The CoF project started as a monthly fantasy serial for a leading International Martial Arts magazine based in Australia. Each of us was tasked with developing a character of our own which would be woven into a quest driven tale of good triumphing over evil. The plan was that each month one of us would submit an episode surrounding our own individual characters. To what end? It was an experiment in diversifying what started out as a rather lineal plot, developed as such due to the limitations of the medium in which it was to be published, whilst pandering to the primal human nature – laziness. Instead of one person striving to punch out each monthly instalment, we had five people working a five month rotation.
However, once we sunk our teeth into the project two things became blatantly clear - the lines between good and evil are invariably blurred and CoF was a tale that warranted, nay, deserved to be expanded into a novel format and further developed into a trilogy. Therefore Deborah and myself have taken up the reins to bring CoF to life, whilst Tiani and Julia have volunteered to don their editorial caps and tear apart everything we place before them.
The following is an excerpt from Shadow Veil – Book One of Child of Fate. We hope you enjoy it.
Chris
Child of Fate Book One - Shadow Veil (Excerpt)
The Plains of Brion“They scoffed at rumour.” The cry of the herald rose high above the din of the meandering crowd and hawkers managing to drag themselves from their tents and wagons for the morning’s market. Cook fire smoke choked the air whilst, in the distance, fires of an entirely different nature set the sky to an ashen grey.
“Rabble, they called us, little more than animals.” The herald persisted with his proclamation. “They believe North of the Lion’s Mane we are lions without a pride; leaderless nomads too bent on fighting each other to ever turn our attentions south.” Jeers and hissing greeted him, yet he smiled and raised his hands to pacify the throng of on-lookers. “That a War Leader could pull the clans into unity was mere speculation. Who thought such rubbish! The southern nobles: safe behind stone and forest, wind and sea; preened their feathers and feasted their Gelded King and his Witch Queen on empty words, shallow promises.” More hissing and growls of discontent. “But we northern folk know better, knew better.” He waved his hand from side to side with eyebrows raised in exclamation. His voice dropped to but a breath above the din. The crowd drew nearer, eager to heed his carefully orchestrated speech. “It was an ill wind that pushed the smell of the lion’s den south. The people beneath the Lion’s Mane became uneasy and rightfully cast their nervous eyes north. Their lesson would be simple to hear, yet much harder to bear - Only the foolish turn their backs when the lion hunts!”
The mob roared. Spirits buoyed yet again by words painstakingly selected to maintain morale and a semblance of order within the ocean of tents and wagons.
“War rode into Ceduna.” The herald began to pace upon the back of the goods wagon, deftly maintaining his footing across boxes and barrels alike. Bent down towards his audience, his hands moved in a descriptive flurry to emphasise each word.
“For three days, clouds of dust rose over the mountain pass. And when it settled, when the ground lay rock-hard, under the endless march of cavalry and infantry.” He waved his hand over the assembled people. “And camp followers alike, the pride had assembled. Like gathered storm clouds, we banked up north of the Great Plain, swelling to darken the land with our ranks . . .” The herald caught sight of one among the listeners, a non-believer by the defensive stance he had taken when he had settled amongst the crowd. His pale hood shrouded much of his face and that much that was visible appeared shadowy, dark. There was something about that square jaw that suggested an intense scowl, perhaps it was the thin line of tightly pressed lips. Whatever it was, it made the herald balk and stammer over his next pre-ordained lines.
“By . . . by.” He blinked. “By the fourth morning,” his eyes followed the cloaked man as he set on the move again, wending his way through the throng; a gentle touch at the backs of others parted the crowd before him, drawing him nearer the wagon - closer to the increasingly nervous herald. “They . . . were ready.”
The herald glanced at his body slave, an Ashani eunuch, garbed in a caftan and armed with a long curved scimitar – both denoting his exotic heritage. The slave had not missed the implied threat of the stranger’s approach, his hand dropped to the pommel of his sword in silent warning. Likewise the stranger noted the slave’s movement and disturbingly seemed nonplussed. He simply continued to draw closer, a hand slipping within his coat.
Just when the herald felt his nerves could take no more. When the man’s hand came to rest on the edge of the wagon and the herald was about to run screaming for his life, an acolyte stepped into view and cut the stranger off. It was then that the herald realised the brute had not been approaching him directly, but had been attempting to avoid the acolyte and the small squad of guards that accompanied him.
“His Eminence has need of your talents and requests you attend him,” the acolyte was forced to raise his voice over the crowd, as it grew restless from the herald’s faltering speech.
“His Eminence can kiss my arse.”
The words struck those within ear shot like a slap in the face, even the herald stood slack jawed in disbelief as the man stepped around the acolyte with a complete disregard that would have seen most flogged where they stood.
“Please,” the acolyte persisted and grabbed the stranger by the arm. He released his grip instantly as though he had grabbed a hot poker. “His Eminence insists most humbly.”
The man leaned forward, as did the herald to hear the exchange all the better.
“Who do you fear more, boy, me or your master?”
“To tell truth of the matter,” the acolyte had lost all bearing of authority and now appeared little more than the wet-behind-the-ears youth that he was. “A death dealt by you would be quicker than by he.”
The man leered. It wasn’t something the herald saw as much as felt; a predatory hunger that filled the air and threatened to consume anyone or everyone within its reach. “Do not be so sure of that.” He straightened and eyed the nervous guards with contempt. “So be it, lead the way.”
The youth sighed with relief and as the squad fell in behind, the man turned his attention to the herald, producing a trin from beneath his coat.
“Fine words,” he said as he tossed the dull coin up to the herald. “See that the conclusion is befitting the start.”
The herald blinked several times, the trin held tightly in the palm of his hand, as he regarded the broad back of the stranger until a restless murmur drew his attention back to his audience, forcing him to compose and continue.
“Wheeling as a constellation of stars,” he began. “We turned our steeds and rabid desires south. Moving quickly, the Lion’s Horde laid waste to the upper lands, leaving ruin and devastation in our wake. The defenders fought fiercely. Brave men turned cowards and cowards became heroes. Heroes died and wives became widows. Others fled, homeless, a drifting mass of refugees that grew larger with each passing moon and flooded the land in warning of our approach.
“Finally, the Lion’s army drew to a halt and the very land held its breath. The final bastion of resistance stood like a beacon of defiance.” He cast his hand back over his shoulder at the looming shadow beyond the smoke. “Behold Castle Brion! Where King Mykael cowers beneath the hem of Queen Serenea, the heretic whore!”
***
“Do you really think they believe that over dramatisation?” the acolyte said, hurrying to keep up with the General. “It is rather farcical compared with the reality of Lord Japor’s conquests.” The big man was maintaining a decent pace, forcing the shaman's aid to skip every second or third step in order to keep up.
“Reality matters little to the mob,” Kultah replied as he suddenly changed direction, causing the acolyte to break into a trot. For a big man he had a knack for avoiding the calamity of scattered pottery, chickens, dogs and children that populated this part of the camp. The General picked his way through the riot of gaudy tents noting the random manner they had been hastily erected. Patterns within patterns, he mused. The people here were unaffected by the need for orderliness. Kultah grunted. There is order even in chaos . . . if one had the inclination to look. They crossed the tract of land separating the followers’ camp from the military precision of the army tents. “It is their perception of righteousness that matters. If hearing that Mykael is a coward and his queen a witch, makes them feel better about taking the lives of women and children, then so be it. No matter what is said by perfumed heralds or arse-lickers reeking of scented whores, this siege ends today.”
He paused so the acolyte could catch up. From where he stood he could see the army was mustering . . . time was short. Kultah nodded to himself and breathed a sigh of relief. About time. Picking up the pace, he headed down the corridor of tents eager to reach his destination.
The rising sun was a fiery globe set against a vault of cerulean blue by the time they reached the Shaman’s pavilion. The morning sun in Ceduna reminded Kultah of his homeland, the Asharni Steppes. It was one of the many reasons he hated this place.
They arrived in front of a large colourful pavilion. More suited for the follower’s camp, Kultah thought roaming his gaze over the ugly structure. He motioned for the acolyte to stay put and pushed aside the flap, ducking his head through the entrance.
Smoke filled the large tent, stinging the General’s eyes. He blinked tears away and brushed aside a chain of delicate bones dangling from the ceiling. The whispered chanting inside the pavilion was enough to set his teeth on edge, it grated against his nerves like finger nails drawn across slate. Beyond the curtain of bone chimes an old woman writhed in what could only be described as an act of agony . . . or ecstacy, depending upon what illusions had distorted the old hag’s mind. And there was no doubt they were illusions judging by the stench of burning poppy. Standing over her was the Shaman. Warlord Secar Japor’s spiritual guide and Kultah Vultin’s most reviled, but also most necessary, ally was a squat ugly woman as far as the General was concerned. There was a fine line between both, he figured. Self indulgence had insinuated itself upon the Shaman to such a degree it was difficult to tell. Not that it mattered, ugly was ugly in Kultah’s books, no matter how you draped it.
He hitched his shoulders and planted huge fists onto his hips. “This had better be good, Shaman,” he growled.
Ignoring the lack of formality, the shaman pulled a piece of red cloth from his sash and tossed it over. “What do you see?” he demanded, his puffed lips twisting in a sneer.
Kultah gritted his teeth. The urge to throttle the zealot was so tempting he had to forcibly restrain himself. Surely the Warlord could find another Shaman somewhere? Perhaps not . . .
He released the pent up breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and pulled the cloth straight between his large dark palms. His brow creased with bewilderment. “Looks like a two headed cow trying to fuck itself.”
The shaman clucked his tongue and muttered to himself something about thick-necked, bone headed Asharnies. Kultah flushed deep red and his fingers began to flex.
The zealot stabbed a pudgy finger at the cloth. “That is an ink divination taken from the daughter of a cloth dyer, in the camp followers’ train three days ago.” He turned and reached into a large deer-hide bag that hung from a peg on the pavilion’s back wall.
Kultah raised an eyebrow. “So what? Children draw all manner of ridiculous imaginings.”
“Ah! But this girl is rumoured to have spiritual abilities.” The shaman finished ferreting through his bag and produced a bundle of swaddled cloth, soaked in a putrid bloody muck. He held it out.
“Looks like you have been spreading a little more than your wisdom among the commoners.” The General smirked. “Let me guess, her mother was in need of personal spiritual . . . guidance, whilst husband was slaving over his dye vats.”
“Your cock controls your head, ox!” the shaman shouted. He jabbed at the cloth. “She scribes such creations despite being struck blind at birth by pox.”
The General narrowed his eyes. “Like I said, more than just your wisdom.”
Snapping his teeth shut, the zealot ground out his words. “The girl’s father has a cow that dropped this last night.” He offered the swaddled rags for Kultah’s inspection.
The big man began to unwrap the cloth, carefully peeling back the layers stuck together with dried blood. The stench was over-whelming, quelling the smell of both the burning incense and reek of sweat filled furs. When it was finally done, the General gazed down with an unreadable expression.
“Well?” The shaman persisted after a moment of expectant silence.
Kultah shrugged. “Looks like an under developed, two headed calf trying to fuck itself.”
The shaman snatched the foetus away and turned his back so the general could not see the rage that spread across his face, fleetingly as it may have been. “By the ancestors! You can be such an oaf! If his lordship did not hold you so dear I would not have to suffer your jibes.”
“And if he didn’t listen to your ramblings I would not he subjected to this sort of nonsense.” Kultah shot back. “This morning of all mornings!” He pointed towards the pavilion entrance. “Castle Brion awaits, Ceduna is within our grasp and by nightfall Japor shall be crowned emperor of a new realm of his own making. I have more important matters to attend, than listening to the superstitious folly of a twisted and deranged spiritualist who uses the belief’s of those around him to gain wealth and power.”
“It is for the success of this very day that I force my superstitious folly upon you, ox! The spirits have taken an interest in this day and I alone am privy to that knowledge. They have seen fit to warrant an omen.” He wheeled about and cast the foetus into the fire in the centre of the tent. Sparks and ash whirled into the air. Some of the chanting faithful scampered back to prevent the embers taking hold of their clothing. Motioning towards the writhing woman on the floor, he continued, “This hag before you is a Witch Wife of Triarch. She has been taken by fever and vision since seeing your two headed calf.”
The general cast his eyes upon the crone. He had paid little heed of the mumbled words that rolled from her tongue in nonsensical diatribe, but as he leaned closer his dark skin paled to a ghostly grey.
The Shaman looked carefully across at him. “Regrettably, I do not speak The Blood Tongue.”
“Be thankful.” Deliberately he reached up and released the clasp on his right gauntlet and dropped it to the floor before slipping his arm from his boiled leather doublet. The light of the fire flickered along his muscles, gleaming as if reflected from a piece of cut onyx. There was a collective inhale of breath from the chanters and the pavilion fell quiet apart from the muttering of the crone. Writhing from his wrist to shoulder was a tattoo, one of which the Shaman had heard a great deal about, but one he had never actually seen . . . till now. Covering the entire skin like a sheath of armour, the
Grykul Deir - Runes of Death – rippled along the big man’s arm as though a river of molten gold. “
The Varsharg Necrani are not meant for mortal ears,” Kultah said quietly, nodding towards the hag. “The Blood Tongue requires a heavy price, one which few can bear.” He dropped to his knees by the crone and placed his palm upon her fevered brow. The death runes flared to life and began to spiral and swirl up and down his arm. The crone’s brow was slick with perspiration and her breath stank of stale wine and blood, the result of biting her tongue. She continued to incite the
Varsharg Necrani.
“What does she say,” the Shaman whispered and leaned forward eagerly. “What is the will of the ancestors?”
The General silenced the shaman with a cut of his hand and pressed down upon the woman’s head. He bent his ear to her lips.
“
Varsharg loop-de` teiar,” the Witch Wife moaned with a voice drowning in bloodied phlegm.
Kultah sat back, but kept hold of the woman. “She speaks shit,” he finally replied. “She rants about a bloodied couple and the spawn of their embrace.”
“This is not shit!” the shaman exclaimed. “This is omen, as dark and sinister as any that I have borne witness to.” He whipped around as though to head towards the entrance. “The assault cannot continue this day.”
“Whore’s shit and filth!” Kultah exclaimed and leaped to his feet. “These are ramblings of a drugged old hag, nothing more.”
“They confirm the inking and the foetus as one. Two headed cow fucking itself, you say? Bloodied couple embracing says I. And the foetus is the spawn of such an embrace. Mark my words Kultah Vultin, the Witch Queen Serenea has worked dark magic to strike fear into our ranks.”
“You will strike fear into our ranks,” the general growled. “If your acolytes spread word of this omen of yours, they will undermine the morale of my men. You may as well tell Japor to pack up and head for home right now.”
The Shaman paused. For once he looked at a loss. There was little doubt the news would not be favourably received by the Warlord. Turning his shoulders with a sigh he said, “Then what would you have me do?”
Suddenly, the old woman let out a bellow and sat bolt upright, causing both men to start. The Shaman wove a hasty hex before himself and the General reached for his sword. She sat there a moment, the crone. Rheumy eyes filled with tears stared into a place only her mind could see. Intelligence was a dim speck that crossed the black depths of her irises like a grain of wheat in a gale. Swinging her head around, she settled her gaze upon the General. “We are too late,” she implored. “The act is done, the child is born and all shall be undone.”
“Of whom do you speak?” the Shaman insisted, dropping to his knees and shaking her by the shoulders. “Tell me.” His words fell like dead leaves in an orchard.
The crone’s eyes locked on the General and grew wide with terror. “They shall not have me,” she whispered, her words rising with a hysteria that gave Kultah pause. Before he could respond, she snatched a bone knife from her belt and stabbed it into the side of her throat. A sharp twist sent jets of blood spurting from the end of the hollowed ceremonial weapon. The Shaman blanched and jumped back as the dark fluid of life sprayed across his face. In slow motion, the crone toppled forward and slumped to the ground as would a cast rug on a floor.
“Still think me mad?” the Shaman screeched, pointing an accusing finger between the shocked General and the still body of the old woman. His mouth jerked open in disgust as he attempted to wipe the blood from his eyes “A Witch Wife as strong as any I have known slays herself because of a simple vision?”
Kultah shook his head. “She did so because she was mad and influenced by the poppy smoke.” His words seemed to imply she wasn’t the one mad. His pointedness made it clear, Kultah thought the Shaman shared at least some of her disillusions. He turned for the entrance of the pavilion. “Dark omen or not, you cannot let the men learn of this. If you need to say something, make sure it is to our advantage. The success of the day depends upon how you choose to proceed.” That said he swept out of the pavilion and into the relatively fresh air beyond. He had taken but a single breath before the acolyte has at his heels.
“What has happened?” the youth’s face was as white as snow with terror, mirroring some of the terror Kultah could feel etched across his own.
“Best fetch some swaddled cloth, boy,” Kultah Vultin replied grimly. “I believe your master just shit himself.”
