The Unity Cycle

  Book One: The Mother of Dawn

  Ian Everett

  Copyright © 2012 Ian Everett

  Cover Design – Will Phillips – WillPhillips.org

  Map Design – Lindsey Slavin - lindseystella.wix.com/portfolio

  All rights reserved.

  I promise you a rising sun.

  Prologue

  The capital city of the Far Kingdom lay in the distance. Hilron was still an hour away from the city, but it was close enough to drive him to pick up his pace. His bare feet shuffled in the desert soil, his leather sandals having long worn away. There was slight relief as he felt the oppressive heat lift; day was passing into the cool dawn he had left back in Oarthna. Yet the two hooks were still digging into his back as he walked and he could feel the terrible weight of that which he towed along.

  How long had he traveled through the grim, burning day? His mind swirled with the delirium of the desert and of his burden. The chains rattled behind him and he could hear the shuffling of feet as the creature walked a few feet back. He would never be free of it, unless it was taken from him. That thought drove him into a feverish sprint, a mad dash to the gates of the Far Kingdom.

  The people of Shi’ol, the capitol of the Far Kingdom, expected a quiet day. It was just beginning, according to the great Time stone that told them day and night, and it would be filled with farmers selling their wares in the market, craftsmen working in their halls, and wives gossiping about nothing.

  There was a clamor at the gates that aroused the people from their dull stupor. A sun baked vagrant from Oarthna had shown up in their city and had begun calling for their king in a loud voice. There was shock, men pulling women away from the scene and covering the eyes of children when they saw that there were hooks in his skin, connecting him by way of chains to a pale creature, with many wings that took on a multitude of different colors and sizes. The being stood taller than the biggest guards, and most disturbingly of all, had no eyes – only empty holes from which a stream of black blood bubbled. There was no mouth, no nose, no ears.

  The guards immediately seized the man, who begged for water and declared his name was Hilron. A young lady brought him the water he requested. He drank it greedily, and demanded to see their king. He could not lay or sit down due to the hooks digging into his back. Instead, he slumped to his knees to wait.

  Ashiran, King of the Far People, was enjoying breakfast with his wife and son. He was a middle aged man, with his auburn hair sprinkled with bits of grey and crow’s feet next to his eyes. His wife was still a picture of beauty, adorned by long brown hair and gifted with twinkling blue eyes. His son, a young man of twenty years, appeared to him as the best of himself, everything he would need to be a proud father.

  In the middle of their breakfast, a guard scrambled into the dining chambers, out of breath. His eyes were wide with fear, and his skin was pale. The guard stumbled over his words, but eventually related the news of the stranger and his prisoner – or warden.

  By the time he had dressed and departed, it had been over an hour since Hilron had arrived. Ashiran rode through the streets on a white horse, accompanied by his guards. They were well trained, disciplined men. Were his life to become endangered, they would stop at nothing to ensure it was safe again. In such company he rode swiftly to the front gates of Shi’ol, where his new visitor awaited.

  Ashiran noted that the people had gathered around the gates, standing outside of their houses, listening, waiting for any news of this traveler and his winged beast. They watched him with questioning eyes as he rode past them. He smiled in return, wanting to give off the image of self-confidence, even if he was anything but about this situation.

  When he arrived at the Gates, he saw the man fighting against the arms of five men. They struggled mightily, making Ashiran wonder at the nature of this stranger. He saw that there were indeed chains attached to him, linking him to a magnificent, hideous, winged man. The creature sat back, completely undisturbed by the vagrant’s fight with the guards. Its wings surrounded it like a multi-colored robe of red, black, blue and white. Ashiran grew pale at this sight.

  He got off of his horse and approached the man. The man was crying as he finally stopped wrestling with the guards.

  He was a miserable, sun burned creature, suffering from malnourishment and madness. He fell to his knees and looked up at the king, tears spilling from his eyes.

  “Please, take my burden from me,” he begged.

  Ashiran said nothing, unsure of how to respond.

  “Please, I need your help. Tell me you will take it. Your whole kingdom may bear it, or one man may bear it. But please, I can no longer carry it.” The man’s sentence came in broken bits and pieces, in between painful shuddering and sobs of sadness.

  “I cannot ask my kingdom to take on a burden they are not aware of,” Ashiran replied.

  “Are you not their king? Can you not have one man take it? Can you not have all of them take it, by your order?”

  “I could. But I am not a tyrant. I would never ask them to do something I would not do myself.”

  The stranger crawled closer, clutching at Ashiran’s robes. “Then will you take it away from me? Please, I beg of you. Someone.” He was convulsing with what Ashiran realized was death throws. This man was so close to death, and his last act was to have someone take a burden from him he would no longer be bearing in a few moments? “Someone must take it,” he whispered.

  Ashiran paused. He looked around. Guards, farmers, craftsmen, women and children had all gathered around. He saw sympathy and concern on their faces. Moved with compassion, he looked down to the man clutching at his feet, weeping into the dirt. “I will take your burden from you, my friend.”

  The man looked up, his eyes filled with grateful tears, and then his breath stopped, and his look became blank. He sprawled into the dust, dead.

  Many moments passed in silence before Ashiran realized he had stooped down to hold the vagrant in his arms. A shadow passed over him.

  The winged creature was standing a few feet away, his dark pits regarding the King and the dead vagrant with cold intelligence. Ashiran thought that this beast was perfectly capable of sight, despite having no eyes.

  “Who… what are you?” Ashiran asked.

  The creature was silent. It looked up into the sky, around at the people, and then back down. It unfolded the wings that had been acting as its covering, revealing a grotesque, malformed mouth on its chest. The mouth opened, wheezing out air that smelled of death.

  “I am his burden,” it said as hot metal dug into Ashiran’s back, blotting out consciousness.

  Chapter One – Change

  Om awoke. Dawn greeted him, as it always did. It greeted him as he woke up and when he went to sleep. Dawn was there when he worked and when he relaxed at the end of the day. Always dawn. It was the curse of this world that the sun hung in one spot in the sky, never moving. It burned one side of the earth, left the other half to freeze, providing only a small patch of dawn to live in.

  In such a world, there was no natural rhythm, but Om felt his internal clock, the one that ticked in all men, a sign of the world they had lost millennia ago. Unlike other men, however, Om had finely tuned his, so that everything fell in place around his perfect schedule. He woke up on his own accord, when the Time Stone was just at that perfect shade of light blue that indicated the time of rest was just passing and the new cycle was beginning. He never failed to wake at the beginning of the cycle: he was one of those men who could tell himself to wake up at a certain time and he would.

  His room was sparse, but this was a matter of taste, not wealth. He preferred function over opulence, and if something served no purpose other than to look good, it had no place in his house. There was a wooden table in the middle, with two chairs surrounding it. A candle, burned out from the night before, sat on top of it like a lonely tower in the middle of a barren plain.

  There was a kitchen across from his bed, with nothing more than a bucket for water and a bucket to wash dishes. A cabinet hung above the kitchen, holding his small collection of plate ware. There was no library; he was not a man for reading. No soft chairs; he was not a man for small comforts.

  There was a closet at the back end of his little house. Om stared at it for some time. Today, of all days, he did not want to move from where he was. He sat on the edge of his bed, wishing that things would not change. But today was a day for change and he knew that he could not avoid it. He could hear the cries outside, some calling for death, some calling for freedom. He would need to be discreet.

  He walked over to the closet and opened it. There was leather armor inside; the standard for a High Guard of Kath, the very protector of the king’s life. He would have need of it today, and the sword next to it as well. There were two packs on the floor of the closet. They were filled with food, spare clothing, camping equipment and money. He suspected the money would be less useful than the rest as he considered his plans.

  A mirror hung next to the closet. He looked into it and considered shaving, figuring that it would be a long time before he would be able to properly. His face was that of a man well into his thirties; not quite old, but grey hairs were definitely beginning to appear in his light brown hair, and his skin was far from smooth. Worse, he had been steeped in each year of his life, drawing scars and marks from each new day. He decided against shaving.

  He donned the armor and threw a cloak o
ver it. Today was going to be interesting, indeed.

  As Om snuck through the city, he noticed people trickling out of their homes and onto the cobblestone roads towards the castle at the southern end of the city. The castle could be seen from every part of the town and even beyond its walls for a few miles, as it was set high on the mountain, and reflected the light of the stillborn sun. The sound of the crowd outside of its walls carried to every part of the city. He was beginning to worry he would not make it in time. The riot had started earlier in the day than he thought.

  He walked unnoticed to the stables he had visited yesterday, tucked away on one of the back roads of the slums. It was small, and many of the horses were mistreated, but it would have to do: it was cheap and it was discreet. Those were Om’s biggest needs.

  “Hey!” shouted the stable master, a big, stocky man, with more hair than skin. “Who’s that skulking around? Friend, this is not a good day to be sneaking about.”

  Om, whose head had been covered by his hood, revealed himself. “Hello, old friend,” he said, smiling.

  “Om! You shouldn’t be sneaking about, you fool. Likely to get strung up, you are,” the stable master said through a grin that turned to a frown. “What brings you to my slum? Shouldn’t you be with the riot anyways?”

  Om paused. “You must swear this to secrecy, Galhazab,” he whispered. “But I am not against the King. In fact, I intend to save his life.”

  “Save his life?” shouted Galhazab. “What in Yaresh’s name fo-“ He was interrupted as Om moved a gloved hand over his mouth.

  “Galhazab, you never did react to surprises well. I do not have time to explain, other than my loyalty shall always lie to my king, regardless of who he is. I have need of two horses. I will pay you to bring them to the servant entrance of the castle.” He released his hand from Galhazab’s mouth.

  Galhazab glared at him. “You are a fool,” he spat. “You will die for your honor.”

  “I would rather die with it than live without it. The pay shall be enough for you to run this store for months without ever taking care of a horse.”

  Galhazab gave him a frustrated huff. “Well, if you are serious, I shall at least give you two of my finest horses. They belong to some guards.” He laughed at this as he went into the stables to fetch them. Om waited outside, glancing over his shoulder every so often.

  Galhazab returned in a short while with two horses. Om inspected them, a small smile hanging on his face. “My friend, if this were any other stable, I’d have you put these two wretches down.”

  Galhazab guffawed. “You always did have a tongue on you. Shame you never put it to use on our king.”

  “My wit is a gift I show to few. Consider yourself lucky.” He put three ruby marks into Galhazab’s hand. Galhazab’s eyes widened and he paled.

  “You… I…” He stammered.

  Om closed his hand for him. “You might have just saved a king’s life today, and mine as well. You have earned it. Remember, the servant’s entrance. Be there as quick as you can, and speak with no one.” With that, Om was gone, back onto the streets, silently headed toward the castle.

  As Om drew closer to the castle, he heard the large crowd that had gathered outside, screaming for the King’s head. They had gathered in the square lying underneath the shadow of the palace. There were many of them; at least ten thousand filled the throngs of people looking for justice. Men, women and even children were among the number Om counted as he pushed his way through the crowd. They didn’t pay him much mind; his High Guard armor was covered by his cloak.

  The small servant entrance went unnoticed by most of the crowd. Om guessed they had tried it, but found it locked. Thank Yaresh and his Sons for small blessings, thought Om. He walked his way towards the small gate, darting this way and that through the ever shifting crowd. He got glares and angry remarks, but was left mostly unmolested as he headed towards his goal.

  He pulled on the handle; it was indeed locked. He fumbled in his cloak pocket for two seconds and found the key. He looked around his shoulders to make sure no one had noticed him, and quickly turned the lock. The gate creaked open: Om cursed under his breath. “So much for small blessings,” he muttered.

  “Hey! Hey! The servant’s entrance is unlocked!” a man shouted. Om turned and drew his breath in. Everyone within a hundred feet had their eyes on him. And suddenly, there was clamor as the people pushed towards him so they could take advantage of this opening.

  Om swung the gate slightly open, slid his body in quickly, and slammed it shut. He turned the lock just in time. Someone had grabbed the handle and had pulled on the gate, but the lock held true.

  “Bastard!” someone shouted. “Tyrant!” yelled another. Someone spat in Om’s face. He recoiled. A hand grabbed at his arm where he had turned the gate’s lock. Om pulled it away and punched at someone. A child cried out, whimpering from the blow Om had landed. “Pig!” a woman shouted, holding the child close to her chest.

  Om turned away from the gate as more insults were flung at him. He opened the door that led into the servant halls. Inside, the hallways were small, cramped, and dark. He moved through them fluidly, staying in the abundant shadows. There were no servants around, but Om decided to err on the side of caution. He went slowly and silently.

  The servant halls were not well kept; they were wet, uncomfortable and too small. Om could not blame the people for this uprising, but his duty was still his duty. The King was still alive, and Om would still protect him, despite everything, even if he was no longer a king.

  Om came out of the servant quarters into the main hall, just beside a large set of chairs that led to the upper quarters, where the King and the main staff lived. Om had been invited to live there once, but had declined. Om couldn’t stand the nobles who would’ve been his neighbors. Om wouldn’t be surprised to find them amongst the rioters, stirring up their hate with lies and half-truths. Of course, thought Om, in regards to this king it doesn’t take much lying.

  There were two men – cooks, by the looks of their clothing – standing next to each other, arguing. They were too focused on their conversation to notice Om, who leaned back into the shadows of the servant halls.

  “Look, there are no guards up there, no servants to stop us, just the prince,” the taller of the two men said in a rough voice that Om guessed had felt years of tobacco. “There’s nothing stopping us from going on up there and killing him.”

  “The king. He’s not a prince anymore. Besides, there weren’t any guards that I could see. There could be some hiding,” the smaller one replied. His voice was deep despite his size.

  “I don’t care if his daddy died and handed him the throne, he will always be that little brat in my eyes. He’s a prince, not a king. And I saw the High Guard down there in the riot. Everyone is down there, not up here. We’re in a position to be heroes!”

  “I’m not arguing with that, I just think we need to be careful.”

  Om stepped out of the shadows, boldly walking towards the two men, with his head held high. The bigger man was tall, but Om had him by several inches, and he was definitely not as muscular as Om was. “Be gone!” Om shouted in his most authoritative voice. “Or be killed!”

  The men turned in surprise towards Om, and the bigger man’s expression turned to anger. “Look, if you don’t want to get hurt, get the he-“ the big man started. He was cut short by Om throwing back his cloak, revealing the deep blue leather armor of the High Guard underneath. The armor was intimidating but practical. It was as authoritative of a uniform as anyone could wear; Om’s had the further distinction of scars from a thousand battles.

  The men both gasped and the smaller man turned to run, shouting “You said the High Guard was all down with the riot!” The bigger man stood, fear driving him to move, but desire to kill the king keeping him in place. Before he had time to choose one way or the other, Om had closed the distance between them, striking at the man’s kidney with his fist. The big man yelled out and dropped his defense to his side, covering it with his arm and leaving his head exposed. Om finished the man with a quick punch to the throat, and he dropped to the ground.