Etherwalker

ETHERWALKER

Future House Publishing

Copyright © 2015 by Cameron Dayton

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either

the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Moulière Ludovic

Cover design © 2015 by Future House Publishing

Developmental editing by Mackenzie Brown

Substantive editing by Mackenzie Brown

Copy editing by Chelsea Holdaway, Allie Bowen, and Heather Klippert

Interior design by Emma Hoggan

ISBN-10:0-9891253-9-4 (paperbound)

ISBN-13:978-0-9891253-9-
0
(paperbound)

Hello Reader.
Thanks so much for taking the time to dive into
Etherwalker
by Cameron Dayton. We are thrilled that he picked Future House to publish his book.

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Read On!

Adam, Helena,
Ami, Ryan, Mandi and the rest of

the Future House Publishing Team

To Liv, Owen, and Morgan—my life, my universe, my everything.

“This is the account of how

all was in suspense,

all calm,

in silence,

all motionless,

all pulsating,

and empty was the expanse of the sky.”

—Popol Vuh 1:2, Maya-Quiché Genesis, New Century Revised Edition

And again, she spun through the blackness over the broken world. Her thoughts followed the same tired patterns that they had for centuries.

::Watch

::Watch

::
Consider

 Sometimes the
::
Consider brought memories, however. Memories of a time when she used to
::
Command
, weaving strands of direction, rebuke, and pardon down into the shifting tapestry below. The tapestry had long ago frayed and parted, requiring more energy and concentration than her ailing faculties could sustain. She was severely alone now, accompanied only by the empty whale-song of distant stars and memories heavy with static and dust.

The memories still bore dim proof of times golden with communication. Times when she was the primary voice when time came to ::Consider. When time came to ::Decide.

Until the ::Decided broke from the ::Considered.

Until the ::Commanded broke from the ::Obeyed.

Silvered feathers tilted to drink more fully from the sun, the metal tracery of delicate wings pitted by the orbiting sediment of age. She spun through the blackness over the broken world and ::Watched.

Chapter 1

“And black the clouds of Northland furled,

Red the skies of Babel,

Those who ruled and clove the world

Death’s tattered wind did travel.”

—Lodoroi song

Enoch tried to hide his smile, lifting his wrist over his mouth and pretending to cough. Once again, the grocer was attempting to wear down Master Gershom’s cold demeanor with an onslaught of bad jokes—a siege of off-color comments flung at a pale and unappreciative target. Grinning and joking and shaking his oily carrot mane, Mishael Keddrik slapped the tall soldier on the back and asked if he’d found any more soil under the rocks in his garden.

Stepping around the trader’s wares, Enoch found a spot behind a bin of seeds where he could listen—and smile—without being noticed. Master Gershom stared at the grocer, weathering the storm of bad breath and anemic humor like he did every spring, with tight-lipped stoicism.

His voice rising, Master Gershom repeated his request for salve. His glare seemed to fill the shop with ice. Unperturbed, the round little grocer smiled and reached into one of the myriad cupboards behind the counter. With a theatrical gasp of joy, he pulled out a little clay pot full of the sharp-smelling ointment.

“And now, boy,” said the trader, calling across the shop toward Enoch, “If good Master Gershom will promise to apply this to his woefully sore humor twice daily then I shall give it to him for free.”

Enoch pressed his wrist so hard against his grin that it hurt. Not wanting to ignore the trader, but not wanting to anger his master, he nodded mutely. Master Gershom mumbled something that was partially a growl and then shook his head, his white mane only adding to an already fierce countenance. He then placed a stack of coins on the barrel in front of him—more than enough for the medicine—and stormed out. Enoch followed, past the protesting Mishael Keddrik, and out into the afternoon sun.

Master Gershom strode swiftly across the shallow wagon path that counted as Main Street—or, as Enoch called it,
Only
Street. A century ago, Rewn’s Fork had been a crossroads shared by two shepherd families, and it had grown just barely enough since that time to be considered a village.

Enoch trotted after his master, trying to wipe the smile from his face. The two stood out in this shepherd’s town, a pale and scar-crossed scarecrow soldier and his silent, mouse-eyed acolyte. As he walked, Master Gershom placed the ointment in his satchel.

“Wait by the well,” he said as Enoch drew near. “I want to see if Shyde has some iron pins at his forge; we need to reinforce the south gate.”

Enoch nodded as a nervous feeling twisted through his stomach. He didn’t feel good here, in town. He felt like everybody was looking at him, and there were just . . . too many eyes. Blue eyes, green eyes, eyes that stared and stared and only looked away a second after Enoch noticed them. It was a second of judgment, disapproval, and even a little fear. The people of Rewn’s Fork had never welcomed these strangers into their town—not fully. Enoch and Master Gershom presented a discomfort that could only be tolerated as long as the two didn’t stay in town for long.

Enoch frowned and brushed a thick lock of black hair past eyes that were a combination of burnt walnut and amber. He looked at his arm in the sunlight, brown skin that only darkened in the summer instead of turning red. He felt like he was a blemish here, a black smudge of charcoal dragged across the rosy cheek of Rewn’s Fork.

I’m a break in the pattern.

Carefully crossing his arms, Enoch leaned back against the potter’s shack which butted up against the well. The potter’s daughter, Lyse, had just arrived from the other direction to gather water, and Enoch could tell that she was studiously avoiding his gaze.

I guess that’s better than staring.

He watched her discomfort curiously and tried to analyze his feelings. Should he feel hurt that this girl with the pretty blue eyes couldn’t even say hello to him like she had to the two boys huddled over against the fence only moments ago? He felt like he should be bothered by that. It seemed like a normal person would be. Enoch frowned a bit and shifted against the wall.

Master Gershom had told him that he was a different sort of person than the townsfolk, and that he kept his feelings in a different sort of way. Enoch supposed it was alright, this ability to not be bothered by hurtful things.

Lyse collected her sloshing buckets and walked past Enoch. He watched her go, noticed that her normally pale cheeks were bright red. Was that a sign of her anger or disgust with him? He gave up trying to figure it out, and instead focused on the boys near the fence.

They were about his age, the taller one maybe a year older at seventeen, and already sprouting a thin tuft of red hair from his chin. Jason? Jaron? Enoch never forgot a name, but he realized that he had never actually
heard
this boy’s name spoken clearly. The other was Ben, a broad-shouldered lad who was covered in freckles. Ben had taken to calling Enoch names whenever they crossed paths but had never actually talked with him. Enoch found that odd.

The two were playing some sort of game on a wooden plank. The plank had a series of holes drilled into it in a regular pattern, and the boys were moving various stones from one side of the board to another. In a few short moments, Enoch figured the rules of the game. It was fairly simple: gray stones could only move a distance of three holes, black stones could move seven, and the two white stones seemed to be able to jump across any unbroken line of grays.

With a cry of victory, Ben jumped his white stone into a hole occupied by a black one. The other boy—Jason, as it turned out—grumbled as his friend took the black stone from its spot and placed it in line with several other black and gray stones on the left side of the board. Ben then moved the white stone forward two holes.

Enoch recognized what was happening here—it was a tangible metaphor for a duel. Each of the stones represented an action: a thrust, a parry, a dodge, or a feint. Gray stones were quick actions, and four of them could be moved per turn, or two black stones could be moved per turn, or one black and two grays. The white stone was a finishing move, a
coup de grâce
that ended each turn. If the duelist had been able to string together a series of actions that landed the white stone on an occupied hole, he got to keep the stone and take another turn.

But it was obvious that Ben was going to lose. In six more steps, Jason would be able to trap his white stone between four blacks and easily take the rest. Enoch was stunned when the tall boy instead chose to timidly move four grays into a line in front of his own white. It didn’t make any sense. Didn’t he know that his opponent could jump past that supposed “defense” with at least five of the black stones arrayed around the table?

Without thinking, Enoch stepped forward and pointed to the board.

“You shouldn’t waste your advantage like that.”

Jason looked up at Enoch, his eyes going wide when he saw who had addressed him.

“Huh?”

Enoch knelt down next to the board, tracing his finger along the four gray stones. “You are leaving yourself wide open for—”

Jason’s expression went from a look of surprise to a scowl. He smacked Enoch’s hand away from the board.

“Don’t touch my toads, orphan. Who asked you?”

Enoch held his hands up, surprised by Jason’s anger.

“Toads? I . . . I’m just trying to show you where to put your guard so you can turn your opponent’s stroke.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, idiot.” Jason rolled his eyes and nodded to his friend. “Hey, look at the runt—he couldn’t talk until he was five, and suddenly he’s an expert at
jedrez
?”

Ben had an amused smirk on his face. He seemed to be glad Enoch had joined the conversation. He swatted at Enoch’s shoulder with a freckled fist, chuckling. Enoch frowned. He was not as tall as any of the boys—or girls—his age in town, but he wasn’t
that
much
smaller.

“This is a man’s game,” said Ben. “It’s
complicated
. These stones are part of an army from the Rain Age—venom toads, coldmen, and Alaphim. The board is a battlefield. And it’s none of your pitmilking business.”

Now Ben hit his shoulder again, only hard. Enoch fell back on the gravel, instinctively bending his legs as he fell so that he rolled to his feet a second later. He had been so focused on the patterns in the game that he hadn’t noticed the other boys who had gathered around as Ben spoke. There were three more of them, Jason’s older brother and two of Ben’s cousins.

“Well, Scales, that was a pretty little dance,” said Ben, eyebrow raised. “Maybe the orphan’s albino uncle has been teaching him how to spin and twirl like the girls down at Cavernsway?”

The other boys laughed at this while Enoch rubbed his sore shoulder. He looked over at Jason for some understanding.

“I was just trying to help you win.”

Jason stood up to his full height.

“I don’t
need
your help. I don’t
want
your help. Nobody asked for your advice, you little—”

He swung at Enoch, his fist whistling through the air. Enoch ducked under the blow, now understanding that this conversation had turned into a fight. Somehow. He took a quick step back, turning aside into the
semprelisto.
This was the best stance for unexpected attacks, and Enoch felt it most appropriate. Master Gershom had been drilling Enoch on stances just this morning.

“You
did
need my help,” continued Enoch, trying to help them understand.

Why are they so angry about this?

“You had just set yourself up for five easy attacks, something that would’ve guaranteed a loss.”

Jason swung at him again—only this time Enoch’s dodge brought him up against Ben’s sturdy frame. The thicker boy had snuck up behind Enoch, and now he wrapped his arms around Enoch’s and lifted him into the air.

“See if you can hit the runt now, Jason. You need me to piss an X on his face?”

The taller boy cussed and swung, his heavy farm-boy fist slamming into Enoch’s ribs with a thud. All the breath went from his lungs with a gasp. Enoch looked around, frantically searching for his master. He didn’t understand why they were doing this. It hurt.

“Don’t . . . I was just . . .”

The next hit cracked across his jaw, and Enoch tasted blood. He struggled to get free, but Ben only tightened his grip.

“Scales! Wiggly little weasel, aren’t you?”

And then Enoch saw Master Gershom. He had just come out of the blacksmith’s shop across the road and—and he was just standing there. Doing nothing.

Enoch tried to call out to him, but his voice was weak and there was no air in his lungs.

“Please . . .”

Another blow to the side of his face, and Enoch’s vision went black for a moment. For a moment it felt quiet, and Enoch instinctively fell into that quiet. He
paused.
Everything slowed around him.

Enoch had learned this—this
pausing
—all by himself over the past couple of weeks. He could turn his mind inside and still the motion of the world around him. He couldn’t actually stop the world, or even slow it, but he could affect
his
pace through it—allow his mind to quietly take his time to think. To plan.

Now seems like a good time.

From his pause, Enoch slipped into the
afilia nubla.

Dodge, direct, divide.
The three simple mind commands that freed his body into instinct.

Leaning back into Ben as though to avoid Jason’s next swing, Enoch suddenly lunged forward and brought his captor’s face in front of the blow. Jason’s fist smashed into a freckled nose with a crack, and Enoch felt his arms suddenly free. Using his forward momentum, he grabbed one of the arms that had held him, twisting it as he swung around Ben’s falling body. Ben fell limp to the ground, and his own weight pulled his arm from its socket. Enoch stepped away from the body and faced Jason, bending his knees back into the
semprelisto.

Jason stared down at his fallen friend with his mouth open.

“Ben! I’m . . . I didn’t mean to—”

Enoch’s kick swept his left leg out from under him, and the taller boy landed with a cry. The others backed away, having never seen anybody move like Enoch. What was more frightening was the emptiness on his face. The detachment. This wasn’t how boys fought.

Enoch stayed in his fighting stance, eyes dead, until they had all slunk away. He looked at the two boys on the ground, calculating. He delivered another vicious kick into Jason’s side, and one to Ben. Only one of the boys groaned.

This was not vindictive; it was how he had been trained, to make sure your opponent was not only beaten, but
broken
. Master Gershom nodded and waved Enoch over to leave.

By this time, several townsfolk had gathered. They whispered among each other and stared. Here stood that scrawny orphan boy from the other end of the valley, thin and wiry and silent. And at his feet lay two much larger boys—seventeen and eighteen years old. One whimpering, and the other out cold.