will he reach his audience? It is the longest journey from a fingertip to a heart. Even a talented, wizened fingertip can fail.

Mine has.

Orbit’s has.

It did with the first tree he thumbed onto canvas with oil paint. The first breath he ever exhaled into a woodwind. The first left-footed step onto shifting sands, the first facial expression without a mirror, the first belted note in grand public, the first bored charcoal sketch. His cheeks burned, and passersby frowned.

Some did. Mostly the ones who remembered when he had words.

He closes his eyes, and a smile more arcane than the origins of Arclight Hollow peels away from ivory teeth. With stained fingers, he plucks the first string.

Are you of Arclight Hollow? I only ask because I would not weary you with a redundancy.

No? Strangers. Orbit would say you and he are kin, if he could say at all.

Come. Stand next to one of the great wyrm’s ribs. This is my favorite. A fern-like crack, spiraling with fronds, stretches up the shaft where lightning struck it. If you peer through, tender eye pressed hazardously to the sharded gap, you may feel a waft of ocean cool in the empty center. If the sun sits right, you can spy deepwyrm eggs slumbering, growing, dreaming.

Gaze into the desert, where heat ripples into rainbows and the sky touches the dunes. Gales whip golden, crystal grains into frenzies and whirlpools. Bold youths harness the wind and skim over the surface, whooping at a sharp turn, earning blisters and then calluses as they grip sweetgrass ropes.

None venture to the gemstone glimmers a wyrm’s length away.

Lightning favors this land. It presses its fiery, passionate lips to the ground. Its blasts shape the sand into slabs of glass. Glass where the past seeps up in the reflections.

The sand riders don’t venture so far. Even a windlancer, who cuts through the world on the back of a dunedrake, her baby strapped to her chest, her silken hair flaring with each flap of wings as she whoops into the slip stream, doesn’t test the wild magic. She might disappear into years gone.

Let me take you a different way. Tap in as I’ve been taught.

Ten years ago, Orbit busked in the bazaar central. He sat with a stick of incense, a stack of thyme flatbread, and a chipped pottery bowl.

The bowl gleamed with coins, solid gold. Crowds clustered about him like grapes on a vine: children who should have been in school, adults who should have been at work, acolytes who should have been at training, elders who should have been in the grave.

Stories thrived in Arclight Hollow, unique, heartfelt, the whole gamut. Orbit’s were… different. His were not an expertly crafted fabrication or well-imitated experience: his were a life lived and suffered and savored anew each day. Birth and funeral, conception and burial, lit on fire and burned down to gold. Delivered by a voice like velvet.

It did not matter that, in his tales, the sun rose and set once a year, that Death was a brother, and the queen of the godlings was a mortal woman with a fractured skull; they were real.

Orbit grinned when a young girl scooted closer or a group of adolescent boys lingered while the sand sleds called. When a dunedrake landed peacefully on the far side of the rib cage and crept closer, the townsfolk only shifted aside to give it room. A young woman, not far from his age, with a quill behind her ear, reflected in its brass eyes, and it in hers.

The spell only broke when Orbit stopped speaking, and the contented smile tripped from his face. The crowd sat up and twisted, the quill woman straighter than the rest. The drake took wing, whipping away rugs and tents, drenching wares in reddish soil, scattering the gold coins in Orbit’s bowl. Orbit sneezed.

A lithe man with a clipped beard and a bejeweled staff approached: a peace officer. Civilians often goggled at the sapphires and jade embedded in the acacia wood they carried—few took a moment to ponder how those would pierce skin and break cheekbones.

Orbit stood. Muscles in his bare, dusty torso toned and relaxed. He beat sienna earth from his trousers.

“Can I help you, officer?” he asked.

The officer seemed to shake himself free of a hypnosis. His eyes clung to Orbit’s as if begging for one more finely honed intonation.

Instead, he cleared his throat and offered Orbit a folded slip of parchment. “A cease-and-desist order,” was all he said.

The crowd’s throats gave a collective click. The quill woman brought a shaking hand to her mouth; she tasted grit and clove. Orbit could only stare.

He was the first to find words. He stammered for the first time in his life in Arclight Hollow. “On whose authority?”

“The Lesser Scionate.”

The quill woman followed Orbit through a portal to the Lesser Scionate. The limestone building rose in fountain arcs and domes, white marble cresting the tops like far-off snow caps. Sprawling gardens of vetiver and cypress soaked the air with perfume. Desert roses burst with blue-petaled heads and bloodred thorns. Paved paths, gray as a fresh pearl, scrolled through the emerald foliage.

Another might have taken time to present himself to the Scionate. Cleaned in a cold spring and dabbed himself with frankincense, applied henna and shrouded himself in a cotton cowl, tamed back his curls with a jeweled headstring. Orbit brought only his sleep dreams and his satin tongue.

The doormen allowed entrance—hearings were in session, though few in the Hollow ever attended. Orbit and the quill girl stepped from the blanketed desert heat onto tiles as cool and flawless as the night sky. Frescoed ceilings—depictions of the great deepwyrm in its merciful prime, of the oceanic reunion of the ten nations, of magic skittering through the glass fields—arched a lifetime overhead, joisted by beams like the Hollow’s protective ribs. Knotted tapestries unfurled along porcelain walls, and on either side of the hall, stairwells climbed to a mezzanine.

The Scion herself sat in the back, reclining in an architecture of cushions. A bowl of shelled nuts waited by her knee. A single peace officer stood beside her.

The Scion was taller than most men dreamed to be. Obsidian hair waved down to her hips, and a trio of baubles glinted in her earlobes. She sat with the poise of a woman who had been trained to sit, unmoving, through sand and heat, night and wolves, without stirring.

Clammy palmed, Orbit paused his approach, and so did the quill woman. She startled when he turned to her and said, “I never caught your name.”

“Rin.”

“Rin.” He exhaled a bit easier, and his shoulders sat a little squarer as he resumed his steps.

“Orbit al-Kattani.” The Scion had a voice to rival Orbit’s, low and rumbling as the underearth movements of the wyrms.

Orbit swept a slight bow. “My lady—”

The Scion raised a supple hand, decked with a single ruby ring, for him to wait. To listen. To learn. “You cannot change my mind.”

Rin intook a sharp breath. But the cruelest of it all?

Orbit was reduced to silence.

The moment stretched like an over-pulled muscle.

Orbit shook his head, tossing a spritz of sand from his hair, where it shushed on the floor. “I don’t understand.”

“I appreciate fiction. I cannot accept misinformation. Particularly when functional society grinds to a stop. When workers laze about and acolytes pine for a myth. I understand they’re little, white things. But if one lie slips, where does it end?”

The corners of Orbit’s eyes crimped. “I don’t lie.”

By her tone, she was a mother explaining to a small, troublesome child. “The sun rises once a day, Death is not a man, and a world like that does not exist.”

Orbit’s eyes unfocused. Or focused on something the rest could never see. He clutched his midriff, as though afraid he might be bleeding vermillion, lungs and liver, onto the spotless floor.

“I’ll make you a deal,” the Scion murmured. Like a plea. “Continue your stories. With my blessing. But they are tales, not histories.”

Orbit’s stories reverberated with lifeblood. The Scion’s compromise echoed like the inside of a stilted doll, a taxidermy.

Orbit shook his head. Minutely, at first, then gaining force. The pained slant carved away from his brows.

“I had a sister,” he said, a crack through the word. “I don’t remember her name. I don’t know my real name. But I know her face. And it slips away unless I drag it back.”

He turned his back on the Scion.

“Orbit.”

Arclight’s magic—the sweep of time-touching glass, the skyward heart of the dunedrakes, the fizzing rush of the spiral portals—rooted deep in the Scion. In her voice. In her words. A language she alone spoke.

It bore down on Orbit like the crushing weight of all the world’s sands.

Orbit faced the Scion, trembling, as though his own limbs betrayed him. She had risen from her cushions. Storm-bright eyes pinned him in place.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and an ink breeze curled through the room, raising the hairs on bare arms. Orbit’s tongue fell limp.

Orbit wept. Rin held him through a long, silent night, collapsed under the Scionate’s towering trees, watering the lush earth.

I will not repeat the words the Scion used. Words the acolytes should have been memorizing and practicing, when instead they curled up at Orbit’s feet. Words she, no doubt, practiced until her tongue bled on her teeth. Words the Greater Scionate instructed her in. When peace is complete and frail, the keeper, quailing, dusts away even the suggestion of an irritant.

The Scion’s words took Orbit’s language. He cannot speak. His voice lies limp over his heart. He cannot sign. His wrists grow heavy, as if with shackles, when he tries. He cannot even write. The pen topples from a spasming hand.

But I can.

Welcome back.

I neglected to mention: the glass fields return what they take. Eventually. A careless omission, I know. Thank you for your patience. If you’re willing, a bit more?

Follow me. Past the lightning-struck rib, under its ashen shadow, past a band of acolytes kneeling on shifting dunes, over the hump of a drowsing deepwyrm, into the hubbub of the bazaar. Taste the meat smoke on the air—the searer mumbles a rhyme about the man named Death—and inhale the moist scent of a thousand human bodies—many without parasols muse what it must be like to have the sunset for six months straight. A man sells a ten-year-old niece her first earrings, hoops swinging under chips of bone, and assures her they’re fit for the shattered queen of the godlings. The sled-fixers each snap a sail into place and present it to their customers. The thirteen-year-old jumps, pumps his fist, dashes off for a game of World Jumper. The twenty-five-year old pumps his fist and tips well. Heavy coins clink to the bottom of a jar.

The same clattering, wealthy notes ring from further south. But they are a haphazard, faint percussion beneath the melody of painted strings.

Ten years of practice have thickened calluses on Orbit’s fingertips and turned militant strokes into a dance. His fingers arabesque over the lyre strings, where a nocturne chants the grief of a gift taken. They glide over canvas, where color and packed-in layers immortalize a sister with crescent-moon eyes, a prim nose, and roses in her cheeks. They drag through sand, where sketches of a second sister slowly take accurate form. They flourish a goat-hair brush that reveals the impish grin of a brother in quicksilver fabric.

His limbs, aching from hundreds upon thousands upon millions of attempts, attempts to strike true in a world of whirlwinds and misdirection, can shadow play a familiar love story. His face, painted in metal or stone, held in a single pose that puts sculptors to shame, can confess the guilt of an unremembered fault. Failure. Accident. Whatever brought him here.

His voice—not dead, only crippled—can unleash the rage with a single, haunting note.

And an ally’s quill can scritch out the names. A friend with everything to lose and someone to lose it for can whisper the memorized baring of a soul.

There’s no need now, though. Orbit finishes his serenade. Opens his eyes and realizes from the warm hum in his chest that he has been singing.

His lyre strings, his ribs, his trousers, his rug, the closest members of his audience, are afire like an aurora with splatters of his paints. Ears ring with a tune that a father might sing to his newborn daughter, harmonies that will guide tonight’s dreams and soften tomorrow’s workload.

The crowd is the densest it has ever been. It stretches like a lake, deep, soothing, teeming. Whispers chase each other to the fringes and out into the market. Repetitions. Rehashings. Reimaginings. Plans for a flute duet, brainstorms for the combination of chartreuse and indigo. Goosebumps, and tears slipping down cheeks, to be asked about and discussed.

Orbit sits, wordless. He strokes the strings and remembers a flash of his other sister, the shape of her nose and hair, crisp and vivid. He scrambles off his rug and begins dragging his finger through the sand.

He does not see the single straggler. The friend with a quill, never absent, knocks a soft kick into his hip, and he turns around.

A palanquin, the precise orange of the sunset in Orbit’s most recent painting. Sitting perched on the edge, the Scion touches a tear on her cheek. Examines it as though it’s blood, slippery and rich as garnet. Her shoulders no longer appear crucified in place, all iron and textbook. They… flow. Like a glissando. Like an upstroke. Like the timbre of a question or a love song.

She and Orbit lock eyes. She, in clean silks, wearing a dutiful ring. He, kissed by color, vibrating with music.

She nods to him. She is too far for him or his companion to hear above the din of travelers, shoppers, sellers. But her rouge lips appear to form the words, Well played.

She continues to speak, prayer in her very skin.

When she is finished, Orbit’s quaking hand rises to touch the hollow of his throat. His tongue curves to the insides of his teeth, like the rising ribs of Arclight Hollow, to form an r.

I pull the quill from behind my ear and bite the nib to stay the tears when the first thing he whispers is my name.

Gabriella Batel: I’m Gabriella Batel, author of heart-in-your-throat novels, including my acclaimed debut series, a collective total of 10 years in the works, Don’t, YA thrillers with a supernatural twist! I’m also an adrenaline-craving Catholic woman with a spunky love for God and my family, plus a fiery passion for acting, movies, running, music, and all things YA fiction. And, by the way, I’m already working on the next thrill ride…. Website: gabriellabatel.com

Audience: YA
Genre: Adventure
Author: Gwendolyn Benefiel

We failed.

The desert wind whipped through my matted maple-hued hair, trapping sand and dragging the rough grains across my pale skin as I stood at the entrance of the ancient city of Ribgate Crossing. It’s smooth, weathered stone gates towering above my small frame. A cold chill fell over me as I took every ounce of my strength to stand steadily with my gaze unwavering as the gates slowly creaked open. They were old, and it wasn’t easy to open them. The gatekeepers were strong, but not fast. That was just fine for most people, as those in Ribgate Crossing never hurried. Their city had stood there for longer than anyone knew.

Our city. I glanced back at the others in my group to find their faces set in a sort of grim determination. We were an assigned unit, placed together to fulfill whatever tasks we were given efficiently. There was Kieth, a sturdy member of the Excalibyrn guild, Lucinda, a clever Chalimancer, Amedee, an inventive Wanderie, and me… the leader. A role I didn’t quite fit. Turning back, I stepped through the now-open gates slowly, letting each footfall echo through the emptying streets.

We had not found what we’d gone looking for.

As we continued on, I felt the whispers start up. My whole group began to shuffle nervously, shoes scuffing on the stone paths. I didn’t know any of them very well. I liked to keep my distance from my colleagues- it was the only way to protect my sanity in case of disbandment. I had been alone before, and didn’t want to face that again. The others clearly feared we would be deemed incompetent for our performance on this assignment, and when we arrived at headquarters, we found as much already true. Our commander stood silently before the entrance to headquarters, his mouth in a tight line.

“We didn’t find him,” I said to break the silence. The gravity of my words seemed to change the air around us as what everyone had likely already supposed was indeed confirmed as true. Our commander’s gaze seemed to pierce into me even further.

“Miss Irvine,” he said with a level, calm tone, “please elaborate further.”

“We’ve been looking for weeks now!” I muttered sharply, feeling my face heat up. “I shouldn’t have to elaborate further- you’ve seen my previous reports. There’s nothing, sir. Nothing. We’ve checked everywhere within city limits and the surrounding areas. We’ve lost five men alone in this search for one to the lantern crabs in the east quadrant-“

“Enough.” His voice held an odd tone as he turned around slowly, motioning at the doorway to the headquarters. A woman rushed out the door, her hair in a tangle, eyes wild.

“Miss Vivienne, please,” she said, her voice breaking as she choked back a sob. “Find my boy.”

“Ma’am, we’ve already looked-“ I began.

“So look again! I don’t care how many times you’ve checked, I know he’s out there, he has to be.” She spoke with a sense of finality, like she really believed her son was still out there.

“Ma’am, I already told you it’s practically impossible for him to have survived this long-“ the woman grabbed my wrist, gripping it tight enough that I knew there’d be a mark there later. She flipped it around and stared at the small tattoo, a half-closed eye with a swirl around it, then growled.

“Look with more than your eyes,” she said, her tone harsher than it had been a moment before. “I know what you are, Visioneer.” I flinched at the word, taking a step back and yanking my wrist out of her grasp. I’d been so exhausted that morning, I’d forgotten to cover up my guild tattoo.

“ I don’t do that stuff anymore,” I muttered, rubbing my wrist. “Haven’t in years.”

“Why not? Just open a sparkly little portal and look for my boy, you Visioneer witch!”

My team and the commander stood there silently as the woman continued to make demands. I pleaded with them with my eyes for help, but the commander raised a hand, and all of them went inside the headquarters. I felt a rush of cold resilience settle over me as the iron door clanged shut behind them. Turning back to the woman, I leveled my voice.

“I will not be using my powers for anyone. Not you, not my team, not-” my eyes caught a sparkle from the woman’s neck. A shard of glass. Small, but significant. People of Ribgate Crossing seldom wore ornamentation at all, and when they did, it was only the finest silver and gold; never a shard of glass, and certainly not one as imperfect as this one was. There was a wide scratch across the surface and a small hole bored into the top. It was threaded on a simple piece of twine. What caught my eye most wasn’t any of this, however; it was the color. A light gold, mixed with bits of sand, as if it had been blown in the middle of the desert. The only place where glass like this was in the entirety of Arclight Hollows was in the glass fields, far outside of city limits and the directly surrounding areas. Adjacent to areas we’d searched, but not one of them. “Where did you get this?”

Her eyes widened as her hand flew to her throat, clutching the tiny shard. “It was the last thing he brought to me before he disappeared. Isn’t it beautiful? He was going to get me more the day he disappeared- beautiful suncatchers for his beautiful mother, he said- oh, my precious boy-“ she was fully crying now, the sobs wracking her body.

“Why didn’t you tell us before that your son went outside of our search limits? I asked, bewildered.

“I’m a mother. I’ve hardly been rational,” she choked out between sobs. I stepped back, feeling a new determination.

“I’ll find him,” I said quietly, hesitating with each word. She looked up, eyes welling with hope.

“You’ll use your powers?” She asked, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as if she’d won something.

“No,” I replied firmly. “But I’ll check the fields now that I know he might be there.” She nodded and stepped aside to let me head to the street.

Night was falling in the city, the stone buildings and ancient architecture seeming to become one with the moon above. Everything shimmered with a sense of age. I was exhausted, but I had to do this now. If I didn’t, well… I didn’t know if I’d even have a job the next day. Not that completing this now would fix that… my secret was out, and there was nothing I could do about it. I travelled through the old streets swiftly, hopping over broken stones and calling for the gatekeepers to let me out.

“It’s a little late, Vivienne,” one of them called out, but they opened the gates regardless. I let a small smile play on my lips. I wasn’t hopeful that I’d find the boy alive, but perhaps… if he was in the fields, there was a chance.

The moon rose above me as I hurried along to the fields, full on running. Running a distance like this was nothing to me; I’d been trained to use the essence of time around me to accelerate my speed. I was a Visioneer, after all… I had more control over these things than members of the other guilds. I could manipulate time and see what others couldn’t see.

Arriving at the fields, I surveyed the area. The glass sparkled in the moonlight, sand drifting over it, adding a crystalline effect. It was dangerously beautiful. To the average passerby, it just looked like another territory. I knew better.

The glass of these fields reflected not just the current time, but all time. It absorbed it like a magnet, the constant wind blowing gates around with the sand. Walking here was perilous… no one could keep themselves from being whirled through time should they stumble upon a gate.

No one except me, that was.

I thought for a moment before I took a breath, wincing as some sand hit my lungs. My eyelids fluttered to a close, eyes rolling back in my head as I began to search. I wasn’t using my powers for the woman, I told myself. I was using them to give myself peace of mind. That was all.

As my mind stretched, I looked through the various timelines in my head before reaching out three fingers and drawing a small circle in the air in front of me.

“Eldin”, I said softly, aware I was the first person to speak the lost boy’s name aloud in three weeks. It was necessary, I told myself. Three weeks of hell and saying it was the only way to know for sure.

Opening my eyes, I searched within the circle. I’d found him. There he was, his small frame limply lying on the ground in the middle of a crowded square. My heart clawed its way into my throat as I pushed back tears; what I’d already known was true. I lifted my fingers to close my gate, only to stop cold.

His arm had twitched.

I felt my heart rate rise as a wave of hope and fear washed over me. Closing my eyes again, I quickly reached into the circle, tethering myself to the moment before beginning to run, eyes closed. The sand around me began to feel like a pool of jelly as I floundered on, holding the thin string that tethered me to Eldin. I began to feel the sharp, burning sensation behind my eyes as the world around me felt softer and fuzzier. I pushed inward, straining with each step. I had to reach him. I had to. It was the least I could do-

“We gather here today to present to you a new era.” A booming voice echoed across the main plaza of Ribgate Crossing. I stumbled onto a side street, the world speeding up around me. I quickly pulled the hood of my cloak low across my head as I began to scan the crowd around me for the people I’d seen near Eldin. I still had the tether, but it was skewed; no matter how I tried, I couldn’t seem to find precisely where the boy had fallen. I mingled with those around me, sidestepping around various pedestrians. That’s when the voice spoke again.

“People of Ribgate Crossing, we’re on your side.” I felt a wave of cold wash over me as I slowly turned to face the plaza stage, already knowing what I was going to see. I’d heard those words before; replayed them in my head thousands of times. Sure enough, there they were: the Visioneers. They stood in a circle with the Guild Leader, Atticus Dramzine, facing the crowd. I recognized this moment now. It was the day the Visioneers fell. I shivered but joined the crowd in pushing towards the stage, entranced by the events unfolding before me.

He stood there so confidently, his signature side smile contrasting with his bushy eyebrows and graying beard. There was something about Atticus that captivated people and held them at attention. The way he walked, talked, held himself up- he was magnetic. The entire crowd leaned in, holding onto every word as he continued to talk. I leaned in as well, unable to stop myself.

“We’ve realized we’re not living up to our full potential as the highest of the Guilds. Our knowledge is much more valuable than any of you could imagine… and the time has come to share it with you. Here today we stand, ready to enlighten you all.” The crowd cheered, unaware of the little insults Atticus had stitched into his flowery speech. I snapped out of the trance as the crowd continued to roar, realizing what was happening. The city was mere moments from a catastrophe. I clenched my fists and stepped away, desperate to find Eldin before the world came crashing down around him.

“Master, there’s a boy lying here.” I picked out a sweet, high-pitched voice amidst the chaos of the crowd. Something seemed vaguely familiar about it… I started towards it, weaving through people of various guilds. A group of Chalimancers mimicked the stance of the Visioneers, eagerly hoping they might be a part of the ritual as well. Wanderies stood in clusters, all staring with starry eyes at the plaza stage. Excalibyrn guild members had a hand on their swords, prepared to be enlightened as honorably as possible. All of them accepted the Visioneers as their overlords. Not one of them thought twice. That was the problem.

“Sweetie, let’s not drag him by his hair. I’ll help him up.” A second voice replied to the first. Once again I felt as though I should be able to place it. I continued pushing through the crowd to the voices. I walked past elders and children, mothers and fathers, young adults and middle-aged folk. No one had skipped the summit. They were all there, almost all the city. I felt a sickening feeling twist in my stomach like a knife. I had to get out of there before the event happened.

Reaching the pair I’d heard talking, I found myself frozen a few feet away from them. Instinctively, I lowered my head to avoid even a flicker of recognition from the people in front of me, for I was nearly face-to-face with my younger self.

Melting back into the crowd, I watched from a distance as five-year-old Vivienne Irvine helped her mentor tend to Eldin. Her soft brown hair curled in wisps around her face like a halo, her big brown eyes peering curiously at the boy’s tired face. I reached up quietly and felt my own hair, straightened and braided back. I pulled that braid over my shoulder, looking at the streaks of gold that had been painted on with each victory over the desert of Arclight Hollows. I blinked again, conscious of my left eye flashing teal as I held onto my tether to Eldin’s spot and actively used my powers to prepare for my escape with him. Little Vivienne had no idea what was ahead of her. She looked so carefree, so innocent- I sighed, prepared to take Eldin back, rehearsing ways to keep my younger self from recognizing me. Just then, I heard Atticus speak again from across the plaza. My time was up.

“People of Ribgate Crossing, the time has come for us to show you the true future of this magnificent city.” I felt ice in my blood as I braced myself for what came next. “We, the Visioneers, are here to bring this truth to you during your time of prosperity. Now gather, gather… The time has come… Let’s take a look at where we are a thousand years from now.”

The people pressed in, breathing taut. All eyes were glued to Atticus and the Visioneers as they stood in that circle. They began to chant, softly at first, the crowd silent to hear what they were saying. Not that they could understand a word of it; Visioneer chants weren’t in a tongue identifiable to anyone outside of the Guild. I shuffled back awkwardly to stay as close to my younger self and Eldin as possible as the chanting increased in volume. The sunny day began to darken as the voices of the Visioneers rose, swirling around the plaza. The spectators swayed back and forth, struggling to keep their balance against the power of the voices. I held my own ground, eyes continuing to glow teal as I used my own abilities to keep time around me steady. In the circle on the plaza stage, all of the Visioneers’ left eyes glowed as well, silently indicating their use of power. I felt helpless as I glanced back at my younger self, who stood frozen, gazing in awe at the sight before her.

As the swirl continued, the familiar feeling of stillness came upon me. The Visioneers were almost done with their ritual. Atticus turned to face the crowd again, side smile pulled into a full-on grin as he threw his arms above his head in victory, trailing his fingers in a circle. A circle of magic appeared and expanded as the others continued chanting, visible to all in the plaza. Atticus turned back to face the circle, the power of the others’ voices lifting him up into the air as he reached into the circle and displayed the city’s future to the crowd.

Where Ribgate Crossing stood was an empty shell.

The buildings were rubble, the sun nowhere to be seen. The glass fields had expanded right up to the former city gates, which had disintegrated into almost nothing. There were no signs of life, no indication of a thriving society.

“We’re not going to make it,” an Excalibyrn spoke first, dropping his sword with a clatter on the stone pavement of the plaza. “None of us are going to make it.”

Panic swelled in the crowd as Atticus began to wave his arms wildly, searching through the memory for the reason behind it. He rewound through the years, desperately searching for the cause of the disaster as the crowd grew increasingly more upset. Eventually, he reached the moment, and a hushed silence fell over the crowd.

There, playing in the circle, was a projection of Atticus himself, instigating the destruction of the city. What he did exactly was unclear, but the cause was crystal; Atticus’s face fell as the crowd grew wild, snarling in an animal-like manner. They rushed the plaza stage, tearing through the Visioneers. The Visioneers attempted to fight back, slowing people around them and temporarily freezing time, but to no avail. The other houses combined far outnumbered them. As they fell one by one, I looked back at my younger self again. My mentor was carrying both myself and Eldin out, young Vivienne sobbing wildly while my mentor tried to hush her. I rushed after them, grabbing onto Eldin and wrestling him out of my mentor’s arms.

“That’s my son,” I growled, trying to disguise my voice as best as I could. He nodded and let me take the boy. As I picked him up, my hood fell back slightly. I quickly reached up to fix it, but as I glanced at my mentor, I could see the spark of recognition in his eyes. It felt as if time slowed around us as he locked eyes with me. Then I realized his left eye was glowing teal; time was slowing.

“Tell me… how does…” he broke off, looking at me wildly like a caged animal desperate for escape. I sighed and shook my head, stepping back.

“Take care of me,” I said as I pulled in my tether again, ready to hop back into my own timeline with Eldin. My mentor nodded slowly, gripping my screaming younger self as he returned the flow of time to normal and disappeared into a dark alleyway. I nodded after him in thanks before stepping through my circle, the fuzzy feeling returning as I closed my eyes and felt my way through the dark, the jelly, and then the sandstorm. Eldin remained motionless in my arms, apart from the occasional twitch. I felt grateful knowing he was alive, yet I couldn’t help but worry about his condition. As we made our way out of the glass fields, I collapsed in exhaustion, breathing in the desert air slowly under the full moon. I turned to Eldin, checking his breathing. It came in little shallow gasps, but was there. I had to get him back.

Standing up and dusting the sand off of myself and Eldin, I reached for my powers again, preparing to move swiftly back to Ribgate Crossing. After taking another minute to breathe, I began the journey, feeling nothing but emptiness as the wind whipped through my braid.

They were gone, all of them. The day I’d seen had been the day the House of the Visioneers fell. The guild now consisted of one member, and when I was gone, it wouldn’t exist at all. There would be only three guilds in Arclight Hollows.

I shifted Eldin in my arms, keeping his head from falling back as we neared the city gates. As I did so, I noticed something that made my stomach churn.

Eldin’s left eyelid had a faint teal glow emitting from it. Stopping, I pried his eye open. It wasn’t glowing brightly, but it was there.

“You have the gift,” I whispered to the silence. Picking him back up, I returned to the city. I arrived at his family’s house shortly, knocking lightly on the door. His mother opened up, eyes wide in shock as she clasped her child in a gentle hug while calling for one of her other children to run to the apothecary. As I turned to go, we locked eyes.

“His eye,” I said softly. She looked, and I saw her body go rigid. She’d already known.

“Do you think you could…” she began hesitantly, as if choosing her words as carefully as possible. I held up a hand and spoke softly in response.

“When he’s better, his training will begin.” She nodded, and we both turned away, she to bring her son inside and me to head back to my quarters. As I walked away, I felt a heavy weight lift off my shoulders.

It was time to rebuild the order.

Gwendolyn Claire Benefiel: Gwendolyn is a young artist, author, musician, and animator. She loves drinking tea, playing harp, and reading in her free time. Website: linktr.ee/skycedar

Audience: YA
Genre: Adventure Mystery
Author: Joseph Leach

A stranger and a traveller, he walked slowly into the relative cool of the city’s valley, still burdened by the sand and the heat of the desert. He had a short sword sheathed on each hip and a padded leather jacket bearing the insignia of a long-defeated army, all covered by a worn, hooded, and brownish grey cloak. Weariness lay on him, heavier than the pack on his back.

He passed unnoticed through the crowed main street. He paid no attention to the vendors hawking their wares, nor did he look at the elegant libraries and academies that graced the higher walls of the valley. He was looking for an inn or a tavern, and yet he ignored the bright tavernas that decorated the way. The places where poets competed with each other, storytellers wove their tales, and minstrels sang songs to break a maiden’s heart. In the end he choose to turn down a side ally, where there was a small, dark inn. It was a quiet place with no music, no overt sign of celebration. A single lantern hung above its door. It was the kind of place frequented by people used to minding their own business.

He had to bow his head as he entered through the low door. At this time of year, the grate was cold, but the room was warm with bodies and the heat flowing from the kitchen. The light was dim. Too few oil lamps hung from the dark ceiling beams. It smelt of humanity and the cooked, spiced meat that seemed to be the main fare being offered. The traveller choose a chair at one end of a sparsely occupied table and called the innkeeper over. “Mistress, I need a glass of your renowned date wine, a meal of that spiced meat I can smell, and a soft bed for the night. Please, do not stint. I’ve travelled a long way over desert sands today, and I’m bone weary.”

The innkeeper was a large woman with a shrewd face and knotted hands. She came over and looked at him warily. His clothes were worn and sun-beaten, his cloak fraying, only the two swords at his hips were bright. His face and his posture matched his clothes, weariness seemed to radiate from him, only his eyes were alert. “And how are you going to pay?” she asked. “This isn’t a charity and I don’t know you. I’ll need payment up front.”

He nodded. “Of course. I offer you a deal.”

She shook her head. “I don’t take no deals. I take coin. That’s the way it is.”

“Perhaps you’ll take this one,” he said. He lifted an ornate wooden box from his pack and laid it in the table. It was intricately carved and inlaid with silver. At first sight the carvings looked abstract, but on closer inspection it seemed as if they might be words and writing. If it was writing, it was in a script that none of those in the tavern had ever seen before. He carefully opened the box. It was full of gold coins and a roll of old parchment. There was a sudden silence. Those at his table edged closer. Those at other tables started to crowd close. The gold in that box would buy the tavern many times over.

“You should be careful, mister,” someone said. “It’s not wise to flash such as that around. You

might get yourself robbed.”

“He who robs me of this is my friend and I will drink to his health,” the traveller said, “Mistress, my deal is this, I will tell you a story. At the end of the story, you must take either the story or the gold as payment. You choose.”

The innkeeper had not taken her eyes off the gold. “You tell your tale and at the end I get to decide if it’s good enough to pay for a meal and a bed? And if I decide it’s not, then I get to take the gold?”

The traveller nodded. “That’s the deal.”

A sly smile crept across her face. “What’s your name stranger?”

The traveller shrugged. “You can call me Jack.”

One of the patrons who had gathered to look at the gold objected. “Jack! That’s not even a name. That tells us nothing. We’re all Jacks here, even the women.”

The traveller fixed him with a stare that would pierce armour. “And yet a jack I am. I am a man-jack and a soldier-jack. Jack, and nothing more. What more do you need to know… and why?” The objector held the travellers stare for only a moment longer, then nodded his understanding.

“Well, … Jack,” the innkeeper said smiling, “What’s to stop me from hearing your tale and then taking your gold anyway, no matter how good your tale may be?”

He shrugged. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he said. “I trust in your honesty.” A ripple of laughter ran through the room at this and only those closest to him heard him whisper something about winning either way.

The innkeeper gave the gathered crowd a disgusted look and walked over to the bar. She drew a large tankard of date wine and placed it on the traveller’s table. “There you go, jack,” she said. “I accept. Tell us your tale.”

Jack drew a deep breath and began. “There were three of us, inseparable friends from before we could walk. We were from a village in the Tintar Mountains. Its name doesn’t matter. You’ll never’ve heard of it. We were as poor as the desert sand, as the saying goes, but we had dreams. All three of us were determined to get away and seek our fortune in the world. Our opportunity came when a spice caravan got lost and wandered into our village. We convinced the caravan leader that the mountain tracks were a maze, and he hired us as local guides. And so, we left our village and never returned.”

“Were the tracks a maze?” someone asked.

“Not really,” Jack said. “The caravan leader was an idiot. Anyway, once we were out in the world we had to make our way. The world doesn’t care about three farm boys with dreams. At first, we tried soldiering. We joined …” He paused and shifted his cloak to better cover the

insignia on his jacket. “Actually, it doesn’t matter. The name would mean little now, but they were a good unit. Treated us well. Trained us well. Killing became our profession and we were good at what we did. Then the time came when we found ourselves bruised and wounded in a field when all those around us were dead. We decided then that soldiering didn’t pay enough for the risks involved. We wondered off to try our luck elsewhere.”

“So, you deserted,” the innkeeper said. It was not an accusation, just a casual observation, as if she were talking about a change in the weather,

Jack, however, shook his head vehemently. “No. We survived. There was no one left to desert.” He was silent for a while then and looked down at his hands before continuing. “I’m ashamed to say that we next took to banditry. It was a way to use our hard-earned skills, you see.” This drew no reaction from the crowd other than a few understanding nods. “We were good at it – smart. We only robbed from the ordinary people. Anyone rich enough to afford an escort we left alone. Too much trouble. We also left alone the very poor. Their pennies were not worth the effort.” He shook his head. “It was many years ago. I’ll have nothing to do with that trade now, but for a while we did well out of it. Bakers, butchers, and farmers, they all added to our coffers.” He looked up at the innkeeper. “And yes, our share of innkeepers as well. But as I said, that was a long time ago and we have long since paid for our crimes.”

He drew a deep breath. “One day there was an old man. He was well dressed and unescorted, so we decided to give him a go.” He paused then and sat in silence for a while. “Turns out he was some sort of mage, belonged to one of the guilds. Don’t know which one.” At this there was a sharp intake of breath from many in the crowd. “He didn’t have much a value on him, other than that.” He pointed to the ornate box open on the table. “It didn’t have any gold in it then, only the map, and that we didn’t understand. We had a choice then. We could’ve simply given it back to him and sent him on his way, but we didn’t., fools that we were. We held a sword to his throat and made him explain the map to us.”

The innkeeper gave a bark of amusment. “And he just explained it to you? Told you everything you needed to know? Don’t make me laugh.”

Jack nodded. “Yes, he explained the map. I think now that that was the plan all along. We were becoming a problem for the local people, and this was his way of getting rid of us. You see, he explained that the map led to a fabulous treasure, a pile of gold as tall as a man. He knew that was a bait we were sure to take. To be fair, he also warned us not to use the map, that the gold was cursed. It seemed that there was once an ancient city, now buried beneath the sand of the desert. They were powerful and wealthy, but cruel. One day they attacked the wrong people, and a curse was placed on them and their wealth. ‘Don’t go there,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch that gold.’”

“But you went anyway,” someone in the crowd said.

Jack gave a weary laugh. “Of course we went. Who wouldn’t? One corner of the map showed a portion of the Tintar mountains that we knew. It was in the north, inhospitable. A place of

razor-sharp rocks sticking out of the earth like the teeth of some great beast. No one lived there but we knew about it. So, we knew where to start. The map showed places far to the north, lands that we didn’t know, until there was a promontory of rock and hill sticking out into the blank reaches of the desert like a pointing finger. If you followed where it was pointing, due west as it happens, there was a small dot, right on the edge of the map. Nothing more, but it was enough. We set out to find that gold.”

“Did you kill the old man?” the innkeeper asked.

Jack shook his head, “No. Why bother? We didn’t kill unless we needed to. Who wants to spend all that time cleaning their swords? Anyway, we set out and it was a hard journey, long and with few comforts. We climbed over mountain ridges as sharp as a knife. Walked through dark valleys as narrow as if they’d been cut by an axe. At times we even dared the sands of the desert. Often, we went quietly. There were things we didn’t want to wake and very rarely there were people we didn’t want to meet.

Anyway, eventually we came to the end of that promontory and looked west across the desert. We thought we had only a desert crossing between us and more gold than we could carry. A shadow passed over us, and it was only then that we thought to look up. Circling above us there were dunedrakes, a lot of them. We didn’t think much of it until we noticed the riders.”

“Windlancers,” the innkeeper breathed.

Jack nodded. “Windlancers, and it was clear from the way they were swooping down on with lances set and talons extended, that they were intent on stopping us from crossing that particular stretch of desert. We, on the other hand, were determined to get across.”

The innkeeper gave a snort of derision. “You fought windlancers? On foot?”

Jack gave a sad smile and shook his head. “We tried. We still had our shields back then, so we tried to form a sort of shield wall, just the three of us. It didn’t work. They were fast and agile. They could attack from any direction and the direction of their attack kept changing. Their attacks also had so much power behind them that out shields were almost useless. It wasn’t long before we were stretched out on the rock with a steel lance point at our throat and razor-sharp talons on our chest.

It was then that he landed his dunedrake and climbed off. Their captain I suppose he was. He walked over to us slowly, taking off his flight gauntlets and pushing back his goggles. ‘We’re not your enemy, you know,’ he said in a kind of slow drawl, ‘we’re your friends. In fact, we just saved your miserable lives. I know why you’re here - a fabulous treasure. No? The thing is, that treasure is cursed, and we,” he gestured to all the windlancers gathered around us, “are part of an order sworn to stop that curse from spreading. We stop both the innocent and the not so innocent from falling victim.” He looked then at the insignia on our shields and his face softened. ‘I give you two options. We can just kill you here and now, and our vow is fulfilled, or we can let you go.’

‘We’ll take the second option, thanks,’ one of my friends said.

The captain smiled. ‘In which case, you must solemnly swear by whatever gods you worship,’ he pointed at the insignia on our shields, ‘and by whatever honour you still carry, that you will turn back from here and never try to return.’ What could we do? We swore by all the gods we could remember and gave our most solemn word of honour, that we would go and not return. Then they let us go. They kept watch, mind you. We could see them high in the sky as we made our way back down the promontory.”

“You gave up?” one of the crowd asked incredulously. “Not much of a story.”

Jack shook his head and smiled. “Oh no. We didn’t give up. You may have noticed that our word of honour was unlikely to be worth the breath that gave it, and we figured that since all the gods we had sworn by had taken no notice of us before, they probably wouldn’t take any notice of us now.” He paused then as if a thought had just struck him. “That may have been a mistake… whatever. We waited until the sky was clear of them and then we turned around and went back. We travelled only by night and even then, we went via the darkest ways, hiding in deep ravines and moon shadow. By day we slept in caves or under rocky overhangs. It wasn’t a fast trip but eventually we came to the end of the promontory and again looked out across the desert with the sun rising at our backs.

We waited for a moonless night and we set out. As I’m sure many of you know, the desert is like a sea of sand with dunes for waves, and apart from those dunes there are few obstacles. We went by the light of the stars and used those same stars to find our way. Each day we rested, lying beneath out cloaks. It was so hot that the very air seemed to shimmer and shift, but each night we got up and went on. Often, we would stop as the sands shifted and we heard thunder from deep in the earth.”

There was a moment of silence as Jack took a drink of his wine. No one moved. Then the innkeeper asked, “Wyrms, they’re real?”

Jack nodded. “There are many of them in the deep desert. Never encountered one on the surface. Never want to. Anyway, on the fourth night we used the last of our water and the following day was a torture I cannot describe. Our story would’ve ended there if we’d had to face another day like that, but our luck changed. All the next night, as we stumbled and dragged ourselves through the sand, the wyrms were quiet and I think now that we were walking over the buried remains of the old city, and they didn’t go there. It was past midnight when, more than half disbelieving, we stumbled on a low circle of broken rock.”

He stopped and took another drink of wine. “Sorry, just thinking about it makes me thirsty. The middle of the circle was a deep depression about a mile in diameter. The walls were terraced with fine stonework. Deep down, well below the level of the desert, waterfalls sprang from the walls, gleaming in the light of the crescent moon. We stumbled down some steps, and we drank deeply and long. Then we lay under some of the vegetation that grew there and fell asleep.

The sun was high in the sky when we woke, and we found ourselves in the midst of what had once been fabulous gardens, all overgrown and wild now, but you could still see what they might once have been. There was fruit there too. Berries, grapes and pears and, further down, pomegranates and apples. After the desert, it seemed like paradise. In the centre of the garden was a lake, and in the centre of the lake was a kind of marble palace with three arched bridges. It almost screamed treasure. So, we went down, and we picked and ate the fruit as we went.” He took a deep breath. “We were happy.”

“When we came to the bottom, my two friends rushed across the bridge. I was more cautious. There was something about the place that didn’t feel right, and you don’t just disregard stories of ancient curses. Not if you want to go on living.” There were many nods around the room. “So, I put on my gauntlets and drew my swords. I missed my shield, but we had long since discarded them in the desert. There was an inscription above the entrance, but it in a script I had never seen before. It might have been a welcome or a warning. There was no way to tell. It fixed in my mind that this place was both ancient and strange. Where the others had rushed, I walked warily.

The inside of the building was just one great, domed room, with light streaming in from high windows. All around the room were statues of warriors, scholars, and weird beasts. In the centre was a great pile of gold. It was indeed higher than a man standing, a tall man. Mostly coins, but other things as well: crowns, necklaces, even plates. It was surrounded by the bones of some monstrous beast. In places bits of skin and flesh still clung to the bones like old parchment.

My two friends rushed past the bones without giving them a look. They climbed onto the gold and began throwing it in air and whooping in delight. Then they lay down in it as if they were going to bath in gold. The whooping stopped and they started to gather great armfuls of gold to themselves, each building their own smaller piles on the big one. They had stopped looking at each other and they completely ignored me. It seemed as if their only concern was to gather as much of the gold as they could onto their own small pile. They had even started to wear some of the crowns, necklaces and bangles. Stupid. How much did they think they could carry?

The thing is, gold is heavy. There was more here than we could possibly take with us. I started to pick up a few of the stray coins that were scattered around the floor and put them into the box.” He pointed at the box on the table. “That would be more than enough and about all I could carry comfortably. I figured that we could always come back and get some more if needed. I looked at the coins, of course, but I didn’t recognise the head on them, and I couldn’t read the script, although I think it was the same as the one I had seen above the entrance. Again, old and strange and it made me uneasy.

My two friends were still playing around on the gold pile. I looked up at them to tell them to stop being silly and just gather up what we could carry and go. It was then that I noticed that they were changing. They were still trying to gather together as much of the gold as they

could, but their bodies were changing. Their arms were getting shorter and their heads, especially their mouths were getting larger, almost as if they were getting ready to try and eat the gold. On the other end, their legs were getting longer, and they were staying together, getting more and more like a tail. I yelled at them. Screamed at them to get away, but it was no good. They seemed oblivious to what was happening to them and they ignored me. All they cared about was the gold.

Then they noticed each other, and as soon as that happened, they attacked.” He stopped and drew a long shuddering breath. When he picked up his wine goblet, his hands were shaking. “We were friends. We’d known each other since childhood, grown up together. We were closer than brothers, and yet they attacked each other, not with fists or even weapons, mind you, but with fang and claw.” He hung his head low and his vice dropped to a whisper, “They tore at each other’s flesh.” Another long, shuddering breath, and he didn’t continue.

The whole tavern room was silent. You could hear the noise of the distant main street. Eventually someone whispered, “What did you do?”

“I turned and I ran,” Jack said, his voice shaking and bitter. “I ran and I ran and I kept on running. Up through the garden and out into the desert.”

“You left them behind, your friends?” the innkeeper asked, for the first time her voice was thick with disapproval.

Jack nodded, still not looking up. “I left them behind, but they weren’t my friends anymore. They’d become something… monstrous. I ran out into the desert, and I just kept on running until the heat, the sand, and shear exhaustion stopped me. Then I fell where I was and thought that I might die.” He looked up and gave a crooked smile. “I think it was only the thought that I might die that gave me any hope. Anyway, I didn’t die and it was there, lying in the desert sand, that they found me.”

“Who?” the innkeeper asked, her voice still hard.

“The Windlancers,” Jack replied. “I spotted them circling high above me as I lay there, and I guess they also spotted me. Soon I was surrounded and that captain of theirs landed his drake right in front of me. ‘So, you came back despite all your promises,’ he said. I nodded.” Jack gave a sort of chocking laugh. “Considering where they’d found me, there was not much point trying to deny it. ‘Where are your friends?’ he asked, and I tried to answer him. ‘They’re back…’ I said, but I couldn’t finish. Grief and horror hit me like some kind of avalanche, and I just lay there sobbing.

The captain showed no emotion at all. He just sat there on his drake looking at me. ‘Your friends touched the gold?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Then it doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘We know what happened to them. I wonder,” he said, ‘do you even now understand the nature of the curse?’ I shook my head. ‘Above each of the gates of the treasure room there is an inscription,’ he said.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I saw it, but I couldn’t read the script.’

‘Few could. Above one gate it says greed is power, above another it says greed is strength, and above the third, perhaps most devastating of all, it says greed is virtue. It was on this belief that the curse was founded. This belief was their doom. Now do you understand?’

I thought of my friends scrabbling for gold while surrounded by more wealth than they could ever use or even carry and I nodded. He looked at me thoughtfully then. ‘You didn’t touch the gold?’

‘No,’ I said, which was true. I’d had my gauntlets on when I picked up the coins.

‘Did you drink the water or eat any of the fruit while you were there?’ That surprised me, and I looked up at him, puzzled. I nodded. ‘Then I pity you,’ he said with a grim kind of smile, ‘and my children will pity you, and my grandchildren will pity you. Actually, we’ll make it a new family tradition, pitying you; ever wanderer and stranger.’ He threw a full water skin at my feet. ‘That’ll ease your journey.’ Then they were gone and I made my way back to the mountains. And that, kind mistress, is my story.”

The innkeeper was silent for a long time while the room watched. “So, you alone escaped the curse,” she said at last.

Jack looked at her with a grim smile on his face. “Oh no, mistress. I didn’t escape the curse. It wasn’t the kind of curse you can escape just by running away. Every time I close my eyes, I am back there in that treasure room. I see them, my closest and dearest friends, changing into monstrous forms and tearing themselves apart. Every night I visit that room in my dreams, only in my dreams they see me and it is me they seek with their fangs and claws. I try to run, but the floor is slippery with loose coins. Night after night. You’d think the gut-wrenching horror and fear would fade with time, but no. I’m weary because my sleep is forever broken by my screams – apologies to those who must sleep near me.

The worst of it is that the gold still calls to me, even knowing what I do. It haunts me, and the desire for it robs life of its sweetness. All beauty and pleasure, any trace of joy, is swamped by lust for that cursed gold.” He pointed at the coins in the open box. “I told that Windlancer captain the truth. I did not touch it that day. I have not touched it since, and I pray, in fear and trembling, to all the gods I know that I never will. Yet every day, every minute, I must resist the longing to take that map and go to that place and gather even more gold. No, mistress. I did not escape the curse.”

One of the crowd, a greasy haired, grimy individual, said, “Hey mister, I can help you out. Just give me the treasure map.”

Immediately, Jack snapped his head around to face him. “You would take it from me?” Carefully, he withdrew the map from the box. “Here, take it.” Unsettled to have his offer so readily accepted, the man drew back, but Jack insisted. “Take it from me, friend.” Jack was holding out the map in a shaking hand, and his voice broke into a plea. “Take it.” The man

only backed further away. Jack’s voice rose to a desperate yell. “Take it from me!”

But the man turned and pushed his way to the back of the room muttering, “It was a joke. I was only joking.” No one else reached forward to take the map, and with a sigh, Jack placed it back in the box.

“Mistress,” he said, “it’s time for you to make your decision. Is my story worth a meal and a bed or will you take my gold?”

The innkeeper looked at him long and hard. “First, tell me. How old are you? That insignia on your jacket that you keep trying to hide, that can’t be yours. That army was wiped out in a bloody battle hundreds of years ago. There was a general. I forget his name… cat something?”

“Catalaphon,” Jack said. “His name was General Catalaphon, and, yes, they called him The Cat.” He took a deep breath. “As for how old I am, I don’t really know. I’ve spent a lot of time in the desert and out there it’s easy to lose track of the years. All I know is that I’ve spent too many nights screaming in terror and endured too many days washed of joy. Come, mistress, make your decision.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she reached out to the box and snapped the lid shut. “A deal is a deal. You’ll have your drink and your meal and I won’t stint. You’ll have a bed and a room to yourself, but I want you gone in the morning. Before the sun rises over the valley wall, leave and take everything with you. Leave nothing behind.”

Jack hung his head low and sighed deep but broken. His voice shook when he replied. “As you say, mistress, a deal is a deal. I will taste your fine fare, and in the morning I will go and the curse will go with me. Remember me - please.”

Much later, after much wine, crusty bread, good, spiced meat, and a table all to himself, he rose, took the box under his arm, and walked wearily towards the stairs that led to his room, stumbling slightly from the wine. At the foot of the stairs there was a young serving boy looking at him with eyes wide with fear. Jack smiled and winked at him. As he climbed the stairs, his smile broadened. “Works every time,” he thought.

He stumbled on the stairs and the box slipped from under his arm. A single coin dropped out and rolled down a few steps. Jack swung around and yelled at the serving boy, “Don’t touch that. Do Not Touch That!” The boy clearly had no intention of doing so and backed even further into the hall. Jack placed the box carefully on the stairs and took a heavy gauntlet from his pack. With this on, he gingerly bent down, picked up the coin and carefully placed it back in the box. Then, without looking around, he picked up the box and made his way to his bed, hoping that he’d drunk enough wine to drown the dreams that he knew would come.

Joseph Leach: A scientist, theologian, poet and author; Joseph Leach started writing fantasy and science fiction while still studying science at the University of Melbourne. He went on to get his Ph.D. as part of a NASA guest investigation into the Martian polar ice caps. Since then, he has worked as an Air Force intelligence officer, a government research scientist and a university lecturer. In this capacity, he has co-authored six technical books and over eighty scientific papers. An ordained deacon of the Catholic Church, in 2020 his first adult fantasy novel was published by Stone Table Books.

Audience: YA
Genre: Adventure
Author: Carl Olson

Deep in the Great Mattoral, where scavengers stalked the scrublands, herbs and grasses by day, and lethal cold slew the unwary by night, the oasis city of Arclight Hollows blazed like a defiant torch against the merciless desert. Formed, it was said, by the ribs of a giant Queen Drake, a curved and winding chasm of gorges, canyons and coves, sheltered an oasis so vast it spawned its own storms. Arclight Hollows thrived on the cargo trade upon emerald glass rivers that wended from the canyons like serpents of fire.

Daredevil captains raced their wind-driven glassboats and trimarins, perched upon two or more long and narrow runners, over these beautiful and deadly channels, bearing precious cargo to and from far-distant lands. One wrong move might leave their crews and vessels foundered; thirsty pirates might board and plunder at will, leaving crews to slavery or to the mercy of the elements. Even worse, ancient frozen films of lead, manganese, potash, or chalk within the deep glass could turn the blazing sunlight upward, bending or breaking the precious runners, even setting ablaze their wooden hulls.

But in the shadowy depths of the Coral Oasis, where mineral-rich waters glowed with an otherworldly light, poor men played a far deadlier game with the lives of their apprentices.

***

Bujir crouched at his station, his throat burning from the fumes that swirled around Master Jebe’s powder-stained workshop. Three times the boy had dared the impossible, to escape these acrid vitriols and grinding bowls for a better life elsewhere. Three times, older apprentices had dragged back the runaway, broken and bleeding. Iron shackles chafed his wrists, for convicted runaways became property, as chattel, as nothing.

“Listen well, wretch!” Master Jebe’s voice cracked like a whip as he set down a vial of acid that could melt flesh from bone. “Tigers from the desert prowl these streets after midnight feasting on runaway apprentices! And if their fangs miss you—ha!—the Lesser Scionates patrol every shadow. Here in the Rookery, Shireeve Khalja shows no mercy to thieves and vagabonds. But worse still are the Windriders!”

His eyes gleamed with malicious glee. “Their war-drakes hunt from the sky, boy, smelling fear from a league away, and they’re always, always hungry!”

The master’s son Osol lounged nearby like a bloated spider, his piggy eyes bright with cruelty. Where Bujir had grown gaunt from endless labor, Osol had swollen fat on stolen food and easy living, making Bukir do both their work. He remained silent until his father went back to work.

“Work faster, slave!” he sneered, cracking his knuckles. “Father’s patience wears thin!”

Osol had never discovered Bujir’s secret—seeing in the darkest night like a tiger’s eyes. When the workshop fell silent and tormentors slept, Bujir would slip off his worn and cheap bonds, and race through moonlit streets to the forbidden waters where suffering orphans gathered to wash away their sweat and grime. The most daring or desperate children dove for sunken treasures in the boulder fields below, risking their lives for trinkets dropped overboard by pleasure-boaters.

One night when the moon spun like a silver blade above the splashing waters, Bujir’s owlish eyes signaled a rare chance. His thin body crawled, head downward, between two rocks that scraped his ribs. He had seen little, but no one had risked being trapped in this narrow defile. Scattering the fine sand, his fingers closed around something smooth and inviting.

Four combs of lacquered horn, each one gleaming like captured starlight, of such beauty that they could only belong to legends.

Aching for breath, he let himself go slack, and he rose from the stone pincers, before he turned toward the surface.

As he burst into the air, droplets flying like liquid diamonds, he kept his hands low and looked for a friendly face. He spotted her—darkling-eyed, sable-haired Baran, apprenticed to the embroiderer Dorgene. Her smile could light up the darkest alley, and her courage put grown men to shame. “Glowing up as she grows up,” said the old women in the marketplaces. Older boys, and some men, whispered that she would marry well, if she weren’t bought or stolen first. Bujir treasured his every meeting with her. Hiding his dear-bought find, Bujir swam to the narrow sand-spit where she wrung out her spare day dress, seeming to pay him no mind.

“What treasure have you fetched from the depths, cuttle-fish?” she said at last, her eyes dancing with dangerous curiosity.

They struck a bargain there in the canyon shadows—one comb for one kiss, sweet as stolen honey and twice as forbidden. But as Bujir carried her garments through the streets, and helped her to scale the sheer wall to her mistress’s window, his joy made him careless. He ran home too fast, rounded a corner, and found himself face-to-face with armored men.

The Lesser Scionates surrounded him like hunting wolves, silent and watchful, and at their head stood Shireeve Khalja himself—tall as a war-lance, red beard blazing in the torchlight, eyes like winter storms. “Hold fast, young shadow-dancer…” The Shireeve’s rasping words could shatter stone. “You move like one who carries secrets. Speak the truth, or face the consequences!”

With his heart threatening to burst from his chest, Bujir offered up a treasured comb. The rest lay wadded in his waist-girdle. He swiftly and spilled every secret of the streets he knew. Truth fell from his lips like fire, and somehow, miraculously, they searched him not. The iron-hard warrior’s face even softened.

“Truth cuts sharper than any blade, boy. Remember that when darkness falls.” Shireeve Khalja, noting Bujir’s thinness, gave the boy bread and dates in a woven basket. Fearful of being robbed, the boy made his way home and chained himself well.

***

Dawn brought terror in robes blacker than a dragon’s shadow.

Tolon the Magician swept into the workshop like a plague wind, his presence turning the very air to suffocating ice. Master Jebe trembled like a leaf in a sandstorm, for gossip said, withal, this sorcerer hungered after powers able to reduce armies to ash.

“Ink-maker…” Tolon’s voice echoed from the depths of a nightmare. “This grimoire requires restoration.” He smoothly laid down a tome, pried open by water-damage. “The scribes demand gold I refuse to pay. You’ll do it for silver—and in silence.”

The moment the dark mage vanished and his father returned to his vials, Osol bleated, “I’ll not risk my neck on a wizard’s death-book!”

He fled like a beetle, and so, as always, the deadly task fell to Bujir. Working by guttering rushlights, Bujir spread apart each page, biting his lower lip. In a moment of inspiration, he interlaced the pages with his precious combs to dry them near a burning brazier. Bujir resewed the sinews together, and clamped flat the warped covers, until daylight was spent.

In the morning, he skipped breakfast and inspected each page. Three pages in, horror overwhelmed him. All that night, as the brazier’s heat had warmed the ancient pages, reddish-brown letters appeared between the black writing.

Arcane symbols, written in lemon juice, now lay revealed like flames in darkness.

Bujir’s heart nearly stopped as he beheld them. No wonder Tolon hired old Jebe! He could afford the scribes, but above all wanted secrecy! Why he might just murder them all, just to ensure—

“FOOL! You’ve destroyed the sorcerer’s grimoire! Father will feed you to the drakes piece by piece!” Bujir ducked as Osol swung his fat fist and plunged his hand into the brazier coals. His shriek split the air like breaking glass.

As the fat apprentice waddled one-handed up the ladder to wake Master Jebe, the ladder turned on one leg and dumped Osol a fathom’s fall onto his back with a bone-rattling crash.

Terror drove Bujir like wildfire. Slipping his chains, snatching the book, combs, his bread, dates, and a bottle of date wine, he fled the back door into the Rookery’s maze of twisting alleys.

His bare feet knew every stone, every shortcut, every shadow as he raced through the darkness toward the only sanctuary he dared hope for—Dorgene’s house, where Baran must admit him, or he was drake-food.

The budding beauty saw him out a window, her winsome eyes widening at the panic blazing in his face. Quick as lightning, she opened the door for him. Once inside, he thrust at her the bottle of date-wine, trying to smile, like some sickly moralist.

“Master Jebe sending gifts?” she whispered. “Either the world ends today, or you’re in mortal peril! Quick—I’ll tell my mistress a tale!”

As it happened, Baran needed no pretext, for old Dorgene sat dozing on her divan before her quilting frame, gripping her needle in mid-stitch. In the kitchen shadows, sharing the Shireeve’s bread with trembling hands, Bujir showed Baran the transformed book. Her gasp echoed like a night-breeze.

“I know these signs!” Her voice was tight with excitement. “The black words are spells in an ancient language, but these brown letters—they’re singer’s marks, called neumes! The spell must be sung to effect its power!”

The first spell became stark and clear, like a challenge: “Let My Mistress be Whole and Mild.”

“Dare we risk it?” asked Bujir.

Baran’s eyes sparkled with reckless courage. “We’re already doomed!”

She taught him ancient words while Bujir tenderly taught her melodies. Clear as a temple bell, magic moved in silence, and Dorgene arose, revived and joyful, and finished her quilt by the afternoon. When the apprentices came hunting Bujir for a bounty, she sent them away as if with regal authority, before she took the date-wine and the combs to market, to trade for their supper.

Giggling like drunken boys on their success, Bujir and Baran learned more spells—one to summon strange help, another to compel another to speak the full truth. As sunset painted the sky blood-red, they laughed that orphans needed all the help they could get.

And so Baran played a flute, Bujir strummed his combs, and they sang like summer after snow.

As they ended, a she-tiger crawled through the window like a golden mudslide, her muscles rippling with deadly power.

They clung to each other in paralyzed terror, for certain death had come for them at last. But instead of rending them to pieces, the great cat nudged them toward the door with a gentleness.

Hearts hammering like war drums, clutching the precious book, they followed their striped guardian through streets that crawled with shadows and danger. The tiger led them to the great glass highway where it curved like a frozen river through the heart of the great wilderness.

At the dock, a sleek trimaran strained against her moorings. A crew of laughing daredevils loading cargo for a desperate night voyage down the Bluegreen.

“Need passage, young adventurers? We’re bound for Zuwara by the Northern Sea!” called the wind-burned captain, his eyes bright with the madness that drove all who challenged the glass rivers. Bujir and Baran stared at one another. Here was more strange help! Oh to be free forever! They clambered aboard, leaving the she-tiger behind them. In the slackening twilight, none of them noticed the tiger slipping aboard, close behind them.

All night they flew northward on wings of wind and cold desperation, the trimaran’s runner singing against the glass like war-shawms. Tall palms and date orchards fled astern, rolling plains of sclerophylla shrubs as tough as nails, with tangled thorns and waxy leaves, soon accompanied them. A million stars wheeled overhead as Bujir and Baran huddled for warmth among the cargo barrels, their tiger protector—whom they named Bayan—prustened like distant thunder.

At dawn, disaster struck. The wind died completely, leaving the trimaran to coast until it stranded upon a coral island that rose from the glass like a sleeping bear. The captain made a full circle around his gunwale, spying out the glacial patterns of crystals, metals and minerals that lay below the glassy surface.

“It’s far too dark below, boys! Shade her all you can!” At his command, the young crew worked frantically to spread shade-sails, their faces grim with knowing what the blazing sun could do. In the wrong place on the glass highway, they were trapped in a furnace that could kill them all.

Bujir and Baran whispered together. Neither dared to say aloud that Tolon the Magician may have stilled the breeze. Sailors were a superstitious lot, and if the children mentioned it, they might beach them all here. Orphans had learned to expect no better.

When the sun reached its merciless peak, Bayan crawled forth, desperate for water. Bujir and Baran struggled to hold her in hiding, but all in vain, for she dragged them all into full view of the terrified crew. The boastful captain and his beardless crew, once so proud, now stood as baffled as men hung up in bags.

Then matters took a turn for the worse.

Fourteen colossal shadows fell across them like the wings of death itself. War-drakes descended from the burning sky, their scales flashing white as diamonds, their wings gossamer-light but strong as steel. They alit upon the sun-bleached coral mound. Their riders were the legendary Windriders—young warriors so elite that kingdoms trembled at their approach.

The trimaran’s crew could only bow and surrender, knowing what might they faced. The drakes’ ruby eyes blazed like forge-fires, their jaws yawning wide enough to devour horses.

Shireeve Khalja and four of his Scionates dismounted upon the island rock, followed by the dreaded Tolon himself, his face twisted with fury that curdled the sailors’ blood.

“Return my grimoire, thieves!” the sorcerer shrieked, like a mandrake torn from the earth. “Shireeve, cast these brats onto the glass to burn!”

Bayan rumbled defiance. The Shireeve and the proud Windriders held fast. They were warriors, not executioners of children. Baran looked for succor to Bujir. The boy rallied and raised the eldritch book to his ear, as if it were a mighty sword.

His eyes blazing like wildfire, he called out a challenge: “Master Tolon! Say aloud what you will do with this book when you reclaim it!”

Tolon staggered and trembled as if struck by lightning. All against his will, Tolon’s own mouth opened and the damning words poured out: “I will use the ‘Mistress Mild’ enchantment to bewitch wealthy wives, steal their gold, and enslave their daughters!”

Silence fell, as upon a battlefield, like the shadow of mortal judgment.The tiger and the drakes stretched forth their necks, sensing what treasonous evil had been revealed. Shireeve Khalja folded his arms, as proud as a young bull.

“Begging your pardon, Tolon, old boy, but such words compel me to defer to those who guard the wider world.” His voice carried the justice of the Northern Star itself.

The lead Windrider’s face darkened with disgust. “All present—face the canyon wall!”

The magician’s hands waved about, as if working a spell he knew not. Then even Bayyan the Tiger turned away in obedience. The distinctive snap of a drake’s jaws echoed like breaking bones. A wet sharing, satisfied belches, then silence more profound than death itself. When they dared turn back, only Tolon’s pointed hat remained, spinning lazily in a pool of blood.

In the pall that followed, a sound like many waters came across the plains, until the sails filled with wind. At their commander’s gesture, all seven Windriders spread their wings and flew aloft like eager skylarks. Shouting with joy, the Trimaran captain bellowed orders that backed their hull off the coral island

Shireeve Khalja’s eyes blazed like sunrise after the longest night. Fearing Bayyan the Tiger no more than a feral cat, he and his warriors loomed over the orphans.

“Young Bujir, this grimoire contains spells not to toy with the wind, but to turn men’s hearts, a power too dangerous for any mortal to wield.”

With Bayyan and Baran behind him, Bujir knelt down and offered up the Book of Lemon Songs.

As the prow turned south and the sails set to beam reach, the Shireeve made his proclamation ring across the glass highway: “Bujir and Baran, I release you from all bonds and clear you of every charge! Furthermore, Tolon’s house and all his wealth are now yours!”

As if the heavens themselves rejoiced, the afternoon wind carried the trimaran and two barefoot orphans back to Arclight Hollows—not as fugitives, but as heroes who had faced down evil and emerged triumphant.

***

True to his word, Shireeve Khalja established them in Tolon’s fortress of wealth and power. They swore, for each other’s sake, to speak only the truth, and the spells they had cast lingered around them always. The Book of Lemon Songs lay locked in the city’s deepest vaults, its secrets guarded by the Lesser Scionates.

Bujir became a judge and counselor sought by princes and merchants alike, while Baran traded for cloth and fabric with honesty. They brought old Dorgene to live with them and transformed the grand house into a sanctuary for young apprentices beset by cruel masters. Bayan the Tiger guarded their gates, and the neighborhood ensured she never lacked for fresh meat.

As for Osol, when his father finally died, he sold everything, down to Bujir’s old bench, cheating all who dealt with him. Thinking himself clever, he fled with a caravan. But no man is more than three bad deeds away from penury. The last reports placed him feeding swine for copper coins, grown thin as a beggar.

Every spring, when the great oasis swelled to its fullness, Bujir and Baran stood on the brick piers and remembered that night when four ancient combs changed their destiny, more than orphans could hope for. They swore their love for one another, and since they told the truth, they remained in love all their days.

Carl Olson: I come from a family of late bloomers: married in my late 20’s, became a father in my late 30’s, then started a career as a 21st century librarian. My current work in progress is a two-part fantasy novel based on a sixty-page children’s story I wrote in the 1990’s. René Girard writes somewhere that one way or another, every first novel is about the author, and yes, it’s a YA novel with an elderly giant hero, with aches & pains familiar to aging tall persons. I have had three rejections so far, which I count as progress.

Audience: YA
Genre: Action Adventure
Author: Ringil

Vi’Jave, the Windlancer with sand in his cloak and wyvern-magic in his skin, stepped cautiously from the bright, hot, loud, and bustling streets of the Archlight Hollows into the cool and dim tavern, allowing the curtain covering the doorway to fall silently back in place.

The tavern was mostly empty, only a few shadowed corner tables occupied. The majority of the tavern’s honest traffic always came during the liminal times, at sunrise and sunset, leaving the less honest folk–which were more common in this tavern than many–to occupy it during the day and night.

Feeling eyes, Vi’Jave pulled his rough, grey-brown hood deeper over his already wrapped face, before scanning the smoky room. His dark eyes quickly picked out the group he was tracking, and he saw a flash of gold trading hands under the table. ‘It is strange,’ Vi’Jave thought, ‘how an economy of stories can function. It does, however, make the tracking of less than honourable deals much easier.’

Waiting till none of his suspects were looking in his direction, Vi’Jave ghosted across the plaster-covered sandstone room, his well-worn leather boots soundless on the desiccated wood floor. Seeing one of the people in the group he was tracking starting to turn in his direction, Vi‘Jave sat down, the chair only making a muffled creak as it settled into the sandy floor.

Facing half away from the shady group, Vi’Jave closed his eyes and bowed his head, before taking a deep breath. His lidded eye glowed invisibly beneath his hood, and the cloud of sand which had drifted into the air from his movement flew back to his cloak, catching in the coarse weave.

“Are you sure it’s potent enough to poison the whole supply?” a gravelly voice hissed from the table that Vi’Jave was investigating.

Vi’Jave barely resisted the urge to burst out laughing at the blatancy of the conversation, instead causing his amusement to come out as a raspy cough.

Out of the corner of his eye, Vi’Jave saw the table turn to look at him and froze. Almost expecting a confrontation, Vi’Jave felt the sand under his fingertips forming into floating needles, which hovered secretly behind his wide cloak.

As he heard the low conversation of the table start again, Vi’Jave let out a pent up breath, the sand at his fingers falling to the floor. He decided against keeping it ready in case a fight really did break out, he didn’t like using the life force of his wyvern unnecessarily, even in small amounts.

“Do you doubt my word?” the man who had given the gold whispered, the question asked at a lower volume than the one before, “I wouldn’t be hiring you for this if I didn’t think it would be effective. Once we poison the water during the Haven, those storytellers will be dropping like flies. And without them? Without them their stories will die, you know this. And once their stories are dead? Well, people need stories, and there will only be one place left to get them. Me.”

“But what if your stories aren’t good enough?” one of the others blurted out, though still remembering to keep his voice to a whisper.

‘That,’ Vi’Jave thought, ‘or his lungs are too full of sand for him to talk above a whisper.’

The contractor chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “The stories that last control the future.” he whispered.

After a vicariously painful minute of silence, Vi’Jave heard the first mercenary to speak, their leader, he presumed, start to talk again, asking, “And the enchanted compass?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Vi’Jave saw the contractor draw a thick metal disk from his coat, the thin, surface layer of gold flaking off cheaply. “Yes,” the man said, opening the compass, “this will lead you straight to it.” He handed the compass over to the mercenary leader, before saying, “I believe this should be all, I will take my leave.” He stood and started to walk away, but paused, and added, ”remember, you’ll get the rest of your payment on delivery.”

Vi’Jave watched the man exit, before dipping his head and pulling his hood lower, as the mercenaries rose to leave.

“Remember, brothers,” the mercenary leader said, addressing his group, “speak naught of this till we are safe from prying ears and free of the city. We cannot let the guard catch word of this plan, else the people will flee and our plot shall fail.”

“Deep breaths,” Vi’Jave told himself, as he fought to hold his silence at the mercenary’s obliviousness. Fortunately, he managed to contain his merriment until the mercenaries made their leave, before releasing a muffled pent up breath. Vi’Jave stood to follow, taking a quick moment to steady himself, before striding quickly out the heavy curtain that served as a door.

The hot streets felt languid, as the now sparse crowd wandered between various vendors, a low hum of quiet conversation and exchange of stories giving a low droning quality to the air, accompanying the soft music that echoed from the bones of the city itself.

Shaking his head slightly beneath his hood to clear it, Vi’Jave saw the mercenaries rounding a corner, heading towards the east gate of the town. He hurried to catch up, though he paused before the corner, listening for signs of ambush. While he certainly did not expect one, he still felt caution to be wise.

Vi’Jave ducked around the corner and resumed his chase. The new street sloped down hill, as roads going out of the city often did, and was lined with higher end shops.

Straight ahead, Vi’Jave saw the East gate, a huge circle lined with banners, afternoon sunlight shining off its roughly polished bronze accents, which overshadowed the abrupt change to sand that marked the edge of the city.

Past the gate were the sandsled hangers, which opened out into the vast deserts beyond. Beside the gate were the wyvern eyries, the place where windlancers, like Vi’Jave, housed their grand pets.

As he neared the gate, Vi’Jave turned away from his chase, leaning against a sandy-colored, plaster-covered building, which afforded him a view of the sandsled hangers, while allowing him to remain unnoticeable beneath his sandy cloak. Refocusing on the mercenaries as they entered the hangers, Vi’Jave Saw them boarding a long, slender, triangle sailed, outrigger sandraft, which slid easily from the hanger and out into the shifting desert beyond.

Vi’Jave turned and ran for the eyries, rushing past shopkeepers that were either more curious than indignant, or too languid to pursue him. Vi’Jave looked upward, up the road, and saw a tall tent rising in the path, clearly built by one of the careless merchants that had come for the Haven.

Unflinching, Vi’Jave ran harder, jumping as the massive tent loomed over him. Sand rose up beneath his feet to propel him upward, and he rose over the tent, before catching the wall of the Eyrie. His hand went into the rough sandstone wall like water, before it resolidified, leaving him hanging. He braced his body outward against the wall, his feet finding rough holds.

Vi’Jave’s eyes glowed for a moment, and he was greeted with a hunting cry from the lofts above, before his huge, grey-brown wyvern flew out, turning and landing beneath him. The dragon looked up, its head tilted as its dark eyes stared into Vi’Jave’s face wrappings.

The sandstone melted under Vi’Jave’s hand, and he jumped out, off the side of the building. Catching one of the wyvern’s horns, he swung around, sitting easily at the base of his dragon’s neck. The wyvern turned its head to look at Vi’Jave for a moment, before turning the rest of its body and diving off the city wall, its wings catching the air and giving it speed.

Vi’Jave scanned the sandy expanse momentarily, as his wyvern rose over the height of the city walls, before his eyes landed on the movement of the outrigger that he was tracking. He tapped his wyvern’s neck lightly, drawing its attention to the craft he was pursuing. The dragon shifted under him, and he felt the wyvern dipping lower as it sped up, slowly gaining on the sandsled.

The sandsled in question crested a dune, then vanished, dropping past Vi’Jave’s sight. He frowned, as he felt the wyvern reel in confusion beneath him.

After a moment, it became clear what happened. His eyes landed on a square-sailed sand raft, resting in the lee of the dune.

As Vi’Jave flew high over the dune, he saw the scene laid out before him, as the wyvern turned slowly around beneath him. Pulling the bow on his back from beneath his cloak, Vi’Jave saw a small vial trading hands, a barely visible speck among the tiny figures that he knew to be the mercenaries.

Vi’Jave drew an arrow, fitting it to the string of his bow.

His eyes glowed.

The sand clinging to his cloak rose around him.

Vi’Jave tapped the dragon’s neck with his foot, and it turned sharply downward, diving towards the mercenaries.

As the figures rapidly expanded in Vi’Jave’s vision, he drew back the arrow on the string, as the sand floating around him formed into spears.

Vi’Jave released the arrow.

It hissed angrily, as it flew at the mercenary leader, followed by a half-dozen replicas made of sand.

The wyvern spread its wings, and soared upward, as Vi’Jave leaned over to see below. His arrow had caught the mercenary leader in the shoulder, and four others lay injured or dead, their wounds full of sand. He huffed, annoyed that his arrow hadn’t done more.

Vi’Jave could hear the mercenary leader shouting angrily, gesturing with his uninjured arm as the triangle sailed outrigger was set into motion again by paddles, aided by the crew of the square sailed sandraft. He knocked another arrow, shooting down past his wyvern.

The shot missed, the arrow embedding itself in the sand behind the sandsled as it exited the lee of the dune and caught the wind.

Vi’Jave knocked another arrow to his bow, as the wyvern began to approach for another dive. He saw a line of archers gathering at the backs of the sandsled, and gathered more sand from the air, before firing another volley.

Most of the enemy archers fell, though that did not prevent the returning fire, which buzzed past angrily. Vi’Jave winced at a tearing sound, as an arrow cut through his wyvern’s wing.

Quickly shooting off another arrow, Vi’Jave returned his bow to his back, then carefully repositioned himself on his wyvern’s neck.

Vi’Jave jumped as he passed the sandsled, bracing for impact.

He only fell for a moment, before hitting the sled with a thud, rolling to reduce his momentum.

As he came to his feet, Vi’Jave drew his sword, a cross between a scimitar and a saber, before cutting at the ropes holding one of the sails.

Vi’Jave’s sharp blade cut deeply into the thick rope, though he couldn’t get a second swing in, as he turned to defend himself from one of the mercenaries. He blocked the incoming attack at an angle, allowing the unprepared mercenary to fall forward, before darting in, his feet firm on the narrow boards that made up the walls of the sandsled, his slender blade sliding easily between his enemy’s ribs.

The man fell before Vi’Jave even had a chance to see the results of his strike, and the body was lost in the dust instantly.

Vi’Jave heard a furious shout from the man behind him, who had been approaching silently; he gestured sharply with his left hand, and heard a grunt, as the man was impaled by a spike that had risen from the desert beneath him.

The rope Vi’Jave had struck twisted and snapped, jerking the sled beneath him. Struggling to regain his balance, Vi’Jave saw the mercenary leader throwing a dagger, and raised his sword to deflect it.

The knife pinged sharply off the blade of Vi’Jave’s sword, before the force of the sword swing dropped him over the edge.

Vi’Jave felt himself falling, and braced his arms over his face.

Pain rocketed through Vi’Jave’s body, as his side collided with the sand.

Everything started spinning, and Vi’Jave’s matted cloak wrapped tightly around him, as his limp form skipped over the sand.

Beneath his hood, Vi’Jave’s eyes glowed, and the sand in front of him rose, bringing him to a halt.

Vi’Jave lay, half buried in the sand, his now battered cloak tightly pulled around him, his sword somehow still in his death-like grip. Surely, he thought, there would be no problem if he lay there a moment, even if just to assess his wounds? No, the stakes were too high. He had one last choice, and it would cost him everything… and no one would ever know.

Vi’Jave forced his bruised arms to move, and he somehow pushed himself out of the sand. Ahead, he saw the sandsled, shrinking into the distance, and he made himself stand, his pained legs slowly finding purchase under him.

Overhead, Vi’Jave saw his wyvern, circling, before landing next to him. It bowed, and Vi’Javed pulled himself heavily onto its neck, the sand rising under his feet to aid him.

The wyvern jumped into the air, the wear of Vi’Jave’s silicamancy showing plainly, as it labored to catch the wind. Still, it managed, just as unwilling as its rider to accept the terrible fate which approached the Archlight Hollows.

Vi’Jave felt the feeling returning to his limbs, and he positioned himself more stably on the wyvern’s neck. Ahead, he saw the sandsled racing over the dunes, still swift, even after losing a sail. Further ahead, he saw the city of Ribgate, standing proud, far in the distance. He felt the dragon beneath him putting more power into the strokes of its wings, but also felt the heart, which had been pounding so solidly beneath him, stutter, missing a beat.

Slowly, they started to gain on the mercenaries, shrinking the gap inch by inch, second by second.

Vi’Jave felt the wyvern falter beneath him for a moment, before powering forward again, even harder and faster than before.

Somehow, somehow, Vi’Jave saw the sandsled getting closer and closer, before the wind howling past him was accompanied by the buzz of approaching arrows. He reached for the bow on his back, only to find a chunk of shattered wood caught in his cloak.

In what seemed like a mere moment, the sandsled passed beneath them, and the dragon twisted in the air, before skidding to a halt in the sand, facing the vehicle. Vi’Jave stood, his bruised legs weak beneath him. Forcing a deep breath through the pain, he climbed higher, his feet easily finding grip on the rough scales just beneath the dragon’s head.

The sandsled sped towards them, growing in Vi’Jave’s vision rapidly. He drew his sword, holding it loosely, before swinging it upward. His eyes shined, the light reflecting off the blade, and the dragon roared beneath him, a screech of defiance never heard before or since, which echoed faintly even through the distant streets of the Archlight Hallows.

The dragon’s roar was joined by a roar of sand, as the desert rose high in front of them, a blade of silt rising above the surrounding dunes and flying forward, before crashing into the speeding sandsled.

The vehicle exploded, splinters of dried wood and taters of canvas covering the surrounding desert. The mercenaries were dead, and buried deep in the sand, their terrible poison with them.

Vi’Jave felt the dragon beneath him go cold. Terribly, terribly cold. Then he felt its neck give way beneath him, as the wyvern fell sideway. He caught a glimpse of its once bright black eyes clouding over, turning grey.

“No…” he tried to scream, trying to shout his fury to the callous desert winds, but the voice caught in his throat, and he fell, as the dead dragon he was standing on disintegrated into a pile of sand beneath him. He felt his fingers going cold, as darkness spread in from the edges of his vision.

Vi’Jave squinted at the glare of the sun, raising his hand weakly in front of his face. He pulled off the glove, and saw sand falling away from the shrinking stumps of his fingers. Both gloves fell, as sand ran down his other arm.

Vi’Jave lay back his head, trying to push back the darkness covering his vision, and he saw the city of Ribgate, one last time, the setting sun behind it glinting off its many spires.

Vi’Jave exhaled, and felt sand fill his mouth, as the darkness closed around him, leaving him only with the image of his wyvern lingering in his mind, before everything vanished for one last time.

Ringil: I am totally a human teen and not an elf, and I am studying engineering and creative writing, and have a lot of ineffectual coding experience. I am currently working on writing a story called “Draconomicon of Shay” about a character named Shay who becomes a dragon. Also, I am not new, just a professional crastinator.

Audience: YA
Genre: Adventure, Coming of Age
Author: Maria Pasquale

Naia hadn’t expected Archlight Hollows to be this big.

It rose from the desert like a beast of violet and gold, houses piled every which way in a twisting maze beneath sand-colored arches. Sweet, spicy smells wafted through the city, mingling with distant strains of music from a far-off sector. Everywhere Naia looked, there was another inhabitant, some chatting, others sitting quietly, gazing at the sunset sky. Golden light picked out shimmering specks from age-worn stone as Naia trudged past traders urging mules laden with goods and travelers swathed in rich fabrics she’d never seen before.

Only an hour ago, she’d been wearily crossing the desert, her only companions her whispered story-songs and an occasional manta riding the winds above. Now she was swept into friendly chatter, bathed in late-day light. It was so different from Haarvar, the cool forests and grey stones of home. Naia raised a hand to her neck, fingers brushing the familiar chain and the bulge of the amulet hanging beneath her dress.

“As long as I have the amulet, it’ll be fine,” she murmured. In her mind, she replayed the directions repeated countless times to her back in Haarvar. Closing her eyes, she could almost see the map of the different sectors, the stadium, the roads and bridges crisscrossing like a spiderweb. The thought of the stadium stirred a rush of emotion.

“I only have to sing one story. I’ve done it a million times, for sand’s sake, I was trained for this.” She tried to let the thought comfort her, as it had on star-filled desert nights, but doubt kept creeping in. “I was trained for this. Everyone expects perfection. What will they think if the Haarvarten Storykeeper flunks her one duty at the festival?”

Her hands slowly stopped shaking as Mistress Alvara’s parting words echoed in her mind, clear as the day she left Haarvar: “Remember, the amulet holds the stories, so all you have to worry about is the actual performance. The words will come to you from the amulet, just focus on singing them.”

Naia let out a sigh, a bit of her worry slipping away with it. Her eyes wandered over the street, curiosity piqued. So this was the centenary storytelling festival, the one whispered of in legend, sung of in myth. The earthy scent of cumin drew her down a busy side street to a crowded, bustling market. Traders advertised wares, customers haggled, and long lines snaked in front of the stalls bursting with mouthwatering smells.

Naia wandered, gazing at the richly painted ceramics and flowing silks covering the stalls. The winds danced with the dying light as the sun slipped farther and farther over the horizon. A dull hunger grew in Naia’s stomach, the memory of her light lunch of flatbread in the desert long faded. She felt in her pocket for her small bag of coins and carefully drew it out. From the signs hanging over the nearest food stall, she thought she would have enough for a honey bun and a little fruit. She wove her way through the growing crowd and finally found the end of the line, taking her place behind two chattering old women, their words traveling easily to Naia.

“Will you be at the stadium for the dawn gathering?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. The Haarvarten Storykeeper will be there!”

“They say she’s uncommonly young. Must be very skilled.”

Naia’s appetite vanished. She stared at her feet, her scuffed boats, the sand crusted hem of her simple brown dress, holding back a rueful laugh. Some Storykeeper she was: dirty, tired, and, if she was honest about it, terrified.

She blocked out the two women in her mind, instead watching the people passing by. Three old men ambled by, breads swaying as they carried on in deep discussion. One of them held a long leash in his hand, a purple and orange lantern crab scurrying along at the end. Then a young woman raced past, golden curls bouncing behind her as they burst from her red headscarf. Naia turned to watch her, stepping out of the line to see better. Suddenly someone rammed into her from behind and she stumbled forward, barely avoiding crashing into several passersby.

But her coin purse soared from her hand, coins flying out, sparkling in the evening light like raindrops.

Naia swung a desperate hand at them, but they disappeared into the dusty market ground. She let out an exasperated sigh as a confused but polite “I beg your pardon, Miss” sounded behind her. Turning, she saw a dark-haired, green-eyed boy, a little younger than her, bowing slightly.

“It’s fine,” she sighed, turning back in hopes of finding a few of her coins. The boy stepped carefully around her, disappearing into the crowd slowly but with his head held high. Naia started to mutter about just how helpful he was but stopped herself.

The look in his eyes had been…strange.

Confused.

But proud.

She stored it somewhere in the back of her mind, where she kept all the little things that are impossible to express in words.

“I saw what happened. Here, let me help you,” A girl appeared at Naia’s side, dirty blond braids wrapped around her head. She offered Naia a friendly smile and bent down, almost immediately finding one of the coins. With a smile of gratitude, Naia crouched down too, a few of her coins soon back in her purse.

“It’s not much, but it should get you a roll,” the girl hesitated, “I’m Emrin, by the way.”

Naia had the strange sense that she was being offered friendship, even though she wasn’t exactly sure why, or what had prompted this Emrin to help in the first place. But she smiled back.

“Thanks. I’m Naia.”

Naia ordered a honey roll, carefully counting out her remaining coins. The change was pitifully small; the warm roll hardly looked enough for a hungry traveler. Emrin slapped some coins on the counter, ordered a roll, then, with a glance at Naia, ordered two bowls of fruit as well.

A troop of lantern lighters worked their way down the street, sending golden lantern-orbs floating into the air. They hovered like large amber stars as Naia and Emrin meandered down the road with their food.

“When did you arrive in the Hollows?” Emrin asked between bites of fruit.

“Today, actually.”

“And why are you here? Visiting someone?”

Naia’s hands were suddenly clammy.

“I’m here, um, well I’m here to go to the stadium tomorrow…the dawn gathering.” Her stomach twisted in on itself as the long, long list of every tiny thing that could go wrong flashed through her mind again.

“Oh, I’ll be at the stadium tomorrow at dawn too! See, it’s tradition for the Storykeeper from the Haarvar tribe to sing one of their story-songs there. I’m really excited to hear it. It’ll be in the ancient Haarvar language too! They say the storykeeper is a really young girl and—” Emrin noticed the strained expression on Naia’s face.

“Wait a minute…” Emrin’s eyes grew as large as the roll in her hand. “You’re the Storykeeper! To think I’m actually talking to the storykeeper! I thought I’d only catch a glimpse of you.”

Naia managed a rueful laugh, “I’m afraid I won’t exactly meet your expectations; I’m not the stuff of legends everyone seems to think I am.” But Emrin gave her an assuring pat, which felt more like a gentle whack.

“I’m not expecting you to be crazy good, I just think your job is so cool! The chance to share stories on such a large scale,” Emrin turned from Naia to gaze down the market street into the sand and sun of the city. “I’d give anything for a chance like that.”

Naia was mesmerized by the look of longing on Emrin’s face, of a heart full of stories ready to burst out, if only there was someone to listen. Her own voice was gentle as she said quietly, “You’ll get your chance, Emrin. I’m sure of it. When there are stories inside of you, they’re bound to find a way out.” Emrin turned and smiled. Not the haphazard, happy-go-lucky smile she’d had before, but a real one, which nestled itself in Naia’s heart.

“Welp, Storykeeper, it’s getting late. I’ll walk you to wherever you’re staying. Where to?” Emrin finished her roll in a gulp, unabashedly licking her fingers clean as Naia recited the directions to the Stadium Inn that had been repeated to her a million times back in Haarvar. Emrin took off at a trot, waving Naia on with a cheerful hand, into the gathering violet dusk.

***

Naia opened her eyes slowly, the dark sand-colored ceiling of her room in the Stadium Inn blurring in and out of focus. She pushed herself up, brushing the matted hair from her eyes. Out of habit, she rubbed her hand over the amulet.

It’s performance day.

The idea of going back to bed was suddenly very appealing. Naia’s stomach twisted in the all too familiar way as she swung a foot down to the cool sandstone floor. Her small roomwas quiet in the pre-dawn grey filtering through the single window. She wound her hair into a thick braid, the morning ahead running through her mind.

The Inn was a short way from the Stadium; it’d be a quick walk over.

She’d arrive just before dawn.

As the sun rose, she’d perform a traditional Haarvarten story-song.

Everything would go perfectly.

She tried to push away thoughts of muddled melodies and stammered stories, but they crept into the dark corners of her mind.

She started at the sound of a knock on the door, and hurried to open it, the un-oiled hinges protesting. At first, it seemed like a heap of blue cloth sat in the hallway, but then it shifted, and a wizened, wrinkled face poked out, like a turtle from its shell. The woman smiled warmly at Naia, and Naia couldn’t help smiling back.

“Hello, I’m Runa,” the woman said, extending a tiny hand. Naia took it, Runa’s firm grip surprising her. “I run the Inn, I thought I’d walk you to the stadium this morning.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Runa.” Naia let Runa lead her down the hallway, plain but for a colorful woven rug.

Something about Runa felt like a story, a melody Naia hadn’t heard before.

Runa led her into the small, cozy common room of the Inn. Naia barely remembered it from the night before, only a vague impression of colorful rugs and a fire crackling purple and green in the hearth. But now, even in the wee hours, the cream and brown walls felt like home. A home different from Haarvar, but a home all the same.

Runa plodded over to a pantry door behind a rubbery plant covered in pink and gold blooms. A quick rummage, and she pulled out a plate of flatbread.

“Feeling peckish, dear?”

But Naia hardly noticed the food. In her mind, she could already hear the murmurs of the crowded stadium, see the expectant gleam in their eyes.

She could already feel an anxious grip around her throat.

Runa set the food aside, her eyes concerned. “Nervous?”

Naia managed a strained nod, her hand instinctively reaching for the amulet. “I’m fine, really. I have the amulet, it carries the stories… it’ll be fine,” she squeezed the words out of her dry throat. Runa gently took Naia’s hand and led her to the door, stepping out into the pre-dawn gloom.

Even without the sun, the city glowed with a light of its own. Naia followed Runa towards the stadium, catching glimpses of the round structure, its roof supported by tall pillars.

They took a side street to avoid the stream of people filling the main roads, all heading towards the stadium. As they crossed a small staircase bridged over a violet waterway, Naia reached for the amulet again. The chain was old and worn; she made a mental note to ask for a new one back in Haarvar. With careful fingers, she drew it out from beneath the fabric of her dress.

The green stone glowed softly, its silver backing etched with ancient runes. Naia closed her eyes and let its stories come. The Haaravarten words rose from her heart, and she whispered them, letting the familiar melody softly rise and fall.

“You on the bridge, watch out! Theodosious, come back!”

The shout woke Naia from her reverie as she and Runa turned towards the voice. A bearded man sprinted towards them, gesturing at their feet. Naia looked down to see a flash of purple and orange, long legs and beady eyes.

A lantern crab.

No leash in sight, the crab scurried directly towards Naia foot. She jumped back, hitting the bridge railing with a painful jolt.

She didn’t realize the chain had snapped until the amulet, still dangling a scrap of chain, caught around the crab’s neck. Without slowing for a second, the crab scuttled through a gap in the bridge railing, vanishing into the water below with a faint splash.

“No, no, no, no, NO!” Naia’s voice crescendoed as the truth hit home.

The amulet.

The stories.

Her honor as a Storykeeper.

It was gone.

The bearded man rushed by, not noticing Naia’s grief. But Runa laid a gentle hand on her shaking shoulder.

Naia’s eyes clouded with tears as her breath caught in her throat.

This can’t be happening. Not here, not now.

“Don’t worry, Naia,” Runa’s voice was calm. “We’ll get the city guards to cut off the waterways and they’ll find it soon enough.”

“But the gathering! I have to be there! I can’t tell a story without the amulet!” Naia’s breaths came in ragged gasps.

“You’ve recited those stories hundreds of times; I’m sure you can remember one.”

Naia wiped her running eyes with the back of her sleeve. She started to murmur the same story she had just drawn out of the amulet.

“Alnuevan ul ranera, alnuevan ul altera. Alnuvan ul shulata od…od…od”

“I sing of roses, I sing of spring. I sing of leaves and…and…and”

The bridge, the city, the desert, the sky, it all crowded around her, suffocating her, squeezing out the stories in her mind. The chain’s absence around her neck felt heavier than the weighty amulet ever had.

“I- I can’t remember them! They’ve just,” she passed a hand over her aching, feverish forehead, “gone.” Naia’s words crumbled to dust in the desert air. Runa took a step towards Naia, her voice gentle.

“You mean you can’t remember any of the stories?”

The space behind Naia’s eyes started to throb. “I should be able to remember them without the amulet, but I can only remember the beginnings, after that there’s just scraps!” A thousand feelings—disappointment, frustration, shame—screamed in her mind. “I’m a failure of a Storykeeper, I should have the stories memorized and be able to perform them perfectly!”

“Naia, storytelling isn’t about being perfect, it’s about passing on a moment, a feeling.” Runa’s voice cut through Naia’s mind like a stream of clear, cool water across a scorching desert.

A moment.

Naia thought of wandering through the market, the bearded men, the running girl, the proud boy.

A feeling.

Naia thought of the look in Emrin’s eyes, the firm yet gentle grasp of Runa’s hand, the way it felt to sing a story.

So many stories, all around her, waiting to be told.

A melody, rising and falling like the wind rivers over the desert, sprung from her soul.

“Maybe…if the amulet can’t give me a story, I have to find one myself.” Naia’s voice was barely a whisper, but the words were strong, urging her towards the Stadium and the rising sun.

***

A spot of gold was gathering on the horizon as the last few seats in the Stadium filled. A girl with dirty blond braids settled into her seat while an old woman swathed in blue cloth hurried her weary bones to a bench on the other side of the Stadium.

The first sliver of sun slipped over the horizon.

“Alnuevan e slu-ela ken laten caldenala.”

“I sing a story-song not heard before.”

Every eye in the crowd turned to the rim of the Stadium, where a girl was walking out from behind one of the pillars, her voice rising hauntingly. It soared to the sky, then sank to the dust of the desert.

“A story that is old, a story that is new, a story that goes on forever

“I sing of home, and of faraway places, and I sing the stories of you.”

The words, the music, the story welled up from somewhere inside of Naia, filling her and bursting forth. A bird answered her song, trilling along in harmony. The sun rose, spreading its light through the stadium, bursting around the pillars in rays of perfect gold.

She sang the stories of those around her, of the longing look in Emrin’s eyes, of Runa’s comforting voice and gentle hands. Naia held the final note of her song. She raised it up then let it down until it reached a soft hum. As the last bit of sun rose from the horizon, she drew the note up and up, sliding higher and higher, until it reached the cloudless sky.

The stadium was silent when she finished, silent as everyone filed out.

Some feelings are too precious to be put immediately into words. They must be kept in the heart until the proper time, when a story, a melody, springs from the recesses of the soul.

Naia stood on the rim of the stadium for a long time.

Even after the shine of a green stone caught her eye from where it lay far below, resting on the bank of a waterway, she still stood, feeling stories, old and new, flow through her.

She whispered to the desert, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, “Everything, and everyone, is a story, and I’ve got a whole lot to tell.”

Maria Pasquale: A Catholic teen who has been writing for as long as she can remember. She loves all things J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, J. Austen, and L.M. Montgomery. If she isn’t buried in a book, you can find her playing violin, sewing, or wandering in the forest, on the search for an adventure. Her motto is, as said by St. Teresa of Avila, “Life is to live in such a way that we are not afraid to die.”

Audience: YA
Genre: Adventure Mystery
Author: Jade Howell

Hidar had written the stories his whole life. From the moment he could write, his father had taught him the tales that his people held dear.

Every day he wrote and listened. Every story, myth, tale and legend. He knew them all by heart. He spent hours with his father, learning them all, until the day his father passed the job to him.

He was the youngest writer in the city at the age of sixteen, but no one loved the stories more than him. And no one knew them as well as he did. They were real, they were true, and they were life.

Hidar sat in his stall as the sun began to set, and began writing, so that the stories could be shared and given to all who came to the city.

“Hidar!” A voice from the crowd called to him. He grinned as his friend came running towards him, but he soon stopped when he saw the distress on Roheld’s face. “Ro? What’s wrong?”

“Hidar, you won’t believe it! Someone is fighting the Elder!”

“Fighting? Why? What could provoke the Elder to fight!?” Hidar braced Roheld as he panted and tried to catch his breath.

“It’s all that…that… traveler’s fault!

Hidar felt a chill run down his spine despite the heat.“A traveler?” he asked, tightening his grip on Roheld’s arm. “What could a stranger want with the Elder?”

His friend shook his head, eyes wide with worry “He mocks us Hidar! He mocks the Elder and our teachings! He claims that we teach lies, that the stories we have passed down are not true, that they are meaningless!”

“Where is this Traveler?” Hidar gasped, already pulling his friend back in the direction he had come from.

“At the fountain square,” Roheld said breathlessly. “The Elder tries to reason with him, but the man—he will not stop.” They pushed past the spice vendors and cloth-sellers, past the wine makers and the story-teller women, past the other people crowding the square. The murmur of the market had shifted into a loud hum like a disturbed beehive.

As they got closer to the fountain, they could hear the upset voice of the Elder rising above the noise.

“The stories are true I tell you!” They heard him shout. “They have been passed down since the time of the first King, and they will continue to be passed down until the rule of the last!”

Pushing themselves forward once more, they made it to the front of the crowd.

Hidar saw the Elder standing tall despite his old age, his silver hair gleaming in the bright desert sun. Before him, a stranger in a blue cloak gestured broadly, his voice booming over the talk of the gathered crowd.

“Stories? Do you hear yourself, old man? That’s just it! They are only stories! That is all your people have—fairy tales of beasts and riders, of souls and miracles. Where is the cloak that calms any beast? Where is the sword of Himatar, your great hero? Where is the so-called “Drakerider’s Soul” you claim exists? Oh, they are “lost to the sands of time” You have none! You are nothing but fools!” He spat, turning his anger to the people. “You waste your lives in this city, learning and sharing these falsehoods! And you think of nothing more, nothing more than passing these lies on to a new generation of fools!”

A hush fell. The Elder’s eyes were steady, but weary and sad, like the fight had left him weakened. And Hidar, heart pounding, felt anger grow within him. If he wants proof, I’ll find proof! He stood. “I uphold the King’s challenge!”

A gasp rose from the crowd as all eyes turned to Hidar in an instant.

“The King’s challenge, young one?” The Elder asked in surprise, “No one has invoked the challenge in many years, not since the time of my predecessor.”

“I am of age, and I swear, on my life, I swear that I will uphold the challenge! I will find The Drakeriders Soul and bring it back so that this newcomer will see that the stories are true! I, Hidar Alhaj, take the oath of the—”

“No!”

All eyes turned to Roheld, Hidar’s friend, who had stood wide-eyed as Hidar spoke. “Hidar, you can’t! You know they never came back! Any of them!”

“—take the oath of the chosen and give my name to the list of those before me, and uphold the right to the challenge as is law!” Hidar finished the oath in a rush, because the law says that the oath is binding.

The Elder’s face lowered, sorrow filling his eyes.

“So it is spoken, may it be bound,” he said, his voice heavy, “Hidar Alhaj, by the ancient king’s law, your path is set. May you succeed where those before you have failed.”

Roheld tried to dash forward but was held back by men in the crowd. “Elder, please! Stop him! He’s my friend—he’ll be lost! He can’t do this! Please? There must be something!”

But the Elder only lifted a steady hand. “The law is binding, my child. Once spoken, it cannot be undone.” His gaze fell upon Hidar. “You know the weight of what you’ve done. The others who took the King’s challenge never returned. Some say their bones lie beneath the dunes. Others say the drakes themselves devoured them.”

The traveler laughed, sharp and mocking, cutting through the solemn silence. “Ha! Perfect! Another fool to throw himself to the beasts in the name of your precious stories.” He spread his arms wide to the crowd. “Let him go! Let him chase the sun and shadows. It will only prove me right when he fails.”

That broke the silence of the crowd.

“How dare you speak that way of traditions!”

“Send the traveler to the desert sands! Let him be eaten!”

“Lord save us, this traveler is surely the devil!”

Outrage roared among the crowd until the Elder banged his staff to silence them once more, his hand resting briefly on Hidar’s shoulder. “Go then, child. At dawn, the city gates will open to you. Take what provisions you need. Beyond the walls, the desert will test you. May the soul of the first king guide your steps.”

Hidar straightened his back, forcing his voice to steady though his heart thundered in his throat. “I will not fail. The stories are not lies—they are life and truth,” he told the Elder before turning his gaze to the traveler, “And I will return with proof enough to silence you.”

He made his way through the crowd slowly and turned into the marketplace. He was hardly thinking until he collided with a girl in line at his father’s food stall, causing her to drop her coins. She sighed warily and began picking them up, “I beg your pardon, Miss,” he said bowing to the stranger before heading to his house, before entering he thought for a moment.

Many come to the city seeking out stories, that girl was probably one of them, her brown eyes shone as mine did the first time I heard them, I must protect the stories. I must!

That night, Roheld found him on the flat roof of his home, where the desert winds tugged at their clothes and the stars looked close enough to touch.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Roheld whispered.

Hidar leaned his elbows on his knees. “Yes, I do. If the stories fade, then so do we.” Roheld shook his head, but stayed beside him until the city slept.

***

Before dawn, his mother pressed a waterskin into his hands, her fingers lingering on his skin. She smoothed the hair out of his eyes like when he was small. “Go with courage, my son. Come back with the truth.”

And when the gates opened, he stepped beyond them.

The wind had carried him far since that morning. Sand burned his eyes, the sun blazed hot and bright, and behind him, the walls of his home were no more than a memory.

At first, the stories guided him. He whispered them beneath his breath to steady his heart—how the first king crossed these same sands, how the stars would shine on the path, and how the dunes themselves shifted to swallow the careless.

By the third day, the desert grew silent. No hawk cried in the sky, no beetle stirred in the sand. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Hidar followed a narrow path between two large dunes, grateful for the shade—until the ground shook beneath his feet.

The story of the hungry earth returned to him too late.

With a sound like thunder, the sand beneath him started slipping through cracks, and the earth itself began to crumble. With his heart in his throat, he realized that he had walked into one of the many weak spots of the desert.

The sand gave way with a roar, and Hidar plunged into darkness.

Dust burned his lungs. He coughed, blinking at blackness so dark he couldn’t see a few inches in front of him.

The light of day was a pale circle far above.

Hidar’s knees shook as he stood, one hand pressed to the cavern wall. It was damp and cool, but he felt something else, a marking? Squinting his eyes, he peered under his fingers. Writing. Carved into the stone.

Listen closely for Inara’s death

For soon you shall lose all breath

Follow closely the source at hand

You’ll soon arrive at a safer land

He swallowed hard. The rhyme had always sounded like a child’s tale, a puzzle for winter nights. But now, in the dark, it felt like a death sentence. His heart pounding, he set to work trying to figure out the riddle. “Listen closely for Inara’s death” Inara’s death? Inara had been a princess who was known for creating the river near his home. Inara’s death? Inara’s death….

Water! Inara had drowned in the river!

He listened for the water’s call, the steady sound of a stream bouncing off the rocks guiding him deeper.

At first, it seemed to come from everywhere at once echoing all around him. But at last, he found it: a thin stream shooting through a jagged seam in the wall. The stone behind it rose in a jagged slope.

He pressed his palm to the damp crack. Sand? The water wasn’t coming through stone, but sand. He chipped some of it away with his hands, and a thin stream of light shone above the flow of water. Breathing a sigh of relief he began digging and pushing it away as fast as he could, until at last his hand broke into sunlight.

He dragged himself out of the cavern, sprawling on the hot sand, chest heaving. The desert stretched endlessly before him, the sun already fierce overhead. But he smiled. The stories had not lied.

The desert stretched endlessly before him, but the way was no longer clear. A shadow smudged the sky, rising higher than the dunes, a shifting wall of gold and tan. At first, Hidar thought it was a mirage, heat shimmering on the edge of the desert—but the closer he came, the louder it grew. A low, unending roar, like the earth itself breathing. It was a storm. Unmoving, eternal.

He approached until the wind tore at his clothes and sand rubbed his skin raw. The wall of swirling dust reached to the heavens, blotting out the sun. Nothing lived here. Nothing could live here. Yet his path led straight into its teeth.

At the storm’s edge, half-buried in the sand, stood a stone taller than a man. Its face was rough and cracked, but upon it someone long ago had carved words:

Rush not into the desert’s breath,

For haste will only bring you death.

When sunlight sleeps in silent skies,

The sleeper wakes and the storm dies.

Hidar traced the letters with shaking fingers. He whispered the rhyme. He had not come this far to cower before wind and dust.

He pulled his cloak tight and stepped forward. The storm swallowed him whole. Sand burned and scratched his eyes, his throat, his skin. He staggered two steps, three—then the world became a blur of choking sand. He could not see the ground beneath him. Could not breathe. His lungs burned, his chest heaved, and terror clawed at him as the storm pushed him back. He stumbled, fell, and crawled, until at last the storm hurled him out onto the sand, broken and gasping. The stone still stood before him, silent as judgment.

His mouth was raw, his eyes burned from grit. Slowly, he dragged himself upright, glaring at the stone as if it had mocked him.

He muttered the lines again, half in fury, half in desperation. He had rushed, and the storm had nearly killed him.

For haste will only bring you death. But what of the rest? When sunlight sleeps in silent skies…

His gaze lifted to the sun, blazing and merciless. Silent skies—was that nightfall? The Moon was called the Sleeper in some of the stories, wasn’t it? He closed his eyes trying to remember. Yes—the old tale: a storm that never moved, except in sleep.

Hidar sank to his knees at the foot of the stone, his heart sinking with him. To wait here, exposed on the desert’s edge, until nightfall? Every moment would burn his strength away. But what choice did he have?

The storm roared on, endless, eternal. Yet behind its fury lay the promise of a path. And so Hidar sat with his back to the stone, clutching his waterskin close, and watched the sun crawl across the sky.

The hours bled together. The sun dragged low, turning the dunes to fire. Hidar’s lips cracked, his throat dry as bone, but still he waited. The storm roared, eternal, defying him with every breath of sand. Then—without warning—it stopped.

The silence hit like a blow.

The sudden stillness rang in his ears.

Sand rained down, and a path yawned open through the storm’s heart. Hidar staggered to his feet, awe choking him more than the dust had. The sleeper wakes and the storm dies. The old rhyme was true.

He hurried forward, knowing the storm’s silence would not last. The dunes fell away into broken stone, and ahead, half-hidden by shadow, the mouth of a cavern opened wide.

Hidar froze at its threshold. Stories whispered of caves like these, where the keepers of secrets set their last trials. The storm behind him stirred, already muttering in its sleep. He had no choice. With one last glance at the darkening sky, Hidar stepped into the cavern, which opened into a vast chamber, the ceiling lost in shadow. Heat shimmered in the air, thick with the stench of ash.

In the faint light, he saw claw marks gouged deep into the stone. And bones.

The stories crowded his mind—whispers of the mother dragon who guarded the Soul.

One who destroyed all who dared trespass. Yet another line pressed on his memory: “Take the child, and she will yield.” Hidar’s throat tightened. That was the only way, the stories said. Take the child. At the far end of the cavern, nestled among shards of obsidian rock, lay a drake no bigger than a cat.

Its scales glimmered like molten gold, its eyes wide with bright fire. The youngling hissed as he approached. Heart pounding, Hidar reached out. The words of the story gave him courage—take the child. He scooped the creature into his arms. And in that instant, a roar shattered the cavern.

From the shadows, the mother stirred—vast as a mountain, her scales black as night, her eyes glowing with fury. She surged forward, gaze fixed on him, hatred blazing. Hidar staggered back, clutching the squirming youngling.

He had no weapon, no hope. The mother’s jaws yawned wide, firelight spilling from her throat. But he managed to dodge her blast, the heat of it blazing through the cavern. He held the creature in his arms tightly, fearing that it might be harmed.

But then, something changed. The young drake twisted in his arms, no longer fighting. It pressed its snout against his chest, crooning softly. The mother froze, her jaws snapping shut. The cavern shook with the force of her breath, but she did not strike. Her eyes narrowed, but she laid down quietly.

It was then he realized. The story was wrong. It hadn’t been take the child. It was to treat the child. Care for it, and the mother would yield.

Beyond the drakes, set into the rock like a heart within the rock, burned a faint glow: the Drakerider’s Soul.

Hidar stepped closer, and the young drake leapt from his arms, padding ahead to the light. It curled beside the glowing crystal as though it had always belonged there. The cavern trembled. A voice—not a sound, but a presence—rose in Hidar’s mind, vast and ageless.

Long have I slept, keeper of tales. Only the truth remembers not the words alone, but their meaning. Only such a one could wake me.”

The crystal’s glow flared, and from it rose a drake older and greater than the mother, its wings folded like mountains, its eyes twin suns. Hidar fell to his knees as the voice thundered in his mind.

“You are the keeper. You are the truth of the stories. You have woken me. And in waking, you have proven the truth alive. Long have I slept. But now, I belong to you.”

The king’s drake leaned close, its breath warm and steady. Hidar lifted a trembling hand and laid it upon the creature’s scales.

The voice filled him again:“Where the first king walked, you will walk. Where he rode, you shall ride. You are the keeper, you are the rider, you are the story made real.”

When they emerged from the cavern, the storm had passed. Night spread its quiet cloak across the sands, and the stars burned clear and sharp. Hidar set his face toward the horizon. Beside him, the drake unfurled its wings, their span blotting out the moon.

For the first time, Hidar did not walk alone. For he had done what no other could, he had awakened the Drakeriders Soul.

Jade Howell: I love fantasy books especially Cinder and Howls moving castle. I have one story published by LegendFiction, it’s called The Trial’s of Morgana le Fay, published in Echoes of Avalon. I’m currently working on book one of a trilogy called Elven Secrets. I’ve also recently added a side project, a retelling of Alice in Wonderland. Website: jadehowell.substack.com

Audience: YA
Genre: Action Adventure
Author: Dominic de Souza

Nurim folded his arms over his chest, closed his eyes tight, and sucked in a short, sharp breath. The leygate was inches from his nose, the shape of a doorway carved in granite, but not actually a door. From these coastlands in the northern bamboo wilds, the only way to reach the Lajjan, or the Legend Haven, was through these gates. Do it wrong, and you smack your teeth and forehead into solid stone. Do it right, and the stone melts like sand and steam and you’re suddenly breathing strange air.

“Get closer!” a voice urged him from behind. A girl. Maleni.

“I will!” He hissed back.

“Are you actually nervous right now?” She was his mage bond. Well, his secret mage bond, he corrected himself.

“Course not!” He whipped his head sideways, catching a glance of the line of young students waiting to touch the door, fresh out of childhood, not yet adults, but hardy and healthy, the gawkiness trained out of them. The temple incense was sharp and heady, streaming straight up from glowing sticks near the urns of blessed water.

By the door behind them, Master Shekhu with his braided beard and tattoos ribboning from his right eye over his shaved head and down under his triple-rolled blue collar, pressed a measured good bye to the temple second in command, and turned to catch up.

Nurim swallowed, and ran his fingers over the stitched medallions on his forearms. Medallions of the red sword-shield of the Excalibyrn school. And hidden under those, a secret that turned his mouth dry.

Maleni was the only one who knew what they were about to do, and if he didn’t pull it off, he’d be banished from the temple, dishonored probably forever. In fact, he wouldn’t even stay in the village. He’d hike out into the forest, and not stop until he actually found another settlement. Or die.

He sniffed. But that wasn’t going to happen. They’d planned carefully. And if it went well, they’d never see this village again. Or Rukmur’s stupid face.

“Is he moving yet?” Rukmur’s stupid voice called forward.

“I’m waiting for the Master’s say-so,” Nurim barked.

Rukmur was his real mage bond, a trainee who connected Nurim to the living magic of the godstorm, and allowed him to pull it into his bones and his blade. On his own, Nurim was a young warrior. With Rukmur’s bond, he could become a adept of the House Excalibyrn, the ancient school for warriors. And… they hated each other. The bond would drop suspiciously during training, at the worst times. But there was never anything to prove.

“He said go already!” Rukmur hissed. “I knew it. He’s scared,” he chuckled and dug his elbows into his friend’s ribs. They snorted with laughter together.

“You shut your—” Nurim started hotly.

Master’s staff clanked quickly on the ground. “Within the temple, we are…?”

Every student answered instantly, in a single voice. “Measured and reverent, master.”

“This is the body of the god, not the barracks of the garrison. You will conduct yourselves as befits the trainees of this school.”

He took his place at the head of the line.

Nurim’s heart was a ramming drum in his throat. Sweat trickled from the edge of his close-cropped scalp, and he pressed his hands to his sides. Hoping, praying, that master wouldn’t notice anything unusual about the forearms on his red tunic. The very slight bulges under the medallions. The stitching on the edge was slightly newer than the rest, hiding the secret medallion of a second school beneath.

Master didn’t even turn his eyes down. He glanced at the line. Everyone straightened, eyes forward. “You will bring pride to our school, and our people, in the Excalibyrn races. Fail, and you will not earn your mark, and you will not train further with this temple.”

He put his hand on Nurim’s steeled shoulder and turned to face the door.

Nurim blinked. Forced himself to relax. No way Master didn’t feel that tension. He needed to get control of himself.

Master glanced at him, that glassy right eye in a dark nest of tattooed lettering and blue banners. “Do you wish to stay?” His voice deep and rumbling.

Nurim jutted his jaw. “No sir, I’m ready.”

“Then go. You’re holding up the line.”

Without magic, he couldn’t cross through the doorway. And Nurim knew without a doubt that Rukmur was holding back, waiting for him to faceplant before the school. A rush of quickly coughed apologies that he wasn’t ready, and then connect to Nurim.

“I got you,” Maleni murmured. She knew it too. And then… there it was… he felt the flowing, honey-warm bond of the magic suddenly in his skin. That meant she was channeling, and he was now connected to the perilous life of the godstorm.

Nurim closed his eyes, hoped that Maleni’s bond held, and stepped forward boldly into the granite wall, cringing against the feeling of cracking his head and chipping a tooth…

And instead it was a rush of air, and a sudden crash of heat and noise and chattering of voices. “Keep it moving, adepts!” A guard barked, leaning on a curved halberd draped with thin banners.

Nurim barely had time to process the short hallway opening out into a brilliant blue sky, burning into maroon and ochre under a setting sun, a thumbnail of blinding gold behind ribs and rockwalls of a desert canyon. The air, dry and hot, shimmering in the distance, shook with the hum of the ten kingdoms all in one place.

No time to think.

He hooked a finger nail under his stitched medallions, yanked, wormed a finger into the gap, and tore it away quickly. Crumpled it into his hand. Behind him, he heard Maleni doing the same thing.

No time to feel.

He held up his forearm without looking at the guard. Keep moving. Keep your steel. keep your head.

The guard glanced at the medallion. A multi-twisting flame shaped like a teardrop. “Chalimancers right,” he waved them on. Looked at the next student after Maleni. “Excalibyrn left. Follow the banners.”

“Come on,” He glanced back and urged her. She nodded. Her face was pale, but jaw was set.

Don’t look back. Just run. In seconds Master would be through, and it would all be over.

They stumbled onto the street, catching themselves on the waist-high embankment of sandstone, ripped off the second badge, and tossed the bits of cloth over the edge. Then peeled right, scanning through the chaos and rumble of the century festival for the golden banners of House Chalimancer.

“There!” She barked, pointing, and he saw a yellow pennon floating from a wide, arching bridge, a banner as tall as a building and turning almost purple in the light.

They ducked and weaved through the crowd, careful to not catch feet or elbows on the billowing cloaks, keeping their heads down to avoid attention, keeping up their pace to get away from their temple school. The crowd was thick with cinnamon hearthsmoke, almost hard to breathe.

A flare of pride and excitement burst up in his chest. He risked a glance back, right as a wagon hid them from view, and the students had gathered round Master like a clutch of chicks round a hen, looking around for them.

“Down,” he hissed. “Keep going!”

He turned off the main street, one eye on that yellow banner, but getting away from Master’s sightline. A thud of regret followed as they hurried into the cool shadows between the red, mudwashed houses, carved from the living stone of this massive canyon. Master wasn’t bad. Harsh, a good teacher. But that time was over.

Maleni made no noise. Kept pace with him like a trained scout instead of a chair-bound mage trainee. Up stairs between houses, careful to bow and keep a respectful distance from elders sitting on stoops, sucking on the ends of strange bowls and exhaling a dark and heady smoke.

Distant music was deafening, duduks and horns and drums. Perhaps a concert. They could catch glimpses of vast plazas, strung with lanterns that glowed on glossy marble flagstones, under rough arches like ribs, carved with ancient floral art. He guessed those flowers didn’t grow out here any more, on the edge of the desert. Memories of even older days when this part of the world still greened.

This was Arclight Hollows, or Ribgate. And it was choked with the storytellers, scribes, and students from the four houses across the whole world of Arvandr. That’s the name his people had for the world. Other kingdoms used other names.

This was a sacred city, a neutral oasis where all violence was outlawed, and disputes were settled over storytelling and date wine. Every road sparkled with lanterns and strung banners, the constant babble of voices from the rooftops like rain on bamboo.

He had yet to see anything green here. They kept climbing the canyon height, keeping to the gloom between the houses, the air thick with cumin and barbecued meat, spiced flatbread, sizzling fruits, and the resin of desert incense.

“Almost there, I think!” He panted.

She nodded, and they picked up the pace again. “There!” She snapped. He skidded and turned. The houses parted for a wider road that ran over an arch, a path carved into the smooth white stone. Almost looked like bone.

And on the other side, the tall banners for the Chalimancer trials.

No going back now. Pass, and they would finally be in their true home.

They darted like minnows through rapids, pausing for a second at the top of the arch to look down at this incredible canyon world.

“We did it,” Maleni’s face broke into a brilliant grin.

He allowed himself to grin back. If anything went wrong, he would be cast out, and she would be mage-bonded with a new trainee. It would be easy enough to take all the blame.

He remembered their second evening in the school, years ago, when the bonding exercises between warriors and mages were tested for the first time. At first, he and Rukmur locked eyes and knew they hated each other. And then just as suddenly, the bond had slipped over to another person.

Maleni.

Before anyone else noticed, they had both caught each other’s eyes, and their mouths had gone dry, their eyes went bleak and scared. They did not feel the red, rippling bond of the Excalibyrn warrior class. They both sensed the honey-gold hold of the only school everyone looked down on.

Chalimancers.

So they trained in secret. By day, he broke his knuckles on the training boards, face-planted in the garrison sands till grit in his teeth felt normal, and lugged great chunks of coral round the bay until his fingers bled and his muscles gave in. He kept a straight face and a clear bond with Rukmur.

Somehow, he had a double bond, a double house.

And then at night, he and Maleni slipped from their separate dorms, headed to the roofs where they could see each other over the alley between them, and practice the bonding exercises until her irids glowed gold from effort, and the magic of underword and sun-self was as easy as breathing.

But at the Legend Haven, you could only pick one trial.

And everything now came down to winning the Chalimancer trials.

While the elders and storytellers gathered in a marketplace of a million stories, the youth of the four houses entered the trials to win honor and keep alive the old ways of magic, mysticism, and martial arts. The stadia were filled with spectators, and through the wild music and the giant triangles of banners that hung flat in the air to create fields of shade, crowds erupted in roars of approval.

The Excalibyrn trials would be over by the desert, with glassfin racers that sliced across the sand, rounded the headlands and back, fighting off lantern crabs and skirting dune drakes.

“Come on,” he ran the back of his hand across his mouth. He was thirsty already. The air was salty out here, but not salty like the beach. This was a salt that dried you out.

They hurried toward the guards, sentinels of gilded armor and bronze embroidered cloth, standing under tall banners with sigils of the twisting flame.

His heart flopped with a specific excitement. It was like the last few seconds underwater when he’d run out of air, bubbles screaming and streaming from his mouth, limbs pumping and flailing to break the silvery surface of the bay, and then sudden rush of warm fresh air billowing into his lungs.

That kind of excitement.

Coming home. Finally home to the right House.

They held up their stitched medallions at the entry. The guards’ eyes squinted at the mismatched colors with their red uniforms, but waved them through.

This was a massive courtyard, ringed with rows of serried seats that rose up the sides of the canyon. Ahead loomed a vast gap, dark and purple in the evening light, and he could feel the bone-thrumming rumble and churn of dark water. Great lanterns hung in the air between the two sides of the canyon, trailing streams of banners and connected by garlands and streamers on string.

For a second, he wondered how those lanterns stayed up. He couldn’t see any cords, no way out between the canyon walls. On the other side, he saw the goal of the trial. A glow of a hundred lanterns hanging from poles and doorways of carved timber, and the sigil of the house inset on a glassy wall.

That was the goal. Touch the sigil. Simple.

Getting there was hard.

“Line up, adepts!” The trial master roared over the noise.

Nurim glanced around the courtyard. His ears burned over his hand-stitched medallion, compared to the beautiful gold bosses of the real houses. These yellow-robed students came from wealthy kingdoms, but their eyes and gait felt as stern and solid as his. No pampered governer’s children here.

“Come on,” he grabbed Maleni’s hand and pulled her toward the starting lines. The courtyard was lined with bronze stones to organize adepts into neat groups.

“Chalions at the edge, Mancers behind. Demonstrate sun-self to enter the trial,” the trial master was saying. Students jostled to be first. Some paled at the sight of the edge. Some calmly stepped out on to the air, and floated neatly.

Nurim nodded. “Come on, we’ve got this,” he murmured in his mind, and she got it. She crushed his hand to agree, and pushed him to keep going.

They broke through the line. Right ahead was the edge, and below that flowed the precious resource of the Ribgate. The wild waters of the river briefly erupted from underground, cascaded into the pools under the hollows, and then vanished into caves and lagoons. That’s what Master had once said, anyway.

“Catch me,” Nurim said.

No hesitation. He rushed to the edge, leapt off, shoving with his right leg to turn in the air. The darkness yawned below him, bits of rubble and dust flying out under his soles and snatched up by a taut breeze beyond the wall, twisting his body to face back and watch her. If he fell, it would be cold water and hidden rocks. If he survived that, it would a long, brutal climb back up this cliff face.

She had already planted her feet, worked her fingers into a tense mudra, and opened her brown eyes, the edges of her irids now bursting with gold. He felt the edges of his life bloom with the honey flow of magic, like a second skin.

This was sun-self, the freedom to levitate.

She had caught him perfectly in the air, latched on with an instant bond, and slowly pulled him back toward the edge.

He touched down, and grinned.

The trial master probably wanted to roll his eyes. Nurim didn’t care. He could barely breathe for excitement. Months and months over years of practice, and now he could answer the golden call that haunted him.

As he touched back down on the edge of the platform, Maleni relaxed and straightened, separating her fingers, the gold fading from her eyes, and the white of her grin bright in the dark light.

He grabbed her hand and stood next to her.

“We’re actually doing it,” she muttered. He could feel the excitement crackling off her, like lightning snapping off the edge of the bay.

The trial master raised his hand, calling out something about candidates forming a line and the crowd hushed to hear the instructions. The courtyard collapsed into silence, broken by someone shuffling, and a random cough.

“Mancers, you will maintain a sun-self bond with your Chalion, and ferry them across to the other side. Chalions, you will touch the sigil to close the trial.”

Nurim frowned. This didn’t seem that hard. The Excalibyrn trial was much harder. They’d trained on skiffs for weeks, trying to imagine the rush of sand under glassfin racers instead of the lagoon.

Then from the a doorway in the canyon wall hurried a line of young adepts, each one holding a bronze ring in their hands, shawls over their faces to hide all but their eyes.

“Chalions, you will extend your dominant arm to receive the band,” the trial master said.

He raised his right hand, palm down, like the rest.

The student clamped the ring round his wrist. It was metal, impressed with the seamless flowering art from the Ribgate. It shrank to a perfect fit. And he suddenly felt the echo of the magic vanish, like cloth padding muffled round his ears.

He glanced at her, frowning. What was this?

She shrugged.

They didn’t need the underword to read each other’s mind. They just knew.

“Chalions, this band inhibits your sense for the magic,” the trial master continued.

His heart flushed cold and hard. Oh. He glanced down at the wide gap of the canyon. He understood.

She would have to ferry him across the rapids and the blackwater, and he could feel nothing the whole time.

This was not the rip and red rage of an Excalibyrn trial, all speed and white-knuckled turns. This was a test of nerve, and complete trust.

He relaxed.

She had this. She couldn’t hear his thoughts now, but he hoped his grin told her clearly.

Her eyes questioned his.

He didn’t want her to guess at his worry. He winked, and squeezed her hand quickly.

“Mancers,” the trial master continued, “You will ascend in the House if your mage-bond can connect with the sigil on the other side.”

“What’s the challenge there?” Someone yelled.

The trial master paused, mouth open. He glared. “Without the mental link of underword, Chalions must touch the sigil, and submit the call of the magic back to their Mancers.”

Nurim went cold again.

Touching the magic directly was like a drowning man seeking the surface, hungry for air, desperate, panicking, near crazed. It would be the easiest thing to drink it in deep, gulp it down greedily, thrill with it in his bones and blood.

And he would surely die, because he had none of of the gifts of a Mancer, the special safeguards in the soul to master the flow of power. Maleni used to say she was chained to a wild shark, and only the gentlest, firmest of commands kept it in check. Press the heel too quickly to its side, tug on the cord to quickly, or surrender to the savage urge to wallow and drown in the honey-gold embers… and everything would be lost.

She would be whipped out to sea and into the depths until skin and hair and offal stripped away to bone, and bone melted into bubbles.

His fingertips would touch that shimmering, surging well of power, and he would need to send every drop back to her.

And all that had to happen without underword, without talking in each other’s minds.

So… that was the test.

Her eyes had hardened into a glare. She stared at him. He could see her tongue seeking words in her clenched jaw. He knew what she was asking.

Can you do it?

He held her gaze for a full second. Stopped himself from swallowing, or steeling his muscles. He relaxed, and nodded. “Yes. We’ve got this.”

He turned away, and allowed himself a single swallow of nervousness.

“Step up,” the master called out. “And step off.”

A line of yellow-robed students lifted off into the air, like saffron herons, robes taut like kites in the breeze. Their faces white.

She locked her fingers together, reached out with a lariat of power that he couldn’t feel, and nodded.

He swung his foot over the edge, and his heart thudded with fear. There was nothing now. He felt the pull of the world, the bands round his belly and the strips of cloth tight round his calves, the muffle of that armband shutting out the feeling of the sun in his skin. Just the drag of his own body and the cold rush of panic in his veins.

He clamped his teeth together. He trusted her. There was no reason to doubt something they’d practiced hundreds of times.

Nothing else for it.

He flexed his neck right and left, and then walked off the parapet like a stroll on the beach. His foot bent into the open air, and he was airborne.

Cold relief flushed the back of his neck.

To right and left, students floated like lanterns in the night, sailing across the gap, a constellation of gold stars reflected in the blackwater below, stars above hard and white in the damson-dark sky.

He kept his nerve. Nothing else to do. Let her move him forward, let her handle everything. Wait, trust, hope.

The floating lanterns passed by, balls of paper, glowing from inside, bigger than a grown man, trailing red banners with gilded letters, connected by cords of smaller flags. Bunting. Almost close enough to run his finger along them.

She couldn’t hold sun-self for too long. If Maleni wasn’t careful, she could burn them both out in a wink of an eye. And he would feel nothing, no warning, no chance of escape.

But with her, their bond could be a dyad of power and action.

He stared ahead, counting the seconds until he could reach the other side.

It might be a full minute wait.

He held his breath, licking his dry lips, locking his eyes on the glow ahead until it blurred and pulsed like a living thing.

Chalimancers are guardian, fire, and grail. They weave people into patterns, shape families, fellowships, kingdoms, often under the intense duress of a warfront. They are kingmakers, ambassadors, advisors, builders. Fire and shield are their symbols, fire to warm, shield to guard, and a heart to lead without domination.

That last part was probably hard to get right.

Suddenly he was yanked left.

Then right.

Maleni’s voice crashed into his mind. Rukmur found us. Grabbing me. Pulling me away.

Nurim flailed in the air like an idiot. There was nothing to grab. No way to move. Nothing to do.

Maleni!?

Dragging me out. I’m trying to stop you falling!

There was no way she could safely keep him up, maintain the mudra, and keep the link flowing while being dragged and interrupted.

He was thrown sideways again. He thrashed his arms, his fingers snagged a strand of cord. Locked his fingers around it. Yanked himself toward it. It was one of those lines of bunting between the floating lanterns.

Then his body sagged in the air.

She was gone. Nothing held him up.

He grit his teeth till his neck strained and went sore, hanging over the abyss, stuck in the middle of the trial.

There was no way this rope would hold his weight.

The other students glanced at him, and passed by, emotionless.

The bunting cord snapped.

His stomach punched into this throat and he clamped both hands on the cord, shredding the banners off like paper, dropping like a stone, straight onto another cord. That one tore free from one lantern, and he swung again, his feet dragging through a second lantern, shredding the paper sides into bits. He heard a surprised shriek. The light went out. The lantern dropped straight down out of sight.

What?

There was nothing for it. He crashed into the side of a large lantern. Crashed right through the wicker wood and paper, grabbing at anything to catch him, hooked an arm around the edge of the circular platform and crunched up short, the air crushed from his lungs, his hips and legs still swinging wildly below.

And he stared up into a person’s eyes.

It was a woman, middle aged, yellow light glowing from her skin.

He blinked in shock.

She was the lantern.

That meant… all the lanterns were students practicing a form of sun-self, and leaking the light through their skin. He’d ripped right into her meditative position.

She opened her eyes, smiled, and looked down to study him. Her irids were completely gold, suffused with brilliant light. She was Maleni… in five years.

And he felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. None of that warmth that used to flow over him like a second skin.

“Umm… I’m sorry, so sorry,” he stammered.

She tilted her head, studied him, and then smiled. Then she reached out with a single finger. Touched his left hand white-knuckling the edge of the platform near her knee.

In that instant, he felt something change. A keyhole had opened up in him. Magic streamed in.

He pressed his eyes shut. His arms were trembling. His feet had nothing to push on, scrabbling on empty air.

He focused on sending it back to Maleni. Every bit. Every drop.

He let it rip, backwards through their connection.

And for a second, he felt it ram into her, gather up like a waterfall pooling in a bowl, and then she channeled it like a charge, probably at Rukmur, a blasting gale of rage and anger.

And then suddenly he was weightless again.

He knew that she was begging to ask him what happened.

But the contest rules were clear. No underword.

He guessed that she blew out the magical lines in his wrists and his neck, so that he would need a full day before he could blink. Just groan and stare.

He’d be lying if that didn’t feel satisfying.

He felt himself lift off the lantern, half upside-down, and he tried to form a respectful bow in the air with his hands crossed over his chest. That was supposed to be reverent apology. He hoped it was accepted that way in the Ribgate world too. Then Maleni rolled him over and he faced the right way again.

The air whipped past. This was burning through her reserves to do this, to catch him up. He hoped she wasn’t hurting herself. Normally he could feel the extra heat, the warmth turning to prickling, like a hand over a flame for too long, and the skin reddening from pain.

Now, nothing but the chill air blowing on his face.

She gave out right as he reached the parapet above shadowed rapids, and the pull of the world sucked him down in a rush, crashing to his knees on the bronze-chased stonework, slamming his mouth on the stone and throwing out a hand to grab a merlon. He swung his legs in a final lurching, and hauled himself up. Spat out the blood between his teeth.

Ouch.

His knee was blindingly sore.

It was deathly silent here. Nothing but the creak of banner on haft. Not even the guards seemed to breathe.

They watched him carefully as he stumbled through the alley of branching pillars, toward the sheer wall carved with the Chalimancer sigil. The wall had an eerie depth. It was like looking into a lagoon of glass that bent and warped the firelight bristling off the braziers.

Attendants and scribes sat on gilded benches, quills frozen in the air, watching Chalions rush up, touch the wall.

Nurim’s gut lurched as he saw a student shudder, glow, and then his robes billow out in a sudden burst of air. Flesh and sinew and brain matter melted into a stream of steam and starlight. And then… gone.

The quills scratched on the parchments, and then lifted into the air again. All eyes on him.

He was horrified.

That boy did it wrong.

He didn’t pass it back.

Nurim set his jaw. No time to feel. Or think. Just get it done.

She was counting on him.

He stepped up onto the dais, into the demi-circle of banners and braziers.

Planted his hand flat on the embossed sigil.

Felt the bursting boil and surge of honey-warmth splinter the armband from his forearm so it fell away. This was a cataract of heat, volcanic and boiling, pooling through his hands and into his heart like the geysers gusting high on the archipelago coast.

He was screaming in his mind.

His mouth open, his ears hearing nothing, his body numb. He was a floating orb of heat, a lantern out of control. His lungs were starved for air as if he’d dove deep into a sinkhole, his lips turned up seeking the silvery, rippling, blue edge where water meets air.

Air… air… His lungs pulsed and shuddered for air. And it was right there.

Don’t drink…

He felt like he would collapse inward inside himself, crush down into a tiny ball of char and then wink out like a light.

He lashed around in the darkness of his mind… felt for her presence… felt for the feel and outline of her hand reaching toward him… Maleni… there… there she was… just the sense of a mere keyhole in the darkness… and sent it all back to her.

Then his eyes rolled upward, blackness claimed his sight, and the magic whipped out of his his senses.

He was still alert.

But his body was done.

He fell back, welcoming the crack of marble on his skull, the clunk of stone on his spine…

Next thing he knew, hands pulled him up.

He blinked. Pulled in air, real air, coughed and spat blood, and pushed himself over onto his knees.

Scholars stepped back from him, adjusted their robes, and nodded approvingly.

He looked up.

And he knew his grin was a bloody, devil-may-care grin.

We did it, Maleni. We actually did it.

He didn’t need to hear her response. He felt it. It was ecstatic. She was jumping and fist-pumping the air over there.

He could feel the change in her. She felt deeper, wilder, like a shallow pool had bottomed out into a well, and he couldn’t see the bottom.

They were free of the Excalibyrn school.

He took a deep, shuddering sigh of relief.

What’s next? he didn’t know.

And then he felt her go still.

He looked up.

He realized he saw more. More than was there before.

He stood slowly, rubbing his eyes, the iron char of blood on his tongue, and his skin still prickling from the hot, honey-broil of the magic.

Figures of light freckled the air, tall and short ones, trailing long garments in the night. They stood in the sky, in the air, on the ridgelines. There were as many as the delegates from the ten kingdoms on the ground. And they were invisible to normal sight.

They were from the godstorm. Perilous Ones. The Numinous.

He glanced over at the scholars, and saw the gilded shining on the edges of their eyes. They had the sight too.

It dawned on him that this was the secret sight of the schools.

And a sunrise from the wrong direction sent shadows scattering like birds, in all new directions, lamps paling before its fire, an exhale of daylight waking the canyon walls as a new glow rose.

It was a dragon. Wings wide, great clawed feet hauling itself up to cast its arching neck and gilded ivory horns toward the moon, scales like scattering of gold flakes in sunshine, eyes as warm and wild as a god.

Zahirskald, or Nurhavn, the Luminous Dawn. Guardian of the Haven. Only seen by those who earned the perilous sight.

And they’d done it, together.

Dominic de Souza: A dad and novelist nuts about worldbuilding, helping friends find their freedom, and build a future we believe in. I’m a graduate from the Writer’s Institute for Children’s Literature. I am married, with a small girl and a smaller corgi. I write epic fiction for children and young adults. Website: dominicdesouza.com

Read these Stories Online

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About the realm of Bannermark

Bannermark is a city built in a crater, over the fused magic forges of an ancient problem. Long ago, magicians summoned a god from the skies and it crashed into the realm.

Today, Bannermark is a memorial city, a bulwark against the past, to never allow anyone to practice such spells again.

Each nation pledges to uphold this pact, and raises their flag around the city. But with LegendHaven returning, secrets are changing guard. Undead elk that glitter in the night are attacking the banners, and for the first time, Bannermark is no longer bustling with trade, but besieged.

Inspired by the imagination of Dominic de Souza, Bannermark launched with his short story ‘The Sign of the Visioneer.’ The following stories in this collection enrich the lore with unusual events and original characters.

We hope you enjoy this foray into the besieged mysteries of Bannermark!

Each author hand-crafted an original story for you to enjoy, shared free right here. If you enjoyed it, visit the authors’ websites and explore their worlds!

Stories include:

The Sign of the Visioneer: A Loyal wallguard braves a storm to rescue his friend, only to meet a monster and uncover a shattering truth about the holy banners he was sworn to protect. By Dominic de Souza

Fit, the Ordinary: An unremarkable page boy named Fit risks everything to save a noble Banner Warden from a deadly conspiracy, ultimately discovering his own worth and a new identity as Tiernen. By K.G. Stevenson

Escort Duty: When a simple soldier is abandoned by his unit during a midnight watch, he must face a monster alone to prove that true honor lies not in a kingdom’s banner, but in the man who refuses to yield. By Joseph Leach

The Call of Crystal: A young girl follows a mysterious pull into the forbidden mountains of Bannermark, where she defies her city’s laws by freeing a long-lost “song strain” that threatens to change her world forever. By Maria Pasquale

The Sentinel of Falstern: In a city where magic is woven into banners and a siege rages at the walls, a young sentinel must outwit a lethal betrayal from within to lead his fallen house’s heirs to safety. By Josiah Heintzman

The Tale of the Crystal Raid: Trapped in the besieged city of Bannermark, the crew of the Icerunner discovers their cargo is the crystallized remains of murdered citizens, forcing a young sailor to lead a desperate midnight raid. By Lily Siekierski

Meet the Authors

Dominic de Souza is an author, world-builder, and founder of LegendFiction. He has worked in marketing, branding, and storytelling for over twenty-five years. Website: dominicdesouza.com

K.G. Stevenson: Aspiring fantasy writer. Favorite fantasy writers: Brandon Sanderson, Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis. Occupation: homeschool mom.

Joseph Leach: A scientist, theologian, poet and author; Joseph Leach started writing fantasy and science fiction while still studying science at the University of Melbourne. He went on to get his Ph.D. as part of a NASA guest investigation into the Martian polar ice caps. Since then, he has worked as an Air Force intelligence officer, a government research scientist and a university lecturer. In this capacity, he has co-authored six technical books and over eighty scientific papers. An ordained deacon of the Catholic Church, in 2020 his first adult fantasy novel was published by Stone Table Books. Website: facebook.com/Liaigh

Maria Pasquale: A Catholic teen who has been writing for as long as she can remember. She loves all things J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, J. Austen, and L.M. Montgomery. If she isn’t buried in a book, you can find her playing violin, sewing, or wandering in the forest, on the search for an adventure. Her motto is, as said by St. Teresa of Avila, “Life is to live in such a way that we are not afraid to die.”

Josiah Heintzman: Josiah has been dreaming up epic worlds since he was six and started writing as a way to share them with others. His few early ventures in writing sparked a love of storytelling through words. Drawing inspiration from Tolkien and Lewis, he continues to explore the uncharted worlds of his imagination and strives to connect his readers to the deepest parts of reality through his writing. He sees himself as merely a squid in God’s hands, and trusts that God is using his messiness to create something beautiful.

Lily Siekierski: I love studying Greek mythology, playing Legends of Zelda, fencing, cooking, writing, drawing, making fancy dresses, dancing, running, reading, playing ukulele and ocarina, and watching anime; along with singing and daydreaming when I have a moment to spare. P.S. I also am learning how to be a DM for role playing :)

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Join the LegendFiction community, and become the storyteller you were born to be!

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Audience: YA
Genre: Action Mystery
Author: Lily Siekierski

The Captain and the other eleven members of the crew of the sledboat Icerunner sat around a table in the candle lit dining room of a local Inn. A bowl of stew sat in front of each man, steaming and wafting with an inviting aroma, yet untouched. These twelve men, traders from the southern reaches of this tundra covered land, were trapped inside the memorial city of Bannermark because of the siege.

“I don’t like it one bit” said Jim, his good eye glinting with rage. “Those stuffy Visioneers keeping us here because of some blasted elk! We got places to go, money to make. We can take on some elk! Right Arthur!?”

Arthur, the crew’s gunner, had disassembled his pistol and was in the process of cleaning it, something he aimed to do on a daily basis.

“These aren’t just any old elk, Jim. They’re undead and made of crystal; at least that’s the word round town. Besides, I doubt I could blast a hole through em’ if I wanted to. It’s best to stay here.”

Jim grumbled to himself.

Cadcus, the youngest member of the crew and the captain’s grandson, stared at his bowl blankly. He was used to the feeling of freedom, never in one place for long, always on his way somewhere new. What would it be like to be stuck? Unable to move? Stifling if he had a guess. Already he felt trapped. Bannermark was known for being a large city, full of winding streets and little oddities yet to be found, he knew that a city to explore would never be the same as a world to explore. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and thought.

What will happen if we never leave? With the elk tearing down the banners I wouldn’t be surprised if the city is next. Gracious goblins, I hope it doesn’t come to that. He thought.

Slorn, the cook, took a big bite of his stew and said, “Well look on the bright side lads, we get to try all kinds of food only found in Bannermark! I made a list of all the ones I want to try! Speaking of that this stew’s missin’ something…” He stood and marched off to the kitchen. The brothers Carnir and Warrener, the crew’s Cooper and Sailmaker, sat there glumly. One of them looked around and asked, “Anyone seen Poker?”

Poker was the surgeon. They didn’t know his real name, but he could fix you up good as new in minutes. His nickname came from his bizarrely good poker face, and, if you weren’t careful he could swindle you right out of your pocket change and take your pants without you noticing.

“He’s playin’ cards in the back with some soldiers, probably winnin’ too.” said the First Mate, a man named Jarel who always seemed to be scowling, even when he was pleased. Next to him was the Second Mate, Darwin, a lanky, wimpy looking man who enjoyed using his nonthreatening looks to his advantage.

“Well if you ask me I’m with Jim,” said Novax, the Helmsman. “I’m itching to get back under the stars of the polar night and feel the roughness of a steering ore in my hands. What’s the point of stayin’ safe anyhow? Since when has the life of a trader been safe? Never I tell ya! We should go to the docks, climb aboard Icerunner and make for the hills! Elk or no!” He thumped a fist against the table. Some of his fellow crewmen glared at him and wiped spilled stew from the table.

“Well I don’t necessarily agree with Jim and Novax, I am worried about the Runner’s safety,” said Nancin, the crew’s Boatswain. “If these elk truly are tearing down the banners surrounding the city then what’s to stop them from destroying our ship? And if they do so it will take weeks to get her snowworthy again!” Nancin had a strange, almost parental affection for the sleadboat. It was his job to make sure she was in ship shape condition at all times, and the thought of losing her brought him an unusual amount of anxiety.

“We won’t lose her, Nancin,” said the Captain. “Although I’ll admit I’m not too fond of stayin’ here either. The Visioneers have this place locked up tight, and that makes me twitch.” He sighed heavily. “Stay low lads and keep out of trouble, we’ll be out of here before you know it.”

Unfortunately the Captain’s words were too optimistic. The crew of the Icerunner had stayed in Bannermark for four weeks longer than expected. During this time Cadcus took to wandering the streets of the city in the hopes of quelling his longing for freedom. Being raised on the ship had taught him many things, but he had never been stuck like this before, and he was starting to hate it. Although he did have a favorite spot. It was a little corner of the city where it was quiet and the wall there was sparsely guarded. He liked to climb it and sit with the wind in his hair, and look out over the Hardwater and think.

On one of these excursions he found himself in one of the many marketplaces where the Captain, Darwin, and Nancin did the trading. Crowds of people strolled through the streets dressed in their warmest clothes, shouting and bartering. The stalls and shops were interesting enough. Some sold furs and pelts, others preserves, freeze dried meats and winter berries, while others sweet wines. He wandered around looking at some of the other things being sold.

This is nothing compared to the spice markets in the desert region. He thought.

The weather is blisteringly hot there and the people dress in colorful, flowing robes and ride on the backs of strange animals. He took a deep breath of the crisp cold air and imagined he was standing on Icerunner’s top deck, bound for somewhere new. Someone in the crowd bumped into him bringing him back to the present. He cursed

I hate it here.

After that he decided to head back. His boots made a muted clop, clop, clop sound against the street as he made his way back to the inn.

Upon opening the front door he was greeted by the bartender, then made his way up the stairs to the two rooms the crew shared, six men per room. It was crowded but nothing too different from sleeping in IceRunner’s lower deck.

The Captain was the only man in Cadcus’ room. He walked in and sat down on the floor next to his bed roll.

“Need somethin’ lad?” asked the Captain, standing in front of a mirror fixing his long gray hair.

Cadcus shook his head. The captain slipped into his best coat, the one he wore for negotiations and looked at him.

“If raisin’ you for 19 years has taught me anything it’s how to tell when somethin’s on yer mind.” He sat down next to him. “Come on lad, out with it.”

Cadcus sighed.

“I don’t know, I feel like I’ve seen everything in this damn city.” He laughed. “I suppose I’m just bored is all.”

The Captain checked his pocket watch, then grunted as he stood up.

“Perhaps you should go play cards with Poker. The inn’s cook said he could dissect one of the chickens for tonight’s dinner. He’s in a good mood so he might let you win.”

Cadcus followed him out of the room.

“There ain’t no way I’m playin’ cards with Poker, Captain, even if he is in a good mood.”

The Captain buttoned his coat as they walked down the stairs.

“Well if that doesn’t satisfy you then go find Arthur, ask him to help you practice shooting.” He said with a sly smile.

Cadcus shook his head.

“Again Captain, that wasn’t my fault, I was aiming for the knees but he moved. Besides, we made it out of there, didn’t we?”

The Captain chuckled. Cadcus coughed into his arm to cover up his flushed face.

“Well, changing subjects.” He said, once his ‘coughing fit’ was over. “Where are you going?”

The Captain pulled on his gloves.

“I got a negotiation I’m going to, so if all goes well we’ll be out of this ‘damn city’ a little sooner.”

Cadcus leaned back against the wall next to the front door. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He said.“We can’t leave.”

“Well, the thing is, Cad, that granting us passage is part of the deal I hope to make today.”

Cadcus nodded.

Nansin walked up then.

“Ahoy, Captain, where are you goin’?” He asked.

“Just goin’ to do some negotiating is all. Oy, find Arthur and tell him to give Cadcus some shootin’ lessons, would ya?”

“Captian, if we give Cad a gun again we’ll all-”

“Just do it.” The Captain said, cutting him off. Nancin nodded and left to find Arthur.

“Actually Captain there’s something else I’de like to do.”

“Eh, alright then.” The Captain said opening the front door. He tipped his hat to a lady coming in and then left.

Stars dusted the dark skies, accompanied by bright ribbon like light dancing alongside them. The people called them ‘the Auroral Lights.’

Jim and Slorn stood on the front porch of the inn in silence. Jim was leaning against the railing carving a block of wood, while Slorn was enjoying a mug of spiced ale.

“Reminds me of those dancers we saw perform a few years back, remember them Jim?” Slorn asked, his mug dangling from his gloved fingers. Jim looked up from his block of wood and up at the glowing sky.

“Aye, it does… That was the same day I lost my eye, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, it was.”

They stood in silence again, listening to the buzz of the city. A mournful, animal cry came from somewhere, followed by an earsplitting CRACK! The two men startled and looked towards the outer wall of the city. Visioneers and soldiers ran on top of the wall shouting directions to each other frantically.

“What was that?!” Arthur shouted, poking his head out the second floor window. “It sounded like a close range 68 smasher!”

“Likely one of those blasted elk again, tearin’ down another banner,” said Jim with a scoff. He sighed. “What will it take for us to leave this wretched place?”

Cadcus walked out of the Inn dressed in his coat and started down the street.

“Oy, Cad, where you goin’?” Slorn asked, taking a sip of his ale. Cadcus turned around.

“I’m goin’ to the temple district.”

Jim, Slorn and Arthur all looked surprised.

“Why are you goin’ there? Your grandfather don’t want no religious stuff aboard his ship ya know.”

Arthur pipped in. “And Nancin said the Captain ordered me to give you a shootin’ lesson, that right?”

Cadcus shrugged. “Change of plans, Captain said. And don’t worry, it’s not as if I’m goin’ to go become a priest.”

The three men laughed, then Arthur retreated back into the inn and closed the window. Slorn raised his mug. “Then stay safe out there lad.”

The temple district was enormous, filled with buildings that were twice the height of a ship’s mast. It made Cadcus feel small and insignificant in comparison.

As he walked down the street he found himself drawn to one temple in particular, over and over again. No matter how much he tried to look at the other temples, and tried to walk past that one without looking at it. He longed to enter.

He stood in front of it now.

Why? He thought. Why this one?

It looked like all the other temples; with monstrous front doors, ornate carvings and statues on and around the roof, and banners that decorated the outside, making it look like a castle fit for a King.

Deep, muffled chanting drifted out from the interior, spoken in a language that Cadcus couldn’t understand; something ancient, filled with power and might. It intimidated him. But something inside him, a rebellious, childish curiosity drew him up the marble steps. He made his way to the doors and heaved them open.

“Oh, stars above.” He breathed.

Inside was an enormous room filled with priests walking back and forth. Some carried incensers, others chanted while carrying heavy tomes from which they read the chants.

The room was lined with torches that casted an eerie glow over the room, filling it with flickering shadows. Yet the light was also reflected off gold and gems that made intricate patterns on the walls. Cadcus was at a loss for words. It was beautiful.

At the far end of the room was another set of golden doors, great imposing ones that put the front doors and everything else in the temple to shame; and beyond them was the inner sanctum, a place only the high priest could go. He’d learned as much from that time as a child when he tried to go inside and was whipped by one of the priests as punishment.

He walked toward the doors hesitantly, drawn to their beauty. None of the priests stopped him, they all seemed to be in some kind of a trance. As he approached the doors he saw that they were carved with legends and stories of the past, inlaid with glowing crystals that looked like they could have been chipped off of the Hardwater surrounding the city.

One of the carved stories caught Cadcus’ eye. He remembered this story from when he was a boy, it was the story of the creation of Bannermark.

The carving showed a group of people, each holding a staff, with their arms raised. It looked like they were chanting, there was a magic circle in the center. Inside that circle was a series of intricate symbols. The symbols were also inlaid with glowing crystals; it made it so that you could almost feel the power of the mages spell.

The next part of the carving showed a blinding ball of light crashing into the realm, bringing destruction and death. The fallen god. A wonder and a danger to the world.

It’s amazing that something so profound and powerful was pulled from the heavens by human hands. He thought in awe.

After that the carvings showed more people, they built a great city over where the god had fallen. They formed alliances with other nations and set up banners around the city to commemorate these alliances. This grand city was named ‘Bannermark,’ a memorial, and a warning, against all forms of dark magic. One thing confused him though. In the final carving of the story priests were shown standing around the city, some carrying incensesers, others giant books. Were the priests in the carving doing the same ritual as the priests in the great room?

Something about the chanting changed. The tempo became slower, less intriguing and more threatening. A small thread of black wove its way through the carving and zapped Cadcus’ fingers. He jerked his hand away! He hadn’t realized that he’d been touching the door.

His stomach dropped as a sinister feeling washed over him. He felt as though all the crystals in the temple had turned into eyes, they were watching him, boring holes into his back. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck. His breaths quickened.

I need to leave. . .

He turned around and headed through the crowd of priests, desperate to get away. Strangely none of the priests noticed him. He ran out the front doors and into the street. He definitely would not become a priest.

What was going on in there? He wondered as he wandered through the city. People were shouting and haggling all around him.

Ugh! It’s too crowded, I can barely hear myself think! He couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to get far away from all this, back to the Runner on the open snow.

He ran, looking for a spot on the wall that he could climb. He stopped under an archway and looked at the wall, breathing hard. This was his favorite spot. It wasn’t too high, just a bit higher than the crows nest, and there were some bricks jutting out just enough to grab. His hand slipped slightly as he held onto the first hand hold, but he scrambled up the wall, successfully making it to the top.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he stood, taking in the feeling of the wind rushing over him. His breathing steadied, and everything relaxed. Walking to the other edge of the wall he looked out over the Hardwater. Tree trunk sized polls were strewn all over, with their banners crumpled beside them. It looked like a hurricane had swept through!

“Boy! What are you doing up here?” A soldier shouted over the wind. He was walking toward Cadcus, who backed up. So much for staying out of trouble.

“Just getting some fresh air,” he responded, pulling his cap down to hide his eyes.

The soldier, who was a head or so taller than Cadcus, grumbled. “There’s plenty of fresh air in the city. Get going! No one but soldiers and Visioneers are allowed to be up here.”

Cadcus did as he was told, much to his disappointment. He’d lost his favorite spot.

Upon entering the inn he found the crew celebrating.

“What’s the occasion? He asked with a smile. “Did someone get married again?”

“Naw!” said Warrener. “The Captain said that we’re pickin’ up a shipment and then we’re leavin!”

“Really?! When!” His blue eyes were shining with excitement. They were finally leaving!

“Tomorrow!” said Novax, beer mug in hand.

They all turned in early that night.

The next day, bright and early, the Captain and crew rode up to the spot where they’d been instructed to pick up the goods. The wagon wheels creaked as Novax pulled on the reins, slowing the cart horse to a halt. Once they stopped all the men got out. The Captain walked over to a tall man in priest’s robes with a long graying beard and started talking with him.

The crew, along with the priest’s men started loading crates and boxes onto the wagon.

“Right, thank ya Sir.” the Captain said, tipping his hat. He turned back to the crew holding a slip of paper; whatever was written on it seemed to make him slightly uneasy. He put the paper in his pocket and went to help the crew, eyeing the crates warily.

After an hour they had all the cargo loaded.

“Hang on,” said Slorn. “Where’s Cad gone?

Cadcus had slipped away from the group, intrigued by the building the bearded man had gone into. That rebellious curiosity from the day before was still with him.

Now he was sneaking along a shadowy hallway, careful not to make a sound. He stopped near a door that was left slightly ajar. He slipped through and found himself on a balcony of sorts overlooking an enormous room filled with people working. Hammers clanged against crystals, splitting them up into smaller pieces. What was this place? He ducked behind some barrels before someone saw him and listened. He heard someone approaching from another part of the room pushing a cart. The person mumbled something and was answered by the mysterious bearded man.

“Yes, take the new batch and have them broken up into less recognizable pieces, like the rest.”

Cadcus risked a peak to see what the “new batch” was. What he saw horrified him.

Human body parts were piled onto the cart, all made of crystal. That disturbed him enough, but what made everything worse was the crystal head sitting on top of the pile. It stared at him blankly, dead and frozen. Nausea filled his stomach, his head spun. A hand landed heavily on his shoulder. He spun around to find the Captain, anger and worry written all over his face.

“Lad, what’re you doing here?” He whispered. “We need to leave, now!”

Cadcus nodded. He looked back once more just as a hammer came down on the head, splitting it in two.

He and the Captain left the balcony, but today common courtesy was their enemy. Cadcus closed the door, forgetting that it had previously been open. It closed with a loud bang, and as fate would have it, despite the room being filled with the sound of hammers, someone noticed.

“Breach!” someone shouted. The Captain ushered Cadcus down the hall at a run. A cloaked man followed close at their heels. He got closer and closer, then reached out and grabbed the back of Cadcus’ coat. He was jerked backward, the collar of his coat digging into his neck. The man grabbed his arms and held them behind his back with enough force Cadcus thought his arms might break! Another man was doing the same to the Captain.

The two cloaked men dragged grandfather and grandson to a room where they were forced into chairs and bound.

The bearded man entered the room, his robes flowing around him.

“Well Venrick, what an unpleasant surprise,” he said, addressing the Captain. “Now that you and this crewman of yours have seen what you have seen I will make this short.” He produced a knife from his voluminous robes, it was made of the same crystal as the body parts in the work room.

“The crystals you saw are the same kind as the elk attacking the banners, although I developed a spell that prevents the ‘undead’ aspect of the process. The whole thing can begin with the smallest cut.” He placed the blade under the Captain’s left eye. The Captain tensed.

“Swear to me, both of you, that you will not tell a soul what you have seen, and if I hear that you have you will join the crystals in the work room.”

The Captain nodded. “I swear by stars and sea, no one will know.”

Cadcus swore the same, by stars and sea.

After that they were released. They returned to the crew, went down to the docks and loaded the goods and provisions onto Icerunner.

Cadcus approached the Captain, who was leaning against the rail of the sledboat looking out at the dismembered banners.

“Captian?”

“Aye, lad?”

“The crystals… that’s our cargo.” It wasn’t a question.

“Aye.”

The wind whipped around them, shielding their voices from the rest of the crew.

“Did you know where they came from?”

“No.”

“Who are we bringing them to?”

“Gracious goblins, must ya know everything?” he demanded.

“I want to know why my grandfather, a good man, would make a deal with a man like that.”

The Captain became serious.

“Hold your tongue Cadcus Amberstone, you don’t know half the wicked things I’ve done in my 65 years.”

Cadcus crossed his arms and glared at his grandfather. The Captain grumbled.

“Were bringing the crystals down south to a group of mages. I don’t know what they plan to do with them.”

“And the bearded man? Who was he?”

“He’s a mage named Braemdel. We only met once before, when we were negotiating the trade. He agreed to grant us passage out of the city if we do this for him.”

Cadcus thought for a moment. “I won’t do this, not when I know where the crystals come from. Those people deserve a decent burial.”

The captain rubbed a hand across his face. “I hear ya lad, but you and I swore by stars and sea that we wouldn’t tell a soul.”

“I think it’s a risk worth taking. Those people deserve better.”

The wind died a bit so the Captain lowered his voice to a whisper. “Agreed. We’ll go back and take as much as we can, bring them to a warmer climate and give em’ a good burial. But we’ll need some of the crew to come with us if we want this to work.”

“Yes, but how are we goin’ to tell the crew without breaking our oath?” Cadcus wondered.

“I don’t think keepin’ it’s an option, lad.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

The Captain thought for a few minutes. “We’ll take the cart we used earlier, take it back to Braemdel’s building, sneak in and smuggle out anything we can get our hands on.”

“But we don’t know where he keeps his stores, or the layout of the building.”

The Captain smiled. “The rest of us don’t know the building, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you memorized it, just like you memorized the streets of the city. You’ll get us through lad, I know you will.”

Cadcus remembered every twist and turn of those halls, once they were inside and he had his bearings he’d know how to find Breamdel’s stores without too much difficulty. He nodded in agreement.

“I’ll do it. I’ll lead us Captain.”

THUNK!

Jarel dropped down from the riggeing next to them, making them both jump.

“Captian, the ship is ready to sail.” He said. The Captain nodded.

“Don’t cast off just yet, there’s something else we need to do first.” He walked off toward the middle of the sledboat and addressed the rest of the crew.

“This mornin’ Cad discovered somethin’ rather troubling. The shipment we just picked up is not simple crystals. There people, magically crystallized by whatever power’s turnin’ the elk undead. This power is bein’ abused by a mage named Breamdel. Now, doin’ this to people is down right monstrous, so Cad and I are goin’ to go and smuggle what we can and give these people a good burial. Breamdel also made Cad and I swear by stars and sea that we wouldn’t tell what we saw, so if we’re caught, we’re dead. This mission will be difficult and dangerous, so I’ll need some of you to come with us. Arthur, Poker and Jarel I want you all to come. Cadcus and Darwin your comin’ too.”

A half an hour later the six men approached the giant building from earlier that morning.

The Captain jumped down from the wagon and waved for the others to do the same. They all crept quietly toward the mysterious building, its windows glaring down at them disapprovingly. Cadcus glared back.

He knew that going through the front door like they had earlier that day would not be an option, so they looked for another way in. On the left side of the building there was a door, Cadcus remembered seeing it when the guards had released him and the Captain that morning. He waved everyone over to it.

“We can get in through here.” He whispered.

Darwin nodded and knelt down next to the door. He pulled a key from his pocket, at least it looked like a key. It had a ring like the end of a key, but where the teeth should have been there was what looked like a lump of metal, it seemed to ooze as if it were liquid, reforming and reshaping itself constantly.

Darwin rammed it into the lock, and when he pulled it back out again it looked like any ordinary key. He placed it back in and unlocked the door. The door creaked as it swung in revealing a long hallway filled with shadows. Cadcus took the lead, guiding them into this heroic raid.

No guards? This feels. . . unnervingly easy. Cadcus thought, walking as silently as possible. He looked around nervously, it felt as though someone was going to jump out of the shadows at any moment.

A sound in the distance caught his attention. He put up a fist, everyone halted.

“I hear something. . .” He whispered. They all stood in silence and listened. The steady clomp, clomp, clomp of boots could be heard coming down the hall toward them. They all crept into the cover of the shadows.

Cadcus’ heart pounded as three guards walked passed them, unaware of the intruders. He breathed a sigh of relief when they were out of sight.

That was too close.

They continued down the hall, unlocking any door in their way with Darwin’s enchanted key. After a few minutes of sneaking around Cadcus got his bearings and led them to the workroom balcony.

He looked over the edge from his hiding spot, surveying the layout of the room, where all the hallways connected and which one the unbroken crystals had come from. After a moment of thinking and calculating Cadcus knew which way the cart of crystals had come from and how to get there.

They all snuck down the hallway toward a large set of double doors. All six men pushed the doors open and found a room filled with crates. The crates seemed to glow in an eerie shade of purple. Wisping threads of magic danced from between the wood planks the crates were made of.

Four of them each took one, hefting it onto their shoulders, the only ones who didn’t take a crate were Arthur and Poker. They were in charge of subduing anyone who came across them.

Somehow they made it out to the cart with their stolen cargo.

Relief washed over Cadcus as he loaded the wagon. They had done it! Well, half of it.

On their second run they were less fortunate. A guard saw them, so Arthur did the natural thing. He shot him.

“Arthur!” Darwin whisper yelled. “Now everyone will know we’re here!”

“Run!” The Captain ordered. “This is our last run, we’re not goin’ back for more!”

They all ran, hefting the crates of still recognizable crystal body parts with them.

A guard was waiting in the shadows by the door. He grabbed the Captain’s hand and sliced it with a crystal knife. The crystals in the Captains crate spilled to the floor and shattered as he clutched his hand to his chest in pain. Braemdel’s words from earlier echoed in Cadcus’ mind.

The whole thing can begin with the smallest cut.

After that the guard tried to attack Cadcus. Breamdel must have known that the Captain and Cadcus had told the rest of the crew.

Poker threw a scalpel into the side of the guard’s neck, puncturing one of his arteries. He fell to the floor, dead. Blood spattered everywhere.

“Hurry!” said Poker, ushering the Captain towards the door. “Let’s go!”

Once they were out of the building they loaded the crates onto the wagon, all climbed in and were off. Down the street they sped, cloaked riders on their heels.

“Captian!” said Jarel, pointing. “Your hand!”

The Captain and the other crewmembers looked at the Captain’s hand in horror! The place the guard had cut hadn’t bled a drop, it had crystallized and the crystals were spreading; they covered most of his fingers.

He turned to Poker.

“Poker I need you to cut off my hand!”

Poker nodded and took a bottle of liquor out of his coat.

“No time for your bloody anesthetics! Just do it!”

Poker nodded again and pulled a long knife from its scabbard. With the precision of a surgeon and the speed of a swordsman he cut off the Captain’s hand, then ungracefully threw it over the side of the wagon. The Captain’s blood stained the front of his clothes, he cried out in pain and shock as he looked at his bloody, mutilated wrist. Poker quickly made a tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“I’ll stitch you up when we get back to the ship, Captain.”

“Should’a taken your bloody anesthetics,” he mumbled.

Once they made it to the docks they loaded their forbidden cargo onto the sledboat.

“Cast off!” Jarel shouted. Novax took his place at the helm as the other crewmembers untied the mooring lines.

The wind, thankfully, was running from the port side, close to the sail. Their escape would be a swift one.

Cadcus looked back at the city growing smaller behind them as they sped across the Hardwater. He had missed his freedom, but now wondered if he was actually free. Breandel would be looking for them and those mages who wouldn’t get their shipment would be too. He leaned against the ship’s rail and thought.

Am I actually any more free than the people of Bannermark?

Lily Siekierski: I love studying Greek mythology, playing Legends of Zelda, fencing, cooking, writing, drawing, making fancy dresses, dancing, running, reading, playing ukulele and ocarina, and watching anime; along with singing and daydreaming when I have a moment to spare. P.S. I also am learning how to be a DM for role playing :)

Audience: YA
Genre: Action Thriller
Author: Josiah Heintzman

Jaethen crouched in the shadow of one of the crenelations of Falstern Hall, his practiced eyes scanning the night for threats. Below him, the city of Bannermark spread out in a circle, its tall white buildings ablaze with the light of glowing banners. These banners were the pride of the city, each holding a different spell determined by the whirling designs woven into the fabric.

Jaethen looked beyond the white city walls to the lake surrounding them, where the coalition’s campfires were reflected like hundreds of terrestrial stars. The siege had been in effect for several months now, and the sight of them was almost as normal to Jaethen as the peal of alarm bells or the shuddering strides of the mammoth-sized siege crabs of the Tri’kasi. Much had changed since the day when heralds from the five great thrones had ridden up to the city and demanded the removal of their wardbanners.

Naturally, Lord Falstern and the rest of the Bannermark nobles had refused. The wardbanners enforced the mission of Bannermark: to prevent the practice of any uncodified magic. To remove the banners would risk another cataclysm like the one that caused the crater which served as Bannermark’s foundation. There was another reason, but not one many of the lords liked to mention out loud. While the banners could technically function anywhere, most patrons paid for their banners to be kept in the city, where they could feed on the power of the god trapped beneath the streets. Many of the Lords received most of their revenue from these “banner tithes,” and with the coalition demanding the freedom to practice uncodified magic, consenting would mean the collapse of the entire system on which their wealth was built. For better or for worse, Bannermark was now under siege, and tensions were mounting.

Jaethen shifted position, his crossbow reflecting the light of a nearby banner with a dull sheen. His father was the sentinel of House Falstern, second only to Lord Falstern in authority. Someday, Jaethen would take over his role and would be responsible for the prosperity and security of one of the greatest houses in Bannermark. Father had trained him well, and he was doing his part to ensure the security of Falstern Hall during this volatile siege. Even though he was just a few months past eighteen, Jaethen knew he was ready to prove his worth to the world. He was going to be the greatest sentinel Bannermark had ever seen.

He stroked his stubbled chin, going over the precautions in his head. The doors of Falstern Hall had been bolted, shieldbanners screened the windows from arrows and protected the doors from incendiaries, and Mathus, their finest bannerman, was guarding the banner of protection at the center of the keep. As long as that banner was safe, so was Lord Falstern.

He sighed, setting down his crossbow and grabbing his flask for a quick drink. He began to unscrew the lid—then froze. A shadow was moving in an alley across the street. Moving slowly, his muscles tensed like springs, Jaethen leaned out and studied the small gap between the houses for any sign of movement. Suddenly, a small cat came yowling out of the alley, with a dog hot on its heels. Sighing, Jaethen leaned back against the cold stone of the keep, and then he felt it. A sharp tingling sensation in his arm, as if it had fallen asleep. He pulled back his sleeve, revealing a tattoo of dark ink displaying the Falstern elk surrounded by knotted spell lines. It had been quite a favor to get him a sensemark, but Lord Falstern had a lot of favors to pull. All along the spell lines, Jaethen’s hair was standing rigid. Something was very wrong.

He quickly leaned out over the parapet again, surveying the well-lit lawn surrounding Falstern Hall, but there were no more signs of movement. Ok, ok, Jaethen thought, go through the saferooms, one at a time. He turned and crept along the slanted rooftop, his crossbow held at the ready. All was quiet as he eased open a small trapdoor and dropped inside, his gut tingling with nervous energy. He turned and ran down several hallways, his footsteps muffled by the long rugs that covered the stone floors. Stopping at a polished wood door, he knocked quietly.

“Yes?” Lady Falstern called from inside.

“Milady, it’s Jaethen. Is everything ok?”

Jaethen heard some rustling, then the door creaked open, and Lady Falstern’s face appeared at the door. She looked slightly pale, and her long brown hair was halfway up in a bun. Her eyes strayed to his crossbow, and her brow furrowed. But her frown faded into a smile, and she opened the door wider.

“Yes, everything’s fine. Bertram just left to fetch Lawrence’s tea before he goes to bed.”

Jaethen stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the elegant wooden table and chairs with blue and gold upholstery. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. The door to the nursery stood ajar, and a small, dark-haired boy wandered out.

Jaethen grinned. “Hello, Lawrence!”

“You get bad guys with your cwas-bow?” Lawrence asked, pointing a chubby finger at the weapon. Lawrence was the long-awaited heir to Falstern and a favorite of everyone at the castle.

“Let’s not bother Mr. Jaethen, Lawrence,” Lady Falstern said, gliding over to where he stood. “It’s bedtime.”

Lawrence scowled. Jaethen gave him a wink as his mother gently guided him back into the nursery.

Jaethen quickly checked the rest of the apartment, but found nothing amiss. His sensemark was still tingling, and he was growing frantic. I need to stop wasting time. It must be either the council room or the banner of protection. He rushed back into the dining room, intent on checking the council room, then stopped. The banner of protection was near the kitchens—his Father had realized the meat cellar could double as an ideal strong-room. The dumbwaiter in this room led all the way down to the kitchens and would be faster than taking the stairs to the council room. Jaethen eyed the wooden cabinet in the wall for a moment, then decided. He dove into the dumbwaiter and squirmed into a crouch.

Turning to the small banner mounted on the inside, he scanned the runes on the bottom, pronouncing them in a slow and deliberate manner: “Thi—Na—IIn—Dool—Chu.”

The banner’s knotted spell lines glowed faintly, and the small box began to rapidly descend. The whitewashed walls of Falstern Hall flashed in front of Jaethen, occasionally giving him a glimpse of a wooden cabinet door or another room. After a few seconds, the dumbwaiter softly came to a stop. Jaethen kicked open the door—they could fix it later—and stepped out into the kitchens. It was noticeably colder here, and eerily quiet. As his eyes readjusted to the dark, he made out the dim shapes of an oven, large tables, and rows of pans hanging from the ceiling. He stalked quietly over to the door to the meat cellar, and his stomach dropped. The door was ajar. He peered inside, his heart thumping wildly.

The banner of protection was in tatters, its fabric devoid of the auroral glow of an active spell. Jaethen threw open the door wider, his finger brushing the trigger of his crossbow. As he stepped into the room, he almost tripped over something hard. It was Mathus, lying in a pool of blood. Jaethen looked away, nausea prickling at his gut. No, no, no. This is bad. How many people attacked him? How did they get in the room? If they can get here, they could get anywhere … If that banner of protection is destroyed, then Lord Falstern is no longer invulnerable. Someone is trying to kill him tonight.

Jaethen stormed through the kitchens, his heart and mind racing. His father could die, and everything he had worked to protect along with it. He raced along eerily quiet halls and up echoing flights of stairs. As he labored to the top of yet another stairwell, he almost ran into a bannerman who was quickly descending.

“Sir Jaethen!” The bannerman touched the brim of his helmet. “Come quickly!”

Jaethen followed him up the stairwell and down a hall. His ears only heard the pounding of his heart, and his eyes only saw the blurred blue and gold of the bannerman’s surcoat. They stopped in front of a pair of large wooden doors gilded with iron spell lines, a huddle of bannermen muttering and parting as Jaethen approached.

“Hurry!” one of them yelled, but Jaethen was already pressing his hand to the smooth wood. The doors shuddered, then creaked open a few degrees. Jaethen frantically pulled them open, his eyes taking in everything with practiced speed. The room was warm and stuffy, and a dim light illuminated several long tables strewn with parchment. But his eyes quickly found what he had been looking for: the motionless forms of his father and Lord Falstern, deathly pale and slumped over the tables. Jaethen rushed over to his father, dimly aware of the bannermen pouring into the room. Father’s lips were turning purple, and his eyes stared motionless at the ceiling. Jaethen methodically checked all of his pressure points, but there was no pulse. His father was dead. Jaethen ‘s stomach seemed to drop through the floor, leaving an empty ache behind. He froze, his eyes filling with tears, but in a moment his mind was once again racing.

“Lord Falstern?” he said, looking questioningly at the bannermen huddled around the other table. One of them nodded.

Jaethen bent over his father’s body, studying it for wounds, but it was completely unmarked. They must have used a poison timed to strike at the moment the banner of protection went down, or maybe even earlier. Good lord! My flask! He quickly pulled out his flask and dumped its contents on the floor. He was lucky he hadn’t taken a sip.

Get the key, he thought. We can still come back from this if I have that key. He felt inside his father’s shirt and pulled out a small golden key on a leather cord, quickly pulling it over his head and stuffing it under his surcoat.

If I can access the vault, I can still keep the Falstern name intact. Don’t worry, Father. I will find whoever did this and do them justice.

Jaethen straightened, looking around the room again. Several of the bannermen were clustered around the tables, whispering frantically, while others stood around the edges of the room, eying one another. Something bothered him about the way they were looking at each other—like they were anticipating something.

Jaethen’s gut sank, and he casually reached for his crossbow. Poison meant traitors. Despite the Falstern elk on their surcoats, these weren’t their men.

Jaethen forced his breathing to slow, hoping to show no sign of alarm. Without turning his head, he scanned the room. Two bannermen were casually inching closer to him on either side. In seconds, they would be within striking distance.

“Traitors!” he yelled, then dropped onto his back as the false bannermen rushed towards him, swords drawn. He shot up at one of them, hitting him in the chest—the bolt piercing through the mail at this close range—then rolled under a table as the second bannerman almost collided with him. He rolled back into a crouch at the edge of the room, reloading his crossbow and taking in the situation.

The room was full of shouts and clashing steel, and the floor was covered with the bodies of bannermen. The bannerman he had shot was lying motionless on the floor, and as Jaethen watched, his accomplice rose to his feet, meeting Jaethen’s gaze and holding out his sword warily.

Jaethen loosed a bolt at him and sprinted towards the door, not even waiting to see if he had hit. Another bannerman blocked his path, swinging his sword towards Jaethen. Jaethen dove forward in a roll, taking out the man’s legs from under him. The man fell on top of Jaethen, knocking the wind out of him, but Jaethen quickly scrambled out from under him and crawled towards the door, keeping a death-grip on his crossbow. He turned back in time to see the fallen bannerman beheaded by another.

Scrambling to his feet, Jaethen stumbled out of the door, the sharp iron scent of blood clinging to his nostrils. He turned right, then left, then began climbing a set of stairs, slowing down to reload his crossbow. He was trying to make his way towards Lady Falstern and Lawrence. They would be the next targets. Looking down at his crossbow, he cursed. Only four bolts left. Those wolves in sheep’s clothing could be anywhere, and they’re probably letting in more of their friends through the main gates.

He slowed down, listening for the telltale thumping of boots, but all seemed quiet. Reaching the top of the stairs, he peered around the corner before jogging down the empty hallway to the door of the master suite. It was open, and the room was deathly quiet. Jaethen quickly paced through the different rooms, but they were empty. Keep moving. Either the enemy got to them, or they got out. Now I need to get out.

He turned into the hallway again and rushed over to a large tapestry that concealed one of the servants’ passages. Pulling it aside, he slid open the door, stepping out onto the narrow steps, then closed the door behind him, burying the stairwell in inky darkness. He slowly began to feel his way down the stairs, breathing in the dusty air and occasionally hearing a clink as his crossbow bumped the narrow stone walls. He continued for a few minutes, accompanied by the thump, thump, thump of his boots and the sound of his breathing.

“Stop where you are if you want to live!” The voice barked out of the darkness, harsh and rasping. Jaethen stumbled and nearly fell face forward, but steadied himself with a flailing hand.

“I stopped, I stopped!” Jaethen called out, choking on a cobweb.

“I would drop your weapons if you know what’s good for you,” the man said.

Jaethen carefully set down his loaded crossbow, making sure it was clearly audible. Suddenly, the passage was flooded with a warm light, nearly blinding him. After his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, he made out the wrinkled face of Bertram, who was clutching a lamp in one hand and a dagger in the other. Over Bertram’s shoulder, he could make out Lady Falstern, clutching a wide-eyed Lawrence in her arms.

“Bertram!” Jaethen said, picking up his crossbow. “You gave me quite a scare.”

Bertram frowned for a moment, then smiled and nodded. Behind him, Lady Falstern gasped. “Jaethen! What happened? Is Edward alright?”

Jaethen’s heart sank. If he told her Lord Falstern was dead, would she fall apart? Would all hope of saving them be lost?

“We’re in danger, and Bertram is doing the right thing. We need to get you out of here.”

Lady Falstern shook her head, her eyes wild. “You know. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me!”

Jaethen sighed, then lowered his gaze. “He and Father are both dead. Poisoned.”

Lady Falstern shrieked, and Lawrence began to cry softly.

“Please, Milady,” Bertram said, “We need to be quiet, or we will die too.”

“Yes,” Jaethen said, “think of Lawrence.”

Lady Falstern nodded, tears running down her face, and rocked Lawrence, whispering calming nothings into his dark, tousled hair.

“Lead the way,” Jaethen said, turning to Bertram. “I’ll guard the back.”

The old servant hesitated, his brow furrowed, and glanced at Lady Falstern.

“It’s ok, Bertram,” Jaethen said, gesturing to his crossbow, “you can put away your dagger.”

“Of course, sir Jaethen. How silly of me.” Bertram chuckled and stuck it in his belt. The old servant shuffled past Lady Falstern, holding out his lantern and taking the steps with stiff legs.

They journeyed down several flights of dusty stairs, with only the occasional shout or set of thundering footsteps disturbing their silence. Soon, Bertram came to a halt in front of a small wooden door and reached out to unbolt it.

“Wait!” Jaethen said, rushing over to Bertram. “Let me check, I think it’s guarded.”

Jaethen slowly unlatched the door and cracked it open, peering through the small gap at the well-lit street beyond. In the middle of the street, two bannermen in black paced back and forth, carrying their long halberds over their shoulders. As one of them turned towards Jaethen, he could make out the purple basilisk of House Drimmond illuminated by the fiery light of his torch. Lord Drimmond will pay for what he’s done tonight, Jaethen thought grimly, carefully aiming his crossbow at the guard’s head.

By the time the body of the first bannerman hit the cobblestone street, Jaethen was already fitting a second bolt into his crossbow. The remaining bannerman looked around frantically, just in time to see the second bolt coming his way. He only had time to widen his eyes in shock before the bolt hit him in the shoulder. He screamed.

Jaethen cursed under his breath. “Let’s go!” he yelled, bursting out into the street. The wounded bannerman was shakily rising to his feet, his hands groping for his halberd. Jaethen could hear Lady Falstern and Bertram running behind him. Good.

Reaching down to the body of the first bannerman, Jaethen drew a short sword from its owner’s sheath, swinging at the bannerman who was kneeling and feebly trying to lift his own weapon. Jaethen’s first blow knocked the man down, sending his halberd clattering across the cobblestones. His second blow ended him.

Jaethen looked up. Bertram and Lady Falstern had just reached the first row of white stone buildings and were entering an alley. Jaethen sheathed his newly acquired sword, his chest relaxing, then ran back to grab his crossbow. As he reached the relative safety of the alley, he turned to take one last look at Falstern Hall. It loomed up out of the city, pale, grim, and empty. What once was an immovable monument to a proud name was now a tomb for those it was built to protect.

He turned back to where Lady Falstern leaned against a wall, clutching a shivering Lawrence in her arms. Bertram stood nearby, looking lost and shaken.

Falstern Hall may have fallen, but in the lower city was the Falstern vault, full of gold, silver, and powerful banners. Jaethen would have to get Lady Falstern, Lawrence, and Bertram to safety, and then he could go down and retrieve the most important banners. With the help of those banners, he would bring Falstern back from the ashes, become its new sentinel, and things would be something like normal again. Except Father. Don’t think about Father right now.

“Come,” Jaethen said, “we’re not safe here. We have to put some distance between ourselves and Drimmond’s Men.”

Lady Falstern nodded, lifting her chin and wrapping her shawl more tightly around her son. “Lead the way,” she said, her voice quiet and hoarse.

They struck out through the winding streets, meeting no one. All around them, windows were boarded and dark, the tall stone buildings white and empty. The sky above slowly brightened to a pale blue, and Jaethen’s companions began to slow down. Lady Falstern stumbled, Bertram hurriedly supporting her before she fell.

Jaethen gestured to a paved square ahead, where a small stream of water from a fountain caught the light of the awakening sky. “Let’s stop here; we can continue when you’re rested.”

The three of them stepped forward a few more paces, then collapsed on a stone bench by the fountain. Jaethen noticed for the first time how sore his legs really were, and he looked wearily out at the city. From here, he could make out the white line of the wall, and the bannermen—just tiny specks from here—milling about on top of it. He vaguely wondered if any of them were Father’s and would be able to help them. Father. A lump formed in Jaethen’s throat, dry and painful. The world swam before his eyes as his chest shook with sobs. Father. He’s gone, just like Mother. I’m alone. Jaethen looked out at the vast, pale blue sky above him and the tall, hard city that surrounded him. It’s all up to me now. But the task is so great. I’m not ready for this.

He sighed, weariness filling his entire being. Bringing Falstern back from the ashes seemed an impossible task. But I must. For the sake of the house, for Father. He looked over to where Lawrence was resting his head on Lady Falstern’s shoulder, and was startled to see that the child was looking intently at him.

“Mr. Jaethen, am I going to die, too?” Lawrence asked softly, his eyes two deep blue pools of innocence and fear.

Jaethen’s heart ached with a cool sorrow. “Don’t worry.” He held out his hand, clasping Lawrence’s little fingers. “Once we get those banners, everything will be okay.” Jaethen’s chest lit with burning anger. “And I will find the scoundrels who killed our fathers and make them pay.”

Jaethen looked up, his eyes catching a flicker of movement on the horizon. A cloud of dark shapes was rising out of the east, dimming the light of the sunrise. The swarm flew swiftly over the wall, leaving blossoms of fire in its wake. As bells began to pound in an adrenaline-inducing symphony, Jaethen was able to make out what the shapes were: giant hawks—ridden by the valkyries of Moldova. The coalition was launching an attack.

“What do we do?” Lady Falstern cried, now fully alert. Two blocks away, the roof of a building exploded as a valkyrie passed overhead. It was so close that Jaethen could see the incendiaries being dropped by the small armored figure on the hawk’s back.

“Run!” Jaethen yelled, pushing Lady Falstern ahead of him. They sprinted across the square, immersed in the cacophony of shouts, screams, shrieks, and explosions. Orange geysers of fire illuminated the streets with a fierce, blinding light, some bursting within several yards of them. Jaethen led them beneath a large arch that spanned two buildings, and they all paused, gasping for breath.

Jaethen looked out across the smoke-filled city, his eyes finding a black gate a few yards away.

“We need to get to the lower city,” Jaethen said.

“The lower city?” Lady Falstern asked. “But-”

“I know it’s dangerous, but we can’t stay up here any longer! There’s an entrance right over there.” Jaethen pointed at the yawning gate. “When I give the word, start running and don’t stop till you make it through.”

He searched the smoke-choked sky, watching as several shadowy hawks darted overhead.

“Now!” he yelled, rushing out into the debris-filled streets. His eyes stung from the smoke, and he gasped ragged lungfuls of smoke, his crossbow and short-sword clanging awkwardly as he ran. Lady Falstern shrieked as an incendiary exploded just a few yards away, but kept running. They stumbled through the gateway and collapsed against the walls. It was dark and quiet there, and they all stopped to catch their breath before Jaethen led them down a long flight of steps and into the lower city. It was like wandering into another world, with a cavern ceiling instead of a sky. Shabby stone houses lined narrow winding streets, and torches and banners cast long shadows. Here and there, large stone pillars supported the rocky cavern ceiling high above their heads.

Passing through the streets, they made out ragged figures who leered at them out of shadowy corners. Jaethen steered away from them as much as possible. The citizens of the lower city weren’t known for being friendly.

Every street sloped down towards the center of the city, where they gave way to a jagged crater filled with a misty light that shifted between pale blue, green, and purple. It was called the Godscar, and deep in its center were the fusion forges: the beating heart of the city. The legends said that somewhere, down there, was the god Celestronus, trapped by the spells that had crashed him into the earth.

* * *

After an eternity of roaming the streets of the lower city, Bertram found an inn that was willing to take them in, in exchange for Lady Falstern’s ring. The innkeeper had provided some food, and now Lawrence and Lady Falstern were sleeping soundly in their room. Jaethen stood outside the door, keeping an eye on the unsavories huddled about the common room, and Bertram sat in a dim corner, his eyes closed. Jaethen sighed and rubbed his arm. His sensemark hadn’t stopped tingling since he left Falstern Hall. That was strange. Shouldn’t they be safe now? I guess the city being under siege is enough.

He felt the cold key beneath his shirt. We’re so close to the vault! I could quickly go and retrieve the banner of nobility and the banners of smiting. I would be back before they even noticed I was gone. But Lady Falstern and Lawrence—I couldn’t leave them without any protection. He eyed a rough, one-eyed man guzzling a beer at a corner table. Not with this lot waiting to slit their throats. Wait! I’m not the only one who can protect them!

Jaethen strode over to Bertram and patted him on the shoulder. Bertram started, his hand flying to his dagger. Seeing it was Jaethen, he relaxed, then scowled. “You should know better than to disturb an old man from his sleep, sir Jaethen.”

“Bertram,” Jaethen said, “I’m going to the vault. Can I trust you to protect Lady Falstern and the heir?”

The old servant’s eyes widened, and he nodded. “I will protect them with my life.”

“Good,” Jaethen said. “Here is my crossbow. It only has two bolts left, so hopefully you won’t need it.”

Bertram nodded, accepting the crossbow. “You can count on me, Sir Jaethen.”

Jaethen nodded his thanks, then stepped out of the inn, pulling his dark blue cloak around him. He still had a shortsword, so he wasn’t defenseless, but it felt strange not to have his crossbow. He stalked quickly through the streets of the lower city, single-minded in his purpose. As he approached the Godscar, the crowded streets abruptly ended, giving the crater a wide berth. The Godscar was known to be full of temperamental magical fluxes. If one was lucky, one would get away with a burn, but people had been known to disappear outright, as well as be horribly mangled, various limbs sheared clean off by the flares.

Jaethen picked his way through the jagged teeth of the crater, carefully following the path his father had shown him. The ground fell away into a steep cliff, and he cautiously made his way along the precipice, searching the jagged boulders around him. After a few minutes, he found what he was looking for: a narrow stairway carved into the side of the cliff, gradually disappearing into the green mist.

Jaethen took a deep breath and stepped out onto the stairs, praying that he wouldn’t be caught in a flux. They could probably survive without those banners, yes, but only as ordinary citizens, peasants. Jaethen’s line was a long and proud one, and he wasn’t going to give up on that life so easily.

As he descended the stairs, the glow became more bearable, and he could make out vibrant pillars of distilled magical energy flowing from the pit, rising to the Bannershrines where it would be woven into banners by the visioneers.

The steps leveled out, and Jaethen stepped onto a ledge, steadying himself on the smooth stone wall to his left. To his right, the ledge fell away into a sheer cliff, and heat and light radiated up from the depths of the pit.

He walked along for a few feet, then spotted it: a small engraving of the Falstern elk, surrounded by a circular seam of stone. The vault door. He ran his hands over the engraving, finding a small pinhole in the emblem’s eye. He held his breath, pulling out the small golden key and fitting it into the hole. He closed his eyes, giving the key a gentle turn. It didn’t budge. He tried harder. It still didn’t move. Grunting in frustration, Jaethen pulled out the key and tried again. No luck.

“Why?” Jaethen yelled, flopping down on the ledge. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his tingling arm. Gosh, it was hot down here. He unscrewed his flask and raised it to his mouth to take a drink, then froze. He tipped some of it into his hand, scrutinizing it. He took a small lick of the water—it had a strangely metallic taste, something you wouldn’t notice in wine or tea, but—

His gut sank. Poison. Even though he had rinsed and re-filled it at the fountain, it was somehow still poisoned, and he knew who had done it: Bertram.

Bertram was the traitor. It all made sense. He was the one Jaethen’s father had trusted with beverages and meals. That was how they got to Mathus—Mathus had orders to let no one into the cellar, but he needed to eat, didn’t he? Bertram had fooled him into thinking he was delivering his dinner, only to stab him in the back.

Jaethen jumped to his feet. All this time, he had thought the sensemark was just overreacting to the siege, and now he had left the people he was supposed to protect with the very person who wanted them dead.

He grabbed the key and ran along the ledge. The banners could wait. His mind ran through information at a breakneck speed. Bertram didn’t want them dead, or he would have done it already. He must be planning on handing them over to Drimmond somewhere in the lower city…

Jaethen reached the stairs and climbed them at a reckless pace, his legs pounding the stone and sweat dripping from his forehead.

Click. Jaethen looked up in time to see a small black speck speeding through the luminous haze. The crossbow bolt drove into his left shoulder, smarting like a colossal splinter. He gasped with pain, dropping to his knees, his right arm groping the wall to keep him from toppling into the abyss.

Bertram slowly approached through the misty light, the crossbow in his hands black and threatening, his eyes dark and hard.

“You don’t seem to like the taste of your own medicine, sir Jaethen,” he said, the corner of his mouth turned up in triumph. Gone were the dry, brittle tones of the obedient servant. This was the Bertram that Jaethen had met on the other stairway, confident and deadly.

Jaethen groped under his shirt for the key, his wounded shoulder stabbing with pain.

Bertram continued his exultant descent. “I owe you my thanks for leading me here. You know I was going to use Falstern’s wife and her brat for blackmail against Lord Drimmond, but I think the treasures of the Falstern vault will be worth far more than anything he can offer.”

“Why?” Jaethen gasped.

“I’ve spent my life slaving for Falstern,” Bertram frowned, as if the word was bitter in his mouth, “and all I got was scraps from their table. I’m done groveling. I’m looking out for myself, like you should have done instead of clinging to that pair of pathetic highborns like a rat to driftwood.”

Jaethen gritted his teeth, his hand clasping the key beneath his shirt. “Did you poison them too?” he spat out.

“Merely a sedative. Drimmond’s men will find them before they wake up, and it’s no concern of mine what he does with them. It’s truly an excellent resolution: I get twice as rich, and I don’t make any enemies.”

“You’ve got one enemy,” Jaethen said, grasping his sword hilt.

“Not for long.” Bertram held up a small golden key on a chain. “I have all I need right here. Now I just need to tie up the loose ends.”

Jaethen’s head spun. That’s why it didn’t open. Father really played it close to the chest.

“Not everything,” Jaethen said, pulling out his key and holding it over the glowing precipice.

Now it was Bertram’s turn to be shocked, eyes wide, his lips soundlessly trying to work out what it all meant.

“You need both to get in the vault,” Jaethen said, rising to his knees. The adrenaline was taking the edge off of the pain, and he could feel his confidence rising. “You’d better think of something good quick, or it’s gone forever.”

“You wouldn’t,” Bertram said, taking a step forward, the crossbow leveled at Jaethen’s head.

Jaethen was about to die, and for some reason, all he could think about were Lawrence’s eyes. One of his father’s sayings came into his mind: It is not stone and metal that make one great, but flesh and bone.

Jaethen smiled, then tossed the key into the air above Bertram’s head with one hand, and drew his shortsword with the other. The old man clawed panickingly at the small piece of gold and managed to snatch it out of the air. Unfortunately, the motion threw him off balance, and he tumbled into the iridescent abyss with a shriek.

My father is avenged, thought Jaethen. He felt strangely sad. Clutching his bloodied shoulder, the sentinel strode up the stairs, praying that he would make it back to the inn before Drimmond’s men.

* * *

Jaethen led Lady Falstern and Lawrence up the steep slope, the scent of the surrounding pines sharp in the cold morning air. There was nothing about their appearance that would set them apart from any other band of refugees, and the coalition watchmen had let them pass with little more than a few questions and a quick search. Their sooty clothing, covered by tattered cloaks, had offered no suspicion, and their few belongings—held in a pack on Jaethen’s back—had proved of no interest to the watchmen.

They continued up the slope, the silence only broken by the scrape of their boots against the path. When they reached the summit of the mountains, Jaethen hung behind, turning and looking back one last time.

Bannermark appeared stern and resplendent, a smudge of dark smoke hanging above it like a curse. All around, the multitudes of the coalition blackened the green plain, the smoke of their fires rising over the lake to join the black cloud above. The city was now more grey than white, resembling a mountain fortress rather than the gleaming trade capital of Jaethen’s youth. Yet even with the ash and rubble, the city still had a sense of strength in its proud walls, and banners still glowed amidst the gloom. Perhaps it would survive even this storm.

Even if it did, there was nothing left there for Jaethen, save the bones of his father. He blinked away a tear, placing a hand over his heart, then sighed, turning back towards his companions.

“Let’s go, we should be able to make it to Cedarpoint by nightfall.”

“And then?” Lady Falstern asked, rising once again to her feet, Lawrence settling in her arms.

“We keep going until we find a quiet place to call home.”

“And after that?” Lady Falstern said. “You don’t need to look after us forever, Jaethen. You’ve done more than enough, and we’ll never be able to repay you.”

“Falstern can never be like it once was, but I am still your sentinel. Protecting the treasures of Falstern never was about stone and steel, but flesh and blood.”

Jaethen reached out and ruffled Lawrence’s hair, smiling as he shifted in his sleep.

“Falstern will live on.”

Josiah Heintzman: Josiah has been dreaming up epic worlds since he was six and started writing as a way to share them with others. His few early ventures in writing sparked a love of storytelling through words. Drawing inspiration from Tolkien and Lewis, he continues to explore the uncharted worlds of his imagination and strives to connect his readers to the deepest parts of reality through his writing. He sees himself as merely a squid in God’s hands, and trusts that God is using his messiness to create something beautiful.

Audience: YA
Genre: Mystery
Author: Maria Pasquale

Lyra didn’t think Mistress Halbenather’s lesson would ever stop. Her teacher’s grey, flat voice, wound on and on like a never-ending ribbon, coiling around and around Lyra, trapping her in her hard wooden chair. Lyra leaned her elbows on the smooth surface of her desk and cradled her face in her hands, absentmindedly rubbing a finger back and forth over her temple as she gazed at the nearly-spring world outside of her small circular window.

The sun was peeking over the tips of the mountains, colossal lumps of stone scantily covered in trees just whispering green. They overlooked the city of Bannermark like silent sentinels, ever watching. Wisps of clouds raced each other across the robin-egg sky, far above the massive hill that was Bannermark, with its piles of white buildings, the occasional spire piercing the sky above green-teal rooftops.

Spring was almost here; Lyra could feel it. She felt as if the season of budding flowers and the songs of mountain birds was hiding somewhere, behind a fruit tree in the city garden, under the tables in the market square. If only she could go out and-

A sudden jolt, a pull, a flash rushed through her mind, and her hands slipped out from under her chin, elbow slamming loudly on the edge of the desk. Her pulse pounded and something thumped in her head as she looked around, confused.

“LYRA!” Lyra jumped again as Mistress Halbenather’s furious gaze bore down on her. Canyon creases deepened across her teacher’s forehead, tiny spectacles perched on the edge of her long nose, salt and pepper strands escaping from her painfully tight bun as she marched towards her student.

“Miss Lyra, I do not appreciate this interruption to my class. Pray tell, what startled you?” Lyra opened her mouth and searched desperately for words.

“I… I… it was nothing. I just… I’m sorry,” Her words lost their strength, petering out like a dried up stream. Mistress Halbenather sniffed and turned to walk back to her desk, shoes clicking against the tile floor.

The thumping in Lyra’s head had subsided, slipping away like a memory into the air. She dragged a hand across her forehead, wiping away the drops of perspiration that had appeared.

What was that? Lyra’s mind tumbled, haphazardly assuring herself that the jolt had been some strange sort of headache; perhaps she hadn’t slept enough. Yes, yes, that had to be it. It was just the punishment for staying up too late. Completely natural, nothing to worry about. But even though the pounding was gone, Lyra could feel something. Something that did not feel natural at all. It was like a residue, a remnant, like the drop of dregs at the bottom of the glass or the last lingering note of a melody, the type when you can never quite be sure when it went silent.

But Lyra had tasted a golden drop of adventure amid the flat, blue-gray flavor of Bannermark, and she couldn’t help whispering a promise to herself to find out just what it was.

“Miss Lyra, if you do not start paying attention during our lessons, you can say goodbye to passing the admission exam to the Bannermark Bard Academy.” Mistress Halbenather spat out her biting words at her student as she leaned against her desk. Lyra could feel a flush rising up her face, eyes darting between the floor and Mistress Halbenather’s piercing gaze.

“I- I’m sorry, Mistress Halbenather. I was paying attention, I promise, I just….”

“If you were paying attention, you should be able to answer a few questions about what I’ve been teaching you.” Lyra straightened in her seat and pushed a stray blonde wisp out of her face; here was a chance to redeem herself. Mistress Halbenather fixed Lyra in her sights like an eagle swooping down on a field mouse.

“When was the Bannermark Bard Academy founded?” Her words shot like arrows towards Lyra’s throat.

“Just after spells and magic were outlawed.” Lyra let fly her own arrows, knocking away Mistress Halbenather’s.

“Why was it founded?”

“To encourage us to pursue music making without using magic.”

“And what types of magic music are there?”

“There are the dark melodies made before the outlawing of spells and- and,” Mistress Halbenather leaned forward as Lyra’s hands curled in fists in her lap.

Think, think, remember! Her mind raced, searching through every dusty corner of her memory for the answer.

“Song strains! The other type is song strains!” The words burst out like water from a dam, and Lyra had to rub a hand over her face to hide the smile that bloomed there. Mistress Halbenather leaned back against her desk, pursing her lips.

“And how did song strains come to be?”

“When the city practiced magic, they called down magic music in the form of something like lightning, which struck the mountains. It left behind strains in the rock, strains of music. They’ve all been removed now by the miners; they’re dangerous.” Lyra stretched out her fingers and sat back comfortably.

Mistress Halbenather nodded curtly, her mouth crumpled like she had just bitten into a sour lemon as she turned back to her lesson, and Lyra tried to glue her mind to her teacher’s droning voice. Outside, the mountains watched over Bannermark, as silent and still as ever.

But deep inside of a grey peak, crystal was coming to life, searching for someone whose soul was made of song.

Someone who could free it.

***

Lyra’s shoes slapped noisily against the cobble stones as she skipped down the hill of Bannermark, returning the passing greetings of neighbors, throwing smiles this way and that. Far down the hill sat the tents of the market, a kaleidoscope of colors and a cacophony of voices as vendors shouted their prices and peddled wares. And ever farther down and away, she could make out the distant banners of the nations as they rode the breeze across the hardwater lake.

Each banner bore the seals and colors of an allied nation, flying in one great ring around the city. Lyra liked to think of the banners as protecting her town, just like the thick grey stone walls surrounding the base of Bannermark topped with never resting guards, ever watching the hardwater and the land beyond.

Lyra cast a glance over her shoulder up at the mountains, passing her satchel from hand to hand absentmindedly.

“You proud, silent things, what are you hiding?” She whispered to the peaks with a smile. The moment the words were out of her mouth, flying towards the ridges, she thought of the jolt from that morning. Something deep inside of her whispered that it hadn’t been a headache, the punishment of a sleepless night.

She couldn’t tell why, but something about the words felt like a call, a beckon, an urge to find just what the mountains were hiding. She pushed her feet a little faster, down past the market, past the gated entry to the Bannermark Bard Academy, past one of the many city libraries.

“Lyra, there you are! Ready for an adventure?” Lyra looked up to find a tall girl, brown braids swinging and green skirts hitting the tops of sturdy boots, skipping lightly across the road towards her. Lyra smiled and clasped the girl’s hand.

“You know I am, Wren.” The two fell into step together, clumping down the winding road as birds tumbled together overhead and newly bloomed flowers tumbled from the cracked pots stationed at every street corner.

“Down to Kamaria stream? Or the wall?” Wren asked, swinging her arms. Lyra sent a small rock skittering over the road with a light kick.

“We’re going somewhere new.” Lyra’s voice held a note of excitement that instantly drew Wren’s eyes toward her, her brows furrowed.

“Where exactly are we going? I don’t want to do anything craz-”

“Come on!” Lyra broke into a sprint and pounded down the road, pale blonde locks streaming behind her like the banners over the hardwater, and Wren had no choice but to run after Lyra, her shouts of “wait up!” lost in the wind.

Far above, a swallow raced along with the two girls; far below the hardwater glistened in the afternoon sun.

Far inside Bannermark, everything was getting ready to change.

***

“I don’t know if going up into the mountains is a good idea, Lyra.” Wren’s voice was threaded with concern as the two girls stooped to look through the crumbling stone gateway, brushing away the hanging clumps of fuchsia blooms clinging to the rough stone.

“Don’t be such a scaredy cat, Lyra. We’ve been up there before.”

“Yes, but always in a big group. There’s just two of us; what’ll we do if there’s a bear or a-” Wren interrupted her with a drawn-out sigh.

“If you’re just going to ruin things, I’ll go by myself. I’m not afraid.” Lyra crossed her arms and stepped purposely through the gateway, pine needles and the memories of autumn’s leaves crunching under her boots. Lyra threw a glance back over her shoulder at the quiet lane they had come down, hoping that Wren would follow, but her friend had turned away, her face creased in disappointment as she disappeared around the corner.

A rush of regret washed over Lyra; she hated the look of betrayal that had gleamed dimly in Wren’s honey eyes.

All at once, the same jolt from that morning coursed through Lyra and she stumbled forwards, falling to her knees among the half-uncurled ferns of the forest floor. She breathed heavily, gasping for air as if she’d been holding her breath for too long. Lyra pushed herself up, grimacing as a pinecone dug into her palm.

Lyra stared at the mountains ahead of her for a long time. This jolt had a direction to it, a pull.

An urge forward that stemmed from the peaks watching Bannermark.

Lyra looked back towards Bannermark one last time. Half of her heart was drawing her back home, to the stable buildings that had withheld the ages, the protecting walls that had guarded the city for millennia, to Wren. It whispered that if she could just go back into her same old routine, she could forget about the jolt, forget the uneasy taste that had settled in her stomach, go back to believing that there was nothing out of the ordinary in Bannermark, that she was safe.

But the other half held the truth; something extraordinary had happened, and Lyra had not forgotten the golden taste of adventure.

She was going to find out just what the jolt was, one way or another.

Lyra plunged into the forest, eyes set on the far off peaks.

***

Lyra’s feet felt worn to the bone. It seemed that with each step, she found herself balancing on uneven ground, yet another tree trunk, or a particularly prickly pinecone.

Her throat was parched, and no matter how many times she forced herself to swallow, it seemed her mouth was determined to stay dry.

“Where are you?” She whispered to the late afternoon sky, to the residue of the jolt still sticking to her bones. She had wound her way far up the mountain, following the pull as the afternoon sun sunk ever lower in the darkening sky.

The forest stood like an army of wooden giants surrounding Lyra, skeleton branches barely clothed with new budding leaves; who could tell if it was an army sworn to protect or about to attack? Lyra stopped to catch her breath, hands on her hips, rocks in her shoes. A trickle of a sunlight beam struck her eye and she shaded her face with a dirty hand, peering up the slope.

Was that a clearing ahead? She could just make out a patch of bare rock among the trunks before her. Her numb feet protested as she started off again, but Lyra forced her tired limbs to jog up the incline.

Deep inside, the residue of the jolt, the pull grew stronger. If she thought about it too much, if she pried at the place it was lodged in her chest, it scared her even as excitement coursed through her.

Where was it coming from? And just what was it?

All she could tell for sure was that it felt like something that didn’t belong in the order and sturdiness of Bannermark. It challenged the stone, the banners, the guards.

But it did not feel new; no, Lyra thought that it felt like the wild earth itself, like the wind, like the stars.

It was of the things that had reigned before the imposed, forced structure of Bannermark.

The army of trunks seemed to part before Lyra, opening out into a bare landing of rock on the side of the mountain. Here the wind kept tryst with stone, wearing down the boulders, flowing in rushing torrents as fierce as a swollen river.

A storm was boiling on the other side of the peaks, out of view, unexpected.

No human foot had stepped on these stones in a hundred years, and the wind burst out, eager to dance about skirts and loose hair once more.

And nearby, power was waiting to break out of its prison.

Lyra tried in vain to shove her hair away as it beat against her face. But when she had cleared her eyes, she found that what was left of the light was gone. The world was grey, the sun fleeing behind a distant ridge she could barely make out on the far side of the hardwater. Far below the rocks, she could see Bannermark, spires piercing the gathering clouds above.

She was so close, she could feel it.

Lyra cast her gaze around the clearing, not knowing what she was looking for but certain she would know the moment she saw it.

Lyra took one step closer to the rock face of the mountain, and the sky ripped itself open.

Cold spring rain bled out, instantly soaking Lyra and chilling her to the bone. On the other side of the hardwater, the rain worked its way into the fibers of the banners, weighing them down until they hung still and heavy. Down in Bannermark, there was a rush to pull doors closed and latch shutters as the patter of water on the rooftops begged entry like a thousand tiny knocking fists. And a woman, her hair blonde like Lyra’s but just beginning to show streaks of grey, peered nervously out into the storm, her mind filled with thoughts of her daughter who had not returned from her afternoon walk.

Far up on the mountain, clumps of hair stuck to Lyra’s face as the wind and rain whipped her skirts around her, slapping at her knees while water ran into her boots. Lyra tried to wipe the water from her eyes with the damp end of her sleeve to no avail.

There!

A black mouth of a cave opened before her, teeth of stone jutting out sharply, the residue of the jolt so strong around it that Lyra thought she could almost see it, like the thick mist blanketing the crags above her. Lyra took a deep breath and stepped carefully amongst the stones until she slipped inside the quiet dampness of the cave.

Not caring for her already mudstreaked dress, Lyra crept farther into the cave, a tunnel carved deep into the mountain face. A note of a thought slipped through her mind, struck from a chord of memory. Had she not always learned of the mining tunnel systems that ran through the mountains? She pushed down the memories of how she had always been warned against them, those remnants of an older time, a different life.

The sky began to wring itself of the sudden rain that had taken hold of it. The clouds ever so slightly lightened, the wind grew tired. The trees abated their wild dancing, no more branches snapped to the ground. But all Lyra could think about was the pull and the steady rhythm of her feet against the stone.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Left, right, left, right.

A whisper of a melody worked its way out of Lyra’s mind in the form of a soft hum as her feet kept time and the world rustled in accompaniment outside. The music unrolled upon itself like a spool of ribbon, filling the cave and winding its way through every crevice, caressing every uneven wall. Lyra snapped her fingers to the rhythm of her melody, spreading it out, letting it rise and fall and swing itself around like the dancers who spun and twirling at the midsummer festival in the main square. Lyra reached up to run her hand along the roof of the cave as she worked her way farther in.

Behind her, the sunless sky still held the memory of light.

It was just as the last light from the surface of the world grew too far behind her to see that Lyra was struck again. It was the strongest this time, so strong it threw her backwards and she barely managed to catch herself on her hands, the impact with the ground shoving all the air out of her lungs. Her head pounded, and all she could see was a fuzzy, pulsing view of the roof of the cave.

And again, the pull was stronger, so strong that Lyra almost felt that something inside of her was about to be torn out if she didn’t let it guide her farther in, into the darkness, into the unknown. She pushed herself up from her shaking knees, and stumbled forward, hands reaching for the sides or top of the cave, anything to sturdy herself against.

The cave wound downwards in the darkness, but Lyra’s eyes didn’t take long to adjust. She began to notice the creases of the rocks, their patterns, their stories. She saw how the stone had been hacked away at, the lifeblood from its veins of precious stones bled dry. The grey, stoney lessons of Mistress Halbenather crept through Lyra’s mind and she found herself thinking of song strains, those strains of music that had long been removed from the mountains.

They were supposed to be the very essence of music, drawn down from the sky, perhaps even some tangible form of the music of the stars. And just like all of the old forms of magic, said Mistress Halbenather, said Lyra’s mother, said everyone in Bannermark, they had to be removed, destroyed, never to be dabbled in again.

Lyra ran a finger along the carved away side of the cave. In some places it was almost smooth, in others, Lyra could feel where miners had plucked out the strains of stones that still sat piled in the Bannermark treasury, that still changed hands in the higher markets. Her hand was suddenly around a corner, a crack, a crevice in the stone that almost hid another tunnel stemming off of the main one. It was barely a few paces deep, the far wall rough with the unfinished work of hammers and picks. Lyra crouched down, careful to keep her head below the top of the tunnel.

She drew in a quick, sharp breath and stopped short, gazing at the end of the tunnel.

Lyra had never seen living light before. Light that pulsed and flowed in currents barely a feather’s thickness below the face of the rock. Light that was all at once pure white and every color of the aurora that danced over Bannermark. It stretched out in a spider web on the cave wall before disappearing in strains set deeper in the mountain. The residue of the jolt pulled Lyra forward, twisting towards the strains. A flash of light pulsed out of the rock, sweeping past Lyra and out into the darkness behind her, bringing with it the same jolt she had felt before. But now, standing before the source, any pain had gone out of the feeling. All that was left was the touch of music and a clear, living scent that pooled in Lyra’s lungs. She crept forward, slowly raising her hand to touch the strain, glowing with slight warmth against her palm. Without giving it a second thought, Lyra picked up a heavy stone from the cave floor and scraped it along the strain, over and over, faster and faster.

Out. Out. Must get it out. Out. Out. Must make it free.

The thought pounded through her mind with each drag of the stone. Shards of the cave wall shattered and tumbled to the ground, nicking Lyra’s hands as they fell. The strain drew closer to the surface, its light growing brighter, the suggestion of music in Lyra’s mind swelling louder. She ignored her aching shoulders and raised the stone above her head, bringing it down in one great strike. Rock shards flew everywhere, and she threw an arm across her face to guard from the blinding light that exploded with them. The clatter of stone against the cave floor quieted, and Lyra drew in a few shaking breaths before lowering her hand.

The strain was flowing out of the rock with all the grace of the mountain wind, but as soon as it touched the air, it became a misty haze. Lyra reached out a tentative hand, feeling as if she had somehow reached up into the sky to stroke the aurora itself.

The auroral mist, the strain, floated towards her, brushing across her fingertips. It was cool and gentle, and Lyra could feel its light, its song seeping into her. The smallest speck of solid crystal appeared, perched on the edge of her fingers. She brought her hand up to her face to get a closer look before brushing the crystals off and watching them morph back into the mist of the strain.

More of the strain poured out of the stone, its light pulsing with a heartbeat of its own. It flowed out towards the mouth of the cave, and Lyra found herself following it, letting the strain dance around her fingertips, not minding the crystal dew bedecking her hair. As she walked, slowly working her way back up towards the mouth of the cave, more and more song strains began to glow beneath the cave surface, branching out like the root maze of a thousand year old tree.

And one by one, they broke out of their stone prisons and tasted the air again for the first time since they had been called down. Lyra could actually hear their song now, not just feel it inside. It was loud and soft, comforting and haunting.

It was all the music that had been sung to the stars for millennia; it was a song never heard before.

Lyra stopped at the cave gate, gazing out at the twilight purple of Bannermark.

It had only been minutes since she had been a part of that world.

Only that morning, Mistress Halbenather had been quizzing her on song strains.

Only mere hours ago she had first felt the jolt, the call, the urge of the strain.

Far below the hillside, flashes of green and purple danced under the hardwater.

Far above, the stars were getting ready to watch the aurora.

The song strain slipped around Lyra, bathing itself in the soft breeze, the night air, the sweet wildness of the hillside. It twirled like tendrils of smoke escaping a crackling, snapping fire, like birdsong falling from the robin-egg sky.

For a moment everything was still.

The breeze quieted, lifting its ear to hear what the stars were whispering.

The colors of the hardwater froze, eyeing their fence of banners.

Lyra caught her breath.

The song strain hung motionless in the cool air.

But a moment cannot last forever.

The breeze tumbled down the hillside, stirring up autumn’s forgotten leaves, tearing at the trees’ new bloomed branches.

The hardwater exploded in a burst of colors, twisting and spinning madly.

Lyra grasped at the strain mist, never minding the crystals covering her fingers.

The strain flew down the mountain, riding the wind until it reached Bannermark. It swirled about the buildings, prying at closed shutters and swirling down streets. Its colors shone ever brighter, until Lyra couldn’t tell what light came from the hardwater, the strain, or the aurora beginning to explore the skies above.

And Lyra flew down the mountain after it as the crystals seeped down through her skin, into her blood, her bones.

A wild smile bloomed across her face as her heart pounded. The light was inside of her, a part of her, all of her.

She was the crystal, the light, the song.

She had listened to the urge, she had set the song strain free.

And she knew that she could never live without the crystal in her veins, that somehow, despite the heavy, ancient stone of the city and the rules as rigid as the grey mountain peaks, she and the song strain was going to change Bannermark.

For better.

For worse.

Forever.

Maria Pasquale: A Catholic teen who has been writing for as long as she can remember. She loves all things J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, J. Austen, and L.M. Montgomery. If she isn’t buried in a book, you can find her playing violin, sewing, or wandering in the forest, on the search for an adventure. Her motto is, as said by St. Teresa of Avila, “Life is to live in such a way that we are not afraid to die.”

Audience: YA
Genre: Mystery, Thriller
Author: Joseph Leach

It was coming to the end of the fifth day of the longest journey that Grifflen had ever made.

As they marched over the rim of a hill and caught their first sight of the crater, Grifflen held his breath. There before him lay the ancient city of Banner Mark, nestled in the crater formed by the darkest magic, and yet also the final guardian against that dark ever rising again. It to a place many considered to be the center of the world.

Sergeant Fintel had a voice that commanded attention, mainly through volume. “OK, you lot. This is no tourist trip. We’ve been sent by King Norfend and we’re guarding something rare and precious.” Grifflen looked in the cart beside him. It carried a new banner that was now draped over the pole from which it would fly.

“That banner,” Sergeant Fintel continued, “marks our country’s commitment to the alliance that keeps the world safe. This is NOT just a ceremonial mission. You see that city? Well, it’s in a great hole blasted into the earth. Do you think the people who lived here when that happened had a good day? No. I don’t think so. Even worse, look around you. All these great hills and ridges running around that hole. Do you think the people who lived anywhere near here lived long and happy lives? If you do, you’re an idiot. Our banners, and the alliance they represent are what prevents anything like that from happening again. The old banner has been destroyed in circumstances that it was well above your pay grade to know, and you’ve been chosen to guard its replacement, an honour you don’t deserve. Now straighten up. Let’s show those city Banner Guards, with all their pretty armour, what a real soldier looks like. Move out.” They marched on towards the city.

The domes and spires of Banner Mark shone white, gold, and shimmering green in the late afternoon sun, banners flew from its walls and buildings. It was a place of dreams and wonder with the weight of time resting on it like a veil. Grifflen held his halberd tighter and his heart beat faster. This would be a tale he could tell his children.

It turned out that they were not the only ones arriving. Ahead of them were men from a kingdom Grifflen didn’t know. Their banner was a green snake on a red ground and it, like theirs was now draped over the pole from which it would fly. They were loading it onto a barge that would take it across the lake that surrounded the crater. It was not a lake like any he had seen, nor a barge like any he had known. It looked as if it was skating on ice, even though the sun was warm. Grifflen reminded himself to breath. He’d heard the stories, now he was seeing these wonders in real life.

They were left standing guard over the cart until their barge came. A voice whispered from behind him, “Hey, Grifflen, if you stood any stiffer, I’d think you were dead.” That was Drokel. He’d grown old in the army, never more than a simple trooper, and neither wonder nor joy could ever touch his cynical heart.

When their barge came, they marched on in good order, two files, one each side of the team of workmen who unloaded the pole from the cart and unto the barge. The barge skated across

the lake with the walls of the crater and the domes and towers of the city seeming to grow higher. After they had landed and unloaded at the dock, they proudly escorted their banner up to the city gate, Captain Raftel riding his destrier in front of them.

The city gates were perfectly proportioned. This made them deceptive. They were much larger than they appeared to be from a distance and Grifflen’s mouth fell open as he gazed upwards at the stone arch far above him. Sergeant Fintel’s voice barked in his ear. “Eyes front, soldier!” He snapped his head into the proper position and stared intently at the neck of the man in front of him.

Men from yet another country arrived on another barge behind them. Their banner was a silver fish on a white background above blue waves. This one Grifflen knew. It was Angleland, their seaside neighbour. They hadn’t brought soldiers to escort their banner, only workmen to carry it. Their foreman was a large, dark-haired fellow. “Hey, you mountain goats,” he called. “Move a bit faster will you. We’re not being paid by the hour.”

Some of the workmen called back, and words ‘fish breath’ were used. Relations had not always been friendly between Grifflen’s mountain people and the people of the coast. Here, it didn’t matter. Here, they were all bound by the treaty and the honour of their people depended on preserving it. Their troop, of course, did not reply, nor did they alter their marching pace.

They set their precious banner and its pole down in a wide courtyard, next to the others. Around them the Banner Guards stood in their bright armour and Visioners walked up and down the poles where they lay, carrying strange lanterns that glowed bright even in the morning sun. After the poles and banners had been inspected, the two other kingdoms handed theirs over to the care of the Banner Guards. Grifflen and his comrades, however, still stood guard. Their captain had dismounted and was having a heated discussion with an old warrior who seemed to the captain of the Banner Guards. Voices were raised.

“Once delivered to Banner Mark, the Banner Guard has responsibility for the kingdom’s banners, not their local militia.”

“Sorry,” Captain Reftal said, just as loudly. “My king is not impressed with how they’ve been doing the job. This is not a new banner, but a replacement for one that has been destroyed. We will guard it for the duration of out stay and we will oversee its emplacement.”

“That is not acceptable.”

“And yet,” their captain said, “that’s how it’s going to be.

An elderly visioner came over and stood next to the Banner Guard captain. “Is there a problem?”

There followed a more muted discussion which Grifflen couldn’t hear. It didn’t last long. It ended as their captain said, “You’ll need to take that up with King Norfend, I have my orders and I will obey them. Sergeant Fintel! Set a guard. Four men on watches through the night.

No one is to come near our banner.”

Sergeant Fintel almost growled his response. “Aye, Sir. I’ll see to it.” He was grinning up at the Banner Guard captain. The visioner grunted in anger and stalked off. The banner Guard Captain stood for a moment, then he too turned and walked into the city.

Grifflen was lucky enough to be given an early watch, and after it had finished, he set out to explore the city. It was impressive and busy, even at night, but as he walked the streets, Grifflen felt a slowly rising tide of disappointment. Yes, the city was grand, but it was also old and it was showing its age. Many of the buildings were grimy, the streets were crowded, the taverns noisy, and there were certainly parts of the city which had nothing to do with learned pursuits, places his mother would not have wanted him to visit. Along one wall, great clouds of steam rose from vents that led to the forges deep beneath the city. Some of these smelt foul and poisonous.

As the night wore on, they came, in ones and twos, to their assigned barracks. These were much the same as barracks everywhere. Grifflen threw himself onto his bunk, closed his eyes, and settled down to sleep. Despite his disappointment in the city, he was content. He had been selected to guard the new banner, a great honour. He was a trusted soldier of the king, as was his father before him, and his grandfather before that. Tomorrow, they would keep watch over the work as the banner was set in place, beyond the crater rim, in the forests beyond the uncanny lake.

***

They gathered on a hilltop at the edge of the forest as the sun touched the horizon, clear and gold. The day watch and the workmen were wandering back down to the city. Their banner pole was fixed into a small stone platform. It stood high and straight and from the top flew their banner: a red dragon rampant with wings unfurled on a green background.

Grifflen had been chosen as part of the night watch and had spent the day exploring more of the city. He had visited the great libraries and the halls of learning. He had visited the treaty museum and wandered through carefully tended parks. It was impressive, and he would have much to tell his mother about the sights, but a nagging sense of disappointment wouldn’t leave him. It was not as bright and wonderful as he had expected it to be, perhaps no real place ever could be.

The first stars were beginning to appear as Sergeant Fintel addressed them, “Listen up, night watch. I know what you’re expecting. A nice, cushy assignment where you get to stand around a flagpole in a fancy uniform and then go home and impress all the pretty girls or, in the case of Drokel, the not so pretty ones. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but times have changed. The banners are under attack by forces unknown. So, this is now a combat mission. Sentries from the Banner Guards in all their pretty armour have run away, mad with fear. We will not. Are you prepared to fight whatever comes at you this night?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” they yelled.

“Will you face an enemy and live to tell a story that would get even Drokel a pretty maid?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” they yelled.

“Will you fight?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” they yelled again. Of course we will fight, thought Grifflen. For the honour of our king and people, for the sanctity of Banner Mark, we would be prepared to die. He stood stiffly to attention and gripped his halberd tighter.

“Give it a rest, boy,” Drokel said beside him. “You’re not on parade now. Relax.”

Sergeant Fintel had shifted to more mundane matters. “Ok, here’s your hourglass. Brondel, I want you to take the first shift, from now till the third hour of the night. Mantor, you’ll take the second. Young Grifflen, you ‘ll take the third, from midnight to the ninth hour. Don’t worry, son. Not even the bad guys stay up that late. Drokel, you ‘ve got from the ninth hour till dawn. At dawn you all stand to until the day watch arrives. Got it?”

“Yes, Sergeant “

“Good. Now relax until it’s your watch. Brondell, you’re up.”

The sergeant left and Grifflen settled down with the others in the small shelter at the rear of the banner platform. Drokel stretched out, a smile on his face. “Just what I needed. A nice easy gig and a wild story to tell at the end of it.”

“So, you don’t believe we’ll have any trouble?“ Mantor asked.

“No. Who’d bother to attack a flag? I’ll bet it’s all just some of the local lads trying to make the pretty boy banner guards look silly. They won’t try if it’s likely to get them stuck with a halberd. Still, I’ll spin it to a great yarn for the ladies back home.” He looked across at Grifflen. “Hey, young Grifflen, you’re a good-looking young lad, I envy you. You’ll be beating off the girls with a stick when we get back. Or maybe not.’ He winked at Mantor. “Maybe, you already have a sweet young thing you fancy?”

Mantor chuckled as he stretched out and closed his eyes. “No. It’s better than that I reckon. I think he’s already got a sweet young thing who fancies him. Don’t let them tie you down too early son.”

Grifflen smiled. He was used to their ribbing about his age and his ‘good boy” image. The words were sometimes mean, but there was no real animosity in it, at least not for the most part. He closed his eyes. “Maybe I have “he said, ”but then, that’s not something either of you would know anything about.”

“Woah! “ Drokel laughed. “The pup has learned to bite back. We’ll need to be careful.” Not then they didn’t. Grifflen was already asleep.

***

He was woken at midnight by Mantor, who seemed nervous and edgy. “Come up,” he whispered. “I’ve something to show you.”

They stood on the platform at the base of the banner pole. A bright moon was washing out the light of all but the brightest stars. Mantor pointed out into the forest. “I thought I saw something move out there, just near that ridge. At first, it was just branches moving when there was no wind, but then I saw a light. It could’ve been the moonlight reflecting off metal, or it might’ve been something else. I can’t be sure.”

“Why didn’t you wake us?”

Mantor shook his head. “Nothing certain, and it was a long wat away. Just … keep a good watch. And don’t be afraid to yell out if you see anything strange, OK? I’ve got a feeling in my gut that Drokel might be wrong.”

Grifflen look out into the dark shadow of the forest. Nothing moved and there were no lights. “OK,” he said. “Go get some rest. I’ll be sure to call if anything happens.”

When Mantor had gone, Grifflen stood and watched, resting his halberd on his shoulder. The night was still and the moon-flooded sky was bright. Nothing was moving. After a while, he sat and rested on the edge of the platform, the forest spread out like a black shadow before him. Sand slipped through the hourglass, marking the time of his watch.

It was well into the seventh hour when he saw something move in the forest. He waited. He wanted to be sure. Then he saw it again, a branch moving in the still night. Then the sound of breaking undergrowth. “Stand to!” he yelled. “Stand to!”

He could hear the others scrambling to their feet. “Where are they, boy?” Drokel asked.

“Directly to my front. Coming from the forest,” Grifflen answered.

“Better not be just some random animal. If I don’t get my beauty sleep, things could get nasty,” Blondel muttered.

“Shut up,” Drokel said. “Listen.”

The sound was unmistakable now, breaking branches and steps, heavy and slow. They emerged from the forest, three of them. Perhaps they had once been animals the like of which Grifflen had never seen. Their shape reminded him a little of the deer that roamed the foothills of his home mountains, only they would’ve been huge. Would’ve been, because whatever they were before, what they were now was something else. Clearly, all three had long been dead. One was almost completely skeletal, the others still had flesh and bits of dry hide hanging on in places. They glittered in the moonlight because they also seemed to be made of crystal. Walking nightmares, made of crystal, and coming directly at them.

“What the… “ Blondel breathed. He had no time to finish. The monstrous things charged. Grifflen felt a moment of panic, but he steadied himself. The honour of the kingdom. The sanctity of Banner Mark. He jumped down from the platform, knelt on one knee, and

grounded the butt of his halberd, as he had been trained to do, pointing it towards the lead animal. Behind him he heard a wild scream and none of the others jumped down to join him. He didn’t have time to wonder why. The thing was upon him. He tried to drive the blade into its chest, but it glanced off the crystal hide. The steel blade shattered and light and colour flowed down the shaft, splintering it as it went. Grifflen dropped the shaft and fell back. His attack had had no effect on the creature’s progress. It had jumped over him and onto the platform without missing a stride. He could hear it crashing into the solid wood of the pole. The skeletal thing was now almost upon him. He drew his sword and slashed at it, striking one of its ribs. A small chip came off, but again the steel shattered. This thing also didn’t alter its course. It didn’t even slow down. The third thing now jumped onto the platform, and he had no weapon with which to even try and stop it.

He leaned back against the platform’s foundation. He was shaking, crying with fear, but he was also trying to think of what to do. He had no weapon, and his weapons had been useless anyway. He couldn’t fight those monsters with his bare hands. He couldn’t even attempt it. It was beyond him. Above him, he heard the sound of the pole crashing down. Even then, the monsters didn’t stop. He heard the wood splinter and break under their onslaught. Then he heard the sound of their banner being torn and shredded. This was too much. He had to do something. From somewhere in the fog of his brain, it occurred to him. He needed to join the others. Drokel would know what to do.

He crawled around the base of the platform to the shelter where they had slept, always careful to stay out of sight of the things on the platform above him. Could they even see? They seemed to be able to, but how could they see with eyes long rotted from their skull? Pointless, he thought. Leave that for the visioners to worry about.

When he got to the shelter it was empty and there were three halberds lying undamaged on the ground. For a long time, he couldn’t understand. Then he knew. They had run away. At the first sight of the creatures, they had dropped their weapons and run.

He hung his head, in sorrow rather than anger. He couldn’t even find it in his heart to blame them. It was the only sensible thing to do. Being a good soldier was going to get him killed. He sighed. It was no good. His father was a soldier and his grandfather before that. He stood up, drawing himself stiffly to attention. He bent down and picked up one of the fallen halberds and turned to face the platform.

The monsters were still ripping the banner apart between them. He yelled and charged onto the platform, driving the halberd deep into the semi-skeletal body of the thing nearest him. Again, the steel blade shattered, and the shaft splintered as colour and light flowed down it. He dropped the shaft and berated himself. Stupid. Doing the same thing and expecting a different result.

The three monsters turned to look at him. Yes, they could see. Question answered. They lowered their antlers and stepped forward. Strange colours seemed to be flowing from the ground. He dropped to his knees and closed his eyes. If there really is a god hidden under the city, the thought, please let it be quick. He waited, stiff and fearful. Nothing happened. After a while, he opened his eyes. The platform was empty. He stood up and caught sight of the crystal creatures vanishing into the forest. He fell to his knees on the torn remains of his kingdom’s banner and he wept. It had been his duty to protect the banner, to uphold the honour of the kingdom, to preserve the alliance that kept the world safe, and he had failed,

***

He was still there when Sergeant Fintel arrived a few hours later, not long before dawn. “You’re still alive,” he observed.

Grifflen nodded. “I failed,” he said. “They tore our banner to shreds. I’d give you my sword, but it broke.”

The sergeant sat down next to him. “You failed? How do you figure that?”

Grifflen gestured to ruined pole and the torn banner. “It was the honour of our kingdom, the symbol of our pledge. I had sworn to protect it and I couldn’t.”

“I served with your father, you know,” Sergeant Fintel said. “He was a good soldier and a good man. I’ve seen him race onto a contested battlefield to help a wounded comrade without any thought for his own safety. Yet I think he would have run screaming in terror from what you faced.”

Grifflen looked across at him. “How do you know?”

“We finally managed to get Drokel make some kind of sense. I came here expecting to find your body… or worse. Instead, I find shattered weapons and a soldier who stood his ground in face of… I can only say horror. You didn’t fail, soldier. You did your duty.” The eastern sky was now bright with the coming dawn. “Do you know what that banner is?” He pointed to the torn fragments on the ground.

“Yes, of course,” Grifflen said.

“It’s a piece of embroided cloth, nothing more,” the sergeant said, “or it was. Now it’s just rags. The true honour and glory of our kingdom is expressed in its people. It’s expressed in a soldier who stood his post even when all his companions had run away. In you. Stand up.”

Grifflen struggled to his feet and the sergeant stood in front of him. “I salute you,” Sergeant Fintel said, and raised his arm in the salute normally reserved for royalty. Grifflen stood stunned for a moment but slowly returned the salute. The sergeant dropped his arm. “Now, if you think I’m going soft,” he said, “wait to see what happens to those other three.”

Whatever reply Grifflen might’ve made was interrupted by the sound of a galloping horse. They both turned to look as Captain Raftel rode up and dismounted even before the horse had fully stopped. He looked at Grifflen, who was now standing to attention, in astonishment.

“I found him, Sir,” Sergeant Fintel said.

“So I see,” the captain said. “You found him alive and still… him. Praise whatever god rules this place. That more than I had hoped for.” He looked gently at Grifflen. “Can you give a report?’

“Yes, Sir,” Grifflen said. He proceeded to tell them what had happened in the night. He left nothing out, not even the fear and the crying. When he had finished, the captain frowned and looked at the torn remains of the banner. “That’s going to be a problem. I’ll need to speak with the senior visioner and try to keep this quiet. You say you chipped a piece off one of these creatures, could you show me where it fell?”

Grifflen led him round to the other side of the platform and pointed to the torn turf. There a small piece of crystal lay with strange colours and lights flowing into the ground around it. “Don’t touch that,” the captain ordered. “Do not touch that.” He went back to his horse and pulled a thick dispatch pouch and a heavy leather gauntlet from his saddle bag. He scooped the crystal fragment up wearing the gauntlet and carefully tipped it into the dispatch bag. Then he sealed it tight. “I’ve got to get this to the king. No one else is to know we have it.” He looked up at each of them in turn. “No one. Understand?”

They both nodded and then followed him back to his horse. The sun rose as he was putting the dispatch pouch back in his saddle bag. The distant city shone bright in the morning light. It looked the way Banner Mark should look, Grifflen thought. But there was something bothering him. “Sir,” he said hesitantly. “Can I ask a question?”

“Ask away,” the captain said.

“I attacked those things and, in the end, they certainly knew I was there. They lowered their antlers towards me and could’ve killed me, but they didn’t. Why not?”

Captain Raftel frowned and was silent for a long while, stroking the neck of his horse. “Perhaps,” he said at last, “it was because whatever power ruled them recognised in you not just a good soldier doing his duty, but a good man trying to do his best. Maybe it saw your dedication, respected that, and let you live.”

“Maybe, Sir,” Sergeant Fintel said, “but if those are the qualities it respects, then…” he looked across at the shinning city.

The captain followed his gaze. “True,” he said softly. “Then maybe we have a bigger problem.” He swung himself up into the saddle. “Trooper Grifflen, when you get back to the city you are to report directly to me. I’ll find you a horse. We ride to the king this very day.” He smiled as he saw the look on Grifflen’s face. “Relax, soldier. I’m going to recommend you for a special commendation.” He turned to the sergeant. “Don’t waste time. Gather the men and return home as soon as possible. Don’t make any fuss about our departure but don’t delay either. We need to keep a lid on this and not have the tale flowing like beer in every tavern and joss house.”

“Aye, Sir,” Sergeant Fintel said.

Captain Raftel looked out at the city, “The banner will need to be replaced quickly, or we’ll be seen to renege on our pledge. That can’t happen.” He paused, a trace of a smile crossing his face. “Also, get those three runaways to stand guard here for as long as it takes, until the other men are ready to leave. It’ll teach then a lesson, stop them from talking, and maybe make some believe that our banner is still here. See that their watch isn’t too comfortable.”

Sergeant Fintel smiled, “With pleasure, Sir.”

“Good. I’ll let you make your own way back. I’ve got some hard talking to do before I leave.” He wheeled his horse around and galloped off to the city.

“None of this makes sense. What’s going on?” Grifflen asked.

“Don’t know,” the sergeant replied, “but maybe everything’s not as it seems. Anyway, above our pay grade, son. We just hold the halberd, face the monsters and let them that get paid more worry about why. That’s what soldiers do.”

Grifflen nodded. “Aye. That’s what soldiers do.”

Joseph Leach: A scientist, theologian, poet and author; Joseph Leach started writing fantasy and science fiction while still studying science at the University of Melbourne. He went on to get his Ph.D. as part of a NASA guest investigation into the Martian polar ice caps. Since then, he has worked as an Air Force intelligence officer, a government research scientist and a university lecturer. In this capacity, he has co-authored six technical books and over eighty scientific papers. An ordained deacon of the Catholic Church, in 2020 his first adult fantasy novel was published by Stone Table Books. Website: facebook.com/Liaigh

Audience: YA
Genre: Adventure
Author: K.G. Stevenson

Fit slipped into the Luminous Temple, the brilliant sculptures causing him to pause momentarily. The temple’s beauty made him forget how to breathe, and who he was for a minute. He pulled his eyes from the spectacular lifelike marble woman praying, and looked for the man he was sent to deliver the message to. He saw the head priest of the temple in the back pew talking to a Visioneer; even Fit recognized the ornate gold vestments the priest wore. The Visoneer, with his stomach hanging low over his silver belt was in almost as rich attire with a blue silk robe, embroidered with dragons. His pudgy toes stuck out of fancy brown braided sandals that had decorative embroidery on them as well.

He sat down behind the men on the wooden bench, waiting for the Visioneer to leave so he could give the priest the scroll from Lord Penerai, his master. He was tempted to whistle with boredom, but he was good at blending in and stayed silent.

Grown-ups never noticed Fit; he was as ordinary as a rooster chasing after hens. He spent the first six years of his life with his parents in a small hovel in the slums. Being unremarkable, with plain brown hair and eyes, let him creep by unsavory characters unnoticed. Home had been in a nicer area of the slums, where you could keep a couple chickens without them being stolen before they let out their first squawk.

That was before the fire, before he ended up at the orphanage. The servant who visited the orphanage had picked him for his master, in part because he was so unremarkable. No one wants to be bothered by a page boy; he had the advantage of delivering messages to important people, like the two men in front of him without them noticing his existence.

Being a page for one of the lords of Bannermark was an honor, even if it was a page for a minor lord; it beat his former occupation of pickpocket. That was the work the bullies at the orphanage made him do to earn his food. As a page, he ate three meals a day. Lunch sometimes being a length of bread and cheese on the go, but Fit had nothing to complain about; his belly was rarely empty for long.

“That Banner Warden that just miraculously returned, Draviel, will be a problem,” the Visioneer said quietly, but loud enough for Fit to hear.

“He is clearly holding something important back. He claims his Visioneer disappeared after the battle with the elk, but there is more to the story,” the priest angrily ground out.

“Would you like me to take care of the matter? You know I have a cousin who is good at that sort of thing,” the Visioneer said. The priest hesitated, rubbing his forehead.

“This cannot be linked back to me; people are already asking questions and panicking about the banners falling. They think it is a matter of our pacts being void, but the unease is spreading. People are doubting my words. Well, I will say no more about it, but have your cousin take care of Draviel…. quietly. Make it look natural,” the priest said, not looking at the Visioneer.

Fit slipped off his bench. That was not the kind of conversation people wanted overheard. He slipped away, quieter than a mouse fleeing a cat in the dark alleys, and went to the opposite side of the church. He knocked loudly on the office door.

“Yes?” a voice asked from within.

“I have a message for the high priest from my master, Lord Penerai,” Fit said, proud of his voice for remaining steady. That conversation had him on edge.

“Drop it in the box outside the door,” the flat voice said, without bothering to open the office door.

Fit dutifully dropped the scroll in the box, and left the temple as fast as he could, while not seeming to run.

“Whew!” he couldn’t help letting out a big breath that he hadn’t realised he had been holding. He felt sorry for the poor Banner Warden; Fit had always admired them, and had even dreamed of being one someday. Of course that was impossible for someone like him, but it didn’t hurt to dream. ‘Well, nothin I can do about it. I’m never going to find some random Banner Warden, and the master will have my hide if I’m not back straight away.’

Taking another deep breath and firming his resolve to obey his master, he walked back towards the courtyard. He’d have to pass over to the south side, then find the section of the city with the large, fancy houses. Lord Penerai’s manor was at the very edge, the smallest of the houses there.

Walking by the market, he couldn’t help slowing to smell the air. Cinnamon, cloves, and fresh bread assaulted his nose. Looking around, he found the baker Gaiden’s booth. Fit strolled by casually, wanting to get closer to the fragrant smell, even knowing he could never buy any of the freshly baked goods. He could feel his mouth moistening as he stared at the row of cakes.

He had never liked taking money from people, but staring at the fresh honeycake with cinnamon swirled on top, he was tempted to just steal a few coins. ‘No, it’s wrong. I’ll have food to eat for dinner. Stop wanting what you can’t have Fit,’ he scolded himself.

A man in Banner Warden clothes stepped forward to the baker’s booth. He was tall, fit, and his uniform was neatly in order.

“I’ll take two today, Gaiden,” the man said with a ready smile. Gaiden laughed, and bagged the two cakes.

“Extra hungry today Draviel?” Gaiden asked, continuing to chuckle. Draviel just smiled and took the bag. Fit took a step back, his eyes widening.

‘What are the chances that I would run into that Banner Warden?’ There were several frequenting the market. They came to grab a bite to go before or after their shifts. Fit’s mind flashed back to a vision of the marble woman in the temple praying.

‘Did she send me here?’ He wondered, before dismissing the idea as crazy.

Draviel turned away from the booth, and to Fit’s surprise walked towards him. ‘What is he doing!’’

“Here, Gaiden’s honeycakes are legendary. Everyone should try one,” Draviel said, placing the second sticky honeycake in his hand, then turned to go. Fit worked his mouth open and closed several times, but no sound came out.

He finally managed to whisper, “Thank you,” but he was sure Draviel didn’t hear.

Draviel was not only a Banner Warden, but he was nice. Fit shook his head in denial, but couldn’t help following the man from a distance. He couldn’t bring himself to take a bite of the honeycake, as his throat felt dry and glued shut.

Draviel first walked towards the walls, and Fit assumed he was going on shift, but then the man ducked into an inn. Fit looked at the sign. It read: “The Dancing Banner Maiden.” He hesitated; He was expected back soon.

Turning back the way he came, Fit raced through the streets. Being late was grounds for a whipping, and there was nothing he could do to help the Banner Warden. Good thing he knew a shortcut from here back to Lord Penerai’s estate. With one last glance towards the inn, Fit ran, clutching the dripping honeycake in his fist.

~~~~~

The week seemed to drag on, and Fit couldn’t get the Banner Warden Draviel out of his head. He found out that the man always stopped by that inn at the same time every day. It must be right after his shift. Fit had watched him enter a few times, but never dared to enter. ‘It’s bad enough I’m detouring to the market to look for Draviel, I can’t stop at the inn too.’

He had taken to running everywhere to have a few extra minutes to watch for the Banner Warden. He was afraid if he didn’t look, Draviel wouldn’t be there, and it would be his fault.

Today Fit felt even worse, with dark circles under his eyes. The night before he’d tossed and turned, waking up remembering nightmares of the Banner Warden dead, in a pool of blood at his feet; the knowledge of Draviel’s impending death eating at him.

He stared at the inn. Lord Penerai sent him on errands around this time every day, which afforded him the opportunity to check, and to his relief Draviel was there. ‘He must meet friends there after his shift,’ Fit thought.

Fit watched Draviel go in, like he usually did, and was about to turn around to go, but flashes of Draviel’s dead body filled his mind. Taking a deep breath, and clenching his fists, he walked towards the inn. He slipped in unnoticed, and spotted Draviel immediately. He was sitting at a table with a friend. It was against the side wall, without many people around them. The inn was fairly deserted this time of day, with only a handful of other patrons scattered about, mostly sipping some ale from large tankards.

Everyone in the city seemed tense for some reason. He thought it had to do with the banners falling, but he didn’t understand it. Surely the Banner Wardens and Visioneers would find out what was wrong and fix the problem. They always did.

Grabbing a clean rag from his pocket, Fit walked near to where Draviel and his friend were drinking and started dusting the sideboards with it. Glancing around, no one seemed to pay him any mind. There was only one serving woman, and she seemed busy and focused on her patrons. The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen.

“You need to keep your nose down. Don’t ask anymore questions, and pray they forget you exist. I’m telling you, people, including the Visioneers have been asking me questions about you, and it’s not good. Don’t go to the temples, don’t ask questions, and stay in your quarters. I don’t even know if we should meet anymore; it could be seen as some sort of conspiring,” the other Banner Warden said.

“Conspiring to do what?” Draviel asked, giving his friend a hard look.

“I don’t know! But the people asking me questions seem to think something is afoot with you. Light if I know what it is,” the man said, holding his hands up defensively.

“I’m not conspiring. I’m just trying to find out the truth. I told you what happened to Radomirél. I’m not going to repeat it here, but things aren’t as we’ve been led to believe,” Draviel said, quieter, and Fit found himself moving a little closer to the pair to hear.

“And the nightmares, everyone is having them. They can’t keep the whole city from talking about similar nightmares. The people dream of being trapped underground, banging at a glass ceiling, surrounded by purple light. The nightmares have to be coming from somewhere with the banners weakening…” he trailed off.

A serving man suddenly appeared at their table, with an oily grin plastered on his scarred face. The two bannermen looked up in surprise, especially at the freshly roasted chicken the man was holding. It was small, but smelled divine. Fit edged even closer.

“We didn’t order food,” Draviel said.

“This is on the house. We know you Banner Wardens have more work on your hands these days, and our kind innkeeper told me to bring this out for you,” the man said with a big grin. Then he set the bird on the table and disappeared before they could ask any more questions.

“Well, rations have been tighter lately. I won’t say no to free food,” Draviel said, reaching for it. His friend smiled and nodded, reaching to grab some as well.

Fit was faster though. He grabbed the chicken off the plate and ran. Racing out the inn door, he didn’t look back. Being a pickpocket, he knew how to weave around objects, like storage boxes, that would trip bigger people up.

He heard boots hitting the ground behind him as he ran, and he burst through the wooden inn door. Glancing around quickly, he decided the side alley was his best bet. He was so close to it, but the footsteps were getting closer. He didn’t know if he could make it, and he moved his legs as fast as they would go, his chest heaving, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He entered the shadowed alley. If he could only make it to the back, there was a narrow gap that he knew he could fit through that an adult couldn’t. He’d be safe. Not daring to waste precious seconds glancing behind him, he darted forward.

Suddenly a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. He expected to be facing the Banner Wardens, but this was worse. It was the greasy servant looking down at him with a glare. His grip was painfully tight, causing Fit’s arm to throb. The man drew his other hand forward and produced a dagger, which he malevolently inched closer to Fit’s throat, enjoyment evident in his eyes.

“You picked the wrong time to steal boy,” the man said, and slid the dagger closer. Fit tried pulling away, but the grip was firm. This was it. He was going to die, and he hadn’t even warned the Banner Warden.

“Stop! Let the boy go!” a voice called from behind the servant. Fit couldn’t see who it was.

The servant hissed, dropped his grip on Fit and ran towards the voice. Fit could see now that it was the Banner Wardens. The servant ran by them and out of the alley. This was his chance. Fit turned and fled towards the back of the alley. If the Banner Wardens stopped to question the servant, he could make it!

As he reached the back of the alley, he felt another person grip his arm, this time gentler. Fit spun around to find Draviel staring down at him, then Draviel glanced at the chicken, which Fit realized was still in his hands.

“Hey lad, I know times are tough. We aren’t mad at you, and we aren’t going to hurt you. Why don’t we all sit down together and share that chicken there. It’s enough for all of us,” Draviel said with a friendly smile.

Fit’s heart sank. His breath was heaving so hard from the running and adrenaline, he couldn’t get a word out. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. In a panic, he looked around frantically. Finally he spotted what he needed. Plastering a fake grin on his face, he nodded to the men.

Draviel let him go, releasing his arm, but looked ready to chase him again if need be.

Fit kept the grin on his face, and walked towards the inn, with the Banner Wardens on either side of him. He only went three steps before slipping to the side, and tossing the chicken down the sewer hole. It just fit, and there would be no retrieving it. If he had just tossed it somewhere, like over the alley wall, street children would have found it, and he wouldn’t allow that.

Draviel and his friend looked at him in shock. A real grin finally appeared on Fit’s face; he’d finally gotten rid of that chicken, so it didn’t matter if they believed him. Draviel was safe. He felt like laughing, but sobered at the Banner Warden’s expressions. He tried to turn back down the alley, afraid they wouldn’t believe him, but Draviel grabbed his arm again.

“Ok, you have some explaining to do,” Draviel said to him, then turning to his friend, “Should we take him back to my quarters?” Fit’s face paled. Lord Penerai would whip all the skin off his back if he was that late.

“Lets question him in the inn first. Maybe he has a good explanation. He looks like a page in the outfit he’s wearing,” the friend said, and Fit heaved a small sigh of relief. He was sure there would be some punishment when he got back, but maybe this wouldn’t take much longer.

Draviel led him back to the inn, holding his arm firmly, but gently the whole time. Fit didn’t bother trying to get away, resigned to his fate at this point. Would they turn him in for stealing? Would they report him to Lord Penerai? His heart started beating faster, but he didn’t regret it. Not one bit.

They entered the inn, which looked the same as when they left. Perhaps the innkeeper was unaware of the disruption of his peaceful inn. Draviel pushed Fit down in the seat at their table, with one Banner Warden on either side of him. The big muscular men staring down at him made him feel especially small.

“It’s ok, we aren’t going to hurt you,” Draviel said, giving him another reassuring smile. ‘He has a nice smile. Friendly and warm. I think my pa used to smile like that.’

Fit relaxed his shoulders some, but kept his fists clenched and his mouth shut.

“Do you have a name?” the other Banner Warden asked. “This here is Draviel and I’m Hurin.”

“My name is Fit,” he answered, his breath coming more even now. No harm telling them that much.

“Is that short for something?” Draviel asked.

“Misfit,” Fit answered, staring down at the table. He remembered when the bullies at the orphanage had christened him that. Lord Penerai’s servant thought it wasn’t proper for a page so he called him Fit.

“What name did your parents call you?” Draviel asked. Fit looked up into the man’s eyes in shock. No one ever asked him that before. Draviel’s eyes weren’t mocking. He seemed sincere.

“My parents, before the fire, they called me Tiernen,” Fit said.

“Mind if I call you that?” Draviel asked. Fit shook his head. He didn’t think he minded. No one had called him that for a long time. He thought it would feel good, as he never liked the name Fit.

“Well Tiernen, that’s a nice name,” Hurin said with a smile.

“Tiernen, I thought you stole that chicken because you wanted to eat it, but then you threw it away. Can you tell me why?” Draviel asked. Fit thought for a minute. ‘Would they believe me? Who would believe a page over a Visioneer?’ He didn’t even know the Visioneer’s name who hired the assassin.

“I don’t know if you will believe me,” he said honestly.

“Try us. Lately I’ve been forced to believe things I never would have thought possible. Make your case, and we promise to hear you out without interrupting,” Draviel said. Hurin nodded. Fit took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“I’m a page for Lord Penerai. He sent me to deliver a message to the high priest at the Luminous Temple. I overheard a conversation between the high priest and a Visioneer,” Fit hesitated, looked at the warden’s patient faces, then continued, “they said Draviel had been causing trouble for them. The Visioneer said he knew someone who could take care of you, and the high priest said to make sure it looked natural.”

Hurin’s mouth dropped open and Draviel looked pensive. The two stared at each other for a minute before looking back to Fit.

“Was there any more Tiernen?” Hurin asked.

“No, I slipped away before they could see me. I’ve always respected Banner Wardens. I know you protect us. I didn’t know who Draviel was though, so I didn’t think I could help him. Then he bought me a honeycake, and I heard the baker say his name. It was like it was meant to be for me to help, but I’m just a page. I couldn’t let them kill you, but I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think you’d believe me if I told you what I heard,” Fit said, a little abashed. ‘Maybe they would have believed me, but the adults at the orphanage never believed me.’

“But how did you end up at the inn? And I guess you thought the chicken was poisoned? Why?” Draviel asked.

“This inn is near where my master usually sends me on errands. After following you the first day, I saw you come here. I checked and saw you came here every day at the same time. I’ve been having bad dreams about you dying so I went inside the inn today. That man didn’t work here. His uniform didn’t match the other servants here, and no innkeeper gives away free food; not these days at least,” Fit said. He tried to get it all out in a rush. He needed to get back.

“That makes sense,” Hurin said, and Draviel nodded, looking impressed.

“I think the boy is right. What servant goes after a pickpocket and threatens him with a knife?” Draviel said.

“You know that means the boy is in danger now. The servant, if he’s an assassin, will get rid of him to destroy evidence,” Hurin said bluntly, and Fit’s eyes widened. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I should go. I’m already going to be in trouble with Lord Penerai. I hope you will be safe now Banner Warden Draviel,” Fit said, and got up.

“Wait lad,” Hurin said, gently pulling him back in the chair.

“You’ll have to come with me for now. I never pictured myself needing a page, but I think I can manage your pay,” Draviel said.

“I’ll chip in some Draviel. He’s a good lad. I don’t want anything happening to him,” Hurin said. Draviel nodded.

“Come with me, Tiernen. We’ll get you settled in. I can set you up a pallet in my room,” Draviel said.

Fit sputtered, “I… I can’t! Lord Penerai will have my skin on his wall if I don’t return soon.”

“I’ll go have a word with this Lord Penerai. We’ll tell him that we are taking you into our service. Its official Banner Warden business,” Hurin said.

“Will that work?” Fit said in amazement, his spirits starting to lift.

“Of course!” Hurin said confidently. Draviel smiled at him, and he couldn’t help smiling back.

Draviel motioned for Fit to join him, and he followed the man out of the inn. They weaved through the streets, until they reached the Banner Warden’s quarters, near the wall. He felt in a daze, and didn’t notice much of their surroundings until they entered Draviel’s room. It was simple, no artwork graced the walls, and it had one brown rug, but it was nicer and bigger than any room he had ever used.

“I get to sleep here?” Fit asked in awe, looking around the room,and taking in every inch.

“Yes, I’ll set up a pallet for you by the washroom. There are extra bedding supplies in the Banner Warden store room for when family visits. Nothing fancy, just some extra white sheets, and a pillow I’m afraid,” Draviel said.

“It’s perfect! But what will I do?” Fit asked.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that on the way here, Tiernen. I think we’ll need to watch each other’s backs. I’m trying to figure out what is going on in our city, but people get quiet around me. I think they will talk more in front of you. Together, we might be able to get to the truth of what’s happening in Bannermark, and the god trapped beneath us,” Draviel said. Fit’s eyes widened. He’d never been entrusted with such a big task before.

“And since we will be defending our city together, I’d like to make you an unofficial junior Banner Warden,” Draviel said, and pulled out a knife from a drawer beside his bed.

“This is a sacred knife. It’s the one I was given in the ceremony where I became a Banner Warden,” Draviel said, then waited expectantly.

It was everything Fit had always wanted to be, a Banner Warden, protecting the city, but he was just Fit. Could he really help? He hesitated. Then stood up straighter.

“I am Tiernen and I will be your junior Banner Warden,” he said. Draviel nodded, then stepped in front of him with the dagger.

“Tiernen is who you are now. Your duty is to protect this city,” Draviel said, then pressing the sheathed dagger to Tiernen’s heart, then down to his hand, “so now your duty is set.”

Tiernen looked down at the dagger in his hand, and he felt the weight of its responsibility. It felt good to be entrusted with something. He wouldn’t let Draviel down.

“I’m ready,” he said with a big grin. For the first time since the fire, he felt like he was where he belonged.

K.G. Stevenson: Aspiring fantasy writer. Favorite fantasy writers: Brandon Sanderson, Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis. Occupation: homeschool mom.

AUDIENCE: YA
GENRE: Thriller Mystery
AUTHOR: Dominic de Souza

“You have somewhere better to be, soldier?” barked Sarovor, Captain of the Guard.

Draviel realized he was staring at the hourglass on the captain’s desk. He stiffened, snapped his up eyes toward the courtyard wall. Tried to hide his fidgeting. “Sorry sir. It’s almost the second watch, and I’m due on the east wall.”

Huge, heavyset, and sharp eyed, Sarovor checked the hourglass, and then glanced at the brooding, heavy skies. “You’ll have time.”

“It’s just that my Visioneer is out there, and we agreed to signal at exactly—”

“I said…” Sarovor sat down slowly in his armor at his field table. “You’ll have time.”

Draviel pulled a deep breath through his teeth, pulled it in long and slow, to slow the churning his gut. If this meeting only lasted ten minutes, he would have exactly three to make it back, if he hurried. The soldier ahead of him still hadn’t left.

Being on time is late. Being early is already late… the hacking voice of his old gaffer went round and round in his head.

Radomirél was a Visioneer, his friend since childhood, and they hung out on the walltops regularly. Two days ago, Radomirél had slipped out to investigate something on the far side of the hardwater lake. They agreed to signal each other every night at the second watch, so that Draviel knew he was still alive.

The problem was… Radomirél hadn’t told anyone, or cleared it with his Visioneer superiors.

Draviel raised his chin to the third position, brushed his fingers quickly across the buckles of his collar and padded gambeson, and locked into stance.

He stood to attention inside the outer wall of castle Bannermark, a space hemmed by towers and raised walkways to create a killing zone if invaders ever made it through the first wall. Surrounded by gigantic shards of fractured bedrock, this fortress city of white stone was built in the crater of an ancient impact of fallen star. The City of Banners, it was called. Triangles of colored cloth tugged and snapped on every tower.

Spreading up behind him, the city roofed in green schist pushed up into the sky, homes and temples and academies clustered togethered. It was late evening, warming fires in the city turned the white walls golden and grainy with sparks. Loose snowflakes from the oncoming storm spiraled down out of the dark sky. It was quiet now, with the city asleep. Although, not completely quiet. The temples still hummed with deep chant, and the blacksmiths were never done with their anvils.

Draviel glanced at the long log of wood dividing the courtyard in half, like a fallen tree, a few feet from where he stood. Soldiers of the Banner Guard stepped over it on their way to the stables, pages tried to walk on it and keep their balance when no one was looking. This was one of the massive, larch stanchions, a flag pole reinforced with a sheathe of braided iron, usually fitted into a stone base. The borders around the city was marked a wide ring of flags held up by such poles.

And something was tearing them down.

That’s what Radomirél went out to seek out.

They’d hauled in a pole, and one of the Visioneers from the High Academy had draped a tent around one end. It was one of those fluttery, silky, pavilion-type tents with stars and blue lanterns. Draviel didn’t mind other Visioneers. Radomirél was the only one without a stuck-up steel spine. Most of the the ones who partnered with the Banner Guard, had better heads on their shoulders. The ones who hid away in the warm corridors, flabby from sitting and reading all day, didn’t impress him. Radomirél had iron in his blood, alongside the magic.

The side of the tent suddenly flapped open and a soldier was dismissed from inside. A tall Visioneer with spectacles leaned out, swathed in blue brocade, his hair pulled away from his face, his wide sleeves crosstied back behind his shoulders, leaving thin, dark arms free for work. “Sarovor, you have another for me?” He asked.

The guard captain stood and waved his hand at Draviel. “Yes, this one is also paired with a Visioneer. He may have seen something. Where did you say your Visioneer was, man?”

Seen something? Seen what? Draviel still didn’t know why they had called him. “He’s out hunting tonight,” he said.

The Visioneer stared at him hard for a second, and then waved him in. “Come on in, soldier.” He disappeared into the bright tent’s interior.

Draviel nodded respectfully to the captain, and followed the Visioneer into the tent.

What he saw froze him with surprise.

The base of the pole had been slashed and gnawed, the stained surface scored open to show the pale heartwood, like a rabid animal had chewed at it.

“What did that?” He said without thinking.

“Where is your Visioneer, soldier?” The man asked, clearly frustrated. “Radomirél, yes?”

“Yes. He’s out across the mere right now, hunting what’s harming these banners.”

The Visioneer glared at him. “When did he leave?”

“Two days ago. We agreed to signal each other on the west wall at the second watch, every day. That way I know he’s yet alive.”

The Visioneer grit his teeth and nodded. “Always been a rebel, him. Keep that watch. I demand to speak to him as soon as he sets foot in the city.”

“Yes sir.”

“What did he see?”

“See?’

“Something set out on a hunt. What was it?” the Visioneer said. He was covering something on the pole with his palm.

“I didn’t see. He said something was out there, and wanted to confirm it. If it was nothing, no harm done, he told me” Draviel wondered what this Visioneer hiding under his palm.

“You’ve not seen anything that could have done this?”

For a second, Draviel felt like he was going crazy. A beast like this would have been large. Would have needed time. There was no way it could bring down a banner without being seen. And yet, here was one. How could he have seen nothing from the walltops? He shook his head. “I’m on East Watch. I saw nothing that could do this. Have you asked South and West?”

The Visioneer pursed his lips. “Tell me why these banners are vital.”

“Vital?” Draviel nodded, his eyes tracing the long slash-lines in the wood. “Each banner signifies a pact, the alliance of cities.”

The Visioneer nodded, but did it with an annoyed tilt to his head, as if hearing the wrong answer. “Yes. Why?”

Draviel frowned. These were questions asked and answered in the academies as children. Where was this going? “Because the ancients summoned a god from the constellations, and amid great destruction, imprisoned it in the forges beneath our feet. This city, and the alliance of Bannermark, swore to never again practice such dark magic, and our banners and temples serve at the will of the god.”

The Visioneer nodded impatiently. “Then what is this?”

He pulled his hand away, and Draviel was shocked for a second time.

A chunk of crystal stuck in the end of a deep score. No, not a chunk, it was shaped. It was tooth-shaped, as if something gnawed at it and ripped out a canine. He bent closer to study it.

It was leaking magic into the air. A very tiny amount, like a wisp of colored smoke, similar to the Auroral Lights. Possibly even the same thing.

He struggled to imagine what could have done this. What kind of beast was this? Why tear down a banner? How was it made of crystal? He glanced up.

The Visioneer was watching him carefully, wiping his hands on a scented cloth.

“I don’t understand,” Draviel managed. He reached out to touch the shard. It almost looked like it could be soft, somehow, and not brittle and hard.

The Visioneer’s hand was instantly slammed against his wrist, surprisingly strong fingers and stony tendons stopping his arm mid-air. “Don’t touch it.” He warned.

“Why?”

“If it cuts you and draws blood, it infects you. You will turn into this substance.”

Draviel blinked. Was there anything else at large in the world that he didn’t know about?

He stood, squinted at the man, and then returned to his soldier’s stance, and clapped his hands behind his back. “I don’t understand, Visioneer. Why am I here?”

The Visioneer watched him carefully, and dropped the cloth over the broken tooth, hiding it from from. “I have to divulge a secret that will kill you, if you let it out. Already what you have seen will mean you are under special watch. Do you understand?”

The back of Draviel’s neck prickled with fear. Didn’t sound like he had an option. Sounded like Sarovor was already in on it. And he was definitely out of time for the second watch.

Before he could agree or disagree, the Visioneer continued. “The banners are more than pledges for the alliance. They are markers. We place them to mark the furthest reach of the auroral light.”

Understanding dawned on Draviel. That made sense why they kept raising new banners further out across the lake. At seasonal times, the god’s magic deep under the city glowed and rippled like rivers of light. The mere, once a deep, dark lake surrounding the crater, had become hardwater. No one understood what it was. It wasn’t ice, wasn’t glass, wasn’t water. And yet it looked like water, and acted like a shear, slick, ice surface that clinked and rang, like a ceramic plate.

And when the god glowed deep below, the light radiated out and the entire mere lit up with bands of light like slow-moving smoke, muted greens folding and curving, fading to edges of yellow and red.

Hunters in the deep north claimed to see it in the sky too. Here, it was trapped under the hardwater, and ever since they were children, the wallguard leaned on their spears to admire it.

“You’re saying that the god’s magic is expanding?” Draviel asked.

“Yes.”

“And you’re tracking it,” Draviel added.

“Charting it,” the Visioneer corrected. “These banners are vital to our service to the god, do you understand?” The Visioneer said through tensed teeth.

Draviel nodded. “I do.” But he didn’t really. It wasn’t his job to. That was for Visioneers to make sense of. All he could think of was the blue grains of sand falling in a flowing pyramid under glass.

“If they fall, not only does the alliance from the LegendHaven hold us accountable, but we risk angering the god.”

“We do?”

“As the god’s reach expands, it is vital we are there to mark and honor it. Or we incur its anger.”

Draviel didn’t like the idea of an angry god underfoot, under the city. He nodded. “Understood. I don’t know that I have anything else to say that’s helpful. Am I free to go?”

The Visioneer turned away, hands on hips. “Yes. I want to see your Visioneer immediately.”

Draviel stiffened and threw a respectful salute, and then hurried out of the tent. He saluted again to Sarovor, checked the hourglass, and yes, he was late. Definitely late. He tried to keep to a dignified jog, but put some speed on it as followed the piers and lines of bridges that connected to the outer wall on the East Watch.

The wind was already strong tonight. He pulled out the gloves he’d tucked into the small of his back and tugged them on, grabbed a bronze lantern from its stand, and reached his assigned watch on the walltop.

He checked the hourglass in the niche, and waited a half-minute for the final, blue grains to sift through. Then flipped it over and locked it in place. He was proud of two things; being punctual, and having great timing. And he’d barely made it on time.

Being on time is late…

He turned toward the lake, and raised the lantern up and down three times, then hid it in behind the wall for a second. Then did it again. His eyes probed the widening darkness, fields of hardwater punctured by a forest of flags, the city edged by quays and ropes.

Beyond the last banner, he saw only darkness.

The mountains rose so high and bleak, dappled with moss, their bases thick with forests of larch and melted granite, like pooled cheese. Drifts of snow skidded across the ice, unable to stick or stay.

A light stabbed back from the dark.

With a flutter of relief, he watched it dip. Then he frowned, because it spun, back and forth, crazily.

That wasn’t the signal.

He repeated his up and down motion, hid the light, and did it again.

Out there, Radomirél was swinging it crazily.

That only meant one thing.

A warning. A call for help. Anything but a signal for safety.

His heart in his throat, he rushed back the way he came, re-latched the lantern, and took the stairs three at a time, almost losing his footing and skidding the last few to the ground. Checked his knife at his hip hadn’t jostled loose, and shoved at it deeper into the leather sheathe for good measure.

He needed an idea, some way to get across.

At a dead run, he raced through the open corridors between the walls, took the doorways without breaking his stride, and in minutes was down by the docks. Long blackwood docks ringed the city, a hub for sleds and trains that skated across the hardwater.

Several times he’d thought about ways to get across the mark during a gale. None of them were pretty. All of them were dangerous.

“What’s going on?” A harbor man shouted, lashing down his sled to the pier. His crew were tying a canvas cloth down over crates and straw-stuffed items.

“I need to get across,” Draviel heaved, trying to catch his breath, pointing out at the dark.

The man stopped and straightened, his eyes wide in disbelief. He clapped his hands to his cap, tugging it down around his ears. “You’re mad, man! You can’t go out there!”

Draviel’s boots pounded the boards, the sound already muffled in the hollow wind. The wind was getting stronger. He tried to lick his lips, but they stayed dry.

“That wind isn’t going to stop! You’ll die!” The man howled.

Draviel frowned till his eyebrows hurt. Of course the man was right.

When the wind reached full gale, as it usually did right around now, there was no way to survive the corssing. Smart people lashed everything down, shuttered their homes, and waited for the storm to pass.

He reached the furthest edge of the boardwalk. Anything loose on the mere out there would be feathers in a stormgale. He would skid down that slick expanse and vanish into the dark distance. His gut lurched.

“You can’t be serious?” The man came up behind and grabbed his arm. “You can’t!”

Draviel pulled away violently. “There’s nothing for it,” he managed. “My friend is out there, and he needs help. I have to cross.”

“Damm soldiers, think you can do whatever you want. It’s slipwind now, we’re minutes from a storm. With snow, we’ll get whitegrim. You’ll never make it back.”

“I’ll figure out a return later. For now, I need to get out there. And I’ve got an idea…” Draviel headed over to one of the shacks where banner repair teams stored their equipment. He kicked at the bolted door till the jamb sagged, and the padlock tore out of the wall.

Inside, in neat piles, lay coils of rope with hooks. In case a wind started up, repairmen would lash themselves to the poles, like the loggers who raced up trunks with nothing but a line and spiked shoes.

This was his plan.

His throat clenched up and refused to swallow. He grabbed two hooks and coils, and stuffed them into his belt, and then grabbed two more. They were heavy, solid iron. Perfect for his plan. “If I was in trouble, I know he’d do the same,” he muttered.

“The gods be kind on your soul,” The harbor man yelled, “because the gale won’t!” He hurried back to his sled.

Remind me not to ask you to be my friend… Draviel growled. Flecks of sleet pricked his cheeks.

Time to go.

Draviel took a flying leap off the edge of the boardwalk, dropping a few feet to the surface of the hardwater. His boots instantly slipped out from under him, padded knees taking the hit and crashing to elbows to protect his head. A jolt of angry air burst through his teeth.

Then he was up, and skidding, sliding, running across the surface.

The slipwind was still light. Spindrift blew sideways into his face, needles of snow and ice. His heavy boots crashed down, like hammers on royal dinner plates.

He could still see the lantern in the distance. A few fields away in the dark, swinging in circles.

He ran through a world of columns, tall pillars braced with braids of steel set in stone plinths, anchored into the hardwater surface.

Up there, the currents of wind were harsher, and that’s when he heard it.

The banner poles hummed. Vibrating in their sockets, a chorus of wooden throats straining under the titanic flags that bucked and yanked. One of those banners could cover a whole house. Like a ship’s sail.

His throat was already red and gasping from running with all this padded armor. Every other step and his foot slipped and he lost time.

Keep running…

He had minutes before that current up there dropped to the surface, and would whip him off his feet. These hooks were heavy in his hand, but a good weight.

The last of the banners were coming up. Beyond that lay the empty expanse of the mere, punctuated by slabs and reefs of stone, and thinned out lines of smaller flags.

The humming in the poles was rising in pitch. That meant the stormgale over his head was descending, rattling the wood in place faster and faster.

He unwrapped the hook and let the cord fall free, tucking the free end into his belt. Then swung it in a circle. It buzzed in the air, and the rope huffed as he let it slip through his palm, letting the circle grow. Then whipped it out as it came round the curve, straight toward a banner ahead.

It clanked past, pulled up short, and snagged on the bole.

Just in time.

He clamped his fingers on the rope and hitched it around his hand.

The stormgale rammed into him and blew the breath from his mouth. He crushed his eyes shut, feet thrown out and up into the air, slammed to his shoulder and went skidding like a grain of wheat, like a little nothing, a fleck of snow racing across a glass field.

He braced, waiting for the cord to pull taut. And it did, nearly ripping his wrists off. He grunted, felt the shift in the slide, and swung in a wide circle.

These gales never lasted more than a few seconds.

And it was suddenly over, lifting back up into the sky.

He was still sliding. The banner was behind him now. He needed to time it perfectly, because in an instant, the hook would kink and edge loose, then flail free. If he wasn’t hooked on the next banner, he’d be lost.

As best he could, he threw the second hook toward the next pole. It caught, and for a second, he sawed in a semicircle between two lines. Then the first slipped loose like he expected. But he’d bought an extra second now to push up onto his knees.

The wind buffeted him and he went sliding off again, a long slow half-loop around the banner. The armor on his knees started to warm up.

Glancing ahead, the light had disappeared.

His heart sank. Was Radomirél dead? Did something kill him?

He focused on the next pole, and the next. It was almost like swinging across a vertical cliff-face, lariats and pins keeping him from falling away forever. Like a tiny spider spooling the end of its line and looping toward the next handhold.

His fingers were burning and sore, and this was the last surge.

He reached the edge of his swing on the rope and let go, lashing out with his boots, willing himself the extra few feet to scrabble at an outcrop of stone, a cluster of crags that broke the hardwater surface.

Palms slamming on the surface, shoving and fingers scraping stone, clamping around chips of granite, and hauling himself out of the dark emptiness and into the comfort of a lee, a shoulder that warped around a shallow hollow.

The instant he collapsed in it to catch his breath, the stormgale picked up again, blew over the mouth of the lee and filled his head and ears and eyes and bones with a howling, humming, screeching song.

Can’t stop here.

Hand over hand, he pulled himself out and up, peeking over the edge of the shale. The wind crashed into his face and ripped at his eyelids, and he ducked back, blinking against the salty, red itch on his eyeballs.

And then the gale was gone again.

One final banner before the edge of the hardwater, and a perimeter of smaller flags that ringed the mere. A glance to his left showed the wild, whirling, white wall of the whitegrim advancing like a cloud that swallowed the world. Perhaps a half minute away.

Atop this crag was another banner. Loosening the final two hooks at his back, he braced for the ludicrous.

Only one chance at this.

His friend was out there, perhaps seconds from death.

He hauled himself up the pole, hand over hand. Easy at first with the braided iron, then the smooth bole that slipped under his fingers. He clung, limpet-tense, like a barnacle high up over the water in a shaved tree.

Toward his right, he eyed a cluster of poles. And then this was it, the early gale before the whitegrim. The whiteness was seconds away. The gale crushed him against the pole and the world swung sideways again. He felt like lichen on a cliff-face under a crushing cataract of water.

Here goes. Pushing against the wind, he scraped with his boots, worked up into a crouch, and leapt into the free air toward the final flags.

Instantly buffeted and tossed like a toy in an ocean.

Needles of snow spiked his skin and clattered off his armor.

The whitegrim enfolded him completely like a cloud.

Grabbed at the hooks to his back and desperately threw them, praying that whatever gods were on his side could guide them home.

His knees and elbows crashed into the hardwater and juddered his teeth in his head, careening wildly, tugging on the ropes, suddenly felt them go taut and the surge of direction take over his body, sliding toward the shore, red joy in his heart and a happy howl in his jaws.

His feet sloughed into snow. Flailing arms found more rock. He hugged hard, eyes shut so tight he saw stars and clouds of light in the darkness, tucking his face into his elbow. He listened for the solid snapping and yanking of the colored flags overhead, invisible in the white darkness.

Even through closed eyes, light played and blurred under the surface of the hardwater. He squinted, guessing what it was. The auroral lights were flowing out from under Bannermark. Bending and blending, turning the stiff lake into a glowing, green-blue mirror.

And then the whitegrim blew over, the gale softened, and the bright night sky pricked out with stars and sudden silence, the kind that left your ears gasping for sound, like a fish madly mouthing the air.

Tingling, shaking, he got to his feet and shuffled up the icy bank, shook out his stiff muscles, and looked around for his friend. “Radi?” He yelled. “Radomirél?”

Weird sounds up the bank. Ahead, rock splayed up like starved fingers away from the hardwater. Rising above rose the maroon banner of Ribgate, its sigil of curved dunes under a crescent moon.

There it was again. Something growled and coughed.

An animal? Wolves? Was Radomirél surrounded by a pack? That might make sense.

His blood ran cold, and he hurried. One of his hooks and ropes was still snagged around a pole. He grabbed at the flapping rope end, shook the hook free, and rolled the rope around his fist. His boots punched through a thin layer of ice trapping soft snow below.

The deeps of the mere pooled and warped with green-gold light. Everything felt upside down and strange, and he couldn’t shake the taste of soured fish in the pit of his gut.

He turned the corner and was shocked into slack-jawed silence.

An elk was attacking a banner pole, viciously raging its antlers into the plinth, the wood, the iron, shards and grit of stone and wood flying into the air.

Only… it was half skeleton, as if a wolf pack had eaten half and abandoned the rest. Several legs were mere bone and tendon, and a bleak skull roared and savaged the wood.

He staggered to a stop, knocking loose the bits of shale and snow that the wind had packed into piles.

The elk paused and turned its hollow, blank eyeholes at him. And that’s when Draviel realized it was crystal. The skeleton, the shaggy fur, the tines, all crystal, but living. Not stiff and dead.

This dead beast was filled with the gods’ breath. The god aura that lit up the hardwater creased and streamed through it’s bent-glass limbs, trailed out the broken tines like vapor. He seen that before.

It dropped its jaws and howled at him, the deep bugle a raw, bell-like blast that broke into different sounds, one voice becoming many. It made his teeth ache to hear it, and terror blanched his throat white.

“Hey, hey!” Yelled a voice.

Beyond the elk, Radomirél shouted and danced in the snow, a tall Visioneer in blue-brocade robes, clamped together with silver-pressed iron armor. The broad hood lay flat on his neck, his bald, black head bare in the moonlight.

Draviel could barely see him past the swinging lantern, the talisman of his order.

The lantern was blaring godlight, streaming trails of light like ribbons in the air. That’s what Visioneers trained to channel, and the lanterns lit up when near it.

And this elk was ablaze with it.

The two friends half waved, half shouted at each other in stunned recognition.

Radomirél looked genuinely shocked to see him. Draviel wondered how he wasn’t frostbitten. He wore nothing heavy to stay warm.

The stormgale was back again, the sky an open throat warning them to flatten against the earth.

The elk heaved up on its hindlegs, shoved at the banner one final time, and the pole broke like a rotten bone, a slow groan yawning the sky above as it fell toward Draviel. He pounded out of its path, whipping his head back and forth from the snow to the field-sized flag trailing against the sky toward him, and then the pole crashed on rocks, bouncing slowly like a fisherman’s bow, each impact shuddering the ground and fracturing the ice.

The cords binding the flag were sheared loose, and the wind yanked at the cloth, pulling it loose, threatening to strip away Ribgate’s pact and cast it away into the mountains.

Where the banner fell, a fountain of the auroral light from under the hardwater streamed out, like a pent up dam was loosed.

The elk turned on Radomirél, as if tired of a pest. Draviel guessed that he’d been trying to stop it from hacking down the flags. His blood ran cold again as he saw the elk duck its head and charge his friend, antlers like a forest of chipped spears and blistered light.

Radomirél threw himself ungracefully out of the way, but as the elk passed, churning up snow like a heavy pack sled, he swung the lantern into its ribs with such violence it shattered and lodged. The lantern light burst into the bones and tines of the beast, like morning sunlight through stained glass.

The heft of the hook caught at Draviel’s hand, and he had an idea. The winds were again seconds away. He and Radomirél needed to hide.

He turned and ran for the banner, pulling the cords loose from around his palm, his frozen fingers fumbling to thread it through the eyelets of the banner. He yanked the rope into a figure-eight knot. Nothing would undo that. Then yanked out his knife and sawed away the rest of the pole cords.

The heavy banner was already lurching up, a vast sheet being sucked into the sky.

Seconds…

He turned into the wind, holding tight to the hook, saw the elk pacing drunkenly back and forth, puckering the green light that pooled on the ground like mist. He braced his legs, bent his knees.

“Hey!” He yelled at it. “Hey, here! Come on! Come at me!”

He had only seconds…

It turned, bright skull holes staring at him. And charged.

His stomach dropped.

The end of the rope suddenly unraveled behind him. Heard the deep snapping of the cloth surging into the sky like a sail.

The timing… was perfect.

And then Radomirél shrieked through the winds, “No! Stop! What are you doing?”

Draviel could sense magic-enhanced shouting, and flicked his eyes past the beast’s haunches to see his friend standing in the fountaining light, hands shaking wildly, eyes wide.

And the elk heard those yells. It yanked its head around to look back.

Draviel swore something nasty, took off running, prayed his gloves would hold, and pulled to the right, the glassy tines slashed open air, and he leapt up against the thing’s throat. With a vicious grunt, he shoved the tip of the iron hook up under the jawline, somewhere near the throat, felt it crack and shudder through his hands, like stabbing stone with a knife, and then curled up into a ball with a crazy, god-blessed hope it wouldn’t trample on him.

Right on time.

The gale billowed the flag up and into the air, and with a sad, nasally roar, the elk was yanked around itself and straight up, and in a second was completely gone.

One second there.

The next gone. Just a snow-streaked sky.

And silence.

Draviel let himself stay stiff for a full second, staring into the empty sky, and then every muscle melted and he collapsed. Snow and smoke-like green light blustered around his face and covered his eyes, and he didn’t care.

His friend was safe.

He felt Radomirél’s footsteps thumping up to his right, the impact of dropping to his knees, and hands under his shoulders pulling him up.

“You god-addled idiot!” Radomirél grinned. “What in the hells were you thinking?”

“I still got it,” Draviel said, giving a thumbs up. “Couldn’t let you die out here. Not alone, anyway.”

EPILOGUE

“I can’t believe you made it across. Come on, get out of the wind.” Radomirél half-pulled, half-yanked him up and into the lee of some boulders. It was still cold there, but blessedly quieter.

“What was that?” Draviel asked.

Radomirél pursed his lips. “No easy answer there.”

“I saw a piece of that elk in a pole in Bannermark,” Draviel muttered, blowing into the ends of his gloves to dry and send warmth into his fingertips. “Is it crystal?”

Radomirél dropped his head. “Worse. It’s aural.”

“What?”

“It’s from the god.” And Radi held up his hand.

Draviel felt his stomach turn and his thoughts curdle at the same time.

Radomirél’s palm was slashed open. But instead of bleeding, it was turning into brilliant crystal. “It got me,” he said.

Draviel worked his tongue against his jaw to speak. He grabbed at the hand, stared at it, then stared into his friend’s face. “What happened? Will you die?”

“I think I’ll become like that elk. Undead.”

Draviel’s heart sank again. All that friendship, all their years together… lost? “Undead? How bad is it?”

“Not so bad. I don’t feel the cold any more.” Radomirél pointed at the green light flowing across the ground, leaking out of the earth like beautiful blood from a holy wound. “I think there’s something else going on here. More to this mystery than we expected.”

“We have to get you back,” Draviel gritted his teeth. “They’ll find a way to heal you. To get this out of you.” There had to be a way. There had to. “We still have time. It’s not gone past your elbow. They could cut—”

“I’m not going back, Drav,” Radomirél cut him off. “I think we’ve all made a mistake.”

“Not going back?” Draviel murmured dumbly.

Radomirél stood and walked out into the field of snow, trailing his hands through the green vapor. “What if the banners aren’t marks? What if they’re wards, to hold back the god’s power? To contain it?” He grimaced. “To control it?”

Draviel felt dizzy. “That’s impossible. We all upkeep the pact. We’ll never dabble in the old magics again.”

Radomirél’s pointed to the gorgeous, glowing auroral light. “I think that elk is a servant. No, a savant.”

“What?” He always did like fancier words. Draviel growled. “You’ve been out here too long.”

“I have too many questions,” Radomirél murmured absentmindedly. “I need to know why godlight turns things crystal,” he traced his palm with his other finger. “If I’m right, the elk is serving the god, and freeing its power. And if I’m right… then everything I’ve known is wrong. And Bannermark is a confusion to my mind.”

“Bannermark is home!” Draviel snapped. “The Haven will convene soon. All the flags will be refitted and repainted. The lake will glow, and the city will cheer and sing for a week, and the temple won’t stop ringing its damm bells the whole night. You have to come back, and we have to report all this. The other Visioneers will need to know this.”

“You do it. You go back and tell them,” Radomirél stretched his shoulders. “I’m going to hunt for more elk. Maybe the legends are wrong. Maybe they’re not our enemy after all. ”

Draviel went cold and hard. “You can’t be serious.”

Radomirél clamped a crystalline hand on Draviel’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Drav. Always were. I’ll get you a message if I find anything. Be careful back in there, friend.” And then Radomirél was gone, like a ghost in the snow.

Friend…

He realized his hand was hanging in the air, reaching for the empty place where his friend had stood. It was slightly pathetic.

He dropped it to his side, and sank to his knees. His head was racing. He couldn’t make sense of it all. Or maybe… he didn’t want to. Radomirél was always smarter than him. Who knows what turning into an undead would do to you.

Draviel suddenly felt again the icy wind biting into his cheeks. His limbs were utterly exhausted. His eyes were gritty with sleep. He curled up, covered his face with his palms, and prepared to outwait the storm.

And for the first time, he had no idea what time it was.

Dominic de Souza is an author, world-builder, and founder of LegendFiction. He has worked in marketing, branding, and storytelling for over twenty-five years. Website: dominicdesouza.com