The Thirteenth Month

 

            PROLOGUE

            Merrik raced to the forest with the small force of Lochs closing in fast. His breath came in rapid, loud bursts. He tried to calm himself, afraid they would hear his ragged pull for air. He felt safer once under the cover of trees, and slowed his breathing enough to keep it quiet. He cut to the left, into a small grove of thick brambles and branches, ignoring the thorns that tore at his arms and robes. Merrik felt blood drip down his arm as he pushed further into the forest. He hadn’t been caught, yet was already bleeding. A bad omen, he thought. A river tumbled and burbled in the ravine below him.  The Loch soldiers might lose my scent through the water.

He struck out towards the river but hadn’t made it three steps before sliding down the steep side of the ravine. He reached out, grabbing at branches, struggling to keep his slide from turning into a tumble.

But he was already moving too fast. Gravity overtook Merrik and the branches in his hands sliced his palms as he sped past them down towards the water.  He started to roll, head over feet, in a dizzying twisting journey to the bottom that ended with a loud splash.

The shock of cold forced Merrik to inhale sharply. He glanced up the hill hoping they hadn’t heard him. It was a vain hope.  He could hear them entering the forest; it was absurd to think they wouldn’t hear him crashing through the underbrush. The crown from Merrik’s coronation less than a day ago had landed in the water ten paces from him.  Merrik glanced to the top of the ravine where he expected to see the shadows of the Lochs silhouetted in the moonlight and decided to leave it.  A crown meant nothing on the head of a dead king.

He heard the sucking noises the Lochs made as they tried to snuffle out his scent through their flat noses. Their needle sharp teeth clacked in agitation at not being able to find him. The screeching hiss and clack of their language sent chills down Merrik’s spine. He jumped up and crossed the river, grateful it was shallow from the heat of summer.  His clothes were heavy with water and made it harder to move. He’d likely left muddy footprints but couldn’t stop to cover them.  His only thought was to press on . . . to reach the gate . . . If he could reach the gate, he would win this struggle.  He would get away and see his family again. If he reached the gate there would be a tomorrow and a day after that  . . .

The Lochs started down the ravine.  He allowed himself to smile when he heard them tumbling to the bottom too.  At least he wasn’t the only clumsy one.  Merrik scrambled back up the other side, his feet sinking into the soft dark earth. For every two steps he took he slid one back. He grabbed at branches to pull himself up faster.  They weren’t far behind him.  He knew their heavy boots would make the climb more difficult but only by a small margin.  When he reached the top, he cut to the right.  He knew it took him closer to the fields than he wanted to be but also knew the grove of wild roses on his left would be impossible to pass without being ripped to shreds.

Merrik tried again to find calm in his mind. But the questions kept coming. How had his cousin controlled the scorching winds? Harnessing nature’s power was a gift passed from father to son in the royal bloodline. Merrik’s father had been king. Now that Merrik had come home to claim his throne, that gift had been passed to Merrik.

Merrik glanced back. How far was his cousin behind him?  How soon would he catch up?

Brittle twigs on the forest floor snapped under the Lochs’ heavy boots.  He cut to another outcropping of Serolt saplings. They were too small to offer him the protection of magic, but offered the protection of cover, for a moment anyway. Merrik crouched down preparing to run. A high pitched howl rang through the night time air. It was too late.

Cusith hounds! The ceaseless baying numbed Merrik’s mind. The scorching wind grew hotter and whipped through the tree branches, as if driven by the piercing howls. Moonlight reflected off the dust swirling in the funnel at the forest’s edge. At’Tur rode the wind. His cousin had come to kill him. Merrik thought of his family . . . of the kingdom. What would be the fate of everyone he loved?

From the corner of his eye he saw movement. He turned, gripping his sword hilt tighter preparing to meet the Loch soldier face to face. But, instead of a soldier, a spriggan girl stood not twenty paces from him. Her crown proved her importance to the counselship of the spriggan clans. Their eyes met as she moved toward him. Too surprised at her unexpected presence to move, he stood gaping at her as she came closer.

He hurried to her, leaving the cover of the Serolt grove. “What are you doing out on a night like this?” he demanded grabbing her by the arm to move her back into shadows.

Her words came in rapid bursts between breaths. Her dark hair clung to her cheeks and neck from sweat.  Her face was flushed with exertion. Her green eyes filled with the panic of his own heart. “My Lord, I heard news.  The clan-- my brother’s clan . . . they’ve abandoned the counsel of eight to move against you-- to kill you. He means to help At’Tur gain the throne.  I had to come!  I had to warn you!”

“It was dangerous to come out tonight.  How could you have known I would be here?”

“I didn’t. I meant to send a cardinal messenger to the palace.” She held out the red bird in her hand with the message tied into a tight scroll on its thin leg. She kissed the birds cheek and opened her hands. “Fria hem stiece!” she whispered to the bird as it fluttered its red wings and flew off.

Merrik couldn’t remember what the words meant.  He had been away so long . . . She must have noted the question in his face and said, “I sent it to my father instead.” Her eyes darted to a point past Merrik’s shoulder when another howl rang through the air.

She looked back at him, her eyes filled with tears. “The palace too?”

Merrik nodded. The palace had been taken.  She nodded with him, the tears spilling down her cheeks.  “I failed you. Forgive me!” Her whispered pleas were drowned out by the thunderous stomping of hounds’ feet through the forest. One stopped close to where the king and the spriggan girl hid in the shadows. The hound’s rotted breath washed over them as he nosed his way into the brambles they stood in.

The hound had their scent.  Merrik moved to get in front of the girl. If he could fight off the beast long enough, she stood a reasonable chance to get away.  They wanted him not her.

She pushed past him and with a warlike cry dove out of the shadows and brambles calling the animal after her. “Run my lord!” she cried out as the hound was joined by another and then another. Their tails lashed out in whip-like cracks. They surrounded her on all sides except the one leading toward the open fields. Merrik could not run, but was rooted to the spot watching in horror. He finally collected himself and moved to try to liberate her from the attack but she met his gaze, shook her head, and dove headlong into the fields, drawing the hounds after her and away from him.

Merrik shouted, “No!” but she was lost already. He could see the form of her body twisting and contorting in the moonlight and turned away. At least the hounds would not get to her this way, though they tried. He could hear them yelping as they tried to tear apart the stone form she had taken, succeeding only in breaking their teeth. He wanted to retch. King less than a day and already people sacrificed for their loyalty.

Merrik straightened. His shout had given away his hiding place. He turned slowly to the Loch soldiers behind him. A quick count told him that in the best of him, there was not fight enough for this. But he whipped out his sword to try. He cut down two before they overran him, taking his sword and hauling him out to the fields past the spriggan girl.

They released him with a great shove. He stood rubbing the spot on his arm where they gripped him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose at the voice behind him. “Hello cousin.”

“You can’t, At’Tur.” Merrik didn’t turn to face his enemy.

“I already have.”

“The throne cannot lie. There is another in the bloodline before you and after me. The counsels of Tretonia will never accept you as king. Not while the bloodstones wait for the proper order. So . . .” Merrik turned to face his cousin. “You’ve already lost.”

“Return his sword!” At’Tur spat at the Loch. “And leave us!”

The rubbery grey creature shifted in his wool cloak and ran his tongue over the needle sharp points of his teeth.

“Do it now!” At’Tur’s smile hardened as the Loch obeyed. The soldiers backed away, confused but obedient.

Merrik took the blade and waited.

At’Tur struck hard at Merrik with his sword. Merrik was ready for him and easily parried the strike with his own blade. They flew through the forms they had practiced together as children— well matched as they always had been. Years away from the country had not weakened Merrik’s abilities. At’Tur attacked again and again only to be thrown back each time, though the force of each blow wore Merrik’s ability to stop them.

Merrik finally made an attack of his own, slicing the tip of his blade over his cousin’s hand. At’Tur cried out and dropped his sword. His lip curling into a snarl, he dove headlong into the fields and called for the winds before Merrik had the chance to move in for a more damaging strike. Merrik roared and dove after him. If he could reach the winds first, maybe he’d have a chance. The gift of winds was with him still; there had to be a way he could control it. But At’Tur reached them first, leaping atop the flat swirling surface that pulled upward around him into a tall and snarling funnel. At’Tur turned on Merrik with a cold grin. “Say hello to the new king, cousin!”

“Rot in your own ashes!” Merrik spat at the ground. If only he had the gate! He could fight this with the gate, but that chance was lost! There was no more hope for him as the scorching winds descended upon him.

 

 

Short Arms (chapter one)

 

“Sit there.” Mr. Ferguson’s multiple chins jiggled as he nodded to the desk in the front. Skye had no desire to sit in the front, especially when three desks sat vacant in the back. Skye grimaced but moved to take the seat appointed him.

 “Wait.  Let’s introduce you to the class first.” He sniffed and ran a thick finger under his nose. “Class, we have a new student, Gale Weathers.”

The laughter started as a low rumble like thunder from a distant storm, but it soon overtook everyone. Even Mr. Ferguson chuckled, his belly and chins shaking as though they were separate life forms, like some strange method of mating ritual for slugs. The large man took a moment longer before composing himself and quieting the class down. 

Whoever said childhood was the honey of life had never been a thirteen year old. Childhood was more like the black tar that messes up your shoes when you accidentally step into it on a hot day. “I actually go by my middle name, Skye.” He sketched a glance to the door, wondering if Mr. Ferguson would be able to catch him if he bolted.

“Like that’s any better.” A boy in back snorted. 

“Joey . . . no one asked you.” Mr. Ferguson said, but his voice was filled with endearment instead of the stern scolding it should have possessed.  A fly buzzed near Mr. Ferguson’s ruddy bald spot.

Skye imagined taking a fly swatter and accidentally catching the bald spot right smack in the middle. He smiled and let out a low chuckle of his own.

“Think something’s funny?” Mr. Ferguson asked.

“N . . . no sir.”

“Then sit down.  There’s no time to mess around.”

Skye sat, feeling the stares of everyone at the back of his head and wondering why it was okay for them to laugh, but not for him.

“Girlie Ga-ale!” a whispered taunt came from the back of the room, the place he had wanted to sit so he could disappear. He tried to ignore it, tried to make the voice disappear instead.

“Girlie Ga-ale!” The voice came louder amidst stifled chuckles and snorts.

On the third time and when the voice had been joined by a few others, Skye whirled around.

“Is there a problem, Gale Weathers?” Mr. Ferguson asked, purposely ignoring Skye’s request to go by his middle name.

Skye glared at the boys in back before turning to Mr. Ferguson and his warbling chins. “No sir.”

************************************************************************

What do you do when your father abandons you, your mother dies, and you’re stuck living with a geriatric aunt? Thirteen year old Skye Weathers is about to find out.

            Skye moves in with his great aunt and into a new school  where his hand me down clothes mark him as an outsider to all the cool kids. Wanting to fit in, Skye allows himself to be talked into paint balling the house of Ezekial. Skye determines his luck is lacking when he is the only one caught paint balling and is forced to pay retribution by cleaning Zeke's house.

            There is one window that cannot be reached by ladder and so Skye enters the attic to clean it. While up there, McKenna Chalmers shows up to return the hat stolen from Skye’s head by her brother. She finds Skye hunkered down by some sort of huge, wooden calendar. Ignoring the admonishment of Ezekial, Skye starts flipping through the months of the calendar and finds an extra month, the thirteenth month called Tretonia. McKenna, startled by a mouse, shoves the two of them forward and through the calendar into this month where the land is under siege by the evil At'Tur.

            Time is now ripped into, stopping in their world, yet progressing in this strange new land. McKenna and Skye discover they must find the calendar’s twin in order to return home sending them on a desperate hunt into the sea, across lands devastated by the scorching winds of At’Tur, into a forest where they must rescue a specter lost amongst the trees, to the door of a tower guarded by the dreaded Cusith hounds and their poisonous tails, and into joining an army of Spriggans to regain control of their lands.

            Throughout their journey, Skye finds pieces to the puzzle of his own past and has to learn to make ammends with his life in order to secure his future in a land he has never known.           .