Time Of The Stonechosen E-Book

Thomas Quinn Miller

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Ghile, the young shepherd, has been thrust into the Soulstone Prophecy. The two artifacts he acquired have given him godlike powers, which he struggles to control.

To protect his loved ones, Ghile escapes with his new companions: Gaidel, the young druid, her shieldwarden, Two Elks the barbarian, and Riff the sorcerer.

Their plan is to search for answers in Dagbar's Freehold. But soon, Ghile feels the growing pull of the other soulstones, and the mysterious girl who visits him in his dreams.

Leseprobe

Time of the Stonechosen

Book Two of the Soulstone Prophecy

Thomas Quinn Miller

Copyright (C) 2016 Thomas Quinn Miller

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

Cartography by Thomas Quinn Miller.

Edited by D.S. Williams

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

A Request from the Author

First of all, thank you for purchasing this book. After finishing, please consider giving it an honest review. Reviews are incredibly valuable for me in promoting my work and is the best way to say thank you.

Dedications

In memory of Kurt Heath Maddox. This one is for you. I miss ya, Buddy.

As in all things, I thank my wife and children for their love and support.

Acknowledgments

I would never have been able to bring Ghile's story out into the light of day without the help of my beta readers. They were there to pick it up and dust it off whenever I dropped it. So a big "Thank you" to Clane Kaluna, Noel Mock, James Calder, Robert Sobon, and June Balmforth. I appreciate your help, scrutiny, editing, grammar checking and all around general thoughtfulness.

Prologue

The golden rays of the morning sun glinted across the water as the griffon broke through the low-lying puffs of clouds, its white-tipped wings trailing faint lines of vapor. The warm southern winds played through Safu's leonine fur. A deep-throated screech burst from the griffon's beak and she craned her feathered neck to look back at her rider.

The armored dwarf leaned forward in his saddle to pat the griffon's muscled side. “We are home.” Even though the words were lost in the wind, Safu seemed comforted.

Finngyr took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The taste of the salty air only deepened the feeling of home. Far in the distance, across the blue waters of the Innersea, the capital city of Daomount gleamed.

The white washed walls of the uniform buildings reflected the sun and made the mountain city glimmer. The many docks stretched out like fingers into the surrounding waters. The trade barges and fishing vessels spread about like pebbles being scattered before them.

Finngyr banked Safu into a low arcing dive, affording him a better view of his home. The Histories taught that the city of Daomount had been built atop the mountain which the god Daomur cast down upon the god Haurtu, trapping him beneath. The surrounding waters rushed in to fill his tomb, forming the Innersea.

Finngyr looked out over the island city jutting from the water.

He knew most thought this nothing more than a legend. But not him, he knew it to be real. Real as the god he communed with in his prayers. Real as the danger which now threatened both those who thought it legend and those who still held faith in their hearts.

Finngyr relaxed his grip, feeling the reins slide through his leather gloves. Safu knew their destination near the city's summit as well as he did. It only took her a moment to notice. With a screech, the griffon dove, broad powerful wings beating as she adjusted her course.

As one of the three holy orders of Daomur, the Temple of Justice was near the summit of Daomount. It shared the summit with the Temple of Art, where the Artificers praised Daomur through creation, building and enchantments, and the largest of the three, the Temple of Law, where the Ritualists – custodians of the holy book of Hjurl and marshals of government – interpreted dwarven law.

Finngyr's heart swelled with pride as he approached. There was a time when the Temple of Justice was the largest of the sects. During the Great Purge, when the progeny of the Hungering God, Haurtu, had to be eradicated from the face of Allwyn; The Knights of the Temple of Justice numbered in the tens of thousands. Now, only a thousand years later, they numbered in the hundreds. Where once they were armies, now they led the armies of the empire, under the Ritualists' scrutiny and the benign neglect of the Artificers. The Knight Justices were now a relic of a bygone age.

The muscles in his neck and jaw ached from clenching. He could feel his anger rising and worked to fight it down. Like all dwarves, he had been taught to keep his emotions in check from a young age. The Lawgiver's justice was best reflected on with a clear mind, free of emotion. Something Finngyr was finding more and more difficult. Even this view would only calm him for a short time.

Finngyr had found a true vessel of Haurtu the Hungerer. Not just some human whelp who showed the dimmest spark of potential, but one already possessed by a soulstone. He'd found one, then let it escape!

Frustrated, he tightened his knees and felt Safu bank in response. Finngyr forced himself to relax and looked out over the water. Taking deep breathes, he recited one of the many prayers to Daomur.

“Your word is law

I am your vessel.

I deliver your law.

Your word is justice.

I am your vessel.

I deliver your justice.

Your word is truth.

I am your vessel

I deliver your truth.

In Daomur's judgment, we are preserved.”

He rested his hand upon the metal shaft of his hammer, tracing the intricate engravings through rough leather gloves. He wanted nothing more than to feel the comforting weight of the ancient relic in his grip as he intoned the holy prayer. It was through these most sacred and holy weapons of his sect, said to be blessed by Daomur himself, that a knight justice could identify those chosen by the Hungering God. When he felt divine presence emanating from it, he knew, with surety, his god anointed him to enact his divine mandate and Finngyr would sing Daomur's praises as he culled the tainted human from the herd. Never was he more fulfilled than those brief moments when he was the blessed hand of his god on Allwyn.

The hammer's touch and the prayer took him back to the memory of his encounter with the Stonechosen and Finngyr flinched yet again for not being better prepared.

He'd travelled with Safu to the Cradle of the Gods, a backwater human containment on the fringe of the empire. It was his first appointment outside the ever hostile Nordlah Plains. When he received his orders, he thought he was being banished for some unknown transgression. He thought it would be easy.

Finngyr had been more interested in showing the Cradle's Overseer, Magister Obudar, how a loyal citizen of the empire should treat humans than in performing the Rite of Attrition. Even though the rite had been the reason he was sent there.

If he had only placed more focus on his duties: performing the rite, seeking out those abominations whom were potential vessels of the Hungering God's return, and culling them from the human herd; he could have captured the Stonechosen. And once more, the scene played out in his mind, perhaps for the thousandth time.

Just beyond the edge of the town of Lakeside, he'd walked into the clearing. His armor was resplendent, engraved with the sigils of his sect. He stood looking out over the herds of humans, their faces flickering with the light from the immense bonfires, holy hammer resting in his hands.

Finngyr was born to deliver Daomur's judgment on these savages, yet even as he exulted in serving his god, he felt the familiar itch which always preceded battle. To him, the search for potential vessels of the Hungering God was a war. Since taking his oaths, he had served in the Nordlah Plains where barbarian warriors fought to a man against Daomur's judgement. Every inch taken was a struggle.

Here, in this so called Cradle of the Gods, the foul humans lined up like lambs for the slaughter, their cow-eyed loved ones clung to each other, helpless and waiting nearby.

Bile rose to Finngyr's mouth as he marched past the line of dwarf guards sent to oversee the rites. He'd made sure their armor gleamed and their weapons held a keen edge. For all the good it had done. Normally, he would have waded into the thick of battle, his brethren knights at his side, ancient hammers meting out Daomur's justice. It was an insult, this line of docile humans, these borderland guards.

Finngyr strode down the line, pausing only to hold his hammer before each human in turn. Most stared at their feet, some watched with bewildered faces and just for a moment, one looked as if it would reach out and touch the hammer.

Make that mistake.

And as he suspected, the hammer remained dormant in his grasp. Humans lacked the capacity to understand what they beheld and while Finngyr held no love for them, he would follow Daomur's law. He would only cull those whom the hammer marked as a vessel, in self-defense or against those who would stop him from performing his holy duty. In Daomur's name he wished one of these humans would try to stop him.

The sensation caught Finngyr off guard at first. He stood before a tall, lanky whelp. The human's shoulders sagged and its thick dark curls partially hid its vacant eyes.

His god's presence flowed into him.

What was happening?

The most Finngyr ever felt was a slight sensation, the tiniest presence of the divine. Some Knight Justices confided they were not always sure when they did feel it and would cull the human just to be safe. But this! Daomur's presence flowed out of the hammer in waves; a hum like a thousand trapped hornets about to burst forth.

The other humans in the line gazed open-mouthed when the hammer trembled in his hands. Finngyr could only stare as white light burst from it, the glare blinding. The human whelp stood staring now, confusion and then dawning horror on his face.

This was no potential vessel of the Hungering God. This was a stonechosen, one already possessed. Finngyr knew what must be done.

“I cull thee!” Finngyr roared, as he brought the hammer around his back and over in a crushing blow, with all of his faith behind it.

He felt the impact, waited for the give of soft flesh and the familiar crunch of bone, but it never came. Instead, it felt as if he struck stone. A blinding flash of light and what felt like hot wind buffeted him, hurling him back, the hammer flying from his grasp.

Finngyr landed hard and tightened his muscles to keep the air from being knocked from him. Curling up as much as his armor would allow, he rolled with the momentum and rose in a crouch, his side axe already in hand.

The sounds of screaming filled his ears and he could just make out indistinct shapes running past him. He couldn't focus his eyes. The residual image of the flash still filled his vision. He had lost his hammer. What had he hit? Surely the blow killed the whelp?

“Dwarves! To me!” Finngyr roared. He made his way forward. Shadows danced before him. Something pushed into him, he removed it with a swipe of his axe and was rewarded with a satisfying scream.

“Do not stand before me! I walk in Daomur's grace and all who oppose me die in his name!”

He heard the rhythmic sounds of plate armor sliding on chainmail. The guards were just reaching him, his vision clearing, when the bonfires exploded.

It was those damned explosions and the resultant ash clouds which helped the stonechosen escape. He'd been sure at the time it was the fat sorcerer from Lakeside who caused those explosions. It was only later he learned there was another sorcerer, Almoriz of Whispering Rock, in the human containment. Not only that, he was training up an apprentice. He didn't understand why the empire suffered those tainted spellcasters to exist. Everything he'd been told about them made it sound like their abilities were benign, barely able to perform the simplest of enchantments, mere shadows of magic compared to the work of the Artificers. He had been led to believe they were little more than tinkerers and entertainers. Obviously a mistake Finngyr would make clear in his report to his superiors.

Others must have been involved. The blow he struck should have wounded the stonechosen. It would have needed help to escape and hide.

Once he discovered the stonechosen was a whelp from an outlying village, what he had to do next was obvious. Razing the human's village not only punished those who helped him, but could have served as the impetus needed to anger the whelp and cause it to show itself and confront Finngyr. That is, until Daomur's hand intervened.

That pompous Magister Obudar, more interested in lining his pockets than helping the empire, quoted a verse from the Book of Hjurl to him. How else could it be explained than direct intervention by Daomur himself?

“Now marked, his chosen must gather

Where once his progeny thrived

His hunger compels them to journey

In his cities they survive.”

The stonechosen would be compelled to journey to one of the ancient human cities. Which one and for what purpose was exactly what Finngyr intended to find out. It was why he had given up the chase and set out for Daomount.

A screech from Safu shook Finngyr from his thoughts as the city of Daomount rose up before him. While he had been lost in thought, Safu had descended and skimmed along, just above the waves of the Innersea. The sound of their impact on the protective seawalls was deafening.

He took up Safu's reins and pressed in with his knees. The griffon's muscles bunched as she strengthened the beats of her wings to begin the long climb to the summit.

Many of the dwarven fishermen and tradesmen along the stone docks stopped mending their nets or their haggling over the morning's catch to look up and mark the flight of the Knight Justice. It was only they, devoted servants of the Temple of Justice, who flew the majestic griffons.

Finngyr and Safu soared above cobbled streets, filled with citizens going about their morning business. The griffon's shadow slid over the cobblestones and rooftops of the chaotic wharf and market districts, above the residential districts with their manicured gardens and libraries. Scattered throughout the cityscape, like so many black dots, were the entrances to Undercity, where Finngyr had spent much of his youth. Only a quarter of all Daomount covered the surface of the peak, Overcity was reserved for trade and those who could afford the view. The rest was Undercity.

Apprentice and journeymen priests from the Temple of Artificers labored away on the statues and wall carvings which were so plentiful in Daomount. Most of his race paid homage to the Lawgiver through stonecraft or commerce. Finngyr's was a different calling.

He passed one of the open markets, surrounding a Bastion, gatehouse to the Underways. Other than by ship, they were the only other way to leave the city. Unless, you could fly.

Safu's shadow glided over the Bastion and the caravan assembling at its entrance; the caravan's laden wagons preparing for the underground journey to some far off place in the empire.

Finngyr thought of the caravan as blood, the Underways veins and Daomount, the empire's beating heart.

Finally, he reached the summit, home to the judicial and temple districts. Safu descended in slow circles, setting down on a long precipice of stone, jutting out from the side of the Temple of Justice like a waiting hand. She cantered along the expanse and into the griffon paddock proper, her still-beating wings kicking up dust and straw.

Challenging screeches came from a scattering of stalls on the stable's many levels. Safu raised her head and straightened her feathers, answering in turn with her own challenge. If it were not for the powerful enchantments placed on the griffon tack and harness by the Artificers, the griffons' natural territorial instincts would have them shredding each other with beak and claw.

From a third floor stable door, two pages scrambled out and descended a series of wooden ladders with practiced ease. Finngyr didn't recognize either of them. But, as pages, they were the lowest members of the temple, so it was not surprising.

Reaching down from his saddle Finngyr patted Safu behind the wing, where her golden tinged feathers gave way to sleek hair. The muscles controlling her wings went taut beneath his riding glove as she stretched.

“His word is law,” Finngyr called to the pages. He disengaged the riding harness with a practiced slam of his fist. Safu lowered her head at the sound and in one movement Finngyr swung his leg over the saddle and slid down.

He was already removing his pack and hammer when the two pages, both barely old enough to be called beardlings, raced up behind him and bowed deeply at the waist.

“His word his law, Knight Justice,” they intoned in unison.

“See to Safu. Her nest is at the top.” Finngyr pointed to the fourth level. He heard a groan at his announcement. The exercise pages received from climbing up and down the numerous ladders in the stable was just as much a part of their training as learning to handle the order's steeds. That sort of dissension would never have been tolerated when he was a page.

Finngyr turned and stared at them, but could not determine which one had made his disappointment known.

“She will need to have her talons cut as well,” he added, eyeing each of them for any further signs of discontent.

The pages bowed in unison.

Satisfied, he walked past them. One of the most difficult and dangerous jobs involving the griffons was cutting back the talons on their front claws. Behind him, Finngyr heard a satisfying thump as the innocent page repaid his partner, who stifled the resulting moan.

It was good to be home. Finngyr needed to pray, to give thanks for his safe arrival. Then, he would report to Lord Captain Danuk and consult the Book of Hjurl, particularly the Prophecies of the Vessels. They needed to know he encountered a true stonechosen and not just a potential vessel. He needed to discover which forbidden city the stonechosen now journeyed towards. Then he would know where to hunt.

He would find Ghile of Last Hamlet. And this time, he would not escape.

Part I

1 The Ghost Fens

This time I'm going to win.

Ghile summoned his force shield just in time to parry the overhead strike of the huge stone axe. The weight behind Two Elks' swing jarred Ghile's arm, sending white-hot pain racing up and into his shoulder. Ghile doubted he could lift the axe, let alone swing it with such force.

“Good. Use your magic,” Two Elks said.

Two Elks followed the deflected strike with another and another. Each driving Ghile further down, buckling his knees. He felt like a stake being driven into the ground by a mallet.

Ghile tightened his grip on Uncle Toren's fang blade. No, my fang blade, he thought. He waited for the next blow to land and then followed it with a quick lunge, ducking around the side of his force shield.

Two Elks must have anticipated the move. He released his two handed grip on the axe and struck the back of Ghile's blade wielding hand with a sharp slap of his own. The blade broke free of his grip and spun across the clearing to stick next to where Riff was lounging.

“Hey!” Riff shouted. He gave them both a withering stare.

Ghile shrugged and offered a weak smile.

Something slammed into his calves. The sodden ground rushed up to greet him in a wet embrace of reeds and moss. Even though the spot they chose to rest for the day was on high ground, the damp of the Ghost Fens still leached up into the soil. Ghile thanked the All Mother for the soft landing as he lay flat on his back and stared into the bluish mists above him.

“Hand too strong on blade,” Two Elks said.

He was still in a crouch from the move he'd used to sweep Ghile's legs. He finished his sentence by bringing his axe over his head in a killing blow and stopped it just short of separating Ghile's head from his shoulders.

“Look at enemy, watch eyes.” Two Elks gestured towards his own eyes and then proffered a hand to Ghile.

Of his companions, Two Elks was the oldest, having seen maybe thirty years. He was also difficult for Ghile to understand. Ghile didn't know if this was due to Two Elks' weak grasp of their language and he just couldn't find the words to express himself, or if he was naturally just a quiet person.

He was the first Nordlah Plains barbarian Ghile had ever met. They might all be as stoic, for all he knew. The vast plains Two Elks called home lay to the west of the Cradle of the Gods, beyond the Redwood. If all the barbarians were like Two Elks, they were a tall and hardy people indeed.

“You think too much before you do,” Two Elks said.

Ghile nodded and exhaled a deep breath, hoping the pain in his back and shoulders would exit with the air. This was the seventh fighting lesson in as many days. They trained with both blade and spear, with Two Elks taking his promise to train Ghile to use the fang blade to heart.

He still found it hard to believe Uncle Toren had given up the knife. Only Fangs, guardians of the Cradle, were presented these enchanted dwarf-forged blades. No human was allowed to craft metal, by dwarven law. A human, other than a Fang, found in possession of an enchanted blade risked death at the hands of the dwarves.

Ghile looked to where the fang blade landed. The deer antler handle struck a sharp contrast to the surrounding moss, only a portion of the blade's shining steel above the ground.

Two Elks shook his offered hand over Ghile. “Up. We go again.”

The blade pulled Ghile's thoughts to his uncle and his family. How he missed them!

But, there was nothing for it now. He was Stonechosen and he was going to have to learn to fight. Even if it killed him. Well, even if Two Elks killed him.

Ghile cleared his thoughts and reached into himself. It was almost second nature to find the inner force and focus it with his will. He was aware of every sound around him. The Ghost Fens were alive with croaking frogs and chirping crickets. The hum of hovering midges, hunting for exposed skin, fought for his attention. He let their droning fall away and looked inward.

He pushed out with his force shield, forcing it against the ground beneath him, using it to propel his body. He flew forward towards the fang blade, and using the momentum, he curled into a roll and came up into the defensive fighting stance Two Elks taught him only days before; his body turned slightly, presenting a smaller target to his opponent, the blade held in his hands before him.

Two Elks nodded. “Good.”

“That's enough, Two Elks,” Gaidel said. There was a tone of command in her voice, young though she was, which left little doubt Ghile's lesson was now done.

She leaned against a nearby tree from where she'd been watching. Tree might have been too generous a word. Her slight weight was enough to cause it to lean, threatening to pull free and fall into the glowing water a short distance below.

The Ghost Fens were named from the cold bluish glow found in any water which pooled and stagnated long enough. That and the heat robbing mist, which hung low over it like a damp woolen blanket left out overnight.

“He needs to rest. It will be dark in another couple of hours,” Gaidel said.

“Explain to me again, Revered Daughter, why we are traveling by night?” Riff asked.

Ghile frowned at the way Riff drew out 'Revered Daughter'. Riff had questioned every decision the druid made since leaving the Cradle, determined to chip away at any authority she tried to instill over the group.

Gaidel was only a couple of years older than Ghile, but even so, she had a way of carrying herself, a way of standing and speaking which made Ghile naturally defer to her.

Her long red hair was pulled back in a tight braid, further accentuating her bare scalp, the entire front half shaved, from ear to ear. The strange blue curving tattoos, which marked her as a Redwood Druid, flowed across her scalp in place of hair.

Above all others, druids were respected by people of the Cradle. It was the druids who saved the human race from extinction back during the Great Purge. Ghile now knew they had once been priestesses of the Hungering God, or Haurtu, the God of Learning and Wisdom as he was known back then.

But, it was their prayers to the All Mother which awoke her and resulted in her stopping the decimation of his race over a thousand years before. No small wonder they were known as the Daughters of the All Mother and treated with such reverence. Ghile eyed Riff. Well, by most anyway.

“It will be easier for the cullers to spot us if we move by day,” Gaidel said.

Riff nodded at her answer before she even finished speaking. It was the same answer she gave each time he asked the question. Riff plucked another pinkish mushroom from a clump near where he was lounging and squeezed it between his fingers.

Riff discovered that particular variety of mushroom on their second day in the fens. When squeezed, they emitted a wet flatulent sound which still made Ghile snicker, despite the disapproving stares it drew from Gaidel.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, waiting for Riff's deliberate long pause to end. Riff watched her like a cat pawing at a mouse.

“I understand that,” Riff finally said. “But I don't see how anything could see us through this thrice damned mist, day or night.”

Ghile watched Two Elks, who had already found his fur blankets and began laying them out across a patch of somewhat dry reeds and thick spongy grass, having grown accustomed to this type of banter between Gaidel and Riff. His guardianship of Gaidel did not seem to extend to protecting her from being teased. Not that Ghile felt she needed it. She more than held her own against Riff's taunts.

“It is not up for debate, sorcerer's apprentice,” Gaidel said. She didn't draw out Riff's title, not willing to be baited this time.

Riff leaned back, shaking his head. He fished for another mushroom.

Ghile cleaned the fang blade on his leggings and took care sliding it into its sheath. He sat down near Riff. They had both gathered reeds and piled them into bedding when they made camp earlier that morning. Ghile had plenty of sleep already and didn't understand why Gaidel felt he needed more. Over the past days, she often asked him how he felt or if he was in need of a rest. Ghile didn't think she gifted the other two with the same attention. He'd pondered over this more than once.

Ghile watched Daughter Gaidel as she spoke to Two Elks in hushed tones, idly scratching Ast, one of his two Valehounds, who lay near her. The two Valehounds, Ast and Cuz, were his father's hounds, but they were his now. Where they never listened to any of his commands before, the power of the soulstones embedded in his chest allowed him to feel their thoughts and touch their minds. He focused and the two hounds raised their heads, eyes watching him.

“She can't get enough of me,” Riff said, punctuating his statement with another squashed mushroom.

Ghile rolled his eyes and laughed. “Obviously.”

“You are getting better, Sheepherder. You almost had him that time,” Riff said.

“Really?” Ghile asked. He thought he was getting better. The fang blade didn't feel as awkward in his hand anymore.

Riff laughed and rolled his eyes in imitation of Ghile. “No.”

Ghile picked up a clump of moss and threw it at him.

“Be careful, do you not see my feet are bare?” Riff said.

Ghile leaned back and rested the back of his head on his hands. He wasn't tired, but if he didn't make an effort of at least appearing to rest, he knew he would draw Gaidel's ire. He shook his head at Riff's comment. “Do you threaten me with your stench, Sorcerer?”

Riff smirked and rolled over to lean toward Ghile. “A sorcerer does not only hold a source in his hands. He but needs it to touch some part of him to use it to cast. So be warned.”

Ghile smiled at the mock seriousness in Riff's tone. He knew Riff could hurl fire and control water, but knew he could control earth and metal, too. Riff even said a strong sorcerer could control air. Though, Ghile had never seen Master Almoriz, Riff's mentor, do that. “I will take your words to heart, great sorcerer,” Ghile said with the same mock seriousness. He bowed his head and held his palms out and turned upwards toward the sky in a show of respect.

“See that you do,” Riff said. He leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes with a sigh of contentment.

The way Riff relaxed there in the middle of the Ghost Fens, Ghile would have thought he rested upon a warm fur laid before a hearth. He was happy Riff came with them. The two of them joked often and neither the wet of the fen or its annoying insects could dampen their spirits. This was the first time Ghile had left the Cradle. True, he'd not seen much yet, they still had not reached the bottom of the many tiered levels of the Ghost Fens, but Ghile was out of the Cradle and gone was the bleak future he feared as a sheepherder in Upper Vale.

The Ghost Fens were not the way any sane human would choose to leave their valley home. Normally, they would have traveled down out of the Vales and past Lakeside on the shores of Crystal Lake, then into the Redwood that covered the lowlands of the mountain valley. Onwards they would have gone, past Redwood Village, where Riff and Gaidel were from and then descend the cliffs near South Falls. Then they would arrive in the portion of the Redwoods his people called the Drops.

Not that many would make the journey. He never had. He had heard tales of those places around the hearth fire, having never ventured further than Lakeside himself. Even fewer would dare risk traveling further than the Drops.

It was against Dwarven law for humans to travel unaccompanied between settlements. Only druids, their shieldwardens and sorcerers were permitted outside the settlements.

Their dwarven overseers left little doubt how dangerous the wilds were. The dwarven human catchers were the least of one's worries in the wilds. Nordlah barbarians roamed the plains, along with blood-thirsty orcs and vargan that prowled the forests.

Not even the dwarves took that route. They used the Underways, tunnels of their own making which reached throughout the empire. Ghile had never seen them, but knew one opened up under the stone Bastion in Lakeside. The Underways were the domain of the dwarves.

Ghile's path led in a different direction. The Ghost Fens were a more direct route, which gave them the added bonus of secrecy. No one traveled through the Ghost Fens to leave the Cradle, and for good reason. There were no real trails to speak of and the Fens were broken into tiers, much like giant steps, with treacherous cliffs separating each level. The waters from Crystal Lake flowed down onto each level, where it gathered before spilling over to the lower level.

They had been wading through thick swamp grass and reeds pushed up against pools of water for over a week now. During the day, they sheltered in the many copses of willow and alder that found purchase on the infrequent levels of higher ground. Each time they came to another one of the waterfall covered cliffs which divided the tiers, they had to use rope to lower themselves down.

Ghile feared the Ghost Fens got their name from the ghosts of all the souls who became lost and drowned. But the answer was revealed to them on the first night when the sun set and the waters began to glow with the same soft blue as the waters of Crystal Lake. This, combined with the perpetual mist clinging stubbornly to the fens both day and night. Ghile could see how legends of ghosts began.

The group broke their fast in the evening with hard bread and cheese. Riff moved between them and with a touch and softly whispered incantation, removed all the damp from their clothes. It never lasted long, but it was like having a dry change of clothes each day. Between Riff's ability and Gaidel's healing touch, for the others at least, Ghile felt confident the natural dangers of the fens would not stop them.

They had only been trudging through the blue mists a short time before they reached the edge of their current tier.

“Don't drop me!” Riff called from below.

Ghile leaned out over the edge to get a better view. Riff hung from the end of the rope about half way between Ghile and Two Elks above, and a waiting Gaidel below. Ast and Cuz sniffed the ground near her, still wearing the patchwork leather harnesses Two Elks had hastily fashioned to help lower them down. “Stop complaining, Riff. Two Elks isn't even straining,” Ghile said.

It was true, the barbarian slowly lowered out sections of the thick rope hand over hand. His large corded muscles were taut, but his expression was relaxed. “The sorcerer is light. Daughter Gaidel was heavier,” Two Elks said.

Ghile laughed, even though he wasn't sure Two Elks meant it as a joke.

“I'm down,” Riff called from below. Two Elks took the now-slack rope and tied it to a nearby jut of rock.

“I lower you, Stonechosen, then climb down. I no need rope,” Two Elks said. He gave the rope a few tugs to test his handiwork.

Ghile shook his head. “We have been over this, Two Elks. We need the rope and there is no need for you to risk yourself.”

Two Elks shrugged and shouldered his large kite shield. He backed over the edge, looking behind him as he descended.

It took Two Elks half the time to make the climb than it took to lower Riff. Ghile heard the call from below and began untying the rope.

At first, Riff accused Ghile of just showing off, but Ghile knew it was more for practice. The more he used the new powers gifted to him by the soulstones, the more control he had over them. Ghile called and then dropped the rope over the edge, knowing Two Elks was already gathering it on the other end.

Ghile retrieved his spear leaning on the rock face next to him and stepped out over the edge.

The wind swept past him as he gained momentum. He plummeted towards the upturned faces of his companions. Before his new powers, he would have been terrified, flailing his arms and screaming all the way down, but now he just watched the ground approach, using his arms to keep himself upright.

With only moments to spare, Ghile pushed with his mind and felt the invisible force extend from the bottom of his feet. In his mind, it was like a billowing cloud spreading out thick below him. He felt the force as it reached the ground. He allowed it to slowly give way under the pressure. He quickly slowed and bent his knees into a crouch, to absorb some of the fall. He concentrated on the force until the strain was too great and he was only a couple of feet above the reeds before releasing it. He dropped the remainder of the distance and landed on the soft ground with a muffled squish.

“Even though you are stonechosen, Ghile, you still feel pain and can be hurt. Broken legs are going to leave you in agony. I cannot heal you and it will slow us down while we wait for your powers to mend you,” Gaidel said.

The two Valehounds bounded up to greet Ghile. “I'm fine,” Ghile said. He reached down and gave both Ast and Cuz a good scratch in turn.

“That is not the point,” Gaidel said, crossing her arms for emphasis, “there is no point in protecting you, if you take every opportunity to risk yourself.”

Ghile was about to respond, a lopsided smile on his face. He looked to Riff and Two Elks for support. Both were staring at him in silence. He could feel the weight, like dwarven stone, behind those stares. He would not get reinforcements from either of them. His smile dissolved, along with his rebuttal. “Alright, I'll be more careful. But try to understand, Adon said I have to use my powers if they are to improve.”

Ghile saw the uncomfortable look come over Riff's visage at the mention of Ghile's older brother. Adon was culled by the dwarves many years ago back in the Cradle. Adon was also Riff's good friend. Adon now appeared in Ghile's dreams and taught him how to use the powers the soulstones granted him. It all sounded ridiculous to Ghile, if he truly thought about it.

“Well, try to practice your powers when you have both feet planted on the ground,” Gaidel said. Gaidel motioned for Two Elks to lead the way. “We should continue.”

She didn't wait to see if the others followed, as she struck out behind the barbarian, her eyes scanning the sky.

“Well, we'd better go, her greatness has spoken,” Riff said with a wink.

Normally, he would have smiled and winked back, but he only nodded. The idea they were protecting him didn't sit too well with Ghile. He was the youngest of them. He wouldn't hesitate to admit they were all more capable of defending themselves. But Ghile thought of them more as his companions and guides on this journey, not his protectors. Apparently, he was the only one who saw things that way. “Come on, boys.” Ghile motioned and Ast and Cuz splashed through the reeds in great bounds, with little care for the amount of mud they sent flying with each leap.

Riff gave a half-hearted kick after them as they passed, before following. The two Valehounds paid him little heed. Their once-white coats were covered in mud, their shaggy fur hanging limp from their thick frames. Ghile trudged into the fens after them, his mood now as damp as the rest of him.

2 The Knight Captain

“I thought I would find you here.”

Finngyr did not look up from his prayers at the words of the visitor. He wasn't surprised when he heard the sound of metal on stone and the grunt of accepted pain as the visitor knelt down beside him. Finngyr also made that sound when kneeling to pray. The heavy thud of a hammer was followed by the clink of its handle. He waited; when the visitor didn't speak further, Finngyr returned to his prayers.

A short time later Finngyr opened his eyes. He had chosen one of the smaller chapels which lined the outer walls of the Temple of Truth. They were more conducive to private prayer. A single shaft of light, let in from a high-placed window, lit the simple altar and the room's only other two occupants.

Finngyr looked at his uninvited guest, who knelt next to him, eyes still closed. Finngyr bowed at the waist, without rising.

“His word is law, Knight Captain Danuk,” Finngyr said.

The older knight justice did not respond, but continued with his prayers. Finngyr waited, watching the knight captain's lips moving beneath his tightly braided beard. There was almost as much gray as red in the beard and receding hair. Dust motes floated around him and settled onto the polished steel of his shoulder plates.

The Knight Captain's hammer rested before him, identical to Finngyr's except for the wear and unique scratches, marks it earned through centuries of use. He wondered at how many other Knights in service to Daomur wielded these two relics, resting before them. How many more would, after they were bones and dust?

Finngyr looked up and found Knight Captain Danuk studying him with a calm expression.

“It is good to be back, is it not, Finngyr?”

“Yes, Knight Captain, it is.”

The two of them knelt there in silence, both staring at the carved altar. The hammer and scales, the symbol of their god, coaxed from the stone long ago.

“Come. We will go to my quarters and I will have some food brought up from the kitchens. You can give me your reports,” the Knight Captain said.

“Sir, there is something I must tell you. I—”

“There is much you must tell me, Knight Justice. We received a message from the Cradle shortly after you left. But by Daomur's beard, I will hear it over full plates and fuller tankards.” Knight Captain Danuk grasped his hammer and worked his way up slowly, accompanied by more than a few grunts.

He took four respectful steps backwards before turning and leaving the chapel. Finngyr rose, repeated the four backward steps and followed.

“Then, I have some news for you, Finngyr. There are interesting happenings on the Nordlah Plains.”

“Stonechosen, you say? You are sure?” Knight Captain Danuk said. He leaned into his high-backed oak chair and shook his head.

The Knight Captain had changed into a simple white tunic, thick with embroidery around the neck and sleeves, and a wide, woven leather belt. His armor lay on its stand near the hearth. The two pages – adolescent dwarves who saw to the armor's polishing and starting the small hearth fire, sprinkling it with incense – now stood to either side of the table, waiting to fill a tankard or collect an empty plate.

“I am sure,” Finngyr said.

He too, had changed into a tunic like the Knight Captain's. They were favored in the mountain city. Even here, at the summit, the ocean breeze carried a touch of warmth.

The Knight Captain's quarters, like most officers' quarters in the temple, had an open, easterly facing balcony to take advantage of the trade winds.

“It was a tall and gangly whelp. Seemed as surprised as I was. The hammer put off a bright light and almost vibrated out of my hand.” Finngyr shook a leg of ham to demonstrate. A rogue piece of meat escaped to the floor, only to be scooped up by one of the attentive pages. Finngyr never noticed.

“And you smote him, you say?” Danuk asked.

“I do say! The force of the blow threw me back. The flash was blinding. Felt like I struck stone.” Finngyr brought the leg of meat down with both hands in front of him. “I rolled with the force of the blow and came up with my side axe in hand. I was still blinded when I called for support from the poor excuses for what that backwater settlement calls guards.”

Danuk nodded at this statement, as if it was well known.

“But, then all the bonfires from the human's festivities exploded with flames that soared into the sky and then back into themselves, throwing fire and ash everywhere,” Finngyr finished.

“That has the sounds of ancient human magic, like in the stories of the Great Purge, that does,” Danuk said. He held out his tankard over the arm of his chair to be refilled.

“Exactly! The local magister kept a pet sorcerer, so I naturally had him arrested and took control of the settlement's guard.”

“Naturally,” Danuk said.

“But, I could not find the boy. I even razed its village, in hopes of drawing it out.” Finngyr leaned back in his chair, moving to take a drink from his tankard and then stopping. He stared off into the late afternoon sky and the gathered shadows on this side of Daomount. Off in the distance, he could see the sun almost resting on the waters. The shadows of the mountain city reached out for the retreating light like a drowning dwarf.

“Ahem,” Danuk said.

Finngyr continued. “It was then the Magister quoted the Book of Hjurl to me. A passage concerning the trial of the vessels. “Now marked, his chosen must gather, where once his progeny thrived—”

“His hunger compels them to journey,” Danuk intoned.

“In his cities they survive,” the two finished in unison.

Finngyr set his tankard down and leaned forward over the table. “I need to consult the Prophecies, Knight Captain. I need to see if there is any clue as to which of the forbidden cities Ghile Stonechosen might go to. I let him escape once. I seek redemption. I must find him and bring him here.”

The Knight Captain held up a finger to stop Finngyr, his face lost in thought.

Finngyr felt his temper bubbling below the surface. He swallowed it back down like bile. It would serve no purpose to show the Knight Captain how much his emotions held sway over him. Daomur taught control over one's emotions, to ponder his laws with a clear mind.

“Finngyr, you might have just helped answer something which has been puzzling us. You recall I mentioned news concerning the Nordlah Plains?” The Knight Captain was also leaning forward now. “If you encountered a stonechosen in the Cradle, that means there are others.” He paused for a moment, letting those words sink in. “To think the Time of the Stonechosen has come during our lifetimes. It makes sense. The plains barbarians do not follow their normal migrations. Where we expect to find the various tribes, there are none. Where they would normally gather in force to fight against their culling, the pathetic few we do find throw themselves into combat. The few who survive, tell us nothing of the location of the others.”

Finngyr could not push down the feelings of jealousy at the thought of his brother knights diving into battle. He should be there, performing the Rite of Attrition on their chosen, culling those who stood in his way. This was the first time in all his years of service to the Temple he'd been sent anywhere but the plains. “Sir, if I may ask. Why did you send me to the Cradle?” Finngyr said.

The Knight Captain shook his head. “I was not the one to make that decision, Finngyr.”

Finngyr stared across the table. That didn't make sense. As his superior, the decision of who to send should have been Knight Captain Danuk's. He would have been ordered to dispatch a knight justice, but which particular one was left to him. “You are my captain,” Finngyr said.

“True. But the order to send you to the Cradle of the Gods came from the Lord Knight Justice Gyldoon himself.” Danuk raised an eyebrow and watched Finngyr.

Finngyr stared at his superior officer. The Lord Knight Justice was the head of their order and sat on the Judges' Council of Daomount. He was the oldest member of the order and one of the only dwarves still alive who recalled the last Time of the Stonechosen.

“It appears our Lord Gyldoon has the gift of prophecy, Knight Justice,” Danuk said.

Finngyr couldn't explain why the Lord Knight Justice himself would give such an order. Different thoughts were spinning through his mind, each fighting to move forward and to be given attention before being pushed aside by others. The gift of prophecy was not among them. “No. It doesn't make sense. If he knew or even suspected that the Time of the Stonechosen has come, then why would he not tell us? Tell the Judges Council?” Finngyr said.

“I do not know. Nor is it my place, or yours, to question that decision,” Danuk said.

Finngyr thought to respond and caught himself. “Of course, Knight Captain.”

The Knight Captain appeared mollified by the response. “But if it is the Time of the Stonechosen, then maybe others have arisen among the barbarians and they travel to the cities as well? We hunt in the wrong places.”

The two sat there, the gentle wind and the crackling of the small fire the only sound. Occasionally one of the pages would scuff a sandal on the floor.

“I will seek an audience with the Lord Knight Justice,” Danuk finally said.

“Might I accompany you, sir?”

Danuk shook his head, even before Finngyr finished his request.

“That would not bode well for you, I should think. That brings me to the other news I meant to share with you this day. The Magister from the Cradle sent word via a runesmith a few days ago. Most likely right after your departure. It seems they have a rebellion on their hands there. They are placing the responsibility for that rebellion firmly on your shoulders, Knight Justice.”

Damn you, Obudar!

“They are requesting troops be dispatched to their aid and had the forethought to mention the annual tithes have not left their Bastion.”

Twice damn you, Obudar!

“The Judges Council has been hearing your name on the lips of more than a few high merchants, who will feel a personal loss in their purses from this rebellion in the Cradle.”

Finngyr closed his eyes and leaned back. He could see his chance of catching Ghile the Stonechosen slipping through his fingers like so much sand.

3 Predator and Prey

It was all Ghile could do to concentrate on his next step. The muscles in his legs screamed in protest as he waded through the chest deep water. He pulled his boot free from the sucking mud, only to stagger forward and force it back down into its clutching grasp once more.

On it went. He had no idea how he kept going – pull, step, pull, step. Behind him, he could hear Riff's heavy breathing and occasional curses as he cleared the air around him of swarming insects. In front of him, Daughter Gaidel held her staff over a downturned head, plodding along. Even Ast and Cuz panted nearby, tongues lolling as they paddled to keep up.

Only Two Elks seemed unaffected by the exertion. The barbarian had cut a winding route through the night, trying to keep to higher ground whenever possible. That too was tiring, since what little ground rose out of the fens was bordered by reeds and every bit above water choked with plants.

At least Ghile's new powers allowed him to see where he was stepping when they were not in the glowing water. Riff had fallen on more than one occasion when they moved across land at night.

Two Elks almost had to separate Riff and Gaidel, when Riff once again pulled his everflame from one of his many pouches. Everflame was the symbol of a sorcerer. Only they could transform a regular flame, causing it to lose all heat but give light for months, though nothing fueled it. It could even act as a source for the sorcerer's magic. Ghile had seen Riff use it to deadly effect against the worgs in the battle on the Horn.

Gaidel would not suffer anything that increased their risk of being seen and confronted Riff each time he drew it out. It was only when Two Elks added the light could attract the Ghost Fen's nocturnal predators that Riff finally put it away.

They had descended the last tier of the Ghost Fens the previous morning and camped along its base that day. It was much warmer here, out of the mountains. Ghile's hopes that the perpetual mist would clear was short lived; it clung stubbornly, even here at the fen's lowest level.

With the heat came the insects. Though, they didn't seem to appreciate the way he tasted, they apparently considered sorcerer a delicacy, having swarmed Riff incessantly.

After a morning of more weapons training with Two Elks, Ghile slept like the dead. They set out with dusk and had been trudging along ever since.

The ghostly mist painted everything in its bluish glow, overpowering the dull yellow of the rising sun. Ghile almost wept with relief when Two Elks called for a rest on a wide hillock. With the coming dawn, Daughter Gaidel had permitted a small banked fire. It licked the stuffy morning air. Ghile and Riff huddled nearby, enjoying the reminiscent comfort of its crackling flames more than the resulting heat.

Riff moved among them, mumbling the incantation to draw the moisture from their clothes. It was only a little time later when the four travelers and two mud-covered hounds rested on the dark hillock, surrounded by the mist and ghostly blue waters, the tiny yellow flames of the banked fire flickering between them.

Ghile's boots hung upside down on sticks, as close to the fire as he dared. Though they were dry, he liked the warmth when he pulled them on in the evening. He was still picking at the bones from the last of the fish Gaidel had caught earlier, as he eyed Two Elks.

Two Elks was already asleep, his chest moving in a slow easy rhythm. His arms cradled the stone axe. His kite shield, the sign of a shieldwarden, was laid over him like a turtle's shell. The night's march must have tired him more than Ghile first thought. Normally, they would have worked on weapons training right after eating. Ghile gave thanks for small blessings and quietly made himself comfortable.

Gaidel sat across from him, her legs folded beneath her, eyes closed. She spent most mornings in this state, humming softly to herself as she communed with the All Mother. He listened and noticed, not for the first time, how her humming followed along with the sounds of the fens.

He closed his eyes and felt a dull throbbing in his chest, like a muscle strained by a long day's toil. But it was no muscle, the throb came from the two soulstones embedded deep in the bone, just beneath his skin.

Ever since the other stonechosen, the young girl made of smoke, had appeared in his dreaming, he could sense her direction. He knew he could follow the throb and it would lead him to her. The problem was, it would lead him over any mountain or across any canyon in his path. He could use this strange attraction between the stones to find her, but he couldn't follow it blindly.

He wondered if she could feel the strange 'stonecalling' as well. If so, was she trying to find him? If she was, what would happen when she did? The only other time he'd encountered another stonechosen, the goblin Muk, they'd fought to the death and now the goblin's soulstone resided in Ghile's chest.

“What do you know of our destination?” Ghile asked Riff.

Riff leaned on one elbow, a hand absently held toward the fire. He smirked before answering. “To which do you refer: The Fallen City, the Deepwood, or this Dagbar character?”

Ghile hadn't realized his question was so open ended. Riff had a tendency to make light of most situations and rarely was straightforward in his answers. He would drag his responses out and try to leach every ounce of humor he could from each one. Ghile found it enjoyable in times like these. It was good to have someone to remind him things were only as bad as he wanted to see them.

Riff's mentor, Master Almoriz, the Sorcerer of Whispering Rock, told them they should seek out a tradesman named Dagbar, who lived in a human settlement like the Cradle. Of course, this settlement was on the edge of the Deepwood, forest of the Elves. Ghile knew as much about the Deepwood and the elves as he did Dagbar or the Fallen City.

“One is as good as the other,” Ghile said.

Riff considered for a long time. The sound of Gaidel's soft humming filled the silence.

“Master Almoriz spoke of the Fallen City. It was one of the largest human cities before the Great Purge. I do not know what it was called before then. But, as one of the largest cities, it drew the attention of Daomur himself.

“Master Almoriz said Daomur split the ground asunder with his great hammer, causing the city to collapse inwards. I do not know if it is named for the hubris of the humans who lived there, or for the punishment Daomur inflicted on it for Haurtu's actions,” Riff said.