Emily's Saga

by Travis Bughi

  World of Myth I-VI

  Emily’s Saga

  Travis Bughi

  Copyright 2016 Travis Bughi

  Smashwords Edition

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  Dedication

  To my grandmother, Ruth

  For my love of reading

  To my wife, Gabby

  For a life worth living

  To my mother, Melody

  For my dedication and perseverance

  To my sister, Amanda

  For a love unrequited

  To my grandfather, Joe

  For doing what he had to, so that I could do what I want to

  To my father, Tim

  For being a man worth aspiring to

  Acknowledgements

  Patricia Hamill for the editing

  Jack Baker for the cover art

  World of Myth Epic

  Emily’s Saga

  I - Beyond the Plains

  II - The Forest of Angor

  III - The Fall of Lucifan

  IV - Journey to Savara

  V - Juatwa

  VI - A Legend Ascends

  World of Myth I

  Beyond the Plains

  Prologue

  Surrounded by his siblings and worshipped by thousands, an angel named Quartus sat upon his throne utterly silent and alone, awaiting the death that only he could see.

  The silence wasn’t by choice. He was cursed—or perhaps blessed, depending on one’s viewpoint—but in this case most certainly cursed with the lack of speech. Words could be formed in his mind, but his lips opened so rarely that he counted the occurrence in years. If a helmet were fashioned for him, it would be made with openings for only the eyes, for the only sustenance angels required was sunlight.

  The angels, all five of them, were timeless and beyond beautiful by any human standard. They were the ones that created Lucifan so many ages ago, the grandest and oldest city in the world. To the people of Lucifan, that meant Quartus and his siblings were immortal, powerful, and deserving of worship. Quartus and his siblings never saw it that way, though. To them, Lucifan was merely a sanctuary, and they were its wardens. They deserved no worship, no payment, nor even thanks. The only thing they hoped for was the safety of its people, and they had succeeded for so long and so well that the only threat left was one from within.

  But Lucifan, its citizens, and the world itself were doomed to death and slavery, and only Quartus could see it coming.

  He mourned quietly upon his stone throne, high above the great city of Lucifan in the Angels’ Tower. His four siblings sat to the left of him on their own thrones, listening patiently to the knights give their report on what had occurred over the past day. They knights spoke plainly, reading from rolls of parchment that held what Sir Mark O’Conner thought most important to pass along. Most of the time it was the day’s recollection of crimes and punishments, though sometimes more interesting things occurred such as a foreign ambassador come to speak with the angels personally. Quartus looked forward to those times the most. They told him that civil societies existed beyond the stone metropolis the angels had created.

  “An interesting note,” one of the knights said, a young woman with red hair and a high forehead, “we apprehended a merchant attempting to sell a kobold. He said he bought it on the Great Plains outside the city.”

  “We do not allow slavery here,” Zarah said leaning out of her throne. “This merchant should know that.”

  Quartus gave a nod to his sister. She was the kindest of them, he thought. Her heart the biggest, the light that shined from her eyes the brightest. Or perhaps it only seemed that way because it reflected off her yellow hair like the morning sun. Quartus briefly wondered how long she would weep after he was gone. Would she mourn for eternity? He dared hope not.

  “That is what he was told,” the knight nodded. “He tried to argue the kobold wasn’t smart enough to be a slave. It was closer to a pet, in his opinion. He didn’t seem to care that the kobold was capable of rudimentary speech and vocally disagreed with him. The merchant has been given a few nights in the dungeon to rethink his choice of words.”

  “The kobold was freed, I trust?” Ephron spoke up.

  My dearest brother, Quartus thought. The others will look to you even more than they do now.

  Quartus could not recall how long ago they’d all decided to follow their dark-haired brother without question. He took the role of leadership well, and as far as Quartus was concerned, had done a job more admirable than could be asked. Lucifan had lived centuries of peace due to his resolute integrity. The death that came for them was not his fault.

  “It was,” the knight nodded. “We gave it some food, as well, and a map to lead it back home to the Forest of Angor, if it chooses to do so. There are very few kobolds in Lucifan, after all.”

  Quartus only just realized he’d begun listening to the speech when the kobold was mentioned. He looked to his left to see his four siblings had become equally enraptured. They had not seemed so interested before then, and that was enough to make him smile, his lips almost parting.

  How predictable we are, he thought. Our only concern is for those who need help.

  The people always spoke of how kind the angels were. They were right in more ways than one.

  The morbid side of him slipped into sadness again as the knight droned on into that day’s collection and dispersion of taxes. The leprechauns, as usual, shouldered a large portion of the burden. Quartus thought the whole concept a necessary evil, one of the few he and his siblings could perform. They took only what was needed from the rich to give to the poor, yet still it tore at them to do even that. It was pitiful, but for as powerful as Lucifan and the world thought the angels were, Quartus knew just how vulnerable he and his siblings really were. They could create, they could manage, but they could not destroy, and on the horizon was a terrible war that held the death of thousands.

  Part of him said that it was only to be expected. This world was a dangerous place filled with nightmare creatures. Even the land itself could be relentless at times. Death came for every being, even one such as him. It was futile to resist it, disheartening to believe there was hope it could be stopped, and at the same time, woefully erroneous to believe there was anything wrong with death at all. With death would come peace. With death would come the long awaited sleep that he could only dream about when he closed his eyes.

  Being timeless had a way of changing things. Death was not an inevitably for him, and this turned the concept from a fear into a curiosity. Quartus did not shudder at the thought of death. He rather thought the idea pleasant, the end of all pain, but he only thought that for himself. For others, for his people, for those that called themselves mortal, Quartus wanted nothing less for them than a wonderful life. He wanted them to live, to laugh, to love, and in the end, to forget that time was their master. Seeing their deaths coming, he wondered if perhaps it was best that he could not speak. Maybe they would be better off dead. How could he, a mere angel incapable of harm, ever hope to save this city and its entire people?

  He did not know how, but he knew that he had to try.

  Quartus looked left again. He looked at his siblings and felt tears well in his eyes. His love was great for every being, but for his siblings it was unfathomable. They felt the same about him, of course, despite the fact that
he’d never spoken a word to them. To them, he was their eldest brother. Although the angels were timeless, Quartus appeared to be the oldest of his siblings, the only one with grey hair, and they gave that level of respect to him without thought. In return, he would give his life for them, and if his visions were correct, he may very well have to do just that.

  The knight and her escort finished their report abruptly, prompting Quartus to wake from his dark broodings. The knights spoke words of thanks, and Ephron thanked them in return before granting the squad permission to leave their chambers. The knights bowed low and left, and Quartus was more alone than before.

  “A lone kobold,” Ephron hummed, his voice echoing all on its own. “We get so few of those here. I hope it finds its family.”

  “Maybe one of us should fly it back to Angor?” Zarah suggested. “Uriah is the fastest.”

  Quartus heard the compliment and pictured Uriah sitting a little taller in his throne, but Uriah did no such thing. He didn’t flinch a muscle, not even to tuck away the hair—red as the setting sun—that had fallen over his eyes. Its strands broke slits into the light that shined from his eyes. Uriah was looking to Ephron, prepared to follow his brother’s wishes to the letter. At the wave of a hand, Uriah would take to the skies, and that little kobold would have a swift ride home.

  The bravest of us, Quartus thought. I wish you knew the burden I carried, dear Uriah. If you did, you might just have the courage to save us.

  “The Forest of Angor is too far away,” Ephron replied, voice heavy. “We must trust in the kobold to find his own way home. We cannot save everyone, Zarah. Some must save themselves in order for us to save those who cannot. We are needed here, as always.”

  Quartus looked to his only sibling who had not spoken, Damaris. There were times that Quartus was convinced she competed with him for who could be most silent. It was a contest she inevitably lost, but there were a few years that she had given a solid fight. Quartus let his eyes fall on her brown hair, her long nose, and her stoic gaze. She was so different than the rest of them. Actually, they were all different. They called each other brother and sister, but not a single one of them looked alike.

  They were family, though, and they even dressed the part. Quartus and his four siblings wore only one garment, a simple white gown with slits cut in the back for their feathered wings. No helmets or jewelry, gloves nor even sandals graced their bodies otherwise. They had no need of such things. Angels were warm as the touch of sun, and their skin never dirtied or stained. Quartus could not readily explain why that was, but neither had he ever bothered to find out. Perhaps it was the light within him—the very light that shined out of him from where a human’s eyes should be.

  I pray that these eyes never see this city bathed in fire, he thought. I pray that my light will break the darkness.

  Just as he could not readily explain why his body never tired, so could he not readily explain the foreboding that pained him. There was no face that plagued his dreams or villain tapping at his door. Lucifan had enemies, of course, like the vampires lurking in the shadows and ogres who had no respect for the laws, but Quartus could not say which one troubled his sleep. There were other enemies, too, ones beyond the sea who looked at Lucifan as a fruit ripe for the taking. That problem was shored up, though, thanks to three towering statues that guarded the city. Each colossus was an army in its own right.

  Yet Quartus knew it wasn’t enough. He could feel it in his gut. All he knew and loved would die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. If he was the sun, then the night was surely coming, and no light would survive.

  I must find my own shadow, he realized. I must seek one who can do what I cannot.

  A gunslinger would be the best choice, he thought instantly. Their elaborate pistols made them a force to be reckoned with, even to an immortal. A gunslinger would be hard to find, though. They were a rare breed, as rare as their weaponry, and none swore allegiance to Lucifan. They traversed the Great Plains, hunting behemoths for coin. Quartus would be hard pressed to find one and convince him or her to join his cause, especially when he could not speak. Still, Quartus could almost picture a gunslinger now—dual wielding six-shooters with every shot belching black smoke into the air as he fought back against the death that sought them all. It was a frightening prospect, the image itself unsettling, and Quartus shuddered from the idea. Such violence, even the thought of it, was difficult for him to comprehend.

  He wished that guns, swords, and bows had never been made.

  Yet they had been, and he had need of them. Next, Quartus thought of the knights. They seemed even more the logical choice than a gunslinger, for the knights served the angels and Lucifan. They were dependable, most of them, and battle hardened. A rebellious one would be needed, one of the outliers not afraid to bend the rules. Perhaps that one Ephron had inducted, Sir Gavin. Yet, Quartus hesitated, realizing he was planning too soon. He was trying to find a hero before he knew his enemy. He was not just mute; he was blind.

  “Brother,” Ephron whispered.

  Quartus’ thoughts were given pause, and he looked up to see his siblings were staring at him. Their faces were pressed into looks of concern, and Quartus touched his cheek to find a tear had fallen there.

  Now that is strange, he thought. How did that get there?

  “Is something the matter?” Ephron asked.

  Yes, Quartus frowned. Death is coming for you, your brothers, your sisters, and everyone we have tried to protect for centuries. Our only hope is to find an ally amongst an enemy we cannot see, an enemy only I know exists, and I cannot speak a word.

  Quartus forced a smile, parting his lips just one more time for those he loved the most. He hoped that, when he was gone, they would remember him by it—that they would live to remember him at all.

  Chapter 1

  Emily Stout was born and raised on the Great Plains with her mother, father, older brother Abraham, and younger brother Nicholas. They were a typical plains dwelling family, farming the harsh soil, waiting for behemoths to migrate through their land, employing minotaurs when they could afford it, and traveling to Lucifan to sell their excess crops. For most of the families out on the Great Plains, this was everyday life, and it was as constant as the landscape.

  The Great Plains were a vast spread of yellow grasslands. Everywhere, gold-colored weeds tall as a gnome sprouted over endless rolling hills. Occasionally, a lone tree would dot the landscape, short and thin, with leaves always brown and never bigger than a baby’s palm. The wind blew constantly. Sometimes it was a light breeze, other times a torrent of destruction. Houses had to be built with sturdy hands and firmly planted, lest a windstorm uproot the structure altogether and send it tumbling across the golden hills. Emily’s father claimed he’d seen such a thing as a boy, and she never doubted him for a second. Her father also said that was why gnomes built their homes into the hillsides. It was the best protection from the wind.

  Out on the plains, only a few families were rich enough to afford division of labor. For the Stouts—and most every other family she knew—no task was considered too lowly, too skilled, or too physical to be learned. Emily had worked from the first moment she could remember, helping to plant seeds in the hopes that they would grow and helping to pick when harvest came. Her family grew primarily wheat. That was the most dependable crop on the Great Plains. When there wasn’t planting to be done, there were plenty of other things to keep them busy: clothes to patch, water to fetch, wood to cut, things to fix, food to store, and occasionally some fun to be had. Emily kept up with her brothers in all things, whether they were work or play, and her father said he was proud of her for that. She was a lot like her mother, he would say, and he loved her all the more for it.

  Emily couldn’t remember when, but sometime in the past she’d realized how lucky she was to have such a loving family. The Great Plains was a tough place, making any comfort into a luxury. Even those that called themselves rich lived an uncertain life on the plai
ns, one subject to the year’s harvest and the prices in Lucifan. That uncertainty had a way of enforcing conformity, unsaid and unwritten, as though the weather could be coaxed into consistency if all inhabitants followed a code. One such custom was clothing. Nearly all men and women wore similar clothes, the wealthy being the rare exception, and one could travel for months across the plains to any family farm and see brown pants, brown overalls, once-white linen shirts, and closed toed shoes. Straw hats were also a favorite, providing much needed protection from the sun’s rays. Emily knew this outfit well and had never worn a dress in her life, though she had seen a few. If anyone had bothered to ask her if she was upset about that, she would have had to stop her chores and think about it.

  Houses were separated by nothing but miles of small hills covered with tall weeds. The gnomes were the only creatures that made community villages in the plains. They lived in burrows, built right into the low hills. They were small enough to do that, and there were always enough hills to house a small gathering of gnomes. Their small stomachs and stature made it easier for them to live in groups than alone. Humans on the other hand, like Emily and her family, needed large plots of land to grow enough crops to survive. The nearest human house to Emily’s family was a little less than a quarter-day’s walk from theirs.

  This did not upset Emily, though. She had Nicholas and Abraham, whom she liked to call Abe, and those were all the friends she needed. Her mother and father were always good to them, too, which made life out on the harsh plains bearable. So, Emily made do like her ancestors and did what any smart plains dweller did; she kept a keen eye out for thunderbirds, was wary around behemoths, was good to the gnomes, and stayed indoors on the rare occasion a banshee was nearby.