Rota Fortunae

by Isu Yin

  Through Evolved, we’ve also had the opportunity to work with Briana Hertzog and Dale Pease, who’ve been absolutely wonderful during the cover art design process. We couldn’t be more honored to work with you two on this project and appreciate the time, effort, and suggestions made to the final product.

  Last but not least, thank you to everyone who has considered reading our book series. We look forward to embarking on this journey with our readers and followers. It’s going to be a long haul, but we hope you enjoy.

  ISU YIN (right) & FAE YANG (left)

  For as long as we can remember, we have been either plagued or blessed with dreams of the vast universe we call Euphoria. The fascination and devotion we share for these dreams, and all the people inside them, has driven our artistic visions for decades.

  We have studied photography, linguistics, graphic art, video editing, traditional art, and literature, all with the intent of sharing this massive story and vision. Though many obstacles may lie ahead, we look forward to embarking on this journey with whomever may find a vested interest in our work.

  Please visit us online at:

  Website | Goodreads | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

  We hope you loved Rota Fortunae as much as we did, and that you’ll take a moment to post your heartfelt review at whatever retail site you purchased it. Your reviews are so important to what we do as a small independent press, and to our authors, of course.

  And... be sure to check out the full catalog of our great Fantasy books (just some of which are pictured) at the link below:

  Fantasy Books from Evolved Publishing

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  And now, please scroll down for....

  SHADOW SWARM

  By D. Robert Pease

  Chapters 1-3

  ~~~

  WINNER OF THE GOLD MEDAL:

  ~~~

  You can grab your copy from your favorite retailer today, the links for which you’ll find here:

  SHADOW SWARM at Evolved Publishing

  ~~~

  Please scroll down to enjoy your Special Sneak Preview of the first three chapters.

  CHAPTER 1 – BIRTH

  Burning oil and cooked meats barely masked the acrid smell of death. His swollen tongue tasted thick dust on cracked lips. Rough stone dug into his back as he opened his eyes and flung his hands up to shield his gaze. Dust billowed around his nearly skeletal fingers, which glowed red against the searing light.

  The reek of death grew stronger. He struggled to move, but his legs were stiff, his shoulders jammed between stone. Sweat poured from his brow in this cramped box as he kicked his legs and grappled toward the light.

  Straining against the edges of the box, he pulled himself up toward the ruddy glow. Gray dots danced across his vision, his head spun, and he nearly fainted. At last, the room steadied.

  He sat in a granite box on a raised platform at the end of a long narrow chamber. Stone sarcophagi lined both sides of the room. A chill prickled his skin.

  I have awakened in a tomb.

  His mind raced as fresh sweat rolled down his grimy forehead into his eyes. Nightmarish visions of faces filled his mind—faces surrounding him—large pale eyes watching, always watching. A need to climb free of the coffin overpowered him.

  Gathering his strength, he lifted his leg over the side and stepped to the floor. A dusty linen sheet fell from his body, and cool air tickled bare flesh. He felt a touch upon his breast. A delicate amulet dangled on a thin gold strand—a dragon and a lion locked in mortal combat. Set between the beasts was a clear, flawless diamond.

  Lamps on golden stands filled the chamber with warm light, and rows of columns on each wall supported a ceiling lost in darkness above.

  Sharp pain wrenched his hollow stomach. How long has it been since I’ve eaten?

  The aroma of food nearby drew him toward a bright alcove a few yards down the wall. His legs buckled as he lurched toward a coffin opposite his. Stone, intricately carved in the shape of robes and boot-shod feet, greeted his touch. The sarcophagus lid bore the likeness of a warrior, with a sword crossed over his chest. A name came to him: Vuzhex Mqueg. He strained to remember.

  A rich mural covered the wall above, in which Vuzhex Mqueg stood with a gleaming sword lifted toward a sky of red fire and black smoke.

  I dub thee Loequazh Thabo, Bane of Death. Memories gnawed at the edge of his mind.

  Columns on either side of the mural, carved in the likeness of majestic oaks, soared toward the ceiling and intertwined with branches from columns on the far wall. No frescos stood watch over his coffin.

  How did I come to be entombed with such as these? He looked at the richness beyond his drab, stone box. It was apparent he did not belong.

  He stumbled toward the flickering light of the alcove.

  Fire smoldered on a hearth at the far end of a small chamber off the main. In the center, nearly filling the room, stood a polished cherry-wood table surrounded by ten chairs, their backs carved like the wings of dragons. Jewel-encrusted plates and goblets sat ready for unseen guests, along with large platters and bowls containing soups, meats, cheeses, vegetables and hard-crusted bread.

  His mind filled with wonder at the sumptuous meal, but his stomach called for action. He moved to the nearest chair and sat. Fine utensils lay on each side of the dishes, but he tore into the fare without regard for manners, hoping whoever had prepared the banquet would not begrudge the sacrilege. He devoured the food, tearing off large chunks of meat and bread, followed by frenetic gulps of a warm, sweet drink found in a finely etched silver pitcher. When he could eat no more, he leaned back in his chair. His body shook as he gazed around. He was in a tomb, with no idea how he got there, nor any apparent way to leave.

  Where am I? Am I dead? Am I doomed to spend all of eternity roaming this mausoleum, being fed by invisible beings?

  There were no doors in the paneled walls. He stood and found he had a bit more strength, enough to walk with greater confidence. To think his body had grown so weak....

  Once I led legions in battle. This thought stopped him, and he leaned his weight on a chair. He too was a warrior? He strained to remember, but fog enveloped his mind.

  He shuffled from the alcove and passed a stone basin with cool water. After splashing his face, he peered at the sarcophagus in front of him. Again, a kingly soldier lay in repose with the same sword, Loequazh Thabo, across his chest. No name for the warrior came to him, however.

  His gaze darted toward the fresco behind.

  Dark reds and purples defined a scene drawn from the final moments of a grisly battle. A vast host arrayed in polished blood-red armor surrounded a mounded hill. Fallen men lay in mangled heaps all around, as the vile army taunted their encircled prey. Fire filled the sky, and at the summit, an ancient stone hand held aloft the broken body of a woman dressed in tattered white robes. In front of the woman, a shadow of a man grasped a bloodied sword; hope faded. Nevertheless, the figure stood, feet planted wide, blade held high.

  He heard a voice as if through a great wind, “Desperation does not become you. Surrender now and sue for leniency.”

  He staggered back from the fresco.

  I will not let you have her. His eyes leapt to the figure of the woman, broken and bloodied on the stone hand. Tears blurred his vision. Why does she move me so?

  He clawed at his head, trying to remember, but the fog did not lift. He slumped to the floor and cradled his face in his hands, and the voice faded.

  At the same time, his stomach began to murmur; he should not have eaten so quickly. Within moments, his insides twisted in pain. He lurched to his feet and staggered toward the stone basin. Dousing his face with cool water did nothing to quench the sweat that poured from his forehead, while his body quaked in the cold of the room. Bile rose in his throat, and he retched into the bowl. The room blurred around him as his limbs tingled and grew heavy.

  He collapsed to the floor, feeling cold stone before all went dark.

  ***


  When he awoke, visions and voices flitted in and out of his thoughts. Then he realized he no longer shivered.

  A soft pillow supported his head and a fragrant blanket covered him. Clothes of rich purple and forest green lay folded neatly near the water basin, along with a pair of supple, finely tooled leather shoes. He sat up, reached for the apparel, and once more caught a heavenly aroma.

  Another meal? Who has cared for me?

  He dressed, finding everything including the shoes fit his thin frame, and peered at the table. In place of dirtied dishes sat clean plates and bowls. A steaming meal drew him toward the room once more. This time the food consisted of fruits, eggs and meats, as well as toasted bread and juices. He went to the table and, being more cautious, ate mainly fruit.

  After his hunger subsided, he washed in the basin, now filled with clean water. Once again, he explored the hall and found no doors, no way for someone to get in or out of the mausoleum. Assuming there must be a hidden entrance, he ran his hands over each wall, searching for cracks or seams that would indicate an opening. He found none.

  A raised dais, topped by a throne carved from the same granite as the sarcophagi, filled the far end of the mausoleum. Barren and forlorn it seemed, as if waiting for its owner to return and take rest.

  Next to the throne stood a stone altar that held a glimmering, filigreed sword—Loequazh Thabo, the very sword depicted in several paintings, and carved upon the breasts of many of the tomb’s inhabitants. With care, he caressed the steel blade and intricately crafted pommel.

  ‘I have come to see your handiwork.’

  Echoes of some long gone voice reverberated in his skull. He turned from the sword and gazed to the wall behind the throne.

  A fresco of amazing beauty soared thirty feet into the air. It depicted a central figure, many times larger than life, against a star-filled sky overlooking a rich, green pastoral landscape. Animals cavorted in reverie, while trees and plants laden with fruit made the world abundant and alive. Men and women of various races joined one another in discussion and all seemed at peace.

  The portrait of a woman who gazed away from the others caught his eye. Fear filled her face. He followed the line of her stare, to where a boy-child of only three or four crouched in the lower left corner, his hand stretched toward a smoky darkness. At first it appeared the painting had been damaged, but on further inspection it became apparent it was part of the work. Dark red smoke boiled in the corner with tendrils reaching out to pull at the child’s hand. Creatures with hatred on their faces gazed out from the darkness.

  In his mind, he screamed at the child. Flee! Why does the mother do nothing? He lifted his eyes to the figure in the stars whose gaze passed over all of creation toward the boy. A single tear ran down the giant figure’s face.

  No voices greeted him as he studied the painting, so he turned to regard the rows of sarcophagi—nine, all told, including his own. He stepped from the dais and moved between the stone coffins. All held men except one, its lid portraying a queenly figure carved with long flowing gowns. Each sat before a mural painted on the wall behind. After a while, a story began to emerge—a story of war that raged across generations. More than once, he found himself moved to tears as he beheld heroic deeds rewarded with blood and death.

  Who were these people? What were their names? This thought caused him to pause. What is my name?

  He stopped, sat on the floor with his back against a tree of stone, and closed his eyes as he struggled in vain to remember. Who am I? What is my name?

  No voices spoke to him.

  He searched the room, desperate for clues to his identity. Writings in multiple languages adorned everything—the sides of the sarcophagi, the walls, even the floors. To his surprise, he could read them all.

  He gazed around the mausoleum, growing frantic for some answer to the riddles whispered in his head. Carved at the base of the sarcophagus in front of him, an inscription read:

  ~~~

  Jafnethox defog adthaom mesgabasaeth thupo~ hegu-quosquauf~ eneafmiquo lomquegisquauf efle goviagol zhufuigo.

  The language was High Aerodore, but in the common tongue it read:

  Being king does not mean dominance and forced submission, but tenderness, compassion, and duty to protect at all cost, the lowliest of the populace.

  ~~~

  It seemed those enshrined in such magnificence were of royal blood, but surely not he. The fact of his plain coffin bore witness to that.

  Then why am I here? Who am I?

  He stood and peered around, certain there must be an answer. At last he spied a name carved in small runes just over the head of the warrior nearest him—Zhuquaif Mqueg. He turned around—another name on the coffin which held the woman—Ellabeth Nauile. He walked in the direction of his own coffin, past another sarcophagus—Aerazhire Nauile. He began to run. Heulfryne Nauile. He reached his plain, stone coffin and frantically searched the granite box, running his fingers over its surface.

  It was without mark.

  He slumped to the floor, his head in his hands. Who am I? He pleaded with the voices, “Tell me something useful.” The echo of his words faded into silence.

  After a while, the effects of his exertion began to take their toll. He retrieved the blankets and pillow and lay down next to his coffin. Names danced in and out of his mind. Ellabeth Nauile, Aerazhire Nauile, Heulfryne Nauile. The last name tugged at his memory, but the more he wrestled with it, the less certain he felt the name held any more significance than the others.

  At last, he drifted off to sleep, voices luring him from sanity.

  ***

  The sound of soft shuffling awakened him. He opened his eyes a mere slit to try and catch a glimpse of who cared for him.

  The hall had grown dark, and the shadow of a figure drew near and arranged a clean change of clothes on the floor.

  The rich smell of food told him a new meal had already been laid out on the table.

  Down the row of coffins, he glimpsed light coming from an open, previously hidden door near the throne. A strong desire overcame him to escape. It was not fear of the figure but a desperate longing to discover what lay beyond the walls of the mausoleum.

  Would I be stopped if I attempted to leave?

  The figure shuffled back toward the light.

  Within a few moments, the hall brightened as lamps were lit. The lamplighter appeared small, only two-thirds his size, and dressed in a coarse black hooded robe. The figure’s back was to him; the time had come to act.

  He got to his feet and dashed toward the open door. He’d nearly reached the exit when he heard a gasp behind him. Not stopping, he ran through the door and into a dusty hallway.

  A high-pitched plea sounded from the mausoleum. “Wait! You are not ready.”

  Nevertheless, he did not stop.

  At the end of a short hall, a stair ascended in a spiral. Sputtering torches lined the walls every dozen steps or so.

  “You do not understand. I am here to help.” Again, the voice yelled, insistent but not threatening.

  He took the stairs two at a time as they wound upward, and the frenzied sound of sandals flapping on stone came behind. After scores of steps, he came to a closed door. Barely slowing, he put his shoulder to the iron-clad wood and heaved. The door flew open, and he stumbled into a large hall filled with black-robed figures.

  Every man, woman and child in the room swung their gaze toward him, and what had been boisterous chatter only a heartbeat earlier now grew into silence. He froze for a moment, his blood pounding in his ears. It was apparent a celebration was taking place, as tables laden with food lined the walls.

  He glanced around and then walked toward the center of the room, where a fire with a roast animal on a spit burned at the top of three steps. Over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of his pursuer who had entered the room behind him—a young girl, her faced flushed from running. As he walked, the throng parted, and each in turn dropped their eyes with bowed heads.


  He came to the steps around the fire, stepped onto the first, and turned to survey the room.

  The crowd gaped at him with anticipation. Their faces beamed with wonder. Only the sound of his heavy breathing filled the hall.

  At last, when he had breath to speak, he asked the question that had haunted him. “What is my name?”

  All in the room turned to one side and rested their gaze on a bent figure standing a few paces to his left. Those near stepped aside as an old man hobbled forward. Surprise filled his eyes.

  “Do you not know?” Gaining his composure, the elder drew a deep breath. “Your name was given you by your father on the steps outside these very halls in the Year of Reckoning 3640. Granted to your name is the highest honor among all men. At your name, nations rise to your aid and enemies tremble.”

  The old man turned to the expectant crowd and smiled. “Rejoice, for he has come forth. Rejoice and give allegiance to your king: Aberthol Nauile, son of Heulfryne Nauile, bearer of the power of the Aerodore, rightful heir to the throne and Lord of all Nuadaim.”

  The black-robed figures fell prostrate to the floor.

  CHAPTER 2 – PRESENTATION

  Upon hearing his name, a great weight lifted from his chest. Yes Aberthol Nauile feels right. But... he raised his hands in protest. “I am no king.”

  The startled worshipers peered up at him in confusion. “Kings are....” He struggled to find the right words. “Kings are nobler, stouter of heart than I ever could be. There must be some mistake.” Aberthol searched for someone to agree, but no one moved. “I have beheld mighty kings, in the murals of the mausoleum....” He began moving toward the door leading down to his crypt, while muttering to himself. “I could never be the kind of man I saw there.”

  The old man at his side reached up with a gnarled hand and touched the skirt of his tunic. “Please, your confusion puzzles me but I assure you, you are indeed king.” The elder stood, and waved for all others to do likewise. “My name is Illiam, chieftain of the Neglafem, guardians of the heir. Perhaps we should sit. I will tell you anything you wish to know. Are you hungry?” He moved toward a table, not waiting for Aberthol’s response.