The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1)

The Compendium of Raath

Book 1: The Chosen

“S
omething's wrong!” Kollista was shouting. “We've made a
terrible mistake! Raath forgive us! God forgive us!”

Dharm looked up to see the
sky darkening. The clouds were parted as if shoved aside by huge
hands and the sun was blotted out by
something
. The something was gigantic.
Dharm could only see the shape of it. He couldn't tell what it was
made of or what color it was, but he knew it was huge: many-armed,
many-legged, swirling appendages stretched out, poised to strike as
it roared towards the earth.

“What have we done?” Dharm whispered to
himself as he stared heavenward.

It was his Familiar that finally broke him
from his trance. The little lemur dug his claws into Dharm's
shoulder and the man winced. He took a quick breath, his fear
finally outweighing his shock.

The other four mages were already in
motion.

Kollista was walking slowly backwards, a
look of disbelief on her young face.

Thaan was sprinting towards where the
creature would land, his sword drawn. The weapon was almost twice
as tall as he was, but the man held it with ease.

Mareth, likewise a fighter, had her fists
wrapped in Fire. She ran with Thaan, agile legs keeping up easily
with the swordsman.

Prenson was standing still, surveying the
situation, a thoughtful look on his face. He wasn't scared; he
wasn't even worried.

“Prenson!” Dharm yelled to
the calm man. “We've gotta get outta here!” He turned to his
Familiar. “What
is
that thing?” he asked the lemur.

“I don't know, master,” the lemur replied.
“But it is certainly not God.”

A shockwave expanded outward
as the thing from the sky hit the ground with a deafening boom. The
wet and muddy earth of the southlands rolled outward in a wave.
Dharm watched Thaan crest the wave, running forward with confidence
over the uncertain, roiling ground.
He must
be using his magic to keep him upright.
Dharm was still amazed at the powers that a mage like Thaan
possessed. The man was strong, impenetrable, resolute,
brave.

Then Dharm watched Thaan die.

The swordsman's body exploded, one of the
sky-creature's giant limbs smacking down on top of him. Blood flew
ten feet in either direction. One instant Thaan had been charging
forward, huge sword held defiantly, the next he was obliterated.
Erased.

The creature was massive. Bigger than
anything Dharm had ever seen. Or had even imagined. It towered over
the trees, making them look like saplings. The cloud of debris was
still obscuring the details of the creature. Dharm thought maybe
that was for the best.

The creature turned its attention to Mareth.
The Monk girl was able to dodge a few strikes before she also
ceased to be, obliterated and mashed down into the mud, her Fire
snuffed out.

Dharm gagged. The lemur tightened his grip
on Dharm's shoulder.

“We need to be away,” the lemur said in a
panic. But Dharm couldn't move. His body refused to respond to his
mind. His legs were water. It had only been a few seconds since the
mages had completed the ritual, and everything they had worked for
years to create was coming unraveled in mere moments.

Prenson was yelling at the
sky-creature now. He pointed at it and gestured, no doubt trying to
use his magic to control it. It gave Dharm hope for the briefest of
moments.
If anyone can get us out of this
mess, it's Prenson.

But he never got a chance to see what
happened.

The initial shockwave finally hit Dharm and
he lost his footing. Suddenly he was underneath the rolling wave of
water and earth, wetness enveloping him, filling his eyes, ears,
mouth, and nose. He scrambled to right himself, the elements
battering against his body. He couldn't break the surface. Spots
swam in front of his eyes as he groped in the darkness. He felt a
hand and he gripped it for dear life.

Kollista pulled him out.

Dharm spat mud from his mouth and wiped the
muck away from his eyes. He desperately wanted to see that Prenson
had survived.

He didn't get his wish.

“Damn it all!” Dharm cursed.

The creature turned its face to Dharm then.
He saw a thousand eyes, myriad limbs. The thing undulated, humming
horrifically.

“You need to ride away from here,” Kollista
begged him. “You're the swiftest. Go to the citizens of Coraline!
Tell them to run! Tell them what we did here! Tell them . . . how
we have failed. I'm going to hold it off.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Dharm said. “You'll
be killed!”

“There's no time!” Kollista pushed him away
with surprising force. He stumbled backwards and tripped, sprawling
on his back in the mud.

Kollista's feet were pounding against the
sloppy ground towards the creature. She was screaming.

When Dharm found his footing again he Called
around him. He found Prince, his horse, nearby. He felt waves of
fear coming from the animal.

Dharm Commanded the horse to run to him and
the animal came. As Dharm mounted, he fought the urge to gallop
after Kollista. He saw the girl covered in mud, her skinny legs
bringing her ever closer to the writhing creature.

If I try to help her I'll die and her
sacrifice will have been in vain.

Dharm gritted his teeth.

“Goodbye, my friends,” he said. “And God
forgive us all.”

Then he wheeled Prince in the opposite
direction and Commanded the horse to run.

The animal had no problem complying.

T
he sun was starting
to set and Wren Hartfield shivered in the cool spring air. She
could smell – almost feel - the storm that was coming from the
west, but she had decided she would walk the world for as long as
she could before it came.

This forest was a far cry from the corn
fields she was used to. The shadowy ground played tricks with her
vision, at the same time exciting and terrifying her.

When the storm came she would have to race it
back to her house. Her guts twisted when she thought of going back
home, but she couldn't live outside on her own forever.
Girls
can't survive on their own at fifteen, can they?
Wren wasn't
sure. But she'd been told that the world was full of ghastly
dangers and despite how much she hated her house she was almost
more terrified of being devoured alive by Foglins, flesh ripped
from her limbs slowly and painfully, her death drawn out over many
days or months.

Or so she had heard that was what the Foglins
would do.

Maybe the ugly creatures didn't exist at all.
Wren had never seen one, but her father was convinced they were
real. She wasn't sure her father had ever seen one either, but his
belief stemmed from Wren's mother's beliefs, and Wren's mother -
even though she was dead thirteen years now and Wren did not
remember her - still had an impact on her life.

Wren had worn her work boots today. They were
tough-leather and came up to her knees. Her legs were too skinny
for them so they had an odd clunky look, but it was either that or
her moccasins, and she hadn't known what the terrain was going to
be like. She'd had to sneak the boots from the back of the house,
being careful not to bang them against any walls as she exited.

Her heart beat faster this far out in the
forest. She knew she was scared and exhilarated, but the feelings
were muted somehow. The rest of her life tended to dampen things.
This momentary vacation was the only disobedience she had ever
allowed herself. She would deal with the punishment later if she
was caught.
But . . . how much worse could it really be?
She
decided that that was something she would consider more deeply
later.

For now she would walk. For now she would be
free. Or at least pretend to be free.

She heard the call of an animal over the
breeze and swiveled her head to find the source. Her heart jumped
when she saw something squirming in the shadows not fifty feet from
where she stood. Images of Foglins from stories flashed in her
head, but this animal was not a Foglin. It was a fox. She had only
ever seen a handful of living foxes in her life, and never one up
this close. As she approached it she found it odd that the animal
let her get so near.

Then she realized that its leg was caught in
the brutal metal teeth of a trap. Her father had one old rusty trap
hanging on a nail in the shed, but the device this fox found itself
in was polished, without a spot of rust. A new, gleaming trap. The
blood on it was bright red, standing out against the golden metal.
It was a beautiful combination.

Wren knew instinctively what she had to
do.

“Just hold still,” she told the fox, which
was now close enough to pet if she had wanted to. “I need to find a
stick.”

She kicked aside piles of leaves and had to
reject several branches before she was able to find a long, sturdy
stick with a pointy end.

She went back to the fox and set her work
boot down hard on its neck.

“It won't hurt for long,” she said.

She brought the stick up high and then drove
it down through the fox's eye with a powerful stab.

The fox shuddered twice and was dead.

T
he storm did
come. Wren had intended to race it back, but some of the fox's
blood had spattered up onto her shirt, and the red stood out
harshly against the beige. It bothered her. She didn't want her
crimes to be known. So she walked in the rain with the intent to
have the water from the sky clean the blood from her
shirt.

She carried the bloody stick with
her.
My trophy
.
T
his vacation had been good. She felt relieved. She
knew the feeling wouldn't last long, but every minute of that
elation was worth it. Killing animals worked better than cutting
herself. That had left terrible scarring on her right arm.
Very obvious. Very noticeable. Can't do that
again.
Mustn't let anyone know: not the
farmhands, not travelers, not my father, not anyone.

She looked down and saw how her clothes were
wet and plastered to her body by the rain. The sight of her breasts
pained her. She didn't appreciate that they looked like they did.
Her father had taken to touching them long ago.

She brandished her stick at the sky to take
her mind off her body. It was a gesture of defiance; possibly at
the universe, possibly at nothing. It didn't matter. It felt
good.

Wren was beginning to get cold and cursed
herself for not grabbing her spun cloak, but it had been hanging
too near the table that her father had passed out on and Wren
hadn't wanted to take the chance of grabbing it and waking him. She
cursed herself for not planning this better.

The rain came down harder. Lightning flashed
behind her.

She looked down.
Is the blood coming out or is it just smearing around?
Her shirt was a stained mess.
What am
I going to do?
There were plenty of animals on the
farm that bled, maybe she could make up some sort of story. But her
father always seemed to know. Even when he was drunk, breath
reeking, he could look in her eyes and just
know
. She was already going to have an
impossible time trying to hide this whole trip, she didn't really
need extra lies piled on top.

Thunder rumbled and the sky
grew darker, the rain turning from downpour to torrent.
I have to get back, blood or no blood.
She ran as fast as her feet could take her, boots
sloshing at every step. She was panic brought to life. Suddenly,
gripped by the emotion of the storm, she felt her old feelings rush
back.

The adventure was over.

The stick dropped from her hand, a forgotten
symbol of her temporary relief. Her wet hair slapped her in the
face and she realized how she must look as if she had just gotten
out of the bath. Her father loved to leer at her the most then, and
no matter how she tried to cover herself he always found a way to
see.

Tears streaked down her face, mixing with
the rain. She considered just laying down in the mud and giving up.
Just laying down and dying. But her father would be so hurt. He had
already lost her mother, as he reminded her time and again.