Two stalking figures battered by a blizzard follow a trail of fresh blood. Its radiating heat melts the snow, so alike to the hidden hot-springs littered within their brutal tundra.
The one hunted staggers away; its desperation growing greater, its wounds bleeding profusely. A bright red rune is branded deep into the meat of its shoulder, acting like a beacon in the blinding storm. The rune’s glow mimics the veined rivers of magma running across the land; usually a symbol of warmth, energy, and life, but for this hunted, foretelling its demise.
All three share this unforgiving world of Led’Yorbis, all three are accustomed to its ways. All three are not bothered by its eternal blizzard.
“Father, I have the beast in mi’ sights,” says the youngling, a cloud of his breath swirling past the nubs of his growing tusks.
“Good work, but be patient. The yeti are wise and cunning, and even know the runes we use. Observe, son. See how the glow changes in hue.” The elder watches the younger, who bears a near-mirror of his own human face, hardened by the tusks and green skin of the boy’s mother.
“The rune’s turning green, father. The beast is healing!” The distant emerald glow is reflected in his brown eyes.
“Hush now, the wind carries the voice far. Honor the hunt, son. Yes, the yeti is a beast, but you must not forget it thinks and chooses like you and me. If you lack focus, you’ll be the one hunted and eaten instead.” His father echoes generations of wisdom passed and gathered by their people.
“Yes, father. What must I do next?” The son is humble to accept the lesson, taking it to hunt and heart.
“You strike, and strike true! Wait for the favored pathway! The Old One and ancestors will reveal it!” The father throws this lesson to the air alongside his spear, for he had seen that of which he spoke. His weapon draws the path to grow from boy to man; tracing the invisible line that his son would eventually learn to find himself. Such is their village’s tradition.
The boy immediately gives chase, hearing his father’s words and searing them into his heart, branding them into his soul. His father has laid the foundation for victory, but it is his duty to claim it. The snow hides him, he knows he is favored.
The boy unsheathes his freshly sharpened sword and steels himself for he is near his prey. He witnesses an eruption of crimson that showers the pure white snow, a true spectacle in the tundra. He looks down upon the new furrow filled with a deep swath of blood and sees the pathway.
The boy slips past the haft of his father’s spear dug deep into the back of the yeti, tracing his sword across its length and thrusting deep into the opened wound. His own heart is steadfast as he stills the creature’s within its chest.
Over the yeti’s fading groan and collapsing body, a man now stands victorious.
-o-
The silhouette of the triumphant hunter flickers into the apprentice’s vision, the swirl of bitter ice around it foreign to the young elf. The rhythmic sound of his master’s tail slapping the damp ground, which he had been mimicking with his own clicking tongue, is drowned out. For a moment, all he sees is a white world lined with rivers of fire and roamed by strong, towering people and enigmatic beasts.
Within the savage jungle world of Ma’Nyla, the apprentice shaman and his master had long ago lost sight of the elder trees that covered the sky and had entered the sacred, subterranean dwelling of the Great Mother. The lizardfolk shaman pauses in his rhythm, the customary song when entering communion with the ancient being when his apprentice speaks beside him.
“Led’Yorbis…” the student unconsciously whispers under his breath, a wisp of frost escaping with it. As he blinks the vision away, he looks to his teacher with anxious eyes.
“You need not worry any longer, my apprentice. The Great Mother will guide you in understanding and making use of your potential.”
It is the apprentice’s first communion with the Great Mother. Like many before him, he is nervous that he might fail his master but curious enough that he steps into the underground cavern willingly. His next question is answered before he can speak it.
‘Welcome to my home, child,’ a wise and soothing voice echoes through the apprentice’s entire being. ‘You need not be afraid. I can see your intentions are true and pure.’
The Great Mother gently removes the splinters of the frozen world lingering in the student’s mind, drawing him back fully to the jungle they share. She has dreamed of this and many other worlds before, though she has no influence over them, for each has its own ancient guardian.
“She spoke to me, maestro!” The apprentice glances back to his master in excitement. He turns quickly enough to see his teacher sheathing a dagger behind him and giving a quiet sigh of relief.
“As she has with me,” the shaman says, straightening with a tender smile. “I am relieved, FarSight.”
“Does she speak in your mind too, maestro?” he inquires.
“Speak to her now, not to me. You are here to know her.”
Humbled, the student turns forward again and speaks softly, “Great Mother?”
‘Hush, child. Making noise is such a waste of energy. Speak as I do,’ she answers within him.
He just begins to wonder how, when his mind is flooded by a current of knowledge; the first gift from the ancient guardian.
‘Thank you, Great Mother,’ the apprentice utters without sound.
‘Hmm, I believe I have dreamed of you before, child. Tell me the story of your near-passing.’ The firm command is accentuated by sapphire luminescence suddenly filling the cavern, pouring from differing angles from both the moss-covered walls and still, spring pools. The shining plants cling to the damp walls or lie submerged; each pulsing like the heartbeat of Ma’Nyla. ‘Speak, then you will receive what you came for.’
The young elf looks around, the glow reflected in his eyes as he offers his tale wholeheartedly, ‘It was four moons past the last bloom of Unang Fruta. I was still an apprentice way-watcher and had made the terrible mistake of wandering too close to a migrating thunder-beast herd.
‘I did not notice the hatchlings sheltering underneath the tree I rested on, which provoked their matriarch to defend them. Even the elder tree’s roots could not withstand her strength. The tree fell under the force of the charge and I fell with it.
‘Her continued thrashing caught me mid-air, and I was thrown far into a thick patch of plants; a tangle that hid me from the angered beast. I lay there broken and fading toward the great beyond until I heard a voice speaking much like you do, Great Mother. He said He still had a purpose for me in Ma’Nyla, then my maestra found me shortly after.’
The Great Mother almost seems to hum her satisfaction, the plants’ glow swelling in response. ‘Ah, that One is truly greater than even we ancient guardians. You are blessed, child.’
The apprentice bows slightly as the guardian continues, ‘Now take one of the shining plants and chew its leaves and roots! Reveal to me your potential, shaman!’
He obeys without hesitation, and feels another outpouring of knowledge; a greater one this time that shakes the stone walls.
“I know what to do, maestro!” he cries aloud in excitement.
“Indeed! Now show her!” The teacher shouts to the air as well, joining in his student’s enthusiasm.
‘I see my brother, Great Mother. He is with the same maestra I had when I too was a way-watcher. I see the jungle, the elder trees, the clear skies, the young roots, the new students, the sleeping bull thunder-beast, and…’ His eyes are as luminous as the plants, his hands sending echoed ripples through the still waters.
‘Tell your people what you see, child,’ she gently instructs him.
‘I do not know... wait, yes I do. Thank you, Great Mother,’ he answers, before tilting his face upward and reaching out.
‘Maestra, be wary of the sleeping thunder-beast near you. Neither you nor your students will be able to calm its rage.
‘Brother, return to your master. There is a passing cold-one hunting pack. They will catch your scent if you go further.’ FarSight sends out his warnings, carried not on the wind but through Ma’Nyla itself.
The master way-watcher is not surprised by the warning, but she smiles slightly at the familiar voice. She signals her students to gather to her and to survey carefully the path they’re taking.
‘This ability of yours will bring prosperity and growth to your tribe, shaman,’ the Great Mother speaks approvingly. ‘Now let me rest, child. My days are many, and I do not wish to waste my energy.’
The once-vibrant blue that filled the cavern eases, and the rumbling earth quiets. Both young and old shaman feel a sudden rush of air radiating from deeper in the cavern, which tells them that again the Great Mother sleeps.
As the two return home, the younger chatters about the catches of visions he had seen. “Maestro, I saw both our jungle and the snows of Led’Yorbis, but there was a third I didn’t recognize. There were great towers of rock and iron, and huge villages inside mountains hollowed out like gourds. The sand was vast and scattered with trees as tall as our elder trees, but they bore no fruit.”
“Hush now, shaman. You can ask the Great Mother the next time you talk to her,” the old one replies.
“When would that be, maestro?” the young one asks.
“When you are in my place; a master bringing your own apprentice to meet her.”
-o-
The image of teacher and student fades into a swirled surface of green and gold, a concoction of damnable elements and compounds. Their voices are slowly drowned by the harsh bubbling and hissing of the mixture.
Scrying is considered a taboo ritual in the dunes of Mer’Adera, but it is no secret and is widely practiced by the numberless cults who lurk within their carved-out mountain cities and fortresses. Indeed, the sands keep much greater mysteries buried for millennia, each waiting to be sought or stumbled upon. Fear itself is tangible in the boundless deserts; a force that could crumble empires when tapped into by the daring few.
“Paht’Ron,” one such seeker calls, his feeble, hissing voice rippling across the settling concoction.
A ghastly shriek, the sudden silence of a soul passing, then a figure surges from the liquid. It rises inky-black and crimson, sleek as flowing blood, and steps out to stand in stark contrast to the gaunt dwarf before it.
“Yes, khaldim,” the figure acknowledges its blood servant, speaking in a hoarse echo emanating from its mouth-less face. “Again, you call my name.”
“Greetings, Paht’Ron, Old Blood, Crimson Shadow, Liquid Ruby, my overlord.” The servant bows low as he recites the necessary honors.
A rasping chuckle affirms the ritualistic praise. “Hmmm, why do you seek an audience with your lord, khaldim?”
“Master, the pool has revealed a place of water and shining plants; a world I am not part of,” the servant looks up and speaks swiftly, unwilling to waste the attention of his deity. “What do you require of me, lord? Why reveal this to me?”
“Ahh, it seems that it is you who was given the privilege to bring me to Ma’Nyla,” the figure says as the dark red liquid continues to stream off it; now revealing glaring eyes, a beak-like nose, and long, dagger-like ears. The servant quickly drops his gaze as it continues, “Worry not, khaldim, you will not be alone in fulfilling what I require of you. You know of the ritual to reveal your bonded blood servant?”
“I do, Paht’Ron.”
“Then begin.” The bone-chilling answer leaves room for nothing else.
The warlock creeps toward a darkened corner of the room; in which a hovering multitude of yellow and white beady eyes start to open. As he draws near, an unholy chorus of wailing, howls, and desperate shrieks fills his sanctum.
The servant snaps his bony fingers and a nearby torch is engulfed with arcane flame, its light revealing a myriad of caged beasts, critters, and other crawling things. He knows with confidence which life he has to take for the dread ritual asked of him, and he approaches the furthest small cage.
Within the steel bars, crammed, cold, and unable to move, the creatures set their eyes on him, pleading and restless. The warlock pulls one out, ignoring its yelp of fear. His ritual requires blood from one pried from its nursing mother during its first feeding; cut-off from sustenance and affection barely tasted.
The struggling pup, starved and confused, fights for its life but is found lacking. Its breath and strength are not enough to win freedom, and its emaciated body will not sustain its flickering life for much longer. Its desire to be released is granted only as the warlock’s spider-like fingers drop it into the depths of his concoction. Its pained shrills are not fully drowned by the pool’s acrid hiss, and its flesh steadily melts from its small frame.
“Ahh, necessary,” the master comments over the slow and painful end of this abused life.
The servant says nothing, his eyes fixed on the turbulent surface as it forms a face, a landmark, and a phrase.
“I know who she is. She is one of your daughters, master,” the warlock says slowly, glancing to the figure beside him and receiving a nod. “Her mountain fortress I know as well. It is at least a week’s journey away. These words however... ‘Mad Moon,’ what does that entail, master?”
“The words are what you must say to her, khaldim.” He answers without quite doing so, ending the exchange by slipping back into the otherworldly depths.
However, before the pool is able to lie still, a violent gurgling breaks its surface. Quite unlike the smooth appearance of their master, this mangled abomination is heaved from the liquid, landing on the floor in a thrashing of limbs.
“I am favored,” the servant mutters to himself as he looks upon the grotesque abomination of life, forged by foul contract and sorcery.
The malnourished runt that had drowned in the pool is no more. It staggers to its feet and shakes itself dry of the fell mixture, revealing itself tripled in size. It sets its blazing eyes on the warlock and he knows it will be his guide.
He quickly gathers his effects, rations, and all he deemed necessary for his journey. He refused to delay such an important task given to him by his master and stands ready before the hell hound within minutes.
The creature turns toward the door, but even the simple motion warps and tears its drying, leathery skin; the dripping wounds slowly stitching themselves anew. Every step creates fresh layers of scar tissue in an endless cycle of agony.
The hound falters only once at the entrance, suddenly opened its jaws in a howl, revealing a hellish maw of grasping tendrils and needle-like teeth. The servant feels a thrill run through his body, certain the whole district heard his new pet and lavishing in the thought of the induced fear.
The warlock marches with purpose behind the hound, drunk with the thought of elevation within his sect, and more than ready to forsake this city that shunned him.
Days pass, and the warlock quickly realizes the journey will be longer than he expected. His guide lacks compassion, only purpose, and offers no respite to either of their bodies near-broken from the hard march. Each time he tries to rest, the hound turns and gives a keening growl, somehow stirring his energy anew and pulling him onward.
Still, his body fails despite his convictions. On the day he had decided to simply yield at the peak of a particularly steep climb, the desperate warlock hobbles over the crest and sees an immense mountain-fortress. He looks upon his destiny, his inner fire stoked ablaze and again marches with fervor.
The hound howls shrilly to announce their arrival as they near the fortress gates. The warlock walks across the iron drawbridge with pride as the heavily armored guards scramble to admit him. Though faceless and stern behind their thick helmets, they are quick to acknowledge him. “Hail, my liege! Open the gates! Our master has blessed us with the arrival of a khaldim!”
The traveling pair enter and the warlock notices the subtle bows from the guards stationed throughout the courtyard. His dreams of grandeur have come to pass, and he draws his starved frame into a proud stance to face the glittering figure emerging from a darkened hall.
The warlock recognizes her face, but her scried image had belied her. The beautiful, pale gnome approaching him steps lightly, adorned with fine jewelry and an exotic silk dress clinging to her minute stature.
“We have been waiting for you since Paht’Ron told us of your journey. I am the mistress of this fortress,” the captivating woman says, setting a soft hand on his elbow. “Come, join me. There is much to be done.”
“First, I will need some respite and food to eat. The journey has been hard,” the warlock demands, his long-desired entitlement shamelessly expressed.
“Do you put a higher value in sleep and food, than in our master?” the mistress inquires, her seemingly light question spoken in tune with another of the hound’s screeched growls. The warlock straightens to attention compulsively, eyes slightly wide.
“No, of course not,” he says, his voice halting and bewildered as he is drawn forward in the wake of mistress and hound.
They enter the high hall in a trailed formation, the warlock a few steps behind. He surveys the walls glowing with arcane inscriptions, and his eyes linger on the centerpiece; an emerald and sunset pool far greater than his own.
“Welcome to my sanctum, khaldim,” the mistress declares, circling the pool until all three of them stand at its edge; the concoction separating her and the hound from the warlock. The former two look toward the last, coldly eyeing the component standing at the precipice of its purpose, just another element for another ritual.
“Mad Moon,” breathes out the blood servant, his quivering eyes unable to leave the hound.
“Necessary,” a familiar, rasping voice answers from the pool.
The warlock steps over the edge, extinguishing his own flame with a drowned scream. As the hound crumbles to scraps and ash, its purpose fulfilled, it raises its shrill voice one last time exultant. The mingled sounds of pain and praise surprise none in this uncaring, arid world.
The mistress of the fortress, now alone in her sanctum, stirs the glistening pool and meets the glaring eyes within it. “Father, you know I will stop at nothing to bring you to the jungle you desire. But if I may, there is another world, one filled with endless luxuries and a wrathful sea. Will you grant me this in exchange?”
“Hmmm…” The hoarse voice grates its amusement, and both sets of eyes turn upward, as if toward the rolling seascape of which they spoke.
-o-
As his mother concludes her tale, the human lad shivers, knowing the pale mistress had been speaking of their world. Noticing his discomfort, she sets a hand on his head, asking why the story had bothered him. The question is spoken in gentle prompting, and the lad knows it to be another lesson in itself.
He gives it a moment of thought, then speaks with certainty. He names neither the death, the beast, nor the black magic as the terrors of that world, but instead its endless cycle of greed and torment.
She offers her dear one a satisfied nod, then turns instead to a story from their own world. Though she admits that Es’Kalon does not bear such eldritch horrors, she tells him to judge whether their wars against men were kinder than Mer’Adera’s against magic.
Through the window behind her, rumbling clouds and churning surf tell of a brewing storm. Far beyond the shore, ghostly lights pulse beneath the dark ocean waves, betray a swarm of predatory kraken. However, the colossal silhouette passing over them reveals that even they are hunted.
The unforgiving seas seethe and wrap around the many islands of the archipelago; their tempests and leviathan-infested depths a true contrast to the rolling hills, windblown fields of wheat, and manicured orchards of the isles.
The violence of the waters is instead reflected in the island aristocracies, who rule their multitude of city-states and rising empires with their chosen weapons of military might, coin, or influence. Each competes in building their thousand monuments of stone; shaped into walls and pillars, arches and aqueducts, all adorned liberally with statues of heroes real and imagined.
Equally too, they compete in tearing each others’ monuments down.
The mother draws the lad close to her, drawing out a pair of intricate crests on the table between them. She claps once, pleased, as he correctly identifies them to be of Eriathena and Beneria; the former a once flourishing mercantile port, the latter a sword-strong and a jealous neighbor.
She tells her son of their war of nearly a decade, drawing his imagination to its seventh year, and to the Eriathenian palace. The balcony of a once-joyous banquet hall overlooks the intricate district of docks, now barely more than burning timbers and floating ash. Here among the scorched stones and bodies of their loyal fallen, a mortally-wounded king and his daughter observe the called retreat below. The long campaign has drawn both sides to a desperate stalemate.
“Rosicaa,” the king whispers, his voice only audible to the princess at his shoulder, who easily supports his failing body. She turns to him, her face dirtied and pinned-back hair askew, but the determination has not yet died from her eyes. “My Rosicaa, you must preserve our bloodline. Your siblings and mine have fallen, so the duty now falls to you. Our emissaries should be returning with Beneria’s answer for our countries to join hands.”
“Father, don’t make me submit to a Benerian swine,” she snarls, flicking her glare back toward the invaders in their city far below. “Their prince will sooner feel the bite of my dagger than the touch of my hand!”
The king has little doubt of her threat, having watched her fight valiantly beside her siblings, uncles, and cousins. He gives a weak chuckle, sentimentality welling in his eyes as he comments, “A true warrior, like your mother. I look forward to seeing her soon.”
The princess blinks rapidly, choking down the lump in her throat as she answers, “Yes father, your story of how you two met was always my favorite. She was so strong, as I wish to be now.” Her hand on his arm clenches, a desperate effort to keep it from shaking. “Please don’t ask me to marry him. Our people can still fight. I can still fight!”
“Forgive me, my dear one,” he says softly, the pain in his voice not from his wounds. “I know what I ask is a heavy burden, but both our nations have been sorely weakened. We will be easy prey to scavengers if we go any further. There is a time to rebuild and a time to wage w—”
“Father, there is another I love, and I carry his child.” It’s meant to be a barbed retort, but her voice wavers. The king pauses and smiles, evidently not surprised.
“I know. But I know too that he was a good man, who fell defending our capital. Think of the babe as a final riposte from him and you both, when you convince the Benerian prince that he is the father.” His laugh is cut short by a cough on blood and spittle.
The princess thinks long, trembling to convince herself that deception can be as sharp as any blade. She does not speak her decision, but the king knows it when she finally allows herself to be vulnerable and sobs against him.
“Hush now, it will be fine. All eventually die; we are but passing waves in this turbulent sea. The invaders may have broken our walls, but I know you will conquer their country and take back ours, not during a war, but during a banquet. You understand?” The king can barely manage a smile now, his face paling and his eyes dull. The princess understands but hates it, and it is all she can do to bite back her demands that he was not allowed to die and leave her too.
Instead, she lowers him to the floor and clings to him like a child. She kisses his cheek, as she so longs for him to do for her, but knows he never will again.
Beyond the splintered doors, she hears the clanging march of the remnants of her soldiers, their muffled calls announcing the return of their emissaries. She reminds herself a ruler must wear strength on their face, for the sake of their subjects.
Years have passed since the end of the war; new countries have been established, empires have risen. In the foremost of them, an empress draws a third crest on the table between herself and her son, one that is clearly a combination of the first two. The lad identifies it immediately.
“My dear one, the empire is but a symbol; it is our soldiers, coin, and influence that are real! The swines claim this union but do not realize its royal line is a lie. You were born of a usurper! When you rise, only we shall remain.”
The lad understands in an instant as his mother Empress Rosicaa hands him the pen. He dashes ink across the crests, leaving only Eriathena’s shining strong; a prophecy and a promise.
-o-
The Ballad
Hello reader, I am the author of these stories. What you just read is but a sample of my writing, an introduction to the worlds, people, and creatures I will be writing of; though it does not include the specific characters I will be focusing on. Whether my work has entertained you or not, please share your thoughts with me. I would love to hear from you and to collaborate with illustrators. I am easy to get in contact with, just @ me in any of my social handles:
IG: @madravings
Twitter: @madravins
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My writings are directly influenced, in no particular order, by Dungeons & Dragons, Games-Workshop Warhammer & 40k, Magic The Gathering, The Purpose Driven Life, various authors in ‘Again, Dangerous Visions’, H.P. Lovecraft, and Edgar Allan Poe. Above these though, my highest influence is the Greatest Author of them all God, the very same God of the Bible, Israel, Creator of all Things, Father to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace, Lamb of God, the Lion of Judah. But that’s just how I view the world and I have no intention in forcing my worldviews or philosophies on any readers. This simply shapes my labyrinth, mind, and writing.
I would also like to thank a great friend, a proofreader, a master craftsman, a great teacher in the art of literature. Also to the multitude of first draft readers sharing thoughts and impressions; you guys know who you are. I am thankful for your help in sharpening my skill and keeping my passion ablaze.