Lodestone Book One: The Sea of Storms



  Lodestone

  Book One:

  The Sea of Storms

  Science Fiction

  by Mark Whiteway

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  Published by Mark Whiteway

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  Copyright 2011 Mark Whiteway

  For Mary Chuey

  Prologue

  “And so it was, that Kal the wise did beseech Ail-Kar, and Ail-Kar did cast from the firmament the heavenly stone.

  The stone of constancy and change; of boon and bane; of creation and destruction”

  Blessings of the White Sun, Fourth Stanza, Ninth and Tenth Lines

  It was early in the afternoon when Kal first saw the flying rock.

  Well, perhaps “flying” was a slight exaggeration; a subtle embellishment that he might have used later when trying to impress his younger brother, or his friends after third-day prayers. It was at least enough to break Kal out of his reverie. Hymarr’s reaction was the last thing he had expected.

  He had been rehearsing in his mind for days beforehand how he would ask her to accompany him to the Spring Gratitude Service. That morning, as he lay in his bedchamber, before even Ail-Gan, the yellow sun, had risen over the western horizon, he determined that today was going to be the day.

  He found her outside a clothing shop just off the curia. She was taller than he was, with long brown hair which hung loose about her shoulders, and large deep brown eyes. When she smiled, they shined brighter than all three of the suns–or so it seemed to Kal. She wore a simple unembroidered red-brown supertunic, woven from a soft-looking material.

  As Kal approached, he saw that she was accompanied by two other girls. She seemed to be involved in an animated conversation. He stopped in mid-stride, locked in mortal combat with his fragile resolve. A voice within screamed at him that this was a bad place and time, but something within him caused his legs to start moving forward once again, and a few moments later he was standing in front of Hymarr.

  She stopped, seeming to notice him for the first time. “Kal?”

  The other girls looked irritated, but he ploughed on. “Hymarr, I... was just looking for you.”

  Her brows knotted together into a frown. “Excuse me?”

  “Are you going to Spring Festival?” It was a stupid question. Everyone would be going. The two girls standing just behind Hymarr suppressed a giggle. “I was wondering if you would care to–”

  “No,” she interjected. “No, thank you.”

  “But–”

  “No!” Her speckled cheeks were flushed as she turned on her heel and strode away down the street, away from the curia, her tail swishing behind her. Her friends burst out laughing and followed in her train.

  Kal simply stood stupidly for a moment. He had no idea what his expression was, but he drew a couple of curious stares from passers-by. Then he turned and began running to get away from the place and time of his humiliation. As he ran, feelings of anguish broke over him in waves, but he only ran faster so as to blot them out. A part of his mind recalled dimly that his father would be expecting him at the smithy, but he did not care.

  As he neared the edge of the village, he passed the pen where graylesh were kept. One graceful animal raised its pointed snout from its manger and regarded him. On impulse, Kal vaulted the fence, swung himself on the back of the nearest beast and kicked hard. He was nearly thrown as the creature lurched forward. It cleared the barrier and suddenly Kal was in open countryside. He had a sudden image of the animal’s imagined owner and how angry they would be… and then how angry his father would be. But he pressed his mount’s striped flanks and urged it forward.

  After a while he looked back and saw that there were no signs of pursuit. He caused his mount to slow a little, and as he did so, the valley and its environment began to insinuate themselves on Kal`s senses. It was early spring in the Taskar valley. On either side of the track Kal could see tilled fields, planted with kalash or perhaps moba root. There was no wind, but the air rushed past his face. The graylesh had settled into a rhythmic loping stride, which Kal found almost relaxing.

  By now, Ail-Kar, the white sun, had risen in the west, a brilliant point of light, chasing the larger yellow sun across the sky. The latter had already reversed its course in the sky, moving westward briefly, before resuming its eastward course. Dominating both of these in size but not in brightness was Ail-Mazzoth, a huge ball ten times larger than the yellow, its dull red colour looking pale and washed out, due to the brightness of the pale blue sky. Ail-Mazzoth was the Mother figure in Kelanni faith. The ever constant one, who never moved in the sky; who ever cast a benevolent eye over her children. By the grace of the Three, he was starting to sound like an acolyte! The very thought made him laugh inwardly, which lifted his mood a little more.

  Soon he had left behind signs of cultivation and was travelling through a land of brown dirt and purple scrub. Although it was early in the year, Ail-Gan had enough power in it that he was starting to feel a little thirsty, although of course, he had no water with him. He felt a twinge of conscience, wondering if his father had discovered his disappearance, and would be worried about him, but he quickly thrust the thought aside. He was not ready to go back and face the music, not just yet.

  The path began to rise slowly towards the foothills, which rolled onward and upward in rising waves. In the distance, half hidden by haze, were the jagged peaks of the Tragar Mountains. Kal slowed his mount to a walk.

  On the right, not far from the path, were the ruins. They lay in a tumbled mélange of long-forgotten stones. Kal had explored them as a child and once found markings which he thought to be writing, but it was in no form he recognised. His curiosity piqued, he had sought out the acolyte in his anteroom after instruction the very next day.

  “May I ask you a question, sir?”

  The small chubby man in a grey robe looked up from his desk, and sighed. Many of the acolytes Kal remembered as patient and kind, with a good sense of humour. Golon was not one of those.

  “Yes, Kal.”

  “I wanted to ask about the ruins north-east of here. Is anything known about them?”

  Golon blinked. “They are ruins.”

  If it had been anyone else, Kal would have thought this was a joke. Kal soldiered on. “Is it known who built them?”

  “Does it tell you in the sacred texts?”

  Kal was far from Golon`s best student. It occurred to him that he was unwittingly setting himself up for a lecture. “I found some writing on one of the stones there.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I don’t know; I did not recognize the letters.”

  “Then how do you know it was writing?” Kal had to admit that Golon had him there. The portly acolyte leaned back in his chair. “Well, I would say if it was not writing, then you are wasting your time, and if it was and those who did the writing suffered destruction, then what they said is of no consequence, wouldn’t you?” Golon smiled weakly.

  Kal had withdrawn, defeated, like the ruins themselves. They lay there now somnolent, lit by the afternoon suns, offering no more answers than they had back then. Kal set his face, kicked his mount and rode onward, leaving his many defeats behind him.

  A little while later, his eyes were following the slow glide of a distant perridon, its wings outspread seeking thermals in the thick air, when Kal suddenly caught sight of a dark shape. It floated in the air some twenty meters from the path to his left. A few moments of observation showed that it was not a hovering bird, nor was it a lap-moth. This thing, whatever it was, appeared motionless, suspended about four times his height above the ground. He tugged on the neck of the graylesh, and the animal obediently slo
wed to a walk, shaking its narrow head and giving a snort as it did so.

  Kal directed the creature towards the object and neatly dismounted. The graylesh, spying a lush patch of purple moss, headed on over and began to nibble at it with an air of complete disinterest.

  Kal`s first instinct was to ride back to the village as hard as he could and tell his father what he’d found. However, if he did that, he doubted anyone would believe him. He scarcely believed it himself. Besides, it sounded far too much like the kind of ridiculous story that a young person would invent with the aim of trying to deflect attention from his own wrongdoing and avoiding punishment. And there was something else. Whatever this was, it was he who had discovered it. If he hurriedly left the scene, it might be happened on by another person who would take the credit. So it was that Kal resolved to try and retrieve the strange floating object. But how?

  Several possibilities sprang to mind, most of them comic in their lack of practicality. He briefly pictured himself trying to stand on the graylesh`s back, while jumping up to snatch the rock, but there was no way that the animal would stay still for that one. He walked beneath the stone and jumped as high as he could. The gravity allowed him to jump over twice his own height, but it was evident that he was not going to reach it that way.

  He cast his eye about the immediate area. It was an area of rough heath land and small hillocks–wild, but unremarkable. He walked a short distance, looking on the ground for something he might use. Stones, but they were all too small. Then, suddenly he spied something. He pulled it loose from the sandy soil–an irregular fist-sized flint. He hefted it in the palm of his hand. Perfect.

  He walked up, stretched back his arm and aimed at the airborne enigma. On the sixth attempt, he heard a “clack”, as the missile made contact. To his surprise, the floating rock was knocked sideways and fell to the ground, tumbling end over end until it rolled to a stop.

  Kal walked over to where it lay, lowering himself to his haunches. It was almost jet black in colour, about twice the length of his hand. He touched it cautiously. It was slightly warm and smooth, with deep imprints into which he could have fit two of his slim fingers. He lifted it, half expecting it to go flying off on its own again, but it had apparently grown tired of its aerial activities, and sat obediently in his hands like a....rock.

  Ail-Gan was moving towards the eastern horizon, signalling the onset of late afternoon. It was time to return. Kal carefully re-mounted the graylesh and stuffed the flying rock inside his tunic. It felt warm against his leathery olive skin. Whatever the thing was, he hoped it might get his father’s attention–maybe even deflect some of his wrath. He directed his mount towards the path and then right toward the village of Halceron, all thoughts of Hymarr gone.

  Overhead, Ail-Kar, the white sun, gleamed mischievously.

  Chapter 1

  “He comes!”

  A knot of a dozen or so Kelanni villagers stood in the market courtyard, eyes raised skyward. Dark clouds roiled overhead and the rain was persistent, running down their faces and into their eyes, making it difficult to see. At the edges of the courtyard, almost melted into the shadows, were many others pulled by curiosity and repelled by apprehension. In the centre, four downcast youths stood at either side of two laden wooden carts.

  As they watched, a shadow moved across the expanse, growing silently, rapidly. It resolved into the shape of a Kelanni, dark cloak flared outwards like a bird with a single great wing. He dropped from the sky with a terrible grace and landed in the space before the knot of villagers, with the cart to his back, the cloak settling about his shoulders. He stood erect, raindrops trickling down his dark olive cheeks like false tears. Close cropped dark hair bristled on his scalp and down the back of his neck. His right hand grasped a dark wooden staff, diamond blades at each of its ends. His tail flicked from side to side.

  He walked forward and cast the fold of his cloak to one side, lifting his left hand. The first three fingers were raised; the other two were bent downwards.

  “Fealty and service to the Three,” he announced. His voice was hard, confident.

  “Fealty and service,” chorused the group, raggedly.

  “Which of you is headman?”

  A middle-aged villager dressed in plain tan jerkin and breeches stepped forward. He was balding, with a thin, lean face and a thin, lean voice. “I am called Boran. May I know the name of Prophet’s Keltar?”

  The dark man ignored him, and turned to the carts. “Why are these not harnessed to graylesh? Were you expecting my soldiers to drag them all the way to Chalimar? Or perhaps you had that privilege in mind for these children of yours? They look to me as if they could scarcely lift a plate of food.”

  The man called Boran broke in solicitously. “Forgive me, Lord. Your presence was not expected for another half hour. The animals are being led here as we speak.”

  There was a rhythmic tramping from the entrance to the market place. A dozen soldiers entered in ranked pairs, causing villagers to push against one another in their efforts to scatter. The fact that the Keltar had been willing to descend from the sky alone and ahead of his escort seemed only to reinforce his contempt for the villagers.

  Following them were two men, each leading a graylesh. They proceeded to harness the animals to the carts whilst the Captain of the escort barked orders and the soldiers took up position at the rear and van. The rain began to ease a little and with it, the drumming of raindrops against the packed earth. As the clouds parted slightly, the dull reddish glow of Ail-Mazzoth began to seep through like a wound.

  Boran took a nervous step forward. “May I offer my Lord some refreshment at my home? I would be honoured indeed–”

  The Keltar turned without a word and struck Boran with the back of his left hand. The headman went down, sprawling in the dirt. No-one moved to help him.

  The Keltar turned back to the carts. “Get these things out of here,” he bellowed.

  “Hold!” cried a voice from above.

  Perched on the rooftop, a hooded figure could be seen, limned against Ail-Mazzoth`s reddish glow. The figure leaped from the gable, dark cloak flaring behind him, and landed in a crouch in front of the Keltar. He straightened and pushed back his hood. The stranger was tall, with hard-set blue eyes and a mouth that quirked slightly, as if ready to smile at any moment. His speckled olive face was topped by waves of sandy hair. His right hand gripped a diamond tipped staff, like the Keltar`s.

  The soldiers went for their weapons but were stopped in their tracks by the Keltar, who raised his left hand without taking his eyes from the stranger. “Who are you?” he barked. “What is your business here?”

  The stranger nodded at the carts and the dejected looking youths. “May I ask where you are taking these?”

  “I am the Prophet’s Keltar. His word is not to be questioned by anyone. I will know who you are and how you bear the trappings of Keltar. Answer me!”

  The ensuing silence was filled only by the light drumming of raindrops, and the impatient snorting of the graylesh. The townspeople stood like statues in the deep crimson and black shadows of the courtyard. Puddles were forming surreptitiously in small depressions in the earth.

  “Who I am, is… unimportant. I would ask that you release these young people.” The stranger’s tone was firm and even.

  “Impossible! This is the Prophet’s tribute.” The Keltar pointed his staff at the stranger. You will surrender that cloak immediately, and accompany us to the keep at Chalimar for questioning.” The Keltar had moved his hands either side of the balancing point of his weapon.

  “I regret that I must decline the Prophet’s kind invitation.” The stranger gave a slight bow, giving his reply a mocking edge. “I must also insist that the young people remain here. I am sure the Prophet will not miss them.”

  “You will come with us. Now,” the Keltar bellowed, propelling himself forward and swinging his staff at the other’s head. The stranger took a step back and brought up his staff with both
hands to parry the force of the blow. The two staffs collided with a crack and they stood, locked together in a strained tableau, as if preparing to decide the fate of their world.

  ~

  Filthy barrog-swine! Shann`s pale olive cheeks flushed, and her intense hazel eyes blazed like twin suns. She stood beneath the overhang of a fruit vendor’s stall, dressed in her slate grey kitchen hand’s garb. Small, even for her age, she had a delicate chin and a delicate mouth that would have seemed pretty if she smiled, which she seldom did.

  She watched as the Keltar fell from the sky and began shouting demands. She saw the cloaked figure knock Boltan to the ground and felt the force of the blow. Her hand moved involuntarily to her face as she recalled the day the Prophet’s soldiers had come for her parents.

  She was no more than eight turns of the season. A small round face, eyes streaked with tears, she had clung desperately to her mother’s tresses, howling in confusion, until a soldier lost patience and pried her loose, knocking her to the ground with the back of his leather gauntlet. She never saw her parents again.

  Not long after that, her life at the Inn began. Poltann and Gallar, who were distantly related to her, had decided to take her in, in return for which she was expected to work. The kitchens were hot and stifling and the work was hard, but she had not been treated unkindly. She had asked about her parents, of course, but had never received a direct answer. It bothered her that she could not recall their faces clearly. Some nights she lay in her cot desperately trying to remember, as if the mental effort would somehow bring them back, and they would stand before her and take her home and all would be as it was. She rubbed her cheek.

  She heard a cry from a rooftop east of the courtyard. Her eyes followed the other bystanders, as another Keltar descended through the falling rain and alighted in front of the first. She strained to listen to the interchange, but the newcomer was more softly spoken and hard to make out above the drumming of the rain. She thought she heard him demanding that the tributes be set free. Suddenly the first Keltar leaped towards the second, their staffs clashing furiously. Her eyes widened in disbelief, transfixed by the scene as the two men strained together.