Wildmane: Threadweavers, Book 1

  Wildmane

  Threadweavers, Book 1

  Todd Fahnestock

  Copyright © 2018 by Todd Fahnestock

  ISBN: 978-1-941528-61-7

  Parker Hayden Media

  5740 N. Carefree Circle, Ste 120-1

  Colorado Springs, CO 80917

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. 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 permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Art credits:

  Cover design: LB Hayden

  Cover Graphic: © Rashed Al-Akroka

  Maps courtesy of Langdon Foss

  To the Clan.

  Immortal. Invincible. Vulnerable.

  Pronunciation Guide

  Main Characters:

  Mirolah - MI-rȯ-lä

  Medophae - ME-dȯ-fā

  Orem - Ȯ-rem

  Stavark - STA-värk

  Zilok Morth - ZĪ-lok Mȯrth

  Other Characters/Places:

  Avakketh – ä-VÄ-keth

  Belshra – BEL-shrə

  Buravar – BYÜ-rä-vär

  Calsinac – KAL-zi-nak

  Casra – KAZ-rä

  Casur – KA-zhər

  Cisly – SIS-lē

  Clete - KLĒT

  Corialis - KȮR-ē-a-lis

  Dandere – DAN-dēr

  Darva – DÄR-və

  Daylan – DĀ-lin

  Dederi – DE-de-rē

  Denema – de-NĒ-mə

  Deni’tri – de-NĒ-trē

  Dervon – DƏR-vän

  Diyah – DĒ-yä

  Ethiel - E-thē-el

  Fillen – FIL-en

  Galden – GÄL-den

  Gnedrin – NED-rin

  Harleath Markin – HÄR-lēth MÄR-kin

  Irgakth – ƏR-gakth

  Keleera – kə-LĒR-ə

  Kikirian – ki-KI-rē-en

  Lawdon – LÄ-dən

  Lo’gan - lȯ-GÄN

  Locke - läk

  Magal Sym – MÄ-gäl SIM

  Mi’Gan – mi-GAN

  Oedandus – ȯ-DAN-dus

  Prinka - PRIŊ-kə

  Rith – RITH

  Saraphazia – se-ruh-FĀ-zhē-ə

  Sef – SEF

  Shera – SHE-rə

  Silasa – si-LÄ-suh

  Tarithalius – ter-i-THAL-ē-us

  Teni’sia – te-NĒ-sē-ä

  Tiffienne – ti-fē-EN

  Tuana – tü-ä-nä

  Tyndiria - tin-DĒR-ē-ä

  Vaerdaro – vär-DÄR-ȯ

  Vaisha – VĪ-shə

  Yehnie – YEN-nē

  Ynisaan – YI-ni-sän

  Zetu – ZE-tü

  Prologue

  YNISAAN

  Ynisaan stood on the obsidian floor of the Coreworld, distracted from the task at hand because of what her mother had just told her. The god of dragons, Avakketh, was coming. Time was short.

  The god of dragons wanted to remove all humans from the lands. He always had. In his view, humans were animals. They shouldn’t build thriving cities. They certainly shouldn’t be allowed to harness the GodSpill, giving them the abilities of creation like those of the gods.

  Avakketh would attack soon, and when he did, he would succeed. Ynisaan knew this because she had seen the destiny of every human in Amarion come to an abrupt end. The god of dragons had waited three hundred years for the right moment, and he would soon realize that moment was now.

  He had waited this long for only one reason: fear of Medophae the godslayer, the shield over the human lands. But Medophae was broken, weak.

  Look, Mother said mind-to-mind with Ynisaan, bringing her focus back to the small crack forming on the glistening stone floor, opening a jagged path filled with the black water of creation. These were the flows of destiny, markers that told the paths of humans; not just their present, not just their future, but their capacity to create momentous events and change history.

  The Coreworld, where Ynisaan and her mother lived, was a secret map showing the lives of every living thing in Amarion. Aside from Ynisaan and her mother, no one —not even the gods— was aware of the Coreworld except the Obsidians, its immortal guardians. Their eternal charge was to kill any intruders, like Ynisaan and her mother.

  Everything in the Coreworld was made of black rock, and it glistened as if wet. Irregular cracks raced across every surface. They ran over the floor, up and down the walls, even across the ceiling. Aside from unicorns, like Ynisaan and her mother, only the gods could even see the cracks and the water within them.

  A hundred twisting rooms in this labyrinth represented the lands of Amarion, the human lands. Each crack within each of these rooms represented the life of a single creature—growing, splitting black rock, and filling with water as that creature lived its life.

  But if you were a unicorn, there was more. The goddess Vaisha had given unicorns the gift of her own vision. Vaisha had seen possibilities. So, too, could unicorns. When Ynisaan and her mother looked at these cracks, they saw not only lives, but they could see the possibilities of those lives like ghostly cracks moving forward. For some creatures, there was only one ghostly line. For some, there were a hundred, based on choices or events that might happen to them.

  If a human’s destiny was a single ghost line, it meant that person was done creating, done evolving. She wouldn’t change anymore, couldn’t affect the world anymore. She had carved out her little niche, kept her head down, and hoped to live to old age.

  Ynisaan and her mother searched for the dwindling number of growing cracks with multiple possibilities, representing dynamic mortals who could change events. Such cracks sometimes even traveled from one room to another, intersecting other lives, inspiring those to grow a little more.

  But there were so few of them left now in the human lands. Humans were less creative, focused more and more on survival. Their spirits grew smaller, weaker. The lands of Amarion were dying, and humans were devolving, mere generations away from actually transforming into the unthinking animals that Avakketh perceived them to be. Whether by slow, degrading apathy or a war with the dragons, humans stood on the brink of oblivion.

  Ynisaan and her mother must find a way to create a new destiny.

  Of course, that destiny was so unlikely it was almost impossible, but that was why Ynisaan and her mother were here in the Coreworld. It was why they ran the risks, watched those ghostly lines of possibility, to give humans a fighting chance.

  They both watched as the new crevice split the rock of the floor, moving slowly toward the hallway, filling with more of the black water of creation that seeped from the stone. Ghost lines sprouted out from it, destined to intersect with another tiny crack nearby.

  It’s Orem again, Ynisaan thought to her mother. They had guided this man named Orem to find the godslayer, Medophae, to help Orem pull Medophae out of his self-imposed oblivion and become the hero Amarion needed. It had half-worked. Medophae had left the exile of his cave to choose an exile in a castle instead.

  Mother moved ahead to the small, stagnant little crack that Orem’s destiny would soon intersect. Her enchanted hooves made absolutely no noise on the rock. As unicorns, Ynisaan and her mother could blend with shadows. They could be utterly silent. If the Obsidians were alerted to their presence, Ynisaan and her mother would be killed.

  After a quick in
spection of the tiny crack, Mother raised her head in surprise. She had seen something.

  Ynisaan came closer, as quiet as a breath, concentrating on the black water pooled in the little crack, spilling over a little onto the floor, looking for the ghost lines. Sometimes it was difficult to see all the possibilities. Aside from the crack being overfull, she could see no special destiny forking away from it.

  What is it? Ynisaan asked.

  That’s a threadweaver, mother said.

  By the gods!

  Finally, Mother said. Finally...

  Threadweavers could use the GodSpill, the essence of pure creation spilled from the Godgate onto the mortal plane long ago. But there hadn’t been any threadweavers—or GodSpill—in Amarion for three hundred years.

  Quickly, Mother said. Go back to Medophae’s flow. Tell me its destiny; tell me if the lines have changed.

  Ynisaan left the room as silent as a ghost, stepping lithely around the flows of destiny without touching them, and into the next room. This was where the long, many-branched crack of the demigod Medophae had stopped long ago, stagnant. As Mother had taught her, she studied the direction of the crack to look in its likely direction, then she concentrated, using her special sight to bring out the ghostly lines—

  There was a loud splash down the hall, and Ynisaan’s head snapped up. Panic blossomed inside her, and she wanted to gallop back to Mother. But she forced herself to be careful and made her way back silently, peeking cautiously around the edge of the wall.

  Mother stood in the room, her forelegs wet with black water up to her knees.

  Ynisaan was horrified. You couldn’t touch the black water! That was the first lesson—the most important lesson—Mother had drilled into her every day of her youth.

  Mother!

  Mother seemed stunned, but she finally looked up at Ynisaan.

  What did you do? Ynisaan asked.

  Mother hesitated a moment, staring at her wet hooves like they belonged to someone else, then she said, You have to leave. Now.

  What happened?

  I was pushed, Mother said.

  But there isn’t anyone else here! Who—

  It was Zilok Morth.

  Ynisaan felt cold. The demigod Medophae had many enemies, and Zilok Morth was the worst.

  GodSpill is seeping into the lands, Mother said. Old spirits are rising. I...should have seen this.

  How did he even get here? How does he even know about the Coreworld?

  Mother raised her head sharply. There was a faint slurping sound from down the hall. They’re coming, she said in Ynisaan’s mind. The Obsidians. Ynisaan’s stomach clenched. Together, they moved back into the protective shadows.

  Then we return to Amarion, Ynisaan said. We leave the Coreworld and never come back.

  They’ll follow.

  Then we run farther, she said.

  Ynisaan, they know I’m here. They don’t know you’re here.

  No! We run.

  And let the humans fade away? Let them be slaughtered by the dragon god?

  Mother—

  If they find me, they won’t look for you.

  You don’t know that!

  She spoke the sacred words in Ynisaan’s mind. The gods turned away from our race...

  So we must shepherd the rest, Ynisaan reluctantly finished the phrase. It was why they were here, why they hid from the Obsidians and manipulated human destiny. Ynisaan and her mother didn’t have the power to alter the flows, but if they knew what was coming, they could help those who did have the power.

  The dragon god will stamp out all the other races if he can, Mother said. When he discovers a threadweaver has arisen, he will not stand for it. He won’t wait while humans harness the GodSpill again. It is too much of a threat.

  Across the chamber, the wet, black walls began to move. The Obsidians.

  Don’t leave me, she said to her mother, ashamed of her fear.

  Hide. Continue our work. Help Medophae. He is the weakest he has ever been, and forces gather against him. He will die if you don’t help him, and then there will be nothing to stop the dragon god.

  Her mother stepped out of the protective darkness and galloped across the open space, hooves clacking on black rock and splashing intentionally through the destiny flows to draw the Obsidians away from Ynisaan.

  Mother!

  You are the last unicorn, Ynisaan. Make use of my sacrifice.

  Mother darted to the right, and the melting wall dropped wet boulders of obsidian to the ground. They uncurled, rising into stocky humanoid shapes. Their feet hardened, and they charged after Ynisaan’s mother.

  Ynisaan heard the stomping steps of the Obsidians as they caught her. She heard her mother whinny. She heard the crushing sounds, but mother didn’t scream. She didn’t scream.

  Ynisaan touched her horn, pearly black and intertwined with the same midnight rock as the Coreworld, to the wall. The Coreworld vanished, and she stood in the dry and dying lands of Amarion, bereft of GodSpill these three hundred years.

  She bowed her head and silver tears fell, dotting the dirt and scrub grass. Everywhere they dropped, leaves sprouted, stalks rose and flowers bloomed.

  Soon, she stopped crying. She was alone, utterly alone. All that remained was her purpose and the hopes put upon her by her family. Mother to daughter, for three millennia, they had sworn that their race, the equines, would be the last to suffer the great fade into non-sentience. And that meant ensuring that the humans woke up again. It meant ensuring that the dragon god did not get his wish. It meant keeping Medophae alive long enough to defend them.

  She looked up at the bright blue sky. She would not make Mother’s sacrifice in vain.

  1

  Mirolah

  Mirolah could sense the moment before the sunrise. She imagined the birds chirping outside her window, waking her from slumber, but they never did. She was always up before them.

  She moved the covers off her legs, pushed her rumpled nightgown down and stood up on the grooved wooden floorboards. It was going to be a beautiful day.

  She smiled at the rest of her sleeping sisters, then knelt down quietly, lifted the loose floorboard underneath and gazed at her treasure for a moment. When she first discovered the loose board and the space underneath, it had been full of grit and dust. When no one was around, she had carefully cleaned it, lined it with cloth, and placed her most prized possession inside: a book.

  Owning books wasn’t against the law exactly, but no one had them. It was said that in far-off Buravar, kings and queens still read books, but in Rith, those who read were shunned, sometimes even killed. It reminded people too much of the threadweavers of old. Not only had they created wonders with the GodSpill, but they had been voracious readers, stockpiling knowledge in great buildings called libraries.

  Once, the work of the threadweavers had been prized, but that was before they brought down the gods’ own wrath and the great dying, before the threadweavers had destroyed the lands of Amarion.

  No, reading books wasn’t against the law, but it was a sin.

  Still, she couldn’t stop herself from reading. It scared her, how desperately she longed for the words of those books, how she devoured them. Though she understood that threadweavers were evil, she couldn’t see how reading stories about ages gone by was bad. The two did not fit together in her mind. So when no one was around—which wasn’t often in Lawdon and Tiffienne’s busy house—she read that book over and over. She knew all five of the legends of Wildmane that it contained. She could recite them from memory.

  If she was honest with herself, she needed those stories like plants needed the rising sun. Whenever the dark shadows of her past crept into her mind, she imagined herself inside those stories, and the shadows fled. After all, nothing could stand before Wildmane. She would close her eyes and picture him arriving, tall and strong, battling the shadows, sending them running. He would sweep her away to wondrous Calsinac on a flying horse. There she would live as a queen in a castle b
y the ocean, with red sands stretching to the horizon.

  Mirolah heard Casra waking, and she hastily replaced the board and stood up. She made her bed as the now-chirping birds drew her sisters from slumber.

  Of course, if the birds did not wake them, then they were not so lucky, because Lawdon would be in shortly after, and his wrath would fall like a hammer upon any of her sisters who were too lazy to get up. Eight of her adopted sisters usually scrambled out of bed before Lawdon’s booming voice descended. Mi’Gan, however, was simply not made for the morning. Lawdon’s harangue hit her daily. Sometimes Mirolah wondered if Mi’Gan did it on purpose, just to give the old bear something to growl about in the morning.

  Mirolah crept down the stairs and to the back of the house, quietly gathered wood for the morning fire and brought it inside. A stack of three books gathered from Old Rith sat by the fireplace, to be used only as tinder, of course. Books were useful in that way, and using them in that fashion wasn’t considered dangerous. It hurt her heart to tear out the pages one by one and light them, but Mirolah had already read each of these books. Whenever Lawdon came back with a new stack to use, she put the newest in the tile shop where it was easier to read them with no one looking. As she got through them, she would move the ones she’d read inside the house. So far, they hadn’t caught on.

  Soon, the logs were crackling within the stove, and she put the wash water on to boil. Tiffienne would be down soon, and she would want the water hot. She returned to the woodpile several times, until she had a day’s worth stacked beside the stove, then she turned her attention to the workshop. Lawdon was Rith’s premiere tile-maker, and those ovens needed to be stocked as well.

  As Mirolah hauled the wood into the workshop, she heard the house come awake. Shera and Locke talked back and forth in the kitchen, making the biscuits that would be the rest of the family’s breakfast. Casra and Fillen thumped through the house, collecting clothes from the previous day.