wyrdstonethenovel

[wyrdstonethenovel]

CH 10: THE BAZAAR

AN: Wyrdstone is a fantasy web series updating every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday here on Tumblr. Wyrdstone is a classic RIVALS FIGHT FOR THE THRONE TM. With magic. And oaths. And gods. And rivalry. And gayz. Did I mention the gayz? Enjoy:

X. THE BAZAAR

“There.” Lero whispered to Cythe, jutting his head towards the alehouse. Nia squinted at the dingy establishment across the busy street, this early in the morning it was hardly open for business. Cythe took a step towards the building and Lero snatched her wrist. His eyes pointed to where the legionnaires lounged in the shade. “You do realize they’ll recognize you as the Legate’s wife, yes?” 

“And they wouldn’t you?” Cythe hiked Tius up on her hip. She gestured kindly to the legionnaires as Titus grabbed for her hair. 

Nia crossed her arms. “Will either of you telling what is going on?” Lero’s jaw tightened in silent warning to their sister. “Fine.” Nia huffed. “Forget it.” Besides, she had other business to attend to. 

Or she did. Several city blocks later, the legionnaires were still trailing them. Nia regretted taking up her sister’s offer to go to the bazaar. She wondered how best she could lose their entourage in the buzzing market. The merchants voice rang out in the early morning, echoing off the walls of the narrow streets. 

“Spices— genuine spices.”

“Salt! Salt!”

“Fish! Freshly caught.”

“Fine silk from Pi-Yenja. Authentic silk smooth enough for a king.”

“Treasures straight from the Dunelands.” Nia slowed at the voice. Her siblings kept walking, disappearing around the corner of the block. Nia hiked up her scarf and ducked her head past a passer-by. A middle aged Ashenian man waved her over from a stall constructed in the alleyway between two houses. Nia turned to make sure the legionnaire’s hadn’t noticed her. The merchant snapped at her ear.

 Nia growled as she faced him. “Merka.” She greeted. 

The Ashenian trader was short, stout, and eternally sunburnt. His red skin peeled around his nose and sweaty neck. Merka rolled four knuckles across the counter. Nia leaned in closer as if to examine a black onyx funerary statue and dropped a few shras on the counter. They disappeared within seconds. Merka’s hand inspected them underneath the counter. “Well caught, raider.”

Her cheeks heated, she was far from the only tomb raider who served Merka and the other treasure dealers of the lower bazaar, but her proximity to the Legate had made her dealings insurmountably dangerous. If Clavo ever found out that she had been undercutting him for years, well, Nia couldn’t bear to stomach the thought. 

But it was a risk worth taking. After four years of crawling, climbing, and squeezing herself through near-death experiences; Nia had traded enough treasure and squirreled away enough coin to start her life elsewhere. If she even knew where ‘elsewhere’ was. 

Nia kept her eyes on the legionnaires as they moved to the next patch of shade. They were still focused on ehr sister, who was now trading compliments with a scarf weaver. “What news?”

“Three diggers left four days ago.”

Nia narrowed her eyes. They must have escaped during the most recent work rotation to the necropolis. “Their path?”

“I’ve been told north, towards Xur.”

Nia scrunched her nose. The path to Xur was treacherous, and the escapees would be Goddess favored to make it there alive. She nodded her head. “Thank you.”

“And my delivery?”

“At the usual spot.” 

With nothing else to say, Merka slipped a her a circular loaf of bread. Nia held up the hollow loaf, shaking it. Her payment would be inside. She walked back across the street, making a show of smelling the fresh loaf. 

“I should report you.” Lero whispered when she caught up to them. 

“You won’t.”

“Under the Legate’s nose. Seriously sister. How stupid are you?”

Cythe looked over from the merchant. “Both of you be pleasant.” 

Her be pleasant? Nia and Lero’s mouths flung open to argue, but Cythe’s quick gesture demanded silence. She pressed a finger to her lips and pointed to the center of the street. Nia followed her hand and flinched as the whip bit into skin. 

Ka-TCH! Ka-TCH!

The legionnaire released the whip again, tearing open another gash. Ka-TCH! Ka-TCH!

The second legionnaire cupped his hands to his mouth. “Attention!” He boomed at the gathered crowd. “For far to long, the kerai have fled into the Dunelands. The Legate has ordered increased patrols along De-Asha’s walls. By the edict of our esteemed Conqueror, any kerai caught will be sentenced to hard labor in De-Urs.”

The bazaar gasped in collective horror. De-Urs had the deadliest quarries in the region. 

“We cannot leave the city?” A woman whispered. 

“They can’t do this.”

“They can.” Lero said evenly. 

“I thought—” Cythe trailed off. 

“The Legate is one of them.” Lero snapped. “You know the law.”

Nia did. The Conqueror had ruled decades ago after the Houses surrendered that any kerai discovered in the aker state would either be enslaved or sentenced to death. Not all who lived in Ker were among the kerai. As the generations passed, fewer children were born with Sachmis’ gift to manifest one’s wyrd into the physical world. Those who felt the undeniable pull of the goddess would confine themselves within their homes or race into the desert. Escaping into the Dunelands had worked, until it hadn’t. Clavo’s father and previous Legate, Crassus Clavo had first ordered the patrols. Swiftly afterwards De-Asha’s kerai population was funneled through the empire in chains. 

Ka-TCH! Ka-TCH!

Nia dug her teeth into her own cheek. The kerai man wailed as the legionnaire continued to whip him. 

Ka-TCH! Ka-TCH!

The overpowering smell of blood hit her nostrils. The need to hunt, to hurt, to kill reared up within her. No! Nia clenched her fist, willing the aker to stay down. Her jaw began to ache. 

Cythe’s hand found her shoulder. “Nia.” She soothed. “Take a deep breath.” 

The whip rose, snapping at the man’s legs. The prisoner rolled onto his back, folding his legs close to his chest. The legionnaire took a step forward, raising the whip. 

The aker thudded against her sternum. “Cythe, I’m scared. I’m going to-”

“No, Nia!” Cythe’s voice hinted at her fear. She pulled her in close. “Nia, you can’t.”

The prisoner ax kicked the legionnaire’s face. The soldier reared back, angrily clenching his bleeding nose. The prisoner rolled onto his feat and half-ran, half-limped through the crowd. 

“Out of the way!” Lero shoved Nia to the ground. Her brother unsheathed their father’s khoshep as he ran. Curved sword in the air, he stuck out his foot in one fluid gesture sending the prisoner stumbling. With military precision, Lero stepped behind the prisoner and held the blade at the reedy man’s throat. The other legionnaire’s hustled over, pushing through the crowd. 

“Good catch, Uro.”

Lero’s face flushed. He pulled back the blade and released the man’s hair. “I’ll leave him to it.”

“Yes sir!” The legionnaires heaved the man to his feet. 

The kerai spat. “You’re a traitor.”

Lero’s face hardened. He marched back to Nia and Cythe. “Let’s go.”

“Run away, Uro.” The scarf merchant snatched back a green scarf that Cythe had been purchasing. “I knew I recognized the two of you. You are the Legate’s whore and you—” she pointed a bony finger at Lero. “Are his lapdog.” 

“Ma’am, go home and stay inside.” 

“And you’ll run back to the Legate.” The woman’s husband snarled. “It is all your House is good for. Well that and spreading your legs.” 

Cythe flushed deep crimson. Lero stepped forward. “Do you think my sister wanted to marry that monster?”

“Lero,” Cythe whispered. “You are creating a scene.”

Their brother turned, noticing how the bazaar patrons noticed their commotion. He scowled. “Return to your homes at once. Heed the warning of the Legate.” 

It was a long and brutal walk back to the compound. Disquiet radiated off of Cythe’s normally sunny face, and Lero’s thunderous anger was better left alone. Nia trailed behind them, concerned at how close the aker had been to breaking free. How many people could she have hurt? 

Lero let out a shuttering breath. “I have to keep our family safe.”

“I know that.” Cythe said. 

“You are his wife. I am his legionnaire. I, we, have to be like them.” 

“But we aren’t.” Nia whispered. 

Lero whipped his head around. “I don’t want to hear you speak after what you almost did. Do you hear me?” 

They lapsed into silence again. The Legate waited for them at the gates of compound. Nia’s footsteps slowed as they approached. “Baba!” Titus wiggled out of Cythe’s grasp. Clavo squinted his eye down at the toddler as he wrapped his tiny arms around his tree trunk of a leg. He folded his enormous arms across his chest. “I heard the three of you took a stroll.”

Cythe’s voice was full of feigned cheerfulness. “Yes. It’s rare my sister is in De-Asha long enough for me to visit with her. You send her on so many assignments love. We went shopping for a new scarf for mother.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Clavo said tonelessly. “There was a commotion in the lower bazaar for my men.” 

“It was contained.” Lero said immediately. 

The Legate narrowed his eyes. “Containing the Kerai is not good enough for the Conqueror.” 

Cythe reached down and pulled up Titus. “And what of your son?”

Clavo scowled. “I have my orders. You know what I would have to do.” Clavo reached out and allowed the toddler to grip his finger. “Get him inside.”

Cythe dropped Titus to the ground and he ran through the gate. Lero nodded his head in deference and followed after them. The Legate stuck his arm out. “Lose control like that again, and your family will not save you.” He threatened. 

Fear pierced her. How close had she come to unleashing the aker that even the Legate had heard? “They’re not your family Clavo.” 

“You forget your place. My son will inherit your House.” He scoffed. “Another expedition leaves to the necropolis in the morning. Get your brother. We ride at dawn.” 

[wyrdstonethenovel]

CH 9: THE PONTUS

AN: Wyrdstone is a serial fantasy series updating every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday here on Tumblr. Wyrdstone is a classic RIVALS FIGHT FOR THE THRONE TM. With magic. And gods. And oaths. And rivals. And gayz. Did I mention the gayz? Enjoy:

IX. THE PONTUS 

Admrilia walked to the Pontus’ bow just as dawn yawned across the horizon. She existed for this calm as the first rays of sunlight reflected off the dark waters of the Semperimar. Here, just as the world awoke she could be alone with her thoughts. Admrilia nodded to the helmsmen, inhaling the sharp salty breeze and threw her hands over the railing. Minutes later, life aboard the Pontus began with military precision. Neptori rose to release the night crew and took their stations along the deck. As visibility improved, Admrilia spotted the rest of their fleet behind them, prepared for another day sailing along the coastline. 

Admrilia too, should get about her duties. She confirmed with Ros, the helmsmen, about their days course. Over the past days, she had dived into helping command the Pontus. She had hoped that if she showed her trustworthiness, the Conqueror would call upon her. He hadn’t. The Conqueror had grown accustomed to secluding himself inside his tent with his council. He had left her and Asho up to their own devices. Admrilia rarely saw her cousin. He spent his days in the sails, watching the waves or dozing. Once she had ran into him in the kitchen, hand in a bag of dates while the groggy cook wasn’t looking. The prince had merely raised an eyebrow at her, mid-chew. 

Admrilia broke her fast, and spent the afternoon training with Flavius and Alexandros under the guidance of the conqueror’s centori. Their instructor, Tygris Gaius Agrippa, was unusually young for the post. Only in his thirties, but he was ruthless in his command of the legionnaires stationed on the Pontus through their exercises. He barked out the various attacks and blocks, Admrilia took refuge in the movements. She normally preferred the spear and nets assigned to neptori, but she knew she would have to strengthen her proficiency with a gladius. The Silver Islands had taught her that. 

When Tygris dismissed them, Admrilia took her sore muscles back to her small cabin. She spent her nights reading up on the complicated entanglements of the Empire. Admrilia shuddered at the thought of not having a response if the Conqueror called upon her. If every action taken in the next year was cumulative in his decision, then there were only one steadfast direction forward. 

The days slid into a week. The first neptor abandoned the coastline for the open sea. Admrilia grew eager for their first stop at Thrysne Island to pay homage to the Stormlord before they headed to Sugia Territory. She ran laps around the trireme, trained underneath centori Tygris and his men, and waited outside the Conqueror’s tent, hands clasped behind her back, waiting for the call. 

Admrilia was unsure what had awakened her, but the dream had left her cold and breathless. The premonition fading from her consciousness as quickly as it had formed. She rubbed against her chest, forcing herself to breath. Admrilia got dressed. She pushed past the sleepy oarsmen to the main deck, expecting solace at the bow. 

Asho laid with his back on the deck, hands in his unruly hair. He tilted his head over as she approached. “Admrilia?” 

“What are you doing out here?” 

“Stargazing.” He said as if it was obvious. 

“Oh.” Admrilia’s feet slid backwards. “I won’t intrude.”

“No.” Asho patted the deck. “Join me.”

Admrilia sighed and lowered herself down on the cold planks. She gazed up at the midnight sky. It wasn’t particularly impressive, the little anklets of light as inspiring as the freckles on Asho’s face. Asho’s eyes darted over. “There’s the Tyrysian stag.” Asho pointed to a square collection of stars to the north. “The hunter, he’s over there, kills it and gives it to the Maiden.” Admrilia muttered something incoherent that he mistook for permission to continue. “Over there is the crab.” Asho’s toe snatched towards her achilles. 

Admrilia curled back her toes. “Don’t.” She warned. “So you really do this to entertain yourself?”

“Yes.” 

“Gods below, I never knew you could be so boring.” Admrilia blew away her hair. 

Asho grew quiet. “They remind me of my father.”

Ashen. Admrilia’s face grew uncharacteristically hot. “Oh.” 

Asho pushed himself to his feet. He wasn’t looking at her. “I’m sorry to bother you. I should go get some sleep.”

Admrilia grunted a noncommittal “no, don’t,” as he turned. She sat up, but Asho was already stalking back towards the sails. 

[wyrdstonethenovel]

8. The Fourth Triumph

AN: Wyrdstone is a serial fantasy novel updating every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Wyrdstone is a classic RIVALS FIGHT FOR THE THRONE featuring magic, and oaths, and Gods, and romance, and did I mention the gayz? Enjoy:

VIII. THE FOURTH TRIUMPH 

Asho broiled inside his breastplate as the priestess approached. The timeworn hand smeared black and goopy mourning ashes across his lips in a thick vertical line. Then, from outside the temple complex, the low dirge of war horns. The silver-haired priestess stepped aside. Asho bowed before the shrine of Thrysne the Stormlord. He gazed up at the chiseled marble in all of it’s masculine glory. His god wilded a copper trident high above his head that brushed the temple’s ceiling. His other hand pointed outwards towards the continent. 

Asho turned, marching down the altar steps. Near the doors his uncle and cousin stood at attention near the war chariot. Uncle Hortus’s helm, an impressive plume of blue feathers obscured his face. Admrilia rocked from heel to sole, her grasp tight on her spear. Her neptori armor had been furiously polished, her appearance carefully cultivated to be as menacing as possible. Lips coated with thick ash paste, sharp black eyes outlined with kohl, raven hair coaxed to spill over her left shoulder in a braid fastened with leather barbs. 

Admrilia’s eyes were hardened: like the Conqueror’s; like the Stormlord’s. Asho prodded to find any stress from their shared oath pressing down her shoulders, at the creases of her mouth, along the ridges of her forehead, and found none. Admrilia was as quiet and unsettling as before a hurricane. 

Asho’s fingers rolled slowly around the handle of his spear. His whole body rumbled with poorly contained excitement. Asho scrunched his features and narrowed his ocean eyes. He exhaled slowly. Everything beneath the stars and above the waves was his. Emboldened, he moved for the chariot. 

A hand pressed against his back. It was his mother, donned in a deep purple stolla. Taj’s blonde hair was pinned back in place by ivory clips. She looked better today, more put together. 

“Mother, you look lovely.”

“And you are grown.” Her blue eyes watered. “Oh my son! Promise me you’ll be careful.” 

Asho flushed deep crimson as she cupped his cheek. “Mother,” he hissed. 

Taj released him and pretended to wipe dust off his shoulder. “Please, Asho.”

“I will come home. I promise.” Asho said softly. 

His mother took a steadying breath. She looked around the crowd flustered, before waving to his aunt and cousins. Raja-Kai’s face tightened as Taj and Varius found their places near them. 

Admrilia had already moved to the left of the war chariot. Asho sped walked to the right of the massive basket. He took in the crowd of dashing servants as they sprinted to fulfill last minute duties. Without turning to Admrilia he whispered. “Are you ready for today?”

“My whole life.”

Asho tightened his grip on his spear. “Me too.”

They lapsed into silence until the Conqueror arrived. Atesh Ayuan Ashiphiex was dressed for war. His heavy ceremonial armor molded to his torso like a second skin. A purple cap hugged his shoulders and partially obscured the crusted hilt of his gladius. He strove towards the war chariot with the confidence of a thousand armies. Thick black ash painted across his ever unimpressed lips. 

General Hortus stepped forward and removed his helm. He lowered to hiss his father’s knuckles. Once he had risen, the Conqueror did something that Asho had never seen him do. He smiled. 

The Conqueror never smiled. In that moment, Asho understood why. The expression loosened his piercing jaw, lifted the creases around his mouth, the godliness of his pupils retreated. The expression did not make him appear warm exactly, but it did make the Conqueror mortal. Dangerous, but mortal. 

Asho’s hand tightened around his spear, wishing he would stop. 

The Emperor extended his arms out to the crowd. Knees hit the marble, fists cast overhead. “Dawn marks the fiftieth anniversary of my conquest.” The Conqueror boomed. “The flesh and blood of the Stormlord, I left Aegtrys an ambitious soldier and returned with Ker secured for our nation’s glory. As a people, we have ushered in a great peace unlike any in our history!

“No child starves. Our children become educated and our merchants fatten from the continent. Our legions and neptori uphold our customs and laws in every corner of the Empire. And with each territory gained, the power of the Stormlord grows in the hearts of men. As Ashenians, we have risen from mere islanders to a nation of merchants, of voyagers, of statesmen, and of champions. As a people it is our right to rule the Conquered according to our own pleasure!”

The prince lifted his chin. This was the Conqueror he was familiar with. “Today begins my fourth Triumph. It will be the first of which my two remaining heirs, prince Asho Atesh Ashiphiex and princess Admrilia Hortus Ashiphiex, the Argenti, shall take part. But it will not be their last. My successor will continue our great tradition of conquest. Land will continue to be seized, cities will bend, peoples will surrender, until everything from the sea to the stars is our great peoples. May the Stormlord bring us prosperity!”

The Conqueror bowed low to the statue of the Stormlord. “I, Atesh Ayuan Ashiphiex, first citizen of the Ashenian people, Conqueror of Ker, son of your blood hereby beseech you, Thrysne the Stormlord to bless the Triumph. To remember those who had been lost in our quest, to aid us in our time of need, and to guide us in our path for your glory.”

The Conqueror finished the prayer of departure and stood. Asho followed the Conqueror into the basket of the war chariot. Admrilia placed her hands on two of the horse’s reins and Asho grabbed the other set. His blood pounded thunderously. Being so close to the Conqueror, he could sense the wyrdstone beneath his breastplate and all of its fierce promises. 

The massive cedar doors were opened by a team of twelve men. The rest of the processional was already in position on the porch of the temple complex. At the sight of them, musicians blew into their conch shells. The war horns sounded. The drummers tempo swelled into a marching beat. 

They entered the crowded streets. The standard bearers led the procession; waving purple banners of the Ashenian Falcon. At the front the first legion marched in orderly columns, passing out gafs of grain and fruit to the awaiting citizens. Soldiers handed wooden gladius’ to the well dressed boys who had been pushed to the front of the crowds by their families. Girls were gifted carved flutes of flowers. Asho beamed at the sight of the spoils. 

Behind the soldiers were neptori, and then the captured prisoners from Ker, Pi-Yenja, and Thrys. The Triumph prisoners were pelted with fish guts by the booing masses. 

In front of the war chariot, General Hortus rode on a massive chestnut warhorse bearing the Conqueror’s standard. Asho darted a glance behind them to the rest of the procession. Behind their chariot was the remainder of the royal family being carried on liters; his mother and cousin’s. Then rode the Conqueror’s council, proudly leading the Senators. 

Beneath the leather padding of his legionnaire helmet, the prince was grinning ear to ear. He reveled in the veneration. It was intoxicating. In that moment he swore to himself to gather every star; to conquer every territory. To shower prosperity amongst his people, just as the Conqueror before him. Asho lifted his spear and drowned in pure ecstasy as Aegtrys screamed his name. 

“Remember you are mortal.”

Asho furrowed his brow, but Admrilia was whisperering to the Conqueror. 

“Only a man who lived a life unfulfilled fears death.” The Conqueror waved out to scores of poor children as they elbowed each other for the flying coin. 

Hours later, they arrived back at the agora. Centori formed a human shield against the masses. Hortus dismounted his massive warhorse and handed his standard to an attendant. The Conqueror stepped out of his basket and addressed the public. “I seek our people’s glory once again during the Triumph. In my year absence, my son, Hortus Atesh Ashiphiex will serve as regent over the Senate until my return.” 

His uncle lowered his head and kissed the Conqueror's knuckles. “For my duty is to the Ashenian people, I accept this post.” So quietly Asho barely heard him, Hortus said. “Safe travels father.”

The Conqueror waved him off. Asho turned around, catching sight of his mother’s distraught face. Taj’s eyes met his, her mouth forming three words. 

Asho repeated the phrase. He startled as the Conqueror stepped back into the basket and ordered them towards the harbor. He turned around, his stomach clenching in uncertainty. How long before he saw his mother again? They arrived at the harbor an hour later. The seven massive warships of the first neptor awaiting their arrival. Asho coaxed the exhausted horses across the busy gangplank of the Conqueror's trireme. The Conqueror finally dismissed them, hastening with his advisors to a large tent that had been erected near the rear of the ship. Asho walked towards the massive purple sails as the final preparations were made. When the Pontus hoisted sail that evening, the last thing Asho saw of home was the island’s dazzling white cliffs.

[wyrdstonethenovel]

CH 6: The Legate

AN: Wyrdstone is an online serial fantasy novel that updates every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday here on Tumblr. Wyrdstone is a good old fashioned FIGHT FOR THE THRONE TM. With Magic. And Oaths. And Gods. And Swords. And Gays. Did I mention the gays?

And also this guy ^ Prepare to meet one of our villains. Enjoy:

CH 6: THE LEGATE 

Titus Crassus Clavo peered one bloodshot eye into the crate and scoffed. “You are gone three weeks, and all you bring me is coin?”

Nia had more than coin. But then the crates had flown from Ajaxi’s back from Peddler’s disappearance. She had spent half the morning bidding with one hand up and down the hillside, only to recover nothing. So, with only the lamp and dagger, neither of which Nia had any plan on turning over to the Legate, she had been forced to return empty handed. And then dig into her personal stash to pay off the Legate. 

“Not every dig is a cave of wonders.”

“I don’t need lip from you, Uro.” Clavo’s pale blue iris darted up. “Might I remind you that the Triumph is quickly approaching.” 

How could she forget? “Surely there is enough here to pay the tribute.” Nia waved her right arm around the storeroom and its meticulously categorized piles. Chariots, armor, weapons, furniture, gold, coin, statues; the crates were stacked to the vaulted ceilings. The storerooms held more tribute than the Conqueror and his legion could ever haul back to Aegtrys. 

Clavo held up a golden shra. “The Conqueror is a god among men. His taste is not,” he rolled the coin between his fingers. “Of this earth.” 

The Legate dropped the coin and pulled a scroll from his side. He held it out, pointedly ignoring her lacerated hand. Nia’s right hand tightened around the expensive paper, gut clenching as she pried against the wax falcon with her nail. She rolled open the demand, eyes adjusting to the blocky sheni script. “What does this even mean?”

“The lot of you are illiterate swine.” Clavo snatched back the papyrus. “This is the Conqueror’s official demands. Nothing I did not anticipate. More enlistment for the legion, further restrictions on the kerai laborers. Parades, feasts, ceremonies for his impending arrival. And that doesn’t even begin to cover the city’s tribute—” Clavo shot her a filthy glare. Nia remised, just for a moment, the grave goods in Peddler’s tomb. “The Conqueror has additionally requested the region’s Houses to assemble in De-Asha.”

“Why would he not want to go to Ash-Kai?” Nia asked, startled the Conqueror would opt out of holding court in the territory’s capital. 

“I am not privy to the mind of the Emperor.” Clavo hissed. “I’ve asked my father but I’ve gotten no response.” Ah yes, Clavo’s father, Crassus Ferro Clavo, was the Conqueror’s ambassador to Ker and even crueler than his son. If that was even possible. “The Conqueror,” Clavo read on. “Has ordered a chariot race to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of his conquest. Each House will produce two champions—”

“Wait? What?”

Clavo looked up from the papyrus. “Each House,” he drawled. “Will produce two champions. The Conqueror, meanwhile, will supply his own.” 

Nia couldn’t help it. She was exhausted and angry at the Peddler. Angry at returning empty handed. Furious that she had spent a week being duped by a spirit, only for her one chance of freedom to slip through her fingers. Indignant at Clavo speaking to her as if she was a dull child. Her palm and body ached. Nia’s temper flared dangerously hot. “Well what’s your brilliant plan? Shall you strap little Titus to a basket, or should you select my sister?”

“My wife could not stay atop a pack mule to save her life.” Clavo grunted. “And as Legate, it would be inappropriate for me to do so. You and your brother will represent this House before the Emperor.” 

“Oh, what an honor.” Nia muttered sarcastically under her breath. 

“It is.” 

Nia sighed. “And if I refuse?” 

Clavo reached up past his square jaw and twice broken nose. He used his ringed fingers to flick up the patch. His dead eye twitched. “We both know you can’t.” He sneered. “Now get out.” 

Nia stormed out from the underground storerooms. She shook with poorly repressed rage. Of course Clavo wouldn’t select some of his lieutenants for the race? Of course her family would be shamed further publicly. She shouldn’t have come back. She should have taken her chances and fled north with Ajaxi. The Peddler’s face flashed in her mind as Nia sidestepped a legionnaire entering the compound. 

At one point, the impressive limestone halls had been the House of the Doorway’s seat of power. It had hosted travelers, foreigners,diplomats and royalty from all corners of the known world. It had been a beacon for navigators and merchants alike. The fortress had been a stronghold for the Kingdom of Ker. Now, it was home to the Ninth Legion. 

Her family was housed in the eastern wing of the main house. Tired, Nia did not bother knocking as she slid into Baset-Uro’s rooms. Baset’s head swung up from her reading. Her lips pursed. “I was told you lived.”

“I had to talk to the Legate.” Nia said tiredly. 

“Report to him more like.” Cythe muttered, bouncing Titus on her lap. “That’s right. Had to go report to Baba.” Nia scrunched her nose at her half-sister. Cythe shrugged and released the toddler. He squirmed away from her, taking unbalanced steps across the rug towards Baset. Cythe stood. “It’s been three weeks Nia.” Her almond eyes softened. “I nearly went after you.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Cythe meant well, but her sister hardly ever left the compound, much less had gone into the Dunelands. Nia doubted her sister had ever left the city alone. “You know I was fine.” Nia offered a grim smile as Cythe embraced her. Her sister was all soft skin and wide curves, beautiful and poised in all the ways Nia wasn’t. Besides the shared amber eyes of their father, they looked nothing alike. Nia was all hard edged and lean, her body honed from long hours in the saddle. 

“And?” Baset insisted. Her stepmother leaned forward. While Baset’s skin was unmarked and free from the strain of a laborious life, her face was constantly pinched in worry. 

“The Triumph demands arrived.”

“Of course they did.” Baset bit her lip. 

The door opened and the three woman swiveled their heads. It was only Lero. Nia’s half-brother may had only been two years older, but the gap between them had always seemed wider. He entered the room back straight, his black hair cropped short to his scalp just like the Ashenians kept it. Nia was struck by just how much he looked like their father. Expect their father did not wear Ashenian armor.” 

“The Legate’s in a mood.” Lero greeted. He was a good head taller than Nia, and he stared down at her now, crossing his arms. “What did you do? Did you get him nothing?” 

Nia massaged her neck. “Gold shras are not nothing.” 

“You were gone for a month and you brought him coin!” Cythe’s mouth formed into a small ‘o’ at their brother’s ire. “Were you trying to incur his wrath?”

“Of course not.” Nia said. 

“His rage should not be trifled with. I thought of all people you would understand that.”

“Quiet, brother.” Cythe interjected. Their sister was always the peacekeeper. Cythe grabbed Nia’s wrist and held it up, examining her bandaged palm. “This is what we should be concerned with.” Cythe peeled back the bloodied bandage. Her eyebrows rose into her braided hair. “Nia! What did you do?”

Nia’s cheeks grew in as Baset and Lero leaned in. “I fell.”

Lero huffed at the obvious lie. Cythe shot him a look of annoyance. “Lero, please.”

“She didn’t fall.” Lero said, pointing to her palm. “She was cut. Were you robbed?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There is no one else out there.”

“Except for the laborers, and the slavers, and the odd mercenary.” Lero’s hand rested at the khoshep at his side. “Any one of those people could hurt you.”

“And no one does.” Nia said. She was in no mood to tell her brother how she incurred the wrath of a tomb spirit. “But it does hurt horribly.”

“We need to get it cleaned up before you lose the hand.” Cythe said. “Come on, you can tell us who robbed you when you are good and ready.” 

It was well past midnight when Cythe packed up her kit and bid her goodnight. Nia cradled her stitched palm, freshly bandaged and slathered with salve, close to her chest. She let out a huff, leaning back on her narrow bed. Her bedroom was intentionally bare. Her bed rested against one wall, closest to the window overlooking the central courtyard. A chest filled with nothing important but her garments and perfumes sat at its feet. A frayed rug covered the stone floor, the only note of color in the otherwise beige space. 

Nia stood, moving towards her satchel. Time to unpack before the legionnaires found another reason to search her rooms. She checked the hallway for the odd guard before easing her bedroom door closed. Moving her heavy bed was a struggle with one hand. She had an even harder time releasing the stone tile beneath the rug. She pried off the lid to the shallow cubby. It was now home to her three most headache inducing possessions; the dagger; the Peddler’s lamp, and her map. 

She grabbed the master map and unfurled it across the floor. The map was one of the few remaining that had survived the Conqueror’s plundering. De-Asha’s libraries had gone up in smoke. All letters or maps that could have led back to Aker-San had been confiscated or destroyed. The navigator guilds who had been paid to guide travelers on the treacherous journey across the Dunelands had been rounded up and slaughtered in the streets. 

The map was on ancient vellum and took up half the length of her bed. Nia pressed down on the corners of the map to prevent them from rolling inward. Over the next hour she transferred the additions from her trip onto the master map. She estimated where the old trade route she had been following died. She approximated the location of the Peddler’s tomb. 

Nia sat back on her haunches and evaluated her work. A scar of ugly ‘X’s crossed off lost villages, burnt guard towers, and sunken wells. All the hazards across an ocean of sand. Her fingers extended to a small dot nearest to the Skytops, northwest past the necropolis. The smudge indicated it was a structure. “I’ll go during my next dig.” She reasoned. 

Curse the Peddler, she would find her way to freedom. 

[wyrdstonethenovel]

CH 7: Ashenian Mercy

AN: Wyrdstone is a serial fantasy novel updating every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday here on Tumblr. Wyrdstone is a classic RIVALS FIGHT FOR THE THRONE TM. With Magic. And Oaths. And Gods. And gayz. Did I mention the gayz? Enjoy:

CH 7 ASHENIAN MERCY

Dusk had sulked into evening. Admrilia exhaled slowly through her nostrils. Tonight, the arena was packed from the floor to the rafters with nearly every sole in Aegtrys. Anyone who was anyone was in attendance march of mercy. It was the last event after a long week of festivals, parades, feasts, and hippodrome races before the Triumph officially left Aegtrys in the morning. 

Admrilia was seated at the very front of the Emperor’s box to the Conqueror’s left. Asho, at his right in his legionnaire uniform. The Conqueror himself dressed in his full regalia. Admrilia herself had donned her ceremonial neptori armor, her hair carefully woven through a circuit of silver. 

Admrilia’s jaw was tight as the trapdoors below the arena were opened, and a long line of shackled prisoners were walked out onto the packed earth by the palace’s centori. The arena roared with disapproval. Lilee squealed behind her. She heard her mother’s hush. Admrilia’s mouth formed a thin line. Her younger sisters should not be watching this, but they would have to learn sooner or later the traditions of the Empire. 

The prisoners were lined up in front of the Emperor’s box. There were perhaps fifty men in total, ranging in all ages and races. Their heads had been shaven, their shoulders bear. Admrilia’s dark eyes found Culus Caestus. The pirate king was staring right at her, his expression murderous. In the weeks he had been in her family’s villa, every look in her direction had been promising vengeance. 

The Conqueror stood. “In accordance to our god, it is time for one of our more somber traditions. As the Stormlord himself chose mercy over his siblings, we too, must see the value of life. May you prisoners find the mercy of your captors.” 

The procedure was simple. An announcer would introduce the prisoner, state to which general or senator he belonged, and belittle him in front of the jeering crowd. His crimes would be cataloged. Then it would be up to the prisoner’s master to determine if he would be granted Ashenian Mercy, or if he would die. It was tradition that most prisoners were kept alive for a decade, forced to denigrate themselves at the feet of their captors. Other prisoners, perhaps those who had proven their use to the Empire were spared for decades. 

Either way, they would be dreading this night for years on whether they would live or die. 

The first prisoner was dragged forward, an ancient man of perhaps eighty, who was a servant of a Tadius senator. He was spared.Culus’ eyes did not leave her as the next ten prisoners were brought forward. Those who were spared fell to their knees crying with relief. Those who were not were quickly met with a centori’s spear. 

Her sisters were crying behind her. Little Hora sobbed. Admrilia tightened her fists. Soon Culus would be dragged forward and she would be expected to spare him, just as tradition dictated. Just as the Conqueror would like…

Expect Culus could still betray her. The pirate king may not be able to talk, but he could still write. He could ruin her if he told the truth of how she had won the pirate islands. Her conduct would get her titles stripped, her honored revoked, and the Empire handed over to Asho. 

Culus was pushed forward. “Behold! Culus Caestus, triumph prisoner of the renowned Argenti, Admrilia Hortus Ashiphiex. Newly captured during the blockade of the rebellious silver islands. Caestus is responsible for years of pirating and looting Ashenian merchant vessels, overthrowing the empire’s magistrates, and instigating a rebellion from the Ashenian Empire.”

The stands roared at Caestus’ treason. They called for his death. 

She had a duty, a duty to the Empire. 

“Culus Caestus, may the Stormlord grand your mercy. Argenti, will he be spared?”

Admrilia realized that it was the second time the Centori had asked her. The Conqueror turned. “Argenti?” He asked darkly. “What say you?”

“I-” Her thoughts raced to a sharp, dark clarity. She turned to face the Conqueror's weathered face. It was clear. Culus Caestus was not a threat to the Empire. He was a threat to her. 

And he had to die. 

Admrilia fought to keep her voice neutral as she thrust her palm downward. “We grant no mercy. This prisoner dies.”

Culus’ mouth opened, his tongue failing for worm words as the centori stepped forward. But his hands moved swiftly, his fingers rapidly forming signs:

T R A 

The centori’s spear pierced flesh, and the pirate king fell. 

[wyrdstonethenovel]

WYRDSTONE the novel updates every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday here on Tumblr.

[wyrdstonethenovel]

CH 5. Behind Closed Doors

AN: Wyrdstone is a fantasy serial novel updating every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday here on Tumblr. Wyrdstone is a classic FIGHT FOR THE THRONE TM story. With magic. And oaths. And gods. And dumbass princes. And gayz. Did I mention the gayz? Enjoy:

CH 5 BEHIND CLOSED DOORS 

The moon hid behind the rain clouds as Asho slunk through the courtyard. Varius’ lips narrowed as he approached. “Master.” The old centori greeted. “You have guests.”

Asho pulled up short. “Guests?”

“In the study.” Varius stepped aside and allowed Asho into the threshold of his family’s villa. Ghostlike shadows reflected off the pool and up the doric columns of the atrium. Asho circumnavigated the rectangular room as his family’s centori watched him. His household has moved around him like a rock in a stream ever since he returned to Aegtrys two summers ago. It suited Asho better this way, allowing him to come and go as he pleased.

His stomach grumbled down the private wing of the villa. Light peaked from underneath the doorway of the study. Asho nudged open the cracked door. His uncle noticed him first. “At last the prince gifts us with his presence.”

Asho slid into the study. “Uncle Perimar?” He froze at who sat behind his father’s cedar desk. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Is that any way to address the Emperor?”

“Senator, please.” The Conqueror held up his hand. Asho quickly hissed it. “If you would be so kind as to have your servants bring us some refreshments?”

Asho then noticed his mother slunk back against the bookcase. “Oh, of course.” Asho frowned at the smeared kohl that ran down her cheeks to her irritated nose. Her braid had come undone, and clumps of golden hair struck out in every direction. 

“Is everything ok?” 

Taj Perimar frowned. Her birdlike hand quickly dabbed at her eyelid. “I’m quite alright son.” 

He wanted to say that she did not look fine. After she left, Asho rounded on his uncle. “What upset her?”

Trajan Perimar’s eyes lit at the opening. “You did.” From his robes he produced a thick booklet and smacked it with finality down on the desk. 

“Sit.” The Emperor commanded. “Your uncle has a matter of great urgency that he wishes to discuss. 

Asho sat. Perimar’s bony finger’s flipped the cover of the Firefayer’s logbook. “This!” Trajan began. “Is a.” cough. “Matter of” cough. “Empire.” cough. “Imagine my immediate concern when-” 

“Uncle, would you care for some water?” Asho’s mother had returned with a servant carrying a pitcher. 

“Why thank you!” Perimar waited for the servant to provide them glasses and slip out of the room. “I discovered, quite by accident, that the Firefayer,” cough. “My personal vessel had been used for, for, for—” Perimar wheezed for air. “A pleasure barge for months! Against my knowledge and trust you took a senator’s ship, threw elaborate youthful foolery and brought.” The blood vessels in Perimar’s forehead looked about ready to pop. “Woman beneath your station on board. Nothing more than commonplace—”

“That’s enough Senator.” The Conqueror interrupted. “Your niece does not to hear the details.”

“Quiet right! Why imagine my surprise when my nephew.” Perimar descended into another violent round of coughing. “Who had been telling me for months that he was being stationed as a neptori.” cough. “An honorable position! Was instead doing this, this, self indulgent debauchery on state funds!”

Asho squirmed in his seat as the senator pointed to the ship’s log. “And I only found out when the Livia family requested an audience with me. Why would such a lowly family need to speak to me? I am a busy man. Imagine the shame upon the Perimar name, not to mention that the royal crown, when I learned that my nephew had deflowered not one, but two of their daughters!” 

Asho wanted very much to simply die. Yes, death would be much kinder than hearing his uncle say ‘deflower.’

Perimar wheezed. “So then!” Perimar reached for his water cup. “There was nothing else to do but BRIBE THE LIVIA FAMILY SO WE DON’T CREATE AN INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT AND DESTROY A TREATY BECAUSE THE PRINCE COULD NOT RESPECT HIS BETROTHED!” 

Perimar crossed his arms, his face red. The senator turned towards the Emperor expectantly. The Conqueror had remained silent during the entire flagellation, his gaze digging into his grandson. “Treasuer Perimar is entirely correct.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.”

“And the Perimar family will be compensated for any damages done to the Firefayer and the cost of reestablishing crew.”

‘Wait!” Asho sat upright. “What about my crew?”

“The Firefayer’s neptori will be dismissed from their post.” The Conqueror said. “They will be ineligible to return to service.”

“But this was my idea.”

“The Empire needs men who do not give into their base desires. Senator Perimar.” He continued, talking over Asho’s objections. “I am to trust you with your dismissal.”

“It will be done at once.”

“Excellent. Now, you are dismissed.”

“Your Majesty?” Perimar looked as if he had just been ejected a front row seat at the colosseum, and he was very much looking forward to Asho getting eaten alive. 

“I think you for bringing this urgent matter to our attention. I will now speak to the prince alone.”

Perimar nearly slumped. “Of course.”

“If your niece would be kind enough to see you out?” The Conqueror asked. Taj Perimar got the hint and helped her elderly uncle out of his chair. Uncle Perimar kissed the Conqueror’s knuckles, grabbed his ledger, and gave Asho a caustic look on his way out. 

“Do you know why we give the public bread and games?”

“Because we are benevolent?” Asho ventured. 

“No.” The Conqueror shook his head. “Power is far from benevolent. We give the people bread and games and conduct the Triumph every ten years because it is a honied trap. There is nothing wrong with food or entertainment in moderation. Recreation makes life enjoyable. But the obsession with these distractions leads men to sell themselves for their carnal needs. Twenty-four jugs of wine, five roasted pigs, seven dancers, sixteen acrobats, fourteen crates of dates, and twenty, well.” The Conqueror ran a finger down the ship’s log. “You degrade yourself.”

After a drawn out moment it was clear he was expected to say something. “I’ve disappointed you.” Asho said. 

“You betray yourself.” The Conqueror said flatly. “I had hoped that your time in the north would sharpen you. But you have softened, while your cousin has steeled herself. So I suggest, as my second heir, you forge yourself quickly.” 

“Does this mean I’m still going on the Triumph.” 

“Yes. Despite this, unfortunate, lapse of judgment.” The Conqueror frowned. “You will still be married when we arrive to Pi-Yenja. I will find value for you in this empire. Weather it is as a foreign consort or as my successor is up to you to decide.” The Conqueror rose and opened the study door. His mother was waiting in the hallway. The Conqueror nodded in her direction. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Of course Conqueror.” 

The Emperor left with his centori trailing him. Taj Perimar entered the study, wiping her nose. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine mother.”

“It is only natural for a mother to worry.” Taj patted his hand and motioned to the door. 

Asho overlooked the dustless room and sighed. “I’m still going on the Triumph. But i will return to you. I promise.” 

Raj glanced up from where she was rearranging the seashells from where the senator has disturbed them back into an orderly row. “Your father said that to me as well.” 

“Mother—”

“Asho.” Her mother beckoned. “Come. I need to lock up.” She blew out the candles. In the hallway, Taj pulled the key from her neck and slipped it in the lock, closing the study. “There.” She whispered, satisfied. “Goodnight, my son.”

“Goodnight.” Asho watched her shuffle down the hallway. He ran his hand along the locked handle, fingers brushing against the grooves of the door. 

Asho’s feet led him to the kitchen. He startled the cook awake. He gave the cook a strained smile as she asked about his day. Asho could hardly tell the woman how he had angered the Conqueror. The cook’s mouth was tight as she handed him bread, cheese, and grapes wrapped in a cloth. 

Asho continued to the middle courtyard, easing himself down on a bench as the clouds broke. He unfolded his dinner. “It’s getting closer.” Asho whispered, the nervous excitement hooking around his chest. He didn’t know if he was filled more with relief of dread that the Conqueror was still taking him. Relief, that he had not destroyed his entire future, but dread that he still had a year where he could endlessly mess up. At the very least, he could not wait to go back on the continent, to go North. To reunite with the Ironsides, who had made him feel more whole and home than he had ever felt in Aegtrys. 

He wondered about his own mother, knowing that Taj would not be joining them on the Triumph. Would she spend every night for the next year in the study, whispering his name, praying he would return? 

[wyrdstonethenovel]

Ch 4. The Peddler

AN: Wyrdstone is a serial fantasy novel publishing right here on Tumblr every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Wyrdstone is a good old fashioned FIGHT FOR THE THRONE TM. With magic. And oaths. And gayz. Did I mention the gayz? Enjoy:

CH 4: THE PEDDLER 

The sun continued its beating as they trekked east. The Peddler was slumped over in Ajaxi’s saddle, muttering in his sleep. Nia had spent the first hour of the afternoon listening intensely to his half-dreams: his wife, pregnant; his city, under attach; before growing sullen and bored. Nia cautioned Peddler an assessing once over. His cap had slid to reveal a sunburnt and blistering scalp. Careful not to wake him, Nia lifted the brim of his cap and peered at his face. His eyes were pinched closed, his cheeks were gaunt, his lips cracked and bleeding. Her stomach pitched as she let go. Threats aside, Nia needed to get the Peddler back to De-Asha so he could fulfill his end of their bargain. Maybe then she could finally stick it to the Legate, navigate the Dunelands, and be free once and for all. 

Nia spotted the outcropping a little after dusk. The sandstone boulders were enclosed on one side by a half crumbled defensive wall. Raiders or merchants had once used the natural cave for shelter, but it had long been abandoned by the time Nia had stumbled upon it. It wasn’t much, but between the large swath of desert between them and the nearest abandoned village, it would have to do. 

THUD. 

Nia nearly jumped out of her skin. She whipped her head around. The Peddler had rolled unceremoniously off of Ajaxi. She breathed a sigh of relief as the Peddler crawled onto his hands and knees into the cave. “There should be a spring against the back wall.” The echoing gulps confirmed her suspicions. 

Relieved, she set Peddler to refilling the waterskins and dug around in her pack for something to eat. She found a half-eaten pear and some cheese. His flesh was ice cold as he accepted the offering. “Thank you.” He slurred. 

Nia left him and moved to the mouth of the cave. She fed Ajaxi and stared out into the Dunelands as she brushed his coat. She considered their possession. They still had days ahead of them. How long— 

Nia grimaced as the aker slammed against her ribs. “Stop it!” She hissed. Her eyes slid to Peddler. He was already slumped over. Thank the Goddess for that small mercy. The aker’s next hit robbed her of breath. Her palm flung against her shivering chest as she fell to her knees. She had been well and truly stupid to try to starve off the monster for as many nights as she had. She flattened her hands against her sternum as if she could shove the beast back inside. “Goddess please,” she half-sobbed as the aker rammed again. Each hit brought the cave’s floor in and out of focus with royal red sand. The sky grew black overhead. Nia panicked at being pulled back into the Tuat so quickly. 

If she was here, that meant the aker was…

A hot wave of vertigo sent vomit up her throat past razor sharp teeth breaking through bleeding gums. 

She had to hurry. 

Nia threw her shirt overhead and tore off her pants. She half ran, half tripped into the desert. Her feet had just crested the dune when the aker broke free. 

Nia-Uro woke to the smell of burning flesh. Fogginess hung over her thoughts as she rolled over. Her first thought was that everything hurt. Her second, much worse, realization was that her pants and shirt were folded neatly next to her naked body. Nia’s cheeks flamed as she dressed quickly. She followed her nose to the mouth of the cave. 

The Peddler sat back on his haunches nursing a bushfire. “Morning raider!”

“Morning.” Nia echoed. She eased herself down across from him. 

The Peddler pointed to her arm. Nia followed his gaze to the three scabbing gashes that ran along her left forearm and up her elbow. Nia raised an eyebrow at the mound, no memory surfacing as to how she acquired it. Peddler turned his makeshift spigot. “I’m guessing the hyena didn’t go down without a fight?”

So that was the smell. Nia’s fingers ran along the ridges of the tender cuts. “What are you doing?”

“Curing the meat you unceremoniously dumped on our doorstep.” The Peddler flipped another flank over the coals. “You may be a thief, but would it have killed you to have done a cleaner kill?” 

“Uh huh.” Nia moved to her bags to find something to dress the wound. 

“I woke up to the poor animal with blood pooling from its neck.” 

Nia fished around for some linen. “Lazy on my part.”

She missed Peddler crossing his arms. “It’s almost like you took it out with your teeth.”

Nia made a choking sound. She turned, the Peddler assessed her with his strange kaleidoscopic eyes. “You’re kerai, aren’t you? What’s your aker?”Nia’s silence was admission enough. She drove her focus into bandaging her forearm. Which was difficult to do one handed, and she refused to ask the Peddler for his help. He watched her struggle for a moment, his eyes glinting. “Come now, it has to be something with teeth.”

Nia’s jaw hurt just looking at the mutilated carcass. “Stop. It’s personal.”

The Peddler waved a dismissive hand. “Please. We are stuck together in the middle of the Dunelands.” The Peddler prostrated around the wild abyss for emphasis. “This is exactly the type of secret travel companions share.”

Nia grit her teeth. “Are you kerai?”

“Well.” The Peddler dropped the finger he was about to make his next point with. “Not exactly.” He pulled a flank off the fire to cool. “Fine then. How old are you? What? It seemed like an innocent enough question!” 

Nia inhaled, exhaled. “Twenty-one.”

The Peddler nodded. “You’re not horribly hideous. For a tomb raider, that is. Shame, the Goddess will probably curse you with blindness. I hope your suitors aren’t horribly disappointed.” 

Nia snorted. “No one would dare marry into House Uro.” 

Peddler beamed. “Then I have no competition for your hand.” 

“The only hand you’ll receive is across your face.” Nia half-threatened. “Besides, don’t you have a wife?” 

“How’d you hear about that?”

“You talk in your sleep.”

A shadow crossed Peddler’s face. “Had.” He said distantly. “Beautiful woman.” 

“The Dunelands claim us all.” It was the only consolation she could offer. Nia turned her attention from the travelers glassy eyes and out into the desert. “We need to get moving.” 

Three days later, over the last of the hyena, Peddler blurted. “Why is going to Aker-San so important to you?”

Nia raised an eyebrow from across their fire. She had gotten accustomed to Peddler’s incessantly insensitive questions by now: did she always sleep with her mouth open? Did she know her horse couldn’t talk back to her? What parents would allow a daughter to raid? Nia had given half answers once she realized that her companion would not quit. Now though, Peddler had hit on the one question to which the answer Nia kept fiercely hidden. 

Nia gazed around their camp. They were at the bottom of a wide dune and had built their fire within the remnants of a caravaneer's tent. Nia followed the crackling orange flames as they died against the midnight sky. She scoured the milky constellations as if they held the answers. Which they didn’t. The stars belonged to the Ashenians just like everything below. 

“Why Peddler, I am but a feather in the breeze of life.” She deflected. 

“A feather made of lead.” He shook his head. “You are working for someone. Or forced too. I know it.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you keep turning West. Someone has power over you. Who is it?”

Nia frowned. “The Legate sends his men into the Dunelands to raid the tombs and temples.”

“And you are one of them?” Peddler asked. 

“It’s not so simple. I’m—” Nia grimaced. “At his mercy.” 

“So you seek freedom. From him.”

“From them. The Ashenians. If I find the Pathia, I can make it to Aker-San.”

“And what of the rest of your House?”

Nia tore at the hyena. The meat was so touch it was nearly inedible. “What of them?”

“Does the rest of your House not deserve to be free? The rest of Ker?” At her ensuing silence, the Peddler tilted his head to the moon and let out a pained laugh. “My, how the mighty have fallen.” 

Irritation sparked her tongue. “You’re all talk. Uprise, against the Ashenians? There is no fighting the legion, there is no freedom from the Ashenians. They rule us! And they’ll slaughter us as quickly as they did during the Conquering. The only reasonable solution is—”

“--to run.” The Peddler finished. 

“I.” Nia scowled. “You can call me a coward all you’d like. But the pathia, Aker-San, is the key to my freedom.” 

“Listen kid, you can’t find people who don’t want to be found.”

Nia brandished her hyena jerky. “You’ve found them, so clearly they just let anyone in.”

The Peddler’s smile was grim. “That was a long time ago.”

“Here’s what I don’t understand. I’ve been searching the Dunelands for four years for remnants of the pathia, and not a settlement past Xur survived the Conquering. Yet you’ve been wandering in this desert. That implies there is people to barter with, places to sleep, water to drink.”

Peddler pushed up the sleeves of his long faded robes. “What of it?”

“You know the way through.”

The Peddler’s lips twisted into a scythe’s razor edge. “Only feathers in the breeze find Aker-San.”

“You will tell me how.” And Nia was surprised by the bark of conviction in her voice. “When we get back to Aker-San, our bargain will be complete. You will help me.”

He let out an infuriating “perhaps” and the aker’s rage was so swift that Nia catapulted to her feet. Peddler barked out a laugh at her clenched jaw. “You look about ready to kill me. Have the aker bring me something to eat. I tire of hyena.”

Nia stormed from the campsite before the aker could get her claws on her one chance for freedom. 

Nia motioned for the Peddler to dismount. She led him along a small goat trail atop a rocky ridge that overlooked De-Asha’s looming western gate. As the furthest city of the Ashenian Empire, the towering limestone walls guarded De-Asha served as the last barrier between civilization and the desert. Once, these walls would have bore refuge to the navigators and caravaners as they arrived from Xur and Aker-San. The welcomed sight of a long journey finally complete. Now, the limestone walls were lined with purple banners bearing the Ashenian falcon. 

“We will have to get you through the guard station.” Nia explained, motioning to the line of laborers shuffling their way through the checkpoint. Thank the Goddess they still had the crates from the tomb stacked tall on Ajaxi’s back. “If anyone asks, you are a digger from the northern necropolis. We’ll have to lose the cap and,” Nia side-eyed the colorful robes. “You’ll need to turn those inside out.” She held up a finger. “Do not say anything to anyone.” And then, our bargain will be complete. Nia thought with relief. 

The Peddler’s kaleidoscopic eyes bore into hers. “I’m afraid this is where we part ways, Nia-Uro.”

Her face betrayed her confusion before anger quickly replaced it. “I did not just risk my life for mine days so that you could abandon me!”

“You would have returned regardless.” Peddler dismissed. 

“Is this your philosophical bullshit again?” Uneasiness trailed down her spine. They could not separate here! Peddler was her only lead to finding Aker-San. 

“Unfortunately so.” Peddler extended his long arm. “Now, before I go, hand over the dagger.” 

The dagger? Her fingers flew to her hip. “It is not yours to take!”

“Bold words for a tomb raider.” Nia backpedaled as his melodic tone turned sharp. He took a threatening step towards her. “She who stole from the Goddess a shard of her mane.”

“What the damned Skytops are you raving about?” Nia’s heel collided with stone. She fell back, landing on her elbows. 

“Blasphemous thief!” The Peddler knelt down and pressed his cold nose to hers. This close, his irises were pale, nearly reflective. 

“Return what is owed to the Goddess as I, her akerai, guard deep beneath the dunes.”

Nia had seen the aiea before, the shift between a kerai’s physical body and their spiritual manifestation. The shift between ai and aker was supposed to be as effortless as breathing. Nia had seen her father’s arms meld seamlessly into vulture’s wings; Baset snarl and sprout the ears of a jackal. But the Peddler did not revert in on himself as the aker was freed. 

His muscular torso elongated and stretched. His robes ripped as his arms and back pressed against the seams.  His skin’s complexion turned pale and scalene as his legs melted into the body of a great serpent. His nostrils flared as his nose flattened. He loomed over her, half-man, half-serpent. 

Nia’s scream died. The aker petrified within her chest. For the second time in her life, Nia-Uro was certain she was about to die. 

“You realize it now, don’t you?” Peddler hissed. 

Nia could not speak the truth into the air, make what she had done real. There was no mercy in the Peddler’s slanted eyes. The Peddler leaned down, his massive hands grabbing her left wrist. How had she not noticed how cold his hands were before? 

Nia squirmed as Peddler’s tail smoothly unsheathed the dagger from her hip and passed it off to his free hand. He wedged her clenched hand open. He held the black blade aloft. Nia thrashed helplessly. He’s going to make me pay for my theft against his tomb! He’s going to cut off my hand!

Scorching white pain erupted behind her eyelids. Her palm burned. Nia nearly vomited at the sight of her blood blossoming from the deep gash from where the blade had sheared the red muscle of her palm. Her blood pooled around the blade. Without warning, Peddler dislodged the dagger. 

Nia fell back and howled, cradling her wound. Peddler held the dagger up to his nostrils. “Stop sniveling!” He ordered. He whispered to himself in hurried Kiyr. His head tilted to the wind. “No! No. She is a tomb raider. A thief! A shame on her House!” He hissed. The Peddler affixed his glassy eyes on her, face full of contempt. “You cannot even master your own aker and yet you think, you think you can navigate to the Goddess’ House? A coward like you would be better dead!” Each word hit with the full impact of his ire. The Peddler held the dagger close to his mouth and flicked out his tongue. “And yet? Yet! The Skytops play a cruel trick on me.” The Peddler’s nostrils flared. “Yes. Yes, the thief will be spared.”

The Peddler dropped the dagger at her side. Nia cupped her bleeding palm to her chest as she glanced at the handle. Vertigo shot through her in recognition of the beast running across its surface. “What is this?” 

“What do you think, tomb raider?” The Peddler hissed. But his anger seemed to have evaporated. He glanced down at her, seeming perplexed. The enormous snake leaned down and grabbed his now comically small cap. He tilted it over her head. 

“Hey!”

Peddler slapped his cap a couple times over her hair before holding it against his side. “Goodbye, tomb raider.”

“Wait!” But the Peddler evaporated into sand, punching her squarely in the teeth. Nia instinctively flung her hands up to protect her face. She cried out as granules sunk into her open flesh. When it was over, the Peddler had vanished. Nia tilted her head side to side, scanning up and down the ridge as if he had fallen off. The Peddler was gone. 

An akerai. She thought in wonder. That’s what the Peddler said he was. A tomb guardian of some sort? Nia had never heard of an akerai before. And if she was lucky, she would never encounter one again. 

Nia exhaled through her front teeth as she tried to extend her fingers. Pain shot up her left arm and up into her shoulder. Breathing heavily Nia worked to her feet and took two steps forward in frustration. She swung around, fumbling for her bruised toes and uncovered the Peddler’s half buried lamp. “That bastard!” Nia cursed. She gripped the lamp’s thin handle and went to find her horse. 

[wyrdstonethenovel]

3. Prodigal Daughter of the Empire

AN: Wyrdstone is a serial novel publishing right here on Tumblr every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Wyrdstone is a good old fashioned fight for the throne TM. With magic! And swords! And did I mention gays? Time to meet the gayest of them all. Enjoy:

3. PRODIGAL DAUGHTER OF THE EMPIRE

Admrilia Hortus Ashiphiex blew air slowly out of her nostrils as the coughing turned into a desperate, wheezing hack. She swallowed her seething irritation as the ancient treasuer coughed up a lung. He’s ruining my moment. Admrilia darted a discrete look up from the green and turquoise mosaic of the Stormlord. General Hortus, her father, loomed behind the Conqueror, his bear-like hands gently gripping the laurel wreath that should have already been place atop her head to awe-inducing applause. That was, if not for Trajan Perimar being obstinate and attempting to die at her promotion. Honestly, it was as bad as when Asho farted at their joint twelfth birthday celebration. 

The treasurer finally had the good decency to live. He whispered sheepishly into his handkerchief. The Senate murmured in uncomfortable second hand embarrassment. Admrilia dared another glance through her hair, now free from its constricting braids, at her father. His thin mouth stated that Perimar was better off dead on the senate’s tiled floor. 

When the Emperor spoke, Amdirlia snapped her eyes back to the tiles. “I, Atesh the Conqueror, Stormlord sired, first citizen of the Ashenian people; Emperor of all it’s lands and seas, call forth the Senate into session!”

“The people answer your call!” The Senate parroted. 

The Conqueror’s voice echoed off the marble columns. “The people are gathered here today to commemorate a military triumph. Hail! Admrilia Hortus Ashiphiex, captain of the Serpent, destroyer of the Argenti blockade and liberator of the Argyro Islands. Hail! To she who brings the false Argentis king to justice!”

Culus Caestus' shackles rattled somewhere behind her. He would be guarded by the Conqueror’s centori. Admrilia could just picture the hateful sneer on his face as he was brought to his knees. 

“Stormlord bless this captain and grant her praise!”

“People of Aegtrys cast your eyes upon your pride and glory!” The Senate answered. 

“In recognition of the captain’s victory, I, Atesh the Conqueror, call upon the Senate and people of Aegtrys to grant the captain the honorific of ‘Argenti’. In addition, I hereby grant the Argenti command of the second neptor.”

An entire fleet, hers! And not just any fleet, the fleet responsible for guarding Aegtrys’ coastline. A fleet entrusted with the protection of the Ashenian people. Admrilia’s chest swelled with pride. She dared not to glance up, dared not to search the Conqueror’s dark eyes for acknowledgement or praise. It was duty, not glory, that kept her eyes to the mosaic of the stormlord. She felt, rather than saw, the Conqueror nod to her father. She heard her father’s boots approach. The wreath slid atop her hair. 

Admrilia counted down, allowing the moment to swell, and pushed to her feet. She faced the Senate; dissecting them cooly as they politely clapped. Their faces were drawn tight, as if it was difficult for some to stomach her advancement. Let them. At the age of twenty, she had achieved more in her naval career than any of them would in a lifetime. Admrilia hardened her eyes like the Conqueror’s— so it was the only place they could look. 

And look they should. Once she had proven herself on the Triumph, she would become her grandfather’s successor. She would rise to Empress; leader of their vast territories and peoples. It would be her responsibility, and hers alone, to guide the Ashenians towards generations of continued prosperity. The oath Admrilia had sworn only days ago pressed its cold knuckles against her spine, forcing her taller still. 

Argenti. Admrilia rolled her new name around her mind slowly, sliding the honorific into place. She mirrored her expression to match the Stormlord’s composed marble countenance. Brn the image of her deity into their minds. She was a wyrdling, after all. Let there be no doubt, Admrilia Hortus Ashiphiex, the Argenti, was the prodigal daughter of the Empire. 

The Conqueror’s next words threatened to crack her composure. “Culus Ceastus, you are hereby sentenced by the Empire and her people to be placed into the Argenti’s household. You shall be her prisoner for a decade, and shall then be put up for mercy in accordance with our traditions at the next Triumph.” 

“So shall be the mercy of the Ashenian people.” The Senate echoed. 

Uneasiness, as quick and as fleeting as a hummingbird’s wings, tore through Admrilia. Ashenian Mercy was a tradition she could not rifle with. She should have anticipated this. She had. Hadn’t she? Admrilia had taken out the precaution of cutting out Culus’ tongue. Admrilia frowned, she should have broken his hands too… but no, maybe that would have been to obvious. Besides, you have nothing to hide. The Argenti Islands fell. The details are… irrelevant. 

And Admrilia had told the Conqueror the relevant details upon her return. Like the detail that she had cut out Culus’ tongue because he had called her a whore. That part had been true, so technically, she had not lied to the Conqueror. 

Admrilia stood at attention as her two closest neptori, Flavius and Alexandros, were called forward and given the honor of accompanying Admrilia on the Triumph. A honor which typically was only granted to the Conqueror’s own centori. Admrilia stared steadfast forward, despite the impulse to celebrate with her crew. The Senate adjourned. The Conqueror left the building accompanied by his council, consisting of one member for each of the empire’s five territories accompanied them. Their robed dictated their region: purple for Aegtrys; red for Sugia; pine green for Iornore; white for Thrys; and gold for Ker. A handful of senators followed after them, badgering about Triumph preparations. Stormlord help them. 

The forum was peaceful. Early evening, it was sparsely crowded with merchants. Across the street, scholars sat clustered together on the steps of the library. A group of children chased a dog around a fountain. Admrilia walked beside her father back up the hill towards the palace. The general was silent, nodding occasionally to centori as they approached the massive limestone walls. They were ushered inside the compound and strolled past the passive gardens until finally arriving at their family’s private villa. 

A centori hastened to open the front gate. She followed her father into the atrium. 

“Daughter?” Her mother’s voice carried. “We are in here.” 

She followed her father into the family’s sitting room. Her mother, Raja-Kai, reclined serenely on a short couch, her dress cascading around her swollen belly. On the rug, her younger sisters; Julia, Lilee, and Hora, looked up from the set of wood and cloth dollies. 

“Hello mother.” Admrilia sidestepped around her siblings elaborate setup. Raja-Kai patted the space next to her. Admiral eased herself down onto the cushion. 

“I see it went well.” Raja-Kai direct her words at her husband. 

“It did.”

“And the Emperor?”

Her father made a motion that could be perceived as a shrug on a less disciplined man. “Pleased.” 

“Truly?” Admrilia sked, unable to hide her relief. 

“He expects your victory will allow our navy to regain the silver islands.” The general explained. 

“So, pleased.” Her mother concluded. 

Her father grunted. 

Lilee pressed up against her knees. “I want to see the wreath!” Her sister made grabby motions at her head. 

“Get down, child!” Raja-Kai swatted at the eight-year-old. “That belongs to your sister.” 

“No fair! I want a leaf!” Little Hora crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. 

Admrilia looked down her nose at her sisters. They were miniatures of their mother, small and delicate, with warm rusting brown eyes, and silken curls done up in elaborate Ker braids. They had none of her, rigidity. “Well, Hora, if you kill some pirates. You can get one too.”

“Truly?” Hora’s eyes turned as big as dinner plates. 

Julia snorted. 

Her mother smacked her arm. “They are children!”

Admrilia frowned as her sisters returned to whacking dollies on the carpet. “What did the healer say?”

“Whose to say?” Raja-Kai cupped her belly. “Perhaps the Goddess will bless me with a son.”

Admrilia swallowed clay. “Father would love that.” The General could finally have the son he always wanted. “The Conqueror too.” 

“It would be a blessing.” Hortus admitted. He dragged Hora off of his leg and up onto his shoulders. Her sister dug her tiny fingers into the shells of his ears. Her father met her frown. “All my children are a blessing.”

“More heirs for the Empire.” Her mother whispered under her breath. 

“Anyone would be better than Asho.” Admrilia sneered. 

“Admrilia.” Her mother scolded. “That is unkind.”

“That boy will not be Emperor.” Admrilia straightened at her father’s tone. It was the one that led armies. The one she never dare question. “It is up to the Conqueror to decide his successor. No one else.” Hortus pursed his lips. “You will have the Triumph to convince the Conqueror of your ability. And may the Stormlord bless you with some aptitude in the wyrd.”

The wyrd. The magic that allowed wyrdlings, descendants of the Skytops, to control various aspects of nature. Admrilia had seen the Conqueror use the wyrdstone, had known of its prized existence since early childhood. She had studied the wyrd in the scholarly sense, had impressed her tutors with her understanding. Countless hours had been spent reading ancient philosophers who hypothesized that the wyrd was the fifth binding element of existence, just as air, water, earth, and fire were. And yet, Admrilia had never felt an iota of connection with the Stormlord’s magic. 

“And if Asho learns it first?” Admrilia whispered. 

“Asho does not possess the mental fortitude.” Her father dismissed. 

A knot formed in her stomach at the Conqueror’s words: neither of your fathers, for all of their promise, could wrestle with the power of the Stormlord. None of the Conqueror’s eight children had. The oath Admrilia had sworn was more than an oath of duty. It was an oath binding her to the Stormlord, to her death. 

“Of course, father. I misspoke.” 

“The Conqueror’s methods are aggressive. But with an iron will you shall overcome.” Which was about as close to reassuring as General Hortus ever got. Her father placed Hora gently back down on the rug. He straightened. “You must succeed, Argenti. Ashenia needs a steady hand to lead it. Duty to all.” 

Duty to all. Duty to her family, duty to her country, duty to her god. Duty before any of her own selfish needs or desires. Duty was something Admrilia understood to her core. She never had the chance to know anything else. 

“You will prevail.” Her mother tapped her neptori breastplate, just above her sternum. “You have powerful blood in your veins.” 

Admrilia’s gaze moved to the shelf of the lars. What would make her any different? Even her father, the Conqueror’s only surviving child, was inconsiderable for succession after what happened. 

The General helped her mother to her feet. His blue eyes sparked with conviction. “Next summer my daughter shall return as the future of our nature. Head up Argenti, you will make it so.” 

Raja-Kai ushered her siblings out of the room and towards dinner. Admrilia glanced down at the rug’s discarded toys, and when the room had cleared, repositioned the wreathe. 

[wyrdstonethenovel]

Ch 2. The Raider at Dusk

AN: Follow wyrdstonethenovel for regular updates every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Wyrdstone is a good old fashioned queer fantasy fight for the throne TM. With magic! And swords! And gays! Did I mention the gays? Enjoy.

THE RAIDER AT DUSK 

The sand stretched into the golden haze of the late afternoon and simmered there. Nia-Uro scanned the horizon for the faintest hint of green or blue; the angularity of a structure; overhead for the wingspan of a vulture; and was met with cloudless skies. Goraning, she dismounted and dug around her satchel. She laid the papyrus taut against Ajaxi’s flank. With practiced precision, she marked the dead end with charcoal. 

“The Dunelands claim us all.” She muttered to her horse as she restored her supplies. Nia vaulted back into the saddle and closed her amber eyes. Goddess, every blasted day was getting longer the further she traveled into the dangerous Dunelands, and with every passing night she had less to show for it. The rhythmic sound of Ajaxi’s hooves lulled her to sleep as he backtracked east. 

Her chin hit collarbone. Her legs scrambled for purchase as Ajaxi bucked her. She fell head first into the ridge. Nia’s hands rushed to gain purchase as she rolled down the ridge. Nia closed her eyes; dizzy from the sky and earth bleeding together. It was not the first time she had fallen down a dune. She just had to wait until her body —

THUD! 

“Huuuuuuuuuuugh.” The air escaped her chest. “Yup.” Nia hissed “that was it.” She gingerly rolled onto all fours, coaxing dust from her lungs. Wiping her lips, Nia craned her head up to Ajaxi. Her horse glowered back down from the top of the ridge. “Would it kill you to watch where you are going?”

The dusty colt huffed and shook his head. He took a cautious step down the sheer ridge. 

“Fucking donkey.” Where even am I? Nia’s fingers met unnerving smoothness as she moved to rise. Curious, she swept with her sleeve to reveal packed mud brick. “Holy Skytops, Lady of the Dunes.” Nia observed her crash site slowly, realizing that she had fallen into a shaft. Nia pressed her fingers against the brick, prying it loose. The brick fell away into the earth. Nia rose and kicked a few of the surrounding bricks, almost gleeful as the earth ate them. Only one thing to do now, it was time to dig. 

It was nearly dusk when Nia-Uro peered into the dark and disgusting tunnel that dropped into the unknown. Ajaxi watched curiously from the shade as she walked over to grab a torch and rope out from her satchel. “You coming?” She asked. 

Her horse shook his brown violently back and forth. 

“Coward. Your butt wouldn’t fit anyway.” Ajaxi jutted his head towards the opening, as if daring her. Nia stuck out her tongue and tied her guide rope securely at the entrance of the cave in. If this was another barren sand trap, the day was wasted. Nia lit the torch and peered into the tunnel. “Here goes.” She muttered, dropping the torch. It gave an anti-climatic tap-tap. Nia ensured her rope was secure and began her descent: legs first, then turn, grabbing the broken wall for purchase before climbing down. Her sandals quickly met rock. Flushing, Nia knelt down and grabbed for her torch. She ran it close against the brick walls, following the tunnel until she arrived to a frieze of lotus columns. The kiyr naming seal was a dead giveaway she had stumbled upon a tomb. 

The brick that would have originally closed the tomb had long been destroyed. Nia moved underneath the freeze and further into tunnel, hopping that whatever she was about to find hadn’t already been plundered. Rock snagged her braid as she shuffled through the narrow channel. 

She entered the antichamber. Breathlessly, Nia rubbed her irritated eyes and the air escaped her lungs. She tiptoed forward around flipped crates and tables. Although the tomb appeared to have been ransacked, whoever had been here was clearly spooked, as the small cedar tables were piled high with gold plated houseware and valuable jewelry. Nia bent over a bowl and ran a few golden shras, the currency of the old kingdom, through her filthy hands and right into her pocket. 

She had come across an incredible tomb filled with enough treasure to pay the Conqueror’s tribute for years. Nia had to reach up and pinch the relieved smile to ensure she was not dreaming. Emboldened, she pushed through the antichamber in a weightless trance, enamored by the sheer mass of it all. 

The burial chamber was circular, the domed ceiling long painted with five sided stars. At the other end was a small alcove with an upright coffin. Nia waved her torch in front of the death portrait. The stony gaze of a young man looked right through her. The artist had replicated the man’s countenance perfectly; from the prideful glint in his warm eyes to the thoughtful line of his lips. 

“Who were you?” Nia wondered. 

The death portrait extended down to the torso. In the dead man’s hand was a set of writing utensils and a reed staff. A scribe them. A hawk’s wings spread across his bare chest. Nia gulped, suddenly realizing what his aker had been. 

He was lucky to have been born, before the Conquering. 

Shame flared in her gut, hot and familiar. Would this man be ashamed that is descendants were no longer rulers but the ruled? That his kin were but a shadow of a once powerful kingdom? 

Nia abruptly pushed the thought away. The man was in the oasis now. It was not his concern that her family was useless, honorless. If anything, she should be responsible, put her sentiment aside and raid the tomb for all it was worth. 

Nia tore her eyes away from the portrait and to the weapons laid out on the altar in front of the death portrait. There was a bow with two quivers full of splintering arrows, as well as the man’s rotting reed staff. Nia took a step closer to examine the bow and shrieked at the snapping sound underfoot. 

Nia reared back her boot and squatted to see what she had squashed. Half hidden in the dust was a shriveled and now crushed remnants of a hand. Nia wiped the surrounding area with her sleeve, noticing the long dead fingers were curled around something. Nia blew away the dust to reveal the hilt of the most brilliant knife she had ever seen. “By the lady’s golden tits.” Nia swallowed bile as she carefully pried the knife out from the dead man’s grip and held the weapon up to the torch. 

She turned the blade over slowly. Front tip to hilt it was about the length of her forearm. It was well balanced, finely crafted; the dagger’s hilt was copper, with a cracked leather grip. Nia ran a finger along its razor-sharp edge. The blade was made of a material that was almost obsidian, but harder, and free of nicks. A gold cobra reared it head across the blade’s surface, scales refracting gold and orange in the torchlight. 

Painted eyes burned into her hand. How a weapon that rivaled even the best of Ashenian steel arrived here was beyond her, but Nia was not in the business of asking questions of the dead. “I mean, it’s not like you need it.” Nia whispered, flipping the dagger over and shoving it in her belt. 

Nia ducked back down, searching for the rest of the hand’s body. But all she found in the sand was a slender lamp, similar to the oil lamps used in De-Asha’s dingy pleasure houses. The handle snaked from a thin lid to the body with a flattened indentation. The lid bore ancient kiyr symbols inside an ovular naming seal. Nia’s contact in the market would pay a stiff price to own the antique. 

Nia raided the remainder of the antichamber with her back to the burial chamber. Her hands methodically stacked coins, jewelry, and funerary statues into the narrowest crates she could find. She took her first trip through the narrow passage. Sweating, Nia transferred the remaining two crates. 

Planting her feet squarely, Nia heaved a crate over her shoulders and gritted it above her head to the surface. There was a soft clink as the items spilled over. Nia was struggling to throw the third and final crate over her shoulders when Ajaxi neighted in warning. Nia climbed the rope to the surface and gasped at the sight of the raider. 

“Hya! Get away from my horse!” Nia sprinted towards the attacker. 

The raider startled and turned slowly, raising his hands. The thief was dressed in filthy travelers robes: the purples, indigos, and reds of his sleeves faded and fraying. He seemed older, easily a decade her senior. Sweat slicked black hair was covered by a stomped geometric hat. His thin eyebrows pitched in surprise. “You’re a woman!”

“Thank you for stating the obvious, thief!” Nia brandished her torch. “Now get away from the horse.” 

“I don’t particularly feel like doing so.” His voice carried the effortless lilt of a Duneland’s dialect Nia couldn’t quite plate. “I rather liked him.”

“I liked him first!” Nia retorted, immediately furious with herself for getting into a fruitless argument with a raider. Nia glanced around his square shoulders. He had no horse, no camel. How did he get here? Did he walk? 

“Well, I’m here now. So he’s mine.” The man hiked into her saddle with some difficulty. 

“Ajaxi.” She barked. The colt bucked, throwing the man. Nia advanced. “You’re pretty unqualified for a raider.”

The stranger rose, his scarf now askew from his neck, exposing wind scarred cheeks and thin lips. “And you are the most unpleasant member of the fairer sex I’ve ever had the displeasure of setting eyes on!” He roared. “And for your information woman I am a peddler, not some lowlife raider.” He kicked sand at her. 

“Right.” She said slowly. “So you are but a peddler stuck in the middle of the Dunelands, with no gear or supplies, trying to steal my horse?” Her lip threatened to quiver upward. 

“I never said I was a good peddler!” The stranger’s voice lifted in exasperation. The stranger sidestepped her and backtracked towards the tomb entrance. Nia tensed as the stranger rummaged around the spilled crates. 

“What are you doing?”

“Shh.” He tisked. The stranger pulled the oil lamp and held it up. “Here!” He thrust it towards her. “Want to rub it? I’ve heard it’ll bring good fortune.” His thin eyebrows wiggled suggestively. 

“That is not yours.” 

“Well, its not yours either.” 

Nia watched the thief in silence, torch wavering, as he continued to wipe at the cracked lamp. “Stop that. It’s pathetic.” 

“Not as pathetic as a tomb raider.”

Her cheeks heated. “I’m not—”

“-so shameful-” He chided. 

“-a tomb-”

“Honestly! What would your ancestors say?”

“Raider!” Nia finished. “And don’t be a hypocrite. You just tried to steal my horse.” 

“There is a difference between robbing the living and the dunes themselves.” The strangers sing-song voice now brimmed with threat. “Tell me, if your family found out, would they cut off your hand or exile you and be done with it?”

Her cheeks grew hot. “You speak nonsense.”

“Truth is not nonsense. For the truth is I am but a lost merchant in this vast sea of sand.” 

“Obviously.” Nia muttered. 

The man gestured around the dusty abyss. “I must have wandered off the pathia some time ago.” 

Nia’s head jilted upright at the ancient kiyr word. “Where were you coming from?” Hope, flimsy and unguarded, surged through her chest. “Was it Aker-San?”

The stranger snorted. “Why would I go to Aker-San? The food is terrible.” 

“You’ve been there?” Nia could hardly believe her ears. She was actually talking to someone (admittedly, not the most trustworthy source) who had been to Aker-San. 

The stranger waved his hand dismissively and stood. “It doesn’t matter where I’ve been, only where I’m headed. Speaking of which, do you know where we are?”

“The Dunelands.” Nia deadpanned. 

“Where are you going?” The stranger responded in an equally condescending tone. 

“It doesn’t matter where I’m headed, only where I’ve been.” Nia smirked as her eyes detected his motions of strangulation directed at her throat. 

“I’m serious. Where are you going?”

Nia sighed. “De-Asha.” 

“Take me with you!” Gone was the bantering merchant, his jaw clenched with resolve as he thrust out the lamp. “Please! I’ll give you the lamp. It’s a very nice lamp.”

“I already took that!” 

The man threw himself down in front of her, raising his hands in deference. “Honorless raider, wait! Wait! I’ll pay you for your trouble. I have gold.”

“That’s also mine.” Nia said humorlessly. 

The merchant cocked his head to the side. “Fine. you strike a hard bargain raider. There is nothing material that I can give you. That is, that you haven’t already stolen. But surely there must be something I can give you in return for your guidance out of this desert!” 

“I’m not some guide.” But Nia closed her mouth quickly. Even if he’s a liar, he’s your only lead. Was he really worth the risk. Her mind circled around the possibility. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I want information.” 

The merchant’s smile was saccharin. “Name your terms.”

“I get you to De-Ahsa—”

“-alive.” The stranger shrugged. “I thought it was important to point out. 

“Alive.” Nia amended. “And in return you will tell me, truthfully, everything you know about Aker-San.”

The stranger nodded enthusiastically. “Very well, I agree. Thank you, thank you! Oh the Goddess has smiled upon me this day by granting me, wait, I just realized I don’t know the name of my guide. What should I call you, tomb raider?”

“I’m not a, forget it. My name is Nia-Uro.”

“Nia Uro!” He said with surprise. “My how the mighty have fallen if one of their own is out here.” 

He has no idea. Her cheeks flushed. “Enough. Who are you?”

“Oh, I am but a peddler, a wandering merchant, a feather in the breeze of life.”

“Right. Peddler it is.” Nia swallowed her mounting irritation as the aker stirred. For once, she and the monster were in agreement. “We’ll camp here tonight and ride at dawn.”

The sun had long set when the Peddler unfurled his lean body onto his geometric robes and fell asleep. Nia gathered the grave goods and neatly stacked the crates beside Ajaxi, tying them down to keep them secure for the night. She  peered back to the tomb longingly. There was no way she could clear out the rest with her new companion. Nia marked the placement of the tomb onto her map before storing her supplies. Her head turned westward, towards Aker-San— the land of new beginnings— and the opposite direction of where she was headed. 

[wyrdstonethenovel]

1. The Prince Sails Along the Harbor and Stars

The Prince Sails Along the Harbor and Stars 

Incessant squawking forced the shells of Asho Ashen Ashiphiex’s eyes open. The prince cast one ocean blue iris towards the cloudless sky and hissed. His fingers dragged along sunburnt cheeks and trailed the falcon’s dark wings as she circled the mainmast of the barge. Asho groaned and pushed the silver circuit back into his mass of golden brown curls. He clumsily seized the memory of stumbling onto the Firefayer’s deck to hurl before collapsing under the stars. 

Asho turned his head towards where the neptori took up their morning stations; cleaning up spilled jugs and mopping the wine soaked deck. The previous evenings entertainment; poets and prize fighters bought with Asho’s hefty allowance, were passed out. His helmsman Ronas nudged a neptori with his boot before noticing he was awake. 

Yawning, Asho stood and matched the peregrine’s shrill call. The bird corkscrewed towards his outstretched arm. Hot air punched his face as she landed. The bird cooed affectionately, sticking out her leg. Asho slit the wax seal with his thumb. Ocean eyes lazily roamed the page before a clarity pierced the fogginess of his mind. “Just perfect.” He rubbed the falcon’s feathers for a moment as he took in the horizon line. Exhaling, the prince released the bird. The peregrine dived over the side of the Firefayer, sharp wings cutting against the surface before she disappeared beneath the gentle waves. 

Asho wiped his mouth, nose scrunching at the acidic scent. He walked, as straight as he could, towards Ronas. “Take us to harbor.” He ordered. 

“At once prince.” The helmsman kissed his knuckles. 

Tapping his teeth, Asho dropped below the upper deck, the cool darkness that enveloped him an immediate relief from the scorching sun. 

“Aye! Look our patron lives!” 

“Hail our patron lives!” The bench parroted. 

The oarsman’s leader, a barrelchested neptori named Pontus gleefully leaned forward. “What say you prince? Now you’ve gotten your beauty sleep? It’s never to early to begin enjoying Inusgi’s bounty!” 

“No, no-” The prince’s mind was far to distracted to deal with his alcoholic crew. “I have to get to Aegtrys.” 

The bench deflated. “My arms hurt!” Someone complained. 

Asho scowled at the scrawny oarsman. “Just row the damn boat!”

“You heard our patron!” Pontos said, grabbing for his oar. “We row ashore.”

The captain’s quarters, unfortunately, were at the back of the cramped oarsmen’s deck. The prince marched past the benches of complaining oarsmen as they changed course. His skin prickled with the knowledge of dozens of eyes on him as he opened the door. Cheeks hot, he squeezed through the opening. 

The Firefayer’s office remained undisturbed, mostly. A back wall was lit by two oil lamps displaying the Perimar family crest, a spearfish. Bones of an ancient hammerhead shark, likely older than Trajan Perimar himself, were strung up from the ceiling over a dust covered desk. What definitely did not belong to his older-than-time uncle was the naked woman dozing on the small cot. 

Asho’s limbs  scattered in different directions to find his discarded neptori armor. The stranger rolled over, pressing her palms to her eyes. “What are you doing?” She grumbled. 

Asho stared at her blankly. I could ask you the same question. “I’ve been summoned ashore.” 

“So soon.” 

Remain composed, Asho. “Unfortunately so, love.” Asho heaved the bronze breastplate over his tunic. He finished with a rather rebellious fastening over his shoulder blade before pressing lips against her warm temple. “The Conqueror waits not even for the gods of the Skytops, you know that.”

The woman, who looked several years older than Asho’s twenty, swallowed her response. The blonde watched Asho lean down and tie his sandals before asking. “What do you think the Conqueror wants with you?”

Asho glanced up from where he was admiring his reflection in the bronze of his legionnaire helmet. His hands ran across the cracking leather of its cavern. “I’m heir to the empire.”

“The Conqueror named you heir?” The stranger propped her head up with an elbow, her brown eyes gleaming hungrily. 

“An heir.” He begrudged. Asho raised an eyebrow at his disheveled reflection before settling the helmet at his hip. He cleared his throat, suddenly flushed. “About this.”

The woman’s flush spread through her entire body. “Don’t say it.”

Asho coughed into his hand. “I’ll see to it that you are brought back to Aegtrys discreetly, Talia.”

“Talia? TALIA!” The woman sat up enraged, her tiny fist strangling the blanket. “That’s my sister’s name!”

So that’s why she looked so familiar. 

Asho narrowly ducked her shoe and turned on his heels for the door. He tilted his head back in the office as not-Talia angrily reached for her stola. “I’ll see you again?”

“Seriously!” Not-Talia screeched. 

“I’ll take that for a no.” Asho slammed the door shut. 

“YOU ARE A WORTHLESS DOG!” Came the muffled outburst, followed by another thud, as if she had thrown her other shoe. “CURSE YOU, YOU BASTARD! I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS! I’M GOING TO-” 

The bench of oarsmen stared at him agape, oars stilled. Asho straightened and marched past as Not-Talia continued screaming. Above deck, he sidestepped around a pair of neptori hosting the ship’s massive sail and ran towards the bow. 

“Ronas! Ronas!” He hissed. 

“What?” The man asked irritably. “Why do you look like you just met the Maiden herself?”

“I’ve just had my royal person threatened by Not-Talia.”

“Not Talia?” Ronas asked. 

“She’s. Not. Talia.” Asho enunciated. 

Ronas blinked twice. “Oh. Sisters? Twins, maybe?” Asho recoiled as Ronas asked. “Did you not get her name?”

“Are you even listening to anything I’m saying? That woman just threw her shoe at my head?”

“Well, my prince.” Ronas appeared almost meek. “Does it truly matter?”

“Of course it matters!”

“No, I just.” Ronas sighed. “You will not have the woman hanged for throwing a shoe. Besides, we both know these escapades are—”

“Do not say it.” Asho held up a finger. 

“Heard.” Ronas nodded. “The shore’s ahead my prince.” 

Asho peered past the older sailor and towards the shimmering white cliffs of Aegtrys. A cluster of small islands broke from the sea and shot into the sky. At the tops of the reflective white rock, lush greenery nestled against the marble and along the terra-cotta roofs of buildings. Nearly afternoon, the polished bronze of the temples and palace encased the capital of the Ashenian Empire into a halo of warm light. 

An empire that would one day be his. Asho’s grip tightened on the leather of his helmet. His gaze lingered on the bridges and walkways that connected the cluster of islands as the oarsmen exerted the last of their energy. Their ship glided past rows of carefully terraced farmland and fisheries towards the northwest harbor. Asho tapped his teeth as their ship entered the bay. The Firefayer was met with two stern guard towers. A guard glanced down at Ronas. 

“Only neptori ships are allowed past this point.” 

“I understand.” Ronas hollered up. “This vessel belongs to Senator Trajan Perimar and travels his highness Prince Asho Ashen Ashiphiex.” 

The neptori squinted down at them. “I do not see his highness.”

“I am here.” Asho stepped forward and raised his voice. “The Conqueror has summoned me. It is best not to delay the matters of the empire.” 

Asho couldn’t tell for sure, but the neptori seemed to visibly pale. “Very well.” 

There was a groan of heavy machinery as the net was lowered. As they sailed past, Asho glanced down at the algae covered rungs as they sunk into the bay. The Firefayer glided past the shipyard of newly constructed triremes and past the outgoing ships of the first neptor. 

The Firefayer docked beside the Serpent. Asho openly glared up at the large pristine warship and its proud purple sails before directing his disdain down the gangplank. Just as he had suspected, his cousin was waiting. Asho inwardly groaned: if Admrilia had been also summoned from her post blockading the silver islands, this meeting with the Conqueror was more than a request. 

Admrilia’s sandal tapped as Asho took his time disembarking. Her permanent scowl deepened as he offered a careless smirk, knowing how much she despised wasting time. Her obsidian eyes hardened as she searched Asho’s frame for an untucked layer of cloth. As usual, Admrilia was effortlessly composed: her armor spotless, weapons neat. She had changed her hair since he had last seen her; her raven locks pulled tightly against her scalp in a series of headache inducing braids. 

Standing next to him, Asho’s cousin equaled him in height and build— it paid to have a general as your father and the genetics of the Conqueror coursing through your veins. In a cruel twist of fate, the cousins shared a birthday, and worse still, Admrilia had been born mere minutes earlier. 

Admrilia’s thin mouth twisted upward. “Took you long enough.”

“I went to enjoy the ocean breeze” 

Admrilia narrowed her eyes. “Whose ship is that?”

“My uncle lent it.” His cousin grunted, unconvinced. Asho stifled a yawn as his neptori formed an honor guard. Hopefully their helmets could hide their building hangovers. 

“The Conqueror summoned me.” Admrilia’s cool voice had a grating quality on Asho’s ears, which was that it barely ever changed pitch. “I’m so glad to see you could make the time for him, cousin.” 

“I aim to please.” They moved down the wooden walkway and deeper into the cove. Around them, the contained chaos of construction was evident at every turn. Large timbers of pine were heaved on ramps towards the noisy shipyard. Laborers marched to their morning stations, scraping off the ice that had formed the previous spring evening. At the end of the cove, their neptori handed the pair off to four of the palace’s awaiting centori. 

Asho’s men turned back towards the Firefayer. Asho was confident that Ronas could sooth Not-Talia and smuggle her back into Aegtrys undetected. 

“You need to respect your position.” Admrilia admonished after the centori had moved out of earshot. Their guides led the climb up the weathered ladders back up the steep cliffs. 

“I respect my position as much as a man respects his lovers.” Asho quipped. 

“Of which you have none—”

“That you know about.” Asho bit his tongue as they reached the top of a ladder’s rungs. He heaved himself onto the dirt path. Asho wanted to punch his own teeth in as Admrilia’s abyss-like eyes widened. 

Admrilia darted her attention towards the four centori. “So the rumors of your exploits are true.” She said quietly. 

Asho continued on the trail. “Why? Are you jealous you weren’t invited?”

The murderous growl Admrilia emitted made Asho quickly step back from the cliff she was about to push him over. “Enough.” She snapped. ‘How would your betrothed react to such talk?”

“Ah yes, princess-” Asho drew a blanch for the name of his betrothed, the fourteenth child of the Pi-Yenjan Emperor. He had not seen the princess since two summers ago for his eighteenth birthday, when a delegation had come to Aegtrys to pronounce their upcoming union. Which was, by far, the worst birthday gift ever. 

“Princess Iriku.” Admrilia supplied. Her shoulder drilled into his back. Asho spluttered as he stumbled towards the ledge. “It’s best you remember it.”

Asho opened his mouth, but it was clear that Admrilia was done talking. He followed her broad shoulders up another switchback before they arrived at the lift. He squeezed in between the giant centori as they rang the bell. As their platform was hoisted up the final cliff, Asho watched the figurines of the ships and men in the harbor shrink below his feet. 

The lift dropped them at the sharp marble walls of the back gate. The Emperor’s sprawling palace sat at the Northernmost point of Aegtrys’ largest island, its slanted marble walls tall enough to be noticed miles off at sea. The centori, the elite honorary guard of the Emperor himself, manned the barricaded gates at all hours of the day. They were cleared through. Admrilia marched through the greens of olive trees and cultivated wild flowers with little interest. Her pace quickened as they passed underneath a shady portico and into the towering palace. 

Although early, the lower floors bustled with magistrates and nobles who quickly stopped and showed their respect. It was far to early for Asho to car. He suffered the throb of his burning calves as Admrilia outpaced him up four flights of stairs. Asho swallowed his panting breaths as they stopped outside the intricate brass doorway of the Conqueror’s private quarters. He straightened his spine. Their guards stepped aside and they were ushered into the atrium. 

The Conqueror’s atrium was an imposing, rectangular room, the walls whitewashed with elegant murals depicting horses rising from the Semperimar and chariots stampeding over fallen enemies. Rugged blue paint outlined the doorframes of hidden chambers. Against the far wall, two grizzled centori stood in lockstep outside the Conqueror’s study. Their long spears brushed against the low ceiling while their outer hands rested a hair’s breadth away from the Conqueror’s prized hunting dogs. Their tall ears perked up at their arrival. 

The back wall featured tightly packed alcove shrines to the lars — the family ancestors. Incense were lit in offering. Asho soured as he overlooked one figurine in particular— but the Conqueror quickly demanded his attention. 

He sat hands folded in his lap on a short bench at the foot of the atrium’s pool. His head rose; his mouth a thin, ever unsatisfied line. Today, he was outfitted in billowy purple robes and was barefoot. The Conqueror was cusping the edge of his seventh decade and it showed; streaks of white hair layered like stray strands of wheat against his skull. The skin of his forearms were folded like the the thick papyrus sheets of a sea ledger; and while his legs were covered in sunspots and scars, they still retained the lean muscle of a much younger man. 

“Glorious day to enjoy the waves, is it not?” His sturdy, commanding voice jolted Asho and he met his eyes. The Conqueror’s eyes were piercing black, blacker than the very depths of the Semperimar. They saw all, missed nothing, rattled even the most fortitudinous of enemies. Atesh Ayuan Ashiphiex undeniably possessed the eyes of a god. They peeled back Asho’s nakedness; his weakness; until Asho’s throat was nothing but a gutted fish carcass. 

Admrilia replied cooly. “It is indeed. Thank be to the Stormlord.”

“Come.” He commanded. 

They marched around the wide pool that separated the atrium. The prince kissed the Conqueror’s knuckles first, lips rubbing against scar tissue. The Conqueror’s nose scrunched when Asho rose, and he shuddered with embarrassment. 

The Conqueror’s focus burned into the entryway of the atrium as if he could envision his collective territories spread out before him. “The Fourth Triumph approaches.” He said in his usual measured tone. “Guards, the items.” 

Asho swiveled his head to watch the older centori retreat to the back office. They returned with bundles covered in cloth. Asho accepted an awkwardly shaped package, his curiosity bordering on concern as the centori exited the atrium. 

The Conqueror waited until the door was locked. “Go stand to the north and south.”

Asho backtracked to the northern lip of the pool and stared down at the sprawling map of the Ashenian Empire in vibrant ceramic tiles. It featured the names of every noteworthy territory and city in blocky Sheni script. Some, like the coastline, spanned centuries back. Others were fresher, only fifty years old, thanks to the Conqueror. Asho felt a surge of pride as he envisioned his own conquest; perhaps to the North, or further West, and the honor that awaited him. 

Atesh slid off the bench and knelt. His fingers reverently trailed the red script above Aegtrys before leaping out towards the continent. When the Conqueror began barking out the all too familiar myth, Asho painted his face neutral. 

“In the beginning, mother Skytops bore fire children for herself. First, she crafted Thrysne from the black salty tears of her loneliness. Next, she molded her daughters: Sachmis, from the heat of her palms; Inusgi, from the lining of her stomach: and Ceolymne, from the enamel of her teeth. Finally, for her youngest Apki she gifted her tongue.”

The Conqueror leaned over the lip of the pool and trailed the nearest ridge of the Skytops— the mountain formation that separated the edge of his empire from the barbaric tributary of Thrys. “And yet, Mother Skytop’s children did not stir. The goddess called out to the Wyrd— the dark abyss of the heavens, and anchored the sky to herself.” Asho scrunched his nose and quickly recovered at Admrilia’s sharp glare. “... and the gods awoke.” 

This, Asho knew already. He half listened as the Conqueror talked, counting the number of dolphins on a nearby column. His arms burned from the bundle he carried. 

“Hunger grew in the heart of Apki, and he weaved lies to his sisters. Together tye plotted to break free from their mother. One night the four gods climbed to the highest peak where their fingertips could barely brush against their father’s skin. Apki punched against the heavens shattering fragments that dropped to the earth in comets of great fire. Thrysne rose form his slumber and ran swiftly up the mountain, leaping in front of his siblings to protect the union of earth and sky.” 

The Conqueror’s voice dropped an octave. “Apki punched Thrysne into the dark waters far from their home. The others escaped Mother Skytops in all corners of the world, carrying the fragments of their father with them.” 

The Conqueror rose and stepped into the shallow pool. Crystalline water rushed to his bare ankles. He made an unfolding motion, and the cousins quickly untied their bundles. 

“Inusgi went south to the flatlands and planted a piece of the sky. The star nourished the soil and crops grew.” Admrilia hastened to put a loaf of rye bread in the middle of Sugia Territory. 

“Sachmis fled west and swallowed her stolen star. It poisoned and twisted the once beautiful goddess’ body. She retched flames over the land, scorching it and contorting its people.” The Conqueror pointed to Ker with disgust as Admrilia lowered a slab of sandstone. 

“Ceolymne traveled north to a land of snow and ice. She buried a pierce of the sky so deep that it touched and awakened the dead.” The prince knelt and placed the wolf skull in the water. The Conqueror’s voice sharpened. “Apki found home in the hills, and used the wyrd to shield themselves within a cloak of darkness. Thus the life of traitors and those who dwell in his forests.” Asho placed the cedar log down on Iornore Territory and rose to meet the Conqueror’s displeasure. Sweat trickled down his back. 

“Thrysne emerged from the waves of the Semperimar, angry and agonizing for mother Skytops. He longed to return home, but his legs were lodged in the seafloor. In his palm was a piece of the stars he had tore from Apki as he fell. After a time, Thrysne claimed the sea as his domain. He searched for his cowardly siblings. His sisters would mock him from the shoreline, and his brother would hide in his forests. But still Thrysne the Stormlord vowed to avenge the murder of his father.” 

The Conqueror tilted his head upward at the open ceiling. His weathered hands rose to his neck, unclasping a silver chain. For all of Asho’s training, the sight of the stone turned his bones to clay. “Is that?” He asked, unable to finish his sentence. 

A geode was fastened to the silver chain the size of an infants fist. Its edges were dark and pockmarked, like the dark volcanic rock that ran along Aegtrys’ shoreline. The geode was cracked open, revealing a polished slice of otherworldly meteorite— a frozen tide of unearthly blue. 

The Conqueror nodded. “The wyrdstone. Yes. It is time for both of you to embrace the truth of our empire’s success.” Asho was enraptured by the wyrdstone. A true piece of the stars. He was so close to the star that Asho could swear he could hear it hum. He could nearly curl the wyrdstone in his fist, raise it high above his head at the front of an approaching army, use it to call forth a storm, whisper the language of gods and men. 

With the wyrdstone, Asho could become a god. 

Atesh the Conqueror observed his heirs cooly as they salivated over the wyrdstone. “My sons and daughters’ connection to the wyrd was not strong enough to hold this star. Even your fathers,for all of their promise, could never wrestle the power of the mighty Stormlord.” His lips tightened somewhat, as if betrayed by one dead son and another living with paralyzing guilt. “Now, only the two of you remain. I have decided that you shall both accompany me on the Triumph through the continent.” 

Wait, what? Asho thought quickly, his eyed darting from the wyrdstone up to the Conqueror. He was actually going? 

“By the end of the year, I shall decide which of you will be my successor. I will train you in the wyrd, but there is no guarantee that either of you will show any promise.” He allowed his words to resonate. “After the others, I thought it was best that neither of you have access to the wyrdstone before adulthood. But it is time. The Stormlord is a powerful god, and one must earn his mercy to use his gift.”

This lecture was unlike the countless others. The seriousness of the situation began to settle over him as the Conqueror looked them over each in turn. Asho straightened his spine. Admrilia’s eyes were greedy and animalistic. She looked ready to run Asho through with a spear then and there and be done with it. 

“I will only consider you if you pledge your lives to the Stormlord. It is an oath that all of my children have sworn before you.” The Conqueror grew solemn. “It is an oath were we must allow our god to lead our path and allow the injustices of our enemies to spur us onward. Whether to the South, or the West, the North, or even the East—” The Conqueror gathered teh objects and placed them in the center of the pool in a meticulous cairn: stone, wood, bread, bone. “We swear to overcome all others and instill order.” His palm lowered the wyrdstone onto the pile. 

“Conquest is sacred. Our sky cannot brook two suns, nor earth two masters.” 

Asho took a half step back as the pool’s still water began flowing towards the sandstone. The water ran up the cairn of cedar and rye. The Conqueror’s dark eyes narrowed as the pool rose to meet his fist. The snap was so violent it took Asho a moment to register what had happened as the pillar shattered into hundreds of ice shards. The water receded. Bone fragments floated towards Asho’s feet. 

“So now-” The Conqueror’s voice floated in and out of Asho’s ear as the wyrdstone consumed his attention. “It is time for you both to pledge your lives to Thrysne. May our great Stormlord bestow you with his gift, and see you as worthy as a champion for his great people. As the Semperimar is the Salt and Sea of our blood, you shall vow to fulfill the legacy to the Stormlord until your dying breath.”

Atesh the Conqueror took a stiff step towards the prince. His weathered fingers unclasped Asho’s fingers and curled them around the wyrdstone. 

The wyrdstone was frigid, colder than a northern icelake. The cold seeped through his raw skin and plunged its teeth straight into the bones of his hand. Numbness spread down his arm. Asho clenched his chattering teeth. 

The Conqueror’s wet fingers pressed against his sternum. The bitter cold pierced his center, ice gripping his lungs. Asho gasped out for air in flighty breaths as if he was drowning. And then a powerful, ancient voice resonated deep in his chest. Wyrdling. It intoned. It was not the deep rumbling of the Conqueror. The voice was darker, dangerous, ancient. As if spoken long before Sheni had been uttered. Its inflection crashed and rose with the current and the undercurrent. 

Asho’s aching lungs screamed for air as he sunk into the gyre. He screamed from the Firefayer along the coastline. He screamed as he ran through a forest of cedar trees, laughter ringing through the branches. He screamed as he was handed a bronze helmet with a cracked leather cavern. He screamed, adrift from harbor, as the tall figure of the Conqueror turned back to shore. He screamed at the shroud of a missing body. He screamed as he trailed clay horsemen around the ridges of the Skytops, the plateaus of valleys, and drove his armies forward into the Dunelands as his father and the Conqueror argued behind the closed door of the study. He screamed the one phrase he knew since he could run alongside his father’s tanned legs. He screamed as he was born: to the stars! To the Stars! To the Stars! 

AN: Follow Wyrdstonethenovel for updates every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday

[wyrdstonethenovel]

Conqueror Entry # 1

I, Atesh Ayuan Ashiphiex

Noble son of Aegtrys

Stormlord sired

shall brave the Gods and seize the stars 

— Entry from crown prince Atesh Ayuan Ashiphiex

Year 1 of the Conquering 

[wyrdstonethenovel]

WELCOME TO WYRDSTONE THE NOVEL

Hello wonderful people of Tumblr.

After years of querying, rewriting, and rejection I've decided to post my novel, WYRDSTONE over here on Tumblr so it stops collecting dust on my hard drive.

So... if you are into a good old fashioned queer fight for the throne TM this might be up your alley. We will be updating every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Anyway, here is the official synopsis:

Fifty years ago, Atesh the Conqueror invaded and overthrew the neighboring Kingdom of Ker. Now the aging Conqueror is faced with a serious dilemma-- he's running out of heirs. 

When the Conqueror summons, you answer. Which is exactly why twenty-one year old prince Asho hightails it back to the capital, sunburnt and hungover. Also attending the meeting is Admrilia, Asho's overly accomplished cousin and childhood rival. The Conqueror's directive is simple: they both must learn to harness the power of the vengeful water god Thrysne, and accompany him on the Fourth Triumph; a yearlong military expedition around the empire, to be considered for succession. 

Meanwhile across the empire, Nia-Uro lives under oppressive martial law. Tasked by the local legate to search for trophies for the upcoming triumph, the long tomb raider stumbles upon a relic of the Conquering- -- a wyrdstone-- which power the Conqueror desperately covets.