1. The Riftstorm
"Psara shook the lingering sensation of falling and reached for her sword."
Mega storms rage in a shattered bit of land known affectionately as ‘the rifts,’ these storms are said to bring strong winds, large thunderstorms, hail, flash floods, and more. Years before the events of The Rule of Nine a band of storm chasers travel north of Mytta in the Horaghian Confederation with the hopes of hunting some of Amashik’s rarest inhabitants.
Below you’ll find Part 1 of this Substack Exclusive, and ongoing, series: Birthright Reclaimed.
Blood-soaked hair clung to the back of her neck as she cut her way free. Psara looked around for Toussaint, but her captain was not among the sea of bodies. Fourteen of them made the trek up to the Precipice, but she had no way of knowing how many still stood.
Just as she caught her breath, another beast snarled and leapt at her from below.
These were devilish things and, despite running on all fours, each of them stood as tall as Psara herself. Their padded paws made muffled sounds against the stone plateau, as did their gnarled hands as they slapped the ground beneath them.
She leveled her sword and slashed downward, catching the creature just above the collarbone. Her blade bit, but she was able to summon it loose just as the beast plummeted off the cliff, teeth still gnashing in its barely attached head. Though it raged hundreds of feet below her, Psara could feel the storm’s power.
“Steady yourself, girl, there will be a final volley.”
Her leader’s voice echoed from within the mouth of the cave - the place they’d planned to make their stand. The stone sanctuary carried his voice above the growls and shouts, likely aided by the cavern's vaulted ceilings. There with him stood two of her companions; each doing their best to keep the horde from breaching the cave.
Only four of us left?
Their quartermaster, never missing an opportunity to add a bit of flare to a fight, slashed one creature with his right hand then tossed his blade to his left to cut the head off another. Desmond, you fool, this is no duel and there are no maidens to impress. Yardley’s weapon was enough to identify them - obsidian double blades and cardonite pommel glistening in the low light. They stood, fingers flexing on the hefty shaft, in anticipation. Anticipation of what Psara could not see.
Psara pivoted to make for Yardley’s flank and saw three more of the ghouls bounding towards her. Psara knew they’d be on her in seconds. She opened her stance and hefted her braided blade, her grandsire’s voice echoing in her head.
“The sounds of battle and the sight of blood make most men forget their virtues. But not us.”
Thunder clapped as the first of the three riftgnolls pounced. Psara sent it tumbling back with a quick slash. Her blade, slick with blood, shifted in her hands and she adjusted her grip to meet the next snarling creature. She’d been unprepared for just how tall it was. As she cleaved its flesh it fell and wrenched her blade from her hands.
Unarmed, Psara hit the ground as the last of the three leapt at her. Its long fingernails burned as they dug into her shoulders, pinning them to the ground like stakes in a tent. Somehow, Psara wrapped both her hands around the creature’s snout, clasping its jaws shut. Its breath smelled of rancid flesh and its muzzle was slick with drool. Or was that blood?
Any moment now, this savage would wriggle free. Or worse, another gnoll or something equally grotesque would be at her.
Just one choice. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift. She winced as she felt it grab hold of something warm and ravenous. Her grip loosened as the riftgnoll’s claws dug deeper. Despite the bit of herself she knew she’d lose, Psara gave into the warmth.
Beneath the beast lay a woman. Despite being clad in a thick breastplate, she was otherwise vulnerable. As her gauntleted hands fell away, the riftgnoll felt its hunger, its thirst for blood raging within. Until it didn’t.
As if it were being called upon by the chasm from which it came, the fiend shambled on its hind legs back towards the cliff’s edge. Without hesitation, it flung itself over it.
Psara shook the lingering sensation of falling and reached for her sword. Pain shot down her right arm as she tried to lift it, and agony followed as she attempted to push herself off the ground.
The purple sky streaked with lightning near the edge of her vision. In between breaths, she heard another riftgnoll bounding towards her. Its claws scraped the stone as it picked up speed, as clear now as her own labored breath. Her mana drained, Psara’s only option was death, faced with either honor or cowardice. She heard her grandfather now, and him alone.
“An Elswine should not fear death. Instead, they should welcome its embrace.”
Yet Psara couldn’t help but turn her back and curl in fear as the fiend ducked its head and snarled in satisfaction as it closed in for the kill. Then - a heavy, sick thud, and nothing. Psara slowly unfurled and looked up. Yardley stood above her, blood streaming down their face.
A smile lifted the corner of Yardley’s mouth as they spoke. “Bloody hell, Psar. Didn’t think it’d be me saving you when we first set out.”
With embarrassment slowly creeping up on the terror she’d felt, Psara chuckled. “Nor did I, but I told you hunting along the rift was dangerous business.”
“Aye, you did. Lucky for you, I ignored your advice and came along, anyway.” Yardley gently lifted their axe over their shoulder. Blood, only recognizable in the moonlight, ran slowly from both of its dark blades. The riftgnoll’s head rolled and came to rest against Psara’s leg.
Her arms rendered useless, Psara could only nudge the head away with her leg. This did nothing. The lopsided thing just tumbled right back into place. Yardley chortled. Annoyed, Psara rolled her eyes and gestured toward each of her wounded shoulders with her chin.
“Can you help me up?”
With the storm now well past, only stragglers appeared above the ridgeline. What was left of their hunting party spread out; some picking off latecomers, others scalping the dead and dying. Psara was pleased to see that plenty more than four had survived, though death had indeed visited them. A horde of cavern whents had overwhelmed both Emilen and Fen. Each was so emaciated it looked as if they hadn’t seen food or drink in months. The small, winged things signaled the coming of the riftstorm, so at least the two youngsters were spared the horror that followed.
The trip back would be more arduous with their newly acquired scalps and skins weighing them down, let alone their fresh wounds. The idea of lugging the dead with them would’ve been untenable. Instead, Toussaint gave them each the honor of a sky funeral.
After the ceremony, the twelve of them made their way back into the cave. Psara couldn’t help but look back at the devastation. She didn’t feel sorrow for the things that’d ridden the storm to this place. No, she knew better than to waste time on that, but …
While who she was still remained a secret, Psara Elswine knew that had she not tapped into her abilities, she too would’ve been counted among the monsters left to rot there that day.
A few weeks had passed since the ambush and Psara could move her right arm with more ease. The wound on the left festered a day or two into their return trip, so it was still limited. Thankfully for Psara, Nima was a native and more than proficient healer, though she would’ve preferred her primary title: smuggler. She prepared a disgustingly sweet brew for Psara containing immortelle and blue mountain flowers and warm, honeyed wine. This concoction fought off what would’ve otherwise been a deadly fever in a matter of days but Psara grimaced after every sip.
“You know, girlie, my mother would’ve set me right if I made faces like those when it was time to take my medicine,” Nima said once Psara was lucid enough for the crew to continue their trek.
At least you knew what your mother would’ve done, Psara had thought, but instead just gave her a curt smile. Nima stayed by her side until they made it to their initial staging point about halfway down the peaked slope. Their things were as they had left them, which was no surprise. The Precipice stretched for hundreds of miles in either direction and was home to little other than wildlife. Those things they hunted stayed in the shadows, deep in the rifts that lined the Precipice’s northern edge.
Before Yardley, Psara had been the newest recruit to Toussaint’s crew, so the two of them shared a tent. By the time Psara had gathered her things, Yardley was already inside. Psara stood at the mouth of the tent while Yardley slid a stained, beige tunic over their head and shoulders. It would’ve been polite for her to look away, but she spent a moment admiring her companion’s strapping frame.
Only twenty and five herself, Psara knew Yardley was a year or two younger, and likely many stations lower, but she didn’t mind. What harm would come of the two of them tossing about for a night? None at all, she thought as Yardley turned to notice her.
“Psar! Glad to see you on your feet, that goorie really got into ya.”
Yardley sat on a cushion near the back of the tent and slid on their boots as they continued, “Stidwell and Laus are heading to a stream for a bit, I’m set to join them. Sybil’s bringing the drink. You want to come?”
Psara bit her lip to keep from feeling rebuffed and shook her head.
“All right, then, more rum for me.” Yardley walked by Psara and then paused, continuing, “I really am glad you pulled through.”
Psara sighed and settled onto her makeshift bedding - a few roughspun sacks and a bag full of who-knows-how-dirty clothes - and tried drifting off to sleep. Before she could get close, she heard footfalls outside. In stepped Desmond, hat in hand and head bowed.
“May I come in?” he asked, pausing at the tent flap politely.
“You may,” Psara replied.
The quartermaster was a handsome man. Even with his hat removed and his thinning hair showing, he looked as vital as any she’d ever seen serve her household’s guard. Grandsire could’ve used a man like you, Desmond.
The brown-skinned man took a seat opposite Psara, making himself at home in Yardley’s half of the tent.
“How do you feel? We were concerned we’d have to leave you on the side of the mountain.”
Psara smiled at that. “I feel much better now knowing that at least one of you cared enough to vouch for me. Tell it true, it was Black Anne, wasn’t it?”
Desmond let out a short laugh. “Never mind that, girl. I’ve been at this work for a time now and I’ve yet to see someone survive an encounter like yours…”
The quartermaster purposely let those words hang, baiting her to say more. Psara sidestepped the attempt.
“I’m grateful to have had Nima, she’s a fine healer.”
“Aye, she is. Best I’ve ever seen. Does she say when you’ll recover?”
Psara winced as she lifted her left arm but she could now set her fingers at eye level. “I could wield a blade if I had to.”
“Good. Mytta is a rancorous place. Captain’ll need you at the ready if we’re to walk away with what we’re owed. If we can make it through the city, we’ll find a friend in the seneschal.”
Desmond stood to leave before stopping, placing his hat back atop his head, and addressing Psara once more.
“It was the recruit, Psara. They’re the one who convinced us not to leave you. They’ll be coming with us when we arrive. It’s time they see the other side of this business we’re in.”
The rest of the descent from the Precipice was as uneventful as the subsequent voyage to Mytta. After the mountain breeze and sea air, the dank city was less than pleasant. Four of their twelve moved through the densely populated city in a tight formation. Psara, as always, positioned herself just behind Toussaint, with Desmond and Yardley at her sides. They each carried a large sack flung over their shoulder. Whether it was the look of them or the smell of those bags, they drew the eyes of everyone they passed.
Yardley leaned in, so close Psara felt goose prickles swell on her neck. "You'd think these folk would've seen merchants before, no?"
"The problem isn't the merchant, but the merchandise."
Desmond chimed in. “You two, focus.”
Psara’s eyes scanned the surrounding crowd. Almost no one was at their work; all staring with half-closed eyes and still faces. A woman, gray-haired with a slouch, furled her lip as they passed her. For a moment, Psara thought she was likely to growl or hiss. A man, half her age with hair twice as dark, called to them.
“No need to see the Headmaster! I'll offer you three times what he can!”
Toussaint flung a hand in the man's direction and picked up his pace. "On me."
Left. Right. Right again. The foursome must've looked lost, but they all knew better. All except Yardley. After falling behind a third time they shouted out a simple question.
If only their timing had been better.
“Isn't the sot we're looking for outside the city?”
A group of guards, each clad in armor and equipped with a spear and shield, turned their heads. The shortest among them, also the ugliest, called for them to stop.
"What are you lugging around in those bags?"
Led by the one who spoke, the guards gave chase. First walking, then breaking out into a run seconds after Toussaint and their company did the same. The rules were clear: don't kill members of the garrison, the city watch, or anyone who gets paid to protect the city of Mytta. And even though the rules said nothing of fighting, fighting guards was never a good thing for business.
Psara let one guard get close and whirled, catching the man with the flat nose by surprise. Her knuckles shouted pain as her fist met his nose with a crunch, and he staggered. Losing his footing caused him to tumble into the tall man who was closest to him. The two smacked the paved road beneath them.
One of the remaining two guards leveled his spear and charged Psara. Unfortunately, he hadn't seen Desmond. Desmond planted his foot across the man's face with a well-timed kick. The man's head met the ground with a thud.
Yardley was out of sight - no surprise, at this point. Toussaint was up ahead, keeping watch at the next intersection. Psara turned and saw Yardley and the remaining guard grappling in the middle of a rapidly growing crowd. Desmond pulled Psara along and they joined Toussaint just in time to see Yardley get tossed to the ground.
Recovering like a fallen cat, Yardley was back on their feet and pounced at the guard in one motion. Head down like a charging bull, Yardley caught the man in the stomach with their shoulder and they tangled once more. The man wasn't particularly large but he was certainly larger than Yardley, and Psara sensed the tide turning. She stepped forwardhands ready to part the crowd before her. Desmond spoke as he grabbed her by the wrist.
"The lad needs this. Let them be."
In the moments after, Psara wouldn't regret trusting Desmond, but she would redouble her faith in her instincts. By the time Psara and the quartermaster turned back, the guard had his long arms wrapped around Yardley's neck, and they struggled against the firm grip.
Time seemed to compress, then lurch forward. Yardley’s hand dipped to their belt. The blade they pulled glinted in the sun for only a second before disappearing into the man’s waist.
The guard was young. Too young. His almond-shaped eyes bulged and his thick hands tried their best to stop the spreading, wine-like stain on his tunic.
Yardley scrambled to their feet, coughing and grabbing at their throat. The onlookers immediately dispersed. With the street now clear, Toussaint got a clear view of the mayhem for the first time.
“Move your asses!”
The headmaster's palace was an elegant dome-shaped building. Above its arched door was an etching Psara couldn't quite make out. Inside, the main hallway was full of dozens of decorative pieces: ornate paintings, gold-plated busts, lavish vases full of exotic flowers.
Silence ushered them into an indoor amphitheater at the opposite end.
"By the Divine, this is no palace," Yardley exclaimed.
A voice echoed back in response. “No. It isn't.”
Out from behind a rose bush stepped a tiny man, his gold threaded robe glittering in the light that shone through the glass dome.
"It’s nothing more than an old man's garden."
Toussaint spoke a complete sentence for the first time in hours. As they’d escaped the city the captain’s frustration was palpable. Only giving directions with his hands or a word or two when necessary. By the time they’d reached their destination he’d been able to regain his composure. That, or seeing his old friend must’ve set him at ease.
“That's half true, you’re as old as the rift.” The two embraced. As they pulled away a down-turned lip made the Headmaster's discontent clear.
"I'm sorry." Toussaint said.
"You know, I employ nearly half the constable’s men. It didn’t need to come to this, Toussaint."
Both men shot Yardley a cutting glance before returning their attention to one another. Toussaint leaned in and the two continued in hushed tones.
Desmond wrapped an arm around Yardley's shoulders. A gesture that was equally reassuring and condescending. Yardley dipped a shoulder but remained still otherwise.
"Don't worry lad, they'll likely decide against killing ya." Desmond clapped Yardley on the back and turned to exit into the hall.
Before clearing the doorway he spoke again without slowing. "If they don't, it was nice hunting with ya."
Yardley's darting eyes watered before Psara grabbed them by the arm.
"Still yourself." Saying nothing more, Psara's eyes closed, and for the first time since entering, she’d smelled sweet perfumes, and heard the faint whistling of the birds. Baffled, Yardley just stood and watched.
The captain stopped speaking mid-sentence, but not under his own volition. The old man peered at him queerly. Words that weren't his own poured from the captain's lips.
“Listen, the guard went too far and my recruit panicked. What's it going to cost me?”
Puzzled by the abrupt change of subject, the old man hesitated before answering.
“You wouldn’t just be paying to replace one man, but to quiet the other three as well. Along with the shopkeepers who saw you flee.”
The captain looked through the old man and asked, "Will these cover it?"
Without being commanded the tall woman opened her eyes, grabbed one sack full of scalps and walked it over. The captain stood frozen, his outstretched hand gesturing towards the approaching woman. Behind her, the young recruit stood still as a pillar in the mouth of the hallway, jaw threatening to hit the ground below.
The woman opened the bag and spoke four words before dropping it, pivoting, and returning to her post.
“There are three more.”
The old man looked from the bag to the captain, from the captain to his two followers. Tepidly, the old man peeked inside the bag.
"Four? Are each this full?"
"And more."
"Consider it done. But make this visit your last, Toussaint."
Silently, and with his arm now waving aimlessly over a patch of purple flowers, the captain walked back towards the woman and the recruit.
Psara craned then rolled her neck. Yardley blinked incessantly. Toussaint grabbed his head and dry-heaved.
Psara took Yardley by the hand and wrapped her other hand around Toussaint, hoisting him up underneath his arms. She led them both out without looking back. Once back into the hallway, Psara could feel her sense of self reverberating off the walls.
Desmond waited at the opposite end, his mead colored skin drinking in the setting sun. His silhouetted face gave no indication of his age, yet his eyes held wisdom only gathered across decades.
The look he gave, more so than the knowing silence, was enough. Psara knew her secret was no longer only her own to keep.
Uff, extremely well written, excellent descriptions, and flowing dialogue.
Great stuff. You're really coming into your own on the prose front. Great flow to this story, good balance of show vs. tell, creative ways of showcasing this world's take on classic fantasy tropes. This has echoes of Mark Smylie's The Barrow (the very well-received prose series prequel to his Archaia comic/world). And more and more the whole of Ennead/Amashik is feeling like Smylie's brand - not a copy of, just fitting into a similar broad niche that honestly not many have successfully managed (comics, prose, worldbooks/RPGs, etc, but all of them top quality and written by the author.) Keep it coming.