The Shard of Fire Read online

  THE SHARD

  OF FIRE

  Book One in the Chronicles

  of Gilgamesh Row

  By

  K.J. Parker

  Copyright © 2017 by K.J. Parker

  Copyright © 2017 by Pengoo Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher at the address below.

  [email protected]

  First Edition October 2017

  TABLE OF CONTENTS:

  PROLOGUE:

  CHAPTER 1: FUTURE ENDS

  CHAPTER 2: THE CONTEST

  CHAPTER 3: NOT EVER

  CHAPTER 4: RAZORS EDGE

  CHAPTER 5: THE MOUNTAINS

  CHAPTER 6: RAVENSKEEP

  CHAPTER 7: THE TEST

  CHAPTER 8: THE ARCHMAGES

  CHAPTER 9: IRON AND STONE

  CHAPTER 10: CHOICES

  CHAPTER 11: REVELATIONS

  CHAPTER 12: CHANCE

  CHAPTER 13: OPENINGS

  CHAPTER 14: RECKONING

  CHAPTER 15: RISING

  CHAPTER 16: WATERS DEEP

  CHAPTER 17: RACING

  CHAPTER 18: PREPARATIONS

  CHAPTER 19: STARDUST

  CHAPTER 20: WINDFALL

  PROLOGUE:

  In the valley below the mountains, a young mage stood quietly in the dark. He was lost, for he had been chased, and his breath beat heavily in the air. He stood, dressed in black, under a thick patch of dark pine and listened to the night, listening with a thunder of heartbeat exploding in his ears, listening to wolves call far off, and high above, and listening to the forest for hope, and danger.

  Around him, the mountain air was cold, and thick with snow, and each step he took gave away his presence in the dark. Ahead a small stream lay before him, hidden under tall cedars, where frost had gathered, and ice grew in shallow pools. The young mage bent cautiously to the stream for he was thirsty, tired, and afraid. He paused for a moment, searching the treeline with his eyes, his mind racing, as he cupped water to his mouth and drank. He had seen too much, he knew that now, he had learned too much, and they would kill him for it.

  Many days they had chased him, over barren wastes and ancient ruins, across endless streams, and forests thick with bear. They had not stopped. They would not. For what he had seen would end the kingdom, all kingdoms, one way or another. He thought he could fight them, beat them, destroy them. He was a mage of RavensKeep, after all. He was wrong.

  The young mage knelt now, softly, his knee pained from the frozen snow, his breath fading, quieting, as he listened to the forest. For a moment an owl called, somewhere above, its low murmur echoed in the pines, calling a dark song for those who would listen. It stopped abruptly, as did the snow, and the forest was still. The young mage looked up, and in the distance he saw hope.

  Light. Campfires and hearths and billowy blue-grey smoke from coal stoked chimneys. And life. A town. A village. Safe and warm where others would be, and not, them. Where he could find help, and rest, and not, them. Where he could send a warning to the castle, a desperate wanton plea of the darkness ahead, and of the lies that lay waiting for them all.

  He would run one last time, through the dark of the forest and the night, through the cold, and the snow, and the frozen icy air, he would run. He would succeed, and not, them. The young mage looked up for a moment and sighed. He forgot the forest was silent now, and the snow had stopped, and that no owl, or wolf, or anything, anywhere, could be heard. He smiled, faintly, for he knew then, that death had come.

  CHAPTER 1: FUTURE ENDS

  The dawn neared. As it did, an old mage dressed in a simple brown robe, stood, staring at the dark. He stood for a moment breathing. He stood in a clearing before a great crowd, restless and jeering, sitting atop rough cut stands of sod and slate, pitched an an angle, and wet with dew. He stood listening to the forests around him, to the torches flickering in the dark, and to the high snow capped mountains far above. The old mage paused for a moment more, breathing, then, as was expected of him, he chanted. He chanted archaic blessings before those gathered, he called on the moon and stars, and on powers those who watched now, knew nothing of. He wished well of those who fought, and more of those that died. For what they dared was not to be taken lightly, or foolishly he said, for fate always chose its way. As the old mage smiled gently, and sadly, those that gathered, laughed.

  -------

  The first contestant, a young woman from the north, was a tyro of the shaman order. She wore a white tunic, a grey belt, and a scar in the shape of a comet above her left eye. The crowd snickered for she was young and pretty. The girl stood motionless. And silent. Her eyes closed, her hands clasped before her, she mumbled words under her voice, soft words, and old words, whispering to the wind and the sky.

  Several moments passed yet nothing happened. The crowd grew bored and a low murmur rumbled through the arena. The old mage, whose duties presided over the night, glanced at the girl. It was a good try. In the next moment, as he stepped forward, a clap of thunder exploded in the clearing. The crowd ducked, screaming in terror, their ears deafened, their eyes flash-blind, as lightening hammered to the ground before the girl.

  Three boys who stood in the front row of the stands, laughed, clutching their ears, shouting and pointing to one another, yet no one could hear a thing. The crowd slowly rose to its feet, scared, blinking, sparks and starlight across their vision. Squires re-lit dead torches in the dark as the girl opened her eyes. The crowd cheered. Ten yards ahead, the ground was scorched in a blacked circle. A few small twigs glowed with embers, as the remaining contestants stood up, having fell down or jumped down from the attack. Yet It wasn’t aimed at them.

  Her target, unmoved, was centered in the circle of blacken earth ahead and unharmed. The old mage walked to her side, whispering, comforting, but the girl shrugged. She had failed. She turned abruptly and stormed off the field. Her dark braid swished recklessly mid-back, as a dozen masters from every great house of magic chased after her, begging her to join them.

  Of the three boys, the boy on the left, Chap, whistled. He was short, stout, and rather amused. The middle boy, Lavos, who was a year older and a year taller, glared at his friend. They argued for a moment, each thinking themselves a better suitor, while the boy on the right, the boy named Gilgamesh Row, ignored them both. For he stared ahead, staring at the clearing, where two contestants remained, where a circle of charred blackened earth still smoked, and where a statue stood, as it always had, and always would, unharmed.

  -------

  A thousand years earlier, the village of Astal was not much more than a lake. A cold, glacier fed lake, filled with clear water, and trout, and pine forests thick with bear. Occasionally, traders would stop in the valley by the lake, on their long route from the southern lands, as they travelled north to the great cities of Visantia, Arroe, and Stranst.

  They would stop for a bit of rest, and respite, camping on the shores of the cold lake, under milky stars and sheer cliffs of granite, and stone, but never for long. For there were better roads, smoother and less wintered, where grassy plains swayed in warm winds, and towns clung to the kingsway, where food was plentiful, and easy, and safety was all but assured. Yet a town had grown here high in the mountains and forest, where one would not think to build a town, or want to, had it not been for a statue. It was an old statue, and ancient, hidden long ago in dark pines, hidden at the edge of a lake where hundreds had passed by for years, unknowing, and for an age, forgotte
n. Yet it was found, high in the snowy passes of a glacier lake, high above the kingdoms of old, and new, for nothing ever happened by chance, not ever, and fate was a fickle thing.

  -------

  The next contestant, a brutish, bulging dark skinned man from the Sea Kingdoms, stepped forward. Pen-cu. They were paid warriors, swords for hire, assassins, soldiers, killers. His arms were covered in black chevrons, markings of deaths, his deaths, which were many. The old mage didn’t bother with introductions but scuttled away to the safety of the crowd. The brute stared up at his opponent. He had killed many men and had fought many battles, but none like this. Stone was stone, flesh was flesh.

  Pulling a small wooden whistle from his vest, the warrior blew several sharp, but inaudible notes through the weathered reed. Seconds later, two massive black stallions thundered their way into the clearing, circling and snorting about. Eventually, the horses calmed and came to their master. He lashed a thick woven rope to their backs, red, and made of sea twine. The crowd watched with fascination. Others had tried to topple it. To bend it. To break it. One fool, several years earlier, had brought a great southern sand bull to knock it down. Twice the height of a man, and a hundred times as strong, the bull raged mad from defeat and tore through the crowded stands with lust. Four dozen were gored that day, or killed, until a warlock from the Black Order struck the monster dead. Since then, no beasts of the wild were allowed. King Schenchon, Sovereign of all Mountains and Lord of Huu-Di, forbade it. Yet warriors came every year, thinking they had the strength, but none did. Broken limbs and broken blades were always crowd favorites. The statue was magic. It was protected by magic, and no force of man, or mage, could harm it. Still, the pen-cu was entertainment for the crowd, and so they cheered.

  Now taught, the rope twanged with the tension of a great weight. The horses drove forward, pulling with all their might, pulling under whip and fire, pulling with thick muscles buckling and sweat steaming, pulling for their lives, and the night, pulling, at the outstretched hand of a kneeling statue.

  -------

  The statue, that which was found long ago, was ancient and old. Near ten feet tall and carved from a single block of granite grey, Its features were weather worn, and soft, and said little of who he once was. Yet the statue, like many relics, had remained, a remnant that spoke of an age long past, and of a time much greater than now.

  Yet, for those who had found it, it was something else. Something more. At first a mystery, for its hand held water which never dried, or froze, or ever, in anyway, left. If drank it would refill, if dirtied it would clear. It could be scooped with buckets and hands, or mopped with rags till soaked, yet the water always and eternally came back. It was an oddity, and a marvel, yet in a kingdom filled with magic, and mountains, and cool glacier lakes feeding streams of clear water, it meant almost nothing.

  After that, and for a very long time, people forgot. The world moved on, peasants grew old, nobles grew rich, and the statue remained as it always had, but ignored. It wasn’t until much later, when the Huu-Di invade from the north and the age of kings began, that a lowly farmer discovered a secret worth dying for. And many did. Great battles and wars had been fought over it, and for a thousand years men had come, as they always had, to fight, to bleed, to die. For the statue held more than just water. For there in its hand, and only under the light of a blood moon, a treasure appeared. A gem, a jewel, fiery red and glistening under the moonlight, sharp as a knife, and more coveted than all the world. And though myth grew, and legend, and a host of stories spread, no one knew exactly what it was, or why it was there, or who this wizard, for that’s what they called him from then on, had been.

  Yet this gem, this shard was magic. For three nights a year it would appear, and for three nights they would compete. Wizards and warriors and mages. Knights from the High Kingdom, and savages from the north. They all came, and they fought, but not each other. For the shard was different. It could not be taken from the water by any force of magic, or might, ever known. Many had tried. They attacked the statue, and bashed it, and smashed it, and did everything they could, and knew, to break it. Yet still it remained. They tried magics dark and powerful, calling on the earth and the sky, and on things no one ever should. Yet still, it remained. And for a thousand years, no one, not ever, succeeded.

  -------

  The ropes were holding. Enchanted. The crowed jeered, bored, restless. The horses pulled, their shadows flickered, yet nothing happened. The ropes would not break, and the statue, immutable, would never bend. Angsted, the pen-cu cursed at the heckles now growing from the stands. Suddenly the brute drew a massive glistening scimitar from his back, waving the blade above the wrist of the statue. The crowd grew quiet, this was something new. The boys laughed. They were from Astal, and for them, nothing was ever new. Several years earlier an extremely ambitious yet shaky old soldier had tried something similar. They had buried him, axe and all, before the end of the first day. Yet the crowd cheered.

  A steady, trumpeting rhythm chanted through the stands, ha-ru, ha-ru, ha-ru, as the pen-cu lifted the enormous blade, ha-ru, ha-ru, ha-ru, smiling he held it, grinning, knowing he would be the one, ha-ru, ha-ru, ha-ru, swinging with all his might, swinging with the full force of his massive bulging body, ha-ru, ha-ru, ha-ru, swinging, striking, crushing the stone with blade and force and anger, ha-ru, ha-ru, ha-ru! and then, the crowd gasped. A crack, loud and echoing filled the arena, and for a moment silence, hoping, wondering, but not. The ropes broke, the blade bounced, as the pen-cu flew through the air, still holding, still gripping his sword, sailing ten, fifteen, twenty feet back, pummeling against the ground, smashing against the dirt, rolling, bouncing, sword still in hand, blade still shimmering, then finally, grossly, stopping. Gilgamesh, or Gil as his friends called him, shook his head. The pen-cu was still alive, battered, and bruised, but alive. The statue of course was untouched though the horses had run off.

  -------

  The last contestant of the night was dressed in a long blue tunic trimmed with silver. He wore a glistening golden sword at his side, and spoke with a nasally accent from the capital, Visantia. He was son of a baron, or a lord, or some other liege who thought their title alone would win them their prize. It didn’t. It never did. Chap and Lavos turned to leave, to chase after the girl in the white, to seek their own challenge, and fortune, but Gil stood silent. Always so serious. The other two boys huffed and rolled their eyes but returned to their friend’s side.

  The young nobleman attempted everything he could think of. Punching, nearly broken his hand. Screaming, hoarsed his voice, and his golden glistening sword shattered in one swing against the stone statue. Undaunted, he turned his body, contorting, his hands formed shapes, his arms drew signs, runes and symbols, waves, and words of a spell, for he was an oracle. Leaping through the air, infused with magical energy, the young nobleman struck the top of the water with the flat of his palm, a flash of yellow light sparked from the impact as water splashed to the ground.

  Amazed at his own luck, the young nobleman gripped his fingers around the small triangular shard held in the statue’s hand. A few in the crowd giggled, though some were silent. He could feel its sharp edges in his palm. Success. The young nobleman grinned, and pulled, and pulled, yet nothing happened. The water was again full. Grasping with both hands, he braced his feet against the statue’s arms. Leverage. Pulling and straining with all his might, his fair skin turned red, then purple, as the crowd laughed. It was no use, greater wizards than he had tried, and failed. The old mage tired of such nonsense, waved his hand in judgement. Three squires came forward and dragged the young nobleman away, kicking and screaming from the field, and into the dark. The crowd roared in outlandish applause. Lavos smirked, leaving the stands. Gil and Chap followed shortly thereafter, as the arena torches were once again dashed out with the rising sun. No one had ever taken the shard, and no one ever would.

  CHAPTER 2: THE CONTEST

  Past midday, Gil found his friends sitti
ng under a tall cedar, dozing lazily in the shade. The air was cold and bright, and spoke nothing of the night before. Troupes of costumed hooligans danced about, wearing bright colors, and feathers, and garish masks of goblins in the dark, celebrating harvest, and the moon, for the festival of Asher-Gwan had arrived. Nevertheless, the three boys set upon their quest with ferocity, and merit, drinking at each and every tavern in the village. Some, were temporary canvass tents, with straw bale seats, and pale ales not fit for the pigs. Others, were wagons, selling exotic brews at high prices, spiced reds, frothy golds, and a host of strange concoctions from foreign lands, coconut, rum, and sacara. Lastly, finally, they came to the Otter. It was the inn of Astal, year round, a great weather worn three story building, with cedar shingles, iron doors, and ales fit for a king.

  Inside the Otter, creosote soaked corner posts lent an acrid fume to the mix of straw and stodge and beer. Three large hearths, aglow with warmth, crowded a half dozen long dark tables. The inn was filled with all sorts, pen-cu sulking in the corners keeping to themselves, minstrels from Arroe singing for a quick coin, and knights from the capital boasting of great deeds and greater days. There were tyros, and magi, and mages, and many many others. The Otter was the biggest, and the best, and all came here, festival or not.

  Inside, as the boys stood, their eyes adjusting to the dark, it wasn’t long before Lavos spotted the girl in the white. He dashed across the room without a word to his friends, who still stood standing by the door. Chap frowned at Gil, who didn’t seem to care either way, yet both followed Lavos a moment later. Lavos, smiling wide, sat down across from the girl in the white. A skinny, angry, red-headed girl sat next to her, dressed in a black tunic. The two girls stared at the boy, silent.