THE HYMN OF ALL

  A Dark Fantasy Adventure

  THE SPLINTERED LAND

  BOOK VI

  RICHARD PARRY

  Contents

  You’re Awesome

  Stay Primed

  A Day Like Any Other

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  About the Author

  Also by Richard Parry

  Tyche’s Flight

  An Easy Mark

  Chapter 1

  Want more of Nate and Grace’s Story?

  THE HYMN OF ALL copyright © 2024 Richard Parry.

  Cover design copyright © 2024 Richard Parry.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13 ebook: 978-0-473-70482-7

  ISBN-13 paperback: 978-0-473-70481-0

  First edition.

  No parts of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. Piracy, much as it sounds like a cool thing done at sea with a lot of, “Me hearties!” commentary, is a dick move. It gives nothing back to the people who made this book, so don’t do it. Support original works: purchase only authorised editions.

  While we’re here, what you’re holding is a work of fiction created by a professional liar. It is not done in an edgy documentary style with recovered footage. Pretty much everything in here was made up by the author so you could enjoy a story about the world being saved through action scenes and witty dialog. No people were used as templates, serial numbers filed off for anonymity. Any resemblance to humans you know (alive) or have known (dead) is coincidental.

  Details on how to get your FREE STARTER LIBRARY can be found at the end of this book.

  Find out more about Richard Parry at parrydox.com

  Published by Richard Parry, New Zealand.

  You’re Awesome

  You’ve helped a legion of people follow their dreams by buying this book. Cover designers, editors, audio coaches, and hack authors are just a few examples of people who earned coin because of your generosity.

  Thank you for supporting this independent work. You kick ass.

  Stay Primed

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  For my Rae, always.

  A Day Like Any Other

  Amir was no fan of rain, cold, or halitosis.

  He stood in the middle of a corpse farm. Bodies were scattered. Most of them were in pieces. It spoke volumes of the past few moments, but the slimy rodent of a man before him did not seem to care. They stood, too close for Amir’s comfort because of the weevil’s halitosis, in a tavern. The tavern was in a blasted shithole named Wandermere. It seemed most had left, following music true, a melody that called the heart. Some say the dawn goddess sang it, her eyes violet. Others claimed it was a monster, teeth sharp, always parched, seeking to slake her thirst on the blood of villains. A vampire lord, they said, had fallen at her feet.

  Amir contacted a fence, who said a local man of action knew the hero’s location. They would meet in the pride of the town: this tavern. The storm outside hurried them in, armour slick, boots muddy, which meant Amir was pissed off before the ruckus started. The man of action turned out to be the weevil, who had been late to his assassination at the hands of the Vide. The Vide forgot their manners, and died against Amir, Faust, and Larochette’s steel. Which left the three of them in the middle of a shitty tavern, Amir talking to the weevil, because Faust said You’re the one who’s good with people.

  Vertiline had arrived after the ruckus but before the weevil. She’d pressed her lips into a line at the mess, and made a noise that sounded like hmm, which was the kind of noncommittal nonsense that made Amir fear a future sparring ‘lesson’ at the Justiciar’s hand. She’d walked to a scorched patch on the floor, touched it with her metal hand, sank back in thought a moment, then settled herself in a dark corner, eyes hooded.

  And that was when the weevil arrived, looking at the corpse farm as if this was the kind of thing Wandermere’s tavern produced on a daily basis. He’d demanded coin for information, which Amir expected, but more than the fence agreed, which Amir didn’t. It left them at an impasse, the weevil with information, and Amir with bared blade and stirring resentment.

  When the weevil spoke, he sounded like an old, blocked-up drain. “The problem is the amount of solars. There are none.”

  “Friend,” Amir lied, “you will note the number of corpses around me. These men and women did not accidentally fall. They tried to kill me, my friends,” he gestured with his sword toward Faust and Larochette, who were rummaging through the dead, “and would have dispatched you, if you had not been late.”

  “So you say.” The weevil’s face was so punchable Amir almost gave it a shot, but he didn’t want slime on his gloves. “Everyone knows you don’t turn up first to a meeting when you’re outnumbered. You want to make an entrance, casual like, hand over information, all without breaking a sweat, and still collect your solars.” He jingled the pouch Amir had given him. “There are no solars here.”

  The wave of foul breath that arrived with the use of the word solars made Amir pale. He slicked cold water from his hair, a parting gift from the deluge outside the tavern. Truth, but inside isn’t much better. They could have at least put a fire on. The roof was in bad need of repair, puddles of water spotting the floor in ways that dragged the steps and mired the patterns. Amir braced himself. “That is because we made no agreement for platinum. The offer was for sovereigns with a smattering of barons.”

  “I’m rounding up, see?” The weevil squinted up at Amir. “Cost of business is high. Was difficult to wrangle the information. I’m a businessman. Got expenses.”

  “Sir, are you aware you address a Knight of the Tresward?”

  The weevil squinted harder, eyes almost screwing shut. “Tresward known for their business acumen?”

  “Not our true calling, I’ll admit.”

  “Then why does it matter?” The creature attempted a smile, the result ghastly. “Solars for satisfaction. I’ll hear it no other way.”

  Amir felt the weight of the blade in his right hand, and imagined how it could be inserted underneath the weevil’s ribs, living for a brief moment in his heart. It was a sorely tempting thought, and he felt the blade tremble in anticipation. A small bending of the truth, first. “A child’s life is at stake.”

  The weevil pushed out his paunch and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from it. “Children are everywhere. Lose one? Plenty more where that came from.”

  Amir was moments from sticking the pig with his blade when strong fingers enclosed his wrist. “Sirrah.” Vertiline, calm as the sky before a storm. She’d arrived from behind the weevil without sound, despite the bodies and muck on the floor. It was a trick Amir would have to learn. He hadn’t even marked her moving, which was the kind of lapse that would get you killed. “It is my child.”

  “Then you can pay the solars.” The weevil’s squint turned into a glare. “We’re still talking, which means you’re not going to knife me with that pretty blade. You want your child back? Cross my palm with heavy platinum.”

  Vertiline cocked her head, hand still on Amir’s arm. How did she make it here so quietly? She breathes urgency to our cause but didn’t charge the weevil. He wondered why they weren’t beating the weevil into submission. “Is it a matter of true cost, wretch, or is this a play for more coin?”

  “Here, now.” The weevil straightened. “First, I ain’t no wretch. Businessman, see? Better than. Higher up than the likes of you.” He looked down at Vertiline, or made the attempt. “Second, does it matter? The cost is the cost.”

  “It is difficult to extract information from a corpse,” Amir murmured.

  “I know a way.” Vertiline didn’t let him go, still facing the weevil. “I knew a man, once. He said⁠—”

  “We all know men. What of it?”

  Amir noticed Vertiline’s jaw muscles clench. “This wonderful man laid his life down
before a demon gate so the likes of you could keep breathing. He told me there’s always a reason. The reason, Meri said, was important. If it’s a simple play for more coin, with you holding the knowledge but unwilling to part with it, then we can kill you now and leech the answer from your soul. If it’s a cost of business matter as you suggest, then we can still kill you now. We will simply pay the people you are beholden to, avoiding middle-man fees.”

  The weevil paled but stood firm. “Here now. Ain’t no way you know who they are. They’re my people, not yours⁠—”

  “They will come looking for their platinum,” Amir said. “We need but wait.”

  “And you have confirmed it is a true cost of business.” Vertiline glanced to Amir. “Insert the blade as you were going to but mind the lungs. The corpse will have trouble speaking if he’s missing a lung.” And she let his hand go.

  The weevil noticed, backed away, voice rising as he said, “The Tresward are good. You’re no necromancers. You’re⁠—”

  //DO YOU DOUBT ME?// Vertiline’s voice cracked like the breach between worlds. The tables in the bar shook, and lamps flickered as a wild wind surged among them.

  The weevil sank to his knees. “Holy Cophine, please⁠—”

  //DO NOT PROFANE THE GODDESS.// She relaxed, the lamplight rising again, the wind dying down. “I am not her. I am her … sometime servant.”

  “Sometime?” Amir looked to his blade. “You still want me to stick him with the sharp end, boss?”

  “Wait,” the weevil pleaded again. “Just wait.”

  She crouched before the horrid little man, cupped his chin, and tilted his head so they locked eyes. “It is my child, creature. There is no force on this world that will keep me from her. I will raze cities and destroy armies if they stand in my way. Remember this as you give Knight Adept Amir what he’s asked for. Because if you treat us false, I will come back. I will come here, find you, and make your soul cry for mercy. Do you hear me?”

  The weevil’s frantic nod tugged his head free of her grip. She eyed him a moment longer, then stood, turning to Amir. “Pay the man.”

  “But—”

  “Adept, he is a businessman. He will remember the fairness of our offer as he remembers a future of pain. If more Vide come, he may be … circumspect.”

  Amir sheathed his blade, counting coins into his palm as he watched the Knight Champion walk to the tavern’s exit. As her hand touched the door, he called, “Could the Sway do that? Call his soul back from beyond to account for his crimes?”

  “The Sway can shatter reality. It can do whatever we need but we must mind the price.” She didn’t turn. “And I will pay anything.”

  Chapter One

  Tarragon prowled the corridors of Dancing in the Storm. There was an ache just below her heart, and she couldn’t rub it away. It was odd; she’d spent so long fighting Vhemin and now she’d fallen for one. And now, every minute of every day, I worry for her.

  Evanne had not been herself.

  How do I know what she’s like? I spent mere weeks at her side.

  Being Big meant Tarragon was … different. Big, sure, that was obvious to anyone with eyes or a seismometer. But her mind seemed larger, like she had more room to think about things like, What are we going to do next, maybe what is up with the Raven and all those people we saved, or the big one, how did I fail my exams? That was a bother that wasn’t going away, because she was sure it was a test impossible for fairies to fail. They had a Manifest.

  She knew lots of other things too, many from before the world fell, because she’d lived here. The ship was her home. She knew what this ship held, where to go to get the good booze, the great threads, or how to start the kitchen’s fabricators so they at least had plenty of oatmeal. What with all the people from Hollyhead, there were a lot of mouths to feed.

  Evanne wasn’t by the liquor stores, nor was she eating. That was a rare thing, because the maybe-Vhemin always seemed to need calories. She’d hungered for more and more after her fight with Dancing Stars. Tarragon drifted past the fabricators, smelling oatmeal and honey as starveling villagers ate, then shored up at the middle deck’s best faux leather store. No Evanne. If she wasn’t where all the cool clothes were, it left one place.

  The only training room still working was a modest football field in size. There were fencing sabres alongside racks of jousting armour, and weight cages for making the weak strong. A central stage took up a good third of the room where the battles were fought. Back in the day—a thought that made Tarragon feel as ancient as her eight-hundred-and-mumble years—glimmering Artifices made of illusory light would battle against dragons and warriors on that stage.

  Now, one warrior panted, sweat dripping. Her jacket and guitar rested against a wall by her scattergun. A rapier was in the woman’s hand, a tiny weapon for one whose shoulders were broad and strong. Tarragon fancied Evanne more of a match for the broadsword, but the maybe-Vhemin looked magnificent either way.

  She turned and parried a flickering warrior of light and rainbow. The stage’s projectors must be damaged like so much else, but it got the job done. Evanne grunted, turned, parried, and thrust. She was no Tresward, but her skill grew faster than any Tarragon had seen.

  Perhaps she was her mother’s daughter.

  With a spin and thrust, Evanne dispatched her opponent, then raised the épée in a salute before offering a short bow. Tarragon frowned. “They’re not real, love.”

  Evanne puffed out a breath, not facing Tarragon. “All things are real. This ship is the master of all the make-believe we see. I salute him as much as those I vanquish. It’s only polite.” Her voice was husky, with an odd, flat edge. “Besides, it’s good practice.”

  “When have you ever practiced politeness?” Tarragon stepped closer, head cocked, because something wasn’t quite right.

  “Oh,” Evanne waved a well-muscled arm but still didn’t turn, “since forever.”

  “Dear heart? What is wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Evanne slumped a little. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Tarragon stepped on the stage, ignoring all protocols against entering a live training environment. No one who cared was left. She padded before Evanne. The maybe-Vhemin’s face was lowered, sweat slicking her rust locks. Tarragon touched Evanne’s chin, raising her face. Evanne’s lavender eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Tarragon wanted to hug her, to say whatever it was would be all right, but she held back the impulse. Evanne wasn’t her child, and the set of her jaw said she was in no mood for coddling. “What wind blows?”

  “A fell one,” Evanne admitted. “I have wasted my life.”

  Tarragon felt her mouth open and closed it with a snap. “You are sixteen summers. There was precious little time to waste.”

  Evanne pulled away, flourished her sword, then laid it carefully aside. Standing, she ran a hand through her hair. “Mama wanted me to learn the blade. I should have listened. This world cares little for mongrels and strays. There are many who would see our lifeblood spilled because of how the fates made us. The terrible trouble is knowing who the ‘us’ and ‘them’ are. I’ve been too much in my cups, singing songs, and wasting thought on fripperies and notions of no consequence.”