The Dead Sky Order Read online

  Timothy John Murphy

  The Dead Sky Order

  An Infinite Realms Novel

  First published by Timothy John Murphy in 2018

  Copyright © Timothy John Murphy, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Timothy John Murphy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Find out more by visiting:

  https://timmurphy.biz

  https://deadskyorder.com

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-9993196-0-1

  Contents

  One - Icesea

  Two - Frozen

  Three - The River

  Four - The Blue Ka-Guardian

  Five - Old Trade Road

  Six - Solchampion

  Seven - Indoctrination

  Eight - The Dead Sky Order

  Nine - Sacrifice

  Ten - Golden Hand

  Eleven - Fallen Relic

  Twelve - Alliance

  Thirteen - Frontier

  Fourteen - Fire

  Fifteen - Easternfront

  Sixteen - Lower-Judicature

  Seventeen - Temple Garrison

  Eighteen - The Red Ka-Guardian

  Nineteen - Blastrone

  Twenty - Pikehelm

  Twenty-one - Dark Clouds

  Twenty-two - Salvage

  Twenty-three - Acolyte

  Twenty-four - Exodus

  Twenty-five - Void

  Twenty-six - Connected Realms

  Twenty-seven - The Realm of Dead Souls

  Twenty-eight - Decay

  Twenty-nine - Awakening

  Thirty - Trade

  Thirty-one - Terrain

  Thirty-two - Fire, Terrain and Torture

  Thirty-three - Final Solcede Part I

  Thirty-four - Escape

  Thirty-five - Burial

  Thirty-six - The Beginning

  Thirty-seven - Hordes

  Thirty-eight - Firestorm

  Thirty-nine - Ice

  Forty - Opening

  Forty-one - The Frozen Sky

  Forty-two - Lava

  Forty-three - Freven

  Forty-four - Final Solcede Part II

  Epilogue - A Place in the Sky

  One - Icesea

  Ores

  Ores raised his head. Wolves howled in the wilderness to the north. As he scanned the forest, a chill climbed his spine and injected ice into his neck. Anything could be skulking out there unseen. Shadows of once living trees stretched for the crystal webs of the Frozen Sky. Their leafless branches veered and snapped upright, reverberating twangs in the darkness.

  Above the trees, shattered orbs and jagged lines of arcane fissures scarred the night Sky. The mist clinging to the edges of the great expanses of ice bled into the Apocecliptic Belt. Ores almost shouted to break the silence. The dark abyss running through the middle of the Sky swallowed the light and fed it to the tiny dots in the haze. The spirits up there had no time for his woes so he offered them no prayers.

  The forest at Icesea had died long ago. Ores had never seen it otherwise.

  He shivered and cursed, having finished his leaves. The residue of his last smoke lingered and almost concealed the smell of filth. The odours wafting in the air, however, did little to quell the rumbling in his stomach. He crossed the ruts leading to the highway connected to the rest of Easternfront. Seeing the Old Trade Road reminded him of home—the fire in the mess hall, the warmish bed in the barracks and a dry roof overhead.

  The highway petered out. Ores stepped into the market square in front of the village. He should’ve reported to the inn first, to see who else was on duty and show his face, but he wasn’t ready. Not on an empty stomach.

  Stalls, containing largely food, lined the clearing in the forest. He eased his way through the small crowd and over to the fruit seller. Their wares were easily affordable and no worse than the leftovers he had been eating at the garrison since his suspension and reinstatement of duty.

  Behind him, the wooden poles of another stall lurched. The vendor there took a hold of the loose bindings flapping in the wind and hitched them to a log. The wolves howled again. Ores eyed the forest once more. Flames from the stakes lining the road obscured the gaps between the trees.

  “I have a relic for you, sir, from beyond the Frozen Sea.” A hawker stepped beside Ores and held out a shiny object.

  Ores laughed. “The Frozen Sea? How about you buy yourself a cinnamon stick for your breath?”

  The object disappeared into the man’s cloak. Through the holes, it sparkled.

  “That’s a lot of metal to flaunt,” Ores said, glancing down at the fruit. Would anyone notice if he physically removed the metal object from the hawker? He doubted the man had a document of ownership for what was probably a stolen item.

  The hawker glared at Ores. “The Frozen Sky will fall before a Pikehelm earned enough coins to afford this.”

  Ores reached into his pocket, removed a small brass coin and swapped it for a shiny apple he found at the bottom of the pile. The fruit seller took the coin without looking and carried on bartering with another customer for a much larger order.

  Ores turned away and went to bite the apple. He stopped. “Wait. Show me your face.”

  The hawker cowered, trying to cover the scars on his chin.

  “I told you to reveal yourself,” Ores said. “You know the rules.”

  The man reached up and removed his hood. Red blotches marked his skin. “It’s a rash.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.” Ores examined him from a distance.

  The man closed his hood. “What will you do about it anyway? You’re not even a Solchampion.”

  Ores held his tongue. As a soldier, he had authority. If he used the wrong words, accused this man of having crossed the river, he’d have a riot on his hands.

  The hawker went to leave. Ores grabbed his arm despite the threat of infection.

  The man reeled. “I’m not infected. Not with what you’re thinking.”

  Ores hadn’t been sure what to expect from Icesea. His comrades had told of how difficult the locals could be, but he was determined to do his job properly and earn a position back at the garrison. He pressed the hawker again for an answer when a loud crack came from the northern forest. The hawker shrugged away and the Pikehelm let him go.

  Ores watched the forest for a moment. Nothing came.

  Too hungry to care about infections, he wiped his hands on his trousers and took a bite from the apple.

  “So where did you get the trinket?” he asked the hawker. “And why is your skin red?”

  Something else cracked in the forest. This time, louder and closer.

  Ores squinted at the gloom. Dark trees towered over the road. Shrubs, having once found purchase, teetered on the brink of death. The barren land on the other side of the road radiated darkness and coldness, much colder than the frost in the air.

  The hawker shielded his eyes. “What can you see, Pikehelm?”

  Ores let his cape flutter. He kept one hand free and the other cradling the apple. Beyond the net of dead branches, a fox emerged. Ores let out a sigh. The creature skulked across the road and glided between the fire-stakes before disappearing into the market.

  The chill in his spine from earlier returned and spread to the rest of his body. It was so sudden, it took him by surprise. Ores took it as a sign to seek out the warmth of the inn and the opportunity to report for duty. He said goodbye to the hawker and headed into the village.

  The thoroughfare contained six buildings, three on either side, the largest and closest to the ocean being the inn. Beyond, the ice at the end of the short street sparkled under the torches around the jetties. Three-poled structures strapped into cones littered the plain. Fishing lines, suspended at the centre of the tripods, disappeared into holes in the ice. Anglers packed up their equipment and returned to the shore on crampons, their children and partners waiting for them to return.

  Most of the other folk had gone to the market outside the village, or resided in the handful of wooden shacks outside the centre.

  Ores reached the inn. He finished the apple, slung it in a ditch, and entered. He had never witnessed a hush spread to every corner of a common room while it was so busy. Card players set down cards. Smokers stopped puffing. Tankards and goblets found their way onto surfaces.

  Excellent, he thought. Word of him had spread here too.

  The Solchampions, dining at a table by the fire, were neither blind nor deaf. With their heads inwards, focus shifted to them. The officers continued eating as if nothing but the food on their plates mattered. Ores fixed on them as he made the long walk over.

  One of the officers placed her goblet onto the table. Another picked up a napkin and dabbed his lips. They all went through a stalling ritual before any of them acknowledged the Pikehelm. It gave everyone time to breathe.

  The leader nodded.

  “Pikehelm Ores,” Ores said.

  The Solcha
mpions huddled their heads together and whispered. Ores had expected such cold treatment. He’d become immune to it recently, and officers were officers.

  Within minutes, the leader stood. Her chair scraped the floor and the other patrons shuffled. By the time the officer regarded the Pikehelm, the lifeless atmosphere crushed the room.

  The leader slew the tension with her sharp voice. “Innkeeper. Ready our horses. Prepare lanterns and torches.”

  While Ores was glad he wouldn’t have to spend all of his first night with the officers, he was concerned about guarding the village alone with wolves roaming the forest.

  Ores wanted to ask why the Solchampions were leaving in the night, but thought it best to keep his mouth shut this one time.

  The leader took her leather gloves from her belt and put them on. She looked at Ores for the first time. “We will avenge a child.”

  Ores rubbed his chin. It helped to mask his feelings. He couldn’t bear the thought of a dead child. He went to ask a question, but the leader spoke over him.

  “We found her body this evening on the opposite embankment, her leg pinned in a raider’s trap, the rest of her mangled by wolves. We will scout for the raiders responsible. See what we can find. We should only be an hour or so.”

  Ores hated the cold way in which the officer delivered the detail. It reminded him of why, at times, he loathed Solchampions.

  “How did she cross the river?” he asked.

  “A bridge,” the leader said. “We caught the people responsible for not reporting the bridge and flogged them in accordance with the law. There is nothing left for you to do. Apart from keeping wolves away from the meat and fish at the market while we’re gone. I trust you won’t fuck that up?”

  The rest of the officers laughed.

  Ores raised his voice. “What about the child’s body?”

  The leader raised an eyebrow. “Rest assured we have given her a proper burial this side of the river. We trust she is in the Frozen Sky’s embrace.”

  The leader dismissed the Pikehelm with a wave of her hand.

  Ores clenched his jaw and strode out of the inn. The air cooled his face but did little to cool his anger. He returned to the market, found a fallen log near the forest and sat. Hours passed and the night grew darker.

  The hawker from earlier spotted him and approached. In a strange way, Ores was glad for the company. At least the man had spoken to him about something other than duty and orders.

  Before either of them could speak, a beast in the foliage snarled. The growl was deeper and more threatening than before. The Pikehelm stood, reached for the pikestaff strapped to his back and eased the weapon free. He bade the hawker stay back.

  Out strode a wolf. The creature’s muscular legs made a mockery of the distance between it and the market. With its head raised, its white fur glowed under the Frozen Sky.

  The hawker shifted. “Where in the name of the Frozen Sky did that thing come from?”

  “The mountains to the far north,” Ores guessed.

  Other wolves appeared along the edge of the forest.

  Ores glanced over his shoulder. Everyone in the market had stilled. He was impressed. Back home, most town-folk would have panicked. He returned his attention to the pack of wild animals and slowly raised a hand. Pointing behind himself, he indicated for the meat and fish vendors to step away from their stalls. At least a couple of them placed food on the ground.

  The wolves howled. The chant sent tremors to the pit of Ores’s gut.

  The wolf-leader charged. Ores swung the pikestaff to keep the creature at bay. It snarled and growled, baring its fangs. With eyes wide, its black pupils expanded into the yellow veins surrounding it. The wolf lunged, snapped back and ran. Ores jumped aside to let the creature go.

  The pack charged through the grassy square, now devoid of people, knocking over stalls and snatching up huge chucks of meat and fish in their powerful jaws. To Ores’s relief, the wolves disappeared into the darkness on the south side of the market. Silence gave way to heavy breathing.

  The hawker stood frozen, holding out the relic. His streaky hair flailed in the wind. Firelight danced along the object shaking in his hands.

  The man let his arm fall. “What in the name of the Frozen Sky are they running from?”

  Ores slowly shook his head. How in the name of Frozen Sky was he supposed to know? The only thing more dangerous in the mountains than the wolves were the hordes.

  One of the butchers came to the edge of the market. He held a meat cleaver made of bamboo.

  “We’re paying for you to keep us safe,” the butcher said to Ores. “Those wolves have taken my entire stock. Where were the Solchampions?”

  Ores wanted to ask the same question. They should have returned by now. Instead, he fell back on his training to hide his own uneasiness. “I would advise you not to question how or why the army allocates its resources.”

  A cold, hard stare from the Pikehelm sent the butcher away, shaking his head. The man returned to his stall and packed up his things with shoulders slumped. Ores hadn’t meant to be so harsh.

  The baker on the stall next to the butcher stowed her cakes onto a cart, dejection on her face. What was probably her partner picked up their child and put him on his shoulders. The three of them trundled back to the village with most of the customers. Ores turned to the forest. Fewer people in the market would mean a quieter night for him.

  To Ores’s relief, the hawker stayed.

  The man examined the relic. “The springs have rusted.” He looked at Ores and smiled. “You could fix it up or use it as an ornament. I’ll take silver. I assume you can afford that?”

  Ores kept an eye out for more wolves while rummaging through the small coins in his pocket. There was no way someone would sell a chunk of crafted metal for the pennies he had.

  The hawker peered along a groove at the top. “I thought it had at least one shot.” He turned the ornament in his hand and offered it to Ores, handle first.

  Ores looked at the contraption. If he touched it, he’d struggle to give it back. The garrison tasked him with preventing theft, not causing it.

  “You’d get gold if you fix it, and here I am settling for silver.”

  How kind, Ores thought. He reached for the trinket but stopped. “What’s it called?”

  “It’s called a Pistol. That’s the hilt. Take it.”

  Ores clasped the hilt. Full of brass, it weighed heavy.

  “See how good it feels,” the hawker said.

  Ores turned it sideways. “How does it work?” He aimed it towards the forest.

  “Close one eye and look through the groove.”

  Ores peered to where the man pointed. The remains of a shrub in the u-shaped dip at the top of the pistol moved. The Pikehelm dropped his arm and let the ornate toy hang at his hip.

  “It will slay a wolf with a well-aimed shot,” the hawker said.

  “You’ll take silver, you say?” Ores asked, stalling. There was no way he could afford it.

  The hawker laughed but kept whatever comment he thought funny to himself.

  “Put your thumb on the hammer and apply pressure there,” the man said. “Let’s see if you have the strength to make it work.”

  Ores pointed the pistol at the forest and pressed the hammer. It didn’t budge.

  “Even a man of your strength can’t get it working,” the hawker said.

  Thankfully, thought Ores. He didn’t want to add value to the item before he owned it. He wondered if he could drive the price down further.

  “Pikehelm,” the butcher from earlier called.

  Ores turned.

  The butcher pointed in the direction of Icesea. “Who hails?”

  Two figures strode towards the market, bamboo-machetes hanging at their hips.

  “Raiders,” the hawker said, reaching for the pistol.

  Ores passed the trinket to the man, who clutched the ware and fled.

  The Pikehelm stepped back into the clearing so the people there could hear him. The raiders wore the tattoos of the Dead Sky Order. They were religious bigots who enjoyed chaos, torture, and money, in that order. These bandits were ruthless and relentless in equal measure.

  Ores shouted at a group of merchants who were hurriedly hitching their horses. “You lot, get the children out of here. Take them south. And you”—he pointed at the butcher—“get over here, now.”