For a while now, I’ve wondered how to communicate any sense of what my yet-to-be-written novel series, Arcreonis, is going to be like considering I don’t plan on releasing a book in that series for several more years.
Well, today I decided to offer something pretty substantial. It is all at once a teaser for Arcreonis, a sample of my writing, and a behind-the-scenes look at a version of the first novel, Shepherds of Chaos, that I’m sure won’t resemble the final version completely.
For those not aware, Arcreonis is my upcoming fantasy novel series, containing the stories I am looking forward to writing the most. It is the continuing story of the people of a fictional world called Aeruul, with roughly 8 books set within four eras of time spanning thousands of years of history.
I was so excited to write Arcreonis that I tried writing the first book, Shepherds of Chaos, in 2020 after finishing SECLURM: Devolution. But it was only the third book I had ever seriously attempted to write, and even though I wrote quite a bit (roughly 90,000 words, although it was perhaps only a quarter of the story), the book just wasn’t turning out like I’d hoped. It wasn’t bad, but as I came to a turning point in the plot I decided I needed more writing experience and more time to research things to make the series more authentic.
That said, this chapter, the prologue of Shepherds of Chaos, is one I actually expect to change only a little in the final version, at least compared to the other chapters I wrote, which are practically going to be rebuilt from the ground up. I will most certainly run through the prose again when I return to this book and hopefully improve it with my then-enhanced writing, but structurally speaking, this is what the prologue of Shepherds of Chaos (and in turn, Arcreonis) is going to be.
I’m relatively happy with it, but there are issues, as well as real-life things I haven’t yet done a satisfactory amount of research on. I’m probably more proud of what this piece of writing represents symbolically (both to me personally and to the greater story of Arcreonis) than what it is itself in its current state, so you may or may not find it all that interesting. At any rate, consider this a “behind the scenes” look at what the original chapter was like. It should give you a good taste of what Arcreonis is all about.
I hope you enjoy it.
PROLOGUE:
INWARD
Wittenel 29, 1339 R.S.
The wild air outside the hut was darkened and frosty, and within, although protected from winds, there was no longer a fire to warm anyone. Standing within the hut in a little room separated by a hung cloth, the boy called Zhutu steadied his breathing as best he could. Each one came like a torrent of water through his system, his small body barely able to absorb the pressure, the fear.
An oil lamp burned by the cloth-draped windowsill, casting its red light across the little room, just enough to see a primitive cabinet, a two-person bed, and a partly carpeted floor without the light of the sun. For nearly an entire decade he had grown up here in this room in this home in the tundra kingdom of Scarath, all he had ever known. He had seen the quarried blocks of his bedroom walls, the cracks and patterns in the bedposts, the smoothness of the stone floor, and the warm animal pelt carpet so many times it was all almost like part of his own being. He did not know how to be without this place. And yet those words heard just minutes ago, the voice of his father, reverberated through his mind in waves: “You must leave here now. Tonight, Zhuturin! It must be tonight!”
His fears softened just enough for him to glance about the room and think about how only now did he really see how cramped it all was, how small. A part of him told himself that he always knew, or should have known, that he would be leaving. But that did not ease his mind much. He felt tears piercing through his eyes and stifled them as best as he could. It was not the time to cry.
“At the piers, love. Gather your things and meet me at the piers!” Mother’s voice in his mind was continually wresting him away from his self-pitying thoughts. What else did Zhutu need? He had slipped into his heavy fur coat and felt his thick, leathery trousers on his legs above feet clad in too-large boots gifted to him years ago from a neighbor whose son had died. Zhutu had already rummaged through most of the room, packing everything in a pile in the center of a blue, square cloth he had laid out on the floor. It was a scant bit of belongings: cured meats and unleavened bread gathered from the pantry on his way into the bedroom, an extra set of ragged clothes and blankets, a simple fishing rod, a knife, and an old map of the southern ocean.
To leave! It was the worst thought he could imagine. The horror welled up in him. Even with his mother, father, and sister helping him, how could he be expected to face this—any of this—and not become a completely different person?
His mother’s voice echoed in his mind again: “Ovihr will help you!”
He could no longer hear his sister’s voice from outside, nagging him to hurry. In his distress he had tuned it out a bit ago, and only now realized her voice was gone altogether.
“Ovihr?” he called as he turned to face the door, but he heard nothing in response. With a gulp he hastily turned back to the supplies on the floor. Did he have everything he needed? Perhaps so, yet for what he was about to do, could he ever truly have everything he needed?
He felt at the crown of his head and his short, braided rows of hair for a moment. One thing he had not gotten yet. He yanked open a drawer on the cabinet and found his fur hat. He could not well go out in the frigid cold without that. He placed it firmly upon his head, feeling the fuzzy fur crest his ears.
“Ovihr! I think I’m ready,” he said, stooping down to start folding the cloth bag up, tying the corners into a strong knot and then hoisting the load upon his back.
He walked to the open doorway and then stopped, turning back around. This was farewell, he realized. He would never see this place, his and Ovihr’s room, again. He felt his lips tremble and tightened his face against the emotion that welled up. He walked loosely, almost stumbling, over to the oil lantern and put his face right up to the flame. With a blow of air, the flame was out, and the room was cast with darkness. He exited the room into the main part of the cottage. It was all dark—like it had faded away already, never to be seen by his eyes again. He looked near the doorway for Ovihr’s torchlight, and saw darkness there too. The door was slightly ajar, and beyond it he heard and saw the flurry of falling snow in the wind. Not a bad snowstorm, he knew—he had seen plenty of those before, and this was mild in comparison—but it was enough to make him dread leaving his home for more than just the obvious reason.
The smell of his home, familiar air and warm things and the living memory of the three people whom he loved more than anything else, faded away as he stepped out into the cold and shut the door behind him.
Looking all around, he called his sister’s name several times, wondering where she could have gone. Their parents had asked her specifically to remain here and protect him. Had she had somewhere more important to go?
No answer to his question, he stood with posture braced against the cold, the weight of the bag forcing his back to bend just a bit. The night was starless, moonless. The air whistled dreadfully and snow fell in an endless march from the skies above. His fingers, although gloved, still felt a cold that bit into him almost vengefully.
Kosa must be angry at me, Zhutu thought painfully.
He shook his head, not sure whether to scold himself for superstitious thinking. For all he knew, this could very well have been Kosa’s wrath sent upon him to prevent his escape. A part of Zhutu thought to apologize, but spared his breath. He was not to be in the grace of Kosa much longer anyway, as terrible as he knew that was.
He felt more alone than he ever had in his life. “Ovihr! …Mama! …Papa!” he yelled out into the night, but he heard his own voice sucked away by the wind into the void. Again, he fought tears. They would freeze in his eyes if he didn’t. He frowned at the darkness, frowned at the prospect of his mother and father leaving his home to protect him, as they had said. Why were they risking all this, the only life they had ever known, for him?
He could see the evergreen trees drenched in white snow surrounding his home, the sloping earth and open path that wound north toward the main village and south, just ahead of him, toward the ocean. Toward freedom. He could see the water through the snowfall even in the darkness by faint firelights from docked boats sparkling on the deep. This cold wouldn’t be so bad once he got into one of those.
As he looked at the tree nearest his cottage, he saw something on one of the evergreen branches. It was a caterpillar. He went closer to it, wondering how it was doing alright in this weather. It was a pale green color and crawled slowly along the branch. Zhutu watched, strangely fascinated, as it found the spot it wanted, settled down, and contracted its body. It’s forming a cocoon, he realized. He could already see the beginnings of one coalescing around its body. A hint of a smile forming on his lips, he pondered on what a good time this was for that. Perhaps a little late, even. No, definitely late. But it was going to survive nonetheless. It would be safe in that cocoon, and when the time would come to emerge after many months, that same land-bound little caterpillar would not emerge again as it had been before; something greater and freer and far more beautiful would come to fruition.
Zhutu heard a voice bark from behind him along the path to the town. “Zhuturin!”
He jumped and turned to face a lone man in a cloak and coat not too different from Zhutu’s own. The man was tall and muscular, with a teal-colored hood to his cloak that ruffled in the wind and a face marked with deep pores and aged lines in skin that was lighter than most in Rulukan, or anywhere else Zhutu had been, which wasn’t far. Two stark brown eyes peeked out from beneath the hood, and he frowned slightly but sternly as he stood shin-deep in snow that had begun to collect on the pathway. A spear with a wooden and weathered staff and a simple pointed iron tip was clenched in the man’s gloved left hand, a blazing orange torch in his right. At his belt Zhutu spotted a sheathed short sword by the glint from the flame.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” the man said. His voice was deep and commanding. “Much has been spoken of you as of late, young man.”
Zhutu felt paralyzed with fear, but the words the man spoke awoke another fear that prompted resistance. He shook his head and said, “I’m not a young man, nor any of the other things they’ve been saying. Just a simple boy.” He licked his lips. “…Forgive me,” he added.
“I wish that were true. My name is Suls, son of Jiuvu and friend of Tunuzo, your father.” He smiled ever so slightly, his eyes widening in his unflinching stare.
[NEXT]
arcreonis.com 