Kairos

The following was originally written as a prologue to Souldancer. I cut it upon deciding to start the book with the main action.

Almeth Elocine staggers across the narrow span.  Though Kairos knows neither “was” nor “will be”, the newcomer’s footsteps echo with regret and herald woes to come.

The bridge traverses every epoch of history, an alabaster beam suspended over a canyon of whirring cogs. Oblivious to the abyss yawning below, Almeth walks on—harried by defeat. Kairos is time as the gods know it, and the traveler’s memory of certain victory turned to rout seems only moments old.

The ubiquitous machinery turns in a continual dance of shifting fractal patterns, and Almeth hears again the guardians’ voices. They hail him as Faerda made flesh; the last god. He suffers these titles; comes to embrace them and finally to believe.

Ahead, the towers of spinning gears part to reveal the terminus. It is the last place that Almeth wishes to be, yet he recognizes the heart of Kairos as the natural end of his pride. All other paths are shut to him. Now he sees the platform clearly. A tall stocky figure stands at the head of the bridge, waiting.

“Elocine! It’s not too late to turn back!”

If Almeth is surprised by the man’s presence, he gives no sign. Unhindered he answers, “the Guild rules the spheres now, Cleolin. Where would you have me turn back to?”

Cleolin’s brow is stern, but the hardness doesn’t reach his eyes. “I would ask you the same, Blackbow. Even a mortal such as I know that one may reach any place or time from Kairos.”

Almeth sees the syndex’s muscles tense at his approach—a message clear as bared steel. “Everything’s gone wrong.” Elocine’s voice hardly exceeds a whisper. “I’m the last. Only I can mend it.”

 The syndex of Midras frowns—the mere sight of which oft sets foes to flight. Cleolin Redbeard beholds his former captain’s ashen face; sees the cold sweat that’s turned his hair into a mat of black lambswool. The priest knows that he is witnessing a marvel without precedent: Almeth Elocine is afraid. “Turn aside, Almeth!” the syndex warns. “Whatever your intent, to rewrite fate’s decrees is folly, even for a god!”

Though faltering, Almeth’s pace doesn’t slow. “The resistance is lost,” he says without inflection. “Should I leave my people in thrall to an upstart fiend?”

“The remnant of Annon chose their lot. The guardians may yet survive in Strata untouched by the Brotherhood.”

The human priest and the godly Gen stand face to face below the broad stair. Cleolin’s visage is grim; Elocine smiles wanly without mirth.

“You speak without forethought,” Almeth laments, “as is your race’s wont. Wheresoever I lead my broken following, the Void shall overtake us as it has the Middle Stratum.”

“The Guild has conquered the spheres; not the Void.”

“One is merely the consequence of the other,” Almeth says, pressing forward. His advance is halted as a smooth motion of the priest’s hand sends an icy jolt through Elocine’s torso. He recovers from the shock in time to see Cleolin withdraw his red-tipped blade.

“Forgive me this sacrilege,” the syndex says as Almeth collapses against him. The priest’s stout arms are all that keeps Elocine from folding to the floor.

Urgency beyond all concern for himself drives the Gen back onto his feet. He looks upon the syndex’s startled face a final time; then exerts his will. Kairos itself propels Cleolin backward so rapidly that his imposing stature instantly diminishes to a tiny distant mote. His scream reaches Almeth seconds after he vanishes beyond the terminus.

Clutching his wound, Elocine staggers to the edge of Kairos. Cleolin was the last tie binding him to life in this cosmos. Its severance empties him of all feeling, and he sits down to wait.

Souldancer Deleted Scene: The Taming of Hazeroth

In hell's Third Circle a motley crowd gathers beside a river of blood. No two hideous congregants are alike. Yet all share a bloodthirsty fascination for the spectacle playing out in their midst.

The demon mob encircles a single figure. He resembles a being of the Middle Stratum far more than any of the infernal denizens surrounding him. But his skin is sallow, and his eyes are the same sanguine hue as the tainted river. His hands grip the fossilized wings of some eons-old reptilian giant, joined end to end by a shaft of bone. Sometimes they seem to move by their own power.

At some imperceptible signal one of the monstrous onlookers enters the ring. The stone wings blur, and he is cut down. Undeterred, another demon lunges at the sallow man and meets the same end.

Like a dam bursting, the circle closes around the lone figure at its center, devolving into a mindless fray. The first charge ends poorly. None of the fiends get closer to their foe than the point of his blade. The demons close ranks and fall back, forming a wider circle than before.

The swordsman brushes black curled hair from his forehead. His bloody eyes betray his lust for more.

"Hazeroth," a deep clear voice resounds across the blood-soaked plain.

The demons cow as if struck. The circle parts, admitting a towering figure in lavish gold robes. An expressionless white mask with a ruby in its brow hides his face.

The swordsman turns at the sound of his name. "You disturb my sport."

"If I must. The word I bear to you takes precedence."

Hazeroth points a long-nailed finger at the masked messenger. "You will have to wait your turn."

"I am ill disposed to suffer delays."

The masked figure lifts his arms. Sickly yellow light bursts from beneath his golden robes, sweeping the demon mob away like a pile of burned leaves.

Hazeroth scowls. "Your aid was neither asked nor wanted. If you would treat with me, it will be on my terms."

In a motion that would bewilder the human eye, the swordsman covers the distance to his intended victim and shreds the golden robe with one swing of his double sword. Suddenly he no longer stands on the bloody river's bank, but on a broken sheet of coal-black rock. A golden glow limns the horizon, and a single white point glows faintly in the dark sky.

"Hazeroth!" the same booming voice cries again. This time, it seems to emanate from everywhere at once. "I am the Will of Shaiel. Here, in my seat of power, you shall heed me."

The swordsman tries to move, but the cold turns his muscles to dried wood.

"High honor is set before you," Shaiel's Will declares. "My lord would have you bear his blade. What say you?"

"I am a prince of hell," Hazeroth says through clenched teeth. "Others swear their blades to me!"

"And many more yet shall. Serve in Shaiel's kingdom, and he will restore your own. Yea, it shall have tenfold increase."

The demon prince tries to struggle; fights even to move. The cold is relentless: seeping into his bones; creeping toward his heart.

"I will serve," he groans at last.

Souldancer Excerpt 2

Time for another Souldancer sample. We join Nakvin of Avalon as she contends with a house guest who's rather outstayed his welcome.

            Sulaiman’s eyes went rigid as iron. “One whom Hazeroth of Gheninom fears can only be a terror not seen since the old gods’ day. You heard what game the hunter seeks.”

            It was an effort for Nakvin to speak. “The Souldancer’s host.”
            “Not Thera,” said the priest, “but the wretched souls despoiled to restore hers.”
            “What does he want with them?”
            Sulaiman came closer than he ever had to shrugging. “To fulfill some perverse Working,” he guessed. “Or perhaps to keep company with kindred spirits.”
            Nakvin fought to keep her face from betraying how close that was to the mark.
            “Whatever his reason,” the priest went on, “Shaiel’s gain is our grave loss. You must send me to Mithgar.”
            “I must do nothing,” said the queen. “I came to discuss state business; not to aid private vendettas.”
            “Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” Sulaiman asked. “Shaiel imperils the cosmos of which your fiefdom is only part.”
            Nakvin slammed her fist upon the desk. “Enough!” she said. “Don’t test me, Sulaiman. While you rotted in prison, I was busy learning.”
            The priest’s smile was acid. “Kill me then,” he said, “as I know you wish to.”
            Sulaiman’s abruptness gave the queen no chance to hide her shock.
            “My god has left me,” he continued, “but I need not his gifts to read hearts. You have your sire’s throne. Let’s see you match her malice.”
             “Go,” Nakvin sighed. “Find out what’s happening on Mithgar. Stop it if you can.”
            Sulaiman brushed past her but stopped in the doorway. “Pray any power you like to send me victory.”
            “She never answers,” said the queen.

Souldancer Excerpt

I've been working hard on the latest revision of Souldancer. It's actually turned into a partial rewrite. Here's a look at my progress thus far.

The sound of boots on the hardwood floor woke Xander from his dreamless sleep. For one panicked moment he forgot where he was, but then he saw the city lights gleaming through the window.

            I am in Salorien on Keth, he realized, in the home of Astlin Tremore. The latter thought gave him comfort, but his earlier fear returned.

            Is someone else here?

            Xander’s gaze darted about. A row of threadbare stuffed animals languished on a shelf in the square of light filtering through the window. The rest of the room was dark as the Void.

            The floorboards protested as something shifted its weight in the dark.

            “Hello?” Xander whispered.

            Several moments passed in silence.

            “I lied to you,” someone said at last. Little more than a whisper, the voice’s clipped accent was familiar but oddly strained.

            “Who is there?”

Creaking leather and metallic ringing accompanied the unseen speaker’s heavy footfalls. Xander tensed, but his visitor stopped short of the lighted square. Even so, the young man thought he discerned a slight figure standing near the foot of the bed.

            “It’s a lie,” the unknown visitor rasped, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

            “Who are you?”

            Twin lights pierced the darkness. Xander shielded his eyes from the sudden glow. Squinting through his fingers, he saw two blazing circles like blue stars; their centers hidden by black moons.

Acting on impulse, Xander willed the burning eyes—if they were eyes—away. He reached for his gift, but the power never came.

The lights moved back and forth like blue fireflies as their owner paced the room.

“I tried to save the others,” the unseen woman said, “but I couldn’t help it. You don’t know what it’s like. A wound in your soul bleeding fire.”
            The pacing figure paused beside the shelf. “They were dying anyway,” she said. “I thought they could close the wound, but it burned them up.”

“What do you—?” Xander began, but a slender arm sheathed in black lashed out, batting the shelf and its worn plush occupants to the floor.

“I didn’t want that for you,” the harsh voice lamented. “You’re not like them.”

“What do you mean?”

The dark figure moved into the light. Xander was dismayed, but not surprised, to see Astlin. Pained longing marred her once gentle face. She’d shed her modest clothes for a suit of the randomly stitched hides of alien creeping things.

The sight irresistibly drew Xander’s eyes, but it seemed a mere projection of something far more terrible. He somehow looked through Astlin to a bright line glowing with orange-red heat. The burning cord led to a familiar, ominous sight: a colossal pyramid darker than any shadow.

A blinding light shone in the distance, mostly obscured by the pyramid. Countless silver filaments streamed from the light to cut through the monolith; but Xander saw two of them intersecting at its heart. One cord—the one he’d seen rising from Astlin—plunged into a fiery rift before joining itself to her. The other kept its pure silver sheen all the way from its origin in the light to its endpoint in Xander’s soul.

“You have what I lost,” Astlin said.