The Pyromancer’s Scroll - A clean serialized epic fantasy novel

Jeremy P. Madsen
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A fantasy world with an afterlife. A fire mage who finds outs he's headed for the wrong side of it. Read by the author. This story is appropriate for all audiences PG and up. jeremypmadsen.substack.com

  1. The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 29: Mercy (LAST released chapter)

    MAY 24

    The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 29: Mercy (LAST released chapter)

    This is the final chapter I’ll be releasing for free on my website and serialized podcast. Thank you for joining me on this journey! It has been a joy to share this book piece by piece over the last 9 months. If you have been intrigued by the story and want to read the last 28 chapters, the whole book is available in ebook, audiobook, paperback, and hardcover options on Amazon, my website, and various other retailers. In the previous chapter, the villain, Lord Salidar, successfully carried out a surprise raid on the royal palace, kidnapping Queen Adara and whisking her away on an airship crewed by hired sky pirates. This happened despite Durrin Rendhart arriving at the palace earlier that day to warn the garrison. The commander in charge, Volthorn, had been suspicious of Durrin’s motives and had dismissed the warning as a false trail. Durrin woke with a start. He jerked upright on his cot. Where was he? Why was everything dark? Memories flooded back. After his disastrous meeting with Volthorn, soldiers had escorted him to a military barrack to remain under guard until he could be escorted from the province. He hadn’t intended to comply, of course. His “cell” was only a room with a wooden ceiling. He had planned to burn his way out as soon as night fell, then backtrack to the castle to interrupt Salidar’s assault. What had happened? He remembered lying down exhausted on his cot in the mid-afternoon, intending to take a short nap. Why hadn’t he awoken? Durrin rolled off the cot. Igniting a flame in his hand for light, he peered under the bed. There it was: a small basin of liquid, hidden out of sight in the far corner—an aquamancy sleep aroma, most likely. Its fumes had subtly filled the room that afternoon, luring him into a deep sleep. “Curse you, Volthorn,” Durrin muttered. He rose and went to the tiny window, listening. In the darkness, far away, he heard the panicked clanging of a bell. “Captain!” he cried, rushing to the door and pounding on it. “Captain! You need to let me out!” After a moment, an annoyed voice answered. “Captain’s asleep. This is Sergeant Barnum.” “Sergeant, you must let me go! Someone’s attacking the palace!” “What in Terramor’s tempests are you talking about?” He didn’t have time for this. Talking his way out would take forever. Durrin stepped back into a one-legged crouch and spun, the other leg and his two arms kept straight out horizontally. Heat and energy sucked toward him from each corner of the room. Then he corkscrewed upright, channeling the vortex into the ceiling. Fire erupted from his outstretched hands, blasting into the dry wood. “What’s going on in there?!” the sergeant shouted. Durrin pulled back his hands. There was now a sizeable hole in the ceiling, the beams around it charred and smoking. “Should have woken the captain,” Durrin said, then gathered energy into his legs and sprung up into the gap. The night was dark, with a chill wind. Most of the streetlamps had long dried out. He ran across the rooftops, leaping over ten-foot gaps without a second thought. The palace lights twinkled ahead of him, half a mile away. Half a mile! Why did that rock-headed korrik put him so far away? He increased his speed. The clanging of the bell grew louder. Something was afire on the right side of the palace—the side with the royal wing. His lungs were burning. How long ago had the attack begun? Three minutes? Five? The raid would be startlingly quick if executed properly, especially if Grimbo’s liquidation grenade worked like he said it would. He redoubled his pace, energy surging around him as the flame in his heart soared. He came to a wide street but cleared it easily, landing with a tumble on the rooftop beyond and rolling back into a run. Shouting and the clash of weapons sounded up ahead as the palace acropolis rose in front of him. He powered into the ascent, springing from rock to rock, flaring the flames in his hands to better see footholds. The slope increased until it became a cliff, and Durrin scrambled up the face, carried by the wave of momentum. He reached the top of the cliff and clung to the stonework of the palace wall, his lungs heaving for breath. His hands and arms stung from half a dozen scrapes and lacerations. As he craned his head upward to find a route of ascent, movement caught his eye. A vast shadow floated in the skies above him, drifting away from the palace as it climbed in altitude. Somewhere above him, a voice bellowed the queen’s name. Durrin collapsed, sinking down with his back to the wall, his legs dangling over the drop. He hung his head between his arms, gasping for air with every ragged breath. He was too late. * * * * * Adara woke slowly from one nightmare into another. First she became aware of her mouth. It was gagged, with a taut, nasty-tasting cloth digging into the sides of her cheeks. Then she registered the thongs digging into her wrists and ankles. The cold hit her next. She was shivering uncontrollably, with goose bumps all over her arms and legs. Chill autumn air swept over her, stripping away any shreds of warmth. It was the cold that convinced her she was no longer dreaming. Adara finally cracked open her eyes, but she saw nothing but darkness. Had she gone blind? Slowly, the darkness gave way to vague shapes. Before her stretched the gondola. Dark figures crouched huddled along its deck. A thick silence hung everywhere. Adara could almost feel it weighing on her. As hard as she strained her ears, she couldn’t hear anything: no wind, no creak of air against canvas, no breathing—only the dull thud of her own heart. Coldness. Darkness. Silence. A tingle started at the hairs of her neck, rippling up her spine and down her limbs. Coldness. Darkness. Silence. Was this what it was like in the Void? As panic threatened to take hold, engrained habits kicked in. Breathe. Release. Adara focused on her breaths, though they came stifled through her nose. Light. Breathe. Darkness. Release. Memories from the attack ripped through her. She saw, again, the avir falling with an arrow in his shoulder, the Hakiru shoving her toward a basket. Hope. Breathe. Fear. Release. Awful reality sunk upon her. She’d been kidnapped, spirited out of her own palace. Now she lay at the mercy of a barbarous race from the far north, a people that gave no thought to taking lives at night. Would they torture her? Kill her? Death at night. . . . The fear of it threatened to consume her, crowding out her attempts to calm herself. Visions of demons and endless agony coursed through her. Breathe. Breathe again. What was the opposite of death? She shivered in the dark, gripped by terror. “Well, well,” a voice murmured, the sound muffled and sluggish. “Look who’s awake.” She struggled to turn her head. In the darkness, she could make out no more than the outline of a tall human standing above her. Unlike the rest of the pirates she had heard, he spoke Lurrian fluently, with the accent of a high-bred aristocrat from Calamar. “I hope your night has been pleasant.” Condescension dripped from his voice. “And I hope your finances are in order. Your kingdom will have to pay a pretty sum to get you back.” He stooped at Adara’s level, his voice falling to little more than a hiss. “That is, assuming no accident befalls you in the meantime.” The hairs tingled on the back of Adara’s neck again. What did he mean by accident? The shadow of a snippen approached. The Calamarvan straightened and turned. “Yes?” “Keep silence, Your Excellency,” the snippen said. Her voice also seemed to come slowly through the air. “Griffins may be near.” The Calamarvan waved his hand. “You doubt the efficacy of my verbomancy needlessly. No one can hear this ship.” “We fear the wind,” the snippen said. “It carries sound far, even when muffled by magic.” As she spoke, a gust rocked the cloudship. Adara toppled onto her side, unable to catch herself with her hands tied. Something cold hit her cheek. A snowflake? The buckling deck had no effect on the snippen, but the Calamarvan stumbled, his hand searching for a handhold. Another human walked up. “This be a wintah gale coming in,” he warned. “If we don’t land in the next hour, be’en discovered will be the least of our worries.” “Is this a ship on the open sea instead of the sky?” the Calamarvan demanded. “Are we threatened by waves or rocks? What prevents us from simply flying with the wind?” Another gust rocked the gondola. Adara’s stomach lurched as the ship got sucked into a sudden updraft. “Yeh don’t brave a winter gale in a cloudship,” the other human said. Adara struggled to place his accent. Dorinian? “It’s madness! The slightest change in air could send us rocket’n up or down. We could be driven miles off course, sent crashing into the Mitrian Mountains, or ripped t’ pieces by hail.” “I say we’re landing,” the snippen declared. The Calamarvan folded his arms. “Landing with a queen that the whole kingdom is looking for?” “Aye. We’re over hill country. There are plenty of places to stow ourselves unseen until the storm blows over.” The Calamarvan turned his back. “I see you are determined. Carry on.” The snippen began barking orders to the crew in a foreign tongue. Soon the ship was alive with activity. Amid all the commotion, the Calamarvan stood like a monolith, silent and brooding, barely visible in the dark. Then he turned to Adara. “If you think this is your chance for rescue, Your Majesty, you are sadly mistaken. No one beyond this ship has the faintest idea where you are.” Adara could scarcely focus on his words as a new gust of air rocked the ship. She shivered from the cold and the terror. Every inhale brought freezing air into her lungs. She grasped at the pain, letting it guide her thoughts. Despair. Release. Hope. Breathe. Though her mouth was gagged, her min

    20 min

  2. MAY 16

    The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 28: Attack

    Twigly and her crew struck halfway through the second watch. Their cloudship dropped through the night sky, their fire pan covered to let the air in their balloon cool and shrink. Twigly leaned over the side, gauging the distance between them and the palace lights below. Two hundred yards. One hundred and seventy. One hundred and fifty. “Steady!” she barked. Line uncovered the fire pan, letting heat rise back into the balloon. Its downward acceleration slowed, but it was still descending. Rapidly. Twigly studied the pattern of lights and shadows beneath her. Jutting out from the main palace complex was a large, round tower, connected by a long walkway: the royal wing. That was their target, a tower barely fifty feet wide. If they missed that, it was a long way down to the base of the acropolis. “Tracking line, deploy!” Azura and Krizmon unlocked a winch, letting a rope rapidly uncoil from its spool. The end already hung off the side, tied to a wickedly large grappling hook. Grimbo perched on top, ready to hook it fast upon contact. The gangly snippen carried a handful of terramantic contraptions that he had assured her would work this time. They had better. She didn’t want another woodpecker fiasco. One hundred yards. Their fall was slowing as they descended into thicker air. But the timing would still be as finicky as petting a hedgehog. The rope, hook, and gadget-obsessed snippen had all become lost in the darkness. Briefly, Twigly saw a shadow block out some of the lights below her. That would be Bladebeak, grabbing the rope in his beak to guide it toward its target. “A hair to the left!” Twigly barked. Tadgh turned the tiller, which rotated a large fin extending behind the ship. She felt the gondola slip slightly to the left in response. “Seventy yards,” she called. The korriks at the winch applied a brake, slowing the rope’s release. “Mark fifty,” Azura shouted as a black band on the rope flashed past. “Fifty-five.” A clack sounded far below—the sound of metal colliding with roof tile. Twigly leaned over the edge, holding her breath. She’d misjudged the distance by a dozen yards. A shout in Lurrian broke the night air. “What was that? Who’s there?” Forty yards. “Reel it in,” Twigly said, softer this time. “Keep it taut.” She noted the angle of the rope extending from the rail. “A pinch to the right.” Thirty yards. No more sounds came from below. In the night, the rope would be nearly invisible. And no one ever thought to look up. Twenty-five. She could see their target clearly now, illuminated by the light of the Far Moon as it flitted between clouds. The royal wing was built like a three-layer cake, three concentric towers stacked on top of each other. The topmost tower, little more than a turret, was just a watch post. She knew from Durrin’s schematics that the middle tower had two floors, with the queen’s bedchambers on the upper floor and her offices on the lower. The third tower, forming the base of the cake, held peripheral offices and storage. The lower two towers had flat tops, patios with crenelated parapets. Twigly could see two guards, one on the lower patio and one on the upper. Only two—that was a relief. There were more inside, undoubtedly, but two for starters wasn’t bad. Maybe her crew could even pull this off without killing anyone. She knew the Hakiru lacked her religious qualms about killing at night. But that didn’t make her qualms any less persistent. And no one on her crew wanted unnecessary bloodshed. Twenty yards. Twigly raised her paw to her mouth and sounded a shrill whistle. The two guards on the tower both looked up, their alarmed expressions flashing in the light of the lumen lanterns they carried. Then Bladebeak slammed into one, slicing through the darkness without warning. Grimbo jumped onto the other from above, pouring orange terracharge from his fingers into the guard’s armor. The guard’s movements seized up as his armor locked around him, and he toppled to the ground. Would you look at that? Grimbo’s idea actually worked. Fifteen yards. “Anchors away!” Twigly cried. Krizmon and Azura knocked two more winches loose, and the ship shuddered upward as it was relieved of two iron anchors, each weighing a hundred pounds. They crashed into the stonework below in a chorus of thunderous clangs. If the assault so far had gone unnoticed, that advantage had now ended. “Over the side!” Twigly shouted, leading the way. Adrenaline spiked in her veins as she wrapped her limbs and tail around one of the anchor ropes, sliding down at a furious but controlled pace. As she approached the top of the lower tower, she drew a long dirk from her belt and stuck it between her teeth. Pyromancer or no pyromancer on their side, it was time to capture royalty. * * * * * A resounding smash shattered Adara’s dreams. She bolted upright in bed, heart pounding. Another smash sounded. The whole room shook from the impact. What was going on? Adara slipped out of bed and ran to one of her bedroom windows. Shouts came from outside. A shape flashed past her window, making her start in surprise. A second shape followed a moment later—it looked like a humanoid figure, sliding downward on a rope. The shouts outside multiplied, joined by the clash of metal on metal. An attack! The words of her nightmare resounded in her memory: “An avir’s life is in peril. To the skies, beware!” Someone pounded on the door to her chamber. “Your Majesty!” She recognized the voice of one of her guards. “I’m here,” she called, running to the door. “What’s going on?” “I don’t know. Warriors—invaders—out of nowhere!” She fumbled for the heavy crossbeam barring the door. “Should we retreat to the lower levels?” A second guard answered. “No! Stay where you are. The door is strong. We’ll hold them off until reinforcements arrive.” It hit Adara then. They were coming for her. Whoever they were—Calamarvans, bandits, assassins—they weren’t attacking the entire palace, just the royal wing. Adara looked about the room, unsure what to do. She snatched an overcoat and slippers, putting them on over her nightgown. Somewhere in the distance, a bell clanged in alarm. Then, in the middle of the shouts and cries and clanging, she heard a most unusual sound: a drip. Adara turned, sweeping her circular chamber for the source. Close to the wall, opposite the door, the ceiling was bulging downward. As she watched, another fat drop of liquid stone fell. It solidified before it hit the ground, shattering on impact. She ran back to the door. “They’re melting the ceiling!” There was a pause before the guards responded. “Excuse us, Your Majesty?” She rephrased. “Terramancy! They’re using it to liquify the stone!” “Then we need to get you out of there!” one of the guards said. “Hurry!” In the semi-darkness, Adara fumbled at the crossbeam and the two locks on her door. Opening them now seemed to take twice as long as normal. Finally, she flung open the door. Two korriks were there: Rimrock and Shaq, if she remembered their names correctly. They both had their swords drawn, their faces tight with focus. “Quickly!” Rimrock cried before hurrying down the stairs. Adara followed, clutching the hem of her skirt to avoid falling on the steep steps. They came to a landing, where two other korriks were waiting. “Someone’s coming up!” one warned. Rimrock and Shaq skidded to a halt, and the four korriks filled the stairwell with their short swords and bucklers. Another guard, an avir, staggered up the stairs, panting. “They’re breaking through the door down below!” “Get behind me!” Rimrock shouted. “Your Majesty, get down!” Adara found herself boxed into the corner of the landing, the avir covering her with his shield, the korriks in front, their swords out. Her heart pounded in her chest, cold sweat beading on her forehead. “How many are there?” Shaq asked. “At least a half dozen,” the avir said. “Hakiru bandits, I think.” Hakiru . . . the air traders? Adara had seen their cloudships in the sky on occasion. But she had never met one face-to-face. Why were they after her? Had they made an alliance with Calamar? Rimrock drew a vial from his pocket, popping the cork out and taking a swig. “Extract of initiative,” he said, passing around the aquamantic potion. “Shortens your reaction time.” Adara took a sip. The liquid was sharp and bitter, with a hint of garlic. It sent a shock through her nerves as she swallowed. She blinked. Everything around her seemed to become crisper. A crash came from above them, reverberating through the stones. “That would be my bedroom ceiling,” Adara warned. Shaq handed her a dagger. “You may need this.” She gripped the weapon awkwardly in her hand, unsure whether to hold it like a paring knife or a scepter. Shouts and cries echoed up the stairwell from the chamber below. The Hakiru must have smashed through the door. This was it. They were trapped. Adara looked around her. The potion in her veins seemed to extend each second, allowing her to process tiny details. The avir’s chest was heaving, his shield shaking in his hand. His face was white with fear. He was probably a recent recruit, with this his first battle. The korriks surrounding her held their weapons at the ready, bodies braced to defend. They exchanged glances, smiling. Rimrock even winked at his brother. They seemed eager to fight, even excited, poised like a band of boys ready to begin a footrace. Adara had never been around korriks before a fight. She’d been told that korriks had a natural affinity for war that other species lacked. She had seen an echo of that zeal many times as the korriks in her retinue sparred with each other or boasted of the battles they had been in. But to see it firsthand unsettled her. She was glad she had been born an avir. They would die for me, s

    20 min
  3. The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 27: Warnings and Reactions

    MAY 6

    The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 27: Warnings and Reactions

    [Where we last left off, the pyromancer Durrin Rendhart confronted his conniving employer, Salidar Aram, and rejected Salidar’s cause and the kidnapping he had hired Durrin to perform. Durrin then strode into the woods, intent to ride to the capital city of Saven and raise the alarm about Salidar’s pending attack.] Later that day. A bell tinkled as the door to the Dozy Donkey swung open. The red-headed avir at the counter looked up disinterestedly. Then his eyes widened. “You!” “Me,” said Durrin. He dropped a chunk of silver on the counter. “Twenty shekels—what I owe you for the horse, plus interest.” Before the avir could form a response, Durrin turned and strode back out the door. * * * * * Adara tapped her foot in the antechamber outside Volthorn’s office, looking around. So this is what it’s like to be kept waiting, she thought. As the only child of royalty, she had normally commanded the instant attention of anyone she needed to talk to. Sighing, Adara surveyed the smattering of military personnel in the room. They sat nervously at various tables around her, scribbling their way through paperwork. As in many bookkeeping jobs—where size or strength didn’t matter—most of them were snippens. They seemed to be doing their very best to look busy and professional with their monarch in the room. A soldier exited Volthorn’s office and bowed low. “The commander is ready now, Your Majesty.” “Thank you, Captain,” Adara said, giving a slight nod as she walked past him. It occurred to her that she actually wasn’t certain of his exact rank. Interpreting military insignia had never been her strong suit. Volthorn greeted her inside, showing her the best chair in the room. “Your Majesty,” he said, sounding flustered. “I must apologize. As you know, I just arrived after a long ride, and I needed a few minutes to clean up and change my uniform—” Adara held up a hand. “Please, Commander. It’s all right. Waiting won’t kill me.” It was a funny thing to say. The sense of urgency and danger from the night before had stayed with her since she’d woken up. All day, as she had waited for Volthorn to arrive at the capital, she had failed to shake the feeling that yes, too much waiting could put her very life at risk. Volthorn sat down behind a large desk, clearing away a smattering of parchments. “What do you need, Your Majesty?” “I’m concerned about my quarters in the royal wing,” Adara said. “I would like to be moved to another part of the palace.” Volthorn frowned, leaning forward. “What, exactly, is your concern?” “I feel too exposed,” Adara said. “I’m in an isolated tower, surrounded by open sky. It just feels . . .” She paused, wondering if she should tell Volthorn about her nightmare. Would he think she was acting out of paranoia? “. . . It just feels wrong,” she finished. “Unsafe.” Volthorn nodded slowly, drumming his claws on the table. “I see. But I must reassure you, Your Highness. You’re in the royal wing for a reason— not just because of the four-poster feather bed. It’s by far the most secure part of the palace. The wing is built at the tallest edge of the acropolis, meaning besides the forty-foot walls of your tower, there’s another forty to fifty feet of nearly sheer cliffs beneath that. There’s only two entrances to the entire wing, and three guarded checkpoints to get to your quarters. The windows in your room are tempered glass reinforced with iron bars, with voidstone inlays to protect them from magical assault.” Volthorn shifted in his chair. “Now let’s compare that to the rest of the palace. Passages and staircases are everywhere. Security is loose at night and nearly unmanageable during the day. Servants and visitors are constantly coming in and out. None of the windows are enforced with voidstone. Only the treasury is heavily secured, and that’s hardly a place for a queen to sleep, Your Highness.” Adara frowned. Volthorn’s points made sense—but they failed to quench the gnawing worry inside her. “It still doesn’t feel right, Commander. It’s hard to put into words, but I would feel far more comfortable spending a couple nights away from my usual quarters.” Volthorn leaned back, absently scratching his scalp as he thought. Finally, he straightened. “Your Highness. You know how much your safety means to me. Perhaps you would feel more at ease somewhere else—but I would not. And neither would my officers. We have had many discussions about ensuring your safety. So please trust me on this one.” Adara studied the sincerity and concern on Volthorn’s face. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was letting her nightmare, and the emotions from it, cloud her judgment. “Very well,” Adara said. She cracked a smile. “Besides—I do like that feather bed.” “It’s better than the hard ground, believe me.” Volthorn rose to his feet. “Is that all, Your Highness?” Your Majesty, Adara silently corrected. “Your Highness” had been her title while she was a princess. Some of her advisors and officers still used it occasionally out of habit. “That’s all for today,” Adara said, rising as well. “We’ll have many meetings later, I’m sure.” Volthorn opened the door for her, and she stepped out. The room beyond was even more crowded than before, as a griffin messenger had arrived, escorted by an intelligence officer. They both bowed deeply to Adara before entering Volthorn’s office. Poor Commander Skarr, Adara thought, watching as Volthorn admitted the new arrivals and closed the door. He’s probably even busier than I am. “Ready, Your Majesty?” one of her two bodyguards asked. Adara nodded, and the guards escorted her from the room, one in front of her and the other behind. Since her coronation, she had grown used to having a constant bodyguard. In the corridor outside, Adara and her escorts bumped into a band of six soldiers coming the opposite direction. Amid the soldiers strode a tall man clad in chainmail armor and a long sable cloak. Adara paused, studying him. His face was unfamiliar—this was no guard or servant from the palace. His boots and the hem of his cloak were caked in mud. But it was his bearing that most caught her eye: the way he carried himself, with confidence and vigor, and with purpose in his grim face. He seemed a battle-worn hero come to life from an ancient epic. The other party stopped well short of them. The soldier in the lead bowed low, voicing a greeting, but the others only briefly nodded, their attention flicking between Adara and the man they were escorting. Adara caught the gaze of the tall man. As he noticed her crown and robes, a look of surprise flashed across his face, and he dropped to one knee, bowing his head low. “What do we have here, Captain?” Adara asked, genuinely curious. “Just a man with a message for Commander Skarr, Your Majesty,” the lead soldier said. “I apologize for delaying you.” “It’s all right,” said Adara. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly why, but something about this man had piqued her curiosity. The guards around him looked uneasy and on edge. But although he looked like a capable warrior, she didn’t feel like he posed a threat. “Who are you?” Adara asked, directing her voice at the kneeling man. The man hesitated. “Durrin,” he finally said. “You look like you’ve done a lot of traveling today, Durrin.” He nodded. “The rain has been incessant.” “You traveled far?” “Around forty-five miles, Your Majesty.” Forty-five miles? In the pouring rain? He must have been driving his horse hard the whole day. “What brought you?” Adara asked. The man glanced to either side at the soldiers around him. He hesitated for a moment, his mouth open but no words coming out. Before he found a reply, the officer answered for him. “He has an urgent message for our commander, Your Majesty. Now with your excusal, we won’t take up any more of your time.” The officer moved to pass them, but the tall man stayed where he was, still on one knee. “With your permission, Lieutenant,” Durrin said, “I’d like to say something to Her Majesty.” The soldier paused, obviously uncomfortable with the request but unsure how to handle it. He looked in Adara’s direction, and she held up a hand reassuringly. “Let him talk.” “Your Majesty . . .” The man paused again for several seconds, then continued. “. . . You look very much like your father.” Adara smiled in surprise. “You knew my father?” The man shook his head quickly. “I did not know him. I only met him. Once. Right before he died. Your Majesty.” He paused for a very long time, then continued more slowly, “I’m sorry about your father. Deeply, truly sorry.” Adara had been hearing condoling remarks about her father’s death for seven years. Some were sincere, some were not. Some, from close advisors in the days after the accident, had been as charged with emotion as her own poignant feelings. Others, especially from those outside the royal court, were nothing more than meaningless social gestures upon meeting her. That last type had become more and more common over the years. She had come to hate them. Yet this comment was different from all the others. Yes, it was sincere, but it was something more: this man had an intensity of feeling behind the words, packing each syllable with emotional weight. His voice trembled, as if burdened by the message he was at long last delivering. It was more than a mere condolence. It almost seemed an apology. “Thank you,” Adara said with a tiny voice. She wasn’t sure what else to say. The lieutenant broke the spell with an impressively loud harrumph. The man bowed until his head nearly reached the floor. “Farewell, Your Majesty,” he said, before rising to his feet and letting the soldiers sweep him away. Adara watched them disappear into Volthorn’s

    21 min

  4. APR 22

    The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 26: You’re Welcome

    Author’s note: The audiobook is nearing completion! Just a few more chapters to go. My wife is looking forward to getting our microphone and sound-proofing mattresses out of our recording studio closet :) Back to our regular programming . . . “A pox upon this rain,” Twigly muttered. She struck her flint and steel together again, but the sparks failed to ignite the wet grass she was using for kindling. In the last twenty minutes, each member of the crew had tried and failed to start a fire amid the morning’s intermittent rain. Breakfast needed cooked, and everyone was getting hungry. From the edge of the camp, a certain stuck-up Calamarvan nobleman sniffed. “I hope your crew is more competent at kidnapping than at lighting a fire,” he said. “You’re welcome to take a turn trying,” Twigly said, deliberately catching his gaze. Oh, how she loved seeing him bristle when she did that. “If you succeed, maybe we’ll make you the ship’s cook.” The sound of rustling caused Salidar, Twigly, and the other pirates to look up. The bushes parted as Augerclaw, a swifter that Twigly had posted as sentry, padded into view, his fur glistening with the rain. “Rendhart is finally returning,” Augerclaw reported in Hakiru, as Twigly translated for the vizier. “But he’s changed.” “What do you mean, changed?” the Calamarvan said, a hint of alarm in his voice. “He smells . . . different. Yesterday, he reeked of confusion. Now he smells of resolve.” It took Twigly a moment to get a good translation across to the nobleman. Changing Hakiru into Lurrian felt somewhat akin to forcing a cat to take a bath. Once she did, though, Salidar’s gaze darkened. “I feared this might happen,” he said. “What?” Twigly asked. “Durrin has turned against us. He’s been acting strangely ever since this voyage started. It’s likely one of my opponents found him back in Imperium and offered a substantial price on my head, and he’s finally decided to make good on it.” “Are you sure?” Twigly asked. “That’s quite a lot of assumptions you’re jumping to.” Salidar nodded. “Nearly. I’ll confront him in a moment and find out for sure.” Prancing pumpernickel. Losing Durrin would be a shame. He had become a handy crew member to have around, despite his implacably grim demeanor. Twigly put a hand to her dirk. “Should I ready the crew for an ambush, then?” “That won’t be necessary,” Salidar said. “He’d only see it coming. We only need one.” He gestured to his constantly grumpy steward. “Yorid, get in those bushes with your arrows. Keep your scope on Rendhart and fire on my command.” Yorid’s scowl deepened. “Are you sure I’m enough, Your Excellency? This is Rendhart.” “Then use a voidstone arrow,” Salidar said. Ah, clever. Weapons tipped with voidstone would rip through any mancery used to deflect or block them. Salidar’s answer didn’t seem to fully satisfy Yorid, but he stomped off to do as he’d been told. Twigly watched the steward retrieve his bow and quiver. “What is the command?” she asked. “There are three,” Salidar said. “If I say, ‘I’d be careful if I were you,’ Yorid will fire a warning shot. If I say, ‘Let me teach you a lesson,’ he’ll aim to injure. And if I say, ‘You have been warned,’ he’ll aim to kill.” Twigly turned the phrases over in her head. “Useful. Nefarious. I’m borrowing them.” At that moment, Augerclaw sat up on his hind legs and growled an alarm. Twigly turned to see a red cape slashing through the mist. “Here he comes,” Twigly said. * * * * * After leaving Cymer, Durrin had found a sheltered grotto and caught a couple hours of sleep. The ground had been hard and cold, but for the first time in days, he had slept without nightmares. The rain had awoken him. Throughout the hike back over the ridge to the Hakiru camp, Durrin had sorted through the rush of emotions still lingering from the night before. The guilt. The despair. The creeping horror. The shock. The regret. The glimmer of hope. And he had settled on a plan. As Durrin strode into the pirates’ campsite, he felt a tension that had not been there the night before. No laughter or raucous talk filled the air. The pirates sat around, all absorbed in various tasks. Too absorbed—he’d never seen them so disciplined. His eyes slid over the campsite, counting bodies. He came up short by one. Between him and the unlit campfire stood Salidar. The nobleman seemed absorbed in throwing darts into a nearby tree trunk. Three darts embedded in the same knothole attested to his impressive accuracy. Salidar spoke, not bothering to turn from his game. “I was a little concerned that you’d been captured or killed, Durrin,” he said. “You were gone the whole night.” Durrin drove straight to the point. “I’ve decided that I cannot continue as part of your expedition, Your Excellency.” Lord Salidar slowly pivoted. “A most curious turn of events,” he said, running a finger along the shaft of the dart in his hand. “I was never informed that anyone back in Imperium had given you a counteroffer. How much are they paying you?” Did this man think only of money and politics? “It isn’t about the rewards, Your Excellency,” Durrin said. He retrieved his pack from a pile of gear, conscious of the rest of the pirates watching their conversation closely. “I took a leader from Elandria once. I will not do it again.” Salidar turned back to his game of darts. “Ah, I see now. Don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll get over your cold feet by nightfall.” Durrin took a step closer, until he had Salidar’s attention. “Did you know this whole time who really signed the Guarantee of Trade?” he growled. The shock instead of confusion in Salidar’s eyes told him the truth. “I caused a needless war!” Durrin yelled in the vizier’s face. “If King Everborn were still alive, he and Emperor Stoneclaw would be at peace. Haeber would still be flowing over our borders. My classmates would still be alive!” Salidar stepped backward, drawing himself up to his full height. “Elandria and Calamar were destined to collide. If we had not pursued war on our terms, it would have come on theirs.” Durrin shook his head. “Don’t pretend you’re impartial in all this. How many thousands of shekels have flowed from Elandrian treasuries into Aram Family coffers? How many of your minions have you rewarded with a cushy post as an occupying governor? How many triumphal parades have you thrown in your own honor with the spoils of a conquered people?” Salidar parted his lips to show teeth clenched with fury. “You accuse me of using violence to further my own interests? Perhaps it’s time to look in the mirror.” “I did,” Durrin said. Salidar studied him for a few seconds. “So you refuse to finish your role in this expedition. What will you do instead?” Durrin checked his bag to make sure his gear and rations were still inside. “I’m leaving. I’m never returning to Calamar—or Elandria for that matter.” Mitria. That was the destination he had settled on that morning. He knew the culture, the language. They would accept him. He could leave behind the corruption of the Guild, renounce the crimes of his past, cut all his ties with Salidar and the war. He could start over. He could build a new life—just as Halorn had. The vizier tutted, turning back to his game of darts. “Really? You know, it’s a shame to think of Kymar’s scroll sitting in the Guild’s vault, lying unread all these years. So much knowledge never gained. Power never unleashed.” “You and I both know that their vault never held such a scroll,” Durrin snapped. “And even if it did, I will not sell my integrity again.” The nobleman turned, his eyes suddenly alight. He stabbed a dart into a stump beside him. “Your integrity? You are one to talk about integrity on the day you abandon a critical mission for your people. Have seven years of confinement stripped you of your sense of honor? Remember that Calamar is your country. Every year this war drags on is another year our countrymen die on the battlefield.” Durrin shouldered his pack. “Then tell your diplomats to end this war! Have we not conquered enough? Have we not enacted revenge tenfold for any offense Elandria has committed?” “Elandria is a threat,” Salidar said. “Until we control the haeber routes directly, we will always be at their mercy. This war can only end with their annexation.” “You know that’s not true,” Durrin countered. “You began this war because you wanted power and glory. Well, now you have it—at the blood price of thousands upon thousands of my countrymen!” Salidar drew back. “You know not of what you speak, Rendhart,” he hissed. “You did not visit the Northern Provinces five years ago when the famine there grew fierce. You did not see your people cry for food as they perished with hunger. You did not see their children lie starving in the streets!” “And war is the answer?” Durrin said. “Exchange the misery of our people with the death and bondage of another?” “If that is what it takes, then yes.” Durrin stepped back, surprised at how openly Salidar had answered. The vizier’s voice softened. “Regardless of its cause, Durrin, the war has come. Nothing can change that now. Whatever your feelings toward it, it will run to its foregone conclusion. What you must decide is whether you will prove a hero to your country, or a traitor.” Once again, the memory of a sword red with a king’s blood flashed through Durrin’s mind. “By promoting an unjust war, I betray my country enough,” Durrin said. Salidar’s eyes shifted to shrewd calculation. “If you want this war to end so badly, Rendhart, then see this mission through. A leaderless Elandria would surrender quickly, and then the bloodshed you seem to hate so much would be over.

    19 min

  5. APR 15

    The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 25: Facing the Light

    Author’s note: Thank you to the many readers who have sent me typos! I’ll be correcting all of these in the next printing in about a week, so send me any more that you find! So far, I believe the record is held by Austin M. from Atlanta, Georgia, who found 12 typos. Where we last left off in chapter 23 . . . In the entrance to the vault stood a figure, bathed in light, hands stretched high. The figure’s robes shone as if on fire, and power radiated from his being. Then the figure dropped his hands, and the light faded until Durrin could clearly see his face. It was Cymer. The old avir stepped quietly forward. No surprise or anger was evident on his face—only the same piercing look from the records room in Irongate Isle. “Durrin,” Cymer said at last. “Arise. Have a seat.” A couple of the stone columns had ledges acting as benches. Durrin numbly rose from the floor and sank down onto one. His head still swam in a sea of emotions, and his muscles felt weak and sore, but the disabling terror and despair had vanished. Cymer sat on a nearby ledge, facing him. Durrin looked around, puzzled. Cymer hadn’t brought any light source with him, but the chamber was lit with a soft glow. “So,” Cymer said. “Do you want to talk?” A thousand thoughts swirled in Durrin’s brain. The truth about Arvanon’s reign and the Guarantee of Trade. Halorn’s words about the scroll of Durrin’s fate. The dark force that had almost destroyed him a moment ago. “I don’t know where to begin.” “You broke into a Luminant Order shrine known as the Sanctum of Kings,” said Cymer. “You descended into the burial crypt of the royal house of Everborn, came to grips with your conscience, and was emotionally and mentally assaulted by a demon of nearly unspeakable power, bent on your eternal destruction.” He smiled slightly. “There. I began for you.” “So the shadow was real?” Durrin asked. “I didn’t imagine it?” “The demon was real,” Cymer said. “But not corporal. It did not step through the curtain of sight to inhabit the physical realm. If it had, you and I would likely be dead right now. No, it stayed in the unseen realm. But the depth of your terror allowed you to glimpse its form for a moment.” Durrin stared at the spot where he had seen the shadow. “So everything Halorn said . . . is real,” he murmured. He looked to King Everborn’s sarcophagus, then back to Cymer. “The Guarantee of Trade. Why was it revoked three years ago?” Cymer stood and strode over to the king’s burial place. “Each year, the haeber shortage became more severe. We barely had enough for ourselves, much less enough to meet Calamar’s needs. But King Arvanon had left a legacy of peace, and our regents did all they could to follow in his footsteps.” “The war hawks in Calamar, however, were relentless. Clashes between merchants became ever more frequent, and Calamar moved more and more battalions to the border. At last, our regents concluded that war was inevitable—and it no longer made sense to sell to our enemies what we needed so badly at home.” Cymer ran a hand over the lid of the sarcophagus. “Our regents were never able to build a relationship with Emperor Stoneclaw. If King Arvanon had still been alive . . . who knows. History is full of what-ifs.” Durrin stared at his hands. Salidar had lied to him and used him. But Durrin held a fair share of the blame. He had lived in Elandria for many months. He had heard of Arvanon’s character and knew his reputation among his people for being a peacemaker. But Durrin’s insatiable quest for power had muted both his conscience and his reason. “Cymer—am I doomed?” “Doomed how?” “The stain of blood on the scroll of my fate—can that ever be erased? Or is my soul inescapably condemned to the Void?” He looked up and met the avir’s gaze. Cymer stared at him for a long moment, his eyes seeming to pierce to the center of Durrin’s being. “You are not doomed,” the avir said at last. “Not yet.” Something kindled in Durrin’s chest. It was a fire unlike any he had felt before. Hope. “What must I do?” “You must change,” Cymer said. “You must fix what you have broken. You must replace darkness with light, conflict with peace, hatred with friendship. It will not be easy.” Durrin cast his thoughts to the war gripping both Calamar and Elandria, the thousands in danger of their lives, the millions suffering from famine and deprivation—and the queen in mortal peril. “Where do I begin?” “Your heart knows already,” said Cymer. “Listen to it.” Next Chapter: This story has 57 chapters, a prologue, and an epilogue. I’m releasing a chapter every Tuesday through mid May. The whole story is now available for sale! Get the ebook, audiobook, paperback, and hardcover on Amazon or through my website. What is Durrin going to do now? Find out next week: This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jeremypmadsen.substack.com

    5 min

  6. APR 9

    The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 24: Facing the Darkness

    Author’s Note #1: Today, the podcast Featured Fantasy Reads released Part 2 (of 2) of my short story, “The Aquamancer’s Secret”! Listen to it narrated by Karyne Norton on FindingFantasyReads.com, on Apple Podcasts, on Spotify, on Pandora, or on YouTube. Author’s Note #2: My friend and fellow author of clean, epic, wholesome fantasy, C. Ryan Crockett, just launched a Kickstarter for his first two books! I met Ryan last month because I knew his brother in high school, and Ryan reached out to get advice on running a Kickstarter. Turns out we had quite a bit in common—we were both known to neighbors as the ‘singing lawnmower man’ in high school! Last week I read Ryan’s free novella, Champion of the Condemned, and got sucked into the story of a warrior who lost everything and how he rediscovers the will to stand against evil. If you (or your son) enjoys Ranger’s Apprentice or any of Jeff Wheeler’s books, I think you’ll love Ryan’s Bestowed series. Back to our regular programming . . . Durrin was partway down the ridgeline when he felt the shadow. He sensed it, rather than saw it—a menace behind him, making the hair of his neck stand on end. He turned with a start, raking his vision across the foliage behind him, flaring the flame in his hand to dispel the shadows of the night. Nothing. Nothing he could see, anyway. He hesitantly turned forward and kept picking his way down the ridge. He bent his thoughts to Kymar’s sixth scroll. This had to be the shrine where it was held. If it was like the first five, the scroll would contain diagrams and figures for a new routine. Notes in the margins would explain how the movements unlocked a new power or energy. What would it be? He had heard tales of Kymar using the routine to generate massive explosive energy. But how— He whirled around again, certain this time that he had seen something move in the corner of his vision. But again, nothing. Descending the ridge took forever. The night was nearly completely dark now, with the Near Moon and Far Moon veiled behind clouds. A chill autumn wind blew from the northeast, likely bringing rain in a couple hours. As Durrin drew closer to the shrine, he dared not risk a light, lest it betray his approach. So he pushed cautiously through the dark underbrush, wincing at every rustle he made. The night was chilly, but he found himself sweating, as an irrational sense of haste ate at his gut. At last he came to the complex. An outer wall, twenty feet high, surrounded a series of buildings inside. He saw no guards. Without bothering to look for a gate, he broke into a run, accelerating over the open ground between the forest and the shrine, then propelled himself up the wall in a surge of pyromancy. He perched at the top, scanning the complex for guards or sentries. Nothing. Lights shone in several windows, but nobody seemed to be about in the gardens and courtyards. He studied the layout, guessing the purpose of each building. There were the stables, there a kitchen and dining hall, there a set of dorms. One large structure, perfectly circular with a dome for a room, dominated the exact center of the compound. The archives? Only one way to find out. Durrin leapt off the wall, channeling a blast of heat beneath him to slow his fall, until he landed in an expertly executed tumble. He then stole through the gardens and patios, alert for any sound. Something dark moved in a portico to his right. Durrin froze, his hand on the handle of his sword, eyes combing the portico for more movement. After an eternity, he edged forward, then darted into the portico to catch anyone hiding in its shadows. Nothing. He shook his head. Keep moving. If he found the scroll, what then? He could return to Salidar, complete the mission, win guild mastership. He would have a secret that no other guild master would have. He would be unstoppable. He could have his revenge. Was that what he wanted? Durrin reached a door to the large central structure. Picking the lock in pitch darkness proved nearly impossible, especially since it required two hands so he couldn’t summon a flame to light what he was doing. Finally, recalling an old trick, he generated a flame with his breath, crouching so that his fiery exhale illuminated the lock. He had almost run out of patience—and lung support—when the stubborn lock clicked open. Durrin crept inside, summoning a flame in his hand. Soon he reached a large, circular chamber. The walls were lined with shelves and alcoves, the perfect sizes for scrolls and codices. He stoked the flame in his hand, scattering firelight from his fingers, illuminating . . . nothing. Every alcove and shelf lay empty. “No, no, no!” Durrin strode around the room, almost breaking into a run. He shined his light into each nook. Nothing. Just a few discarded scraps of parchment, clay shards from the occasional broken tablet, or empty ink bottles left on scribal tables. It looked like the archives had been moved—and moved in a hurry. But moved where? And how long ago? Durrin did another fruitless pass around the room, ending at an ornately carved door. It was set halfway into the floor, accessed by a handful of descending steps. Something drew Durrin to it—some sense of mystery or anticipation. This door, too, was locked, but it succumbed almost immediately to Durrin’s lockpick. It swung open, revealing a curving set of steps, descending downward. Cool, dank air blew past him as it escaped its subterranean confines. This was ridiculous. The archives had obviously been moved. What did he expect to find? He should slip out before he was discovered, return to Salidar, and focus on completing the upcoming mission. He flared his light and descended. The stairs made a half-circle turn, then opened to a large but low-ceilinged chamber built directly underneath the archival room. The ceiling was supported by a forest of vaulted arches, sprouting like branches from rows of columns. The sides of the arches formed a series of nooks around the edge of the room. Each nook contained a large stone box. A sarcophagus. The entryway bore an inscription: Here lie the fallen of the Everborn House.May their souls find the light. A shiver ran down his spine. He stood in Elandria’s royal crypt. That same sense of anxious anticipation drove him forward. He crept around the chamber, reading the inscriptions on each tomb. Many names he remembered from his history lessons: Queen Verita, who had expanded Elandria into its western provinces. King Jorman, the longest-reigning king in Elandria’s history, dying at a hundred and seven years old. Other names he didn’t recognize; princes and princesses who had died before their time, many laid to rest in sarcophagi sized for children. Finally, he came to the last occupied nook. The inscription here was unsullied by time: King Arvanon EverbornIn peace he reigned.In flames he perished. King Arvanon. The king whose blood had stained Durrin’s sword. The king whose piercing blue eyes, devoid of fear, had met Durrin’s gaze before his stroke fell. The king whose daughter was mere days from joining him in this crypt. Beneath the epigraph was a longer description. Durrin stooped to read it. Here lies Arvanon, son of Menan and Tiana. Married Queen Mayia of Lindor in his twenty-fifth year. Sired Adara in his twenty-eighth year. Crowned in his twenty-ninth year. A bringer of peace. Ended the seasonal wars with the Mitrians. Settled a dispute between Larrisa and Marisau. Forged a personal friendship with Emperor Stoneclaw of Calamar. Negotiated with Calamar the Treaty of Everlasting Alliance, signed by Emperor Stoneclaw but never ratified by the Imperial Council. A peaceful reign, yet a short life filled with grief. Lost a newborn son in his thirty-first year. Lost Queen Mayia to yellow plague in his thirty-sixth year. In his days arose the great haeber dearth. Implemented rationing during the Long Famine. Negotiated new trade routes through Mitria to raise the dwindling haeber supply. His final royal act, minutes before his death, was to enact the Guarantee of Trade, ensuring continued peace with Calamar. Fell to sudden flames in his fortieth year. May angels guard his soul. “What have I done?” Durrin whispered. If this inscription was true, then Arvanon was no enemy of Calamar, intent on denying Durrin’s homeland of needed resources. This was a leader striking the delicate balance between the demands of his neighbors and the needs of his own people—a man who had devoted his whole life to peace. And the Guarantee of Trade—it hadn’t been signed by co-regents struck with the fear of Calamar in the wake of Durrin’s attack. It had been a gesture of peace by Arvanon himself, signed mere moments before Durrin’s attack. What had he done? He had spilled innocent blood. He had allowed himself to become a pawn in Salidar’s hand, thrusting their nations closer to devastating war. And he had done it—why? For a seat on the Guild Council? For a mythical scroll? His thoughts turned to the present. How could he plan to murder a teenager? How could he follow a man who lived a life of intrigue and deception, a man intent on victory in an unjust war? How could Durrin himself have become so cruel, so calloused, so blind? The shadow—the darkness that had haunted him since sunset—arrived. It slammed into him, driving him to his knees before King Arvanon’s tomb. Overwhelming despair flooded over him, followed by terror and dread and terrible darkness. What have I done? What have I become? Memories flashed before his eyes. Meetings, seven years past, with Lord Salidar: missions of an ever more dubious nature, taking him into dark alleyways and secret chambers in far-off lands. Durrin tried to stand. The world around him tipped. He caught hold of the edge of the sarcophagus to steady himself. Then his arms gave out and he fell flat, prostrate on its cold surface. How could I have been so blind?

    14 min

  7. APR 3

    The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 23: Percolating Flames

    Flames. Flames in the palace. They haunted the hearth of Adara’s bedchamber, crackling, spitting, hissing, a mosaic of reds and golds. She contemplated them. They were angry but subdued. Adara ascended a stairwell. Daylight flooded her. She stood at the pinnacle of the palace, as if at the top of the world. She turned in a circle, taking in the city she had grown to love. The shops. The houses. The people. The many, many, many people. Happy. Prosperous. Peaceful. Then a wind arose and blew the diorama from her eyes. In its place came a new scene—a terrible one. Smoke. Destruction. Screams. People running through the streets, scrambling to carry their children. And soldiers. Soldiers everywhere, clad in Calamar’s burning scarlet, cutting down all in their path. And piercing through the terrible scene, a calm but penetrating voice, echoing through her mind: Report to your comrades in yonder land. She cast her gaze beyond the walls. There, on the plains normally so beautiful and lush, were trenches and bulwarks of war. The voice sounded again: Evil stirs in the shadows of the night. Beyond the trenches, mighty war engines loomed, towers and trebuchets and battering rams, surrounded by forests of spears, all encircling the city in a ring of terror. Danger from the past returns. She fled the horrible scene, casting herself down the stairwell. Her quarters now were ransacked, the furniture broken and splintered, the floor covered with the shattered shards of what had once been a statue of her father. History threatens to repeat. She ran now, down another flight of stairs to her fore chambers, then out into a hallway. The flames from the hearth had spread, filling every corner of the stone passage. She ran between those greedy lines of flames, pausing only to stamp out the corners of her dress as they caught fire from stray embers. An avir’s life is in peril. She reached the throne room. Flames blocked every exit, but that was not all—enemies ringed her on all sides, their blades catching the light of the flames. They wore strange garb and shouted in a language unknown to her. Only the throne was unblocked. She ran to it. Ruin, fire, and flames. She stood upon her throne, screaming, but no sound came out of her mouth. The flames were coming closer now, and with them the points of a thousand swords. Scorching heat licked at the palms of her outstretched hands. She closed her eyes. To the skies— “Princess! Princess!” Adara awoke, jerking upright and throwing the covers off her shaking body. Two of her handmaids stood over her, their faces ashen white with concern. “Fire!” Adara screamed. “Flames!” “Hush,” one of her handmaids murmured. “It was just a nightmare. The palace is safe.” “No, it’s not.” Adara swung her legs out of bed. “Danger from the past returns!” A third voice spoke up. “Your Majesty, please, calm yourself.” Adara looked over to see Lady Luviana. The merfin was draped out on a couch in Adara’s quarters, her miniature harp in her hands. She must have been brought in hastily, carried by someone instead of transported in her normal traveling basin. A trail of small puddles led from the door to the couch. “Luviana?” Adara frowned. “What . . . Why . . . are you . . .?” “You weren’t waking up,” the merfin explained. “You were crying out and thrashing for a quarter of an hour. Emma and Charlotte tried shaking you, calling to you, even splashing water on you. Eventually, they sent for me to play a vivamantic song to pull you out of sleep.” Adara set her feet on the floor. The cold stone against her bare feet felt remarkably soothing. “A quarter of an hour? But the dream—it lasted barely a couple minutes.” “It seemed to be repeating,” one of her handmaids said. “You would start out calm, then slowly grow more agitated until you were kicking and screaming. Then you would calm down again. That happened three or four times. You had us so worried!” Adara kneaded her forehead, temples, and cheekbones with her fingers. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t I wake up?” “You were trapped inside the dream,” Luviana said. She began idly strumming her harp, plucking a soft but calming melody, like a mountain breeze rippling across a field of wildflowers. “I have heard of such cases, where a dream does not want to end. Often it carries a portent. May I ask what you saw?” The dream was still remarkably vivid in Adara’s mind. She described it as best she could, though as always when retelling dreams, it seemed impossible to transcribe the images in her head into phrases that made any sense. Part of her still felt a terrible sense of urgency, a looming threat that called for her immediate action. But the coolness of the stones beneath her and the melodic strains of the harp were, in conjunction, incredibly soothing. “There was a voice,” Adara finished. “It warned of danger and evil. It said that my life is in peril. Ruin, fire, and flames—that was one of the lines.” She paused, trying to recall the exact wording of the other lines. “There was more though . . .” She turned to her two handmaids. “Emma, Charlotte, could you step outside for a moment?” “Certainly,” they said, curtsying and withdrawing. As they opened the door, Adara noticed several worried-looking guards in the stairwell, peeking inside. Her thrashing and cries must have created quite a stir. She felt her face flush with embarrassment. “What is it, Your Majesty?” Luviana asked once the door had shut and they were alone. Adara took a deep breath, trying to sort the swirling vortex of thoughts within her. “Tell me again how my father died.” The merfin’s fingers paused, skipping a beat of her song. Then the melody resumed. “You were there,” Luviana said. “The fire—” “What caused the fire?” Adara asked. “We think a vessel of oil got tipped over,” Luviana said, talking slowly. She stopped playing. “The tapestries in a hallway caught ablaze, then quickly spread to the paneling in the throne room. Your father worked to make sure everyone got out, but before he could leave himself, the smoke . . .” Luviana broke off in mid-sentence, taking a deep breath. “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but that day brings back many painful memories. I’d rather not talk about it.” “The voice spoke of danger returning from the past, and history repeating itself,” said Adara. “Since the end of the dream was me standing on my throne, surrounded by flames, I can’t help but wonder . . .” “I wouldn’t worry about a fire,” Luviana reassured her. “We have been much more careful about open flames. Mostly we use lumen globes, though they are more expensive.” “There were swords in my dream, too,” said Adara. “And the city was under siege. It’s not an accident I fear. It’s an attack.” Luviana didn’t respond immediately. She stared at nothing, a distant look of worry on her face. Finally, she shook her head. “You have had many cares on your mind, Your Majesty. Likely this nightmare was just a reflection of them. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” “Could it have been demons, influencing my dreams?” Adara asked. Some people believed demons were the source of all nightmares. “Perhaps, Your Majesty. Who knows?” Adara sat thinking for a minute. She still had so many questions, coupled with a lingering sense of apprehension. Luviana was an excellent source of advice for anything political or social. But in this instance, Adara found the merfin’s answers sorely lacking. “Is Magistrate Cymer near?” Adara asked. “Alas, he is away on business,” Luviana said. “He left the day before yesterday. I believe he is overseeing the evacuation of records from the Sanctum of Kings.” “I see,” Adara said, disappointed. She stood and crossed the room to a basin of water, splashing it on her face. There had been one more line to the dream, right before she had awakened. What was it? It had been important . . . something about the skies . . . “What would you think if I moved my sleeping quarters?” Adara asked. “Perhaps to one of the lower palace rooms? I think I would feel safer there.” “I don’t see why not,” Luviana said. “But Commander Volthorn might want a say in the matter. He’s supposed to arrive late in the afternoon tomorrow—well, I guess today now. We can consult him then. As for now, Your Majesty, you should probably get some more sleep. I can stay here if you wish. This couch is surprisingly comfortable, as far as land-walkers’ furniture goes.” “I would like that,” Adara said. She strode to the door to thank and dismiss her handmaids, then lay back down. Luviana began strumming a low, quiet tune, supplementing it with a wordless song. Though thoughts and fears still clamored for Adara’s attention, the lullaby quickly did its work, and Adara slipped into a deep slumber, devoid of dreams. * * * * * The Hakiru pirates were only one day out now. As Twigly had predicted, they had had to churn their propellors most of the day, fighting to head south against winds blowing west. They were spending their last night anchored in the valley Durrin had found on the map. The plan was to spend the rest of the next day at their camp, then leave in the afternoon, travel the last forty miles to Saven, and attack the palace a couple hours before dawn. Durrin ate his dinner alone, brooding in the shadows of the trees, watching the pirates banter. He itched to climb the ridge to scout out the shrine on the far side. But not yet. Night had not fully fallen. And besides, he needed to get some answers from a certain nobleman first. As dinner wrapped up, During stood and strode over to Salidar. “Your Excellency,” Durrin murmured. “A word with you, please.” The vizier studied him for a few heartbeats. “If you insist,” Salidar said finally, rising and accompanying Durrin into the brush. Th

    20 min

  8. MAR 29

    The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 22: Questions En Route

    Summer was surrendering to autumn. Trees were turning to fire. Wheat and corn lay heavy on the stalk. Flocks of birds passed daily over Volthorn’s army as they flew southwest, fleeing colder climes to the north and east. Although Queen Adara had failed to negotiate an official armistice, Volthorn had secured a temporary settlement with Calamar’s front-line commander, General Grimbold. Volthorn allowed the ten thousand soldiers in Calamar’s flanking division to recross the river and join the remnants of their main army. In exchange, Grimbold agreed to retreat to Meradov immediately, without attempting any more battles or raids that season. In making the arrangement, Volthorn gave up the possibility of hammering the remnants of Calamar’s retreating army. But he also avoided the risk of facing a defeat of his own. Despite his victory, Calamar could still field almost as many battle-ready troops as he could. Many of his battalions had suffered heavy losses, plus he had several thousand prisoners to guard. It was a good thing the Penandre garrison would be arriving in another day or so to reinforce his position. Another reason was that harvest was near. Between the ongoing haeber shortage and the demands of war, many Elandrian provinces were on the brink of famine. Keeping his conscript farmers another month to score another victory would only mean they’d starve the next spring. So it was that five days after his victory—which his troops were beginning to call “the Battle of Rainswept Heights”—Volthorn stood watching his last units of seasonal troops march away, disbanded until the next spring. Around six thousand professional full-time soldiers would remain at arms during the winter, encamped in the Arnon Plains. “Commander Skarr,” an aide said, interrupting Volthorn’s thoughts. “Intelligence report. We’ve received an unusual message from a contact in Calamar.” “Unusual?” Volthorn said. “Peculiar,” the aide clarified. “The contact received an anonymous message, written on a note left outside his residence in Imperium. We are puzzled as to its meaning. Here’s a transcription.” The aide handed Volthorn a piece of parchment, covered in tidy lines of text: Report to your comrades in yonder land:Evil stirs in the shadows of the night.News I bear that you must heed.Danger from the past returns.History threatens to repeat.An avir’s life is in peril:Ruin, fire, and flames.To the skies, beware. Volthorn read the poem several times. “Most obscure,” he said. “What do you make of it?” “We have no idea,” the aide said. “The author’s identity is unknown, although they are probably associated with Elandrian sympathizers in Imperium. Presumably they wrote in cryptic language so that if the note was discovered, it wouldn’t incriminate the recipient or the sender. But we’re worried it’s some kind of hoax or red herring: counterintelligence meant to lead us onto a false trail.” “If so, it could do a better job of explaining what that trail is,” Volthorn quipped. “Let me read it again.” He explored each line carefully. The first: Report to your comrades in yonder land. Straightforward. Evil stirs in the shadows of the night. Demons? But they always stalked the night. What else could it be referencing? Some sort of enemy operation? Danger from the past returns. History threatens to repeat. An avir’s life is in peril. Those lines seemed to refer to King Everborn’s assassination, warning that Adara was in similar danger. But who would know enough to write that? Scarcely two dozen souls in Elandria knew the truth about how King Everborn had died. Who in Calamar would know? Those who had ordered the assassination, of course. But why would they send a message like this, or how would they know who to send it through? Danger from the past returns. There was only one obvious candidate for what that danger was: Rendhart. And the penultimate line seemed to confirm it: Ruin, fire, and flames. But what did the final line mean? To the skies, beware. Was this referring to a griffin attack? To some omen in the skies, like a red sunrise? “Any idea what it means?” the officer asked. “I believe it’s a warning that Queen Adara is in danger,” Volthorn said. “But the exact danger, or what we must do to prevent it, still eludes me.” He frowned, thinking. “Inform my staff that my brothers and I will be leaving within the hour. With the campaign season over, and now with this strange portent of danger, I think it’s time I returned to the capital.” * * * * * Once again, Durrin couldn’t sleep. This time, he had plenty of things to blame it on: the cramped deck of the cloud frigate, the snoring of Bjorn next to him, the knowledge that they were several thousand feet above the ground, held aloft by some stunt of aeronautical engineering that he still didn’t fully understand. But he knew the real reason he couldn’t sleep. Questions. A hundred thousand questions. Questions . . . and the shadows of the night. Durrin rose quietly to his feet, careful not to disturb the sleeping figures around him. He stepped gingerly across the deck, his way barely lit by the faint red light of the Far Moon. As always when the cloud frigate was free floating, he could feel no wind. The cloud frigate flowed at the same pace as the air around it, like a piece of driftwood in a river’s current. Durrin made his way to the prow. There he found Twigly on watch, perched atop the ship’s massive ballista. Her long, bushy tail waved in the air behind her, making tiny corrections to keep her perfectly balanced. Durrin still wasn’t sure what to make of Twigly. The snippen was the only member of the crew who spoke fluent Lurrian. Every time he, Salidar, and Yorid conversed among themselves, he got the feeling she was listening in with her large ears. And he could never tell when she was joking and when she was being impudent. “Couldn’t catch any dreams, Rendhart?” the snippen asked as he approached. “Or got caught by nightmares?” Durrin stood at the prow, grabbing a rigging line for support. He had been having nightmares recently: terrible nightmares, of fangs and horns and unending darkness. But Twigly didn’t need to know that. Durrin shrugged. “Questions, mostly.” “Ah.” Twigly nodded sagely. “Terrible things, questions. They ruin your appetite, especially when the questions relate to the origin of your supper.” Casting about for small talk to get his mind off his nightmares, Durrin gestured to the darkness in front of them. “What are you watching for?” “Mountains, mainly,” Twigly said. “Terrible things, mountains. Come up on you unawares in the darkness, like a lynx in a field of daisies. We also watch our altimeter.” Twigly pointed to a device stowed under the ballista. Durrin could faintly see a glass tube, illuminated by a small ball of lumen moss. “It shows us our altitude,” Twigly explained. “And it’s accurate?” “Mostly,” said Twigly. “Though pressure front fluctuations mean you have to account for the weather patterns, else you can have a high margin of error. Good grief, I sound like my cousin.” She shook her head as if to clear herself of the thought. “Where was I? Lynxes. No. Mountains. Right. And we watch for other cloudships. Griffins. Wyverns.” “Do wyverns pose a danger?” “Not if you’re not unlucky. Typically, they’re intimidated by our size. Though if you get too close to their nest, they could get defensive and puncture a hole in your balloon.” Twigly patted the ballista beneath her. “Which is one of the reasons we carry these. Wyverns—and dragons.” Durrin snorted. “Dragons are a myth.” “Ah, so you say.” Twigly smiled that cocky smile of hers again. “But on the day you’re proven wrong, would you rather be caught with a giant ballista, or without one?” Durrin stared at her, trying to figure out how serious she was. He shook his head and gave up. “Okay. Next question. You’re not really an ensign, are you. You’re the captain.” Twigly winked at him. “Whatever gave you that idea?” “I may not understand Hakiru,” Durrin said. “But I can tell who’s giving orders and who’s receiving them.” “Astute.” Twigly twirled, bowing with a flourish. “Indeed, I am! Captain Twigly the Barbaric, at your doorstep.” Durrin raised his eyebrow. “The . . . Barbaric?” “But of course!” Twigly drew a knife from her belt and spun it in her paw. She stuck the knife between her teeth and talked through it. “Awen’t I da most barbaric snippen you’ve ewer seen?” Durrin thought about it. “Well . . . you’re not wrong,” he said. “Why did you pretend otherwise?” Twigly waved a paw. “I just wanted to pull His Excellency’s leg.” “But don’t Hakiru cloudships always have to be captained by a griffin?” Twigly balanced the dagger on one paw. “Traditionally, yes.” The dagger slipped, almost plummeting into the darkness before Twigly snatched it at the last moment. “But I have ways of being . . . persuasive.” “You bribed someone, didn’t you.” “Nonsense.” Twigly tucked the dagger into her vest. “I just made myself so annoying that no one was willing to take on the task of ordering me around. I became captain by default.” Durrin raised his eyebrow. Twigly raised hers in return. Durrin gave up and changed the subject again. “Twigly—” “That’s Captain Twigly, to you,” the snippen said. “The Barbaric.” Durrin paused for a moment, then continued with his original wording. “Twigly, you’re not even Hakiru. How did you come to join this crew in the first place?” “The full tale would take half a fortnight,” said Twigly. “It involves a lost treasure, seventeen buckets of lard, my great-great-granduncle’s belt buckle, and a giant talking penguin. The short version is that I grew up in a rather crowded burrow in Imper

    25 min
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A fantasy world with an afterlife. A fire mage who finds outs he's headed for the wrong side of it. Read by the author. This story is appropriate for all audiences PG and up. jeremypmadsen.substack.com

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