Legacy Rages (The Age of Sandcast Book 1), page 1
Legacy Rages
The Age of Sandcast: Book 1
Tobias Andersson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Tobias Andersson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, visit www.authorandersson.com.
First ebook edition 2021-08-04
Cover design by MiblArt
ISBN 978-91-986968-1-3
www.authorandersson.com
For Ellen,
Who lights the fire in my heart.
1
By the thief’s end and the caster-to-be
Zed
Ze-driam Rothcal twirled the wooden bowl on his right index finger, the same hand that was missing a thumb. “Bowl, why is life like this?”
But his bowl wouldn’t answer, as any inanimate object normally didn’t. The bowl served as the perfect listener for his troubles. Never did it interrupt or drop any opinion of its own. His bowl was made from pine wood which had been intentionally burnt, giving it a dark and rich color, but also protecting the surface from sandcast.
“Life takes such sudden turns. In one moment, we are happy and healthy. But in the next, the blade of a sword slices that world in half,” Zed said to his bowl.
Zed scanned the frozen lake before him. The sun sat high in the sky and made the ice glimmer something amazing. Animals raced across the ice, playing with each other. Snowsprinters, perhaps. Small game was plentiful though the landscape was frozen and covered in snow. This far north, any body of water was frozen most of the year. Clouds gathered in the distance. It would snow today too, as it usually did. He breathed and tasted the air, crisp and cold. A mountain stood proudly on the other side of the lake, its peaks covered in snow.
“Bowl, maybe it’s time to head back,” Zed said, twirling the bowl on his finger.
Zed had been away from Gardendaile for over two months now, ever since that dreadful, bloody day. He sighed as the memories resurfaced.
“Do you think she has forgiven me yet?” Zed asked, even though he knew the bowl’s answer.
No, Wiol would only forgive his corpse and only after she had given his corpse a good couple of kicks. And burnt him. Yes, she would definitely burn him.
Zed stopped twirling the bowl and caught it with his good and full-fingered hand, before shoving the bowl back into the pocket of his long cloak. He massaged his gloved hands, especially the scar and stump that replaced his missing thumb. The hallmark of a thief that had been caught. He’d stuffed the glove’s thumb with grass, just to keep spying eyes from knowing his profession at a glance.
He pulled up the sleeve of his coat on his right arm, revealing a small cloth bag tied against his wrist. It was still there. The bag contained enough sand to fill his bowl once, a fist sack. It was enough wealth to feed his crew for weeks. It was also his last sand and his insurance in case anything happened. A thing every thief learned, to always have an escape up his sleeve. He pushed the sleeve back down, hiding the fist sack again.
“Bowl, maybe it’s time to put the thieving on the shelf?” Zed said. “It was not my fault that Wiol’s younger sister got too greedy! If Milly had only followed the instructions I provided and retreated instead. Then all this mess wouldn’t have happened.”
But saying the words out loud was not changing how he felt inside.
He sighed and kicked at a stone, putting all his frustration into the action. The stone bounced across the ice, disturbing the shallow layer of snow that had recently fallen on it.
“Wiol might like it if we did stop the thieving,” Zed said. “But what should we do, bowl? I have never known anything else. Should I round up the crew and try something legitimate? Do you have any suggestions, bowl?”
Zed turned, starting the long path home to Gardendaile. With the mist clinging to the rocks and stones of the so-called beach, they were made extremely slick. He slipped and stumbled but caught himself before his face planted into a protruding rock. In his fall he’d grabbed a snow-covered bush, but it had gotten loose and not halted his descent. He pulled the bush in for closer inspection. It was not a bush. It was a bundle of twigs tied together with rope, resin and leaves, made to look like a natural bush. Why would anyone construct such a thing and why all the way out here, several days away from civilization? He threw the fake bush aside and saw what it had been covering.
“By the sand!” Zed exclaimed. “By the sand, indeed.”
It was a cave. The fake bush had obscured its entrance. But that was not the amazing part.
The cave was filled with sand. The unmistakable golden grains of sand illuminated the cave.
The magical sand used in sandcast.
“Sand found, is sand kept,” he whispered.
The cave continued for several meters before a junction appeared, but it looked as if it continued beyond that point. Sand was naturally packed against the walls and the ground. Everywhere. The sand was everywhere.
A construction of wood and metal kept the cave from collapsing, but it had been poorly built and the wood had started to rot. With a correctly placed strike, the opening would collapse on itself, trapping anybody inside. Zed decided not to be inside the cave when it collapsed.
Zed stepped inside the cave, still awestruck by the amount of sand. He had never seen so much of the stuff in one place before. He guessed that the royal houses had more riches than this in their many deposits, especially in the vaults underneath Gardendaile. But it depended on how far the cave went.
The sand crunched underneath his leather boots, the moisture making some of the grains cling to them.
He removed his left hand-glove, his good hand, and ran his fingers through the golden sand, careful not to start a glyph or any modifications. By the sand! If he had drawn and committed a sandcast glyph on this amount, the result would be devastating.
Through his awe, Zed heard boots crunching in the snow outside the cave. Then voices, moving closer to his position.
Zed ducked down and moved behind the junction as figures appeared in the cave’s entrance.
“Shouldn’t this entrance be covered? Lull’s sand scouts will find this. I thought you were competent criminals,” a smooth voice said.
“I am sorry, boss. We are sorry,” a raspy voice said. “Eb, you really, really need to make a better cover. Someone might find the cave, otherwise. Stupid, youth. Boss, I am sorry. The boy will mend his faults.”
“I hope so. Otherwise, you and your men will have no place among my Mighty,” Smooth-voice said.
Zed dared peeking around the junction as the three men entered the cave. One was tall and proud, emitting authority by his gait and posture. It had to be Smooth-voice, who was referred to as boss. The second man was shorter, but bulkier. That had to be Raspy-voice. The third was a boy, small, nimble and nervous looking. All their clothes were different and bore none of the gang identifiers that Zed knew about. Raspy-voice and the boy had swords and bowls hanging from their hips, while Smooth-voice only had a dagger attached to his belt.
“I am sorry,” the boy said. The boy wasn’t the one with the raspy voice; that must make him Eb.
“You will have a second chance, but after that, you know what happens,” Raspy-voice said. “What do you think, boss?”
Smooth-voice reached for the sand with a naked hand, but he didn’t sink his fingers into the golden grains like all men usually did when presented with wealth as this. Instead, he grunted, as if in pain. “Yryl, you and your men will use it. Give me chaos.”
Yryl was the name of Raspy-voice. Valuable information.
“Wait. There are footprints in the sand!” Yryl yelled. “Someone has already found our riches.” Yryl readied his bowl with sand, drawing the first ring before yelling. “Stranger, come out right now and we can talk about how you might survive this encounter.”
Zed slowly stepped out from the junction with his hands up in the air, feinting to be drunk and off balance. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There is no reason for violence. I was just having a drink by the beautiful frozen lake and then I stumbled into this marvelous cave.”
Zed knew better, but it was advantageous to play along for a bit, at least so he could move closer to the entrance. Getting himself into a sandcast exchange on this side of the three men would be suicide. He needed to be closer to the entrance. The stare from Yryl’s eyes exposed the man’s true intention and wild nature. Smooth-voice stayed silent and observant.
“You are him. You have to be,” Yryl said. “The Lucky Thief. I thought you were dead.”
Eb squealed in excitement, his eyes widening. “Yes. YES! The crooked nose and the long cloak. And the right thumb of that glove is obviously stuffed with something, look at the angle it sits at. That thumb has been cut off. Everyone thought you were dead.”
Zed stepped forward and stopped. “It’s not luck. It’s wit and strategy. Evidently, I am not dead. I am the Mast...”
Zed was interrupted by a blow to the side of his head, but he stayed on his feet.
“Shut up. Looks like your luck has run dry.” Yryl cracked his knuckles. “Tie him and hood him. Your throat will be slit on the Circle of Heroes so the statues can watch you bleed out.”
Eb walked up to Zed with rope and hood. Smooth-voice leaned in closer, whispering something into Eb’s ears. A nice-looking dagger was attached to Smooth-voice’s belt. Yryl hung his bowl to his belt again.
“What was that, Smooth-voice? I didn’t hear it,” Zed said. Provoking folk who thought they had the upper hand often yielded valuable information. But in order to pursue those leads, he needed to survive this encounter.
Smooth-voice stared at Zed, but spoke no words.
Zed sized the man up. A new gang must have formed during his absence with this Smooth-voice as boss.
The rope came around Zed’s wrists.
“I never thought I would ever meet you,” Eb said.
“You will get to know him very well. His insides as well. How Rat will rage when he finds your corpse. It will put a smile on my face,” Yryl said. “That old bastard.”
Zed had to act before the knot came into place. He was not keen on bleeding out or dying in general.
Zed threw back his head, striking Eb on the nose. He turned around and ducked under Yryl’s incoming sword. His fingers found Smooth-voice’s dagger. As he pulled it out of its sheath, he struck underneath the tall man’s ribs with his free fist. He dove forward, avoiding Yryl’s sword once more. Yryl scrambled to fill a bowl with sand. By throwing a handful of the sand into Yryl’s face, he bought himself another few seconds.
Zed rushed to the cave entrance, several steps ahead of the gang. He sliced into the rotten wood with the dagger as he passed it. The wooden construction gave way and the opening started crumbling.
Zed halted outside the cave and turned to his pursuers and puffed up his chest. “I am not the Lucky Thief. I am Ze-driam Rothcal, the Master Thief.”
But the cave entrance stopped collapsing.
A problem.
A ball of fire came flying, Zed dodged to the side.
Zed shoved the dagger into his cloak, pulled out his own bowl, and with the snap of his right wrist, the fist sack of sand landed into the palm of his hand. He untied and emptied the sand into the bowl in the same motion. “My trusty bowl, don’t fail me now.”
Zed used his right index finger to draw the glyph. Three rings; innermost, middle and outermost. Ridges and spacings were made to meet his intended cast. The sandcast glyph locked in place by emitting a glimmer through the three rings. A fireball formed above the bowl, consuming the very sand. He committed the cast by drawing a straight trajectory line in the sand. The fireball flew, crashing into the ceiling of the cave entrance and exploding. The cave collapsed with a roar as the rubble fell over his pursuers. The explosive fireball, a thief’s best friend.
Zed righted his long cloak and turned away from the cave, confident that his attackers had been dealt with. He gave his wooden bowl a final twirl with his finger before pocketing it. “Bowl, life takes the sharpest of turns when you least expect it to.”
Liandra
Liandra Sandheart stuffed the last of her clothes into the chest that rested on the floor of her room.
“Do you really need all of your clothes, Liandra?” Gustaw leaned against the door frame. “You will be too busy with your classes to have time to think about fashion. Late nights will be reserved for studying and not mingling. And you will attend the royal table when it’s in session, as your responsibility as a Sandheart.”
Liandra sighed. Gustaw just was not getting it. If she was going to attend the royal table, she had to look the part. The king would be present. And his handsome knights. She had dreamt about marrying a handsome knight. But could she blame him? Gustaw was too old to think beyond practical solutions; his beard had even gone white the last few years. “Gustaw Plank, you might have a point. But there will be time for everything. I am too clever to be trapped studying during the nights. You have seen my glyph and casts, so you know this already.” Liandra showed the content of her hand, a sandcast book. “Go down and prepare the carriage, so I can pack the last of my books. Clothes serve as the perfect cushioning, Gustaw Plank.” Trying her best to appeal to his practical nature.
“Will do, little Miss Sandheart.” Gustaw did a brief nod before leaving her room.
Liandra only used Gustaw’s family name when she was irritated with him and in those cases Gustaw always replied by calling her exclusively little Miss Sandheart.
Liandra sighed. “I am actually sixteen years old.”
“One more thing.” Gustaw peeked inside her room again. “Don’t forget to say goodbye to your parents and siblings.” Then he ducked away again.
Liandra shoved a book into the chest. She owned many books about the subject of sandcast, but this chest would only have room for a limited amount. “Like they would even notice me leaving,” Liandra whispered for herself.
“One more thing.” Gustaw peeked inside her room again, throwing something at her.
Liandra caught it before it impacted her face. It was her sandcast bowl. Pure white, made from a whitebark tree that only grew in the south, in Uutrudaile’s Infinity jungles. She was always surprised with the lightness of the material. She pocketed it into her sandy colored coat that was laying on her bed.
“You forgot it after our training session yesterday, little Miss Sandheart,” Gustaw said before ducking away again. “I will send for folk to gather your chests.”
It was not easy remembering everything when she had to have so many things in her mind at all times.
Liandra finished her packing, threw on her fur coat and made her way down the staircase. Two of her siblings almost crashed into her on their way up the stairs, racing each other, filled with the youthful energy of being children. It had been a long time since she had felt like them.
Mother stood by the double doors, giving the two carriage drivers’ directions to Liandra’s room to fetch her two chests. Liandra nodded to them, as she had been taught by mother. Mother always said to be nice to service personnel, that not everybody had the wealth that their family had. Liandra sighed at that. Not everyone had equal opportunities in life, so what? Not every folk could become a caster, some folk had to do the grunt work. A balance of sorts.
“Hello, Mother. It’s nice to see you,” Liandra said, giving a brief nod and placing her hands into the bends of her own elbows. The Gardendaile greeting when meeting someone above her status. “Nice of you to find the time to see me off. I guess father is busy with his work? Or is he drinking in the backyard again?”
“Don’t be rude,” Mother snapped. “Your father is tending the children.”
“Two of them raced up the staircase without any supervision. I hope they don’t break their little bones when stumbling down,” Liandra said.
“By the sand,” Mother muttered, before stepping forward and giving Liandra a tight hug.
Liandra hesitated, not remembering the last time Mother had shown her compassion in this manner. But eventually, she did return the hug.
“I know what you think about us. It never was our intention to alienate you, Liandra. We love you so much. You are the oldest and you are able to take care of yourself, your five brothers and sisters are too young. They need our attention. I am sorry it happened like this. But I cannot make the past undone, I know this. You will just have to accept it,” Mother said.
Liandra felt a tear trickle down her cheek, but she wiped it away before Mother noticed it. “Thanks for the explanation, mother.”
“But you had Gustaw. He has taken great care of you and taught you the ways of sandcast. He has promised us that you will be kept safe in Gardendaile. Be careful. There are a lot of scummy folk in those streets,” Mother said. “The old gangs are just the brunt of it.”
“I will come back, mom. When I have time off,” Liandra said.
Mother nodded. “You will be so busy. Attending Gardendaile’s famous school of sandcast, the Garden, and representing our family at the royal table. You will meet the king of Gardendaile and all the other royal families. It has been years since I spoke to King Hullric Sand. I hope he is well. You should have seen him when he raised his fire glass sword with the sun up high. It inspired armies. Oh, there is your father. I will need to speak to him. Safe journey, Liandra.”
