Excerpts from "The Eternal Defenders"
The Eternal Defenders is a trilogy I wrote between 1998 and 2000 about a group of magic-imbued teenagers who must save the world from a series of enemies. Its really more than that, but its as good and simple a description of the story as I have. Admittedly, its a little cheesy looking back on it, but what teen-rated fiction isn't at least a little cheesy?
The Governor & The Sea
Safyre's Past
Marked
The Governor & The Sea
This is an excerpt from the early pages of Madaya. Actually, from the (current version) very beginning. Governor Brandol of Novah & his crew are returning home through Medas Territory and...
It was late in the afternoon of the next day when Brandol looked up from the fluttering pages of the book he had been reading with a start. The wind had shifted suddenly and his eyes were drawn to the swelling mass of dark clouds on the horizon. Shouts rang out and the crew scrambled to ready the ship for the oncoming storm.
Brandol muttered a curse, tossing his book to his squire. "Ol' Riggs was right, Sid, get my things below deck and secure the cabin. I'll do what I can to help them up here." The boy gathered books and parchment into his arms and precariously made his way down the narrow stairs below deck, jostled by the swarming crew as they made their way up from the galley to help prepare for the storm.
Though he had been raised in the mountains and had never even seen the sea until he was over twenty years old, thirty years of similar voyages had allowed Brandol some time to learn the ropes and he joined the crew in their hasty preparations.
"It shall be a nasty one," Captain Riggs commented as he approached Brandol from behind. "You best get your men below deck and let my crew finish the rigging."
"We're a well-trained brigade not a gaggle of giggling schoolgirls," Brandol's second-in-command, Eresk said tersely. "We can be of help."
Laughing, the old seaman shook his head. "I don't doubt ye, Commander, I'm sure yer well trained for combat. But if you'll just look out there are those waves, you can see why I ask you to go below. They're half a measure high already and the winds will only get worse."
As the ship rolled nauseatingly, Eresk nodded and ordered the rest of his men to their quarters below. He entreated Brandol to join them, but the older man simply instructed his commander to keep the men, especially young Sidill, in the hold until the storm blew itself out. Moments later the heavy panel in the deck slammed shut, all twenty of Brandol's men below.
"Even in a storm like this," he shouted over the wind, "There is a certain beauty to the seas."
Captain Riggs nodded, never taking his eyes from the waters ahead. "Aye, like my late wife. Beautiful when serene, of course, but she was never more stunning than when those black Meda eyes flashed in anger."
"Very poetic," Brandol said absently, reminded of his own late wife. He could scarsely remember a single moment of ire in their years together; Priama had been a placidly intelligent beauty. His daughter, however, was her opposite in temper. Brandol frowned, recalling those amber eyes alight as her temper flared during a discussion - argument, he thought bitterly - they had had not long before his departure this past Spring. He had wanted her to join him on the voyage, to get a feel for the trading and to become acquainted with the Kalu leaders personally, much as he had done with his father some thirty years ago. She had refused, politely at first, stating that her duties in Novah were such that she couldn't spare three Phases to make the journey with him. Brandol had persisted, almost ordering her to attend him. Knowing his daughter as well as he did, Brandol had eventually relented. He supposed he should have been proud of her dedication to duty, but a part of him resented her choice. And when he had told her that, those unusual yellow eyes had burned with anger. She had then informed him, in no uncertain terms, that though she respected him in every way, she was an adult with obligations – responsibilities which he himself had bestowed upon her and though he could justify leaving his people in this time of unrest to sail half-way around the continent for some trinkets, she could not. Those had been the last words they spoke to each other before he left.
Brandol shook his head, rain and sea water spraying from his silver curls. Come Autumn, they would be reunited at the Citadel and once the rains came and they were bound to the grounds for fear of mudslides and flooding, they would have all the time necessary to resolve their issues. Our relationship, he assured himself as an enormous wave loomed above the side of the ship, can be mended. It isn't the first time we've had a difference of opinion…
"Governor!" Someone shouted, "Hold on!"
The swell surged forward, washing over the deck and Brandol was knocked across the deck like a ragdoll. The skies had darkened and skyfire flashed in the distance. A pair of brawny seamen lifted Brandol back to his feet, insisting that he go below with his troops. Before he could open his mouth to argue with them, a second powerful wave swept across the deck. There was a shriek, ended suddenly with a splash.
"Man Overboard!" A young crew member cried and everyone rushed to the railing.
"Who was it?" Captain Riggs bellowed, eyes raking the churning wake.
"Tarin, sir," the young woman struggled to compose herself. "My brother."
"There!" A man pointed, to a blond head bobbing against the dark waves. "He's alive!"
Without hesitation, Brandol threw off his jacket, kicking off his boots and the same time, and leapt overboard. He was a strong swimmer but the angry ocean worked against his every stroke. By the time he neared the man, he was exhausted, his limbs filled with lead as they fought the clashing currents. The blond head vanished beneath another wave, and Brandol took a deep breath, diving beneath the surface. His hands brushed his cloak, then clasped it, pulling the boy toward him. It seemed an eternity before he broke the surface, gasping for air as both the rain and the sea attempted to drown them. Locking his arm under Tarin's chin, Brandol began to make his way back toward the ship, but it was drifting away faster than he could possibly swim under the conditions. Suddenly, a swell broke above him and two men in a dingy nearly collided with him.
"Hurry!" One of them barked, and the other dragged both Tarin and Brandol into the skiff, soaked clean through and shivering from the shock of the cold wind on their wet bodies. Brandol thanked the men through chattering teeth and was unconscious before either could reply.
Safyre's Past
This is a clip from (working title) Madaya, it is near the beginning and it introduces some main characters, Dybec and Safyre. You can glimpse into the world of the Vindari and the problem that has just arisen.
The old woman flung back her hood, revealing a mass of curly gray locks. Mounds of thick hair surrounded her wrinkled face, which with all its years and trials had only grown more exotically beautiful. Safyre was somewhat unique, few upon the continent of Madaya looked at all like her. Her eyes were kin to the blackest obsidian brought from the volcanic isles in the Archipelligo; almond shaped, with thick lashes, they were flashing and within them one could see the depths of her powers. Yet it was not her eyes, nor the kinky bush atop her head that allowed her to stand out so completely from most Madayans. Safyre's complexion had been compared to the pale chocolate Medas chefs created. Smooth, creamy, and dark, her flesh was a rare commodity and many a travelor had tried to woo away such a mysterious woman away from the Vindari. The old woman, who could claim both much-revered titles of Wizard and Vindari Elder, sighed. It had been a long time since any man had given her the seductive glances that had once been so common. Safyre had watched all three of her children grow, live, and eventually, travel to the Spiritrealm. Her son, a Dormant Vindari, had become an infamous trader whose shoes were cursed with a wandering spirit. She knew that he had never been satisfied with himself, not knowing his ancestry. Not knowing from whence he came. Safyre herself had been curious, but in all her years, had never sought out the truth. Ryf had not been able to contain his inquisitive nature. At the age of nineteen he had packed up his young bride and their daughter and set off across the Great Sea, searching for his lineage. None of them had ever been heard from again. Both of her daughters were Dormant as well; Razifa was married and died in childbirth, Ralli had been a casualty of war as the Vindari troupe she had been travelling with was caught between warring Medas Factions. Safyre's mate had, like his son, been blighted with the roaming bone, and left only months after Ryf, the youngest, was born. Never exactly alone, with the entire Vindari clan around her as well as her order of students, Safyre was profoundly lonely. Except for the short lived friendship she'd formed with a cross-bred Dwarven-Medas boy who had appeared in the Valley at least a decade before, she had always kept to herself.
Those girls, she sighed. She had told Dybec that sending two young women away with Tavian warriors was an unwise decision. She had warned him, repeatedly, that though the War seemed to be nearing an end, Medas and Tavian citizens did not always get along. Especially in this case. But had he listened? Of course not. I am just a whiney old grouch. I am not a Wizard. An Elder of the Vindari. I do not know of what I speak. That stubborn old goat. He will someday regret being so hard-headed.
"Safyre?"
She glanced toward the young man. It seemed as if he had been calling her for some time, by the exasperated tone of his voice. Surely he will chaulk this up to senility, she cursed.
"What do you want Horat?" her mouth snapped at him without her brain's permission.
"Madam. There is grave news, Dybec has requested that you come to the Temple to receive it at his side."
"Damn him. I warned him. I did. I dare him to say differently!" Safyre yanked her hood down over her head, allowing her hair to scratch uncomfortably against her cheek. In all her sixty-two winters, never had she understood the point of wearing the heavy garb that had become Vindari tradition. Many times she and her order had taken the matter to the Council, but each time it had been voted down. Preserving tradition, they'd quothed many times, Is the most successful means we have of protecting our own.
Her well-traveled soles made no sound as she plodded across the damp ground toward the temple. Though the Vindari lived in somewhat primative conditions, compared to the grand cities and quaint villages scattered around the continent, the Temple was possibly the most elaborate structure of them all. Like its twin, Ocarine, it had been constructed hundreds of years in the past, when the Vindari numbered in the hundreds of thousands and were revered as direct descendants of the Gods. When the murder of a Vindari meant instant damnation for the purpetrator, regardless of having been caught in the mortal world. When, with their powers, the Mageborn race had created a long, amicable peace between the Medas, the Tavians, the Dwarves, and the Ogre Clan. She sighed. Today was not the most pleasant time to be a Vindari, especially one whose roots could be clearly defined as Medas or Tavian.
Safyre's dark eyes climbed the exterior of the Temple as she approached. Its great stone walls, thick enough to have repelled generations worth of misguided rogues and even an army or two, stood fifty feet high. Its entire frontage was alight with dozens of candles and lanterns. Gleaming silver spikes adorned the edge of the top wall, beyond that were three upper floors filled with classrooms, visitor dormitories, storage facilities, and all the accoutriments of an extensive castle. The first floor's reception area was her destination. As she passed through the great wooden doors, Horat trailing directly behind her as a proper Dormant should, Safyre paused to bow her head at the marble statue of the Earth God, Raavir, who was also her guardian. Beyond Raavir was his twin, Misia, of the Sky. Spread throughout this long main hall were statues of the nine Spirits.
"Safyre!" Dybec's raspy voice called. "Hurry now, the messenger is waiting."
Cursing him under her breath, her old bones much more cranky than his, Elder Wizard Safyre made her way up the short flight of stairs and into the salon. Dybec smiled at her with the quirky expression she had known for nearly all of her life, offering her his hand and escorting her toward the head of the room. Safyre tried to contain her suprise when the messenger approached. The pair were richly attired, though dirty and unkempt due to the journey. The man stepped forward, bowing his head.
"Greetings," he raised his eyes to meet Safyre's. "We bear important news."
Marked
This is a scene from (working title) Madaya. The Secubant are no longer content to work their wicked ways from the hidden village of Hihata. They turn their collective attention from destroying the Vindari and set out to return to power. But first they require a pawn... young Lourdan Hazei of Acernas...
"Do you fear me, little one?" he chuckled, his deep voice like gravel in a velvet pouch. There was a pause as the cold blade trailed across her cheek. "You should..."
"I fear no man," Lourdan replied, lifting her chin in defiance.
He nodded, long black curls shifting over his shoulder, and stepped away. His eyes trailed down her body, pensively. Each was a different shade: the right was a cold, flinty gray and the left was nearly black. She cringed, his disconcerting gaze was nearly tangible on her bare flesh.
"Sadly, my love, I know you lie. Your eyes are clear...perhaps you believe there is nothing earthly to fear. But," he sniffed the air, meeting her gaze. He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, leaning down until she could feel his hot breath on her face. "I can smell your fear."
The rope around her ankles and wrists bit painfully into her skin as she tried to shrink away from him, and a smile crossed his face when she winced. Slowly the man dragged the flat of his dagger down the side of her neck, hesitating at the base of her throat. It slid over her chest, the unnatural chill from the blade penetrating her thin silk tunic, and down her belly. With a grunt, the man tore open the lower half of her shirt. He lifted his arm and flicked the knife to one side, then down. Lourdan bit into her lower lip, determined to show no weakness, but as he carved his glyph into her abdomen silent tears spilled from her eyes.
Low, rhythmic words in a tongue she did not understand rolled from his tongue and his eyes fell closed as he began to sway slightly. Rock grated against rock as the stone door opened and a dim light spilled into the cavern. Lourdan squinted, then gasped.
"Ah, you've done well, husband." A female voice cooed. "Loradin's lovechild, yes?"
The man nodded once, bowing his head and stepped away from the young woman bound on the granite altar. "Lourdan Hazei of Acernas. Meet Summoner Bae, Vayne, the next M'Ambra of the Secubant."
Suddenly, she understood, but there was no relief in the realization that they would not kill her. She was a Governor's daughter, and when her father died or retired, she would become Governor despite her sex and despite her illegitimacy. And the Secubant would own her...
"Delius," Vayne gestured with her hand, "Finish marking her. The spell is incomplete."
There was no Vindari blood in her veins, but she could feel the weave tightening around her body. Vayne watched intently, pale eyes fixated on the young woman. She tapped her nails against her cheek as her husband worked; a frown forming upon her lips. His work was sloppy, his weaving loose and gaping in places. Angrily, she pushed him aside and leaned over the girl's prostrate form.
"If you cannot do it properly, fool, do not bother!"
Vayne closed her eyes tightly, and her fingers began to twitch as they plaited etherial strands. The elements twirled and danced in her grip, sliding around the young woman. Blood trickled from the glyph and as she looped the braided light into the wound, Vayne leaned closer to Lourdan, hovering over her. Flesh closed, puckering around the spell and the girl began to scream. The braid alternatively flashed hot and cold, writhing inside her abdomen. Pain unlike anything she had even known seared through her body and blackness enveloped her. As the final words of the incantation left her lips, Vayne bent her head and dragged her tongue over the burned flesh, tasting magic and blood.
"Control." Delius smirked, freeing the girl from her bonds. "She will wake soon. Then she will be ours."
"No." She glanced back at him. "She will be mine."