Fiction Friday - Rose and Blade 4

It's Fiction Friday! That means you get a piece of my original fiction... for free.

This is the third chapter of "Rose & Blade," a novella related to my published novel "Children of Aerthwheel." For the previous chapters, see the link at the top of the page.

Rose and Blade

4.

In the balcony outside the queen’s chamber, Deliera sat on a stone bench and gazed at the courtyard below. A team of gardeners tended to the vast bed of pale roses that filled the middle of the great lawn.

"The roses look like white sand from up here, don’t you think?” Queen Adelia asked.  She stood in the doorway between the chamber and the balcony. When Deliera only nodded, Adelia said, “You are weak.”

"Yes, sister Queen," Deliera said. "Yet still I breathe

."

Adelia leaned on the stone wall of the balcony next to her sister and said, "Is there pain?"

"A bit," Deliera said, "but it passes easily. I think of something else and it goes away.  A moment ago, I thought of the young roses that fill your courtyard. How they’ve grown so strong despite the poisoned dirt into which they burrow. And that pleasant thought drove the pain into hiding, at least for a time."

Adelia sighed, "I wish my healers could help you."

"They've done all they can," Deliera said with a deep sigh. "This is a sickness no conjurer can touch."

At each of the four corners of the palace walls stood a single priest, each wielding one of the sacred holder’s stones to produce a protective field about the entire structure. Most of the time this membrane of energy went unseen; but there were moments when, for one reason or another, the layer flickered or resonated.  And when it did this, it was visible to all who happened to be paying attention.  In these instances, it was obvious that the field was blue and dome-shaped.  Each priest stood guard for eight hours at a time until another came to replace him. 

They were a loyal lot, theses priests who served Adelia.

"Do you know what's happened?" Adelia asked.

"I sensed it," Deliera said. "I felt it yesterday. I haven't been able to sleep since."

"Two dozen of my soldiers are dead," Adelia said. "Did you know that?"

"Yes. Though not by Azariel's hands. Not exactly."

Adelia's eyes swam in tears that threatened to explore the curves of her face, "Have I created this for myself?"

Deliera smiled, "The wheel turns. We fight its weight or we follow the path it carves."

Adelia stared at the sky beyond the protective field above her palace. There were no clouds and only an ashen blue oblivion, a reminder of the ways her ancestors had broken the world so long ago.

“It turned against my men. It fought against my own wizards, the very priests who would protect it from Azariel's mutant forces. What does that mean? What have I done to anger it so?"

"Perhaps it prefers to be called a man," Deliera said with a hint of a smile. "It is, after all, a human being. And he has a name."

"But he is ours," Adelia said. "He is our gift from the old mages. How could he turn against us?"

"I believe you know the answer to this question," Deliera said.

"And what do you suggest, sister?"

Deliera sighed and said, "This gift, as you call him, merely serves fate as do we all. His path is drawn as plainly as yours. Perhaps it has diverged from your own, but the lines may yet intersect before all is finished. He is no gift. He is a human, a powerful human, and he has a purpose. You cannot deny his purpose by keeping him in that tomb."

"If he's gone, then my priests will lose their power," Adelia said.

"And that, sister, is why Azariel took him," Deliera said. She drew a deep breath and said, "Without the gift, you are weak. And the war will continue."

Tendrils of blue energy began to drift from Deliera's head towards the protective dome generated by the wizards. She said, “I can help, though. This is why you keep me in your chamber, is it not? So you may utilize the power I wield.”

Adelia grasped her sister's wrists and said, "Don't do this, Deliera. Come back."

Her sister drew the spirits and spoke what they felt. Their knowledge was hers, but for a time.

"He is torn between worlds," she said with the voices of spirits long dead. Her eyes shimmered silver as she spoke. "He does not belong here. His destiny is forged in fire and written in blood."

Adelia slapped her sister across the face. Deliera's eyes went pale green again and she gasped for air. Her body trembled.

"Forgive me," Adelia said. "You mustn't waste your energy. Not now, not at the twilight of your life."

"I want to help," Deliera said, "but I cannot reach into their realm as I once did."

Adelia moved forward and held her sister in an embrace. The truth was simple.

Deliera would soon be in one of the very spirits with whom she could communicate.

"You're not as strong as you used to be," Adelia said. "Just rest. Don’t let your illness overwhelm you, sister."

Deliera gazed over the wall of the balcony and said, "This sickness, it's not the curse you claim it to be.  It's no virus or disease.  I have the secrets of the gods trapped in my mind, you see?  The spirits left these things in my head and I can't let them out on my own.  So they're killing me.  All the knowledge of the ancient gods is trapped in my head and now I’m bleeding out.”

A tear danced down the side of Deliera's face and she said, "I wish I could help. Let’s hope Azariel misunderstands the importance of the man he freed from the earth."

Fiction Friday - Rose and Blade 3

It's Fiction Friday! That means you get a piece of my original fiction... for free.

This is the third chapter of "Rose & Blade," a novella related to my published novel "Children of Aerthwheel." For the previous two chapters, see the link at the top of the page.

Rose and Blade

 

3.

The automaton’s internal engines whirred and whined as it spoke to Azariel.

"Three battalions await your orders."

It was a pear-shaped machine built by the older people and salvaged for Azariel's personal use, now outfitted with a transmitter that allowed him to communicate with his soldiers. The robot stood chest high and filled the air with bitter steam. On its domed head was the transmitter that would send Azariel's orders to the troops at the far edge of the territories.

The hall was silent, save for the machine's persistent buzzing. Azariel's companions, mostly fellow warriors and soldiers, stood in quiet anticipation.

"Allow me a moment to gather my thoughts," Azariel said with his eyes closed. He stood at one of the hazy portholes that overlooked the ocean side of the airship. In the distance were the great steel behemoths that once bore holes into the ocean floor and leeched black blood from the planet itself.

"My Lord," the automaton said, "fifteen hours have passed since the battalions reached their current positions. They grow impatient."

“Open a direct feed," Azariel said. "Let me speak to him, Tinker."

The machine whirred and clicked, then Commander Delaquar's voice thundered through a small speaker on the automaton's chest. The hall was filled with his curse-ridden proclamations. He spoke in what many called the Mud Tongue, a lower and cruder form of speech handed down from the old people. He was a reformed mutant from the edge of the Outland, one of the few who had retained enough of their humanity to integrate into what remained of this so-called society.

He was in mid-sentence when the feed opened. He growled, "...and if you don't give us a damn order now, we'll just march right up to the enemy lines and start fighting on our own. You tell him that, you God forsaken robot! You tell him he can kiss my sweating ass if he doesn't want to give an order!"

"You just told me yourself, Commander Delaquar," Azariel said.

"Lord Azariel," the Commander said, trying to restrain the angry tone of his voice. "I apologize for the profanity, but my men need an order. It's bad enough we've traveled miles into the Outlands, almost to Lucero, but we're also low on rations. We've encountered no priests and the heat is worse here than I've ever seen in my life. Two of my men have heat sickness or some kind of radiation flu. It's been fifteen hours since we arrived at these filthy ruins and we have no idea what we're doing."

"Those ruins are the relics of your own ancestors," Azariel said. "Treat the place with some damn respect."

Azariel felt himself slip into the Mud Tongue. He smiled.

It was a natural and welcome transition.

"Ancestors or not," Delaquar said, "we're running the risk of getting pinned down here. So please let us know what the plan is, Lord Azariel. Or we'll make our own."

“The plan is simple, Commander. There is a vault beneath the so-called ruins upon which you stand. It is buried approximately one hundred seventy two feet below a structure called Bunker C, at the end of an underground service elevator shaft. You get to that vault and you open it, but you have every available weapon drawn when you do so. Do you understand?"

"What's in the vault?"

"Something unique," Azariel said, "and very valuable to the Good Queen."

"A weapon?" Delaquar asked.

"Some might think so," Azariel said. "It is a man. A very old and important man."

Delaquar said, "My Lord, should we be afraid of this old man?"

With a half-smile, Azariel said, "You should worship him." 

Ficton Friday - Rose & Blade 1

It's Fiction Friday! That means you get a piece of my original fiction... for free.

In celebration of my debut novel Children of Aerthwheel, I give you the first chapter in a novella called "Rose & Blade". It dives into the history of the world called Prismatica, where Andrew Fish and Greta Del Sol are destined to meet their fates.

As the story unfolds, you'll find hints, clues, references, and lots of little Easter eggs relating to my collection Prismatica and my new novel "Children of Aerthwheel."

In a post-apocalyptic world devastated by mankind's machinations, opposing rulers discover that love and fate are two sides of the same relentless knife.

Rose & Blade

The course of true love never did run smooth...

William Shakespeare

1.

“You dare cross the borders we've established and you step foot on my ship without invitation? And on this, our holiest of days?”

His name was Azariel and he was the self-proclaimed leader of the rebel faction called The Ascended, a growing community of humans who dedicated their lives to improving upon the technological achievements of their long dead ancestors. His airship, one of the few that still existed, drifted gingerly above the shores of what was once the greatest trading port on the planet and an unrivaled cultural center. Now the coast was rubble, home to mutated wildlife and scavenging miscreants, maligned descendents of the ones who once ruled the seas.

Smaller vessels flanked Azariel's ship and kept their weapons drawn toward the messenger’s miniscule transport. It was a poorly constructed oblong piece of machinery; one of its steam engines made a rhythmic clanking sound and the air sack that kept it adrift seemed stitched from a variety of worn leathers. Once in a while, the whole craft lurched sideways as one engine kept losing power.

“Lord Azariel,” the messenger said, placing his chin against his own chest and tipping forward so his left knee rested on the ground. The goggles that rested on his forehead tumbled over his face and hung from his neck. He paid no attention to them. “I have not come here to mock your people.”

“Intentions be damned. You've crossed boundaries. This is a crime."

“Please, Lord,” the messenger said, still averting his eyes and carefully trying to perform the proper bow, “I meant no disrespect. And surely no harm."

“You have three minutes,” Azariel said, turning over an hour glass filled with a handful of the white sands of Lucero. 

The sand began to pour through its narrow passage and Azariel said, “Now speak until I kill you.”

The messenger’s jaw trembled and then the words galloped from his mouth, “The queen has sent spies from the outer lands to infiltrate your armies. At least five assassins, as well. Maybe more.”

“You tell me this because you wish to help your own enemy?”

“No,” the messenger said. “Lord Azariel, I come to you as a traitor to my own ruler."

"You defy the Great Queen?" Azariel asked, eyes wide. He gripped the belt that hung loosely around his waste and let his fingers curl around the hilt of his favored weapon: a knife that was older than anything in his airship..

"This struggle that she wages against your people," the messenger said, "it has torn my family apart. Brothers, sisters, children. The Ascended are the victims of her arrogance. Her disdainful behavior."

"So you believe the Queen should serve with me?"

"Not with you, Lord Azariel! You are the rightful ruler of the divided terrirtories," the messenger said. "The queen is but a salacious whore. A sex-dealing war monger who pretends to have an interest in the Old Order." 

Azariel considered this for several moments as the messenger continued his ridiculous imitation of Ascension Ceremonial Etiquette.

Finally, Azariel spoke, but his voice was soft.

"I stood by the queen's side when the Old Order fell. With her hand in mine and an infant kingdom at our feet, we watched the Temple of Assad burn. Together, we heard accounts of the annihilation of an entire dynasty. Libraries, schools, temples... all destroyed by the mindless zealots of that creature Namenlos. The playing field had been reset and even then, when I knew that I would soon wage war against the very woman with whom I shared a chamber room, I held her hand and wept. Do you recall that time? My people have a name for it, soldier. We call it the Eve of Abandonment."

"I was a laborer at the time," the messenger muttered. "I remember well. I helped clear debris from the library of Acron. Before it was rebuilt as a temple under the Queen's orders."

"Then you have seen the Queen's ability to govern and rebuild in the face of opposition. Is this not an indication of her sublime leadership?"


The messenger's eyes squinted and he cocked his head to one side, "She uses the teachings of the Old Order as a means to control. Her loyalties are a mystery. She is a fraud."

"Perhaps," Azariel said, "but she and I face a common enemy."

"Namenlos?"

"Yes. But even more dangerous to us is that flaw in human nature that urges a person to rebel against those who would help him. The ability to blindly turn against one's best interests."

"But, is this not what you did when you set your blade against the queen?" 

Azariel smiled, but there was no emotion behind the expression. It was an empty and mindless movement of muscles.  

"A traitor can never truly be trusted," Azariel said. "How am I to trust you? You, the dog who turns against his pack? How am I to know you won't someday tear at my own throat?" 

The messenger choked on a few syllables before he said, "I pledge myself to you, Lord Azariel. I have experience in skycraft. I was born to live as one of The Ascended. I pledge my blood to you and your cause. I would see Queen Adelia fall."  

Azariel picked up the hour glass, which had run dry minutes ago. The white sand sat in a useless pile at the bottom of the glass.  

Azariel said, "You will be rewarded for your actions, soldier. Let my men escort you to the lower chambers of the ship and you'll be given a change of clothes. We will dine in honor of your undermining the Queen."  

The messenger deepened his bow with an excited smile, straightened the cracked goggles around his neck, then followed a triplet of soldiers out of the hall.  

"Diego," Azariel said, summoning his eldest and most trusted assistant.  

The dark-skinned man was nearly seven heads tall and decorated in well-worn armor. His square face was a battlefield of scars. At his hips were two blades set into ivory hilts.

"Follow our guest," Azariel told the mute assistant. "Send the Great Queen a message and let her know that there are traitors in her midst. She deserves to know as much. I do not wish to fight an unfair war." 

Diego nodded. His tongue had been torn out by a band of Outland mutants when he was only nine years old. Azariel, a prisoner on the run in those days, helped the injured child escape his tormentors. This had incurred an ongoing life debt. 

Azariel tossed the hour glass across the room. It landed in the hands of a servant, who quietly cleaned and polished the instrument and placed it on a stone table top.  

"Find out where these spies are located. Extract their eyes and send them to the dear Queen, as well."