Challenge Accepted: Book 1 of the Unnamed Saga, page 1
Challenge Accepted
Book 1 of The Unnamed Saga
Stuart Maher & Peregrine Anish
Heron Hill Press
Copyright © 2023 by Stuart Maher & Peregrine Anish
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Cover design by Michael Richards
To my father- story-teller, scientist, scholar, friend.
Thanks Dad.
And to Bobbi, always.
Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Prologue
3. Negotiations
4. Beginnings
5. Questions
6. Discoveries
7. Interlude 1
8. Opponents
9. Guests
10. Changes
11. Useful Information Regarding Inis Bolcan
Also By Stuart Maher & Peregrine Anish
T he Darkening, as it was known, lasted over 100 years and had its most profound effects on the island province of Inis Bolcan. As the name suggests, the skies were darkened by clouds of volcanic ash put forth by Tine Sliath for months at a time, with only brief periods of sun. In addition to this atmospheric phenomenon, the native Muintir Laisar or Flame Elves were directly afflicted by a complete failure to conceive or bear children. Even for those who count themselves among the long-lived, this was a tragedy of unimaginable proportions. It was later revealed that the problem was the result of a curse upon the people of the island invoked by Arsa Diabhal, the mad demigod whose ultimate goal was the end of all life on the Domhan. It was primarily through the efforts of Trey ard Sliath and Serene na Ridire that Arsa was killed, his cult destroyed, and the Darkness lifted from Inis Bolcan.
From The Time of Darkness, A History
Prologue
Athynae usually understood me — often too well for my own comfort — which was what a best friend was for. But my problem with swords confounded her. She understood that I had a problem, but its source was a complete mystery to her. I, on the other hand, knew all too well where the blame lay. Or I believed I did.
When I was ten years old, Father gave me the money for the sword master's fee without a word. His eyes, though, were shadowed and there was a weight of history in his silence. It would be another ten or so years before I gained the experience to understand that history.
And when I returned after several hours, my face tear — streaked with the frustration of my failure, he just looked toward the west, where the evening star was barely visible, low on the horizon. At last, he placed a hand on my shoulder and told me, “There are worse things than being unable to wield a sword.”
I waited for more; he would think of a way to fix this; he could fix anything. It was simply his habit to work up to it slowly. I recalled him telling me the reason he asked people to wait several days for potions that could be prepared in a few minutes: “If they think it is too easy, they will not value it. And potions depend just as much on the confidence of the user as the skill of the alchemist.”
So I waited for him to tell me how to overcome my clumsiness with blades.
Instead, he asked me a question, “You have kept up your training with the quarterstaff, yes?”
At my nod, he smiled and said, “Good. That is important.”
Then he fixed his sharp blue eyes on my face and went on, “I know you hoped to become a swordsman, Athlain. But… well, your mother and I are just as happy that you aren’t.”
The words struck me like a dust storm, blurring my vision and making it hard for me to breathe. It felt like a betrayal, a casual dismissal of my dreams. But I just stood there numb as he explained, “Son, swords are made for one purpose only — to kill. If a man wears one, he will have to use it.”
Finally, I could not stand it any longer. I burst out, “Yes! Like you did against Arsa Diabhal and his Death Cult! And against....” I ran down; not because I could not think of other examples, but because there had been so many times his swordsmanship had kept him alive that it would have taken me too long to list them. I could have mentioned the Hidden Path too — but that was something we never spoke of. Still, I regretted the rash words almost as soon as I had uttered them. It was not easy to provoke my father’s anger — but it was also not wise. I stole a quick look at his face, and what I saw was… sadness. His hair, still the blonde of his youth, looked white in the fading light. He was silent for long moments, staring off over my head at something far away in time and distance.
“Athlain…. Yes. You are right, of course. I became skilled in the use of a sword from necessity. I was pushed into a situation such that learning the sword was the only way out. You, however, have a choice.”
How could he say that? What “choice” did I have? I had tried every practice blade in the hall and none would respond to my intentions. The sword master probably kept going as long as he did because he could not believe anyone was as inept as I, especially not considering who my father was. At last, he had shaken his head and said, not unkindly, “Stick with the staff, young sir. It will be safer for you — and for those around you.”
He had also tried to tell me something about the effectiveness of a staff against a sword, but I could not hear beyond the roaring in my ears, nor see past the tears in my eyes. My humiliation was only made worse by the fact that Athynae had witnessed it.
Father squeezed my shoulder and ushered me inside. We said no more about swords, though he did allow me to continue training to become a warrior.
Athynae, true to her nature, refused to give up. In the weeks and months that followed, she did her best to “help.” Whenever we could get away from classes and chores and the watchful eyes of adults or younger siblings, she would bring practice swords and try to “teach” me. It was only later, with a few years of experience behind me, that I could see the flaw in her method. The problem was, she had an instinctive feel for blades, an ability to do things without knowing how she did them. My need for explanations frustrated both of us. The tears in her lavender eyes, which reflected the moisture in my green ones, only made it that much harder. She asked, a hundred times, “Why can’t you just do it the way I showed you? It’s easy!” And for her, it was.
Eventually, Athynae's own mother, the leader of the Craorish Sept, actually offered to coach me in the use of the weapon I despised and that Athynae disdained. Serene na Ridire had heard, as had all of Portan Baile, about my unhappiness with the only implement of the warrior's craft I seemed destined to wield. I am surprised that the wooden staff did not burst into flames in my hands, considering the abusive terms to which I subjected that length of ash. My complaints apparently reached that mysterious point, known only to parents, which is designated by the label — “Enough.” As I reiterated my dislike of the staff, Serene raised her hand to stop me.
“Athlain, we all know how you feel about it. As I see it, you have a simple choice; forgo weapons training altogether — or accept the path that is laid out before you. But in either case, it is time to act like a warrior rather than a spoiled child.”
Her admonition was like a bucket of cold water on my temper; Serene rarely scolded me, usually holding me up as an example for her headstrong daughter to emulate. However, Athynae’s triumph at my discomfort was short-lived. Serene’s expression softened and she continued more quietly, “You do know that I carried a staff when I first arrived on this island — and that I still do?”
I ducked my head and muttered something inaudible and unintelligible. I had known that, but had not considered what it meant. Determined to bring the lesson home, she placed a gentle hand under my chin and tilted my head so she could look into my eyes. “Even when it rests in its sheath, a sword tells the world — ‘This is a dangerous — and a well-off — individual.’ It is a challenge as well as a warning. But a staff… that is merely the symbol of a pilgrim, a wanderer — someone not worth robbing. And yet, if you will study the way of the staff, you will be the equal of any swordsman in the world.”
Athynae, who had been listening while pretending not to, raised a skeptical eyebrow and gave a small snort of disbelief. Serene returned the raised eyebrow look — much more effectively — and then turned back to me. “Bring your gear and meet me in the practice hall. I will show you a bit about why a wise swordsman fears a person who carries a staff.”
Of course, I did as she asked; she was the Domina Prima, and had more important things to do than train a reluctant student. But she did so, all the same. Though I still dreamed of swords, I continued training with the staff. There were a number of reasons for that, and the encouragement of Serene and my father was only part of it. First, it was a weapon I could use with some skill. As a member of the Craorish Sept, the warrior sept, that mattered to me. But mostly, with a staff in my hands, I could usually fight Athynae to a draw and sometimes even best her. She was not willing to trade her beloved sword for a staff of her own, even in practice, so I managed to eke out those few precious victories while facing her preferred weapon.
Unique to the island of Inis Bolcan are the large bipedal reptiles knows as onyxids or “onnies.” The name derives from the color of their bones, a deep, lustrous black. Because of that characteristic color and the strength of the material, the bones are highly prized for the making of furniture and weapons. There are several varieties of onyxid, with the most common and most docile being the brown onyxid, which is often used as a pack animal. In addition, there are red onyxids, horned onyxids, and- according to legend, an extinct species of purple onyxid. There is also an extremely rare variant, known as the golden onyxid. The feeding habits...
From A Natural History of Inis Bolcan
Negotiations
I felt the fingers of my right hand stray toward the the dart concealed in my left cuff as the so-called “Wealian merchant,” Copanius yet again asserted his “rights as a citizen of the Commonweal.” I reminded myself that I was supposed to be practicing diplomacy instead of weapons skills while he droned on about “the outrage of being denied lawful access to his property” due to the “intransigence of Domina Prima na Ridire.” It was a good thing for him I knew what “intransigence” meant, since that same Domina Prima, otherwise known as my mother, had used the term in reference to me more than once. I wondered how I managed to find myself in this stuffy room, listening to this stuffy man, instead of practicing with my sword, or tending my onnie, or... or... anything but attempting to be a diplomat. “Onnies don't change their stripes,” I muttered under my breath. But I realized that my being here was my own fault. My fault for trying to be a little more like the person my mother wanted me to be. “You just had to listen in, instead of leaving that pastime to your sister Breanna,” I told myself.
* * * * *
I was passing Papa’s office when I heard Mother speak with uncharacteristic heat. “Athyn, not since I became Domina Prima have I encountered a more recalcitrant, intractable group of men.” I could tell from her voice that her temper was frayed. That was such a rare occurrence that I stopped to listen. I didn't consider it eavesdropping because Papa’s door was open. Besides, Mother encouraged me to observe Council meetings and we had often discussed the issues afterward. She was attempting to prepare me to take over for her I think, but there was no way on the Domhan I’d put up with some of the onnie dung she had to tolerate. I must have inherited more of my attitude, along with my name, from Papa - Athyn na Ridire - than from my mother. After all, he could have been the leader of the Craorish, but was just as glad to let Mother handle that role.
The current problem was a group of merchants seeking an abandoned arroc colony in Fola Talam territory. The eggs produced by the giant terrestrial birds were an important food source on Inis Bolcan and a delicacy on the mainland. So, if someone could locate an unclaimed colony, exporting the eggs would be a guaranteed way to make money. But all the known colonies had clear ownership. Worse still, at least from the perspective of the annoying merchants, was the fact that they wanted to cross the boundary into the tribal lands, home of the nomadic Fola Talam or “Darklanders.”
Mother was one of the few “Town Muintir” – those of us who lived in fixed locations - who the tribes trusted, mostly because she tended to look out for their interests. So when she informed the merchants' spokesman that a tribal representative would have to be contacted before any permission was granted, he'd yelled at her that she was the Domina Prima and could grant any permission necessary. It wasn’t his words really, but his volume and tone that I found offensive. Had it not been for Uncle Seth sitting beside me, the shouting fool would have been wearing one of my throwing stars as a decoration on his hideous hat. It was bad enough that I had to sit still for his insults – but having to do it in the Craorish Council chamber just made it worse. The enclosed amphitheater had not been designed with comfort in mind. It was one part of the sprawling Council Hall, which also housed offices for the Council members, meeting rooms, the Guard offices, and the holding cells. None of that made the benches any softer, an issue I had raised with Mother. Her response had showed why she was better at politics than I could ever hope to be. "Athynae, the Councilors already take far too long in their deliberations. If I allowed them to be comfortable, they would never accomplish anything."
Thus I found myself trying not to fidget vaulted chamber – according to Uncle Seth, the high ceiling was designed to allow all the "hot air to rise." Even so, I was about to let the wind out of a certain merchant; I had started to reach for something sharp, although not fatal, when a raspy mutter from the seat beside me stopped me.
Uncle Seth spoke calmly, his lips barely moving. “Athynae, you are in Council chambers; therefore that is not your mother. That is the Domina Prima of the Craorish and if she feels the need to discipline anyone, I assure you she will. Maintaining your composure is part of diplomacy.” The expression on his face did not match his words, but I still got the hint- 'learn to control your first instinct’. By the barely visible lines around his eyes, I gathered he would have done more than throw a star at the loudmouth's hat. But the fact that he used my name, instead of calling me 'Princess,' indicated that he was also in “official mode.” He was always trying to teach me, even when he appeared to be just talking.
To give him his proper name, he was Sethic Lamh Dubh, and he was not actually my uncle. But he was Mother and Papa's closest friend, and one of my first teachers in the skills of the warrior. “Sethic” had been too hard for me to say when I was small, besides which, it took too long. So “Seth” he became, and “Seth” he remained.
Meanwhile, Mother had calmly bur firmly dismissed the shouting idiot and scheduled a personal meeting in her office the following day.
* * * * *
She’d had three meetings with them since, each becoming apparently less effective rather than more. On top of that was an issue with poachers in Fola Talam territory. She was trying to arrange it so she could go help them, but the merchants were delaying her. The tribal wise woman had assured Mother there was no unclaimed arroc colony in that territory and unless the party could show proof of ownership of the land, they would not be allowed there, as it was also a breeding ground for wild onnies and was therefore protected. The onyxids, if one wanted to be formal, were essential to the survival of the Fola Talam. They were the main source of meat for the tribes, as well as being used as pack animals and mounts. The tribe's crafters also created magnificent weapons from the bones. Any threat to the herds was a threat to the people of the Darklands.
So that was how I came to be listening outside Papa's office. Following Mother's summation, Papa, calm as always, responded to her distress, “Serene, love, maybe you should send someone else to talk with them. It would free you to help with the situation with the poachers.”
“And who would you suggest? Breanna is too young to send into that nest of sand crabs.”
“You do have an older daughter, one that isn’t so easily, shall we say — pushed.” Papa’s faith in me was sometimes a tad overwhelming.
“Athyn, she isn’t quite as diplomatically inclined as our younger daughter, though you are correct; she isn’t easily bullied.” I could hear the smile in her voice.
There was a long silence, and then I heard footsteps approaching the open door. Mother looked out at me, and said mildly, “Since you’ve already heard the majority of the conversation, you might as well join us.” Mother always seemed to know when I was close; it was almost as difficult to sneak up on her as it was Uncle Seth. She appeared to be quite piqued, whether at me or the situation with the mainlanders, I wasn’t certain.
I sat in a chair across from Papa while Mother paced, passing walls adorned with tattered campaign maps which hung between racks of scrolls and overflowing bookshelves. “Athynae, I am at an impasse with these men. Would you be willing to meet with them? You are not a member of the Council and therefore aren’t as strictly bound.” Mother looked at me intently.
