Gods-Forged

DYLAN FUNK

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Gods-Forged

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

712 SE Winchell Drive Depoe Bay OR 97341 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2024

eISBN: 978-1-959036-88-3

Copyright © 2024 Dylan Funk All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Sevannah Storm

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To my wonderful wife. Thanks for believing

in me when I couldn’t. Love you wooper.

Dear Reader,

Here we are, in the cover of a book. I never thought I’d say that (though my wife has never doubted me, bless her). So, thank you for taking the time to read this, and indeed the whole book if you find it to your liking. My greatest joy comes not from the writing, but the telling, and without you, that last would be dreadfully dull.

This story feels like it’s been a long time coming. Much of the world-building started when I was still in university. That was when I wrote my first book. It was… less than great, to say the least. But, buried beneath the flat characters and mediocre prose, lurked the kernel of a good story. I finished my degree, and instead of delving deeper into the world of physics, I wrote another book. It was better, but still not good. That’s when I learned my most important lesson: keep trying. This book is the result of that lesson. Eventually, I went back to my first novel, stripped it down to its core, and started from scratch.

When you dive into the depths of this story, I hope that you emerge with something new, however small. With all that said, I shall say thank you once more and cease my prattling so you may carry on!

Dylan

Chapter One

Elyra darted out of the alley and onto Lithral Way before slowing to an inconspicuous, yet swift, walk. Her heart hammered in her ears from her flight. Shouts and cries of alarm rang from the dig site behind her, bouncing off the tiered pyramid homes of the Chosen District.

Any normal person might’ve been tempted to risk a glance backward to check for pursuers, but she didn’t need to. Her Sight shot out through the aether, resonating with energy. She Felt the slow dance of the stones’ warmth and the buzz of the hot summer air. It was devoid of the tell-tale flickering of life. Good.

She wrinkled her nose. The desert air—normally dry and stale—reeked of sewage. The stench crawled into her nostrils as if alive and determined to make her gag. Not that it could. Any dustling who made it longer than two months had seen and smelled a thousand times worse, and she’d survived fifteen years.

The local aristocracy of the chosen caste were another matter. The street was more barren than the red desert that surrounded Aspis, and no person’s warmth sang within the manor-homes on either side of Lithral Way. No doubt they’d abandoned the area while the ‘sewage repairs’ were underway.

A likely story. Her master wanted to know what Thren was up to. What the sorcerer hoped to find within the shadows of the Underway, she couldn’t fathom, but by the teams of laborers being brought into the district, it wasn’t for simple repairs. Not that they will be doing much digging today. She smirked.

If they hadn’t sent someone after her by now, they weren’t going to. She took off at a brisk jog, heading north along the street toward Thren’s estate, keeping close to the vibrant, painted walls of the manors. It was an old habit; one she couldn’t shake.

A gust of wind whipped through the empty street, and her gaze shot skyward, scanning for the telltale wall of sand bearing down on her. There wasn’t one, of course. Another habit from her time in the Dust.

When a sandstorm blew in, it buried the ramshackle houses, trapping their occupants inside. Most suffocated. Some of the other casteless, the hopefuls, spirits still unbroken, would try to dig them out after the storm had passed. Elyra and her brother had seen them from time to time, crying out for help. They only tried once. Afterward they realized why no one rushed to their aid. It was better to let the bodies stay buried.

Not that the good people of the chosen caste would let that happen in their fair district. Not a single misplaced grain of sand marred the streets here. And if the chosen couldn’t see it, then it must not be a problem. Besides, she imagined them saying, how could the sand get past the city walls? As if the Dust had walls. Pretentious thrahkers.

She made her way through the deserted streets, recounting the directions her master had given her. Not that they were necessary. Thren’s estate was ample, to say the least, and stood out more than Quor’s dangling spine from the old nursery rhyme.

Before long she found it. A large wall covered in tile mosaics surrounded the estate, the manor house at its center. It was square instead of pyramidal in the ancient Shakarin style. The upper floors were held up by massive carved pillars running the circumference of the building.

Her hiding place within a nearby alley afforded her excellent vantage. Two guards shaded beneath an elaborately carved archway in the outer wall. One of them scraped a bronze spear against the arch in an effort to alleviate his boredom. The other stared off into the distance as though some great mystery lurked in the brickwork across from him. Beyond, a servant tended to the garden within the walls.

All was quiet, which meant word of the ‘accident’ at the dig site hadn’t arrived yet. As if on cue, the slapping of sandals against stone rang through the air. A young boy, dark skin shimmering with a sheen of sweat in the light of the setting sun, sprinted into view. The guards stood to attention. The boy skidded to a halt.

He was out of earshot, but Elyra, having just come from the dig site herself, already knew what he was going to say. One of the cranes had fallen into a pit. Work was halted, and all able hands were to help clean the mess.

What he didn’t say, no doubt, was that she’d given the crane a little sorcerous help on its way down.

After he delivered the news, one of the guards retreated behind the walls. He returned with a host of laborers and household servants, perhaps twenty or so, along with a handful of guards. They filtered through the archway and across the street, marching to the dig site. Thren wasn’t with them. Her brow furrowed. Thrahk.

A single guard remained, who resumed his contemplative inspection of the blank wall in front of him. The sun had almost completed its journey to the western horizon, and tall shadows stretched from the pyramid homes all around her as dusk set in. The days were long in Aspis, but the evenings were deceptively short.

She readjusted the cloth of her work shift in an attempt to get the abrasive-if-colorful fabric to rest properly on her shoulders. It sagged over her dark skin in all the wrong places, bagging up around the rope tied at her waist before falling to just above the knee. Her long black hair was tied up in a bun in keeping with the style of a common laborer.

She gave up on trying to force the thrice-cursed clothing into place. Besides, it wasn’t as though she would need to wear it for much longer. With a glance, she checked her disguise one last time. The silver from her pendant caught her eye. She stuffed it into her shift. No laborer wore gold, much less silver. Apart from the wealthiest of the chosen caste, only sorcerers wore silver, and she couldn’t afford to be recognized as such.

After a few more minutes, enough for her to have had time to have come all the way from the dig site, she dashed into the street and up to the guard. She affected heavy panting. The illusion was pretty good. Sweat from her earlier run still dripped down her forehead. The oppressive heat of the day was just starting to yield to the cool of night.

When she stopped in front of the guard, he snapped from his trance. State your business.

She bowed her head, avoiding eye contact. I’ve been sent to fetch some wine for the head foreman.

The guard looked her up and down. After a pause, he chuckled. Poor bastards. It’s going to be a late one tonight. I’ll be stuck here freezing my stones off until my woman finds me and does something worse. In you go. Make it quick, or the foreman’ll have your hide, girl.

Elyra bristled at his tone. You’re lucky I’ve got more important business here, you prick. With a muttered thank you, she entered the estate proper.

Cool air greeted her as she walked through the garden. Somewhere, through the verdant leaves and flowers, the babble of running water chortled. The scent of desert roses floated through the air.

She didn’t have time to admire them, instead she made her way inside. Tapestries lined the hallway, depicting, among other things, Lahn the Storm-Woven’s victory over the Un Dynasty. Ships floundered in the Bay of Daggers as bolts of lightning sent them to the depths. She didn’t pause to examine them further. The lush carpet buoyed her sandals as she went, scanning each room that branched off the main corridor.

A flight of stairs curved into the cellar. She ignored it. Wine wasn’t what she was after. Each room contained nothing of use. An atrium, a kitchen, a large dining hall. Worse, she didn’t know what she was looking for. A study or perhaps a laboratory?

The back of her neck itched as though someone was stalking her. The shadows closed in around her, the rooms growing darker until she could barely see the tapestries on the walls. Thrahk! The guard would notice she hadn’t come back soon, but she couldn’t leave yet. She had already surveyed the dig site, and what had she found?

Nothing, girl, she could hear Master Nahual saying. Nothing I don’t already know. You know I do not tolerate failure. I thought I taught you better.

If she didn’t find something of Thren’s that he could use, he would toss her into the Dust to fend for herself. She wasn’t about to let that happen. Strength was the only thing that kept anyone alive in this world, and a sorcerer without training was no better than a thug without a sword. She knew but two runes and hadn’t even begun mastering her third. She needed Master Nahual, but he didn’t need her.

An odd sensation in the aether grabbed her attention. It was nothing like the hum of a person or an animal, nor did it Feel like the quiet buzz of warm air. It was chaotic, vibrating between several different tones asynchronously.

She smiled. A rune of shielding. Her master had once described it as a curtain, only instead of hiding something from view, it blocked a sorcerer’s Sight. Master Nahual had one around his study. She was willing to bet Thren did as well.

It resonated from upstairs. She rushed into a large foyer. The back wall was taken up by an opulent double stair.

She took a moment to scan the aether, noting that the upper floor was silent but for the rune. As quick as a shadow, she dashed up the steps, following her Sight until she found a small door. The unnatural buzzing was loudest here, emanating from the very air around her. She paused. A light shone beneath the door.

A horrible thought sprung into her mind. She couldn’t See inside. If Thren was in there, he’d crush her like a fly. She froze, unsure what to do. Could she take him by surprise? Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe he wasn’t even there. Regardless, she couldn’t leave now, not empty-handed.

She grasped the handle, the sweat on her palms making the cold bronze slippery. Her limbs were stiff as granite. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated. The air around her went cold as she siphoned its heat and poured it into a rune of force. It thrummed with a sonorous power, biding its time, and distracting her from a flicker of movement coming up the stairs.

In one swift motion, she jerked the door open. The light within blinded her for a split second. Relief flooded her as her eyes adjusted. There was no one in the room. She shut the door behind her, and the aether went eerily silent. The world shrank, her Sight no longer able to pierce the walls of the room.

A piece of silver hung from the ceiling. A brilliant white pinprick of light hovered just beneath it. It sang in the aether with a gentle trill. Shelves of scrolls and chiseled tablets cluttered the walls of the circular room, large enough to fit two dozen people. Along the back wall, beneath a shelf, was a desk with a well-worn chair in front of it.

She relaxed her grip on the rune in her mind, letting its energy pour into the air around her. Her gaze wandered over the multitude of shelves in mild wonder. Thren must’ve spent a large fortune to acquire all of this, even more than her master. She took one of the scrolls from a nearby shelf, a great heavy thing wrapped around a solid metal cylinder, and unrolled it. It was a treatise on rune-magic, describing the various attempts at runes sorcerers had fashioned in the past.

Focus, girl. Your slow wits will cost you.

She returned the scroll to its shelf. She needed something she could bring back to her master. Something far more specific than failed runes. Her attention was drawn toward the desk. A large, leather-bound tome sat open atop a stack of parchment. Picking it up, she scanned the neat lines of script. At the top of the page was the current date.

52nd Year of Sky: From the samples that have been gathered, I think it can be said with relative certainty the Underway was built by a civilization far older than any that exists today. In fact, the markings found in the lower levels combined with Lahn’s writings suggest it was the Djinn that…

She flipped backward. Every page was filled with entries, dating back at least a year. Perfect. Master Nahual would be most pleased to know what his rival was up to.

She closed the tome with a satisfying thwump and placed it under her arm. With one last longing look at the library around her, she left the room. The aether sprung back into life, the outside world once more visible to her Sight.

And ran straight into something solid. She bounced off the guard, who stared at her with a malevolent grin. Her heart froze in her chest, eyes wide.

There’s no wine in there, you little bitch!

He lunged for her. In the same instant, Elyra spun a rune of force in her mind, its ominous song surging to life. She set it free. A deafening boom split the silence. Tapestries flapped like flags in a sandstorm, a large ceramic pot shattered, and the guard crashed into the wall.

She didn’t stay to watch, sprinting down the steps, through the main hall, then into the garden, clutching her prize. Within moments, she was back on the street and down several twisting alleys.

The thrill of success and adrenaline set her mind abuzz. She resisted the urge to sigh in relief, instead settling for a quick hop and jump, part of her expecting someone to leap from the shadows and bash her over the head.

But apart from the peaceful trill of the air, nothing loomed in her Sight. Still, she’d best not linger. A heavy yawn worked its way up her throat. With all of the excitement, she hadn’t realized how tired she was. Her apprenticeship secure for at least another day, she started the walk home.

The night was clear but blacker than the shimmer-sand mines of Tlac. Even the usual papyrus lanterns adorning the streets were doused for the Summer Festival of the New Moon, in honor of the reigning God of Sky. Her Sight wasn’t limited by such things as darkness, however. All around her the stones hummed lethargically, cooling once bereft of the sun’s tyrannical gaze.

Robbed of the usual cheery glow that suffused the district, the darkness was tense. Wary. The city was on edge. It could be felt even here in the Chosen District, safe behind its tall walls—the stirrings of rebellion.

Heretics preached against the teachings of the Five—the de facto mouthpieces of the gods. The people directed their ire to the gleaming spires of the Divine Steps that loomed over the city from atop their lush green plateau on the horizon. The seat of the Temple of Many Gods’ power was a constant reminder of the avarice and greed of the chosen caste.

After fifteen years in the Dust, each night spent huddled together for warmth with her brother, Elyra was sympathetic to the lower castes’ plight.

The familiar pang of sadness ripped through her at the thought of him. It was dulled by time, but no matter how many years passed, he still haunted her. Most nights they’d gone without food, trying to find someplace where the roaming gangs wouldn’t slit their throats in their sleep. Even so, she could hardly remember a time when he didn’t wear a smile, those green eyes sparkling with hope. He’d always believed she would be there.

A single tear caressed her cheek. She scoured it from her face with the back of her hand.

From somewhere ahead the sounds of merriment and celebration drifted on the breeze. In spite of her sorrow, she found herself smiling. Light bounced off the walls of the alley, thrown from the Temple square to her left. She walked in and out of it, glancing over at the festival.

Glimpses of colorful lanterns danced in the darkness like the spirit-bugs she’d read about in one of Master Nahual’s books. A drumbeat rumbled, reverberating through the ground beneath her feet. Every now and again, it would stop, and a great cheer would erupt from the dancers before it resumed once more. Yet even the gaiety filling the air was tinged with something more akin to desperate abandon than true joy. She didn’t join them.

Her mind wandered, weariness catching up with her, when the frantic slapping of sandals on stone reached her. Her Sight burned with the heat of several figures on the street in front of her, one of whom was some distance ahead of the rest. Hurrying forward, she stopped at the entrance to the alley. Torchlight blazed, revealing three men chasing a fourth. The light caught the glint of metal in the hands of the man’s pursuers.

He was coming straight toward her, though he hadn’t noticed her yet. She ducked back into the alley. She shouldn’t get involved. It wasn’t her business, and she didn’t need any trouble, especially not tonight. But what was he being chased for? Who was he? Curiosity won out, and she observed a moment longer.

The man’s feet were bare, leaving bloody footprints behind him as he ran. She couldn’t make out his face, but his hair was matted and greasy, as if it hadn’t been washed in months. Grime clung to the once-white cloth of his robe, muddying it in soiled brown patches. Whoever he was, he’d seen better days. His breath came in ragged gasps, his gait was a stiff and awkward loping, a man on the brink of collapse, almost tripping with every step. Just when she thought he would falter, he kept going, running with a stamina born of desperation.

He wasn’t going to make it. The gap between him and the armed men shrank with every second. No one should have to suffer like that. She’d seen it a hundred times in the Dust, and unless she wanted to join him in his fate, she wouldn’t get involved.

As he drew near, she retreated into the alley. The men were almost on him now, but he pushed forward with a sudden burst of speed, gaining ground. Then his gaze met hers. He stopped in his tracks. A wide grin split his features, and Elyra froze.

She couldn’t tear her focus away from him. She was transported back to the Dust, to the day her brother had stolen his first loaf of bread, a goofy grin plastered on his face, green eyes shining.

If not for his gaunt cheeks and pale skin, the man in front of her might well have been him. He was much older, but it was the same smile, the same eyes.

As if oblivious to the danger closing in on him, he gave her a playful wink. Then, unarmed and alone, he turned and charged his attackers. His cry of pain triggered something in her, and before she knew what was happening, she was out in the street. The air around her grew cold, and rune-song bloomed in its stead. The man was crawling backward, having fallen. The other three advanced menacingly.

Nowhere to run now, heretic, one of them said.

With a smirk, he said, I’m not running.

Confusion flitted over the attacker’s features. The rune in her mind surged forth. The aether rumbled. A thunderous clap split the night. The three men were sent flying as if slapped by a giant. Their bodies hung in the air like motes of dust before they crashed to the ground, weapons clattering against the stone.

The night was silent once more. She stepped forward, preparing another rune, but the men remained motionless. The fire of their life was dim in her Sight. They were wounded but alive.

The fugitive smiled at her, blood streaming down his face. I knew you’d save me… His eyes fluttered back into his skull, then he collapsed.

She knelt beside him. His robes were marred by a spreading crimson stain, and his body was cooling fast. He needed a healer. Grabbing him under the arms, and applying a small amount of pressure in the aether, she lifted him. He was lighter than she expected, all skin and bone beneath his robes. With the strange man over her shoulder, she set off, despite the warning in her heart.

Chapter Two

Judging by your return, you must have something for me.

Elyra bolted upright in her bed to find Master Nahual standing in the doorway. Sunlight flooded in through the windows, although it shied away from his robes, blacker than a dead man’s shroud. His face, gaunt and ashen as a corpse’s, was fixed in an expectant frown, violet-tinged eyes piercing her, commanding fear as readily as a weapon.

Without a word, she got to her feet, the laborer’s shift from last night still upon her. After leaving the strange man with a leshri—a lesser sorcerer skilled in healing—weariness overcame her and she’d forgotten to take it off. Thankfully, she hadn’t forgotten her prize.

She picked up the book off the table and handed it to her master. He raised a thin eyebrow, then perused its pages.

His indigo lips quirked into a small smile. Not what I expected, but it will do nonetheless. His voice hissed like dry air scraping over stale parchment. She remained silent. Master Nahual didn’t like to be interrupted. Take the day to rest. Returning his attention to the tome, he glided away.

A small ember of pride burned in her. She must’ve done well. Master Nahual never gave her time off. Not about to waste the opportunity, she headed for the baths. The cool water did her well, freeing her from the suffocating embrace of yesterday’s sweat. Everything had gone more or less according to plan. With the exception of the strange man.

Idiot, she muttered under her breath as she tied her hair back. Risking your life to save a stranger, and for what?

For nothing, girl. You were lucky, this time. Only fools cling to luck.

Pulling her brown apprentice’s robe over her head, she headed to the kitchen. She grabbed half a loaf of bread, as well as a handful of dried apricots then wandered away, munching as she went.

The heat of the day was relentless in its pursuit. Her thin robe clung to her skin.

Now, what am I going to do on my day off?

Perhaps she would go to the market. The silk merchants from Rauta were due to arrive any day now. No matter how often she saw them, the shimmering, swirling colors always fascinated her. One instant they would be a deep scarlet, and the next, a bright violet.

She strolled through Master Nahual’s estate, past the statues and murals, through the fountain room, then into the foyer, not paying much attention to where her feet were taking her. Her thoughts were preoccupied by the man from last night. As much as she hated herself for getting involved, a part of her was intrigued by him, and not just by the fact he bore some resemblance to her dead brother. Or at least that’s what she told herself.

Before long, she was out in the sunshine, the thick leaves and heavy scents of the garden caressing her. She was about to step through the archway in the outer wall when the heat of three figures materialized at the edge of her Sight, striding in her direction with purpose.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. A primal instinct, honed from years in the Dust avoiding trouble, told her to hide. She ducked into the shrubbery. Her instincts had saved her more than once, and she wasn’t about to ignore them.

Sure enough, the three figures marched by, brushing the leaves mere inches from her hiding place. She couldn’t see their faces, but she caught a glimpse of blood-red armor and helms like snarling jaguars. Ordinators—the elite guards and enforcers of the Temple of Many Gods.

The faint stirrings of panic welled up in her. They’re probably here to see Master Nahual. But what for? He’d never received visits from ordinators in the past, and there was no reason they would seek him out now. That left few options.

Thrahk! Thren must’ve reported the burglary. But how did they find me?

The answer was obvious. There were but a handful of sorcerers of the High Path in the city. Finding a young woman with dark hair among them wouldn’t be difficult.

After they’d passed, she slipped from her hiding place, and with stealth born of years of practice, stalked them from afar. The man at the front addressed one of the servants, their words muffled by distance. Though her Sight let her see things others couldn’t dream of, it did nothing to help her hear what was being said.

She crept closer. The one who was doing the talking was a good deal taller than the other two. Older too, with a single gray streak running through his short-cropped hair. As she skulked into earshot, they pushed past the servant girl and into the estate.

The harsh glare of the sun gave way to cool shadows as she followed them. A voice, stern and imposing, rang off the marble. Tell your master I shall await him while my men perform a search of his home. If they find the girl, she shall be taken into custody.

Elyra huddled against the wall, heart pounding.

The two younger ordinators wasted no time, heading deeper inside. The servant, who she now recognized as Aya, hurried up the stairs. The final ordinator remained, a lone sentinel among the statues ringing the hall. He turned his head in her direction, showing a glimpse of pink, scarred flesh around his right eye. She nearly bolted, but he made no move toward her, nor did he show any sign he had noticed her presence. The reason was apparent. His right eye was missing. In its place was a metal facsimile that glowed with a ravenous crimson light.

It was unlike anything she’d ever seen, and she was wary enough to fear that which she didn’t know, more so when it came to ordinators. With great care, she backed out of the hall.

Once she’d gotten a safe distance from the estate, she stopped to take a breath. Everything she’d worked so hard to build was crumbling around her. Nowhere in Shakari would be safe, Aspis least of all. Master Nahual wouldn’t cross the ordinators for a mere apprentice. By the Black Sand, there wasn’t a man in Shakari who dared oppose them.

In spite of what was happening, her hands were firm. Unshaking. Already her mind fell back into familiar patterns. She’d survived the Dust. Withy any luck, she could outrun the ordinators. Coin and supplies were what she needed if she was going to leave the city.

Picking an alley not too far from Master Nahual’s estate, she settled back to wait for the ordinators to leave.

It didn’t take long. Within an hour, they’d marched off. She circled to the back of the estate. A quick hop over the short garden wall and a dash through the bushes saw her inside.

She scanned the aether with her Sight and was relieved to See that apart from the ward around Master Nahual’s study, no one was around. Fortunately for her, Master Nahual was due at the sharim’s court this afternoon.

Within a few moments, she was in her room. The place looked like a sandstorm had swept through. Her things were scattered about the floor; every drawer of her dresser torn open. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t her room anymore. She ditched her brown apprentice’s robes in favor of the sweaty laborer’s shift, then filled her satchel with a few essentials. Finished, she dashed along the hall, up the stairs, and into her master’s study.

By comparison to Thren’s, it was quite small. A few shelves contained the accumulated knowledge of a lifetime of work, and a statue occupied the center of the room. With no time to browse, she went to the desk where she stole a handful of coins, copper and gold both, from a small chest.

There. That ought to be enough. As she was leaving, the statue of Lahn the Storm-Woven caught her eye. It was quite the work of art, given to the legendary sorcerer himself by some famous sculptor whose name she’d forgotten. Nahual’s master struck an imposing figure. The grim face was carved in black marble. The flowing robes were frozen in place as though caught in a hurricane. It was a shame he’d died so soon, Master Nahual was fond of saying, but at least he’d passed on his secrets.

Grinning, she knelt at the foot of the statue, tracing her fingers along a well-worn tile. It was a secret her master believed he’d kept from her. He was too used to hiding things from spoiled children, and the minimal effort that required. The Five would’ve been hard pressed to keep their secrets from even the slowest of dustlings.

With her mind, she gave the tile a small push in the aether, loosening it and revealing a secret compartment. Inside lay a cloth wrapped package. Lifting it up, she peeled back the black silk with great care. She ran her fingers over the worn leather of the tome’s cover, cracked and fading with age. Satisfied, she wrapped it up and placed it in her satchel.

Then, as quickly as she had snuck in, she was gone.

~ * ~

Elyra leaned against the wall of the alley. She needed a plan. Ordinators patrolled the streets, as she’d found out by almost running into one. They were an efficient lot, she had to give them that.

The first time she’d seen an ordinator was when Nahual rescued her from the Dust and brought her to the Chosen District. When