“Why isn’t this door locked?” Andy asked.
They looked up at him in shock. It was only then that he realized, his mother’s eyes were just like his.
Dear Reader,
If you stuck it out this far—and I hope you did—I’d like to thank you. It felt like finishing a marathon when I closed the last paragraph of this book’s final chapter, but I ran it a few more times for edits and rewrites, to create the best possible experience for my readers.
As for Andy, Letty, and their growing party of allies: Degoskirke remains free, the Builders have a new city to found, the ryle are in retreat and the Maelstrom is reeling, affording some much-needed rest for our heroes. They’re finally back home and safe, but for how long?
If you enjoyed the adventure, please click here to leave a review for The Python of Caspia. Your kind words will encourage new readers to give the series a shot.
The following pages contain an excerpt from Andy and Letty’s next adventure: A Night on the Serpentine. Andy and his mother have fled to the West Coast, while Letty has been using her new skills to save Seer children. And while our heroes thought the worst was behind them, new trouble is brewing in ryle territory, putting pressure on the Maelstrom to find a solution. The Caspian crisis might be a precipitating event and, in typical ryle fashion, they begin their hunt for anyone connected to the failed coup that transpired in Degoskirke.
The fourth installment in The Netherscape Chronicles will be released shortly, and more books are coming, too. First, I’ll have to make a confession: Secretly, I moonlight as a sci-fi writer. I’m putting the finishing touches on the first installments in a series about a young biologist who finds her purpose among a strange people on the planet Martia (Mars, to the rest of us). I’m arranging a world filled with wild landscapes forged by the limitless potential of biology (giant mushrooms feature prominently).
Beneath the mushroom caps, a clash of cultures is brewing. Civilizations separated by centuries of isolation are meeting. And the time is right for a secret society to emerge from the wilderness, to reclaim their birthright and lay hands on the reins of our collective futures. If this description intrigues, I’ll invite you to read a chapter from book one in the Verdantsteel series, Impostor above Martia.
Excerpt from Night on the Serpentine - Tales from the Netherscape - Book IV
A demon, with flesh of silver and ivory, flitted through the air above the foredeck. Its steps, at once a dance, then a hunt, finally became a violent surge, its fangs gnashing at empty air. The demon tumbled with the gait of a hound and scales of a serpent; it snapped with the maw of a sea monster and bore a mantle of tentacles, dangerously familiar. The demon turned and dived.
Ilfaeos, petty warlord of the Tulsh tibial waterways, curled his lip in anticipation. The demon collided with the flesh of his arm and burned away. Ilfaeos was still, despite the pain, though members of his crew: ryle, brutox and senitole alike, recoiled at the sight of the tumbling demons.
Clenching his fist, Ilfaeos summoned his blade. The falling demons crisped as the purple flame carved through them. He considered letting his crew suffer burns for their cowardice. When the demonfall subsided, he released his Counter and scowled until order was restored on the deck of his xebec. His first mate ordered the oars lowered and, moments later, they were underway.
Ilfaeos leaned against the taffrail and watched the oars emerging from below deck. The lake’s surface swirled with faint glints of silver. Hands reached out from the deck below and cupped the water.
“Akhes!” he called. “Come here!”
The wide-eyed senitole, busy keeping accounts of the ship's cargo, dropped his ledger and raced towards the captain.
“Aye, sir?”
“Look: it’s as I said,” Ilfaeos pointed to the galley slaves.
“The water,” Akhes grumbled, his face bright with swift thought. “The slaves say the water is sweet. What pain can this cause you, my captain?”
“They will sicken,” Ilfaeos insisted. “There will be no more of this. Have the whips ready in case of another demonfall. Is that clear?”
Akhes bowed, his comically pointed anole face wild with blinking eyes and jittery lips.
Ilfaeos watched as his first mate retrieved the fallen ledger, only to tuck it away between a pair of his velvety, banding-scales. The creature could create fleshy pockets, hidden away from sight, which was a considerable aid in a smuggler's life.
As they neared Aka Tulsh, his proud mansion-fortress, Ilfaeos kept a curious eye on his senitole. Akhes flicked his tongue and stood still, as if lost in thought. They were coming into dock, and Akhes was flaunting his duty. He should have been barking orders and preparing the ship to tie off.
“Spy a juicy fly?” Ilfaeos inquired, approaching his first mate.
“Captain, look,” Akhes whispered.
Ilfaeos followed the senitole’s bug-eyed stare and was struck by the sight of unwelcome banners staked into the grounds of his lake-bound island.
Akhes clicked his tongue and burst into action. “Rudder, pull to starboard! Quick on the oars, get us deep onto the lake!”
“Stay those orders!” Ilfaeos countered.
The crew surged into action, but the galley slaves weren't sure which orders to follow. Were the oars wanted out, in the water, or retracted, back into the hull. Afraid of the lash, the slaves scrambled in both directions, clacking their oars together.
Ilfaeos gritted his teeth, his tentacles twisting irritably as he glowered at the banners. Upon them he spied the emblems of the Maelstrom and its chief servants. There, on his dock, stood a robed Lixovore, scowling at his apparently retreating vessel.
“Oh, hell—” Ilfaeos started, raising a hand to Akhes. “No, my friend. We’re not running.” Then to the crew, “Make ready to dock!”
Eager to obey their captain, but afraid of what waited ashore, the crew froze and stared. The oars clacked again, several falling into the water.
“Master, please,” Akhes started. “If they’re coming for you, we can get word out—I’ll slip overboard and swim to the warehouse—I can have most of the fleet at the mouth of Tulsh-cage before nightfall—”
Ilfaeos raised a hand to silence his friend.
“Master, no! We would be out of their reach past the cage! It's not that far up the river!”
Ilfaeos clenched and summoned his blade. With his free hand, he grasped his senitole by the throat. “Silence, you fool!” Ilfaeos leaned in and whispered. “If I call your name, run for the water.”
Akhes gulped and nodded.
“You’re not going to like this,” Ilfaeos said, before calling for a length of rope. “Just play along.” Akhes trembled as he was tied and bound by the crew.
Minutes later, Ilfaeos’ xebec, Her Blood, put into dock. The Lixovore and her armed attendants stood by. Glares of disgust marred several faces, though the Lixovore was still, her eyes busily analyzing the captain.
Stepping onto the dock, Ilfaeos was trailed by his brutox and Akhes, now bound by ropes.
“Mistress, I am humbled before the Lix. How may this simple warrior serve one such as you?” Ilfaeos asked.
“I know little of the nautical profession, but my sergeants tell me that you nearly turned your ship about, to flee at the sight of us. Is this true?” the Lixovore asked, her green skin gleaming under the purple glow of a piece of Counter, hanging from golden chains above her breast.
“My senitole,” he replied, gesturing to the bound Akhes, “has too healthy a fear of armed ryle in my home. I informed him that you,” he gestured towards the Lixovore and her attendants, “are quite welcome.”
“Indeed,” she said. “Then why is he bound?”
Ilfaeos took a heavy breath. “He is bound, for making me look like a fool. He ordered that retreat, against my wishes.”
The Lixovore brightened at such an admittance. She approached the senitole and stroked the quivering velvet fur that lined his scales.
“You have made your ma
ster into a fool,” she said, tapping his considerable snout. “I think your master should have you skinned and turned into a purse,” she said, looking back to Ilfaeos, her eyes dangerous.
Ilfaeos grimaced almost imperceptibly, before drawing his dirk. Akhes scrambled backward, scattering the brutox crew behind.
“Akhes!” Ilfaeos cried.
The senitole gasped and slipped his bonds before bounding towards the water. Brutox hands slipped on velvety scales, and Akhes was lost in moments.
“Twice a fool,” the Lixovore said.
“Indeed,” Ilfaeos muttered, watching the water. He sheathed his dagger and turned to his troublesome guests with a sharp smile. “Now then, I can offer sweet meats to you and your protectors—maybe drinks—or perhaps you want to cart off a few trunks of silk?”
“Do not insult bearers of the Lix, pirate,” the Lixovore said, almost dolefully. “All we want is you,” she added, handing him a sealed summons.
* * *
Demons of silver and ivory flesh flitted through the air above the mountainous corpse, Qavonzir. Their steps, at once a dance, then a hunt, finally became a violent surge, with fangs gnashing at empty air. The demons tumbled with the gait of hounds and scales of serpents; they snapped with the maws of sea monsters and each bore a mantle of tentacles, dangerously familiar. The demons turned and dived.
Teleka sat, near lifelessly still, as the flitting demons singed her arms and face. She smiled through the pain knowing that, soon, all this would end.
She was contemplative in her final hours as a simple ryle, a Limtzae priestess, and First Claw of Qavonzir. She sat in a stone-garden. The mountainous corpse of, Qavonzir, her saint, stretched out for several miles. She felt safe, here in the gardens of her rectory, though the demonfall underscored her need to forego the typical ryle ascendance. She had chosen to give herself to Qavonzir, who had, in ages far past, returned from the realm beyond to serve the Maelstrom again in this mortal plane.
Teleka heard the cries of initiates swarming the gardens. Their meager blades flashed back and forth, sweeping wildly at the demons, all in hopes of preserving the garden and the ground beneath, the flesh of Qavonzir. She grinned as they leaped and slashed, scorching the demons.
“Qavonzir, take my blade!” they cried.
As the demonfall ceased, Teleka approached the initiates. They released their blades as she approached and assumed the stance of submission: hands at their sides, heads bowed.
“Why do you raise blades in such violence?” Teleka asked.
The initiates squirmed at the unexpected quiz.
“The demons, they burn the garden—and the flesh of Qavonzir,” one hazarded.
Teleka nodded knowingly. “They do stain and sting, where they flit. But, Initiate, know you not Qavonzir?” She paused, to let them sit in painful silence. “A torrent of demons, greater than the sea above, could fall for a thousand years, and what sting would they have?”
The initiates were dumbfounded.
“You and I, indeed all ryle, would burn and melt away, but Qavonzir and his brother saints would still protect Szareyath. They will endure.” She paused, giving them another moment. “With that in mind, what good does your own flitting?”
Another initiate rose to the challenge. “These demons are products of—” careful not to name the Dead God, the initiate stuttered, “—they are our enemies and, no matter how small, they must meet a blade.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the cluster of initiates, though one, a younger female, lifted her head. “I agree that they are small, and our attention is better placed elsewhere, but why let them burn you?” she asked.
Teleka appreciated her curiosity, recognizing the rare gift. Gesturing to the other initiates, she spoke, “Very well. With such vigor, resume your swatting—”
The initiates turned to leave.
“You,” Teleka said, meeting the eyes of the younger female. “With me.”
Teleka led the initiate to a promontory on the brow of Qavonzir. She gestured toward the other saints across the city. “You asked why I let the demons touch me,” she started. “When you look out, through the clouds, and spy the Five, what do they embody?”
The initiate’s gaze swept across the broad expanse of Szareyath. The form and character of their capitol was shaped from and borne of the bodies of the five saints, dead ascendants so massive, their standing bodies would pierce the sea-sky ten times over.
The initiate’s tentacles twisted around each other, as her eyes worked with uncomfortable thought. “They embody sacrifice, even beyond death.”
Teleka inclined her head. “What pain can come to you or me? What trials will we face, and how small beneath Qavonzir, whose bones harbor rivers and lakes, whose ribs bear terraces, heavy with our bounty? What pain is this?” she asked, holding out her arm to show the burn a demon had made.
The initiate nodded, her eyes brimming.
“May ten thousand demons engulf me, that I may truly know pain—that this pain might better help me serve,” Teleka gritted her teeth and turned.
The initiate grasped her hand to prevent her from leaving. “Thank you, and may Qavonzir be with you through your trial.”
“My trial?”
“You go to your Synchrony, in the Amygdalion—am I wrong?”
Teleka sighed with relief. “Never a trial, dear. My life builds to this moment. Please, smile for me.”
The initiate released Teleka’s hand and smiled, her tentacles flexed faintly and the skin on her cheeks furrowed. The rare, ryle smile. Touched by the gesture, Teleka left the comfort of her garden. Alone, wearing the last of her possessions, she neared the Amygdalion, the temple of Qavonzir, seated deep within his skull. Past the stone doors and beneath glittering glass, waves of smoldering incense soothed her limbs. The leveled intonations, the rising melody of a thousand throats throughout the labyrinthine Amygdalion called to her. They were singing for her.
As she descended towards the Cortelion expanse, those she had known since her days as a Fifth Claw appeared beside her. Hands clasped hers, and words of praise and recognition, so alien upon ryle lips, dared to be uttered only under the protection of such an auspicious day.
At the gates of Cortelo, the point of no return within the Amygdalion, she was surprised to see a collection of misplaced ryle. These intruders stood in her holy place, bereft of humility, not wearing the robes of Qavonzir. Chief among these ryle, she spied a Lixovore and her bodyguard. The sight of Maelstrom servants sent a chill up her spine. She wasn’t alone, and, painfully, the exuberant voices of her peers fell into silence.
Scowling openly, Teleka's day of Synchrony was ruined.
The Lixovore glowered in turn and Teleka’s peers melted away, leaving her alone in the vast Cortelion. The Lixovore approached.
“The Limtzae of Qavonzir, the ever-faithful, are at your service,” Teleka offered.
“What words,” the Lixovore started, her eyes glancing around the yawning temple. “Service to the True God—” the Lixovore paused and scowled, her eyes seething over a coral statue of Qavonzir striking down a Seer.
Teleka scoffed. “What service we do the saints is done again—”
“—done again, a thousand times to the Maelstrom,” the Lixovore concluded, handing Teleka her summons.
* * *
Demons of silver and ivory flesh coursed through the drooping boughs of the mangroves. Their steps, at once a dance, then a hunt, finally became a violent surge, with fangs gnashing at empty air. The demons tumbled with the gait of hounds and scales of serpents; they snapped with the maws of sea monsters and each bore a mantle of tentacles, dangerously familiar. The demons turned and dived.
“To the shroud!” Sethoro cried, leaping from his pallet and racing over the wooden catwalks of their hidden village. “Demonfall! Quick, to The Jackal!”
Dozens of the faithful appeared from their huts, many barely dressed. Ryle leaped down ladders, splashing into the tepid waters of their marsh. Ha
nds searched the mirk for their cobbled tarpaulin.
The demons fell, racing hungrily for exposed flesh, eliciting cries from the faithful, but Sethoro’s heart ached when the body of the mighty Jackal stirred.
“It’s in pain!” another called.
Sethoro found one corner of the tarpaulin and pulled it free from the swamp. Others joined him, freeing more and more from the mirk. Soon they were clambering over the giant body of Seth’s faithful Jackal.
The demons whipped up in a cyclone above before diving in sheets, reminding Sethoro of hailstorms he had seen, deep in his past. His arms and legs, barely wrapped in rags, stung furiously. Others cried out and fell, slipping into the water.
“They’re burning the shroud!” a voice cried.
“It serves!” Sethoro replied, “May flesh be as faithful!”
Goaded by his words, many of the fallen ryle found their strength and spread their bodies over the holes in the shroud. Sethoro and the others groaned with effort and agony as they pulled, trying to cover the Jackal.
Finally reaching the far side of its body, Sethoro released the tarpaulin and clambered through the murk towards the Jackal’s snout. Though the creature was shrouded, and relieved of the demonfall, it still needed to breathe.
“Blades, damn it!” he called to the ryle clustered around the snout.
Only one or two others had pieces of Counter to wield, and most resorted to flinging their bodies at the falling demons.
Reaching within, Sethoro found his Counter and summoned a honed blade. He twisted his wrist and the blade crackled and lengthened before going slack.
“To the water!” he cried, and the others fell into the swamp.
He whipped the lank blade in zealous fury; the air hummed with the sound of scorching demons, and severed boughs splashed to the water. Moments later, the air was clear.
Gasping, Sethoro released his blade. The massive snout of Seth’s Jackal heaved in a grateful breath.
The Immortal of Degoskirke Page 29