Trysmoon Book 1: Ascension (The Trysmoon Saga)

by Brian Fuller

  “I am the Shadan of Aughmere, Udan, and I am paying you more than you’re worth. But you greet me with complaints and questions about my actions. Part of our deal was that you would ask no questions, and, quite frankly, I didn’t like your tone just now. You’ve only to endure the cold a scant week more and then you can find somewhere warm to spend your money. So shut up.”

  “Yes, Shadan.”

  “That’s better.” Torbrand unlimbered his pack and sat by the fire. “I gauge it about an hour until Udan is scheduled to open the Portal. Let’s eat. The next part of the journey will be difficult.”

  Gen settled onto a stump near the fire, noticing a well-beaten track leading around the hill. Udan regarded Gen for a few moments, clearly wanting to ask questions but just as clearly scared to do so. The rogue Portal Mage settled for crouching by the fire and alternately warming his hands and probing his swollen, bleeding nose.

  Gen worked up his courage. “Shadan, you said the next part will be difficult. What do you mean?”

  Torbrand finished chewing a piece of dried beef, trying to decide whether to answer the question or not.

  “We go through a shard of no worth, save its connection here,” he answered. “It’s called the Whitewind shard, which you may have heard of. We found a Portal to it from the Ellenais shard. We will travel Whitewind for four or five hours, and it will be a trial. It is chilled beyond anything you likely know. It does have one curiosity that will merit your attention, though I beg you not to bother me while I am eating. You will see it soon enough.”

  Gen had only heard the name of the Whitewind shard, but tales of Ellenais he knew well. It was the Shadan’s home, nicknamed the “Harem shard” by decent folk. There Torbrand kept all his wives, concubines, and children. Speculation in Rhugoth and Tolnor varied widely on the number of women Torbrand housed on the shard. Some said ten, others said a hundred. Some said there were so many that the Shadan himself did not know the tally. By all accounts, it was a crude place, a filthy den of sin and female degradation. Gen couldn’t guess why Torbrand would take him there.

  “Let’s go,” the Shadan said some time later. They followed the beaten path as it curved to the north. The trees were thick, though the path was cleared and easy to negotiate even in the snow.

  After a quarter of an hour, a glade opened before them, a small pond at the center. Weak winter light provided no warmth, though they squinted as it washed over them when they emerged from the shadows. A platform was constructed out into the center of the water and a ladder descended into its icy depths. A crude semicircle-shaped building constructed of rough-cut timber sat just to the side of the platform, a well-used fire pit brimming with ash in the center. A stack of wood lined the back of the hut.

  “I broke the ice this morning,” Udan said grumpily. “Looks like I’ll need to do it again.”

  “Get the fire going, Gen,” Torbrand commanded. “There should be some embers you can use beneath the ash.” And then Gen understood—the Portal was in the water. “Yes, there will be a similar blaze on the other side,” Torbrand continued, sensing the boy’s concern.

  Gen gathered pine needles and small sticks while Udan banged away at the ice around the ladder with a heavy hammer. Soon, all three warmed themselves by a high fire, and Gen absorbed all the warmth he could. The prospect of entering the freezing pond set his teeth to chattering.

  After warming himself, Udan strode out onto the platform, closing his eyes and incanting. Gen moved away from the fire to get a better look at the Magician’s work, his hair standing on end. He couldn’t see much, but the water at the base of the ladder turned the faintest shade of blue. Udan stood stock-still, face calm, concentrating. Gen startled as something floated to the surface followed by a shaking hand on the ladder. Ten soldiers in all emerged from the pond, running to the fire and stripping off their wet clothes. They dried themselves with towels they pulled from oilskin bags before changing into dry clothes. Torbrand talked with them quietly for a moment before throwing Gen two of the bags, telling him to secure Udan’s belongings in one of them as well as putting a heavy rock in each. Gen took off his cloak and stuffed it inside, figuring he would need to keep it dry.

  Torbrand smiled as he strode forward to the edge of the platform. “I am glad you are smart enough realize you should remove your cloak. Udan, once again, has forgotten. I don’t suppose you have passed through a Portal before, have you Gen?”

  “No, Shadan.”

  “It will cause you discomfort the first few times. Try not to retch into the fire on the other side. The odor would be most unpleasant. I’ll take Udan’s sack. Just jump in and let yourself sink to the bottom. Use the ladder to get your bearings if you miss.”

  Without further explanation the Shadan took a deep breath and dove in feet first. Gen edged forward. He could see the Portal clearly now, shimmering blue at some unknown depth below the surface. The Shadan was a spot on the blue field before disappearing through it.

  Gen swallowed hard, trying to work up his resolve. If the soldiers hadn’t been there, he realized he would have a chance of escape, but they watched him bemusedly from the fire as he vacillated.

  “Go on!” one of them yelled. “Go down quick or it’ll freeze your manhood off.”

  His companions laughed, and in their ridicule Gen found the backbone to shimmy forward and take the plunge. Every last bit of air in his lungs exploded from his mouth as cold fire shocked his body. Eyes wide, he flailed, trying to find the ladder to pull himself out. He lost his grip on the bag he held above him. With effort, he fought off the panic, forcing himself to stillness. Turning his eyes toward his feet, he could see the Portal, but it didn’t seem to be getting any closer. He desperately needed to breathe, chest aching. He paddled upward with his hands, forcing himself downward. He could feel his body going numb and he inadvertently sucked water, gagging.

  And then blue light filled his vision. He felt motionless and disoriented before dropping through the Portal, which flared blue near the ceiling of a modest room. He fell and slammed hard onto a wooden floor, lying prone.

  His vision swam, balance completely skewed. Pond water and his lunch shot from his mouth, ejected from a queasy stomach. To complete his humiliation, his bag fell from the Portal and the rock thumped him on the head. Gen’s vision faded in and out. Dimly he was aware of the Shadan, nearly paralyzed by a fit of laughter, ordering someone to remove his clothes.

  When he came to himself again, he was wrapped in a blanket and feeling woozy. Udan, completely naked, was nearby, holding his cloak up to the fire to dry it. The Shadan had already donned a fresh set of clothes, all black, as was his custom.

  “You should have reminded me about the injury on your back. I have healed it. Take some food and a drink from your waterskin. Then clean up your mess.” Gen complied, the fiery drink and food reviving him.

  They sat in a plain square room constructed of rough logs, two immense fireplaces set on opposite sides. A ladder on one side rose into the ceiling where the Portal was opened, and in the center of the floor there was a trapdoor. Two Aughmerian soldiers stood at attention, one at each fireplace, while a skinny, ill-favored slave worked at stoking the fires. The room had no windows, and the wind howled outside. He dressed quickly, fetching dry clothes from his bag. He used his wet shirt to corral the vomit into a pile before wondering what to do with it.

  A nod from the Shadan sent the slave to Gen’s side. He motioned for Gen to come to the trap door with his waste, and when Gen neared, the slave opened it. Bitter cold invaded the room, and Gen shoved everything, including his shirt, out the hole. In that brief moment when the trapdoor was open, he could just make out snow flying by, propelled sideways in the powerful wind. His vomit froze before it got halfway down, and he could hear it shatter as it banged against the rungs of the ladder and then dropped to the ground. They were in a tower of some sort. Gen returned to the fire immediately.

  “How long has the wind been like this?” the Shadan asked
his soldiers.

  “All night,” the one nearest Gen answered. “If it follows the pattern of the last few days, it will let up somewhat as day approaches.”

  “We’ve got time,” Torbrand said. “Udan has to dry his cloak, and Gen needs to recover some of his fortitude.”

  Gen concentrated on keeping warm, guessing the Whitewind Shard to be approximately six or seven hours behind the Menegothian shard they had come from.

  “At this rate we’ll be lucky to get to Ellenais before dinner,” the Shadan continued, addressing no one in particular.

  How long they waited, Gen couldn’t guess, but the wind did lessen in intensity, and the Shadan called for them to prepare despite Udan’s complaints that his cloak was still damp.

  “Now listen,” the Shadan explained. “Take a good deep drink from your waterskin and then take some of the liquid and spread it on your hands and face. That will give you enough warmth to reach the bottom. It is about twenty feet to the ground. There is a building nearby. Go into it immediately. Hold your breath for as long as you can. If you must breathe, try not to breathe the air directly. Breathe through the cloth of your cloak. You will go first, Gen. I don’t want you falling on top of me. You should probably remove the rock from your pack lest it attack you again.”

  After Gen had done as Torbrand instructed, the slave threw the trapdoor open again. When he did, Gen judged the pond the fairer prospect. The icy wooden ladder dropped dizzyingly to the snow-covered ground below, and if it were daybreak, Gen couldn’t tell. Everything was a purple-black, and, small, icy snowflakes whooshed through the opening to sting his face.

  “Get going, Gen,” Torbrand commanded. “The virtue of the liquid does not last long.”

  With trepidation, Gen hung his legs over the side and grasped the rungs, trying not to look down. As he inched cautiously down the rungs, he realized his danger: the cold here could kill within minutes. In moments, his eyelids had frozen shut, and the wind numbed his legs almost past feeling before he was halfway down. He could only hold his breath for a short amount of time, and when he did draw in air, it stung. He went down on touch, and he guessed he was six feet from the ground when he fell off, grateful for the powdery snow that broke his fall. Once down, he could not feel to move.

  “For pity’s sake, Gen,” the Shadan complained as he dragged him by his cloak hood inside a building Gen couldn’t see, “we really do need to toughen you up.”

  “Merciful Eldaloth!” Udan swore as he banged the door shut. “There isn’t enough money in the world!”

  The warmth from a brazier of coals gradually thawed Gen’s eyelashes enough for him to see. The three men were in a long, stable-like building that smelled of urine and feces. Ten kennels lined the walls behind them. Three cold soldiers were readying three sleds, each pulled by massive dogs with thick white fur and flat faces. Long hair hung over their faces and was so dense that no eyes, mouth, or snout were visible beneath it, which Gen found disturbing. Piles of furs lay about the walls, as well as unused sleds.

  “No doubt you are wondering how we are to survive a trek through this waste when a few seconds nearly did you in,” Torbrand said. “Watch. You first, Udan.”

  Gen sat up. The three soldiers wrapped the Portal Mage in bear fur, shoving thick gloves on his hands, furry socks over his boots, and a fur sack over his head. They laid him prone on the sled, covered him with another fur, and then tied him down. Gen felt sick. How could it get any worse?

  “How do you breathe?” Gen exclaimed worriedly. “Do the dogs know where to go?”

  “Calm yourself,” Torbrand remonstrated. “Breathing inside the fur is not pleasant or easy, but it is better than dying. The dogs, yes, know their way. We found them here while exploring the shard with some magical help. They and some other smaller game they prey on are the only things alive in this place. Now stand over there and get covered.”

  Gen could not remember feeling more uncomfortable. After having him drink more of the liquid from his waterskin, the Shadan ordered his men to serve Gen strong liquor since it was his “first time.” Once he was lashed to his sled, he could not move, see, or breathe easily. Sounds were muffled, and he felt the need to scratch everywhere as the fur tickled and irritated his skin, especially as he started to sweat. His stomach twisted in anxiety and he felt fearful and trapped. Just as he felt he would scream and start thrashing, the liquor dulled his mind and his senses.

  He heard the doors open and felt his sled move outside. The furs could not completely mask the terrible cold all around him. The wind flapped the furs as they glided through the snow, but the ropes held them fast. Three mummies entombed in fur moved slowly across a dark frozen landscape, the white dogs trotting forward at a relaxed pace, unmindful of the blowing powdery snow churning all around them. Gen couldn’t imagine how Torbrand had transported an entire regiment of soldiers in such an uncomfortable and difficult fashion, or how he had found a Portal to Tolnor thirty feet off the ground on a shard no human could survive on for even a few minutes.

  Hours dragged slowly by, and, while he felt drowsy enough to sleep, he could never find the peace of mind to do so. From time to time, the sleds would tilt or bump as the dogs padded over hills and gullies that their human passengers could only imagine. But at length, the wind died and the sounds outside changed.

  “Sleds approaching,” a gruff voice announced from outside. “Stoke the fire and let’s get them out.” Gradually, the sleds stopped, and unknown hands worked at the ropes and furs. After several minutes, the three of them were standing in a smoke-filled ice cave, warming themselves by a fire. The two soldiers were shocked at the Shadan’s presence, and their master disapprovingly examined the encampment around him. Supplies, sacks, and other equipage were strewn about the cave haphazardly.

  “Who is your Blade Leader?” Torbrand asked, tone severe.

  “Joran Brake,” one of the soldiers replied fearfully.

  “I shall have him disciplined,” Torbrand stated. “I’m sure he will pass it along. Now feed the dogs and clean this place up. Gen, come with me. You will find this interesting.”

  Gen slipped the fur mittens onto his hands again before leaving the comfort of the flames. Torbrand grabbed a lantern and led him back toward the cave entrance. They had only gone several paces before Gen noticed lumps on the floor, at first unrecognizable, and then as the light revealed them, perfectly clear. Torbrand led him past an entire company of frozen Uyumaak—Hunters, Bashers, and Warriors—all fallen in grotesque poses on the floor, their skin matching the color of the ice and snow around them. An enormous Gagon was slumped against the wall, half its head and left shoulder trapped in clear ice, magnifying one of its misshapen eyes.

  There were dogs covered in black, spidery hair, and each had a ring of yellow eyes around its head and a large eye on top in a recessed cavity in its skull. They had no mouths, but thin, tubular proboscises snaked out onto the ground. Gek, wolves that lived in trees and walked nearly upright, were chained together ten at a time in front of a dead dark elf. Birds of prey, wingspans longer than two horses set end on end, were imprisoned in metal cages on flat wagons which had been pulled by massive hounds, now slumped on top of each other. After more Uyumaak, they came on a fallen regiment of mounted riders in black, spiked armor. Their steeds were a dark, metallic gray, skin a series of large overlapping scales, their hooves cloven and teeth thin sharp spikes, menacing in their rictus. One of the face plates of the helmets was open, a pale human face staring blankly at him.

  After nearly a mile, the air grew colder as they neared the entrance, and there they found the most horrifying brigade of the column, a group of fifty or more men—peasants and soldiers—wearing tatters and bearing fatal injuries sustained before they had been reanimated and forced to march again by Mikkik’s power. Some were headless, others partially dismembered, and some still carried the spear or arrows that had killed them embedded in their bodies. Torbrand paid them no heed, but Gen scooted along the wall, trying
to avoid their mangled bodies clumped about the floor, hands clawed in rigor, reaching out from the piles and ice.

  They rounded the corner, the opening to the cave yawning before them fifty yards ahead. The cold here was nearly unbearable, and Torbrand stopped, drinking from his waterskin. Gen followed suit. At their feet was a tangle of black snakes, vipers the length of man’s arm. There were so many on top of each other that they formed a long hump six feet wide stretching to the mouth of the cave. In the weak light outside, he could tell that more creatures, now buried beneath the snow, stretched into the distance.

  “This column stretches for five miles, as near as we can tell,” Torbrand explained. “The cold must have come upon it quickly. It seems very few of the monsters in this caravan had the chance to move but a few feet before they died. This is probably just one of Mikkik’s legions that was marching to finish off humans and elves before the Shattering. We haven’t quite puzzled out where this place was, yet.” The Shadan’s eyes flamed with energy. “Can you imagine the fight this would have been? What I wouldn’t give to have a chance to meet this horde head-on with the might of Aughmere at my back. That would be war! Then a man could prove himself! There is no battle today that could even compare to this! If black days are coming, then let them come!”

  Gen hadn’t the words to reply, and the Shadan seemed so lost envisioning the past that none were required.

  After several moments of reverie, the Shadan sighed. “I must confess,” he said, seeming deflated after his outburst, “that this mass of snakes would be nearly impossible to fight. There must be thousands of them. They could overwhelm an entire regiment and give almost no chance of defense. Come on, then. I have given you quite the story to tell your woman, at least.”

  “Yes, Shadan,” Gen agreed, though he doubted Regina would thank him for relating it. Gen reached inside his pocket and fingered the braid, and it comforted him as they hiked past scores of creatures he never wanted to see again, frozen or fresh. However horrible, Gen was sure Rafael could turn this one day’s events into a tale worth hearing.