When Night Falls: Book One Of The Three Gifts

WHEN NIGHT FALLS

THE THREE GIFTS

Book One

By Gerald L. Coleman

Copyright © 2014 by Gerald L. Coleman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

WHEN NIGHT FALLS

Gerald L. Coleman

Atlanta, Georgia

Geraldlcoleman.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

ISBN 9780578474274

Cover art by Godwin Akpan

Map Design Gerald L. Coleman

Map Art by Gregory Shipp

Ebook formatting by ebooklaunch.com

THE THREE GIFTS

by Gerald L. Coleman

When Night Falls: Book One

A Plague of Shadows: Book Two

For my mother June, for giving me a love of reading and always believing in me, Tim for being the best big brother, and my community of writers, particularly the Affrilachian Poets …

FOREWORD

This book, well series of books, began as a way of changing the world of literature, which I love immensely. Growing up I read all the great science fiction and epic fantasy I could get my hands on. The house I grew up in was simple, clean, and filled with reading. I have my mother to thank for that. Some of my earliest memories are of her reading to my brother and I. She raised us on her own. One of the greatest gifts she gave us was a love of reading. While we did not have much in the way of material possessions I was still able to travel the universe. I moved through time and space. I rode on the back of horses with heroes. I fought monsters with them, pushed back the Darkness alongside them, wielding a sword, or magical powers. My mind was alive with the wonders of far away realms, distant battles, and magical possibilities. All the while I learned what it meant to make a difference in the world.

While I reveled in dragonriders, wizards, knights, elves, and even hobbits I never really got to see myself reflected in the thousands of pages that passed before my eyes. I appropriated the position of hero as an avid reader but somewhere in the back of my mind I knew these heroes did not look like me. They looked just like most of the square-jawed, white, men I saw on television or at the movies. Even in the comic books I read the same archetypes applied. There was the occasional Luke Cage: Power Man or Black Panther but mostly the prevailing archetype held. So I decided to write an epic fantasy adventure with all the normal facets, which I have loved so much about the genre, but with one simple addition. In my adventure everyone would find a heroic character with whom they could identify. To you, the reader, I say thank you for reading my homage to epic fantasy. I appreciate you taking this journey with me. I hope you enjoy reading this first book in the series as much as I have enjoyed writing it for you.

Gerald L. Coleman

March 2014

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

THE WORLD OF THE THREE GIFTS

PRELUDE

CHAPTER ONE

Things fall apart

CHAPTER TWO

Keep the home fires burning

CHAPTER THREE

Storm a’ brewing

CHAPTER FOUR

An open door and words between

CHAPTER FIVE

A fork in the road

CHAPTER SIX

And those who carry on

CHAPTER SEVEN

Thoughts of home

CHAPTER EIGHT

A change in the weather

CHAPTER NINE

A touch from the dark

CHAPTER TEN

Holding on and letting go

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Someone watching over me

CHAPTER TWELVE

Of things past

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gifts and graces

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Where need takes us

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Around about midnight

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A caution against favors

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The silent speak

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Questions and answers

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Homecoming

CHAPTER TWENTY

Al’akaz

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

As deep as the Wadi

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Where women do not tread

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The debt

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Shadows in the Hall

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The hallowed place of horrors

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Sidesteps

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

When visitors come calling

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Challenge

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Moh’di’ba

CHAPTER THIRTY

Selene

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Sacrifice

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

… and they made their bed in darkness, forswearing the light, the sun hid its face from them even as tears fell from the heavens; for to those who pitched their tent beneath the face of the shadow, came great tribulation, bathed in fire, leaving them bereft of hope while they sat among the ruins in sackcloth and ashes crying out for a salvation that would never come …

- Jillis Jossen the Mallibarr

Witness to the burning of Chessa Hollabring

at Mandiburg 342 C. E.

WHEN

NIGHT

FALLS

PRELUDE

The tea was so hot she had to blow on it before she could sip from the small porcelain cup. Its matching, pale-blue saucer, with tiny, yellow flowers winding around its edge, rested on the tips of the fingers of her right hand. With her left hand she raised the delicate cup to her lips. She sipped lightly. The taste of orange blossoms, with a sweet, subtle hint of honey, filled her mouth. The tea’s heat warmed her as it trickled down her throat. She breathed in the fresh, cool, evening air that blew across her face as it brought the smell of mint, mixed with hibiscus, to her. And maybe, she thought, a hint of lilac and honeysuckle? The fragrances filled her nose causing her to smile brightly. Peace. This place, along with the time of day, always brought her comfort. She reclined in the oversized chair, on the veranda, as she gazed out on the lush Valley of O’lukaz. Fully leaved trees intermingled with thick stands of flowers in every conceivable color as they filled the valley below. It made for a breathtaking sight from her vantage point. The house had been built along the rim of the valley to take advantage of the beautiful view.

She loved coming out onto the veranda, leaning over the slatted railing, or just nestling into Azmatthamelle’s large chair while reveling in that view. Rocking herself slightly, she mirrored the treetops, as the wind turned, then twisted, down into the valley causing them to sway in the breeze.

Joy of my heart. His voice was deep, with a rich complexity, as if there were other, fainter, voices echoing behind it, just out of hearing. Caught by surprise, she nearly jumped out of the chair. As it was, she spilled some of her tea on the front of her dress. The too-white, nearly sheer fabric shimmered as the tea drizzled down its front. Then, in a brief twinkle of multi-colored light, the tea disappeared leaving no trace. It was the only thing that kept her from giving him a stern look, even if she would not have meant it.

Setting the cup lightly on its saucer she placed both on the small table nestled against the chair while rising from her seat. Turning, she looked at him as he stood in the open doorway leading from the house out onto the veranda. When her eyes fell on him it happened. He had taught her how to mask the effects of the presence so that she would not be so overcome, but sometimes she enjoyed letting herself feel it. He was one of the Glorious Ones. She was only mortal. As he walked onto the veranda, gliding with an unearthly grace that only they possessed, the presence washed over her. Joy blossomed in her chest. She had to fight to keep tears from filling her eyes. She let it wash over her. A slight moan escaped her lips as she swayed almost imperceptibly from one foot to the other. A warm hand cupped her chin then lifted it, tilting her head back ever so slightly. Opening her eyes she let her smile stretch across her entire face. By the Ancient, she was giddy!

He shook his head slightly back and forth with a rue smile of his own adorning his face. His voice rumbled from somewhere deep, almost far off. Aas, I have taught you how to temper the effects of the Presence yet you still allow yourself to be overcome. He was trying to sound stern and failing miserably. She almost laughed at the faint-hearted attempt.

Aas reached up, placing both of her small hands on his, turning them so that she could lay her head in them. She took a deep breath, inhaling him. I am sorry my love. I only do it when you have been away longer than usual. My heart leaps that you have returned to me. Ducking under his outstretched arm she threw her arms around him. Even on her tiptoes her face nestled against his body just shy of his chest.

He put his arms around her squeezing gently. She felt as if she could stay there forever. It was only when he spoke again that she could hear something different in his voice. Aas my love, we must move quickly. I do not have time to explain fully but something has happened. I must get you to safety.

Aas tilted her head back to look up at him. It was then that she noticed the tears, unshed, but glistening, in his eyes. Today those eyes, which he normally liked to be light brown or green, were a hard, slate, gray. Her breath caught in her throat. She had never, ever, seen Az cry. Pushing back from him she really looked at him. If she had not let the presence overcome her she would have seen it as soon as he came out onto the veranda. His sleeveless, pale-green robe with blue vines embroidered along the seams was stained with dirt and blood. His long, black, woolly locks hung loose around his shoulders. There were cuts on his arms. She could see bruises that were hard to make out because of his dark brown skin. Her voice caught in her throat as she spoke, What … what has happened Azmatthamelle? There has been violence? How is that possible?

Azmatthamelle put one hand on her slim shoulder while brushing at her hair with the other. The tiny bells tied in among the countless braids of her black hair, which hung to the small of her back, jingled lightly. "Mnasha nnanda, my precious." Be at peace. He said it in the First Tongue. Blood stains the steps of Allemdashhar. The Anointed One is dead. His jaw clenched then unclenched as he spoke the words. She knew a rage was building deep within him. His voice trembled lightly as he went on. We have been betrayed. Even now Palladawn burns. The Glorious Ones shed each other’s blood in the Hall of Adoration. I left the fighting at Allemdashar, but I must return. I came to get you to a place that will be safe.

Aas listened in stunned silence. She was so shocked that she barely took notice of how Azmatthamelle’s voice grew harder as he spoke. Palladawn burning? The Anointed One dead? She realized that she was not breathing and suddenly gulped in air. Before she could speak Azmatthamelle was pulling her, nearly dragging her off the veranda then through the house. Her voice sounded breathless as she raced to keep up, I must gather some things for us husband. But he was shaking his head as he spoke over his shoulder, No time my heart. The Betrayer knows that I have a mortal wife. The Twisted Ones might let you live but if their plan is to succeed they cannot let the child you carry survive.

She squeaked at his words then stopped only to be nearly jerked forward as they continued on toward the front door. It had to be very early if she was really with child. In fact it must have been only a few weeks. It did not surprise her that he knew even before she did, after all he was one of the Glorious. While he raced them out of the house and into a sparkling whirlwind of shimmering lights that appeared with the wave of his hand she fought with her fear of what had happened to her world. It warred in her chest with the joy of what was happening inside her body. She was going to have a child.

†

Tellahmaraineth sat on the hilltop looking down on where the Spires of Ell’sithelle’menerith had stood, ancient and resplendent against the skyline, as recently as dawn. Now all she could see was thick, black smoke signaling the presence of the raging fires below. From time to time the earth shook underneath her forcing her to brace herself with her hands to keep from being tossed about. Normally she would have Spoken to the clouds to keep the rain at bay until she was gone but she could not afford to attract attention. Some of the betrayers were probably still in the city.

Her skin tingled but she did not turn her head. Tellah knew before he arrived exactly who it would be. Azmatthamelle had always liked Shifting. He claimed it was easier on the place you left as well as where you arrived. If you questioned it he would launch into a lecture about metaphysics and the nature of movement. The young were always particular about certain things but Tellah was in no mood for lectures. His voice rumbled behind her. Tellah, I have come.

She continued gazing down on burning Ell’sithelle’menerith. She knew she sounded tired, but she did not care to try to modulate her voice. Tellah spoke without turning to look at him, transfixed by the fires ravaging the city below. Her question was punctuated by the periodic flash of lightning, as dark as the midnight, high in the sky above. How is Aas?

She is safe. She is troubled, but safe. That is all that matters. Tellahmaraineth could feel him scanning the hillside. She knew what he would say next but cut him off as he opened his mouth to ask, I do not know what is keeping Tutthameldaszar. They both nearly jumped when a third voice spoke from above them.

"The Thaumaturgis has arrived. The Awaited One is here. I have come." The voice was rich, melodic, and completely full of itself. Tutthameldaszar had not simply wielded the Gift for more than an eon, he had taught its nuances in the Eedris, even debated its complexity on the Pavilion. He always spoke as if he had an audience, whether he had one or not. He was one of the eldest of them all.

Tellahmaraineth looked up to watch him float down out of the sky landing gently, with a flourish, not far from where Az stood. Laughing softly, she watched as Tutthameldaszar bowed deeply with another flourish while Azmatthamelle looked at him as if he were considering what part of him to break. Tutt’s robe was smartly cut. It was fitted to his slim frame. The purple, gold, and gray robe was tattered a bit around the edges but somehow his boots shone glossy black while his cloak flapped lightly in the wind. Had he stopped to polish his boots, she thought? Though his bronze colored face was lightly smudged, his silvery white hair sparkled as it hung loosely around his shoulders.

Though her heart was pained she could not keep a hint of mirth out of her voice. Tutt, you can never stop putting on the performance, can you?

He shook his head at her, making a tsking sound with his tongue, as he said, Tellah, sometimes the performance is all you have, no? Tutt looked skyward with irritation then absently waved his hand. The rain continued to fall but it did not touch the hilltop. With a brief nod, accompanied by a grim grin, he clasped his hands behind his back as he stepped closer to her.

Tellah took a deep breath. She stood, brushing at the pale-blue gossamer gown she wore as she rose. The sleeves were fitted from shoulder to elbow but flared into bell cuffs. The high collar curved up stopping just below her ears. Her slippers were delicate with sparkling gems covering the sharply curved toes. The gems picked up what little light remained. She towered over mortals, though Az and Tutt were a half-head taller still. While the rest of their brothers and sisters were fighting for their lives, along with what was left of the world, she had been able to contact these two, convincing them to leave the fighting. They waited for her to speak. After all, she had contacted them. They had come at her call. For that, she was grateful. It could not have been easy for Azmatthamelle to leave his beloved Aas. Tutthameldaszar would have gotten himself killed strolling up to the Hall of Adoration. No doubt he would have called the betrayers out to meet him in formal combat right there on the Great Steps. He would have died. He was the Thaumaturgis, so many of the betrayers would have fallen beneath his wrath. The countryside would have been decimated for a thousand miles in every direction, but in the end, they would have taken him with them. Had she not gotten to him first it would have been a waste - a costly, disastrous waste.

Tellah took another deep breath. Finding her voice, she said, We have lost the day. But, we must not lose eternity. Somehow, something must survive the devastation. Standing very still, she waited. Tutt gazed toward the burning city with his arms across his chest, a single finger tapping his pursed lips. Az looked her in the eye. He did not blink. He did not even move.

It was Tutthameldaszar who spoke first. Low, soft, and with fewer flourishes than his voice normally held he said, There is blood on the steps at Palladawn. The Anointed One is dead. The Spires of The Ancient City are blackened and crumbling. He turned to look at her then, his eyes ablaze, but his voice stilled like ice as he continued, What would you have us do Tellahmaraineth, Daughter of Allgashain, Stone of Heaven, Keeper of the Everlasting Flame, She, who stands at the Right Hand of the Presence? What can we do now, that will matter, except take as many of them with us as we can, and hope that the One who sits on the Throne may yet stir?

Tellah looked from Az to Tutt noticing that their cheeks were not wet because of the rain that still fell from the sky. Tears had begun to fall from their eyes. She blinked fiercely as she realized that she too had begun to cry. She gathered her thoughts, steeling herself for what must be done. She needed these two Glorious Ones to believe one more time, to choose the good in the face of overwhelming, seemingly inevitable evil. The Ancient of Days would not move from the Throne of Heaven to intervene, at least not in the way Tutt wanted, for that was not the Way of Heaven. They would have to act if the world was to be saved. If they failed the world was lost. Tellah spoke the words that she hoped would make all the difference. Glorious Ones, I have a plan.

As Tellahmaraineth spoke, Azmathamelle nodded slowly, while Tutthameldaszar began to smile. There was no mirth or joy in that smile only grim resolve. As she spoke they both stepped closer to her. She told them her plan. They listened as tears continued to fall from their eyes. All around them the ground shook, the fires raged, as the world they once knew came to an end.

An unlit candle is of little use when night falls.

~Ana Belle

mother of Junn, overheard at the

Festival of Home Coming

Springs Field, near the Flat Woods

at sunset.

Bid the morning

Sweetly come

Bid it ever, sweetly

Ask a blessing

Of the day

Ask it ever, so

Touch your feet

To earth and smile

Turn your eye

To touch the sky

Stretch your arms

To wind and wave

And chance your

Soul to fly

As the sun

Her rays do kiss

And warm your

Up turned face

And bid all sweetly

Meet the dawn

And may it sweetly come

Yes may it sweetly, sweetly come

May it sweetly, come

~Pascha morning prayer

Wishing for a good morning is like asking a blind man for directions.

~Kushka the baker,

upon being told good

morning by her first

customer.

CHAPTER ONE

Things fall apart

Onya Onoto eased up along the wall. At the end of the wall she paused, listening intently, as she held her breath. The gray rock of the wall held her weight, roughly, as she leaned against it. The cool touch of its unheated, textured surface brushed against the base of her neck sending a slight chill down her spine. Her left palm brushed across its chiseled grain, feeling its rough-hewn unevenness. Silence seemed to hold the entire area in its grasp. Onya flipped open her round, Tink-made, silver pocket timepiece. She watched the black second-hand tick around the white face for a few seconds. Part one of the operation was complete. Having crept into the compound under the cover of early morning darkness it was time to wait. Insertion had been achieved. Taking in her surroundings, Onya allowed herself to believe that all things were as they should be, at least for the moment. She let herself exhale. Her breath turned to mist in the air. As it drifted off, dissipating in the cool, pre-dawn air she went over the parameters of their mission in her mind.

The key to entering a facility, where you were not wanted, without killing everyone you saw, was not being seen. The secret to remaining unseen was not what most people thought. Yes, stealth was important, but the most valuable asset was patience. Patience was not just one of the great virtues, used correctly it was a potent weapon.

You watched. You waited. And then, you waited some more. When it was time, you moved. When you moved, you did so quickly, with precise, deadly, economy, and absolute silence. All of this was certainly more easily said than done. Onya could almost hear Bantu’s voice echoing in her mind relating the price of excellence. High standards, he would say. Hard work mixed with high standards combined to create excellence. Onya smiled to herself as she watched the seconds tick away.

The sun would be peaking over the horizon soon. It would be a breathtaking sight. High in the northern hill country of Province with its lush greenery, rolling hills, and thick clouds brushing those hilltops, would make for a beautiful sight. Maybe it would be reddish-gold with a hint of purple or possibly, considering the hour, more yellow with hints of rust. Whichever it turned out to be, it would be worth seeing.

The sky, just before dawn, always brought on a stillness in Onya, which she had found could be had at no other time of the day. Others had said they felt that stillness late at night when most people were in their beds, but for Onya it was early morning, just before the sun came up.

Peering into the distance, she could see what appeared to be two birds of prey circling high above her. They seemed to hardly flap their wings. They just lazily drifted in great intersecting circles. The hazy light of approaching dawn slowly began to pour over the nettletree-covered hilltops. The immense rock outcroppings dotting those hilltops, which momentarily held back the sun’s early morning arrival, seemed small when viewed from such a great distance. They reminded her of very old men asleep under thick, green blankets caught as if frozen mid-turn in their beds. The vastness of the view made her seem so small.

The air was refreshingly crisp with a hint of mint on the breeze. The day would warm quickly. The successful outcome of her mission would only be a part of the reason for that warmth. She took a deep breath and held it. Rubbing her fingers, one against another, she felt the texture of her own fingertips. As she watched the horizon, the world seemed to slow down while the greens of the lush hillsides seemed to brighten. The wall against her back, along with the ground beneath her feet, for a moment, seemed to be a part of her. She stretched out her awareness feeling how the wind swirled as it rustled through the trees. It was called the abundance. Onya immersed herself in the moment. Exhaling through her left nostril - then inhaling through the right - made her feel like she could almost taste the sweetness of the morning.

The mission’s protocols were clicking off, one after another, with the smooth precision of one of Tink’s time-pieces. But as her mind drifted back, for a moment, she had to admit to herself that it had been a long couple of days. Those two days had commenced hundreds of miles to the south at Sanctuary, where Bantu had received a visitor from Rulers Hill - an imperial messenger, in point of fact. Almost immediately, he had left for the royal house of Alexandria. The royal house stood atop an imposing rise of land overlooking the entire capital city. The Hill, as it was called in the capital, could be seen from miles away as one approached the city from land or sea. The intent of the city’s layout was to inspire a sense of awe in all those who came to the capital, especially noble visitors, ambassadors, or envoys coming to conduct the business of state. For most people, it did exactly that.

Looking out a front window of the palace, it would be possible to see, not only, the city stretching out beneath you but much of the surrounding countryside. The rear of the palace looked out onto the clear, blue, sparkling waters of the great sea known as the Macca Deep. Ships, of varying size, could be seen taxiing in, or out, of the harbor from the rear windows of the House of Lilies. Alexandria House, the palace at the heart of the Empire, took its formal name from the title of the House from which the current ruler came. At least that was the tradition before the current occupant’s grandfather began turning a single kingdom into an empire. He, his son Alexander, who completed that conquest, along with his granddaughter, who now sat on the imperial throne, Empress Natassha Sobrine, were of the ancient Samosian House of the Lilies. The name Samosata was no longer in use. The Samosian kingdom had been turned into the Empire, while Samosata the city was now Alexandria.

Bantu had been away from Sanctuary most of the morning. When he returned to Sanctuary late in the afternoon he sent for Onya. She was informed that she would command a strike team on a mission of extreme importance, the particulars of which would be discussed on route to her destination. A Cadet-Third appeared in the doorway of her quarters, tugging absently at the white coat that marked him a cadet, with a summons to Aerie just as she completed packing her gear.

Aerie was a building several stories high, at the edge of Sanctuary, overlooking the Macca Deep, which had been cut down into the cliffs beneath it. The building, along with that section of the cliffs, housed the air wing of the Peoples Company. Its members were known as Mountain Feathers. Upon her arrival at Aerie, she was led briskly through the heart of the building, down into the inner recesses of the cliffs, which opened into the air above the crashing waters of the Deep. As Onya was arriving, two of the enormous birds, called Pradas, came in for a landing. The Pradas had circled above the pale, blue, crystal waters of the Deep that crashed thunderously into white foam at the bottom of the cliffs, just before their Mountain Feather pilots gave them the nudge to land. The speed with which they came hurtling into the yawning opening of the caverns in the cliff face was always shocking to Onya. It just did not seem like they should be able to stop so quickly. Amid the bustle of cargo loading, or unloading, bird feeding, and grooming, which had to be done with scaffolding, the sound of birds cawing, mixed with people shouting, echoing off the cavern’s roof, Onya found Bantu standing with her crew. The master of Sanctuary had been standing in the midst of all that hectic activity, clad in Company black.

He towered over her. It wasn’t just that she was a small woman, it was that he was taller than most. His face was like chiseled stone, with a clean-shaven, strong chin. He had a small, but broad, nose with tiny ears. All of those lovely features were covered in blemish-free skin that was a golden dark-brown. His head was shaved completely smooth. His eyes were hazel but somehow hard like steel. When he looked at you those eyes could be piercing, as if he was seeing right into your very center. Bantu had broad shoulders on a lean frame, but Onya knew that it was hard muscle beneath the close-cut, high-collared, black, wool coat that hugged at the waist, and flared out slightly over the hips as it fell to the top of the thigh. The embroidered, intricate scrollwork, which wound thickly up the coat sleeves, from cuff to elbow, showed up again around the high collar, where it was an even deeper black. The buttons, which ran down the center of the front of the coat, were also a glistening black. The breeches were matching black wool with a thick, raised seam running down the center of the thigh giving them a structured, rakish look. Those breeches were tucked into knee-high, black, leather boots with a wide, round toe, and heavy sole. They had a just-shinned, glossy look with a single, thick, silver buckle slashing across the ankle of each boot.

He held himself in that still way that made you think of the calm before a storm. It was the same sense you got when, though the sky was clear, you could still feel an approaching storm just over the horizon. That anticipation of something powerful or dangerous, just out of sight, seemed to emanate from him. Onya, along with anyone who had served with him, knew it was not just imagination. As she made her way across the Pradas’ landing area, to where he had been standing, Bantu was silently supervising her team while they loaded their gear.

At her approach the team’s members stopped their various activities, snapping to attention, with their right hands rising respectfully to their foreheads. They had stood there unmoving. Dropping her gear, she had flipped a quick salute in their direction. As Bantu turned from the strike team to face her, she snapped to attention. Without thinking, her hand had risen sharply to her forehead again. Onya Onoto, of the Quiet Blossoms, Captain-Commander of the Peoples Company, stood there, unmoving, with her eyes focused just over his shoulder. She waited for her commanding officer to acknowledge her. The five tiny, circular, silver pips pinned in a row along the right side of his high collar marked him as the Commander-General of the Peoples Company. His name was Ossassande Bantu A’ Omorede. Onya, with four full pips, marking her a Captain-Commander, not prone to fear, nevertheless moved very deliberately around Bantu. They had become close friends over time, but she had never really gotten out of the habit of exercising a certain caution around him. After a salute, a half-smile, followed by a quip about him not having to come after her, he turned on his heel. Striding back toward the building she had just come from, he had turned his ear to the several officers rushing alongside him, trying to keep up with his long strides. Onya remembered watching him go, shaking her head while watching him deal with the questions, as well as the papers they handed him, all without slowing. She recalled thinking to herself how much she did not want his responsibilities. With a sigh, she had turned to deal with her own. The Company ran on responsibility. You accepted the burden of your responsibility to the people. It also ran on courage. You summoned the courage necessary to fulfill those responsibilities.

With their gear completely loaded, her team had climbed the rope ladder that allowed them to access the personnel carrier strapped to the back of the Pradas. It was a wooden flight-carriage with an oval design, reinforced by steel. It was flanked by small curved wings just behind the doors, which flared back, tapering off into a small pointed tail at the rear of the carriage. The entire carriage was secured with steel reinforced rigging, as thick as her arm, attached to steel bolts on the carriage. The particular carriage they piled into had been constructed to carry seven people, along with their accompanying gear.

The towering, reddish-brown, feathered bird, whose coloring meant he was male, had a golden, curved beak matched by golden talons. The massive bird rustled his wings while making a low rumbling sound that caused the carrier to vibrate slightly. Their pilot appeared miniscule climbing the rope ladder running from the ground, thirty feet up the height of the great bird, to where his seat awaited him. It was in a second smaller cabin, of similar design to the personnel carrier. The flight cabin sat just behind the Pradas’ neck, while the carrier holding them was nestled securely between the bird’s wings. The Pradas were enormous, magnificent birds. They looked like the Ancient of Days had taken a hawk and decided to make a version of them the size of a small building. Onya remembered the pilot adjusting his weathered, black, leather jacket just before climbing up to, what the Mountain Feathers called, the Pilot’s Nest.

Onya could not have seen it from her seat in the carrier, but she knew what he had done next. He climbed into the Pilot’s Nest, which was covered by a steel reinforced glass shield. The Mountain Feather pulled the shield down into place after securing himself in his seat. It protected him from the elements while allowing him complete visibility during flight. The leather reigns came up through the front of the cabin, threaded in by way of leather covered wooden tubes made to let the reigns in but keep the weather out.

The young Lieutenant had taken hold of the reigns. With a nudge of his left heel into the exposed neck of the bird, inside his cabin, beneath his feet, coupled with a cluck of his tongue, the great bird, Santeju, Onya recalled, rose to his feet. The massive creature unfurled long, powerful wings. The Mountain Feather’s voice command was picked up by his communication gemstone, flaring to glowing, green life on the high collar of his black coat. The gemstone transmitted his voice to the matching stone attached to the inner ear of the great bird. By foot, reign, and voice command the Pradas was trained to understand his pilot’s instructions.

The bird’s huge wings, flexing with reserved power, had sent uniformed attendants scurrying for cover. Slowly, making his way to the edge of the cavern, at his pilot’s urging, Santeju leaped out into the air bearing them all aloft. Hurtling down toward the crashing waters of the Macca Deep, the bird gained neck-breaking speed until suddenly snapping his immense wings downward in powerful strokes. Catching the wind beneath him, Santeju allowed the buffeting wind to push him upward. Soaring, he climbed almost straight up in tight arcs swallowing the sky like a man dying of thirst would have gulped fresh water. The Lieutenant, Onya remembered thinking, was showing off. He urged Santeju upward with some rhythmic chant Onya had heard other pilots use with the birds but could never quite catch. Exhilarating would be the word to describe it, even as her stomach tried to leap into her lap.

Onya watched in silence, from the glass window of the carrier, as Sanctuary, followed by all of Alexandria, had dwindled away beneath her. As they leveled off, thousands of feet in the air, Santeju began to glide on the rising heat thermals, at least that is what she overheard some Mountain Feather call it one night. Slowly, she began to feel normal again. She felt the shift in her stomach as the Mountain Feather turned Santeju northward. That way, she had known, led to Province. With the wind streaming around the flight carrier, its sealed, reinforced, thick glass, and sculpted wood, as usual, made for a quiet, steady ride. Onya waited patiently for the officer seated across from her to get his sky-feet under him so that he could begin the mission briefing. The scabbard for his sword was wrapped with a braided crimson cord. It also had three small feathers tied just below the scabbard’s mouth. Those decorative additions, along with the small, red bird in flight, embroidered on his black coat, just over his heart, meant the man was a Red Bird. His name was Brigatt. He was the Information’s Officer for their mission.

One hour, as the Pradas flies, outside Alexandria, with the clouds below them as the sun brightly bathed their cabin with warmth, Brigatt opened a small metal box. From its contents he meticulously prepared five cups of steaming choca, its lightened brown coloring indicating it had been mixed with cream. Its sweet taste meant that sugar had also been mixed into the hot liquid. This made serving it during the flight a simple affair. The smell of vanilla filled the flight carrier. It was her favorite. The smell, and somehow the choca, even though it was a stimulant, had relaxed her. With sunlight on her face, the scent of vanilla in her nose, all complimenting the sensation of a warm cup of choca in her hands, calm washed over her.

One of the first things you learned as a member of the Company was, when the opportunity presented itself, you relaxed. Looking around the interior of the carrier Onya noticed the rest of the strike team doing just that. There were the six spans of leggy Orah, with her raven-black hair, which was tied back into a long tail, her bright green eyes, and her overdeveloped trigger-finger. She accepted a cup of choca passed to her from Brigatt. Orah, Rain Catcher that she was, specialized in bodyguard assignments, among other things. Tom-Tom had also been reaching for a cup. His massive, dark-brown, hands engulfed the small, green, porcelain cup, delicately decorated around its lip with pale, cream gardenia blossoms. Tom-Tom leaned back in his seat with a closed-mouth grin as he took his first sip. The first cup of the day was always the best cup. You didn’t really taste the cups after that. His six span-plus frame was heavily muscled. His long legs stretched out into the aisle where he crossed them at the ankles. The sunlight reflected off his black, leather, calf-high boots. A treatise on the problem of evil by Terriss Bymm was in his lap. You made a mistake with Tom-Tom if you equated his size with a lack of intelligence. He specialized in rescue and retrieval. If you needed someone to come get you, you needed Tom-Tom or one of the members of his unruly band of Stone Hands.

Mallic leaned back in his seat, with his feet propped up on the edge of one of the small wooden tables secured to the floor of the cabin. A Far Eye was trained to be a sentry, or scout, along with the skills needed to serve as an occasional spy. Mallic could disappear, like morning mist evaporating at the appearance of the sun, almost right before your eyes. Just shy of six spans, with the slim, but strong, build of a dancer, one of Mallic’s sun-darkened hands was behind his head. He had a distant look in his blue eyes. His other hand held his steaming cup of choca. His time had been divided between sipping from his cup and blowing at a stray lock of rumpled, slightly curly, brown hair that had decided to lay, just so, across his forehead. Behind Mallic, to his left, receiving the third cup of choca, was Ving. Ving had been unceremoniously saddled with the name Ving the Merciless. He was a small man with a bright intelligence that twinkled in his gray eyes. He combated the name, ostensibly, by ignoring it. His very light-brownish face would redden slightly as people cried out in fake terror while he passed by, or as he entered a room. The only hair on his face, or head, was a grayish- white, pointed shock of beard on his chin that he kept braided. He was handsome, relatively quiet, and was preoccupied with staring down into the depths of his cup. Ving was a Maker from the arm of the Company Bantu called Solutions, which fell under the purview of Tinker. Tinker, along with the people from Solutions, performed what Onya could only call miracles. You could not say that in front of Tinker, however, unless you were interested in a tremendously long lecture about how the ignorant perceived advanced knowledge as magic or miracle. Onya had made that mistake only once, blushing bright red as Bantu slid quietly from the room holding back laughter while Tink battered her about the head with a longwinded tirade on the subject. Nevertheless, the things they made, as well as the things they could do, were breathtaking. It was the work of the Gift she knew. It was one thing to know what Makers could do but quite another thing to see it up close.

Dreyden had been at the rear of the cabin, lightly snoring, atop the stacked gear. A little taller than Tom-Tom but with a slimmer build, Onya had only been able to see the bottoms of his boots. Those black eyes, though closed, would be ready to snap open at a moment’s notice. Dreyden was Team-Second for the mission. If you were in the hot seat, faced with a situation that could go either way at any second, you wanted Dreyden in the thick of it, slashing about with his shoulder-length black hair flipping around, while he flashed that foolish, but bright, smile as if he could not see himself anywhere else but right there. He was in the thick of a snore while Onya sipped her choca. Death Singers were odd in that way. Dreyden was odder than most. They were the rear guard in any action. Death Singers could be heard crying out encouragement to other Singers, in the heat of battle, to hold the line. They called themselves T’Sima Na Bantu MDo, in the language of Bantu’s homeland meaning, the line that Bantu draws in the sand. For Death Singers, once Bantu drew the line, no one crossed it alive. Onya always thought they were insane. But you never said that when there were Death Singers within earshot. Even then you looked over your shoulder just to be sure there were none around.

Onya had reached for her own cup from Brigatt before crossing her legs. She folded them up into the seat beneath her. Taking a sip of the hot liquid, she nodded to Brigatt to begin his recitation. What he had related to her did not so much frightened her as it shocked her. Province, directly to the north of their resident Alexandria, across the Mountains of Marra, had been constructing a weapon. It was a weapon with devastating potential called the Dragon Orb. If, or when, it was finished it would dramatically change the balance of power among the nations. The commander of the Empresses secret service, along with the chief military advisors to the crown, had encouraged the Empress to call on the services of the Company.

Unrolling a large piece of parchment, Brigatt revealed to Onya that the empire had supplied them with all of their intelligence reports along with the request for action. The weapon was to be completed within a day. It was to be tested within seven. It was further believed that the first act, after a successful test, would be to use it against the empire. Their mission was to retrieve all the information regarding it’s making before destroying it, along with the facility where it was being made. Seek-and-Destroy. Brigatt said it matter-of-factly before going quiet. Turning his attention to the view, he lost himself gazing at the visage passing outside the glass. He appeared to be captivated by the large, billowing, clouds, which looked like waves caught frozen as though posing for a portrait. After a moment he began to hum to himself. The tune was called Many Shades of Blue.

Reflecting over the particulars of the mission, Onya thought, in those next moments, that Bantu had surely charged the Empire a significant, if not outrageous, amount of coin. Company practice was to charge the wealthy based on what they were worth, others what they could afford, while the poor were charged next to nothing for the Company’s services. To compound matters for the wealthy empire, the mission was political. Taking a sip of her choca, Onya smiled to herself. It had occurred to her in that moment, that for the Empire, the job was going to be very expensive.

Santeju, all the while, plied his great wings on the powerful air currents that all Pradas seemed to know intimately. The nearly one hundred spans of reddish-brown, feathered muscle had angled this way, then that, as though he was dancing with the sky as his partner. Santeju carried them aloft over miles of terrain that day. He cut in and out of cloudbanks for cover. The great bird flew well into the night, landing somewhere in Province hours before dawn. A small rise in the woods caught them as they fell from the sky. Santeju’s powerful wings had buffeted the landing site with gusts of wind. Their landing was as smooth as their lift off had been. Rustling his wings, the enormous Pradas cooed softly while the team unloaded. They stood silently, black clad haunts on that small rise, as they looked west. The target was three clicks to the west. Onya had instructed the pilot to wait for them until noon. If she had not made contact by then the Mountain Feather was to return to Sanctuary. The young lieutenant had ground his teeth at that, clenching his jaw as if he were forcibly swallowing any objections to her orders. Santeju rustled his wings while making deep rumbling sounds in his chest. None of the Mountain Feathers would admit to it but the rumor was that the birds could sense the emotions of the pilots with whom they were teamed. She made him repeat back to her the orders she had given him to reinforce the fact that it had not been a request. You did not disobey an order in the Company if you wanted to remain in it.

Another of their advantages, courtesy of Tink, was the Strike Suit. The black, woven-cotton bodysuits fit snuggly but gave a little in all the right places. The various straps and belts, which carried their gear, were cinched tightly to silence any jingling or rubbing noises. They would be invisible. They would be silent. It was one of the things that made a strike team so deadly.

The strike team, under her command, had left the wooded rise at a dead run. Floating like a westerly breeze, tinted black as the midnight sky, they made their way through the thick woods. Loaded Tink-specials were in their hands. The black metal of those crossbows did not give off even a hint of reflected light. On they had run. The perimeter of the base was protected with traps, but they swept through them without even a disturbed leaf on the way. As the moon thought of disappearing, just before the sun contemplated rising, the strike team rolled silently into the base like fog off the sea. Three clicks, in record time, Onya had thought as she edged up to the end of the interior, gray, rock wall running her hand over its rough surface. It had been a long, eventful, two days.

Onya was still watching the tick, tick, ticking, of the Tink timepiece in her hand as she turned her thoughts from the series of developments that had brought her to the present moment. Her heart beat slowly. This was what she trained for constantly. She was good at it. It would not be long now. Part two of the mission was about to begin. Focusing fully on the present the past few days melted away into the background of her mind. It was time to concentrate on the work ahead. The workday had just begun. Releasing the safe-latch on her crossbow, which kept it from firing accidentally, she listened for the soft click that accompanied the movement. It was a Tink-special, and Tinker was special. Awe was a constant when you were in Tinker’s company. She had often wondered at Tink’s ability to create, especially to create what had never been thought of before. But then, Tinker was a Maker. From what she had ever been able to gather Tink was among the gifted even of that enigmatic group. Most were loners or nomads, shunning normal society while remaining cloaked in secrecy. When they came across another of their kind anything could happen from clasping one another as if they were long lost relatives to challenging each other to their version of a duel to the death. Whatever happened, a meeting of Makers was rare but always worth seeing. Tinker had earned a reputation among them over the years. Only rarely did one show up at the gate to Sanctuary demanding to see the Company’s chief Maker. Those were always interesting days.

The crossbow she held in her hands was one of those creations. Made from a metal of Tinker’s composition it was both incredibly durable and amazingly lightweight. The black finish reflected almost no light. The firing arms were made from a metal that flexed, which gave it more power than its conventional wooden counterparts. They were so powerful there was actually a small kick when you fired one. It was very slim. It was also slightly longer than conventional crossbows. None of these characteristics, however, were the true genius behind the Tink design.

Tinker had constructed a crossbow with a number of truly unheard-of capabilities. The Tink-special did not fire a wooden, feather-fletched bolt from a carved groove down the length of the crossbow shaft. Instead it fired a long, metal spike, three-fourths the length of a normal bolt, from a barrel mounted on top of the crossbow shaft. Two metal cords were attached to the spring arms on one end and a tiny cup inside the barrel on the other. The barrel had slits along both sides to allow the cords to propel the cup along the barrel’s length. The spike slid neatly into the cup nestled inside the barrel when loaded. By pulling the trigger you released the metal cord launching the cup forward. The cup propelled the spike it held in place, down the length of the barrel, firing it at an incredible speed from the open end of the barrel. From there it got even better.

The crossbow had a small lever on its right side next to the trigger, which, when rotated, pulled back the metal cord, setting the metal arms for firing. When the first shot was fired, the forward momentum of the firing arms, put into motion an internal set of gears, loaded with springs, which did two things simultaneously. They reset the crossbow to fire again while rotating another spike up into the barrel. The spikes were loaded from a long, slim cartridge, which snapped into the underbelly of the shaft, located in front of the trigger. The crossbow, in a matter of seconds, was ready to be fired again. It was sheer genius. Next to its conventional counterpart the Tink-special was lighter, more durable, easier to load, fired faster, and had ammunition that was by far, easier to carry. It was also more deadly. Each cartridge was designed to hold twelve spikes. When you ran out you simply pulled out the empty cartridge. After inserting a full one you rotated the crank on the crossbow until the cords were pulled completely back. A clicking sound let you know the gears were set. It also indicated that the first spike was loaded into place. In the time it took a normal crossbow to fire twice Onya could fire off an entire cartridge.

Glancing at the timepiece she knew it was almost time. Any moment now Tom-Tom would rejoin her. Looking up from her timepiece she saw him. Just like counting on the fact that one day you would die you could count on Tom-Tom. She laughed to herself at the horrible example her mind had produced. But there he was, right on time, heading toward her in a slow, cautious gait. He seemed to flow like water as he turned the corner joining her as she leaned against the wall. Tom-Tom towered over Onya. While he was above average in height it did not help that her people were known for being small. The folds of their eyes were also a unique trait that distinguished them from others. As large as Tom-Tom was Onya had not heard a sound or even a hint of his approach. Everything was as it should be. It was time for Part Two of the mission. Acquisition. She nodded up at Tom-Tom to move out just as a crossbow bolt hit him in the shoulder. That was when things fell apart.

When I have closed my eyes

these pools of what I have seen

have closed them at last

when finally these sound catchers

these halls of what I have heard

echo no more

at the last

sing a song, pull with your hands

on a chiming rope and burn a scent for me

let me hear a song, smell a scent

as I journey upward

outward

let the smoke and the song

and the ringing bell

carry me gently, gently home

-Aras Tu’un

Poet Chief, Anatas Point

Twelfth Age, Common Era 118

Written for the death of King Agrias Aggabar

What isn’t supposed to happen often matters more than what is.

~General Gathrobaric

CHAPTER TWO

Keep the home fires burning

Even as the crossbow bolt slammed into him Tom-Tom was twisting so that it only grazed his left shoulder. The impact spun him about. The shorter, thicker version of an arrow struck the wall with a thudding sound. As the bolt fell it flung blood against the wall dotting the ground with more as it bounced. Before it stopped rattling, with a hollow clatter at their feet, Onya launched herself out from her position next to Tom-Tom. Her crossbow recoiled lightly against her shoulder with the thump-crack of spikes being fired, one after another, down the line of the wall. The projectiles streaked through the air as she side-pedaled, with her legs, while holding her upper-body almost completely still. Her head tilted slightly as she sighted down the length of the crossbow. Three men fell from that barrage while a recovered Tom-Tom took two others down just moments behind Onya’s final shot. The last sound was the soft whirring of gears from inside their crossbows as each clicked back into firing position.

This was not good. Onya stepped toward Tom-Tom but he gave her a brief shake of his head. He was fine, it said. But now the clock was running. Any agent worth the name would tell you that the only truly successful mission of this kind was one where no one even knew you had been there. No evidence in or out. Dead bodies were considered evidence the last time she had checked. Onya shook her head in disgust as she looked down the line of the wall at the slumped bodies. Even though they were still on the outskirts of the compound she knew that very soon the uniformed guards, now riddled with long, slim spikes, would be missed. As she turned to go a clock began ticking in her head.

They moved then. With precision, matched by an unmistakably deadly intent, they flowed across the early morning courtyard of the enemy base like wraiths looking for the living to consume. With a determined speed, in silence, they headed for their target as if they were spikes shot from a Tink-special crossbow. They were good. It was not a self-conceit. It was a proven truth. They were probably some of the best at what they did. Bantu believed in training above all else. That focus had fashioned them into a preeminent force. They were sought after. The name, Peoples Company, enjoyed a kind of hard-won celebrity. Some of that had certainly come from the telling of tales in taverns, inns, and the like, by those who might exaggerate the facts for effect. But another thing was also quite true. You did not leave Sanctuary on a mission, as a member of the Company, unless you were good at what the Company did. This was a part of what the Company did.

Their movement fell into a familiar pattern. It was a skill that had been honed by many hours of training. Both held their Tink-specials with the butt of the crossbow tucked neatly against the shoulder. Their eyes rested along the sights at the end of the barrel. They moved through the complex like black-clad ghosts floating, from doorway to doorway, corner to corner. The end of a hallway called for one to stop at the corner, aiming down the direction they intended to go, ready to fire at anything that moved, while the other moved further ahead. Entering a room required each to cover the others blind spot, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Moving in tandem they never exchanged a word. The training had taken over. In Onya’s head the clock was ticking.

Several times they ducked into side passages, storage rooms, or closets, as a guard paced quickly past them. Onya had chosen just before sunrise because it was normally the weak point in an installation’s defense if it used a guard rotation like this one did. The guards who were on duty had been on for most of their watch while those coming on duty would not be arriving for at least