Schism: The Battle for Darracia (Book 1)

by Cash, Michael Phillip

  Schism

  The Battle for Darracia

  Michael Phillip Cash

  Disclaimer

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, on earth or Darracia, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Copyright © 2013 Michael Phillip Cash

  Published in the United States by

  Red Feather Publishing

  New York • Los Angeles • Las Vegas

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 149357244X

  ISBN-13: 978-1493572441

  Praise for Michael Phillip Cash’s debut novel, Brood X: A Firsthand Account of the Great Cicada Invasion

  “A Twilight Zone-like horror story of biblical proportions…Horror at its best—up close and very personal, and inflicted in ways that address humanity’s inherent fear of and disgust for bugs…A simple, straightforward, flashlight-on-the-face campfire tale meant to induce nightmares.”

  —ForeWord Reviews

  “Cash has written a harrowing tale of survival against all odds of a supernatural nature. As summer gets hot, Brood X will cool you down by sending chills down your back.”

  —Nina Schuyler, author of The Translator

  “Part creature-feature with all of the traditional elements of the great ’50s films; part homage to the fairly recent genre of found-footage horror films—Brood X is a quick, fun read.”

  —hellnotes.com

  “Breathing new life into a genre that has been occupied too long by the usual suspects: sickness, the undead, and global warming.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Praise for Cash’s Paranormal Romance Novel, Stillwell: A Haunting on Long Island

  “Thriller meets love story in a novel where characterization shines…[Cash] easily draws readers into the story by creating three-dimensional characters who are easy to care about…With strong characters and a twist unexpected in a thriller, this book is an enjoyable beach read.”

  —ForeWord Reviews

  “Cash is creating a niche in the pantheon of successful young writers of the day.”

  —Grady Harp, Amazon.com Top Reviewer

  “A great read! Mr. Cash, I foresee more fast-paced thrillers in your future. A well-written story with engaging characters.”

  —MyBookAddiction Reviews

  “Stillwell is a book that will keep you on the edge of your seat all the way through…It is one of the best books I have read in years.”

  —Chronicles from the Man Cave

  Other Books by Michael Phillip Cash

  Brood X: A Firsthand Account of the Great Cicada Invasion

  Stillwell: A Haunting on Long Island

  The Hanging Tree: A Novella

  Coming Soon

  Schism: Book II

  To Mom,

  who taught her children to reach for the stars.

  “Life is either a great big adventure or nothing.”

  —Helen Keller

  schism noun s(k)izəm

  1. a split or division between strongly opposed sections or parties, caused by differences in opinion or belief

  Chapter 1

  “Pay attention, Your Highness,” the navigator implored the disinterested young man who gazed through the wall of windows. “Prince V’sair, please. Your father demanded…” The teacher pointed to the mathematical problem that hung in midair, ignored and unsolved. He raised his arm reluctantly, and the numbers dissolved, instantly to be replaced by a history lesson. The lad loved that subject; surely he would finish something today!

  The teen turned, his blazing-white hair a nimbus around his lean, wolf-like face. A pale, thin

  braid trailed down his strong back. Only males in the royal family wore them. He was a handsome boy, whipcord lean, with a high forehead and bright-blue eyes that studied his tutor with growing disdain.

  “Emmicus, my head aches with your numbers and sums. I know the speed of time inside and out. I can calculate the distance to travel to Fon Reni, get our midmeal, and be home in time for chay with my mother. I am weary of this.”

  The older man approached his young charge with sympathy in his rheumy eyes. “Yes, yes, I know, Your Highness. Your wit is brighter than our own Rast.” He bowed his head reverently and watched the boy do the same as they repeated together, “Great Sradda, giver of all life and love, we commend ourselves to thee.”

  Together they made an arc with their forefingers that touched their breastbones. There was a minute of silence, so thick that the air vibrated, and the tutor, lost in prayer, failed to see the younger man look up and through the giant clear wall again. He heard the sigh and climbed out of his peaceful state. The boy was not himself today; the pained look was on his face yet again. Emmicus loved this man-child as if he had sprung from his own loins; the boy had been under his tutelage from the time he had left his mother’s womb. Emmicus had taught V’sair to dress, read, fight, and ride the wild stalliuses that had been tamed for only the noble class and royalty. He had taught him to wipe his own ass, and then his nose, making sure he didn’t contaminate either.

  Gently Emmicus tried again. “V’sair, what is it, my son?” he asked kindly, moving close to him for privacy. Though they were alone in the room, their voices sometimes carried throughout the great auditorium.

  The prince looked at his elderly teacher. How to say it without hurting him? Emmicus protected him from his father’s wrath when he failed to do his work and hid him when his uncle played his dirty power games.

  V’sair was a half-breed, the only one in the kingdom of Darracia. Was it his fault his father, King Drakko, had traveled to Planta as a young man and married the first female he had seen there? His father had defied his tribe, cast aside his betrothed, and taken for a wife the orange-tattooed daughter of his grandfather’s greatest enemy. He had found her on a mission to Planta, a world where many Darracian warriors had met watery deaths in its boundless ocean. Drakko had fought and won the heart of Reminda, princess of Adon, the lush island surrounded by a great, green sea. He had stolen her away, fighting her father then his own to be with her. It was his greatest battle, and Reminda was his favorite prize of war.

  V’sair knew others considered him to be a freak. While his father had the pebbled gray skin of the Darracian race, his skin was tan, with a hint of blue to match the silvery-blue eyes he’d inherited from his mother. Built like Reminda, he was long limbed and graceful looking, not nearly as tall as the rest of the male Darracians. His skin was smooth and hairless, making him feel like a pet rather than an offspring. He knew his father loved him as fiercely as he loved his mother, but did he trust him? Did he have faith in his abilities? A boy—nay, a man—of his age already should have learned the secrets of the Sradda. The ceremony was long overdue and did not look like it ever would occur. V’sair was older than many of his cousins, yet he hadn’t received the Fireblade or spent the night locked with the elders, learning the lesson that would turn him into a warrior. It was a rite of passage that marked a Darracian male’s journey to adulthood. It was as if a club had been created in which he was not allowed membership. He was no better than the Quyroos, imprisoned on the Desa, left to live in the treetops to hunt and forage for food many miles from his kingdom.

  “I might as well color my skin red and wear long braids,” he muttered angrily.

  “Nonsense, young sir! Nonsense.” The older man placed a
warm hand on his shoulder. “You are royal born!” He caught V’sair’s angry glare. “No one can take that away from you. You are a descendant of the most high Darracian, Carnor the First. His life-force strums in your veins.”

  “Pah. I am equally the product of my mother’s clan.”

  “Less so, V’sair! You have been brought up here among wealth and knowledge. You have studied hard and know the Sradda Doctrines better than anyone. You are as brave as you are smart. I am proud to have you as a pupil.”

  “Only you see it, Emmicus. The secrets—I want to take part in the ceremony. I fear the elders will never let me take up the Fireblade. I am being left behind. They are going to make me a…a navigator.” His face blushed blue when he realized he had insulted his best ally. “I mean…there’s nothing wrong with being a navigator. It’s an important job, Emmicus..”

  “V’sair, V’sair, stop. I know you are not meant to be a scholar.” He turned the younger man to face him. “You are a warrior, with a warrior’s life-force, Great Sradda willing.” They both bowed their heads respectfully. “Your time will come, I know. But for now how about we recite the Sradda? If you won’t do my lessons, give your old navigator some pleasure and tell me about the creation.”

  V’sair looked at the hope that lit up his teacher’s face. The Sradda Doctrine was just a jumble of words to him. He had prayed for years and had been denied the one thing he wanted more than anything else. He’d rather be out, riding Hother, the purebred stallius his mother had presented him last year. He loved to bury his face in the white-velvet neck then take off and glide through the atmosphere. Hother could fly above the treetops, her hooves sparking with energy when they landed.

  He thought he should abdicate so his older half-brother Zayden eventually could take the throne. If only they would let him. Zayden was full-blooded Darracian and one of the best warriors in the army. Anyone would be happy to follow Zayden as their leader, but the plain fact of his illegitimacy made this impossible. Zayden’s mother was a laundress in the castle that Drakko had a brief fling with during his late teens. V’sair was destined to be the future king whether or not he wanted it. He opened his mouth to complain, but when he saw Emmicus’s eager face, he began the first calls to the Sradda Doctrine, hoping the melodious cadence of the tale of his ancestors, his birthright, would calm his aching heart.

  He walked around the vast chamber, his booted feet making scuffing sounds on the polished floor. It was a huge room, and he moved to position himself so his voice would echo off the vaulted ceiling. He knew this room inside and out, as he had studied there with Emmicus almost every day of his nineteen years. He was way past the age for a schoolroom; most of his boyhood friends and cousins already had taken their places in the army. He frowned, knowing he rode better than any of them, his lithe frame making him agile and fast, their Darracian bulk weighing them down. He touched his braid thoughtfully and opened his mouth, but instead of the first prayer, he continued his argument as if they hadn’t stopped their discussion. “I disagree with my father, Emmicus. You know I could hold my own against any of my cousins. I know I could,” V’sair implored his tutor.

  Emmicus bowed his craggy head. “It is true. You have Planta agility. You are fleet of foot.” He moved close to V’sair and tapped the boy’s smooth forehead with his wrinkled finger. “It’s what is here that is important, V’sair. You must be able to outwit your enemy.” V’sair pulled away angrily; Emmicus moved his finger to the boy’s heaving chest and gently touched the area over his heart. “You must use tools other than brute strength to lead. Your father and I have discussed this. If you are to command, you must do it with your heart, soul, and mind. Anyone can fight, V’sair! The trinity of the Elements alone will make you a leader—the greatest in the history of Darracia. Now, if you please…‘The Song of Sradda.’”

  V’sair looked up at the ceiling, unsure whether his voice would crack with emotion. He was frustrated with Emmicus, his father, and the entire planet. He tossed his braid behind him then placed his hand on the cold pane of glass that overlooked Syos, the city built in the clouds. He began, his voice a whisper, “The Three Elements were designed by the Creator. Molding them from ether, he grew them from the nothingness of space, to pulse with the knowledge of the ages to bring life to all our worlds. Lovingly formed, with noble intention, they were dispatched by the Creator.” V’sair bowed his head as he was taught to do, making the arc of life from his fingers to his breastbone, his voice growing stronger, more confident, the words vibrating through his heart, his mouth reciting the words. But his thoughts were on the elusive Fireblade. Emmicus watchfully mirrored his motions. “The one who created our living universe.” A five millisecond pause, and V’sair began again. “It was up to these three Elements to leave behind a universe of order. While they were created for the good of all-kind, one must earn it, work for it, for the Creator brings the spark only to those who deserve it. These are the tools, the conduit, and I shall name them…’Ozre, Ereth and Ine.’”

  Emmicus chanted after him, “Ozre, Ozre, light the path.”

  V’sair continued, “Ozre, Ozre, light the path. Ozre, oh, great Element of earth. Ozre who swirled the dust in its path, and with this the rocks were created. The rocks were heated into stars, and the stars gave birth to planets. Joining like particles of life in the air, they began their orbit, and Ozre was happy. Ozre’s joy begat Ereth, giver of life.”

  Again the older man repeated the refrain, his eyes an odd glow of one wrapped in prayer, lost in the moment of deep thought. V’sair noted it with a smile and continued the ritual, knowing he was well trained, and his voice filled the room. He was a good chanter, a born speaker who could call people to prayer and make the unbelievers holy once more—if only it would work for him.

  “Ereth, the Element of water, giver of oceans and lakes and rivers to divide the lands. To make the Desa grow. To create the waters for the spark of life to grow. And Ereth’s joy begat Ine.”

  “Ozre begat Ereth; Ereth begat Ine; Ine mother of life…”

  Emmicus was swaying, his body vibrating, lost in the pleasure of prayer.

  “Ine, the Element of life, giver of the planets their seed of life. The first breath of existence as we know it. Creator to Ozre to Ereth to Ine—one is powerless without the other. Each is connected with the spirit of life. One without the other is not whole. The Trivium is whole. The Elements are whole.”

  V’sair’s voice soared to the corners of the great ceiling, his bell-like tenor filling the chamber with the music of the Darracian soul. Detached, he watched Emmicus, his tutor’s face rapt with the music of the words, knowing he affected the older man deeply. He wished the words could do the same for him. While he recited with all the passion that the navigator had immersed into him, the prayers meant nothing to him. He longed to understand what others felt, wondering whether his tainted blood played a role in his detachment. Though his voice was rich, he felt empty. Perhaps he was not really Darracian.

  He continued softly, “And the Creator left behind his most important gift, the Trivium, our Elements. Though he is all knowing, he left these sentinels to guide us, watch us, empower us. As they move around the stars and sprinkle the seeds of life, they bathe us with their light, each with its own color of light from the spectrum of the all knowing. A shining orb of red, glowing hot, for the birth of strength; blue, ice cold for the reason of justice; and green, for the freedom of choice. The Creator left behind these three spirits for us, only us, so we could grow, learn, and be dominant. They are the universal subconscious. They are the all-powerful. Without them we are nothing.”

  V’sair just wished he could believe they were really there.

  Chapter 2

  The door opened, and his mother, Reminda, entered in a flurry of flowing robes and the flowery scent she liked to wear. Her skin also was dusted blue, but she was darker than her son, and circular orange tattoos swirled over her high cheekbones. She turned her iridescent silver-blue eyes on him. They
were alight with mirth when they touched gently upon her son’s face.

  “Your Highness.” Emmicus bowed his shaggy head, not making eye contact with the king’s wife out of respect.

  “Arise, navigator.” She touched the top of his forehead, and he dipped reverently. “Leave us. I have need of my son.” She had a musical voice that captivated one and all.

  The older man bowed once again and said, “I will see you after your visit, Your Highness, Great Sradda willing.” His heels clicked loudly on the polished stone floor.

  “Walk with me, V’sair. Come watch the setting suns.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness.”

  She paused and looked at his face, her eyes caressing his smooth skin. “What nonsense is this, Vsos?” she chided him affectionately. “You used to call me ‘Mo’mo.’”

  “I was young, Mother.” He gave in halfway, still refusing to call her by his childhood name for her.

  “You are angry, Vsos. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  They stepped toward the glass wall, and as they approached, a portal opened, allowing them to step onto one of the parapets of the vast castle. Their fortress floated above the purple clouds of the planet Darracia. Two bold suns—one fiery red named Rast; the other a dull orange, called Nost—hung low on the horizon, glowing hotly in the pewter sky. Their home was made of the red rocks of the planet, so dense and thick that it could be polished to a metallic shine and as solid as it was impenetrable. The sky around them was filled with buildings, all buffed to a high gloss with red glass made from the ochre sands of the Plain of Dawid. The city was vast, the buildings tall, spread out across the land touching the horizon.