by Jeffrey Hall
Sword of the Scarred
Book One of the Scarred World Saga
Jeffrey Hall
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living person alive or dead. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.
Copyright © 5/18/2020 by Jeffrey Hall
Created with Vellum
To Elliot and Will – Keep swinging your swords and climbing to new places!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
24. Stone of the Scarred
Also by Jeffrey Hall
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Requiem hung his feet over the edge of the world and looked out across the sky. The gaseous haze of the Abyss loomed strong that evening. It played tricks with the setting sun, breaking its golden light into prisms of green and purple as its rays fell from the heavens in hopes of giving him a feeling of warmth.
But the wind that swept down from the Swollen Mountains rising at his back defeated the sun’s attempt, instead preparing him for the coming darkness.
He thought it fitting. What had he done to deserve the sun’s gift? What had he done to make his departure any more worthy than his life?
Nothing, he answered, and when he did it was in the tone of Sasha’s voice. A tone he heard often from her when she reminded him of what he was and what he had done to save Mote.
But he had tried, hadn’t he? He had walked the world, offering his services without expectation of payment or prize, services a king once gave him a manse for, to atone for what he had done. For the mess he had left behind. Yet all it did was bring him here. Hopeless and broken.
To the Edge.
The haze swirled with the wind, and the colors changed in the sky, the green fading away into a blue so brilliant that no other color in all of Moonsland could rival it except for that of Mote’s eyes.
Requiem almost smiled, amused at how the world could find a way to chide him even then.
He looked down, unable to meet its gaze any longer. He followed the long scrawl of scars that ran along his bare arms like a written litany of his life, red and bubbly wounds that stretched over his skin, winding beneath his clothes and onto parts of him that were only known to him and the few people he had ever let close enough to see them. He followed them down to his hands, which held the blade that had made him, the blade that held the stone that had turned him into what he was…
Ruse.
It was the name he gave the sword, and the world had thought it fitting for how quickly he could wield the thing, moving it through the air so fast that it often looked as though he were tricking laws of the world to allow him to cut as he did. He let them believe that was the reason, never able to conjure the strength to tell them the truth.
Ruse.
The silvery sword crafted from dread metal by the master smiths of Old Bolliad. A weapon that had slain a thousand monsters of Moonsland. The flawless blade whose fuller was engraved with four thousand words that told the story of how the bloodred stone that sat in its cross guard came into his possession. The gem that gave him and his blade their power. The rock that had given him everything he had ever wanted.
The stone that had taken everything from him.
The scar stone.
It stared back at him like the eye of an unblinking devil, watching him, waiting to be called forth, waiting to feed and take its share of him. But he would give no more to it.
He wondered again, as he often did, what would happen if he cast it over the Edge. Would the stretching of their bond tear him apart? Would their bond break and then break him? Would it pull him with it as it cascaded into the gaseous unknowns beneath them? He had never had the courage to try before. But now…
No, he told himself. He wouldn’t give the stone the satisfaction of taking the rest of him too. He was going to do it of his own accord.
He returned the sword to its scabbard on his hip, his eyes not leaving the Abyss beneath him.
A flock of glimmerbacks swirled in and out of the fog, taking trails of the haze with them as they fluttered to and from the underside of Moonsland, no doubt feasting on the rock grubs that fed off the condensation the Abyss caused to accumulate.
They were Sasha’s favorite bird, often seen during full moons, migrating from one side of the Edge to the other to allow the condensation to rebuild and the rock grubs to repopulate. They would cut through the night like moving stars, their silvery feathers twinkling in the moonlight, silent save for the flap of their wings, a noise that could only be heard when the wind was still and the other beasts of the night were quiet. They’d used to watch them from the balcony of their manse, their legs between its rails, their feet dangling over the rest of the city as if they were daring all those people below to reach up and try to ascend to their haven high above.
But they knew they couldn’t.
That was their space. Theirs and the glimmerbacks. Nothing could touch them up there. Not even worry.
The wine. The scent of the night. The heat they gave each other as they sat there, shoulder to shoulder, their arms swung around each other’s back… all of it created a haven that nothing and no one could disturb. Not even Mote when he noisily slept in the crib at their backs.
At least so Requiem had thought.
But slowly life had clawed its way up to them, enticed by their brashness, resentful of the way they antagonized it, thinking themselves above its pitfalls. Above its woes. And slowly it broke their haven, chipping away at it with the tools of sorrow and hopelessness. His lack of work. Their son’s illness. The Shamble. The tension the land felt afterwards as the king raised taxes and the world recovered from a devastating civil war.
A war one of his own kind had caused…
Their nights upon that balcony ended, and their love not long after.
He planted his hands on the ground and was amazed at how calm he felt as he pushed himself upright. His eyes did not leave the Abyss as he did. The haze swirled higher, spreading out like the arms of a ghost waiting to catch him. The sight looked welcoming in a strange way. Not as terrifying as it once did when his adventures took him to the Edge and he would stare out at the same sight and see a poisonous waste. Not just the end of the world, but the end of all life. It used to terrify him back then, but now that same sight enticed him with freedom.
From the world at his back. From the worry that constantly haunted him. From the sadness that constantly plagued him.
He slipped a toe over the edge and watched as a shower of gravel left the world for good.
Why did he hesitate? What was he waiting for? A bout of courage? Someone to help him? A sign?
And suddenly the world responded. The grey murk of the sky parted, allowing the sun to wash over him and quell the bite of the wind at his back. When he looked u
p he saw the haze of the Abyss had split in two, and now the sun touched either side of that halved phenomena, turning the fringes of the fog sanguine like sores that could not be cured. An illness that could not be helped.
There, he thought. He gave a slight nod to the sun as if to thank it for telling him it was time.
He slipped his other toe over the side of the world and brought his hands to his side. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes to capture the light one last time, wondering if he could take it with him to the Abyss or wherever else he ended up after this life, and jumped—
A scream in the near distance caused him to stumble. Suddenly he was going over the edge awkwardly, tipping over the side as he turned to see what had made such a dreadful noise. Perhaps it was instinct, a thing developed over his many years facing the terrors of Moonsland. Or perhaps it was such a noise that he did not want to die without knowing its culprit first.
Curiosity was always one of his demons.
He reached for the ledge and grabbed the crust of the world before he could fall. His fingers slipped. Gravel showered over him. His body swung into the side of the world, clacking against the stone, sending a muffled noise into the Abyss, taking his breath. The glimmerbacks cheeped and squawked angrily at him just below his feet.
Damn it! he shouted at himself. Just let yourself go!
But he heard another scream.
He had heard plenty of screams like it before. It was a scream of pain. A scream of horror.
“Damn you!” he shouted into the side of Moonsland. “You won’t even let me die in peace?” He glanced down at the Abyss. In the short moment he had taken his eyes off of it, the haze that made it had changed. Gone was its welcoming embrace. Now the fog looked jagged and hungry, like the teeth of a beast long starved.
Another scream followed, this time louder. This time in more distress.
He lingered there for a moment, letting himself dangle, his arm pulsing with exhaustion as he hung on, unsure why he still did. All he had to do was give in to the burning accumulating in his forearm. All he had to do was listen to the voice in his head that had led him to that point, the one that sounded so much like Sasha’s. The one that reminded him he had nothing left to give to the world. The one that told him the world had nothing left to give him. But an older voice screamed in him.
Dorja’s.
You’re Scarred now, not some pedestrian who can soil themselves at the sight of the depravity of this land. You need to rise. Rise and face it.
The edge of the world would always be there, what did waiting another few minutes matter?
Damn you, Dorja, he cursed as he swung his other arm up to the edge and pulled himself back onto solid ground. There he knelt, sweating, catching his breath, realigning his thoughts to the living again now that he was not dead. It was only when he heard the fourth scream that he snapped from his momentary fugue.
A group of white figures gathered near the Edge. Their dirtied and battered robes fluttered in the wind, making them look like birds attempting to fly. But their wolf-like faces, high-pointed ears, and long, blood-red tongues betrayed what they were.
Dread Cultists.
Worshippers of the Abyss. Monstrous creatures of the nearby mountains who treated the mysterious void that swirled beneath their world like a god and would often make sacrifices to it in hopes of gaining good favor and answered prayers.
The scream was coming from one of those sacrifices.
A small body hung from a crucifix that they carried above their heads. It struggled violently against the bindings on its hands and feet, but could not escape the cultists’ grasp as they came to the Edge.
Requiem had seen enough of their rituals to know what would happen next. They would sedate their captive with the pollen of the void-flowers they plucked from the Edge, plant the crucifix upright so it overlooked the Abyss as they chanted to it, their victim silenced so that their god might hear them, and call out in their strange, guttural tongue for favor. For prosperity. For whatever else their wretched kind required, until at last they would push their captive over and send them fluttering to the same death that Requiem almost went willingly to moments ago.
A fate that no one deserved, no matter how foolish a person was to wander so far away from civilization.
They arrived at the Edge and planted the sharpened bottom of the wooden pole into the outer soil of the Edge, the gravelly white ground that rimmed all of Moonsland.
Requiem was already on the move, grabbing for Ruse. His hand found its worn hilt like a familial touch.
By the time he arrived at the cultists, their leader, a creature identifiable by the headdress of black feathers hanging over his ears, was putting his hands to the figure’s face, putting it to sleep.
Requiem skidded to a stop. “Release him!”
The creatures turned, their bloodshot eyes taking him in, not widening at the sight of him, as if they were expecting to be interrupted that far on the edge of the world.
Their leader’s ears flattened, flaring in either direction like horns he meant to skewer Requiem with. “Replacement?” it said, its voice ragged and hoarse, barely able to form the words with its long tongue and jaw.
“Let him go.” Requiem finally unsheathed his blade. It escaped his metal scabbard in a shriek that sounded like a monster in its own right. The sun parted the clouds and caught the sword, making it look white, and the red stone, alive. Hungry. It was as if the world were conspiring to show the cultists what he was, to remind him of what he was.
“Scarred!” Their leader pointed a red-tainted claw at him. “Scarred!”
Curved blades left the cultists’ belts in consecutive shlinks. A moment later, every one of them was armed. The tips of their weapons wavered above their heads like antlers of alerted beasts ready to strike down an intruder.
There was a time when he would have attempted to dispose of them one by one with the work of his blade, but there was no reason to save himself for anything more.
Better to hurry up. Better to get back to what he was doing and let the Abyss take him properly.
“Shanta!” The leader shouted like it was a curse that would stop Requiem where he stood.
But it was already too late.
Requiem stepped over the rock-strewn landscape of the Edge and brought forth Ruse.
“Shanta gala!” the cultist leader bellowed in a guttural voice. His followers charged, dropping the crucifix where it stood.
Requiem waited till they drew nearer. When he could see the first of the cultists’ teeth, he brought down his blade, cutting the air like it was an enemy.
As Ruse’s tip reached the height of his knee, he quickly brought the sword up diagonally, stopping it so the blade hovered over his head.
The cultists howled. He could hear them panting, and the click of their claws as they scrambled over the loose rock, weapons raised.
Requiem gritted his teeth and cut downward, completing the rune.
The air trembled with a miniature thunderclap. Sparks fled the tip of his blade as if he had just run it against a whetstone. A burst of translucent force ran out from where his blade had passed, hurtling towards the cultists like wave of water.
The first of the cultists raised their weapons as they saw the burst of magic approach, but the Abysmal energy flared, changing from a rush of barely visible wind to a whip of green flame.
The creatures roared. The flames danced over the first four like verdigris claws raking at their robes and furred flesh. They fell to the ground, writhing and slapping at the otherworldly fire as it danced across them like performers on crude stages.
Immediately Requiem felt a new wound on his skin, this one bubbling on some unmarred space on his back. He bit his lip, like he so often did when the scar stone took its piece of him during the chaos of battle, and prepared for the remaining cultists.
As the creatures hopped over their fallen comrades, one’s robe was snagged by the reaching flames, adding it to the pile of
its cooking brethren.
Requiem, still reeling from the pain roaring along his back, judged the distance between him and his enemies.
He had just enough time to bring the sword up and then strike it across the ground.
The blade sparked into throbbing blue light, looking like it was pulled from a forge of storms. The electricity crackled and snapped, monstrous, and the cultists skidded to a stop before him.
The scar stone flared, and he felt another surge of pain from where it took from him, but this time it was in no place he had ever been scarred before.
This time he could feel the wound on his neck.
The location of the pain was so unexpected that he lowered his sword arm and grabbed at his throat.
“Gula!” the leader shouted, an order to kill. And the cultists sprung at the opening.
The first came, slashing out with its crooked blade. Requiem took his hand from his neck just in time to swipe down with his sword. The weapons screeched like two birds of prey becoming entangled.
Electricity ran from his weapon to the cultist’s, climbing like blue ivy over the creature’s blade, onto its hands, up its torso, and into the orifices of its face.
It called out as it trembled and twitched, and smoke left its eyes like a visible replica of its soul as it died and fell down, its insides cooked.
The remaining four that came behind it stopped, leery to approach Requiem and the electrified Ruse.
“Gula! Gula! Gula!” shouted their leader from behind as it stood over the downed crucifix. It was a violent song without end.
The cultists surrounded him, snapping and growling, barking curses in their harsh language that sounded like snapping limbs.