EVE OF SNOWS
SUNDERING THE GODS: BOOK ONE
L. JAMES RICE
Eve of Snows is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, undead, possessed, or anywhere in between is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or magical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, mind melds and other psychic means, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or seance.
Copyright © 2018 L. James Rice.
All rights reserved.
Edited by Dorrie O’Brien
Cover design by Damonza.com
Cartography by Jenna Jing Rice
ISBN: 978-1-7324083-1-9 paperback
ISBN: 978-1-7324083-0-2 e-book
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PRAISE FOR EVE OF SNOWS
Though the novel is dense in plot and characters, debut novelist Rice maintains a surprisingly sharp focus… The final act boosts the action, introduces menaces, and involves a few shocking revelations… Brimming with well-defined details and characters; augmented by bountiful enthusiasm and spirit.
– Kirkus Reviews
Sundering the Gods is an epic fantasy with high magic and powerful monsters. It's a sprawling tale, but author L. James Rice manages the large cast well, and all paths eventually cross in a convincing manner. The creatures in the story are original and terrifying, and the heroes are always stretched to their limits to meet the challenge. The magic in this world is believable and exciting to watch, the characters are engaging, and the action scenes are always clear and well handled. If you love epic fantasy, you'll want to read Eve of Snows.
– Ellis L. Knox, author of Goblins at the Gates
Dedicated to my lovely wife and two beautiful daughters; may their inspiration live forever.
CONTENTS
A Forgotten Voice
1. Bones for Songs
2. The Lonely Scar
3. Unseasonable Snows
4. Third Son of the Second Son
5. Guests in Darkness
6. Hallowed Bones
7. Dead Man’s Message
8. Frozen Repose
9. Faces
10. Afloat in an Ephemeral Sea
11. Lesser Evils
12. Caution in the Ten Winds
13. The Baroque Pearl
14. The Bloody Scholar
15. Archival Con
16. Lesser Theologians
17. Sling Swing Wasting Whiskey
18. Smoke and Honey
19. Diamond and Shadow
20. Blood in the Briar
21. Chasing Choerkin
22. Gift of Words
23. Digging Deeper
24. Failing Visions
25. Holy Mole
26. Nearing the Son
27. Rider’s return
28. Fortress Over Maze
29. Breaking Bones
30. Written in Glory
31. Scat and Blood
32. Snow’s Eye
33. Ambush Choke
34. Beaten to the Kill
35. Barred from the Stars
36. Eve of Snows
37. Running Wolves
38. Ageless Catacombs of a Past Age
39. Tomb of the Touched
40. Freed from Darkness
41. Shadows in Istinjoln
42. Reunions and Departures
43. Castles and Pearls
44. Safety of Barren Rock
45. Promises
46. Tower in a Tower
Curious about how Eliles came to Istinjoln?
The Pantheon of Sol
Seven Heavens and Twelve Hells
The Seven Clans
About the Author
A FORGOTTEN VOICE
It will ease your worries to know you aren’t dead, but it shouldn’t. Whatever end your destiny holds is neither so simple, nor pleasant, nor is it now.
You will find yourself on the island of Kaludor, a frozen rock with a mountainous spine, ruled by seven clans for the Seven Heavens. This is as it should be, as it has been for as long as time remembered, but it is not as it has always been. In the beginning, in an age when the gods were invited by their adherents to war with the gods of other nations, the Silone clans bent their knees in obeisance to the king priest, the mortal voice of Sol, king of the Silone gods.
This Age of God Wars is past by a thousand years, its end not in blood but a rending, a shift in the universe. The world shattered, banishing the gods from the world and stealing the memories of the mortal peoples in an event known as the Great Forgetting. Debate with the First Dragons if you will whether this change was for good or ill, what matters is its enfeebling the tether between mortal and gods, empowering the clans to rule without a king priest. Likened by some as a body without a head, this hierarchy is an abomination in the eyes of those who dwell in the Conqueror Heaven where Sol’s throne trembles in the raging grip of a pensive, angry king.
The Sister Continents have calmed, stabilized for half a millennium. The Forgettings have left mortals without a memory of why the gods went to war, why the world shattered and returned in pieces. It is a thing best left forgotten, but the gods remember and will never forget. They destroyed the world once for a glimpse of the truth; they will risk everything for a second look, the chance at grasping the source, but for this a head must return to the body, and the body must find its home.
You will forget me and all I have said, but like your history, some hidden portion of consciousness will remember these truths and the necessity to survive.
You will learn who you are and someday learn again who you were.
Enter.
Forget.
Open your eyes to blue.
1
BONES FOR SONGS
Tarry thy thoughts, Harry thy thoughts!
Ha ha ha ha!
Only a mad man notes his own laughter.
So they say, so They say, so they Say.
I do not believe them. Do you, foolish reader?
Who do I fool? Only fools who believe me mad will ever read this.
Better a Mad man than a Dunce man.
So prove your worth, oh, Worthy!
Go! Laugh, laugh Out Loud!
And take note of it.
—Tomes of the Touched
Seventeen Days to the Eve of Snows
Robed figures huddled in an oasis of flickering brazier light as bones hit the cave floor with a clatter and bounce. Pips flipped until coming to rest, the dice totaling sixteen. Monks and priests hollered and groaned, their voices a discordant symphony echoing in the hollows of the cavern. Tokodin clenched his jaws, saving his curses for the next roll if it came in over seventeen.
Hawk and Snake, a game of over-under chance, and Tokodin’s weakness. He anguished over his coins falling into other people’s pockets, but relished the rushing breaths and churns of his gut. He leaned, knuckles grinding into the cavern floor as Meliu blew on the dice rattling between her slender fingers.
The two of them had grown up together in Istinjoln Monastery, but within months of pronouncing her vows of priesthood, she’d traveled to serve in the libraries of these Chanting Caverns. It’d been over a year since they last spoke, so for the past two weeks they’d much catching up to do, which included her taking a healthy chunk of his coins. “Not today, girl. Not today.”
Meliu swiped auburn curls from her eyes and blew him a kiss, winking before snapping her wrist.
Numbers tumbled, three white dice and one black, keys to a small fortune for a poor monk.
Too nervous to watch, he looked to Angin, the game’s overseer. The man stood a shave under seven feet tall and would ring the scales at fifteen bricks if anybody bothered to weigh him. Combined with a nose flattened between sagging, lopsided eyes courtesy of a horse’s hoof, Angin scared the wits out of any gambler who thought to cheat.
The dice clattered to a stop and Angin called out, “Seven days and two nights, for a total of nine. Pass the bones and ante up!”
Tokodin pumped his fist and shot Meliu a smirk. She curled her lips and stood to stretch. Five feet nothing and petite, she could make Tokodin’s eyes droop like a hungry puppy’s with a smile and a flutter of her lashes. No matter, the girl didn’t look twice at him with his fat round nose and squinty eyes, and scars marring his face. If he’d earned the priesthood, maybe she’d have taken notice, but failure had sent him on the monk’s path.
Angin shoved songs from the Hawk and Snake lines to the pot, and Tokodin eyed a couple glints of silver amid the copper. The bones were his now, and odds favored the roller.
He snatched the dice from the floor, tossed the ante of two songs into the pot and warmed the dice in his hand with a breath. If it weren’t sacrilegious he’d pray for all ones or sixes, an automatic win on any roll. He rapped his knuckles three times on the ground and slung the dice.
The three white dice yielded eleven and the painted black die a four.
Angin called out, “Eleven days and four nights, fifteen’s the target.”
Gamblers mumbled and coins jingled, but Tokodin focused on the beat of his heart. The rhythm spoke to him: Three snakes. He dug his fingers into his pouch to find coins scarce, but he put everything remaining on the three mark of the snake line.
“You’re due for some luck.” Meliu grinned and matched his bet on the third snake.
“Hope so.” If he had to share a win with anyone, Tokodin would prefer it be her or his closest friend.
He glanced at Loepus as the man contemplated his wager. As first-year postulants they’d shared a cell at Istinjoln Monastery, and despite Loepus making the priesthood they were best friends to this day, but damned if that blond bastard didn’t put his copper on the fourth snake, with a grin his way. Loepus counted on Tokodin’s luck to be good, but not good enough.
A win that stuck it to his chum would make the jingle of coins all the sweeter. Tokodin tapped his knuckles once and rolled. If he hit the target on any roll, he won. Instead of reading the dice, he waited for Angin’s call.
“Seven days and three nights, totaling ten, the game goes snake.”
Tokodin exhaled and slapped the ground before sweeping the bones into his hand. “Snake, snake, snake,” he muttered for the dice to hear. He struck his knuckles twice, and dice hit stone.
Angin called out, “Eight days and one night for a total of nine, two snakes and counting.”
Tokodin rocked on his knees, whispering to the dice. “Get me drunk, my little darlings.” With this swollen pot, even split, he’d be drinking the same ale as the priests, not the watery swill impoverished monks endured. He swore even the hangovers were better. His knuckles struck thrice, dice flicked from his fingers.
“Eight days and six nights totaling fourteen, three snakes and counting.”
Tokodin muttered under his breath, “Gods and hells, gods and hells.” A roll over fifteen and he’d fill his purse. He needed to piss. No, just nerves. “Gods and hells.” Four raps of the knuckles and he let fly.
He couldn’t look.
Gamblers chortled, groaned, and cheered as Angin called, “Three days and two nights totaling five, four snakes and counting.”
His spirit sank so deep his bladder went away, and Meliu buried her face in her hands with a groan. If the night die had been a one, the whole pot would jingle at his hip. He groped the dice, slow and depressed, glared at the pips. His darlings had become sons of bitches.
Loepus lay an arm on his shoulder, his eyes aglow with more mirth than Tokodin could stomach. “Three ones and a two, the night die taunts you.”
Tokodin smirked at his friend, the dice might still teach him a lesson. “You’re wrong, every damned one taunts me.” He kissed the dice, hope remained. “Fifteen or four of a kind, you worthless bones.” He cast the dice with a rattle and his forehead clunked the stone floor, pain enough to prove the dice hadn’t killed him outright.
“Fourteen days and six nights for a total of twenty! Four snakes is the winner!”
Tokodin glared as Loepus hooted and butted heads with Pindin, the other man with money on the fourth snake. Loepus was a good friend, but right now Tokodin loathed him. A priest’s stipend was four times a monk’s. He tried not to hate him for achieving the priesthood while Tokodin failed, but jealousy was a hard flea to shake. As Angin collected side bets and divvied the pot, Tokodin’s eyes slipped from the celebration and into the blackness of the cavern. Gruel and water for me.
Meliu stood and passed him, gracing him with a smile. “I’ll be back soon, you get ’em on the next round, you hear me?”
“Next round.” He didn’t have enough coins for an ante. He watched the sway of her hips as her form faded into the shadows outside their braziers.
Guntar, the bearer whom he served, slapped him on the back. “I hope your luck on the trail is better than your dice.” At least he feigned sincerity.
Tokodin rose to his feet with a groan of stiff muscles and agonizing loss, wandering from the halo of brazier light surrounding the dice game. More fires burned near a priest who stood watch at the Crack of Burdenis but the murky dark suited Tokodin’s mood. He stopped and looked up, but the cavern’s ceiling hid in deep shadow. The dark hollow appeared infinite, but like life, somewhere above, it, too, met an end.
He had never seen this cavern lit by the troughs of oil carved in the walls, but folks told him pyrite streaked the ceiling, earning it the nickname The Fool’s Haul for those who thought it gold. Tokodin figured it was better to chase false gold than to throw away real copper. But he knew the moment a few songs jingled at his waist the optimism would return and he’d be back throwing the bones. Optimist or fool?
He grinned, deciding what he really needed was a stiff pour of whiskey to drive away the hurt those dice put on him. Tokodin huffed, adjusting his plain gray robes hanging limp from his shoulders. They wouldn’t serve him any drinks down here anyhow, songs or no.
He meandered to the ring of braziers surrounding the Crack of Burdenis, a deep hole in the world. Named after the Patron God of Snows, the chasm hid the fifth shrine of Burdenis, younger brother of Sol, King of the Gods. A hundred strides long and twenty across at its widest, the Crack mirrored the ceiling: so deep you couldn’t see its end.
Gods and favored priests like Meliu were the only ones who knew what went on in the hidden caves below. There was only one way Tokodin and his dingy monk’s robes would earn a visit to the floor of the Crack.
“If I threw myself down this hole would I come up fifteen?”
Tikotu, Third Priest of Burdenis, was in his fifties and his gut suggested they feasted well at the Crack when there weren’t guests to feed. “With your spit-poor luck I’d say you’d come up dead by the third stair.”
Tokodin chuckled, throwing the priest a smirk. “Your holy compassion soothes me to the marrow.” His humor ended when he gazed at the steep, zigzagging stair carved in the wall of the chasm and nauseous waves passed through his head. He counted twenty torches set into the descent before darkness consumed their meager lights in its depths.
The old priest suffered a phlegmy cough and spat. “You didn’t even lose a poor man’s fortune. And if you had, who’s fault but your own?”
A poor comfort that a poor man’s fortune had been his own. “I had fifty songs, you should know, for walking escort.”
“Gutted and bleeding out from a Colok’s claws, would you think it a fair wage?”
Tokodin squirmed, the sentiment was a lifetime from Guntar’s rousing recruitment speech. “Colok are stupid animals, nothing more.”
Tikotu guffawed, chins shaking. “Dumb beasts, sure. Who run in tribes, forge weapons and armor, and pray to false gods for power.”
Loepus called out. “Tokodin! You in the next round?”
He raised his pouch and gave it a silent shake before slumping to sit at the edge of the Crack, leaning his shoulder against the pulley-post, making sure not to jostle the bell dangling from its arm. He peered into the bucket hanging from the pulley’s rope, a method for transporting messages faster than the fifteen-hundred steps to the bottom, and found it empty. What the hells did he expect, a song to buy a pint?
Tokodin rubbed his eyes and gazed into the black hole. A dim pulse of light shook his malaise, and a rumble echoed the lower caves. He glanced to see if anyone else heard and found Tikotu standing over his shoulder and the game of Hawk and Snake strolling his way.
His body took a chill, goosebumps pimpling his arms. He jumped to his feet and prayed for heat.
Loepus thumped his shoulder, breaking his prayer’s concentration; no warmth came and his goosebumps multiplied, the reason he’d failed the priesthood. The power of the gods required focus, even for a lord priest.
“What’d you see?” Loepus asked.
“A flash of light, deep enough to be bottom.”
Another flash, brighter, and followed by a rumble deeper and more powerful, shook the caves. The quivers beneath his feet reminded him of a rumored collapse in the Ihomjo mines, only a wick or two of a crow’s flight from where he stood right now. These caverns might have stood for millennia, but a jab of claustrophobia squeezed the beat of his heart.
Guntar edged through the press of milling adherents. “We should head down.”
Tense but composed, he had a way of appearing at the brink of fisticuffs on a happy day. Now his teeth ground, spoiling for a fight.
Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One Page 1