NOTE ON THE TEXT
This novella was once incorporated into Silent Skies, but I had hardly finished a draft of it when I decided it simply didn’t work to have them spliced together. After completing a draft of the entire Flames of the Exiled series, though, I went back and rewrote this as a standalone story, thinking it might work as an interesting prequel.
As a bit of an experiment, my wife read this novella before Silent Skies and commented that perhaps it might be better in that order. If that is the case, this story could serve as a bit of a teaser for Flames of the Exiled, providing an essential backstory while remaining a self-contained narrative with a satisfying conclusion.
I’ll publish it on my substack in weekly instalments (so head over there if you want to be notified of each new upload). The current plan is to self-publish Silent Skies next year, funded through a Kickstarter campaign. Once the campaign begins, this novella might go behind a paywall on the substack and become available as an e-book and/or a paperback for supporters at a certain tier of the Kickstarter.
For now, enjoy the novella—and share it around! It’s fast, a little gritty and concerns itself with themes of redemption, revolution and romance—all of which constitute a gradual homeward stumbling.
PRELUDE TO OF ASHES BORN: MY UNCLE’S STORY
Whitewater rises here in raucous froths and spurts as if heaven itself is filling the sea with its jubilance.
If you had been here thirty-four years ago, however, you would have been told that this ocean was a spring straight from the broken stone of hell—and you would have been told that this island, Hazathsad, was the shattered stone itself. That is what my father told me. That is how he always began this story.
I don’t know how many times he told me this tale before my mother suggested I write it down. After I decided to take her advice—by which time she had passed on—my father repeated the history to me many times more.
My first retelling of this story—a story which I myself had no part in—was at my father’s funeral. I stood at the lords’ dining table beside my younger brother and read a summary of it from this very book I am writing in—as I sit here, on Mount Hronver, and watch Whiterock Sea.
I have read the Balizon Bard’s account of Vonhoroth’s Final War—his exoneration of my people—and I believe that this may be an informative seventh book to that story. It is a prequel, a story not of our generation but of our fathers’. It is the story of how my people abandoned this island and this ocean. You can read the bard’s account to learn of our return.
So, my father always began by telling me that Whiterock Sea was a Hellspring from Hazathsad, the broken stone of Cthartarus itself. The second thing he always told me was this:
‘My brother was the leader—the hero. For the most part, this is your uncle’s story; not mine.’
PART ONE: THE JANZACS OF HAZATHSAD
CHAPTER ONE: THE JANZAC WHO DREAMED
My uncle’s name was Toran Tarrathonson. Like most Janzacs, he referred to Hazathsad as ‘the rock’, and the stormy skies above, he called the ‘hells’ rather than the ‘heavens’.
It is true that much of the island is cold, windswept stone, but there are craggy ridges and sharp, rugged mountains in its north-western quarter—and dark, dense woods fill the valleys there. Though the island is nearly constantly tortured by storms, some small respite can be gained from wandering among those giant sequoias and oaken sentinels.
The Janzacs lived almost exclusively in the southern city, at the intersection of two harbours—one great and one small. In that city between the harbours, there was a strange lighthouse with a domed ceiling crafted of thick glass stained blue. The fires lit there bathed the whole city around the harbours in uneven azure every dreary hour of the day and night.
The storms never left the island, the unnatural light never left the city, and the Janzacs seldom ventured to the respite of the north-western woods.
Toran was an exception. Any day he could manage it, he would throw a pack across his shoulders and take the barren, cobbled road west, then north, into the mountains. In the woods there, he spent countless hours thinking and reading. Some assert that he befriended the ancient dryad of a towering redwood there, who gave him wisdom in exchange for conversation—and my father said he wouldn’t have been surprised if this were true.
I should mention, also, that for two generations, very few Janzacs had bothered to learn to read. Generally, Janzac education involved gaining mastery over only two things: ships and weapons. There were those few that specialised in certain other crafts—the shipwrights and blacksmiths, for example.
Janzacs were educated by their parents, though, and Toran’s mother was not a Janzac.
My father knew very little of their mother, so I can tell you only a fraction of what must have been a very strange tale. My grandfather, Tarrathon, once led a raid on the western coast of Drimred. He returned with a slave—a mute by the name of Charlotte. Though many assumed he muted her himself, my father found it difficult to believe because only a week after, he died at sea, and his will clearly stated that everything he had was to be given to Charlotte—showing clearly that he cared for her. Nearly nine months later, Charlotte had twins—Toran and Coran, my uncle and my father. She related little of her own story to them.
Their education in war and sailing was given over to their late father’s shipwright, Rador, but she taught them both to read. She also hoarded every book she could get her hands on, which was very few, as Janzacs seldom bothered to bring them back unless their covers were embossed with gold or gems.
Toran devoured all of those books many times and always took at least one when he went to the woods or the mountains. From those books, he learned the meaning of such words as Tuthervarr and repentance. For this rousing emancipation of his imagination, he loved his mother fiercely and absolutely.
This imagination gave him ideals, and ideals gave him dreams. When his mother died of a merciless cold—the deadliest foe that ever beset the Janzacs—he began to support his dreams with plans.
CHAPTER TWO: THE PILLAGING OF GAMBATORJ
Toran could imagine what it would be like to be in a sleepy little town like Gambatorj on a night like the night of his last Janzac raid. He could imagine a man stopping his slow trudge along the dock towards the inn as the first chime rang out from the dockside guard tower.
Wondering briefly how many he may have missed in his musings, he would look up and search the heavens for the tower. The man who had climbed there, silhouetted against the darkling skyline, would be pulling the chain far too fast to be counting the hours.
He would quicken his pace. The last ray of the sun would disappear, and night would engulf Gambatorj.
The docks lay sparkling under dock lamps that fought the greys and blacks of a foggy twilight.
As the man looked towards the waters, he would see the bow of the first ship emerging from the mist and crunching into the wood of the wharf. The man would stumble, stepping onto the paved road and glancing back as he righted his footing.
The ship was undamaged, stark wood of superior stock. Fiery torches leapt from on-board, landing light on the planks of the wharf.
The man would now be scrambling away, further into Gambatorj.
Toran watched as his shipmates surged into the town. He stood at the prow of the ship—a vessel he had helped his mentor, Rador, build. The man stepped up beside him, his scarred hands clasped under his belly as he sniffed. The two of them had come on the raid only to see how their new vessel fared. The man captaining the raid was still considering purchasing it. Rador and Toran hadn’t told him, but they weren’t considering selling it.
‘She’s quiet,’ the man said, sweeping his greying hair out of his eyes and tying it behind his head.
Toran nodded, wondering where a man such as the one he had been imagining might have slipped off to. Somewhere to hide … Maybe a tavern …
‘And she tacks well, though her speed is dismal,’ Rador continued.
Again Toran nodded. ‘She’ll do the job, Rador.’
Rador grunted. ‘I was wondering if you had put that half-baked plan back in the oven …’ he said. They hadn’t spoken of Toran’s plan for nearly seven months.
Toran raised his eyebrows briefly, turning to his mentor. ‘Might be getting a little burnt around the edges, now.’
‘You mean to tell the others soon, then?’
‘We’ve got the ship. Every moment counts now,’ Toran answered. ‘I’ll arrange everything as soon as we return to the rock.’
‘What does your brother know of the matter?’ Rador asked, his gaze suddenly locking onto a house that had burst into flames. Screams of human lungs and steel on steel were cutting their way back and forth through the night.
‘He knows I’m up to something.’
‘You could’ve told him everything, you know. He’s quiet, and he’s clever … sometimes.’
‘I know,’ Toran said, ‘but I would rather he was safe until the last possible moment, in case this whole thing falls on my head before it’s even commenced. This way, at least his head will be clear.’
Rador shrugged. ‘Fair enough. Who else do you have in mind? We’ll need a few to stay there, on the rock.’
‘I’ve got Ravunbror and Rebror in mind for that,’ Toran said.
Rador cursed. ‘It’d be good to have them with us, kid. They’re the best fighters on the damn island.’
‘Which means that they have connections, as well as the best chance of surviving if they’re discovered treasonous.’
‘Right then,’ Rador growled. ‘Who else? Gallamis?’
‘Of course Gallamis is coming. We need his charisma.’
‘And the two of you are thick as thieves. Have you told him?’
Toran shook his head.
‘Good,’ Rador said. ‘He couldn’t keep his mouth shut if someone was threatening to fill it with broken glass.’
‘He’s not that bad. He’s just impulsive,’ said Toran. The shouting and clashing steel were dying slowly away as the townsfolk surrendered. Soon they would be lined up to pay their tribute to the Janzacs.
‘There’s Galorian, too. What do you think of him?’ Rador asked.
Toran frowned slightly. ‘Galorian is hard to read,’ he said slowly. ‘I know he’s good friends with Coran and Rebror, though, so I’m going to contact him—and Braddin too.’
‘Braddin?’
‘Friend of Gallamis’s,’ Toran said.
Rador was quiet for a moment. At length, he said, ‘That gives us a crew of six if they all agree. I know we made this ship for a small crew, but that’s pretty bloody small. Have you considered asking Dallon?’
‘I don’t see why you trust that man,’ Toran said, shaking his head. ‘He’s just applied to join Hamborty’s Watch, for the serpents’ sake.’
They never referred to King Hamborty by his proper title when alone.
‘I dunno,’ Rador said. ‘He’s a bit of a tool, but I reckon he’s just looking for the right thing to set his mind to.’
Toran chewed the inside of his lip for a moment. ‘If he’s joined the Watch by the time we get back, he’s not hearing a woman’s whisper about our plan. We’ll make do with six.’
‘Maybe you should call it five-and-a-half,’ Rador chuckled. ‘I’m not worth much these days.’
The edges of Toran’s mouth lifted. ‘What? You can’t be sixty yet …’
Rador raised a finger in Toran’s face in mock fury. ‘You name an older Janzac than me, and I’ll buy you pints for the rest of your life. I’m seventy-bloody-four!’
Toran laughed. Not many Janzacs made it past fifty, their lifestyle was too taxing—not to mention the terrible colds that plagued the island.
‘I could go for a pint,’ Toran said, ‘and I need to stretch my legs on land for a bit before we put out again. They have a brewery here, don’t they?’
Rador nodded. ‘A good one, too,’ he said.
The two of them left the ship, leaving talk of their plan behind them. They moved past the line of Islanders giving payments to the Janzac crew, and—on the eastern edge of the Gambatorj docks—they found the tavern. The sign above the door depicted a strange monster with overmuscled hind legs—under which was engraved ‘The Rambling Roo’.
The keeper was trembling in his kitchens, and Toran wondered if he might be the kind of man he had been imagining when they first landed.
To the keeper’s extreme surprise, the two of them tossed him gold and began helping themselves to drinks. They sat at the bar together, one seventy-four years and one thirty-seven years, and drank silent toasts to their plan.
To a safe return.
To a willing crew.
To a stealthy escape.
To strangers with open minds.
To the downfall of the Janzacs.
CHAPTER THREE: THE WOODED COUNCIL
They had a safe return. Dallon had joined Hamborty’s Watch, so Toran didn’t contact him.
The day after their docking, Toran asked if his brother wanted to take a walk to the woods. Coran assumed instantly that it had something to do with whatever Toran was up to, so he didn’t decline. He was nervous though, as the two of them set off in the evening, for he had the distinct impression that whatever Toran was planning was dangerous.
Though they were twins, Coran had felt like a younger brother his whole life. Though they both were quiet, Coran was quieter, and Toran was more confident and steadfast in his silence.
They skirted around the citadel, set into the stone of Mount Hronver, and met Gallamis at a crossroads on the north-western edge of the city. As they left the city behind, Gallamis spent his time chuckling and probing Toran about the nature of the mystery he was soon to let them in on. He probed Toran with a finger most of the time, as well—for added punctuation. When his questions met only the brick wall of Toran’s mortared lips, he gave in.
‘We’re surely out of hearing range of the city,’ he grumbled amiably. Only Gallamis could grumble amiably. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘what have you been up, Coran?’
‘Working on a new helm,’ Coran said softly.
‘Some bugger put an axe through his last one,’ Toran said when Coran didn’t continue. Coran was better at the smaller, more detailed carpentry. Rador and Toran could handle the idea of the whole ship better, but if you wanted a damn-beautiful helm or figurehead, you asked Coran.
‘An axe?’ Gallamis snorted.
Toran nodded. ‘Got into a drunken brawl with his first-mate.’
Gallamis laughed. ‘It wasn’t that fool, Cirock, was it?’
Unsure, Toran turned to his brother, who was nodding.
A few hundred yards down the cobbled road ahead of them, the woods were drawing closer, and the night was darkening. The voices of the others found them as they entered the shadowed boughs. Not far in, they were standing in a rough circle.
Braddin, the biggest man there, had his arms folded as he watched Ravunbror demonstrate the exact wrist grip that had allowed him to knock Braddin out of the finals of that year’s wrestling tournament …
I guess I should take a moment here to introduce you to the eight fellows Toran had gathered.
First, the ones you know. The twins, Toran and Coran, who most Janzacs knew as the-sons-of-that-crazy-Tarrathon-who-signed-a-slave-into-his-will. Then there was their mentor, Rador, and Toran’s close, charming friend, Gallamis.
Ravunbror and Rebror were brothers, the ever-solemn sons of Rachrinor—a grouch whom Hamborty employed to captain and train each new member of his personal guard. Ravunbror had a family that lived in the western quarter of the city, and Rebror lived near him. Both of them had moved out young, and it was rumoured that they’d had a serious falling-out with their father and no longer spoke to him.
Braddin was a stonemason with a keen interest in winning the annual wrestling tournament—though he was annually thwarted by the smaller, coldly calculating warriors that were Ravunbror and Rebror.
The eighth and final member, Galorian, had been an orphan for as long as he could remember. He lived in a small house by himself in the northern quarter of the city. He was closest with Rebror and Coran, and though he was the most charismatic of the three, that wasn’t saying much. He had an easy smile, but it just as easily fell away on most occasions. In the last few weeks, he seemed to have adopted a magpie named Malaki—who was now perched on his shoulder.
As the twins and Gallamis approached, Ravunbror dropped his hands from his demonstration and nodded to them, clasping his hands behind his back instead. Toran returned the nod and spent a few moments of the ensuing silence looking from one man to the next. Once he had looked at each of them and had nearly summoned the words he needed, Gallamis let out a long sigh.
‘Come, man, will you speak?’ he said.
‘You have heard the rumours of Hamborty’s plans, I’m sure,’ Toran said slowly, watching Rebror and Ravunbror, who were closest to the gossip of the citadel. Both of them nodded languidly, and Toran asked, ‘What would you say is the truth of it?’
Ravunbror began to crack his knuckles one by one as he spoke. ‘Truth is,’ he said, ‘the king’s planning war. He’s planning domination. He survives here well enough, but he would only thrive if he had easier access to more resources, especially farmland—that’s his excuse, anyway. Word is he’s gone mad with pride and power, though, and means to take all of Durnam as his empire.’
Toran took a few slow breaths. ‘That’s a long conquest,’ he said, ‘and it means an even deeper pit of hell for everyone involved. Brothers, I’m sure you all have guessed the treasonous nature of this council. Long have I—and many others—known the evil we Janzacs visit upon Durnam. These new rumours have pushed me right to the edge, and I’m ready to abandon this rock and throw my lot in with the rest of the world. I mean to try not only to prevent this war from happening but to put an end to our people’s destruction entirely. Rador and I have a ship—a caravel—and we plan to continue sailing until we have told everyone who will listen to prepare for the war. The least we can do is take the element of surprise away from Hamborty.’
Even Gallamis was utterly quiet in the wake of Toran’s words. He stared at the man, grinding his teeth as he thought. It was Galorian, strangely, who broke the silence.
‘None will trust goodwill coming from a Janzac,’ he said.
Toran nodded. ‘It will be difficult, and there will be many challenges, but I will linger here no longer to deliberate them.’
The sons of Rachrinor shared a glance and a solemn nod—as if they’d been expecting this exact proposal from Toran—and Ravunbror said, ‘We’re with you, brother.’
Braddin was shaking his head, scratching the stubble on his chin as he grimaced. ‘What’s this you’ve got us tangled up in, Gallamis,’ he muttered. ‘Here I was, thinking this was another training group Ravunbror was forming …’
Gallamis remained quiet, and Toran too, sensing the indecision in Braddin—and knowing the man didn’t respond well when he thought he was being manipulated. He would think it out himself.
Galorian was inspecting a blistering sunburn on the back of his right hand, but when he began to speak, he looked up. ‘I’m with you as well,’ he said, ‘but I have tasks on my hands that need constant attention. I have been instructed to keep them secret, though I can assure you that they will not hinder you. If they have any influence on your movements, it will be for the better.’
To Toran, this sounded exactly like the kind of verbal garbage you should expect from a man about to betray you to authorities … but Toran was a man of imagination—it was his sixth and strongest sense, in a way—and on hearing these words, he looked instead to the faces of those he trusted, and who knew Galorian better than he: Coran and Rebror. The quiet pair both had very slight reactions—Coran’s a nod, and Rebror’s a small sigh. Both seemed to trust Galorian still.
Chewing on his lip with indecision, Toran turned back to Galorian. ‘I’ll choose to trust you in this,’ he said slowly, ‘and I sincerely hope your work does aid us.’
After a moment of staring at Galorian, Gallamis let go of a breath and shrugged irritably. ‘What about Lezli?’ he asked. ‘And Ravunbror’s family?’
Braddin snorted. ‘What about Lezli?’ he retorted. ‘She’s declined each of your three proposals quite forthrightly.’
Gallamis cracked a cheeky grin, muttering, ‘She’s coming around, you’ll see.’ In a louder voice, he continued, ‘All the same, what about Ravunbror’s wife and kids?’
‘I’ll leave it to all of you to decide personally how much you tell your families and friends,’ Toran said. ‘I will say only that I believe it will be more dangerous travelling out there than hanging tight here.’
Coran cleared his throat. ‘You mean, then, to return here at some point?’ he asked.
Toran nodded and addressed Ravunbror and Rebror. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and I am giving you two the task of preparing this island for that return—if you will take it.’
The two nodded again as if they’d expected those words as well.
‘What exactly do you want us to do?’ Rebror asked.
As Toran delved deeper into explaining his plans, Braddin and Gallamis both agreed to be part of it. They spoke long into the night of their next movements, and when the darkest hours of midnight had passed—and a cold squall carried a furious storm over the island—they each returned to their own homes with heads bowed in thought.
CHAPTER FOUR: TRAITORS ALL
There was but one misjudgement of character, and to Toran’s surprise, it had nothing to do with Galorian.
The moon—ever obnubilated by storm clouds—had waxed and waned since their council, and the day of their departure was upon them at last. Gallamis had spoken to Lezli, explaining that he had to leave that day and that he would be back with more marriage proposals before she knew it. Lezli, however, was a lady of Hamborty’s court and—intuiting that Gallamis’ movements were treasonous—had reported him to the Captain of Hamborty’s Watch, Rachrinor, believing it would elevate her social position.
So it happened that when the recalcitrant crew was preparing their vessel—and the tide was turning favourable—a company of armed guards crossed the gangplank to question them. Ravunbror and Rebror were helping load the vessel, a breeze was picking up and, as always, the hells looked ready to berate Hazathsad with hail and lightning. The city was bathed in blue from the lighthouse, and the distant western crags and summits were crowned in thick fog.
The Guard—armoured in plate and armed with battleaxes—made for Rador first, who was already descending from the quarterdeck to meet them.
‘What’s this about?’ he snapped as he met them. ‘We’re due to put out within the hour, so I haven’t much time.’
Rachrinor, who had spotted one of his sons disappearing below deck, was frowning slightly as he turned his gaze on Rador. ‘Just a few questions about your voyage, Shipwright,’ he said slowly. His voice was strained, rough as sandpaper from its years of shouting abuse at trainees.
‘This is an unsanctioned raid,’ he continued, and nodded for his men to proceed to search the ship for incriminating goods, ‘and a little under-manned, by the looks of things … What is the number of your crew?’
‘Five,’ Rador answered, grinding his teeth. ‘I built this ship for a smaller crew, and we’re not going raiding; we’re headed to the Steel Waters to fish.’
Rachrinor would have thought this reasonable enough, but Lezli had been quite adamant when speaking with him, so he decided to press further … and he had never known his sons to have an interest in fishing.
‘Still,’ he said, ‘five seems few, even for this …’—he paused to peer about the ship—‘caravel. Surely it’s too great a risk to brave the Hellspring with so small a number. Why not employ a few deckhands?’
‘We’ll make it just fine,’ Rador said, folding his arms and setting his feet.
At this moment, both of Rachrinor’s sons emerged from the hold and paused when they saw their father. Then, Ravunbror in the lead, they made to pass him by in silence. Rachrinor, however, held up a hand to halt them.
‘Going fishing, Ravunbror?’ he asked in a passionless voice. ‘What of your training groups and sparring commitments?’
‘Just helping a friend load his ship, Sir,’ Ravunbror answered, not meeting his father’s gaze.
Rachrinor clasped his hands behind his back, letting silence reign for a time as he thought. He could see no reason to detain the crew any longer, and he was beginning to believe, at this point, that Lezli may have been mistaken. But he knew that King Hamborty was a paranoid man, so he would make a report to him all the same. He would keep an eye on his own sons, too—they were certainly the treasonous sort.
His guards were returning to him, each shaking their head to indicate they had found nothing unusual. Grunting, Rachrinor jerked his head towards the wharf, and his men began to depart. Looking Rador in the eye again, he grunted, ‘Holy serpents protect you in the Hellspring, Shipwright. You’ll need them.’
Rador nodded curtly and continued quickly about his business as the Captain of the Watch crossed the gangplank again. Slowly, the tension faded from the old shipwright’s shoulders as he stole slow breaths.
Soon Gallamis reported that the cargo in the hold was secured, and Toran joined Rador on the quarterdeck to have a last look at their route out of Whiterock Sea. The tide waxed favourable, and they put out. When they left the harbour and entered the Hellspring, the hells above opened in an instant, terrifying hurricane.
Sailing into a storm is as easy as running downhill, of course.
(END OF FIRST INSTALMENT. CLICK HERE TO HEAD TO SUBSTACK FOR THE SECOND.)