One for Ahl, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The views and opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not reflect the views or opinions of Gatekeeper Press. Gatekeeper Press is not to be held responsible for and expressly disclaims responsibility for the content herein.
One for Ahl
Published by Gatekeeper Press
7853 Gunn Hwy, Suite 209
Tampa, FL 33626
www.GatekeeperPress.com
Copyright © 2023 by H.H. Moss
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023933283
ISBN (paperback): 9781662938153
eISBN: 9781662938160
To every person who said,
“make your own representation”.
I did.
Now you have no room to complain.
•
To my loving spouse
who’s put up with enough to be called a saint.
•
And to Jasper
for being my number one fan through the writing process,
feeding my need for praise so I could keep writing.
AUTHOR’S NOTE TO THE READER
“One for Ahl” is a book I’ve written over the course of six years. That is to say, the first three chapters were written over six years, and the rest were written in a frenzy in less than three months! In many ways the book you’re about to read is a reflection of my entrance into adulthood with all of its challenges and wild disappointments.
I began writing this book when I was nineteen and actively failing out of the U.S. Navy’s Nuclear Propulsion Training Program, a two-year program with one of the highest dropout rates (and suicide rates) of the military. That time of my life is a blur, as I had only three hours of sleep each night for six months straight until I had entered a temporary psychosis. My mind broke, and I felt that I no longer had control of my own reality while my brain played out hellish waking nightmares. If sailors in that program were “our nation’s best,” I was the worst of the best, and I was tired in more ways than one. The “hero program” in this book is largely based on my experiences there.
In the years since then I’ve recovered, traveled across three continents, lived overseas, come out as bisexual and genderfluid, started a family, come to terms with the high likelihood of being very autistic, and created a found family to which I owe my life. In “One for Ahl” and its upcoming sequel, the ongoing theme is control; control of our own lives, and the control others exert over us. Control of our decisions and who we wish to be. I truly believe that the struggle for control is a core piece of what it means to be alive.
If this book gives a single reader a stronger sense of what control means to them (and if at least one reader throws this book across the room in anger before picking it up to continue), then I consider it one of the best things I’ve created.
Thank you so much for reading.
-H.H. Moss.
CW: Graphic abuse, burning/fire deaths, light body horror, allusion to sexual assault (non-descriptive), drowning, mention of suicide.
PROLOGUE
Lady Genivi Artemisia glided down the row of tents, doing her best to hide the disdain from her face as she lifted her skirts away from piles of refuse. Small, broken faces gleamed up at her in awe. Most of them were children, a few adults, and even fewer elderly. The tally, refugees from the neighboring country called Ahl, were gathered just outside the Lady’s own gates but could not be further from proper society. Allowing them here gave her sway, so she chose to endure the smell and shattered moans.
The Lady already recognized some of the faces. She had personally performed some of the surgeries and healing to keep the many wounded from death. She never truly cared for healing magic, but she had to admit she had a propensity for it far above most magic users. She would use whatever power she had to further her goals, even if it meant scrubbing blood from beneath her nails. She felt pride in how the tally looked at her now, in reverence. Genivi focused on that pride to fix her facial expression and hide the slight disgust as a child covered head to toe in burn scars reached a dirty hand out to touch her coattail. The Lady, first and foremost, had pride in her cleanliness, and the child’s hands likely hadn’t been washed since their arrival when Genivi cleaned the weeping boils.
Focus on your task, Genivi, she scolded herself, forcing what she hoped was a gentle smile as she reached down to touch the child’s cheek before removing the offending hand from her clothes. Gathering her bearings, she looked around for any able-bodied children with all limbs intact and continued walking. She almost gave up her search when she reached the well that supplied the tally camp’s water. Most of the able-bodied refugees from the camp were already in service to the Artemisia household, and none had suited Genivi’s current goals, plans she had yet to name to even her confidants.
At the well stood a measly little thing, standing in spite of her starved stature. The girl was in rags worse off than any of the other tally but was—relatively speaking—clean, as though she regularly washed. The girl tended a line of refugees, drawing the bucket up for those who could not, with each “customer” dropping crumbs on a handkerchief resting on the well edge. The girl couldn’t be older than seven, though her underfed figure looked younger and her gaze, now turned to the Lady, was that of a tortured ancient. What this child had suffered was beyond a lady’s limited-by-privilege imagination, Genivi thought to herself.
“You there, child, what are you called?” Genivi tried her best to sound loving but commanding. Internally she wanted to flinch as she remembered her father’s “lessons” against her usual monotone speech.
“I… I can’t remember my name, Lady.” The child spoke with a confidence Genivi hadn’t expected, if a tad too quiet. “My number is 1258, Lady.”
“Have you a family?”
“None that I know of, Lady.” The child studied Genivi’s face but didn’t quite meet her eyes. Genivi preferred it that way. It was uncomfortable how people feared Genivi’s eyes, which had pitch-black irises in stark contrast to the whites. Piercing, they called her gaze. She was doing her best not to look away, to remain commanding. Piercing would do. This child would also do.
“Come with me, 1258. Hmm, that’s a mouthful.” Genivi sighed and quickly scanned her mind for a name that would be less effort to remember. Assigned tally numbers always got mixed up in her head. A doll she had as a child came to mind, small and thin like the girl, with eyes haunted by unknown horrors. “Janea. I’ll call you Janea moving forward. Be sure to respond to it.”
Janea mouthed her new name a couple of times, nodded her head in confirmation, then turned to lift the bucket the rest of the way out of the well. She poured most into the waiting pail in front of her, then splashed a small amount over her hands to rinse off rope fibers that speckled her palms. Excellent, Genivi thought. She wouldn’t have to spend weeks training the child in basic hygiene. She’ll do.
The Lady waited for Janea to gather her things, knowing it would be simpler to let her grab the handkerchief of crumbs now than to explain it wasn’t needed. Then she turned to lead the way back to her gates, Genivi’s guards shifting to just behind the young child as though they feared Janea would bolt like a frightened animal. Genivi recognized frightened eyes from curiously haunted eyes, but it seemed most people didn’t care to study faces as she did.
No, Lady Genivi Artemisia had no fear of the child running. She only hoped the tiny thing could be cultivated to bring Genivi’s plans into action. The tally needed a hero, and Genivi would give them one.
PART 1,
Of Tallies and
Sparrows
CHAPTER 1
“Hey, Jane! We found him. We’re done!” Footsie’s voice echoed over the labyrinth walls from afar. The lanterns overhead flashed, then faded to a dull flickering white, and Jane lowered her twin hooked daggers in defeat. She had failed another session. The floor beneath her morphed back to flat, bleached stone, with a bright blue line illuminated to lead her out of the labyrinth. Was it Footsie or Candid that found him this time? As the question formed in Jane’s head, she knew—less deep down than she would have liked— that Candid was to be the one bragging that night.
Finally, after a couple of minutes spent trudging down corridors that were just recently filled with obstacles, Jane reached the ladder that had been lowered for her. Climbing her way back into the warehouse, she blinked until her eyes adjusted to the red light that poured from the warehouse’s lanterns. Footsie, Candid, and Meerkat already stood at the wizards’ desk to the right of the labyrinth’s entry, discussing the session.
Candid still had the dummy slung over her broad, square shoulders like a trophy buck. Had it been an actual wounded soldier, it’d probably have sustained a wounded ego from the ease she carried it, her oversized ax, and full armor. Then again, it wasn’t too unusual for the eight-foot-tall half-giantess.
“Jane, finally! You must have gone in pretty deep. We were about to check to see if the sensors failed.” Footsie held out his hand as he spoke, giving Jane a toothy grin as she handed him the small runestone sensor. Behind the desk, the wizard in charge of the rune sensors waved his gloved hand over the labyrinth’s map, clearing the last of the flashing markers, and began to tally their scores. Jane fought to yank her eyes from the magicked page and smiled weakly at Footsie.
“Yeah, I was probably near the back corner or so when it ended. A smoke elemental chased me pretty far.” Jane paced quickly to the long weapons counter at the back wall before her friends could ask which smoke elemental she had run from. She handed the daggers to the dwarven smith, who rolled his eyes at the black charcoal stains on the blades and began to scrub them clean while his apprentice ran to log the condition upon return.
Dragging her feet back to the group, Jane listened as Meerkat reassured Footsie. “It was just that s-siren, Footsie. N-n-nobody would have gotten past a s-siren’s tank without drinking essence-of-chastity or w-wearing full deafness-muffs, you n-n-know that.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Gotta hand it to ya, Meer; thinking of morphing into a sea snake was genius. I was almost pulled out right there.”
“I told ya you should’ve turned left with me. No wounded man would’a gone down that tunnel. I found the dummy in the sphinx’s cave, jus’ like the section three of…” Candid was cut off by the shrill ping of the mage’s bell, and they fell silent to listen for their scores.
The wizard placed a palm-sized speaking crystal onto the desk, linked to its twin in the judges’ room, where the full tallying had taken place. A monotone female voice rang from the crystal and echoed through the warehouse.
“Lott, Thomas, codename Footsie. Species, human. Blood origin, West Darklands. Two hundred nineteen points. Assigned study, Supply and Monster Recognition.” Footsie nodded his head slowly, not surprised in the least.
“Meera, Kathali, codename Meerkat. Species, shifter. Blood origin, East Darklands. Six hundred nineteen points. Assigned study, Retrieval, Armory, Return Shifting. Judge note, your ears are still striped.” Meerkat quickly covered her ears, which were the white and black of the sea snake, and her face turned red.
“Gaw, Lock, codename Candid. Species, half-giant, half-human. Blood origin, Tundra. Nine hundred ninety points. Assigned study, First Aid.” Jane patted Candid’s back and gave her a thumbs-up while they waited for Jane’s score.
“1258, codename Janea-Artemisia. Species, human. Blood origin, tally. Fifty points. Assigned study, Retrieval, Elemental Defense, and Basic Tactics. Judge note, extra hours required.” Jane wiped the soot from her face and shrugged an invisible weight from her shoulders. Her friends avoided her eyes as they headed for the warehouse exit.
Muggy air billowed around Jane’s face as she followed Candid and her prize dummy, Footsie, and Meerkat out of the large room. They briskly walked down a long, dimly lit brick passageway, past plain metal doors, and into a relatively low-ceilinged circular room with three doors of varying sizes and adornment. Jane waved goodbye to Footsie and Meerkat as they went through the common-sized door to their carriage house, congratulating Candid once more as she and the dummy left through the giants’ door. Turning on her right foot, Jane stood for a moment in the empty circular room, staring at the plainest and smallest of the doors. She let out a heavy sigh, lifted her shoulders, and slowly pushed open the plain door, ducking her head to pass through the five-foot-tall entrance.
Jane’s hair brushed the ceiling as she followed the dimly lit, square tunnel that lay on the other side of the door. The tunnel led to the cart station, another warehouse-like room with horse-drawn carts lined up on the far wall and stable-style doors on either end of the line. Jane headed to the front of the line, where an old man by the name of Fitzwilliam Smith sat on an archaic cart drawn by a horse that looked nearly as old as Fitzwilliam himself. Jane handed the man a single copper piece and climbed into the cart.
“Evening, Fitz. Library as usual, please.” Jane settled into the cart, leaning on a sack of what she guessed was potatoes.
“Another long evening in the study hall, then, Miss Jane?” Fitzwilliam smiled a crooked, tooth-deficient smile as she nodded her head. “The missus wanted to say hallo and all the usual naggin’ that you need t’ take care of yourself an’ all. Here.” He pulled a sandwich wrapped in cheesecloth from his coin bag and tossed it to Jane before calling for the doors to be opened. “Packed an extra for ya. No, no, don’t you be apologizing for a kindness we chose to do. Just make the missus happy and eat up!”
Grateful, Jane downed the pork and greens sandwich in silence. Fitzwilliam rattled on as much as his cart as they cantered into the forest down a cobblestone path toward the large library five miles away. Through the trees, she could occasionally glimpse larger, more defined roads. Carriages rumbled past on those roads, but the cobblestone path remained empty aside from Fitzwilliam’s cart. When the cart pulled up to the stables behind the three-story library, Jane joked with Fitzwilliam that she had a thorough bum massage as always on the servants’ road. Fitzwilliam accepted a hug in thanks for the food and took off once again.
After simulation tests, the group always looked forward to a few days of self-study to improve their lowest scores before changing instructors. Jane looked up at the looming library apprehensively, knowing that her cycle of failure was about to restart. She had a few days before meeting the newest and final instructor and watching them lose hope in her all over again.
Jane entered the library through the back door, leading her into a cavernous room filled with shelf after shelf and landing after landing of books, as well as sets of stairs leading down into the underground practice rooms. I’ll be here until close, with Basic Tactics assigned, Jane thought moodily as she settled down in front of one of the book stacks already set aside for her by the librarians. The others would spend time at the library in the morning, but Jane preferred to get the majority of her hours over with during the evenings. That way, the morning could be dedicated to practicing downstairs.
Hours passed, the sun shifted behind the mountains, and Jane finished the assigned studying with a final scribble in her notes before shutting the last book. The late-shift librarian, a shapeshifter who looked like an older version of Meerkat with her tan skin and long, raven hair, shuffled Jane from the building before locking up and shifting into a rather large eagle for her flight home.
Jane’s eyelids were drawing closed as she walked into the forest, down a thin and winding trail. She listened to the noise of the woods, from branches creaking to brambles rustling, moved by winds and unseen animals. Jane followed the path by memory in the dark and found her way to the meadow, a small clearing with tents built of collected rubbish and sewn-together rags. The three homeless families that shared the clearing with Jane were asleep, save for a single man sitting watch by the fire. Johns, I think. Jane gave him a small wave and climbed into her own shelter, a tent she had built under an oak tree on the side of the clearing. She collapsed against the hay-matted ground and succumbed to sleep.
* * *
Her eyes opened. The whites had been replaced with the greens of her irises, and the pupil stretched to just past the lid, allowing her to see the matte colors of old cloth inside the tent as though it was just before sunset. Sitting up, her skin pulsed as the patterns of tree bark etched down her limbs, and her hair fell dark brown and shiny against her shoulders. Jane was asleep, but Astrid had risen in her place. Crawling through the back of the tent, Astrid slipped silently into the forest, adjusting her eyes and stretching her lithe form like a cat. A ghostly mist followed her as she gathered shadows. Her feet landed on tree roots, pushing away quickly, and she brushed away branches, trying to make as little disturbance as possible. Had any human followed her path, they would have seen the forest lighten slightly as shadows were stolen away to form leathery, black wings upon Astrid’s back.
To any mouse sitting upon the forest floor, Astrid was thought to be a rather large owl, perhaps descended from the mountain. To any shifter flying in the night sky, or giant on watch over their fields, Astrid was a shade or trickster elemental, a mere pest not worth the trouble of catching. She used this to her advantage, streaking through the trees, skimming the branches, and gliding skillfully through the lush growth until she was past the commonly used airspace.
