by Martin Vine
Dobbin seemed to have found what he was looking for, but it was obviously something he didn’t care to share. Hopskotch wondered what his friend had in hand, all hunched over and secretive so suddenly.
“Let’s get going, then.” Eyes cast down, Dobbin stuffed the mystery item into an inside pocket.
Hopskotch was tempted to ask what was wrong, but held his tongue. He knew from experience when to press his moody friend, and when to back off. The eerie silence of Witherness was beginning to eat at him. Hopskotch had never imagined the highlanders would share the same public holidays as the rest of Broken Meadow, but there was no other reason he could attribute to the strange absence of life.
There was something to it that gave him the shivers. His eleven-year-old brain added mischief, imagining in that moment a town full of strange-accented men and women, all walking around with only their feet visible, heads completely obscured by clouds.
Hopskotch was not overly upset to leave Witherness in their wake, and nor as far as he could tell was Dobbin. Rediscovering their rhythm, the boys steered the glide-boat away from the lakeshore town in the westerly direction of Saddleslip Gorge. They set their course well out from the bank, but not so far as to lose sight of land altogether.
Dobbin was hard at the paddle, pushing through the water with silent determination, though his mind appeared elsewhere. Unable to resist, Hopskotch turned for one final look at mist-shrouded Witherness. Though the angle cramped his neck, he kept watching as the last wharf grew smaller and smaller behind them.
The Syltling turned away just in time to miss the enormous raven that landed on the final pier and followed their wake with blood-red eyes.
Excerpt From The Secrets Of The Ancients
by Tulloch Greighspan
Immortals 3.5
The Night of Skyfire
Even among those who lived through it, were there none who truly knew how long the War in Heaven raged, for it is understood that mortals know not time as the gods experience it. But every Sylt who survived the aftershocks, and those of their educated descendants, knew exactly when it ended. For it is recorded in the histories of the Druhirrim that in the reign of King Feldspur Delgard, Year of Empire: 1101, the Other God was evicted from heaven, ensnared by the magic of Aethelron to take the form of his subjects, and cast into the mortal world of Dellreigh to earn penance. The War in Heaven had ended and good had triumphed.
But for the world of Sylt, there would be no lasting peace.
For even as she was banished, crippled and defeated, into the barren heart of Celestia Gar, Belzeel did loose a terrible revenge upon her brother. Outraged at her fate, the fallen god drew upon the last reserves of her immortal strength to tip a great stone from the void into the upper skies of Dellreigh. When it broke through the cold black and into the blue, its mass did begin to burn and break apart, splintering into countless orbs of flame that rained smoking death upon the Delgardian Empire.
And to the Syltian below did it appear as if the heavens themselves had erupted into inferno, and for a span of nearly three hours, beyond the first hour beyond midnight, great fireballs lit the skies over Celestia Gar, turning night into day as they shrieked across the horizon before smiting the earth below. Some of the grandest works of men were reduced to ash; entire communities were shut off from one another. The largest of the sky rocks ripped a great canyon out of the Fellensian Plateau that did not stop smoking for as long as Geldonian records survived.
The Night of Skyfire did wreak untold suffering upon the people of Celestia Gar, and left its ragged coastline forever altered. Great scars were etched into the landscape from Norsteigh south to Tarador, lakes and rivers were emptied of water, new bays and inlets did form.
And for those who would live to see morning, the tragedy was perhaps crueller, for they could not foresee that their survival had bought them only time. They could not know that the Night of Skyfire was but the first step down a very long, very dark road.
Greatly weakened through combat with his sibling, Aethelron could do nothing to stop the cataclysm, and was forced to look on in horror as his beloved Sylt were erased in their hundreds of thousands. And in his heart, the God of Small Things did curse his sister for her malice and brutality, and with even greater fury did he curse himself for failing to protect those who had trusted in him to do so.
And in the dark quiet that followed, as the souls of the dead and wounded alike screamed their pain into the void, Aethelron retired to a quiet grove in Delhimmel between meadow and mountain, and laid his wounded body upon the ground before a great willow tree. And as he did so, the God of Small Things shut out the cries for help that so tortured him, and did thrust his fingers deep into the black soil, much as the tree sends forth her roots in search of sustenance.
And then did Aethelron allow the weight of his body to melt into the core of Dellhimmel’s holy ground, and the grass grew thick around him and did intertwine all about his limbs to form a protective blanket. And for a great long while did the wounded god lie in healing, for the damage to his body was great, and greater still was the emptiness in his heart, for all the tragedy that had passed, and that he was helpless to stop it. And there, beyond the reach of his subjects, and likewise his own angels, the God of Small Things rested and waited for the sacred ones who slept in the cool earth beneath the weeping willow, until they themselves awakened to sing their god back to life.[3]
Black Wings
It was early afternoon on Lake Whispermere and the western hills echoed with the sound of cicadas. What began as a distant hum, barely audible, rose rapidly to a racket so deafening it seemed the trees themselves must have been shaking under the chorus. Although their bellies were empty, Hopskotch and Dobbin found themselves refreshed with energy, as if the cicada song was pumping pure adrenalin into their blood. Working together, they pushed the glide-boat at great speed toward their destination: Saddleslip Gorge.
“Is it true, Grandpa Rand,” Bartrem asked out of nowhere, “that golden cicadas can sing into your dreams?”
Hopskotch furrowed his brow at the strange outburst. He missed the timing of his stroke and struggled to regain a rhythm. It seemed an odd question even for as odd a Sylt as Bartrem.
Leaning back into the bow with eyes shut, Grandpa Rand remained unresponsive.
Hopskotch wondered for a moment if his grandfather’s hearing was beginning to go the way of his eyesight.
“‘Dawnsong’, were they once called,” he replied eventually. The old Sylt opened his eyes and turned his left shoulder to the distant peaks. “But you’ll not hear their like amongst that lot. Only in the wee morning, in the hours before first light can you hope to hear the song of the golden cicada.” He turned back to Bartrem. “Some call it the dreamers’ hour, for it is in that time when our minds take flight and wander.”
Hooking his thumbs together, Grandpa Rand flapped his hands in imitation of a bird in flight.
“But can they, you know, change your dreams?” Bartrem repeated.
Grandpa Rand chuckled. “There’d be few left alive who could answer that for you, Syltling, and I’m certainly not one of ’em. What I can tell you is this: the Dawnsong is as different to that racket grinding our eardrums to mush as the Threetop Choir is to a drunken street urchin singing for his supper outside the Tinker’s Tail!”
Hopskotch smiled as a vision of Bellows appeared in his mind.
“No, the song of the Golden Duke’s is like nothing you could imagine.” Grandpa Rand’s voice softened. “Filled with highs and lows, so it’s said, and long elaborate melodies to shame the greatest of orchestras. To hear it, according to some legends,” his eyed glistened, as if filling with moisture, “one is never quite the same.”
Dobbin and Hopskotch listened in silence as Grandpa Rand’s words sank in.
Bartrem narrowed his eyes, as if suspicious the old Sylt wasn’t telling the full story.
“Of course, I can’t say whether they actually sing magic into yer bones!” Gran
dpa Rand laughed. “But that’s not to say there isn’t something magic about ’em. In ancient times the groves of the Dawnsong were protected by the guardian folk, the Druhirrim, and their secrets locked up by the royal household itself. Only a privileged few – like the high priests of Aethelron – ever had access to the sacred broods.”
“But what of the Shriven?” asked Bartrem. “They’re all connected in some way, aren’t they?”
Hopskotch threw him a crooked glance. He knew that bringing up anything about olden times was enough to set Bartrem off. The bookish Syltling was obsessed with the mysteries of ancient Delgard and the underground societies that thrived within its borders.
“Well, don’t look at me like that,” Bartrem said indignantly. “The Shriven are as real as you and me; said to haunt the woods beyond Saddleslip Gorge, if you must know. Some say they still have dealings with the elders of Witherness. I’ve read about it.”
Bartrem cheekily nudged Hopskotch with his elbow. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if we actually saw one today. We’d best keep a lookout once we hit shore.”
Hopskotch shuddered. Dobbin shook his head at Bartrem, but appeared likewise unnerved at the thought of running into the legendary forest wraiths.
No Syltling knew for sure who or what the Shriven were. There was certainly nothing about them in any of the books Hopskotch had read, but rumours of their existence persisted (it was quite the subject for boys trying to frighten each other during camp-outs and sleepovers). Some said they were the ghosts of the Blighted who fell at the battle for Sanufell – now commonly referred to as the Scouring – which sealed the fate of the Delgardian Empire at the close of the Second Blighted War. Some said they still wandered the hinterlands and deep, dark woods beyond the western shore of Lake Whispermere: that they were forest wraiths who stole children and laid curses on trespassers.
But this was the first time Hopskotch had ever heard they might be flesh and blood: moreover, in contact with real live folk. Bartrem’s words were as hard to swallow as always. Of course, the ways of the Withernessians were often subject to rumour-mongering among Bridgetowners. Even Hopskotch was left to wonder what strange rituals and customs the high-country folk followed in their isolated, fog-bothered town.
“You need not fear the Shriven,” said Grandpa Rand. “Not for a moment.”
Hopskotch always noticed how his grandfather’s mood would change when talking about certain things. It was as if the befuddled, jovial old man he loved would disappear completely, and someone entirely different take control of his body. When this happened, there was no mistaking the power behind his words. Without even raising his voice, Grandpa Rand commanded the immediate attention of the glide-boat crew. Even Dobbin pricked his ears.
“When you’ve been around as long as I have you learn a thing or two,” Grandpa Rand explained. “The Shriven, as you call them, are real enough, but not even close to how a schoolboy’s imagination might paint them.” He paused to direct a stern glare at Bartrem. “Gentle folk they are: quiet, solitary, in harmony with nature and best left in peace.” Grandpa Rand redirected his gaze toward the distant hills. “There’s nothing in those woods wants to harm ye.”
Bartrem was just about to open his mouth in response when the black wings struck.
The raven dived straight at Hopskotch, his only warning, a powerful whoop-whooping sound over his right shoulder, followed by a rush of wind. His world erupted into a tornado of black feathers, grasping claws and gnashing beak.
There was no time for fear. There was no time for thought. With paddle still in hand, Hopskotch launched himself off the bench to get out of the way, and was immediately pushed sideways by the powerful wind gusts whipped up by the bird’s enormous wings. His left foot slipped out from under him and he tipped backward, his rump thudding into the inside ribbing of the hull. Regaining balance, Hopskotch braced himself with legs wide apart and lashed out skyward, swinging his paddle in a wide arc – left to right – that missed the top of Bartrem’s head by inches and sent a spray of cold lake water over Grandpa Rand. The blow was only slightly off target, glancing across the raven’s beak with a sickening THWACK!
It was enough to give the oversized bird pause. Backing off, it hovered just out of range, allowing for the boat crew to size up the threat.
Hopskotch had never seen a bird so large. From head to tail, it would reach almost to his shoulder. Its chest was half as wide across as his own, its wingspan more than the space between his outstretched arms. Dangling from its knobby, grey-skinned legs were the most terrifying claws. Outstretched, they seemed almost as long as his own fingers. So unnaturally massive was the raven that the downforce generated by its beating wings began driving the glide-boat sideways across the lake, tilting the lip of the hull perilously close to the waterline.
Cringing beneath its shimmering black, Hopskotch held his paddle as a shield. Grandpa Rand sat immobilised, his face twisted into a grimace of shock and disbelief.
Dobbin was not going to wait for the bird to strike again. Raising himself off the stern bench, he flung the first thing that came to hand at the bird.
Unfortunately for his fellow crew, that thing was the paddle. Worse yet, in his panicked state, Dobbin’s coordination was way off, his throw going yards wide of the raven.
As the flat end of the paddle whistled past his ear, Bartrem lost his balance and fell backward onto the packs. Grandpa Rand pressed himself back against the bow, flapping his arms about and shrieking strange words that Hopskotch couldn’t process.
Overhead, the raven continued to menace them. Its beating wings fanned the floundering glide-boat further and further out into the middle of the lake. Frustratingly, the monster remained just out of range of Hopskotch’s paddle, and likewise Grandpa Rand, who was now waving his fists wildly. Amid the chaos, a fresh thought entered Hopskotch’s mind. “Dob, your slingshot!”
“Where the mittens is it?” Dobbin shrieked, aiming in all directions skyward. After a desperate battle with some uncooperative buckles, and much frantic rummaging, Dobbin had managed to retrieve the weapon from his sling-pouch, only to find himself without a target. Spinning about wildly, he continued to aim the slingshot at every imaginary sight and sound. But there was nothing to see nor hear of the monster.
Hopskotch did not respond to the question. He could think of no answer that made sense. It was as if the bird had just disappeared into the fog, with not even an eddy in the mist to give a clue as to its whereabouts. Gasping for breath, the confused youngster could feel his heart pounding so hard and fast he feared it might leap right out of his chest. His eyes darted this way and that, his entire body poised and ready for the return attack he knew must surely come. He wished the cicadas would quieten down so he could better hear the world around him. Bracing himself with one leg atop the edge of the hull, Hopskotch held the paddle high over his shoulder, ready to strike out at any attack from above.
Long moments passed. Nobody spoke a word. Four pairs of eyes darted about nervously in all directions overhead.
Hopskotch eventually lowered his gaze, searching instead for a glimpse of the shoreline, without result. Surrounding them in all directions was an impenetrable grey fog.
Once again, Hopskotch heard the raven a split-second before he saw it. Once again, it dived straight for him, now attacking from the port side of the skiff. Why me? he wailed inside his head. But this time he transformed his fear into anger.
“Back off!” Hopskotch shrieked, and the rage amplified his voice to a frightening pitch. With no regard to his own balance, he swung the paddle at the raven’s fat, feathered neck.
His aim had improved. The flat edge caught the bird full in the throat, and it rattled so violently that it almost shook the wooden handle right out of Hopskotch’s hands.
Grandpa Rand sprung up to full height, frighteningly tall upon the bow platform. In a desperate attempt to shoo the raven away from his grandson, he resumed flapping his arms like a madman. The glide-boat rocked d
angerously with each shift of his bodyweight.
Alongside Bartrem’s flailing form, Dobbin continued to fumble about with his slingshot. The moment the raven returned, he’d dropped the stone with an embarrassing squawking sound. It had landed somewhere between his feet, then rolled away beneath the packs. Desperate to find a replacement, he went for his pebble bag, but his shaking fingers were having trouble extracting another stone.
Hopskotch couldn’t believe it. The raven had taken the full force of the paddle and continued its assault unfazed, hovering just over his head and striking out at him repeatedly with its beak, which was as long and sharp as a kitchen knife. The force of the wind from its beating wings threatened to send him backward onto Bartrem, who had flattened himself against the starboard hull between the middle and stern bench seats.
The bird was jabbing at Hopskotch so fast he dared not pull the paddle back for another swing. Instead, Hopskotch was forced to use it as a spear, taking advantage of its reach to keep the beak from his face. Just when he thought he was getting the best of the contest, the raven lunged sideways. In a movement almost too quick to see, the monster kicked out its left leg and latched onto the flat end of the paddle with a giant talon.
The battle turned swiftly into a tug-of-war. Hopskotch had the better grip, but the bird’s mighty wings were testing his resilience. For the unfortunate Syltling, it took every ounce of strength just to hang on.
Finally, Dobbin got his act together. With a large river stone loaded into the cradle of his slingshot, he pulled back on the rubber thong and took aim at the raven.
At the same moment, the bird tugged on the paddle. Hopskotch stubbornly refused to surrender his only weapon. The boat was pulled hard around, the port side plunging down at an angle so great a torrent of lake water spilled into the hull.
Dobbin’s balance failed him, then his aim. With a loud THWACK, the flying pebble found its mark, square on Grandpa Rand’s shoulder!