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The Northernlit Forge
For the fourth night in a row, the midnight constellations rose upon the sleepless head of the Guard Captain. The stars only barely peeked into the room—dimmed as they were by the sheer drapes covering the windows—but Zarund felt their gaze all the same.
Stifling a yawn, the Captain lurched from his desk chair and moved for one of the bookshelves lining the walls. His children would sleep soundly with the aid of a tale, after all—and while he held no illusions of achieving any sort of rest that evening, a story might calm his nerves.
The book he chose was old and worn, its filigreed title made illegible by years of reshelvings. Alyss was particularly rough with it, if Zarund remembered correctly.
He smiled at the thought. His bright-eyed daughter would tumble into the den, book tucked haphazardly beneath her arm, and promptly demand that she be read to. Her younger brother was never far behind, but he often hesitated at the door, not quite fearless enough to disturb his Father's evening as Alyss did.
Even while young, Taron was cautious. Though both would eventually grow too big to comfortably share their father's lap, neither of them tired of his stories—be they written or spoken from memory.
Zarund slowly paged through the book. He did not need to read the words; the stories within had written themselves into his memory with each retelling. He paused, his eyes resting on familiar words.
In ages long ago, before the reigns of Kings and Men, the earth was ruled by dragons and fire, began this one. Already, Taron's bright blue eyes would be wide. Everyone said the boy had Zarund's eyes.
Mighty beasts they were, as fearsome and wild as the storms of the West. They roamed the four realms, leaving nothing in their wake but a smoldering, barren waste that no Men could thrive in.
Depending on how terrified Taron looked at this point, Alyss would sometimes pipe in: Papa, were there flowers?
No flowers, Zarund would say.
And no potato pies?
None of those, either, little love.
Zarund's fingers traced an inked illustration of the winged terrors.
But Men were not left hopeless, for the Great Maker took the three brightest stars in the night sky and cast them from the heavens, giving them mortal shape. And the men looked upon the three stars with awe, and named them Kings.
Then, taking a piece of the sun, the Maker forged a Queen to guide and rule alongside the Kings. So it was that four star-siblings marched upon the earth, and the dragons learned the true meaning of fear.
On nights when the sun yet hovered above the horizon, the children would wheedle and prod details out of Zarund. Alyss wanted tales of battle and bravery, of dragons being felled and Men fighting alongside the Starborn.
Taron cared more for the homesteading.
And after the last dragon was slain? he often asked, watching his father's lips expectantly.
When the skies sat empty except for the stars, each sibling took to a corner of the earth, and the Men followed.
One King went West, and under his laborious care the soil grew rich and bountiful. The Men learned to till plains and tend crops, and so the Westernmost Star and his kingdom profited.
Another King ventured South, to the edge of the land where rivers met sea. He and his Men took to fishing and boating, and the Southstar's kingdom profited.
The third King led his Men to the windy, mountainous East. There, hidden in caves along the treacherous range, they found herds of hardy goats and sheep. Master weavers and shepherds they became, and the Easterly saw his kingdom profit.
The last of the Men followed the Queen North, to the sweltering pit from which the dragons once came. They turned it into a forge, and the Ruling Star worked alongside her people to craft weapons and armor of unparalleled quality. And the Northernlight was known throughout the realm, for all four kingdoms profited.
Even when they grew older, both of Zarund's children would murmur the final bit along with him:
Western crops for hearth and home
Southern waterways to roam
East-edge and cloth both work for stone,
But Northern steel alone
Cleaves right through bone.
Thus began the Golden Age of the Starborn.
It never failed to warm his heart, no matter how firmly he sent them to bed afterwards.
To your rooms, now, or your mother will tan all our hides! A wink, then—not unnoticed by Taron, who'd offer Zarund a brilliant smile in return.
"A Golden Age, indeed," Zarund sighed to himself, gently closing the book of tales. There in his home on the Southern waterways, with his fishing spear by the door and his unstrung bow gathering dust beneath the bed, it was easy to believe that the dangers of the world disappeared with the turning of a page.
Too easy, to believe that the past would remain behind him.
"You said you met her, didn't you?" Taron had asked one year. Cautiously, of course—the boy still weighed each of his words as though measuring gold. Lanky he may have grown, but Zarund's son remained the same careful lad at heart.
"Who, your mother?" Zarund asked coyly, sharpening his fillet knife upon the whetstone. "I did indeed. Can't remember exactly when—I imagine sometime before Alyss was born."
That was enough to draw a scoff. "No, the Queen! The Starborn of the North, from the stories."
Zarund hummed in understanding.
"You spoke of her one evening, ages ago, when we had fallen asleep in your lap." Taron looked at his father with hopeful eyes. "I've forgotten it many times throughout the years, but now the story haunts my mind."
Everyone was right. Those were Zarund's eyes. For a moment, the only sound between them was the scrape of steel against stone.
"I knew her," Zarund admitted at last. "I met her on the Eastern Range."
And she was beautiful, he could have added. Her golden skin shimmered in torchlight and sunshine both, her eyes were twin pools of shadow, and even the fearsome Eastern Wind could not mar the beauty of her pure-white hair.
Oh, how it had torn through the peaks of the mountains, sweeping down to buffet the young guard who dared climb the rough-hewn steps.
Taron blinked. "But we live in the South. You are Seaborn."
"As are you," Zarund replied easily. "But I am also Zarund Suresight, Zarund Keeneye, and at your age I was convinced that I hated fishing. The Waterway Guard took me happily."
"Suresight," Taron muttered, and his father swore he saw the boy's eyes roll.
"Scoff all you want," he warned, pointing his newly-sharpened knife at his son. "But if I hadn't spotted the town crone as she slipped off into the night, I wouldn't have wound up halfway across the realm in pursuit of a Queen."
Old Crone Qoth...
"I might not be keeneyed," Taron stated. "But I can see your thoughts run rampant, Father. The unspoken words are written plainly on your face. Why won't you simply tell me the full story?"
Zarund pondered the question as he wiped the oil from his knife. Reaching into the basket of his latest catch, he pulled out a wide-eyed flounder and set about filleting it.
"I suppose I guard the details out of hesitation, Taron," he said at last. "If there is one thing you learn from me, let it be that stories hold power over mortal men. This story is not so distant as your bedtime tales of dragons and ancient fire. The battles are not yet old, the wounds not yet closed. The heroes still live and breathe—"
"I know they do, Father," Taron said softly, blue eyes fixed on Zarund's filleting knife, as though he could see that those weathered, fish-covered hands once wielded battle-steel.
"This is what I fear," Zarund stated flatly. "You know not the details, yet you already look upon me with the same frightened awe of your childhood. Stories are told to entertain, to inspire, and I fear this tale will drive the wanderlust deep into your heart." He paused for a moment, then hesitantly added, "While your path is your own to choose, I would have you by my side a little longer, my son."
"I am not the adventuring type," Taron protested. "Your worries would be better aimed at Alyss."
Zarund shook his head. "Alyss is the wave that crashes violently upon the shore, pulling back into the ocean only to return once again—but you, you are the current that winds through the deep: silent and subdued, but bound for the waters beyond the horizon."
His son looked so torn between righteous indignation and surprised flattery that Zarund had to laugh.
"Fine, fine," the Suresight conceded. "I will tell you of the Queen in the East, and the old crone Qoth, and the Northernlit Forge. But not before dinner—"
"And not without Alyss," Taron added, grinning wickedly. "She'd be murderous if I'd heard a story she hadn't."
So that evening, when dinner had been cleared and the hearth stoked to fend off the sea-borne chill, Zarund settled into his chair and told his children of his grand adventure.
Many years and many tellings later, it would be his grandchildren seated at his feet. The years changed and the children aged. His wife—
Guard Captain Zarund blinked, then scowled at the tattered book he gripped so tightly.
"That's quite enough of that," he muttered. Standing, he hurriedly shelved the troublesome tome. He would not think of his love of loves.
Stories had power, and that one would reduce him to a teary-eyed wretch in minutes. Zarund grit his teeth. He could not be the lovesick, pining boy that asked to court the Mayor's daughter, nor the hopeful, besotted man that asked for her hand in marriage. He could not be the faithful, steadfast husband that kissed his lovely wife soundly each night—not now. Not tonight.
Tonight, he needed to be the warrior that fought beside the Ruling Star.
With a growl, Zarund yanked off his dressing-gown and strode to the chest at the foot of his bed.
"Years ago, a fisherman's son lived in the southern waterways," he began to himself, digging through coarse-woven tunics and plainly-fashioned trousers.
"Though his father longed to teach his son the seafaring ways, the boy held no interest in the matter of rivers or oceans, and he joined the guard instead.
"He was keen of sight, he learned, and had he any talent with a bow, he might have proved an excellent addition to the ranks of the militia. But he could not hit the broad side of a barn, and so he was relegated to a lonely watchpost overlooking the Eastern Tributary.
The grandchildren laughed at that—for to them, the thought was absurd. Their grandfather, Zarund Suresight, unskilled with arrows? Their grandfather, who was gifted the great longbow Dawnpierce by the nobles of the North?
Zarund glanced at the mighty weapon resting by the window. Decades of disuse had not tarnished its gleaming limbs, and the carvings upon the grip remained intricate as ever. But then his hands closed around the unmistakeable silkiness of his Eastern-spun robes, and his eyes flickered back to the chest.
"One evening, whilst watching the eddies flicker in the moonlight, he caught sight of a cloaked figure scurrying from the waterways. Hunched and harried, it moved with purpose down the boardwalk—undoubtedly bound for the Northeastern path. Instinctively, the young guard shouted out. But the figure ignored him, and the rhythmic thudding of shoe on plank did not falter. Like any foolish youth, the boy deserted his post and gave chase.
"For ages they ran, until the guard's breathing came painfully, and his legs protested the movement. The stranger showed no such weariness. Imagine the surprise, then, when the cloaked runner abruptly stopped, threw back its hood, and revealed herself as the wizened owner of the apothecary!
"Gruff and reclusive, the old crone Qoth was a woman of stormy disposition and little patience. She possessed a tongue that could scold the heat off a fire, and woe to any that dared upset the stuffy peace of her shop! She'd lecture the offender until they feared they might shrivel up with age and be hung in the rafters with the basil! That evening, though, she offered little explanation to the Seaborn.
"The North Star grows restless,' Qoth murmured, eyes flashing with ancient fire. 'She will march from the East, soon, to reclaim the Northernlit Forge. I must go to meet her.'
"'It sounds like a grand adventure,' the Seaborn said appraisingly.
"'The sort old men tell their sons and grandsons,' Qoth agreed. She eyed his sword, and added, 'A dangerous adventure, at that.'
"And so the young guard became a mercenary, and he followed the old crone East."
The fabric of Zarund's ceremonial tunic flowed over his head and settled against his broad chest, as smooth and soft as the first rays of dawn washing over the City-in-the-Sky.
"The steps to the Eastern stronghold were hewn into the very mountain, and long did the two travelers climb. Their footing was sound, and before the sun reached its zenith they stood before the mighty bronze doors.
"'A gift from the Northernlit Forge, long ago,' the old crone Qoth explained. 'From a Queen to a King, to help keep the Eastern Wind at bay.'
"Privately, the Suresight thought the doors aimed to keep the beauty of the Easternhold from seeping into the rest of the realm, for when the twin towers of bronze parted, he found himself breathless at the sight..." Zarund trailed off, remembering.
Radiant was how he recalled the city. As light and airy as the clouds themselves—though far more colorful. For while the plants clinging to the slopes were dull and thin, and the homes and taverns scarce more than holes in the stone, the city was filled with brightly-woven banners and flags. Wherever the eye looked, it was met with vibrant hues and intricate patterns.
But not for his children details of scenery and stonework. Not for his grandchildren ramblings of cloth and needlepoint.
His wife would have smiled as he waxed poetic on the city's splendor, but she would also have told him to quit calling himself by name and tell the story properly. Zarund cleared his throat as he pulled his leggings over his knees.
"The old crone Qoth led the way past the colorful, bustling market, and soon we found ourselves bathed in the cool shadows of the Courthall. For the City-in-the-sky did not have a Mayor, as the South and West did, and their nobility resided in smooth-hewn caves near the peaks. Above the markets they lived, and it was there we found the Ruling Star.
"She was tall and willowy, with razor-straight hair that never seemed to stir from her shoulders. A circlet of steel sat above her brow, and her face was so angular as to appear sharp. She sat upon the tapestry-covered throne tensely, coiled and tightly wound, but when she rose to greet us at the door it seemed as though she moved not at all, and instead it was the rest of the earth that flowed around her.
"'My lady Cephris,' greeted Qoth, kneeling to kiss the edge of the Starborn's embroidered gown. I caught a flash of golden toes gleaming beneath the hem, bare against the floor. The Eastborn nobility had no herds to tend, you see," Zarund muttered as he tugged his thickest socks. "And with no need to walk beyond the polished stones of the main paths, they kept their feet bare."
"Cephris Northernlight smiled at the crone, her regal face shining as bright as the sun from which she was cleaved. 'My dear Continicium,' she murmured. 'Long has it been since last we met.'
"'Longer, still, since I set foot in these halls,' replied Qoth slowly. It is surprising to find them so unchanged. I feel as though my lord Orinor might stalk in any moment, bow in hand and—'"
His belt half-tied, Zarund frowned. What had Qoth said? The absence of his children and grandchildren suddenly struck him, stark and painful. Wracking his memory, Zarund turned to the lockbox perched upon the windowsill and retrieved the jewels of his station.
"Qoth mentioned Orinor the Easterly, for it had been him she served in life," Zarund muttered to himself, clasping an amulet around his neck. "And Cephris had scowled—such a dark, dark scowl—and then... Oh, has it really been so long?"
He took a breath to steady himself. Closing his eyes, he could almost see the Sky-City bathed in light: moonlight and starlight and—
"Fire," he breathed. "I awoke that evening to flames devouring the lovely tapestries, and Cephris the Ruling Star walked past ashes and destruction as slowly as the sun moving across the sky, bound for the grand bronze gates."
There, that was it. More confidently, Zarund continued, "I made to follow her, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me."
"'Here, Zarund Suresight,' Qoth croaked, offering me the hilt of a tiny dagger. Her eyes burned bright with embers, and the firelight washed her face of its years. 'Cephris will head North. You will have the opportunity to use this.'
"And then—" Zarund frowned at the rings in his hand. He slid one onto his thumb. "Then the crone muttered something about joining Orinor, but I was already running after Cephris—"
He slid another ring onto his index finger.
"And she cast open the gates as though they were made of paper..."
Another onto his middle.
"She strode out onto the road, barefooted and still-haired, while the East Wind fanned the flames upon the Sky-City."
Skipping his marriage finger—Mirthya's finger—Zarund slid the final ring upon the smallest finger..
Again, the absence of young listeners was not unnoticed, for no questions of the fire's origins battered his ears, nor demanding inquiries about whether the mountain-herds escaped unharmed. For once, the silence came as a relief, for Zarund had no need to lie about the terrible smell that filled the air.
He needn't lie about the cacophony of screams echoing through the caves—for in the end, the nobility's bare feet proved a fatal hindrance.
There was a memory that Zarund wouldn't mind fuzzing a bit. He picked up his comb and solemnly began combing through the tangles of his hair, avoiding the braids that framed his face.
"So I left the Easternhold burning, and turned from a mercenary to a commander. Not just any commander, though—a commander of a Starborn Ruler's army. Trueblades, they were called." He breathed the title like the oath it was. "And I led my lady's army on a march to reclai—wait, that's not right."
Zarund lowered his comb. "The army didn't assemble until... Until after we marched West—did it not?"
The well-dressed, silver-haired gentleman in the mirror stared back unhelpfully.
"Blast it!" he cursed, and slammed his fist upon the mirror-frame.
When had they assembled the army? He could clearly recall the western plains blackened and twisted, but had that been before or after the drunken archery competition at the inn?
There was a brawl, and a wager, and somewhere in the mix he had befriended an archer that took pity on his paltry bowmanship—but when had they mustered the force to reclaim the Northernlit Forge?
"It is no matter," he decided at last. His children were not here to witness his senility, after all, and who was to say he couldn't skip ahead a bit?
"We marched for a great distance!" Zarund declared smugly. "A terribly great distance, and mostly uphill, to boot. But at last our eyes beheld the mighty walls of the Northernlit Keep.
"Where the mountains of the East were pure and bright, the ranges of the North were imperious and forbidding. Nor was the Northernlit Keep hewn into the stone; it perched upon the mountainside like a bird of prey waiting to strike.
"Cephris looked upon her kingdom with the fiercest, hungriest longing I'd ever witnessed, and then she opened her mouth and began to sing."
Years and years later, Zarund could still feel the battle-song echoing through his bones. To the children, he called it inspiring. Heroic, even. To the empty room, he provided no such gilding.
"Her voice tore through the air, and I thought it first a song of creation. For we were forging a new kingdom, were we not? We sought to return a piece of the sun to her rightful throne. I fought joyously, knowing my arrows felled traitors and usurpers—criminals who drove a Starborn ruler into exile.
"The war-hymn was one of destruction, though, and had it not blinded my eyes with battle-lust, perhaps my sure-sight would have seen that the enemies I felled were not vile creatures, nor traitors, nor usurpers...
"But I did not see them clearly," he muttered. "And when they lay dead, Cephris stoked the fires of the Northernlit Forge and we sent their bodies skyward."
The possibility existed that this story was not the best one to give him courage.
"You know how this ends," Zarund told children who had long since abandoned their posts by his feet. "The Queen turned to her forge and did not look away from her metalcraft for a century. I returned South, older and harder and likely more foolish than before. To my delight, happiness waited for me in the waterways. I did not know I would outlast it."
For perhaps the last time, Zarund Trueblade scrutinized himself in the mirror.
His hair—untarnished silver it was—did not bother him, though the years had stolen its color and curl. It was the face it framed that unsettled him: smooth, soft, supple. The unwrinkled skin remained as youthful as the it was the day Zarund stormed the keep with Cephris, the day he sealed his role as Trueblade of the Ruling Star.
Zarund always thought his eyes betrayed his age, though—the once-piercing blue of his irises seemed clouded by memories of war, fear, and fire.
Especially fire.
On a clear night like tonight, the battlements of the Keep provided a view of half the realm. No approaching figure remained unnoticed for long; the watchtowers lent the guards more than enough time to determine whether the visitor be friend or foe.
Zarund peeked out from the nearest crenel, resting a hand on the ancient stone. What a sight he must have made, all those centuries ago: a solitary, huffing figure storming towards the mighty fortress with rage in his brow and confusion in his heart.
Confusion, for Zarund's grandchildren had long since outgrown his lap and yet he could run with them still. Confusion, for Alyss's brow bore more creases by the day and Taron more resembled Zarund's brother than a son. Rage, for his love of loves Mirthya had taken the Eternal Slumber, yet the only indication that Zarund might follow her was the color of his hair.
He approached the Keep of the Ruling Star with hostility written plain on his face, and yet the guards did not attack him. Instead they let him in, sent him to the forge, allowed Cephris to siphon away his rage amidst singing steel and roaring flame.
You pledged yourself to me, Trueblade, rang her voice, smooth and cool. I allowed you a lifetime of peace as a token of appreciation for aiding me on my journey. But do not forget you are mine, Zarund Northbound, as Qoth Eastbound was Orinor's and Ilsnar Westborn was Orithan's.
For years, Zarund wondered how many months passed before Alyss and Taron truly believed him dead.
The stars watched coldly as the Trueblade continued towards the Main Hall. Murmurs and footsteps skittered off the stones, and a gentle breeze plucked at the torches to send embers dancing into the sky. Zarund passed a few patrols, and each time he was greeted with a solemn, almost reverent salute.
Zarund acknowledged them with a nod, and continued on his way, trying not to dwell upon the cause of their respect.
It was a lost cause, of course, and the cruel constellations seemed eager to whisper the story in his ear.
Once, ages ago, the Ruling Star returned to the Northernlit Forge and claimed it with blood. Peace was won for a time, and with the Queen's skill in metallurgy the kingdom profited.
Zarund quickened his pace.
But the most intricate of metalwork could not distract the Queen for long, for she was Starborn, and she was made to endure more than the monotonous heat of the forge. The star-siblings were dragonslayers; no amount of molten steel could sate the battle-thirst in their veins.
The Trueblade found himself fiercely missing the often-overcast evenings of the South.
The other Starborn had long been slain, killed at the hands of Men, and their kingdoms lay yet unclaimed. So the Ruling Star turned to her Trueblade, and together they led her army West.
If he squinted, Zarund could barely make out the plains, smudged against the distant horizon. They would have been fully visible the day of the battle—marked with towering plumes of smoke.
Cephris so favored fire. Zarund reeked of ash for decades, for the fires in the West scarcely dwindled to embers before the Queen's eye wandered East.
The City-in-the-Sky posed little threat the second time it burned. Zarund watched it with empty eyes, arrow nocked and forgotten in his bow.
With three of the four kingdoms returned to Celestial Rule, only the Waterways of the South remained.
Zarund clenched his jaw, pointedly refusing to cast his gaze over the crenellations.
That had been a battle. That was where being keen-eyed was too much, where he found he could not stand the sight of flames running rampant—not when they crawled up the walls of familiar houses. Not when they ate at docks his children once ran down.
So Zarund closed his eyes. With his sight silenced, the Queen's battle-hymn met no distractions as it rushed into his soul, consuming his very being. And that was when his men learned to fear him.
"Captain Trueblade!"
The voice of Zarund's deputy drew him from his reverie. He looked up to see the young man striding down the hallway.
"Summons from her majesty, the Queen," he said, saluting dutifully.
Duty summed the boy right up, Zarund often thought. Not for this one the awed reverence toward the Ruling Star's favored commander. Not when the wounds of a battle-rent family festered within a generation of the lad. Zarund's deputy was old enough to remember the fight his family offered when an invading army paid the Waterways a visit. He had not forgotten the uncle who perished at the end of a very sharp, expertly-shot arrow.
The Trueblade, however, remembered only battle-song.
Zarund nodded, "I'll see her immediately. Thank you, Dalrond."
Dalrond, son of Darund, son of Danthor...
His deputy inclined his head politely, then turned to leave.
Son of Daryss, daughter of Noryss...
"Wait," Zarund called. "I would ask a favor of you, if you'll indulge me." Obligingly, Dalrund turned around, his face emotionless in the torchlight.
Daughter of Elyn, daughter of Naron...
"I would like you to vow that you will return South. Return home, and tell your kin of your adventures here," the Trueblade said, gaze sweeping over his deputy's features and coming to a rest upon the boy's eyes.
Son of Tirond, son of Tarod...
Such a brilliant, unmistakeable blue.
Son of Alyss, Daughter of Zarund.
Dalrond frowned, visibly confused. Hesitantly, he said, "I cannot make a vow beyond my power, Lord Captain. As much as I might wish to, I can no sooner flee to the Waterways than you can renounce your title as Trueblade."
Something in Zarund deflated. "Very well, then," he conceded, and with a soft "Good night," he went on his way.
"Lord Captain?" This time Dalrond's voice echoed down the corridor.
"Aye?"
The boy set his shoulders, and he looked so much like Alyss that Zarund wanted to weep. "I cannot promise fate," he said sincerely. "But I can promise that I will try. I will try to return South."
Zarund Trueblade smiled at his deputy. "Very well, then," he repeated. "Very well, indeed."
Zarund found the Ruling Star in the same place he had left her, centuries ago, for a life of fishing and family.
The Northernlit Forge resided in a cavern deep below the Keep, where dust and flint lingered in the sweltering air. Zarund's Eastern-spun finery soon clung to his skin, and he did not need a mirror to know that his silver hair was likely dulled with dust and limp with sweat.
Even beneath his boots, the floor burned blisteringly hot, heated by the river of lava flowing beneath the stone. Still, Cephis worked the forge barefoot, heedless of the heat. Though tall, the forge dwarfed her many times over, but she paid it no mind as she thrust a massive, yet-unfinished sword into its gaping mouth.
"You come here with words, Trueblade," she called over her shoulder, eyes fixed on the glowing, white-hot metal. "Unhappy ones, at that."
"You are forging a weapon, Northernlight," Zarund observed in return. "But I think you have made this one before, have you not?"
Her laugh filled the air, harsh and biting. "How apt, to name you Suresight! Nothing escapes your watchful gaze, it seems."
"Ah, but how can I help but be drawn to the sight of a master at work?"
Cephris tsked lightly. "Playing the old games, are we?" Despite her chiding, her voice remained light. "Have you been telling stories, then? Flattery only leaves your tongue in pursuit of ancient tales, Northbound."
Zarund remained quiet as Cephris moved the sword to her mighty anvil and took a hammer to it.
"Not a terrible habit, I suppose," she said between swings. "Perhaps I shall tell you a story of my own. It will no doubt sound familiar to your well-traveled ears."
"Once upon a time," she began. "Four star-siblings claimed the earth from the talons of dragons. Each of them took a corner of the realm, and gave mortal Men the skills to thrive in their lands. The fields were tilled, the seas were fished, the forgefires were stoked, and the Eastern Wind was kept at bay. For an eternity, there was peace."
Her hammer-strikes grew sharper and more urgent.
"But one year, the sea grew unruly. Unsatisfied with the irreverent harvesting of men, it rebelled against the diplomatic Southstar that governed it. The star-sibling sailed out to try and reason with it, but it grew wild, and the men—the men stood by and watched as the waves drug their King into the cold depths from which none return. And I never saw Silmand again."
Clang, sang the sword.
"Once upon a time, three star-siblings ruled the realm," Cephris muttered. "But without the reasoned voice of the Southstar, the Kings of the East and West quarreled, and the Queen in the North knew not how to broker a peace. Troubling, too were the Men of the South, who lived free of the Celestial Reign."
Clang.
"One year, the farmers and plainsmen of the West decided that they were every bit as capable of self-governance as the Southerners. In a show of false loyalty, they prepared a grand banquet for their King. Platters and platters of food were prepared, each dish more appetizing than the last, and all of them laden with the most potent toxins the earth would yield."
Clang.
"When the poisons failed to do more than induce a heavy drowsiness in the King, the men cleaved him with shovel and axe, and buried him beneath their fields. Thus Orithan, too, was lost to me."
Clang.
Cephris' breath grew ragged.
"Once upon a time, two star-siblings watched each other from neighboring keeps. Then dawned a day when the Eastern Wind blew free from sunrise till sunset, and the Queen in the North raced to the Easternhold only to find an empty throne. The nobles never shared the fate of the Easterly, so the Queen decided they should never share in the freedom of the South and West."
Clang.
"I never learned what became of Orinor," she whispered. "But once upon a time, I looked up to find that my brothers were dead. Dead, and no amount of Northernlit steel could ever reforge their star-made souls."
With a crack, her hammer struck the sword. Cooled to a dim cherry-red, it fractured instead of denting, sending shards fling from Cephris' anvil.
The Ruling Star stood panting, brow furrowed in ancient fury.
Zarund fought to keep his voice steady and calm.
"I had a family, too, Northernlight. My children loved to hear the tale of the Starborn dragonslayers. So, too, did they find the tale of your homecoming to be an adventure worth hearing. But they are gone now, and I find I am left with more stories than ears to tell."
Cephris scoffed. "Your line endures, Trueblade. You have kin in all four realms; find a child and talk its ear off."
"With what?" Zarund asked. "The tale of the Western slaughter? The second razing of the East? Or perhaps I should tell some seventh-great granddaughter of mine how I felled one of my own descendants and only realized it when I saw his unseeing eyes were my own?"
"I tire of this," Cephris said, her voice edged with danger. "Make your point."
"My point is that I have examined my life, Northernlight, and it is tainted with darkness." Zarund met her colorless gaze with his own. "My past grows more twisted and shadowed with each passing decade, and when I look to the future I see more of the same. You and your brothers were dragonslayers once, my lady." He bowed his head in respect. "But they are gone now, and in their absence you have become a dragon yourself."
The Ruling Star looked stricken. "And you mean to slay me, then."
Zarund pulled a small, shining dagger from his robes. "As Qoth intended all along."
She smiled—almost sadly, Zarund thought. "Northbound, that is an Eastern blade. It will not pierce Starborn flesh. It will not even pierce mortal flesh, not without great difficulty."
"I know, Highness," he told her. "Western crops for hearth and home, but Eastern edges work for stone."
And then he plunged the dagger into the scalding floor beneath them.
Zarund Seaborn's last thoughts were of the moonlight rippling upon the Eastern Tributary.
Stifling a yawn, the Captain lurched from his desk chair and moved for one of the bookshelves lining the walls. His children would sleep soundly with the aid of a tale, after all—and while he held no illusions of achieving any sort of rest that evening, a story might calm his nerves.
The book he chose was old and worn, its filigreed title made illegible by years of reshelvings. Alyss was particularly rough with it, if Zarund remembered correctly.
He smiled at the thought. His bright-eyed daughter would tumble into the den, book tucked haphazardly beneath her arm, and promptly demand that she be read to. Her younger brother was never far behind, but he often hesitated at the door, not quite fearless enough to disturb his Father's evening as Alyss did.
Even while young, Taron was cautious. Though both would eventually grow too big to comfortably share their father's lap, neither of them tired of his stories—be they written or spoken from memory.
Zarund slowly paged through the book. He did not need to read the words; the stories within had written themselves into his memory with each retelling. He paused, his eyes resting on familiar words.
In ages long ago, before the reigns of Kings and Men, the earth was ruled by dragons and fire, began this one. Already, Taron's bright blue eyes would be wide. Everyone said the boy had Zarund's eyes.
Mighty beasts they were, as fearsome and wild as the storms of the West. They roamed the four realms, leaving nothing in their wake but a smoldering, barren waste that no Men could thrive in.
Depending on how terrified Taron looked at this point, Alyss would sometimes pipe in: Papa, were there flowers?
No flowers, Zarund would say.
And no potato pies?
None of those, either, little love.
Zarund's fingers traced an inked illustration of the winged terrors.
But Men were not left hopeless, for the Great Maker took the three brightest stars in the night sky and cast them from the heavens, giving them mortal shape. And the men looked upon the three stars with awe, and named them Kings.
Then, taking a piece of the sun, the Maker forged a Queen to guide and rule alongside the Kings. So it was that four star-siblings marched upon the earth, and the dragons learned the true meaning of fear.
On nights when the sun yet hovered above the horizon, the children would wheedle and prod details out of Zarund. Alyss wanted tales of battle and bravery, of dragons being felled and Men fighting alongside the Starborn.
Taron cared more for the homesteading.
And after the last dragon was slain? he often asked, watching his father's lips expectantly.
When the skies sat empty except for the stars, each sibling took to a corner of the earth, and the Men followed.
One King went West, and under his laborious care the soil grew rich and bountiful. The Men learned to till plains and tend crops, and so the Westernmost Star and his kingdom profited.
Another King ventured South, to the edge of the land where rivers met sea. He and his Men took to fishing and boating, and the Southstar's kingdom profited.
The third King led his Men to the windy, mountainous East. There, hidden in caves along the treacherous range, they found herds of hardy goats and sheep. Master weavers and shepherds they became, and the Easterly saw his kingdom profit.
The last of the Men followed the Queen North, to the sweltering pit from which the dragons once came. They turned it into a forge, and the Ruling Star worked alongside her people to craft weapons and armor of unparalleled quality. And the Northernlight was known throughout the realm, for all four kingdoms profited.
Even when they grew older, both of Zarund's children would murmur the final bit along with him:
Western crops for hearth and home
Southern waterways to roam
East-edge and cloth both work for stone,
But Northern steel alone
Cleaves right through bone.
Thus began the Golden Age of the Starborn.
It never failed to warm his heart, no matter how firmly he sent them to bed afterwards.
To your rooms, now, or your mother will tan all our hides! A wink, then—not unnoticed by Taron, who'd offer Zarund a brilliant smile in return.
"A Golden Age, indeed," Zarund sighed to himself, gently closing the book of tales. There in his home on the Southern waterways, with his fishing spear by the door and his unstrung bow gathering dust beneath the bed, it was easy to believe that the dangers of the world disappeared with the turning of a page.
Too easy, to believe that the past would remain behind him.
"You said you met her, didn't you?" Taron had asked one year. Cautiously, of course—the boy still weighed each of his words as though measuring gold. Lanky he may have grown, but Zarund's son remained the same careful lad at heart.
"Who, your mother?" Zarund asked coyly, sharpening his fillet knife upon the whetstone. "I did indeed. Can't remember exactly when—I imagine sometime before Alyss was born."
That was enough to draw a scoff. "No, the Queen! The Starborn of the North, from the stories."
Zarund hummed in understanding.
"You spoke of her one evening, ages ago, when we had fallen asleep in your lap." Taron looked at his father with hopeful eyes. "I've forgotten it many times throughout the years, but now the story haunts my mind."
Everyone was right. Those were Zarund's eyes. For a moment, the only sound between them was the scrape of steel against stone.
"I knew her," Zarund admitted at last. "I met her on the Eastern Range."
And she was beautiful, he could have added. Her golden skin shimmered in torchlight and sunshine both, her eyes were twin pools of shadow, and even the fearsome Eastern Wind could not mar the beauty of her pure-white hair.
Oh, how it had torn through the peaks of the mountains, sweeping down to buffet the young guard who dared climb the rough-hewn steps.
Taron blinked. "But we live in the South. You are Seaborn."
"As are you," Zarund replied easily. "But I am also Zarund Suresight, Zarund Keeneye, and at your age I was convinced that I hated fishing. The Waterway Guard took me happily."
"Suresight," Taron muttered, and his father swore he saw the boy's eyes roll.
"Scoff all you want," he warned, pointing his newly-sharpened knife at his son. "But if I hadn't spotted the town crone as she slipped off into the night, I wouldn't have wound up halfway across the realm in pursuit of a Queen."
Old Crone Qoth...
"I might not be keeneyed," Taron stated. "But I can see your thoughts run rampant, Father. The unspoken words are written plainly on your face. Why won't you simply tell me the full story?"
Zarund pondered the question as he wiped the oil from his knife. Reaching into the basket of his latest catch, he pulled out a wide-eyed flounder and set about filleting it.
"I suppose I guard the details out of hesitation, Taron," he said at last. "If there is one thing you learn from me, let it be that stories hold power over mortal men. This story is not so distant as your bedtime tales of dragons and ancient fire. The battles are not yet old, the wounds not yet closed. The heroes still live and breathe—"
"I know they do, Father," Taron said softly, blue eyes fixed on Zarund's filleting knife, as though he could see that those weathered, fish-covered hands once wielded battle-steel.
"This is what I fear," Zarund stated flatly. "You know not the details, yet you already look upon me with the same frightened awe of your childhood. Stories are told to entertain, to inspire, and I fear this tale will drive the wanderlust deep into your heart." He paused for a moment, then hesitantly added, "While your path is your own to choose, I would have you by my side a little longer, my son."
"I am not the adventuring type," Taron protested. "Your worries would be better aimed at Alyss."
Zarund shook his head. "Alyss is the wave that crashes violently upon the shore, pulling back into the ocean only to return once again—but you, you are the current that winds through the deep: silent and subdued, but bound for the waters beyond the horizon."
His son looked so torn between righteous indignation and surprised flattery that Zarund had to laugh.
"Fine, fine," the Suresight conceded. "I will tell you of the Queen in the East, and the old crone Qoth, and the Northernlit Forge. But not before dinner—"
"And not without Alyss," Taron added, grinning wickedly. "She'd be murderous if I'd heard a story she hadn't."
So that evening, when dinner had been cleared and the hearth stoked to fend off the sea-borne chill, Zarund settled into his chair and told his children of his grand adventure.
Many years and many tellings later, it would be his grandchildren seated at his feet. The years changed and the children aged. His wife—
Guard Captain Zarund blinked, then scowled at the tattered book he gripped so tightly.
"That's quite enough of that," he muttered. Standing, he hurriedly shelved the troublesome tome. He would not think of his love of loves.
Stories had power, and that one would reduce him to a teary-eyed wretch in minutes. Zarund grit his teeth. He could not be the lovesick, pining boy that asked to court the Mayor's daughter, nor the hopeful, besotted man that asked for her hand in marriage. He could not be the faithful, steadfast husband that kissed his lovely wife soundly each night—not now. Not tonight.
Tonight, he needed to be the warrior that fought beside the Ruling Star.
With a growl, Zarund yanked off his dressing-gown and strode to the chest at the foot of his bed.
"Years ago, a fisherman's son lived in the southern waterways," he began to himself, digging through coarse-woven tunics and plainly-fashioned trousers.
"Though his father longed to teach his son the seafaring ways, the boy held no interest in the matter of rivers or oceans, and he joined the guard instead.
"He was keen of sight, he learned, and had he any talent with a bow, he might have proved an excellent addition to the ranks of the militia. But he could not hit the broad side of a barn, and so he was relegated to a lonely watchpost overlooking the Eastern Tributary.
The grandchildren laughed at that—for to them, the thought was absurd. Their grandfather, Zarund Suresight, unskilled with arrows? Their grandfather, who was gifted the great longbow Dawnpierce by the nobles of the North?
Zarund glanced at the mighty weapon resting by the window. Decades of disuse had not tarnished its gleaming limbs, and the carvings upon the grip remained intricate as ever. But then his hands closed around the unmistakeable silkiness of his Eastern-spun robes, and his eyes flickered back to the chest.
"One evening, whilst watching the eddies flicker in the moonlight, he caught sight of a cloaked figure scurrying from the waterways. Hunched and harried, it moved with purpose down the boardwalk—undoubtedly bound for the Northeastern path. Instinctively, the young guard shouted out. But the figure ignored him, and the rhythmic thudding of shoe on plank did not falter. Like any foolish youth, the boy deserted his post and gave chase.
"For ages they ran, until the guard's breathing came painfully, and his legs protested the movement. The stranger showed no such weariness. Imagine the surprise, then, when the cloaked runner abruptly stopped, threw back its hood, and revealed herself as the wizened owner of the apothecary!
"Gruff and reclusive, the old crone Qoth was a woman of stormy disposition and little patience. She possessed a tongue that could scold the heat off a fire, and woe to any that dared upset the stuffy peace of her shop! She'd lecture the offender until they feared they might shrivel up with age and be hung in the rafters with the basil! That evening, though, she offered little explanation to the Seaborn.
"The North Star grows restless,' Qoth murmured, eyes flashing with ancient fire. 'She will march from the East, soon, to reclaim the Northernlit Forge. I must go to meet her.'
"'It sounds like a grand adventure,' the Seaborn said appraisingly.
"'The sort old men tell their sons and grandsons,' Qoth agreed. She eyed his sword, and added, 'A dangerous adventure, at that.'
"And so the young guard became a mercenary, and he followed the old crone East."
The fabric of Zarund's ceremonial tunic flowed over his head and settled against his broad chest, as smooth and soft as the first rays of dawn washing over the City-in-the-Sky.
"The steps to the Eastern stronghold were hewn into the very mountain, and long did the two travelers climb. Their footing was sound, and before the sun reached its zenith they stood before the mighty bronze doors.
"'A gift from the Northernlit Forge, long ago,' the old crone Qoth explained. 'From a Queen to a King, to help keep the Eastern Wind at bay.'
"Privately, the Suresight thought the doors aimed to keep the beauty of the Easternhold from seeping into the rest of the realm, for when the twin towers of bronze parted, he found himself breathless at the sight..." Zarund trailed off, remembering.
Radiant was how he recalled the city. As light and airy as the clouds themselves—though far more colorful. For while the plants clinging to the slopes were dull and thin, and the homes and taverns scarce more than holes in the stone, the city was filled with brightly-woven banners and flags. Wherever the eye looked, it was met with vibrant hues and intricate patterns.
But not for his children details of scenery and stonework. Not for his grandchildren ramblings of cloth and needlepoint.
His wife would have smiled as he waxed poetic on the city's splendor, but she would also have told him to quit calling himself by name and tell the story properly. Zarund cleared his throat as he pulled his leggings over his knees.
"The old crone Qoth led the way past the colorful, bustling market, and soon we found ourselves bathed in the cool shadows of the Courthall. For the City-in-the-sky did not have a Mayor, as the South and West did, and their nobility resided in smooth-hewn caves near the peaks. Above the markets they lived, and it was there we found the Ruling Star.
"She was tall and willowy, with razor-straight hair that never seemed to stir from her shoulders. A circlet of steel sat above her brow, and her face was so angular as to appear sharp. She sat upon the tapestry-covered throne tensely, coiled and tightly wound, but when she rose to greet us at the door it seemed as though she moved not at all, and instead it was the rest of the earth that flowed around her.
"'My lady Cephris,' greeted Qoth, kneeling to kiss the edge of the Starborn's embroidered gown. I caught a flash of golden toes gleaming beneath the hem, bare against the floor. The Eastborn nobility had no herds to tend, you see," Zarund muttered as he tugged his thickest socks. "And with no need to walk beyond the polished stones of the main paths, they kept their feet bare."
"Cephris Northernlight smiled at the crone, her regal face shining as bright as the sun from which she was cleaved. 'My dear Continicium,' she murmured. 'Long has it been since last we met.'
"'Longer, still, since I set foot in these halls,' replied Qoth slowly. It is surprising to find them so unchanged. I feel as though my lord Orinor might stalk in any moment, bow in hand and—'"
His belt half-tied, Zarund frowned. What had Qoth said? The absence of his children and grandchildren suddenly struck him, stark and painful. Wracking his memory, Zarund turned to the lockbox perched upon the windowsill and retrieved the jewels of his station.
"Qoth mentioned Orinor the Easterly, for it had been him she served in life," Zarund muttered to himself, clasping an amulet around his neck. "And Cephris had scowled—such a dark, dark scowl—and then... Oh, has it really been so long?"
He took a breath to steady himself. Closing his eyes, he could almost see the Sky-City bathed in light: moonlight and starlight and—
"Fire," he breathed. "I awoke that evening to flames devouring the lovely tapestries, and Cephris the Ruling Star walked past ashes and destruction as slowly as the sun moving across the sky, bound for the grand bronze gates."
There, that was it. More confidently, Zarund continued, "I made to follow her, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me."
"'Here, Zarund Suresight,' Qoth croaked, offering me the hilt of a tiny dagger. Her eyes burned bright with embers, and the firelight washed her face of its years. 'Cephris will head North. You will have the opportunity to use this.'
"And then—" Zarund frowned at the rings in his hand. He slid one onto his thumb. "Then the crone muttered something about joining Orinor, but I was already running after Cephris—"
He slid another ring onto his index finger.
"And she cast open the gates as though they were made of paper..."
Another onto his middle.
"She strode out onto the road, barefooted and still-haired, while the East Wind fanned the flames upon the Sky-City."
Skipping his marriage finger—Mirthya's finger—Zarund slid the final ring upon the smallest finger..
Again, the absence of young listeners was not unnoticed, for no questions of the fire's origins battered his ears, nor demanding inquiries about whether the mountain-herds escaped unharmed. For once, the silence came as a relief, for Zarund had no need to lie about the terrible smell that filled the air.
He needn't lie about the cacophony of screams echoing through the caves—for in the end, the nobility's bare feet proved a fatal hindrance.
There was a memory that Zarund wouldn't mind fuzzing a bit. He picked up his comb and solemnly began combing through the tangles of his hair, avoiding the braids that framed his face.
"So I left the Easternhold burning, and turned from a mercenary to a commander. Not just any commander, though—a commander of a Starborn Ruler's army. Trueblades, they were called." He breathed the title like the oath it was. "And I led my lady's army on a march to reclai—wait, that's not right."
Zarund lowered his comb. "The army didn't assemble until... Until after we marched West—did it not?"
The well-dressed, silver-haired gentleman in the mirror stared back unhelpfully.
"Blast it!" he cursed, and slammed his fist upon the mirror-frame.
When had they assembled the army? He could clearly recall the western plains blackened and twisted, but had that been before or after the drunken archery competition at the inn?
There was a brawl, and a wager, and somewhere in the mix he had befriended an archer that took pity on his paltry bowmanship—but when had they mustered the force to reclaim the Northernlit Forge?
"It is no matter," he decided at last. His children were not here to witness his senility, after all, and who was to say he couldn't skip ahead a bit?
"We marched for a great distance!" Zarund declared smugly. "A terribly great distance, and mostly uphill, to boot. But at last our eyes beheld the mighty walls of the Northernlit Keep.
"Where the mountains of the East were pure and bright, the ranges of the North were imperious and forbidding. Nor was the Northernlit Keep hewn into the stone; it perched upon the mountainside like a bird of prey waiting to strike.
"Cephris looked upon her kingdom with the fiercest, hungriest longing I'd ever witnessed, and then she opened her mouth and began to sing."
Years and years later, Zarund could still feel the battle-song echoing through his bones. To the children, he called it inspiring. Heroic, even. To the empty room, he provided no such gilding.
"Her voice tore through the air, and I thought it first a song of creation. For we were forging a new kingdom, were we not? We sought to return a piece of the sun to her rightful throne. I fought joyously, knowing my arrows felled traitors and usurpers—criminals who drove a Starborn ruler into exile.
"The war-hymn was one of destruction, though, and had it not blinded my eyes with battle-lust, perhaps my sure-sight would have seen that the enemies I felled were not vile creatures, nor traitors, nor usurpers...
"But I did not see them clearly," he muttered. "And when they lay dead, Cephris stoked the fires of the Northernlit Forge and we sent their bodies skyward."
The possibility existed that this story was not the best one to give him courage.
"You know how this ends," Zarund told children who had long since abandoned their posts by his feet. "The Queen turned to her forge and did not look away from her metalcraft for a century. I returned South, older and harder and likely more foolish than before. To my delight, happiness waited for me in the waterways. I did not know I would outlast it."
For perhaps the last time, Zarund Trueblade scrutinized himself in the mirror.
His hair—untarnished silver it was—did not bother him, though the years had stolen its color and curl. It was the face it framed that unsettled him: smooth, soft, supple. The unwrinkled skin remained as youthful as the it was the day Zarund stormed the keep with Cephris, the day he sealed his role as Trueblade of the Ruling Star.
Zarund always thought his eyes betrayed his age, though—the once-piercing blue of his irises seemed clouded by memories of war, fear, and fire.
Especially fire.
On a clear night like tonight, the battlements of the Keep provided a view of half the realm. No approaching figure remained unnoticed for long; the watchtowers lent the guards more than enough time to determine whether the visitor be friend or foe.
Zarund peeked out from the nearest crenel, resting a hand on the ancient stone. What a sight he must have made, all those centuries ago: a solitary, huffing figure storming towards the mighty fortress with rage in his brow and confusion in his heart.
Confusion, for Zarund's grandchildren had long since outgrown his lap and yet he could run with them still. Confusion, for Alyss's brow bore more creases by the day and Taron more resembled Zarund's brother than a son. Rage, for his love of loves Mirthya had taken the Eternal Slumber, yet the only indication that Zarund might follow her was the color of his hair.
He approached the Keep of the Ruling Star with hostility written plain on his face, and yet the guards did not attack him. Instead they let him in, sent him to the forge, allowed Cephris to siphon away his rage amidst singing steel and roaring flame.
You pledged yourself to me, Trueblade, rang her voice, smooth and cool. I allowed you a lifetime of peace as a token of appreciation for aiding me on my journey. But do not forget you are mine, Zarund Northbound, as Qoth Eastbound was Orinor's and Ilsnar Westborn was Orithan's.
For years, Zarund wondered how many months passed before Alyss and Taron truly believed him dead.
The stars watched coldly as the Trueblade continued towards the Main Hall. Murmurs and footsteps skittered off the stones, and a gentle breeze plucked at the torches to send embers dancing into the sky. Zarund passed a few patrols, and each time he was greeted with a solemn, almost reverent salute.
Zarund acknowledged them with a nod, and continued on his way, trying not to dwell upon the cause of their respect.
It was a lost cause, of course, and the cruel constellations seemed eager to whisper the story in his ear.
Once, ages ago, the Ruling Star returned to the Northernlit Forge and claimed it with blood. Peace was won for a time, and with the Queen's skill in metallurgy the kingdom profited.
Zarund quickened his pace.
But the most intricate of metalwork could not distract the Queen for long, for she was Starborn, and she was made to endure more than the monotonous heat of the forge. The star-siblings were dragonslayers; no amount of molten steel could sate the battle-thirst in their veins.
The Trueblade found himself fiercely missing the often-overcast evenings of the South.
The other Starborn had long been slain, killed at the hands of Men, and their kingdoms lay yet unclaimed. So the Ruling Star turned to her Trueblade, and together they led her army West.
If he squinted, Zarund could barely make out the plains, smudged against the distant horizon. They would have been fully visible the day of the battle—marked with towering plumes of smoke.
Cephris so favored fire. Zarund reeked of ash for decades, for the fires in the West scarcely dwindled to embers before the Queen's eye wandered East.
The City-in-the-Sky posed little threat the second time it burned. Zarund watched it with empty eyes, arrow nocked and forgotten in his bow.
With three of the four kingdoms returned to Celestial Rule, only the Waterways of the South remained.
Zarund clenched his jaw, pointedly refusing to cast his gaze over the crenellations.
That had been a battle. That was where being keen-eyed was too much, where he found he could not stand the sight of flames running rampant—not when they crawled up the walls of familiar houses. Not when they ate at docks his children once ran down.
So Zarund closed his eyes. With his sight silenced, the Queen's battle-hymn met no distractions as it rushed into his soul, consuming his very being. And that was when his men learned to fear him.
"Captain Trueblade!"
The voice of Zarund's deputy drew him from his reverie. He looked up to see the young man striding down the hallway.
"Summons from her majesty, the Queen," he said, saluting dutifully.
Duty summed the boy right up, Zarund often thought. Not for this one the awed reverence toward the Ruling Star's favored commander. Not when the wounds of a battle-rent family festered within a generation of the lad. Zarund's deputy was old enough to remember the fight his family offered when an invading army paid the Waterways a visit. He had not forgotten the uncle who perished at the end of a very sharp, expertly-shot arrow.
The Trueblade, however, remembered only battle-song.
Zarund nodded, "I'll see her immediately. Thank you, Dalrond."
Dalrond, son of Darund, son of Danthor...
His deputy inclined his head politely, then turned to leave.
Son of Daryss, daughter of Noryss...
"Wait," Zarund called. "I would ask a favor of you, if you'll indulge me." Obligingly, Dalrund turned around, his face emotionless in the torchlight.
Daughter of Elyn, daughter of Naron...
"I would like you to vow that you will return South. Return home, and tell your kin of your adventures here," the Trueblade said, gaze sweeping over his deputy's features and coming to a rest upon the boy's eyes.
Son of Tirond, son of Tarod...
Such a brilliant, unmistakeable blue.
Son of Alyss, Daughter of Zarund.
Dalrond frowned, visibly confused. Hesitantly, he said, "I cannot make a vow beyond my power, Lord Captain. As much as I might wish to, I can no sooner flee to the Waterways than you can renounce your title as Trueblade."
Something in Zarund deflated. "Very well, then," he conceded, and with a soft "Good night," he went on his way.
"Lord Captain?" This time Dalrond's voice echoed down the corridor.
"Aye?"
The boy set his shoulders, and he looked so much like Alyss that Zarund wanted to weep. "I cannot promise fate," he said sincerely. "But I can promise that I will try. I will try to return South."
Zarund Trueblade smiled at his deputy. "Very well, then," he repeated. "Very well, indeed."
Zarund found the Ruling Star in the same place he had left her, centuries ago, for a life of fishing and family.
The Northernlit Forge resided in a cavern deep below the Keep, where dust and flint lingered in the sweltering air. Zarund's Eastern-spun finery soon clung to his skin, and he did not need a mirror to know that his silver hair was likely dulled with dust and limp with sweat.
Even beneath his boots, the floor burned blisteringly hot, heated by the river of lava flowing beneath the stone. Still, Cephis worked the forge barefoot, heedless of the heat. Though tall, the forge dwarfed her many times over, but she paid it no mind as she thrust a massive, yet-unfinished sword into its gaping mouth.
"You come here with words, Trueblade," she called over her shoulder, eyes fixed on the glowing, white-hot metal. "Unhappy ones, at that."
"You are forging a weapon, Northernlight," Zarund observed in return. "But I think you have made this one before, have you not?"
Her laugh filled the air, harsh and biting. "How apt, to name you Suresight! Nothing escapes your watchful gaze, it seems."
"Ah, but how can I help but be drawn to the sight of a master at work?"
Cephris tsked lightly. "Playing the old games, are we?" Despite her chiding, her voice remained light. "Have you been telling stories, then? Flattery only leaves your tongue in pursuit of ancient tales, Northbound."
Zarund remained quiet as Cephris moved the sword to her mighty anvil and took a hammer to it.
"Not a terrible habit, I suppose," she said between swings. "Perhaps I shall tell you a story of my own. It will no doubt sound familiar to your well-traveled ears."
"Once upon a time," she began. "Four star-siblings claimed the earth from the talons of dragons. Each of them took a corner of the realm, and gave mortal Men the skills to thrive in their lands. The fields were tilled, the seas were fished, the forgefires were stoked, and the Eastern Wind was kept at bay. For an eternity, there was peace."
Her hammer-strikes grew sharper and more urgent.
"But one year, the sea grew unruly. Unsatisfied with the irreverent harvesting of men, it rebelled against the diplomatic Southstar that governed it. The star-sibling sailed out to try and reason with it, but it grew wild, and the men—the men stood by and watched as the waves drug their King into the cold depths from which none return. And I never saw Silmand again."
Clang, sang the sword.
"Once upon a time, three star-siblings ruled the realm," Cephris muttered. "But without the reasoned voice of the Southstar, the Kings of the East and West quarreled, and the Queen in the North knew not how to broker a peace. Troubling, too were the Men of the South, who lived free of the Celestial Reign."
Clang.
"One year, the farmers and plainsmen of the West decided that they were every bit as capable of self-governance as the Southerners. In a show of false loyalty, they prepared a grand banquet for their King. Platters and platters of food were prepared, each dish more appetizing than the last, and all of them laden with the most potent toxins the earth would yield."
Clang.
"When the poisons failed to do more than induce a heavy drowsiness in the King, the men cleaved him with shovel and axe, and buried him beneath their fields. Thus Orithan, too, was lost to me."
Clang.
Cephris' breath grew ragged.
"Once upon a time, two star-siblings watched each other from neighboring keeps. Then dawned a day when the Eastern Wind blew free from sunrise till sunset, and the Queen in the North raced to the Easternhold only to find an empty throne. The nobles never shared the fate of the Easterly, so the Queen decided they should never share in the freedom of the South and West."
Clang.
"I never learned what became of Orinor," she whispered. "But once upon a time, I looked up to find that my brothers were dead. Dead, and no amount of Northernlit steel could ever reforge their star-made souls."
With a crack, her hammer struck the sword. Cooled to a dim cherry-red, it fractured instead of denting, sending shards fling from Cephris' anvil.
The Ruling Star stood panting, brow furrowed in ancient fury.
Zarund fought to keep his voice steady and calm.
"I had a family, too, Northernlight. My children loved to hear the tale of the Starborn dragonslayers. So, too, did they find the tale of your homecoming to be an adventure worth hearing. But they are gone now, and I find I am left with more stories than ears to tell."
Cephris scoffed. "Your line endures, Trueblade. You have kin in all four realms; find a child and talk its ear off."
"With what?" Zarund asked. "The tale of the Western slaughter? The second razing of the East? Or perhaps I should tell some seventh-great granddaughter of mine how I felled one of my own descendants and only realized it when I saw his unseeing eyes were my own?"
"I tire of this," Cephris said, her voice edged with danger. "Make your point."
"My point is that I have examined my life, Northernlight, and it is tainted with darkness." Zarund met her colorless gaze with his own. "My past grows more twisted and shadowed with each passing decade, and when I look to the future I see more of the same. You and your brothers were dragonslayers once, my lady." He bowed his head in respect. "But they are gone now, and in their absence you have become a dragon yourself."
The Ruling Star looked stricken. "And you mean to slay me, then."
Zarund pulled a small, shining dagger from his robes. "As Qoth intended all along."
She smiled—almost sadly, Zarund thought. "Northbound, that is an Eastern blade. It will not pierce Starborn flesh. It will not even pierce mortal flesh, not without great difficulty."
"I know, Highness," he told her. "Western crops for hearth and home, but Eastern edges work for stone."
And then he plunged the dagger into the scalding floor beneath them.
Zarund Seaborn's last thoughts were of the moonlight rippling upon the Eastern Tributary.
The last story I read took a risk with its form which I think paid off. Here's the opposite: in some ways the narrative structure here is pushing boundaries, but I felt like that experiment just ended up confusing me and tangling up my reading. Good for you for taking chances — the Writeoffs are the place to do it. But while I have to admire your daring, the truth is that risks are, well, risky.
Your risk was to overcomplicate the narrative timeline. From the start of the story, we've got:
1) A lonely old man Zarund looking at a book
2) Him remembering telling stories from that book to his son and daughter, setting off the quotes with italics
3) Scene break
4) Zarund speaking to his teenage son, using the same memory-italics as 2, and then framing a new storytelling structure to recurse into while introducing his grandchildren
5) Scene break
6) Zarund interrupting the previous scene, and then telling a story to himself NOT in memory-italics; and outside the narrated story, mentioning grandchildren with no hints of memory-italics, implying that this is when the story-present is set
(Note that we learn later that that's not the case.)
7) More italicized quotes that don't appear to be memory-italics this time
At this point we're three scenes in, and neither the scene breaks nor the story formatting are giving me coherent information. We're diving in and out of stories, the narrative is ignoring the scene breaks, the breaks seem to mark time skips except when a major time skip happens without a break, the italicized quotes have two different implications … and then we also start timeskipping around with his Cephris memories, and it gets worse. About halfway through I pretty much gave up on trying to figure out which of the Zarunds we see was "present" Zarund (probably around the time I read the contextual clue which ruled out the grandchildren-scene as being set in the present).
Once I stopped trying to make sense of it and let the story wash over me, it got a lot easier to appreciate. That early exposition didn't help, but the family interaction was strong, and I like the core legend and how you call back to that rhyme at the end, even if it feels like the actual resolution is left hanging . The late revelation of the narrator's backstory felt like it landed despite my giving up on making sense of things, the mythology is cool and gets me engaged in the universe, and you've got some solid character arcs and pacing. I want to read more of this, and I feel a lot more positive about it in hindsight than I do while I was reading.
Really, this would be vying for top contention if it weren't for two things: how tangled the narrative layers are, and how much of a slow, disorienting start this has with the lonely old man dribbling out morsels of exposition. It's kind of riding that AT/S border for me, but right now, it feels like it needs some significant restructuring (or at least simplifying and flattening, not dodging into stories within flashbacks within memories) to fire on all cylinders.
Tier: Almost There
Your risk was to overcomplicate the narrative timeline. From the start of the story, we've got:
1) A lonely old man Zarund looking at a book
2) Him remembering telling stories from that book to his son and daughter, setting off the quotes with italics
3) Scene break
4) Zarund speaking to his teenage son, using the same memory-italics as 2, and then framing a new storytelling structure to recurse into while introducing his grandchildren
5) Scene break
6) Zarund interrupting the previous scene, and then telling a story to himself NOT in memory-italics; and outside the narrated story, mentioning grandchildren with no hints of memory-italics, implying that this is when the story-present is set
(Note that we learn later that that's not the case.)
7) More italicized quotes that don't appear to be memory-italics this time
At this point we're three scenes in, and neither the scene breaks nor the story formatting are giving me coherent information. We're diving in and out of stories, the narrative is ignoring the scene breaks, the breaks seem to mark time skips except when a major time skip happens without a break, the italicized quotes have two different implications … and then we also start timeskipping around with his Cephris memories, and it gets worse. About halfway through I pretty much gave up on trying to figure out which of the Zarunds we see was "present" Zarund (probably around the time I read the contextual clue which ruled out the grandchildren-scene as being set in the present).
Once I stopped trying to make sense of it and let the story wash over me, it got a lot easier to appreciate. That early exposition didn't help, but the family interaction was strong, and I like the core legend and how you call back to that rhyme at the end, even if it feels like the actual resolution is left hanging . The late revelation of the narrator's backstory felt like it landed despite my giving up on making sense of things, the mythology is cool and gets me engaged in the universe, and you've got some solid character arcs and pacing. I want to read more of this, and I feel a lot more positive about it in hindsight than I do while I was reading.
Really, this would be vying for top contention if it weren't for two things: how tangled the narrative layers are, and how much of a slow, disorienting start this has with the lonely old man dribbling out morsels of exposition. It's kind of riding that AT/S border for me, but right now, it feels like it needs some significant restructuring (or at least simplifying and flattening, not dodging into stories within flashbacks within memories) to fire on all cylinders.
Tier: Almost There
Man, I was completely at a loss for how to productively explain my problems with this story, and then >>horizon came along and spelled them out way better than I would've. Go read his comments about overcomplicating again, and pretend I said them :P
In terms of advice, this could really be cut down to four scenes: Zarund telling stories to his children (this could be two separate scenes, if you want to keep the exposition and the crone stuff separate), Zarund talking to himself about the war, Zarund with his great-x grandkid deputy, and Zarund with the queen. All the events you're trying to set up here can be neatly fit into those four scenes, and then you're not giving your readers whiplash trying to figure out how you've intercut this or that.
I feel like this was a story that really ended up sabotaging itself, because it's the kind of story I usually like, and I wanted to like it... but in the end, I found the mythology hampered by the presentation. I look forward to seeing a streamlined version of this after the competition!
In terms of advice, this could really be cut down to four scenes: Zarund telling stories to his children (this could be two separate scenes, if you want to keep the exposition and the crone stuff separate), Zarund talking to himself about the war, Zarund with his great-x grandkid deputy, and Zarund with the queen. All the events you're trying to set up here can be neatly fit into those four scenes, and then you're not giving your readers whiplash trying to figure out how you've intercut this or that.
I feel like this was a story that really ended up sabotaging itself, because it's the kind of story I usually like, and I wanted to like it... but in the end, I found the mythology hampered by the presentation. I look forward to seeing a streamlined version of this after the competition!
Well. Show up late and all the good critique's been given already. I really liked this concept and would love to see it expanded upon, but I must agree that the manner of the delivery could use some work. There are a lot of things missing, and while I'm fine with some facts being left to the imagination, I think this one took too many liberties in that department.
Great idea, though. Reminds me of something I once wanted to try, but never got around to. I daresay yours is better.
Great idea, though. Reminds me of something I once wanted to try, but never got around to. I daresay yours is better.
>>Ritsuko
Thank you for adding your feedback! It's always valuable to see what sorts of things knock readers out of stories.
As a fellow reader, I'm curious why the punctuation in this story bothered you. I didn't notice anything particularly bothersome. I should note that that doesn't make either of us wrong, it just means that we're noticing (and affected by) different things.
Would you be willing to quote a couple of examples from the story of commas (or whatever) that disrupted your reading?
Thank you for adding your feedback! It's always valuable to see what sorts of things knock readers out of stories.
As a fellow reader, I'm curious why the punctuation in this story bothered you. I didn't notice anything particularly bothersome. I should note that that doesn't make either of us wrong, it just means that we're noticing (and affected by) different things.
Would you be willing to quote a couple of examples from the story of commas (or whatever) that disrupted your reading?
>>horizon
I feel it hedged and unclear.
The quite require sitation markings.
I like the lines crisp, easy to read.
Punctuation adds emphasis and give additional meaning and clarity of intent if applied correctly.
The stars only barely peeked into the room—dimmed as they were by the sheer drapes covering the windows—but Zarund felt their gaze all the same.
I feel it hedged and unclear.
Depending on how terrified Taron looked at this point, Alyss would sometimes pipe in: Papa, were there flowers?
The quite require sitation markings.
I like the lines crisp, easy to read.
Punctuation adds emphasis and give additional meaning and clarity of intent if applied correctly.
>>Ritsuko
Good point on that line in the opening paragraph. The sentence didn't particularly bother me on first read, but it would be easy to trim it down, and it's hard to go wrong by making your opening paragraph clearer and more punchy:
(At first I had "the stars were dimmed by…", but all other things being equal, retaining the original sentence's passive voice dulls the tone. I played around with the even-more-active "The stars shone…" etc. — that active verb would be my choice if I were rewriting it from scratch, but it doesn't work as well with the comment about their gaze.)
Good point on that line in the opening paragraph. The sentence didn't particularly bother me on first read, but it would be easy to trim it down, and it's hard to go wrong by making your opening paragraph clearer and more punchy:
The stars only barely peeked into the room—dimmed as they were by the sheer drapes covering the windows—but Zarund felt their gaze all the same.
The stars were barely visible through the sheer drapes covering the windows, but Zarund felt their gaze all the same.
(At first I had "the stars were dimmed by…", but all other things being equal, retaining the original sentence's passive voice dulls the tone. I played around with the even-more-active "The stars shone…" etc. — that active verb would be my choice if I were rewriting it from scratch, but it doesn't work as well with the comment about their gaze.)
...what?
I mean, alright, I guess he wins in the end (for given values of 'win') but why on earth would stabbing the floor accomplish that? I'm probably missing something obvious, but I don't get it.
Also, this Queen is a real brat. She's all 'woe is meeeee' but then turns around and says 'suck it up' to her right-hand man. Like seriously, is she actually a psychopath, or is she incapable of seeing how selfish she's being? 'It's really sad that all my family is dead, but I don't mind ordering you to kill your own because reasons.' This guy is obviously doing the world a favor, even disregarding how everything changed when thefire nation Northlit Forge attacked.
I dunno. I kinda wanted to like this one; it's got a legendary fantasy feel to it that I enjoy, and the focus on relationships seemed promising. But... I didn't really get any conflict I could engage with until about 2/3rds of the way in, and that made it rather a slog to get through. It doesn't help that for most of this, we're reading a story about a story about a story, and that was, I think, more distance than useful. It not only made it more confusing than necessary, I think, it also made the stakes just about as light as possible.
At the very least, consider removing one step for the first few scenes; have him actually telling the story to his children, instead of telling us the story of telling his children. I felt like the framing didn't do much good there, and it would also let you cut those awkward italics everywhere.
This one was confusing and hard to engage with, but it was also cleanly written for the most part, had some interesting character work (mostly on the MC) and had a flavor that I really wanted to enjoy. The ending and the experimental viewpoint didn't work for me, but the rest of it was pretty good.
I mean, alright, I guess he wins in the end (for given values of 'win') but why on earth would stabbing the floor accomplish that? I'm probably missing something obvious, but I don't get it.
Also, this Queen is a real brat. She's all 'woe is meeeee' but then turns around and says 'suck it up' to her right-hand man. Like seriously, is she actually a psychopath, or is she incapable of seeing how selfish she's being? 'It's really sad that all my family is dead, but I don't mind ordering you to kill your own because reasons.' This guy is obviously doing the world a favor, even disregarding how everything changed when the
I dunno. I kinda wanted to like this one; it's got a legendary fantasy feel to it that I enjoy, and the focus on relationships seemed promising. But... I didn't really get any conflict I could engage with until about 2/3rds of the way in, and that made it rather a slog to get through. It doesn't help that for most of this, we're reading a story about a story about a story, and that was, I think, more distance than useful. It not only made it more confusing than necessary, I think, it also made the stakes just about as light as possible.
At the very least, consider removing one step for the first few scenes; have him actually telling the story to his children, instead of telling us the story of telling his children. I felt like the framing didn't do much good there, and it would also let you cut those awkward italics everywhere.
This one was confusing and hard to engage with, but it was also cleanly written for the most part, had some interesting character work (mostly on the MC) and had a flavor that I really wanted to enjoy. The ending and the experimental viewpoint didn't work for me, but the rest of it was pretty good.
READ - The Northernlit Forge — A+ — Smooth hook, and smooth storytelling. Drags you right in. I’m really not able to point out any flaws, but I enjoyed the heck out of it and will see it in the medal category, no doubt.
>>Not_A_Hat Answer to your question: There's a river of lava beneath their feet, and he's taking her swimming with him.
>>Not_A_Hat Answer to your question: There's a river of lava beneath their feet, and he's taking her swimming with him.
This, unfortunately, does not work for me at all. While the idea is interesting, the story really lacks any clear emotional through lines. There's no real meat to sink your teeth into. You get melancholy early on, but you have no idea why until like, 3000 words in, at which point the story has spun off in a really bizarre direction. Moreover, without anything to really engage with, the assault of names from two separate storylines just gets overwhelming.
Moreover, you keep changing the shape of the story with a story format, which makes it extra hard to track what's going on at any given moment.
All told, you tell two different stories, but both of them lack clear (or even existant, really) narrative arcs, which gives me as the reader very little reason to want to invest in them. I think you'd be better served by picking one of these stories and just telling -that- story.
That said, the actual prose is pretty decent, and the ideas and emotions at work are intriguing, but the package they're wrapped in needs to be cleaned up.
Moreover, you keep changing the shape of the story with a story format, which makes it extra hard to track what's going on at any given moment.
All told, you tell two different stories, but both of them lack clear (or even existant, really) narrative arcs, which gives me as the reader very little reason to want to invest in them. I think you'd be better served by picking one of these stories and just telling -that- story.
That said, the actual prose is pretty decent, and the ideas and emotions at work are intriguing, but the package they're wrapped in needs to be cleaned up.
>>georg Why would you link me to that siiiiiiiteeee? (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻
Alright, I apparently did miss the river of lava. As I said, it was probably something obvious. :P I'm still not sold on stabbing the floor actually being enough to take down the big bad, but that's probably because the callback didn't feel weighty enough to me.
Alright, I apparently did miss the river of lava. As I said, it was probably something obvious. :P I'm still not sold on stabbing the floor actually being enough to take down the big bad, but that's probably because the callback didn't feel weighty enough to me.
>>AndrewRogue
>>horizon
These posts are about where I'm at with this one. It's extremely confusing, and even now I can't follow the specifics. Nor do I particularly want to, because it didn't hook me. Nor do I see much that could be done to improve it without a total overhaul.
Despite this, it's somehow ending up around the middle of the pack for me, because it is at least stylish in its failings. It didn't make me care about its setting, but I can see enough that would be nice if I did. It rips off Tsukihime, but Tsukihime's awesome so I'm cool with that. So... twas an experiment, shame it didn't work out, that's about all I got, thanks for writing!
>>horizon
These posts are about where I'm at with this one. It's extremely confusing, and even now I can't follow the specifics. Nor do I particularly want to, because it didn't hook me. Nor do I see much that could be done to improve it without a total overhaul.
Despite this, it's somehow ending up around the middle of the pack for me, because it is at least stylish in its failings. It didn't make me care about its setting, but I can see enough that would be nice if I did. It rips off Tsukihime, but Tsukihime's awesome so I'm cool with that. So... twas an experiment, shame it didn't work out, that's about all I got, thanks for writing!
Thank you all very much for your thoughts and comments! This story has a lot of issues (many of them stemming from my lazy refusal to write the story linearly to begin with), but it's the first piece in a long while that I've wanted to fix. I typed out a retrospective, then decided I liked the tl;dr version better, so here it is:
Repeated Writeoff participation helped me realize I want to write a book. This story will hopefully be that book.
(Because it's rather apparent it doesn't work as a flashback-laden bit of literary origami lol thanks for bearing with it y'all)
Repeated Writeoff participation helped me realize I want to write a book. This story will hopefully be that book.
(Because it's rather apparent it doesn't work as a flashback-laden bit of literary origami lol thanks for bearing with it y'all)