Jake Reynolds
Wordslinger
- Joined
- Sep 24, 2010
- Messages
- 638
Hi folks, first part of a short story I've nutted out over the last day or two, using the mythology from my novels. Any thoughts appreciated. This excerpt ends about halfway through the story.
Dawn kisses the mighty Shaboleth.
Built from white stone quarried by slaves in the Mountains of Kazar Rho far to the west, dazzling Shaboleth, Jewel of the Assymian Dominion, was home to pensive philosophers, skilled craftsmen, devious merchants, alluring concubines and one Aphasto Drathis, a skinny little man who loved to watch the first rays of Sahamdra’s sun hit the pearly stone of the city.
He stood in the little garden on the roof of his little house and sighed as the sun struck the towers of the palace directly to the west. He liked to think that the light chose him alone every day as the brightness reflected onto his house, dared to believe he was destined for greatness.
The birds chirped in their ornate brass cages all around him, their cheerful song adding to the serenity of his morning. With dextrous fingers he opened their homes, fed them, gently stroked those that were less aggressive, humming a happy tune as he linked his mind with theirs.
Few knew of his talent for channelling ashan’mai to speak with his little friends; his master, of course, but certainly nobody in Shaboleth. They would likely have him gutted if they knew, for people feared those who could read thoughts. Or, more likely, he would be enslaved to the God King Shiha Shaboleth’s service, doomed to a life of reading the thoughts of others.
However, Aphasto was discreet, and never used his gift for any kind of gain that would earn him such punishment. He knew of one, years ago now, a trader named Ganis Hath who had employed a similar gift to gain the advantage in negotiations. One trick too many, and Hath’s hands and manhood had been nailed to a board outside Merchant House for sixteen days.
No, Aphasto would never risk such a thing. Besides, the Master would be most displeased. Aphasto had little idea what the Master expected of him, but he suspected that being tortured and executed was unlikely. No, he had been told to remain in Shaboleth, and it would not do for Aphasto to question.
He remembered when he had first met the Master, Sarif Kareshi. Kareshi was Azhani, from far beyond the Varellians and even the Andean Empire further eastward still, many months sail away. Though Kareshi was not Assymian, the Azhani had the same dark, desert worn skin, and many had postulated that the peoples were related in some distant past. Aphasto had heard such theories at some of the university lectures he had crept into, but his interests lay elsewhere.
He had been a slave when he had met Kareshi, and still bore the shame of it, despite Kareshi’s assurance that what men claimed to own meant little. Just seven years since Kareshi had convinced him to use his gift to escape his bondage, instructed him how to direct his gift to burrow into thoughts of his enemies, how to escape his chains, and how to leave no witnesses.
The thoughts of his fellow people had never attracted Aphasto very much. Such base creatures, torn by desires that their fear of consequence kept them from indulging. He preferred connecting his thoughts with animals, relishing the clarity of their instinct, the simple nature of beings that made decisions simply to survive, not like man’s complex cacophony.
That was how Kareshi had found him, herding his owner’s goats, creatures made compliant by the steady hand of his will. Few slaves were trusted with livestock, for often they would slaughter them in sacrifice to the Lord of the Underworld in an attempt at freedom. Such prayers were never answered- the Lord of the Underworld having little interest in the cessation of suffering- but the slaves would continue nonetheless, their rustic superstitions embarrassing.
No ignorant prayers from Aphasto Drathis. After being forced into slavery by his useless father’s debts, he saw that by showing his affinity with animals- though hiding the source of it- he could ascend to a degree of comfort in his debt-wrought slavery. Men always saw the profit in healthier beasts for market.
But Kareshi knew of his gift. Kareshi knew immediately, a mysterious visitor to his owner’s estate, watching this skinny goat-herder use the power of ashan’mai to keep a herd of goats in a straight line. How amused Kareshi must have been to have seen the power of ashan’mai, the lifeblood of existence, channelled into so mundane a task!
And so now he found himself in Shaboleth, where he had lived for just over four years. He held a respected position as the liaison to the ships that would come from the Varellians, a lucrative position that enabled him to pass messages to and from their captains. He was aware that they were Varellian pirates and that they had some connection to the Master, but that was all. He would receive messages and leave them in the designated places, occasionally care for something- once a curved sword that seemed to hum with a darkness of its own- or simply allow goods to enter the Dominion. For that he gathered a generous stipend once a month that allowed him to pursue his studies and his worship.
With the sun higher in the sky he descended from its heat, carefully threading his way through his hallway among the delicate figurines he so assiduously collected, stopping only briefly to tap Kurzo, his stuffed winter owl, on his shiny, varnished beak. Sathlo, meowing hungrily, twined about his feet as if jealous of the other animals and sought to cause him to trip and smash them. That the others were stuffed or ceramic meant little to the mangy, grey cat, for either way affection lost was affection envied.
After feeding Sathlo some pieces of flesh he had whittled from his current project, Aphasto dressed for the day’s work in a long, shabby linen robe. Though it was less than comfortable, he liked to approach the Circle of Ruin in his cellar without the vain trappings of mortality. Taking up his steel case and looking forward to the cool temperature of the cellar, he trod the stairs carefully, seeing in the darkness through the eyes of his little friends.
He felt them as he cast his mind outward with each step, smiling as he realised there were far more than before, probably because of the blood he had spilt while procuring Sathlo’s nibbles the night before. He felt them raise their heads as one at the noise, and their senses filled him. Smell was always the best with warmbloods, the way their minds interpreted it almost as words, a language of the animals long lost to mankind. Thousands of words came with a single scent, but few results; most often the scent of danger or food ruled them.
Their little whiskers moist in the dark, their oily, rubbery bodies delightfully malleable, almost boneless, their forelegs always seeking sustenance. It was for this reason that he had chosen a house on the Umbath Canal, so that his furry little friends were always nearby. They were an interesting contrast to the birds above. The rats were not ruled by fear as birds were. In fact, quite the opposite; Aphasto found himself envious of their daring.
Dawn kisses the mighty Shaboleth.
Built from white stone quarried by slaves in the Mountains of Kazar Rho far to the west, dazzling Shaboleth, Jewel of the Assymian Dominion, was home to pensive philosophers, skilled craftsmen, devious merchants, alluring concubines and one Aphasto Drathis, a skinny little man who loved to watch the first rays of Sahamdra’s sun hit the pearly stone of the city.
He stood in the little garden on the roof of his little house and sighed as the sun struck the towers of the palace directly to the west. He liked to think that the light chose him alone every day as the brightness reflected onto his house, dared to believe he was destined for greatness.
The birds chirped in their ornate brass cages all around him, their cheerful song adding to the serenity of his morning. With dextrous fingers he opened their homes, fed them, gently stroked those that were less aggressive, humming a happy tune as he linked his mind with theirs.
Few knew of his talent for channelling ashan’mai to speak with his little friends; his master, of course, but certainly nobody in Shaboleth. They would likely have him gutted if they knew, for people feared those who could read thoughts. Or, more likely, he would be enslaved to the God King Shiha Shaboleth’s service, doomed to a life of reading the thoughts of others.
However, Aphasto was discreet, and never used his gift for any kind of gain that would earn him such punishment. He knew of one, years ago now, a trader named Ganis Hath who had employed a similar gift to gain the advantage in negotiations. One trick too many, and Hath’s hands and manhood had been nailed to a board outside Merchant House for sixteen days.
No, Aphasto would never risk such a thing. Besides, the Master would be most displeased. Aphasto had little idea what the Master expected of him, but he suspected that being tortured and executed was unlikely. No, he had been told to remain in Shaboleth, and it would not do for Aphasto to question.
He remembered when he had first met the Master, Sarif Kareshi. Kareshi was Azhani, from far beyond the Varellians and even the Andean Empire further eastward still, many months sail away. Though Kareshi was not Assymian, the Azhani had the same dark, desert worn skin, and many had postulated that the peoples were related in some distant past. Aphasto had heard such theories at some of the university lectures he had crept into, but his interests lay elsewhere.
He had been a slave when he had met Kareshi, and still bore the shame of it, despite Kareshi’s assurance that what men claimed to own meant little. Just seven years since Kareshi had convinced him to use his gift to escape his bondage, instructed him how to direct his gift to burrow into thoughts of his enemies, how to escape his chains, and how to leave no witnesses.
The thoughts of his fellow people had never attracted Aphasto very much. Such base creatures, torn by desires that their fear of consequence kept them from indulging. He preferred connecting his thoughts with animals, relishing the clarity of their instinct, the simple nature of beings that made decisions simply to survive, not like man’s complex cacophony.
That was how Kareshi had found him, herding his owner’s goats, creatures made compliant by the steady hand of his will. Few slaves were trusted with livestock, for often they would slaughter them in sacrifice to the Lord of the Underworld in an attempt at freedom. Such prayers were never answered- the Lord of the Underworld having little interest in the cessation of suffering- but the slaves would continue nonetheless, their rustic superstitions embarrassing.
No ignorant prayers from Aphasto Drathis. After being forced into slavery by his useless father’s debts, he saw that by showing his affinity with animals- though hiding the source of it- he could ascend to a degree of comfort in his debt-wrought slavery. Men always saw the profit in healthier beasts for market.
But Kareshi knew of his gift. Kareshi knew immediately, a mysterious visitor to his owner’s estate, watching this skinny goat-herder use the power of ashan’mai to keep a herd of goats in a straight line. How amused Kareshi must have been to have seen the power of ashan’mai, the lifeblood of existence, channelled into so mundane a task!
And so now he found himself in Shaboleth, where he had lived for just over four years. He held a respected position as the liaison to the ships that would come from the Varellians, a lucrative position that enabled him to pass messages to and from their captains. He was aware that they were Varellian pirates and that they had some connection to the Master, but that was all. He would receive messages and leave them in the designated places, occasionally care for something- once a curved sword that seemed to hum with a darkness of its own- or simply allow goods to enter the Dominion. For that he gathered a generous stipend once a month that allowed him to pursue his studies and his worship.
With the sun higher in the sky he descended from its heat, carefully threading his way through his hallway among the delicate figurines he so assiduously collected, stopping only briefly to tap Kurzo, his stuffed winter owl, on his shiny, varnished beak. Sathlo, meowing hungrily, twined about his feet as if jealous of the other animals and sought to cause him to trip and smash them. That the others were stuffed or ceramic meant little to the mangy, grey cat, for either way affection lost was affection envied.
After feeding Sathlo some pieces of flesh he had whittled from his current project, Aphasto dressed for the day’s work in a long, shabby linen robe. Though it was less than comfortable, he liked to approach the Circle of Ruin in his cellar without the vain trappings of mortality. Taking up his steel case and looking forward to the cool temperature of the cellar, he trod the stairs carefully, seeing in the darkness through the eyes of his little friends.
He felt them as he cast his mind outward with each step, smiling as he realised there were far more than before, probably because of the blood he had spilt while procuring Sathlo’s nibbles the night before. He felt them raise their heads as one at the noise, and their senses filled him. Smell was always the best with warmbloods, the way their minds interpreted it almost as words, a language of the animals long lost to mankind. Thousands of words came with a single scent, but few results; most often the scent of danger or food ruled them.
Their little whiskers moist in the dark, their oily, rubbery bodies delightfully malleable, almost boneless, their forelegs always seeking sustenance. It was for this reason that he had chosen a house on the Umbath Canal, so that his furry little friends were always nearby. They were an interesting contrast to the birds above. The rats were not ruled by fear as birds were. In fact, quite the opposite; Aphasto found himself envious of their daring.
