A Chronicle of Lies-Book 1- The Dark Sculptor (High Fantasy/Isekai)

Vincent stood at the edge of the staging grounds, seeing for the first time the expedition he would be accompanying. The grounds themselves were housed in a dinner plate-shaped arena whose rim was filled with bleachers. Its walls were carved with busts of winged warriors; zerok and groundwalker alike. Stories without words were chiseled from stone and crystal.

Ever since meeting with Thal'rin and Saleed several days before, his life had become far busier. They both caught him up to speed about what was happening across Admoran. The storms had an origin and it had been found. They were coming from some place called Crefield, which was covered in snow. Vincent let slip that he was all too familiar with the stuff. Then Saleed practically proceeded to interrogate him about it.

Never in his life had anybody asked him so many questions about snow and ice, speaking as if the stuff were a thing of myth. Falius occasionally had it in remote places, but it was incredibly rare. These people had no experience dressing for it and traveling through it. So, Vincent had some use after all, even if his advice was simple: put on lots of layers and bring some shovels.

Then there were the storms themselves. They were coming for him. He felt a mixture of worry and anticipation at this revelation and considered for a moment, staying at Meldohv and simply waiting for them to come. But he knew this dream, Falius, would not make things so simple. It would be too convenient. It wanted him to be the myth spoken of in the Lore of Contradictions.

If he stayed at Meldohv and simply waited, he was paranoid that the storms would stop. This assumption had no basis other than his own intuition, but he trusted it. Lucid dreams still had their own rules...even if one was aware they were dreaming. It was a compromise: I’ll take what you give me, I’ll play the role you set out for me, but I am going to use it to betray you. He shook his head at that thought, momentarily stunned by its toxicity.

But there was also a part of him that wanted to know who was sending the storms. The stormspawn had bowed to him. He shuddered at the memory. He wanted to know why it had done that. He wanted answers. Still, he could not let his hosts know his true motives. He was surprised Thal’rin was okay with this, considering the skepticism and concern the High Channeler showed him before.

But now that he looked over the staging grounds, Vincent felt a fluttering in his chest. The weapons being loaded onto the wagons glinted like teeth. He was really doing it, he was really about to embark on a journey to confront evil, the very thing he said he would not do. He tried to stay calm.

“I know you've told me this about a hundred times already,” he said to Slade, “but I just wanted to clarify, these guys we're traveling with...they know my uh...they know my ‘backstory’?”

“Backstory?” she repeated.

“Who I am, where I came from,” Vincent said.

“Some of it.”

“Huh...and they just accept it?”

In total, there were about two hundred landriders in the staging grounds being loaded with supplies. Some of them pulled wagons while others were simply saddled, waiting to be ridden. Those who loaded the wagons were a mixture of shandan, as identified by their flaming red cords and armor, and kiolai, identified by their braids, or in cases where one lacked hair, black stripes in the place of a braid. Channelers were interspersed and peppered throughout the expedition.

“Your cabras is led by the so-called fire brothers, Oris and Akhil,” Slade said, “they are 'unique', or so I have heard.”

She led him down the side of the staging grounds. Vincent found his gaze fixating on the ground and avoiding the eyes of those they passed. He knew they would notice his arrival very soon, but he wanted to prolong that moment. Soon however, they came upon their party.

“Sashi, you damned woman!” a loud voice boomed. It belonged to a large, brawny Falian with black scales, who currently stood on a wagon next to a bunch of crates. “Why are you bending my wing?!”

His dark face was rounder than any Vincent had seen on any of the dragonoids so far. His squat snout and wide mouth reminded Vincent of a turtle. He was speaking to a dour-looking female who held a list in her hands. Though his words were loud, there was humor in them.

“I told you, those crates,” Sashi pointed to the far corner of the wagon, “go over there! Are your ears broken?”

“What?!” the large Falian said.

“I asked if your ears were broken!”

“What?! I can’t hear you. My ears are broken!”

Fuming, Sashi strolled over. “These. Crates,” she pointed at them with a wing, “Do. Not. Go. Over. There! There is an order to things, Oris!”

Oris, instead of obeying her, left the crate and hopped off the wagon to lift another.

“Are you listening to me?” Sashi demanded.

“I am listening. Your order is wrong.”

“Oh?”

Oris lifted a hefty-sized crate over his shoulder. “It is clear you haven’t worked with The La’ark. She does not follow standard procedure.” At this, Sashi chuffed, but she didn’t say anything. “It is also clear you are here to heckle me, as you always do. What is it about me that draws such hostility?”

“You are a fool!” Sashi said.

Slade and Vincent dismounted Holan while the two bickered. Several more soldiers joined to help Oris load the wagons.

“And yet you are still drawn to me,” Oris said, “you don’t want to acknowledge your feelings, so you mask them with venom. You cannot admit that you want to swoon in my presence!”

“When is the last time you looked at yourself in the mirror, Oris?” asked one of the other soldiers. He had red skin with lines of green. One side of his face was speckled with vanilla spots.

“Do not.” a tall, scarred figure warned as he walked by. He was muscular and brawny like Oris, but his countenance, while resembling the former, was far more severe. His warning came too late. Oris put the crate down.

“Look at my scalp, Madrian!” he demanded, pointing at his forehead.

“What about it?”

“Come over here and look at my scalp!”

He stepped off the wagon and walked over until he loomed over Madrian, who took a few bewildered steps backwards. Several more of the creatures stopped to watch with grins forming on their faces, apparently familiar with Oris' antics.

“Do you see how shiny it is? Here, feel the smoothness of my polished carapace for yourself!” He grabbed the crate from Madrian's hands, set it aside, then grasped his wrist.

“ACK! Oris, what are you doing?!” Madrian tried to pull his hand away as Oris forced his palm against his crest and rubbed it. “Let go of me you weird bastard!”

“Feel the smoothness of my geometry! It is like glass! Do you think I could get myself to a shine if I did not look at myself in a mirror? I am a work of art!”

When Oris finally let go of Madrian's hand, the latter pulled it back as if it had been burned. Then Oris turned to Sashi. “Sashi, press your soft palms against my scalp! Cradle me in your wings too, just like the dream I had the other night. I want to press my snout into your delicate webbing–”

“–You are a damn wing-flapper, Oris!” Sashi picked up a few fruits and threw them at him. He caught one, gave it a sniff.

“Ah, a parting gift!” he said, “I will relish it for the moment and think of you.” He stared at the fruit for a second or two, then he ate it. Somebody called to him, so he left the area.

“What the hell did I just watch?” Vincent whispered.

“I told you they were 'unique',” Slade said, “but Oris and his brother, Akhil, are two of the best fighters in Meldohv Syredel. Only five other warriors in their ranks can be said to be equal to or surpass their talent.” She began to walk forward toward the group, but Vincent stopped her.

“Hold on,” he said, watching the cargo being unloaded. An idea formed in his head. “I'd...rather do this informally.”

“Informally?” she cocked a brow.

“Yeah. I don't know what these guys have been told, but I'd rather get past the bullshit. I don't want a formal introduction. I don’t want them to meet a myth, so I'm going to give them a hand. It just...'feels' right.”

He took a deep breath and walked forward. For a moment, Slade looked as though she were going to stop him, then held back. She seemed to be intrigued by what he meant to do. Vincent approached the wagon with as much casualness as he could muster. The driver was setting crates of various sizes on the tailgate. Vincent grasped one he thought he could lift and heaved it. He then realized it was the first time he had attempted any heavy lifting with this body, as he stumbled for a few feet. After regaining his balance, he carried it over to Madrian, who was busy arranging the crates on the other wagon.

“Hey! Where does this one go?” Vincent grunted, “it has a picture of red flowers stamped on it.”

“To my right,” Madrian said without looking up, he slapped an empty spot with his wing.

Vincent bent his knees and set the box on the floorboard before shoving it into place. Madrian gave a brief sideways glance and nodded with approval. As Vincent stood up and turned around, he saw the creature do a double take in his periphery.

“Hey!”

Vincent walked over to pick a second box up from the tailgate. This one had a stamp depicting a purple crescent on the front. It was far too heavy to lift so instead, he picked up a smaller crate with the same symbol. It was still unbelievably heavy. What the hell did they pack in these? Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he hefted the weighty luggage. When he returned to the wagon, Madrian was gawking at him.

“You...” he began, but the words froze on his mouth.

“Just tell me where the hell it goes,” Vincent gasped, “it's about to rip my arms off!”

Madrian gaped at him for a few moments before breaking free of his trance. He helped Vincent shove the box toward the middle. They just slid it into place when Sashi began to yell at them both.

“What are you doing?” she barked, “who are you?”

Sweating torrents now, Vincent undid his hoodie and tied it around his waist. Strands of green hair licked at his cheeks, so he brushed them out of the way and looked at Sashi.

“How far?” he asked.

“You...” she said, echoing Madrian. “You are...him, aren't you?”

“Yeah, I'm 'him'. Look, do you want to stare at me now or put me to work?” he asked, “how far do you want it?”

“But...but...” Sashi flustered and stumbled over her words.

“Look, I've been cooped up for weeks doing absolutely nothing. Just give me something to do.”

She shook the dumbfoundment from her gaze and resumed her poise. “Two paces and that will suffice.”

At first, the others had not noticed they received a newcomer. But once Slade introduced herself to the shandan, a small crowd gathered to watch as Vincent and Madrian carried crates from the supply wagon. He felt muscles burning in places his brain wasn’t made to comprehend. He used his wings as a counterbalance for stability. It took a tremendous amount of effort and focus to control them. Lines of flame arced up his back and chest, lancing at his shoulder-blades.

He and Madrian hefted a particularly heavy crate, straining and groaning as they carried it across the ground. Vincent felt as if his bones were on the verge of being pulled from their sockets. Without warning, two pairs of arms joined them and hefted the box onto the wagon. Oris and the gruff, scarred Falian hopped up and pushed the crate into its place, then Oris hopped down and pulled Vincent aside, away from his onlookers.

“What are you doing, Vincent Cordell?” he asked, a mixture of amusement and bafflement on his round countenance.

“Getting a workout, apparently.”

“You are drawing an audience,” the creature said, “it is impeding us.”

“I thought it would do the opposite.” Vincent watched as the gruff one barked at the onlookers to get back to work, “I just thought I would sneak in and act like one of your workers instead of making a scene. I don't want you people worshiping me or whatever the hell it is that you do.”

“Worship you?” Oris repeated, sounding amused at the notion. “You will not have to worry about that. But I believe I see the logic: make yourself look mundane in front of us by doing manual labor. It fits what we have been told about you. However, putting yourself in our way will only do the opposite. There is an order to things. You are not familiar with it, so you will only get in our way. We are in haste to depart and we must operate with efficiency. So for now, and I do not mean to throw you to the mud, but it would be better if you just stood aside and stayed out of the way.”

“Fair enough.” Vincent said, wiping off his brow.

He took a step back and leaned against a wooden column, watching everybody work. They kept shooting glances his way and talking to each other, but Oris was right. They did work far more efficiently now that he was out of the way. They recovered from their amazement quickly, just as Sashi had.

He could see that he was wrong to initially write them off as clowns, these creatures were disciplined and coordinated, despite their clowning. The gruff one, clearly Oris's brother, stopped by briefly to introduce himself as Akhil.

“There are more of us,” he said. There was a harsh rasp to his voice. “But we will meet up with them tonight.” That was all he said before resuming his work.

Vincent noticed how badly he was trembling from the exertions. The body he inhabited had almost no muscle at all. Physically, it had not been trained or tested, so there were places where one could almost see its bones.

As he stood watching the soldiers work, he caught a brief flash of orange at the corner of his eyes. He turned to his right and saw a familiar figure who just arrived, brushing off the sides of a landrider. Though his back was to Vincent, he recognized the stripes running down the back of the creature's head as though he wore the colors of an over-sized skink with wings.

“Tuls?” he asked.

Tuls turned to face him. His face still looked as though it had been smothered with a puff of charcoal powder, making his orange eyes “float” in the middle of the black mask.

“Oyy...Vincent!” he said, voice filled with vigor. “How have you been doing, Brother?”

“I’m fine,” Vincent said.

“I have to confess...” Tuls scratched his chin. “I am not prepared for this moment. When they told us what you were, well, it made more sense to me than it did the other two. But still, it is not a believable thing.”

“So are they here too?” Vincent asked, “Clayde and the other guy?”

“No. Ro'ken and Clayde were sent back to the threads. I was to go with them, but The Thirteen wanted more information about the kinds of things I felt from that storm, as well as the vile creatures it spawned.” Tuls shuddered at the memory, but then he grinned. “After that...well, now I'm here to provide my sight. My eyes are keener than most.”

“You encountered those things too, huh?” Vincent said. He forgot how bombastic Tuls’ manner of speaking could be and couldn’t help but grin a little bit. “Slade nearly got us both killed trying to escape them.”

“So I have heard. You will have to tell me about it sometime! I am glad you have not been taken by the night carrier. You courted her, but she turned you down, yes?” Tuls continued to prepare Mola for the journey ahead.

“I courted who?” Vincent asked.

“The night carrier. The mistress of death. It is a myth, part of our vernacular.”

“Ah...”

“They are cursed creatures, those things, the stormspawn.” There was a hint of irony in Tuls’ voice as he made some adjustments to the sacks on his mount. He gave the drawstrings a quick tug and locked them. Then he turned to face Vincent again. “I owe you an apology, Brother. For...for doubting your story.”

Vincent cringed softly at Tuls repeated use of the word “brother”.

“Uh...it's bridge under the water,” he said, “I mean...it's 'water under the bridge'.” He saw Tuls' confusion at the expression and clarified the meaning. “Don't worry about it. Who the hell would believe such a thing anyway? Do you need any help? I'm looking for something to do.”

“Ah...I think I have everything in order. But I appreciate the offer!”

Vincent noticed Salish standing nearby, documenting their departure along with several of his peers.

“I’ll catch up to you later,” he said. Then he made his way to the young tuhli.

Salish saw him approaching and visibly tensed. He averted his eyes until Vincent stood several feet from him.

“Yo...remember what I said about not being so twitchy?” Vincent asked.

“I do,” Salish said.

“I’m guessing you’re not coming with us?”

“Why would I?” Salish asked, “I’m just here to observe. I don’t have the proper banners to accompany an expedition. Besides, I believe you have a tuhli in your cabras already.”

“Ah...” Vincent shifted his feet and looked around. “Listen...I lost my cool at you and I apologize. You didn’t deserve it. You had no idea what you said would set me off.”

“Thal’rin didn’t tell us how ‘dark’ your translation was. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah...well, even so, I don’t like losing my cool,” Vincent said, “I have one hell of a temper. I don’t like...”

His voice trailed off. Two of Salish’s peers were standing nearby, not-so-secretly transcribing everything Vincent said. One of them met his glare and went right back to writing. He couldn’t believe it.

“Excuse me,” he said, “what are you doing?”

“Hmm?” one of them asked.

“Are you recording everything I’m saying?”

“Well...yes!”

“Stop it. Please."

They gave him a befuddled look, shrugged, then walked away. Salish waited until they were out of hearing range before he spoke again.

“I suppose our corroboration isn’t going to happen,” he said.

“Maybe someday it will,” Vincent said, "but just...I’m not your academic project, man.”

“I never thought you were.”

“Right...well, good luck on your research. Or whatever the hell it is that you people do.”

“Stay safe, Vincent.” Salish said.

Vincent was glad to bury that hatchet, though Salish’s words still haunted him.

Beautiful, dignity, eldritch design.

“Vincent Cordell,” Slade called, “it is time to go.”

Before he had left that morning, Thal'rin pulled him aside one last time to speak with him.

“I hope you will forgive me if I shed some words of wisdom before you depart,” he said, “believe it or not...this 'creature' may have learned a few things over the years. But the one I want you to keep in mind is this: be wary of conceit.”

Vincent looked back at Salish one last time, then he walked over to Slade, pulled himself up onto Holan's back and settled himself behind her. Their group formed a circle around the both of them and they began to march toward the front like some exalted procession. Oris and Akhil took the lead. Curious eyes followed as he passed them by. Landriders fell into formation behind them as they exited the staging area and marched out into the city. Though the procession was by no means large, not by the scale of armies, it drew an audience of onlookers.

Caravans moved aside to make way for the parade of mounts and wagons. Curious mutterings arose from the gawking winged pedestrians. Up ahead, Vincent could see the exalted statue of Naikira Laneus welcoming countless visitors with her raised limbs. Once they passed her, he knew there would be no going back. Butterflies settled into the pits of his stomach, but the promise of his lost memories drove him forward.

“What do you mean?” Vincent asked.

“It is with reluctance that I allow you to go with them to Crefield. Nobody knows what will be found there. Whatever talents, whatever powers, you have been given, remember that you are small. I am speaking from an old man’s experience here. Do not try to be a hero. That is the job of your escorts. Trust yourself to them, not to the abilities given to you by your captor.”

Oris and Akhil pulled their mounts up until they flanked Holan on both sides. They raised their wings in salute to Naikira Laneaus. More wings followed, a wave of colored membranes traveling down the procession like waving flags. Spirals of water danced playfully around the bridge, throwing glimmering rays of sunlight as they turned.

“There is beauty in our world...” Thal'rin said.

A horned father raised his infant up onto his shoulders to see the procession. The boy's rack had not yet fully developed, as it was still a set of mere bumps covered with a thin layer of flesh. His beady eyes followed Vincent and the expedition, reflecting a mixture of wonder and curiosity. The procession continued to carve a path through the dense current of merchants, ambassadors, and visitors. The sunlight seemed to blind them as they passed from the shadow of Meldohv's shell and back into the sky's domain.

“–but it is also filled with traps, dangers you are not prepared to handle.”

Meldohv loomed behind them like a mountain kneeling against the ocean. Waves crashed silently on the beaches, evoking the memory of that vacation in years' past. He half-expected to see his younger self running across the hot sand screaming, followed by the phantom of his mother.

“I know. This is your world,” Vincent said, “you don't have to worry about me doing something stupid.”

Thal'rin's snout was flanked by his brown hood, casting his golden orbs in relief. There was warm concern in the creature's expression. His eyes seemed to see right through Vincent.

“It is not about stupidity, it is about conceit. There is a difference,” he said, “I am not accusing you of it, I am warning you to be wary of it. If you do 'repel' another storm, remember that you are still small and that your power comes from something that most likely seeks to manipulate you. If our talks of the Saedharu have in any way led you to believe you alone, are equipped to handle whatever is out there, then we have done wrong by you.”

He raised his hands and placed them on Vincent's shoulders. “Continue to fear the life of a fivendai. Trust the shandan. Be wary of conceit.”

They passed through the whirling storm ward, then they raced up the inclined highway that carved its way through the cliff. Vincent looked back, only seeing Meldohv as a vague indistinct shape among the wall of churning lore. Once they reached the top of the incline, Akhil barked an order, and they began to increase their pace. Wind licked at Vincent’s ears as Holan cantered.

Come to me, he thought, sending his thoughts out to the black storms. Come and get me.