The Call of Dust

  The Call of Dust

  Book One of the Arat Series

  M. R. Saint

  The Call of Dust

  Book One of the Arat Series

  The Call of Dust is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Names: Saint, M. R., author.

  Title: The Call of Dust/M. R. Saint

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-7340142-0-4 (paperback) | ISBN 978-1-7340142-2-8 (ebook)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Epic. | EPIC. | FICTION / Action & Adventure. | FICTION / Science Fiction / Adventure. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-7340142-0-4

  Copyright © 2019 by M. R. Saint

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the US by Liquid Black Press, an imprint of Liquid Black LLC.

  Editor: Chersti Nieveen

  Cover: Roger Creus Dorico roger.creus@digitalrowye.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For Mark-Daniel and Noni.

  Contents

  The Call of Dust

  1. Arat

  2. Raja of Ceidon

  3. Nnesutee

  4. A Passing Glance

  5. Sibulla

  6. Isle of Suten

  7. The Call of Dust

  8. Casting Stones

  9. Ulaan

  10. A Duel of Faith

  11. Clouded Sight

  12. A Culling

  13. Psionia’Matri

  14. Faith

  15. Blade’s Kiss

  Coming soon…

  About the Author

  1

  Arat

  The Kingdom of Zaim

  Near the end of the Third Age

  Crouched beneath the low outcropping of a sunken shanty, Khiron clutched his dagger’s hilt as he watched four men in hooded, green-flecked cloaks, hastily move through the dusky trails of the Dun Quarter toward his position. Their hoods were in constant motion, three of the four keeping watch as they penetrated the heart of the old campground where the poorest of the kingdom found refuge.

  The Dun Quarter was a sprawling area of dirt and jutting rocks; an area where nothing grew but the most stubborn of weeds and thorny bushes, populated with low-roofed shanties which housed the poorest of the farmers. He imagined that from the heights of Mount Ceidon, from which they came, it must have looked like an island of barrenness surrounded by hundreds of acres of manicured verdant green. It was easily an hour march at a quick-step from the Mount, so he knew they must be fatigued, although they showed no signs of it.

  The men walked briskly across the barren dust, their footing sure as they navigated the disjointed landscape. A wide trench became visible as they approached it, the buzzing of flies filling the air. Noses flared as they were assaulted by the stench of urine-soaked excrement. The rotting corpse of a deer lay atop the manure in the scorching suns. Hands quickly reached into hoods as they hurried on, covering their mouths and noses as they followed the route of the trench towards their goal.

  Despite his irritation, he found himself grinning. The Arat had said that men from Mount Ceidon would come and had instructed him to wait here for them. He had held reservations about the wisdom of the command but kept them silent. She was the reason that he had come to this land, although he hadn’t known that when he came. He had since sworn his sword and life into her service. Her sight of future timelines was as sharp as any that he had ever heard of who had the gift, and as of yet, he had not regretted his decision. He had asked her how he would recognize them, and she had just smiled and turned away. Now he knew why.

  The men stood out like shiny blades reflecting sunlight. Their movements were uniform, as those trained to operate in a regiment. Their cloaks were functional but showed no signs of wear or the discoloration that came from extended exposure to the elements, and he doubted that boots of that quality could be purchased anywhere in the lowlands. If they were attempting stealth, they were incompetent at best. Either that or they felt that lowlanders were too stupid to notice. He spat. How like the high-born to consider themselves better and smarter than the masses. The sooner he intercepted them, the better.

  He emerged from his hiding spot and they stopped as one, jeweled hilts suddenly visible. He raised his hands with his palms empty. “Fear not! I am sent from the Arat to guide you to her, O welcomed guests from Mount Ceidon. That is why you have come, yes?” He looked at each of them eye to eye in turn to show his sincerity. His expression remained hopeful as he glanced at his hands. “May I?”

  The lead soldier, eyes dark as coals and cropped brown hair which lay flat against his sweaty forehead, nodded with a menacing stare. “Slowly, and where we can see them.”

  “I’m carrying a dagger but nothing else,” Khiron said, lowering his arms. “I pose no threat to you.”

  “He knows who we are,” a voice came from the man that the others seemed to be protecting, his face chubby with large eyes. “The Arat demonstrates her abilities to us to give confidence that we have done the right thing in coming. It is well.” He motioned and the men’s hilts disappeared behind their cloaks. “What is your name?”

  “My name is Khiron,” he said slowly, the tension in his shoulders abating. “I am a sword sworn in the Arat’s service.”

  “We bear respect to your office,” the chubby-faced man said with a smile, “and to the respect you grant us in not bringing your sword. The honor is not overlooked, nor minimized.” He nodded to Khiron in a genuine acknowledgement. “Please, lead the way.”

  He gave a deep bow to the speaker and led them away from the trench and into a cluster of one-story shanties that lay to the West.

  We are on their way with no blood spilled, he thought. As always, she was right.

  A breeze from the Silver Sea reached them, the twin suns becoming partially obscured by lazy clouds stretched like pulled cotton in the wind. The scent of salt washed over the land like crisp, cool water.

  Sounds of life began to surround them as people became visible. Barefoot children playing without restraint: many chasing one another while others skipped rope or fought in mock sword duels with sticks.

  Men and women hung clothes on thin ropes that were attached from roof to roof. Iron nails that bent upwards at their base bit deep into wood and mortar, anchoring the network of ropes which seemed to pull the mix-match of shanties — some square, some round— into a unified community.

  Hides were beaten, armor hammered in open-air shops, clothes were sown, and gamblers gathered in clusters: men and women alike calling out numbers and shapes; some with zeal, others in despair. Together, the sound created a tapestry that muted the squalor that surrounded them and created a sense of vitality; of community.

  Khiron guided them through the paths and thoroughfares with seasoned familiarity. Angling northwest by the suns arc, they reached an area filled with dirt-faced children. He stopped, then moved to the side with arms outstretched towards the children.

  The four men stopped, a look of suspicion on the lead soldier’s face, confusion writ on the others.

  The children looked up and ran away with giggles and laughter, leaving a short and chubby girl that looked to be no older than ten or eleven, squatting and picking up stones. An empty space beside her right front tooth glared at them as she smiled.

  “Those who seek you have arrived,” Khiron said. He took a position behind her and stood wide-legged, with his hands clasped behind h
im.

  “This is the Arat?” the lead soldier sneered. “He has played us for newborns!”

  “Silence, Jittan,” the chubby-faced man said. “This is indeed the Arat. I can sense her power.”

  The girl turned to the speaker, looked at his round face and clear eyes, and smiled. “You are a mage.” Her voice was young and had yet to find itself, her eyes youthful and full of wonder. “None other than the Great Raja’s advisor, Philomene, I see. I am honored that you have come.”

  The soldiers tensed, reaching for their swords, but stood down at the wave of Philomene’s hand.

  “I must confess,” he said in a hush, “you are not what I expected.”

  The Arat giggled with the unfeigned freedom of youth. “Those with titles seldom are. Wouldn’t you agree, Philomene the Guileless?”

  His eyes tightened momentarily and then he relaxed as he chuckled. “Unrobed truth is even more rare, young seer. Is it youth that leaves your thoughts unrestrained, or the power of your calling?”

  “Time will tell, great mage. Unfortunately, time is not something that we have to spare.” She came to her feet and dusted off the knees of her trousers. When she lifted her eyes up to Philomene again, all mirth was gone. “Our kingdom is under threat.”

  His eyes widened, and they held no unbelief. He moved passed his guards to sand before her and lowered his hood. “What have you seen, young seer? Leave nothing out.” His guards took positions behind him: two facing outward, Jittan taking a post beside him, watching the Arat and Khiron with undisguised disgust.

  Khiron watched the guard’s eyes, and shifted closer to the Arat, positioning the sheathe of his dagger on an angle that would give him the easiest access to pull and throw in a single motion.

  If the Arat noticed Jittan’s disposition, she didn’t show any sign.

  “I have seen an army approaching. A people of dual-hued skin: one side half pale blue, the other tanned gold—”

  “Dris’ beard,” Philomene said. “The Ulaan.” The blood drained from his face as he interrupted her. With haste, he looked around to see if he had been overheard.

  She paused in what seemed to be puzzlement and reached out to comfort him when Jittan unsheathed his sword and advanced. “No commoner may touch my Lord!”

  Khiron’s hand slipped to his dagger hilt. He tensed to throw it, and then froze in utter shock.

  Completely unflustered, the Arat had moved towards the attacking soldier and appeared to lightly slap Jittan’s mailed stomach with her opened palm. The guard flew back three full body-lengths as if struck with a battering ram.

  It took everyone by surprise. The other two guards, whose backs were turned, drew their swords looking for an enemy, turning left to right in quick succession. Seeing no one other than the Arat, Khiron, and their master, they paused in confusion. Philomene’s voice brought everyone into focus.

  “Stand down immediately,” he said angrily to his guards. “Check on Jittan and see if there is anything you can do for him.” He turned to the seer. “I beg your forgiveness, Arat. My lead guardsman has overstepped his bounds and has offended my honor.”

  She sighed, for the first time looking older than her eleven years. “I take no offense. Many of you who live on the Mount hold our status in disregard. This was regrettable, but the possibility was foreseen.” That her words were incongruous with her age gave them a sense of weight which brokered no argument.

  The lines on Khiron’s face grew sharp as he stood behind her, though he tried hard to conceal his feelings. The Arat had known that she would be attacked and hadn’t told him. Despite the result, he would have to speak to her about this, and soon. And how had she done that? He had never seen her doing anything like it before. The thought gripped around his intestines and squeezed.

  Philomene the Guileless stood still, his eyes becoming unfocused, his head tilted towards Jittan’s motionless body.

  “He yet lives, Honorable Philomene,” the Arat said hurriedly. “He will have a nasty bruise on his back where the earth struck him, but he is merely unconscious.” There was mirth in her voice, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  “I am in your debt, gifted one,” he said as his questing confirmed her words. His eyes refocused. “Again, I ask your forgiveness. Speak what we can do to make amends and if it is within my power, it will be so.”

  Head shaking in irritation, she spoke, a hint of pleading in her voice. “We don’t have time for this. I did not wait for you to come to be delayed by decorum.” She glanced at Khiron, then she turned back to the mage.

  Philomene flinched at the expression on her face. “Forgive me. I believe that I understand. Please tell me, what else did you see?”

  She looked at him for a long moment before her expression became resolute. Putting her palms together, she opened them a crack and looked within as if hiding a coin or a bauble from a curious friend. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears. “Too much…I see too much.”

  She turned from the mage and pointed to a log that lay about five steps from them. “Khiron, your sword lies within. Collect it and all your things. We sleep near the docks and take the first ship from port as the suns rise. Meet me at the known place in one bell.”

  Khiron bowed and moved quickly, collecting his sword and glancing back towards the unmoving Jittan before quickly disappearing into the shadows of the shanties. Finding a good space to hear with a line of sight, he stopped and kept watch. Despite who she was, he’d be damned if he would leave her completely unprotected. Whatever she had done to the soldier, he had a lurking suspicion that she wouldn’t be able to do it again. With effort, he stilled his breath to hear their words.

  “Arat?” Philomene’s voice was pleading.

  She turned, cheeks wet. “How much to tell—” she paused, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “It is our greatest challenge you know, deciding how much is right for us to tell. I thought I knew until a moment ago, but options that once stood bright before me are there no longer.” Her voice faded as she closed her eyes. “How much to tell?”

  Fear shot through the Philomene’s eyes, instantly replaced with a look of irritation at the noise of his guards helping Jittan up behind him. A deep moan rose from the soldier as he regained consciousness. Philomene turned to watch them.

  Khiron realized that the mage felt that his guardsman may have cost them much by his foolishness. They had sought out the Arat for a reason, and it must have been a good one for the advisor of the Great Raja to come personally. If the Arat had been injured, or if she decides to hold back something she would have otherwise shared, that effort could be all for naught.

  A sniff brought the mage’s focus back to the Arat. Her eyes were red but no longer wet, the wiping of her nose had left a smear of glistening dirt across her lips and cheek. He looked at her with a sense of trepidation; eyes longing for her to speak but as if afraid of what she may say.

  “I am at risk,” she said abruptly. “I have foreseen that if I stay here, I will perish, as well as many of the people that I love. I also see that I may be killed if I leave, but that future is not certain.” A look of fatigue marked her expression as she spoke, but she spoke with authority. “Either way, I must go.

  “Tell the Great Raja, that he needs to send for a Sibulla with haste. By the favor of the Ancients, I perceive that one of their order is visiting the Kingdom of Chalice, but will be leaving soon. Send your delegation to the Priory at their Grand Reef. If a ship is sent tomorrow it can be there in time to intercept her, but you must move with haste.” She rested a hand on his. “I cannot express it enough, the presence of the Sibulla is pivotal to the future of our kingdom.” She turned and started to walk away, then stopped, speaking again without turning. “I see a caramel brown-skinned people.” She paused, her eye’s tightening. “I don’t see clearly concerning them, but I warn you, do your best not to offend them. Remember my words and take note; wisdom is not only reserved for the royal or the aged.”

  With th
at, she ran in the direction that the soldiers had come, her short legs moving quickly.

  Khiron rose from his hiding place and hastened to their point of rendezvous. She would be safe amongst the villagers and wouldn’t have any more problems from the soldiers that he could sense. His mind raced as he processed what he had heard. The tension in his gut was replaced with a cold fire. Nothing would kill her, this he swore.

  He increased his pace as he leapt from path to path, with only the moans of Jittan in pursuit.

  2

  Raja of Ceidon

  “Is that the entirety of what she told you?”

  “It is, Great Raja,” Philomene said. “Although I’m sure that it is not the full extent of what she saw.”

  The Raja of the Ceidon, the Brazen Shield of Mount Ceidon and the ruler of the Kingdom of Zaim, grunted. Shifting his heavy frame to face his advisor directly, his eyebrows raised questioningly. “And you say that she is only a girl of only eleven years?”

  “I am sure of it, great Raja.”

  “Magery? A reborn?”

  “No my lord, she bore none of the signs. She is a young girl in truth, although I believe that her sight has matured her in ways that we can only surmise.”

  He sighed. “Indulge me.”

  Philomene’s eyes drifted from his liege as he looked off into the distance. “It is said that the Arat is a seer. I not only believe that to be true, but I believe that she is an anomaly even among those with the sight.” He lifted a hand before his face and wiggled his fingers, his eyes coming to rest on his palm. “It is believed that seers can see the future, but I was taught at the dojon that such a belief is quite incomplete. Many who have the sight have visions of the future. They usually are limited to an individual who they can focus on, or on events in the near future. We call them seers, and that is technically true, but they are the least of those with the ability.” His voice drifted off as he tightened his fingers together as if his hand was a blade. “One stream, one possible future, a vision that is usually accurate, but not always.