Sons of the Shepherd (Hasuu's Song, Snippet 0) [Archives]

A lengthy debut snippet from the Westsong Cycle

Welcome to your sneak peek at the Westsong Cycle: Hasuu’s Song.

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Sons of the Shepherd

Twenty-one olive-skinned men in ankle-high boots and plain, knee-length tunics fanned out in the tall grass beneath the foothills of the Lower Fangs. Most had long, dark beards and wavy, shoulder-length heads of hair, which they left bare to sun and wind. They clutched six-foot spears with wooden shafts and kept bone-bladed daggers the length of a forearm stashed in their belts.

The blades were straight—always straight. Only their neighbors, the Children of the Valley, wrought curved blades, like those they used for threshing grain. They farmed the long, narrow river country between the Upper and Lower Fangs.

Then, scarcely over a year prior, the Children of the Valley had discovered how to reap other men’s lives, too, and in much the same way.

Hasuu trotted at the center-rear of the scout-band so that even those on the far flanks stayed in his peripheral vision. He couldn’t help but think of them as his men. His next thought was always to chastise himself that no, they belonged to the Wright. They were second-born sons, every one of them including Hasuu. Their kin had dedicated them to the Wright and to guarding the lands of their folk, the Children of the Hills. The other clans called these second-born the Sons of the Shepherd—whoever the Shepherd had been, in time beyond living memory.

Sparing a glance to his right, Hasuu noted the daunting majesty of the Upper Fangs. Snow-capped canines pierced a clear, pale-blue sky. He never entirely wearied of the sight. The gates to the Wright’s hidden realm stood somewhere in those forbidding high places, so folk said. And the Shepherd, whoever he was, lay buried up there. Mayhap it was so, even if Hasuu had never trod there or seen any such thing or known anybody who had.

After all, Hasuu wasn’t an elder or a priest, nor so much as a full chief. At thirty-odd years of age, he was a lowly subchief, leader of this band, and recently named the master of supply for his troop.

For many generations, the Sons had patrolled the foothills of the Lower Fangs all the way to the eastern marches. Beyond that lay naught but endless desert wastes. But today found their troop far to the north, on the ancient boundary between the valley-folk and hill-folk. The Children of the Valley, it seemed, had taken to tearing each other apart, so the elders asked the Sons to guard the hill country against raiders, refugees, and other riffraff.

A day’s walk from the valley-folk city of Danoh, trouble seemed more a promise than a possibility.

One of Hasuu’s men on the right flank called out, and several gestured in the direction of the valley. Hasuu raised a hand, and his scouts slowed their gait. They came to a quick, uneven halt and divided anxious expressions between him and the gently sloping lowlands.

He squinted past the glare of the late-morning sun and made out a few dark specks on the horizon. Almost imperceptibly, the distant blurs grew larger. Hasuu signaled again, and the twenty men rearranged themselves into a loose knot around him, holding their spears at the ready so that their formation bristled like a porcupine.

The specks gradually manifested in Hasuu’s vision as hazy, green and brown spots. Then, they transformed into a dozen valley raiders—knoll-folk, from one of the tent villages in the central valley. The clansmen wielded an assortment of mallets, scimitars, and small, circular shields.

The Sons tensed, Hasuu included. But he expected the approaching warriors to back off once they saw they were outnumbered. They didn’t. As the knoll-folks’ short-bearded faces came into focus, the knot of Sons tightened noticeably.

The hairs on the back of Hasuu’s neck bristled; in the next instant, he understood why. A second thin line of figures appeared in the distance, behind the first but moving quickly to catch up. Agitated murmurs rippled amongst the Sons as the two lines came together, only a hundred paces away, and continued forward. This second line of knoll-folk carried bows, to which they now nocked arrows.

Hasuu’s pulse quickened, even as his blood ran chill. Choices must be weighed, and every heartbeat counted. The distress of his men washed over him. His first instinct was to run, but he was always skeptical of his first inclinations. So he ignored his gut in favor of his second instinct. It at least offered a fair imitation of reason.

“Sons, spears—forward! Quickly!” he barked. The Sons surged forward, more or less in unison, with a deep-throated shout. Their formation opened a bit as they advanced, which provided Hasuu a line of sight on most of the knoll-folk skirmishers. Yet it was difficult to maintain clear focus when caught up in the momentum. Boots pounded on earth, and grass whipped his shins and calves. Hesitation or distraction would risk tripping the men to the rear. Conversely, every scrap of speed they mustered could mean life instead of disaster.

When they had covered a third of the distance to the knoll-folk, whistling arrows interrupted the Sons’ frenzied rush. Most of the missiles thudded into the earth, but one Son to the front and one to Hasuu’s left, on the edge of his vision, cried out. They crumpled to the ground, which caused a few stumbles from those following closest behind. It was an unnatural thing, but he resisted the urge to stop and check on the fallen. The survival of all depended on continuing apace.

“Spread out!” Hasuu yelled. He was only partly successful at keeping desperation from his tone. They couldn’t leave too much space between them, or they’d be vulnerable when the lines clashed. If they clumped together, though, it would be hard for the bowmen to miss—and the Sons were liable to impale each other in the ensuing chaos.

After a brief delay, all of the unwounded Sons regained their feet. Their knot formation loosened somewhat in cautious obedience to his order.

Hasuu realized how tightly he had been clutching the shaft of his spear. He eased his grip enough that his wrists and forearms wouldn’t lock up when it came time to wield the weapon in close quarters. That moment needed to come soon.

But as the Sons hurtled forward with renewed vigor, the knoll-folk began to pull back. The men carrying mallets and scimitars jogged in reverse, while the bowmen turned and scurried rearward in an orderly manner. Hasuu’s heart dropped to his stomach and left him queasy. Despite the Sons’ haste, the distance between them and the enemy was closing more slowly now.

A shout went up from the knoll-folks’ lines, and the bowmen turned about suddenly to face the Sons. They nocked fresh arrows to their bows, while the others paused and brought their shields up.

Several Sons cursed, and Hasuu bit back an oath of his own. “Faster, curs!” cried a gravelly voice over his right shoulder. Old Pritth compensated for his lack of grace with an abundance of enthusiasm. But Hasuu feared no amount of exuberance could counter their enemies’ new tactic.

The next volley whistled in, but praise the Wright, none struck the charging Sons. Then the knoll-folk drew back again, in the same manner as before. And again, they paused to loose arrows at the Sons racing to close the gap. This time, another Son several paces in front of Hasuu dropped to his knees, clutching his neck. Hasuu forcibly ignored his heart-pangs and pressed on, for all their sakes.

The time after that, two more Sons went down.

Hasuu and his men weren’t tiring yet. They were gaining a few paces of ground on their enemies whenever the knoll-folk paused. But it wasn’t fast enough. This pursuit could continue for many more rounds, and the Sons would lose the battle of attrition before they won the race. Their spears would grow heavier all the while. By the time they closed with the knoll-folk fighters, the Sons would be weary and too few. It would be over, one way or another.

By the Wright’s beard, this debacle shouldn’t even be happening. The knoll-folk had never been so brazen before, or so organized, in their incursions. What purpose did this attack serve?

In an eye-blink, the situation became far worse. More knoll-folk emerged from subtle dips in the gently rolling countryside, maybe fifty paces off. The Sons were suddenly flanked by a dozen enemy bowmen on either side.

Hasuu felt like he had just been force-fed a slingstone. It was done; this fight was over. There was nothing worse than an adversary who wasn’t making mistakes, and the knoll-folk weren’t making any. Hasuu, on the other hand—fool that he was—had led his band too far from the safety of their hills.

The other Sons had seen the flankers, too, and had already slowed their advance when Hasuu ordered the halt. His eyes caught lanky Pritth’s in passing and noted the older man’s wild expression. It wasn’t dread, exactly, but burning clarity born of rapidly diminishing options. The knoll-folks’ trap was about to shut fast. At once, Hasuu and Pritth bellowed the order to retreat.

As quickly as everything had happened to this point, time now simply unraveled. The jeers of the knoll-folk chased the Sons as their loose knot broke completely. The enemies’ arrows dogged them as well, nipping at their backs and sides and eliciting pained cries. More Sons toppled into the grass.

A frenetic blur of motion and sound enveloped Hasuu. He wanted to shout encouragement to the others, but they didn’t need it. Besides, he required every ounce of breath and focus to propel himself forward alongside his brothers. They had to find cover from the knoll-folks’ missiles. He trained his focus on the nearest hill, perhaps three hundred paces ahead. From the knoll-folks’ triumphant shouts, the enemy wasn’t gaining on them. Yet arrow volleys kept thinning the Sons’ numbers.

Aside from the nauseating slingstone in his gut, an odd calm took hold in Hasuu’s mind. The rhythm of the Sons’ boots parting the grass and striking the earth had an almost soothing effect. That they wouldn’t make it to the refuge of the hill seemed, for a fleeting instant, a distant concern. Hasuu set his jaw, lengthened his stride, and counted the heartbeats until death would claim him from above.

A hulking figure landed in Hasuu’s path at a crouch, as if descending from the sky or leaping down from the mountains. The ground tremored slightly, and Hasuu stopped in his tracks. The other Sons nearly fell over themselves doing the same.

It was a beast of a man—literally, perhaps. His face bore feline features, and his hair and beard distinctly resembled a mane. When he straightened his posture, he was fully twice Hasuu’s height and half again his span. From feet to neck, the bestial figure was garbed in a shell of metal and leather, except for clawed hands that grasped a spear and shield. The former had a haft like a sapling; the latter was a massive, gleaming rhombus. Both spear and shield were painted black, with thin red lines snaking across.

The remaining Sons stood stunned, forgetting the forty-odd knoll-folk clansmen bearing down on them. The newcomer likely could have slain every Son without the feeblest resistance. Hasuu’s bewildered gaze followed the enormous fellow as, instead, he stormed through their midst with improbable agility and charged the knoll-folk. The Sons’ foes were near enough that Hasuu could plainly see the confusion on their faces.

The attacker slew them without hesitation. His tree-like spear shivered their shields, and the shell he wore turned aside their blade and mallet strikes. The black armor likewise ignored the rain of incoming arrows from knoll-folk bowmen on all sides. And that gargantuan, angular shield swatted the clansmen like midges. It crunched bone without effort and flung broken bodies across the grass.

Darker red splatters now marred the sinuous red-on-black face of the beast-man’s shield. He tried in vain to shake the sickening horror from his mind. Spilling blood in this way—he wished it were still unimaginable.

It didn’t take the surviving knoll-folk long to realize the futility of their efforts. As the attacker finished the last mallet-wielding clansman and turned on the nearest line of bowmen, they fled. The flankers on each side of the Sons needed no further convincing to do the same.

Off to Hasuu’s left, a slender Son started in pursuit of the knoll-folk; two others nearby moved to follow.

“Stay put, lambs,” Pritth snapped at the three overeager Sons before Hasuu could speak. They obliged without protest, and Wal, the skinny one, displayed none of his usual, fixed smirk. Like everyone else, they watched the bestial giant with leery fascination.

At last, the Sons’ unlikely savior had turned his attention on them. Hasuu knew the stranger had rescued them, and it was too late to run from him. Yet there was no telling who he was or what to expect now. They urgently needed to retrieve their dead and wounded so they could tend to each in the way that was fitting. But clearly, it would have to wait.

The man with the cat-like face stopped about ten paces from the ragged, wary group of Sons. With exaggerated nonchalance, he wiped his spear-tip on the grass near his calf-length leather boots, where it left bloody streaks. Then he propped the spear-butt on the ground and held the tree-like weapon upright, without leaning on it. His shield he drove into the earth, with no discernible effort, so that it held firm with only one of his clawed hands resting lightly on top. The monstrous stranger’s unblinking eyes were cold, bright, and intelligent.

“Who are you?” Hasuu asked loudly, with a guarded edge he hadn’t wholly intended.

There was no perceptible shift in those uncanny, animal features, other than a slight movement of his feline mouth. The voice that replied to Hasuu was deep, measured, and smoother than expected. “I am called the Warrior.”

“Are you a demon?” Pritth blurted.

Hasuu suppressed a grimace. But the question had occurred to him, too. Rumors from the lowlands had a way of reaching the Sons. For the past year, the valley-folk had been divided on whether it was princes of the heaven-realm or minions of Livyat who had descended on Danoh from the Upper Fangs.

The Warrior let uncomfortable, blade-thin silence hang in the air for a long moment. Then he patted the dark, dull metal coat that formed part of his shell. “I will show you how to make this,” he said slowly, ignoring Pritth. Three clawed fingers tapped the edge of his shield. “And this, better than the wooden plates those children of Len were waving about.”

Hasuu found himself lending more credence to some of the rumors. The foreigners in Danoh, it was said, had brought uncanny knowledge and arts to the valley-folk.

“Why?” he asked the giant. “Why would you help us, stranger?” That was what he and Pritth, and no doubt the other Sons, truly wanted to know—now that it was apparent the Warrior didn’t mean to slay them on the spot.

“My brothers and I are allied with the lord of Danoh,” the beast-man answered in the same steady tone as before. “His house contends with the other children of the Valley. The ones you call the knoll-folk and the folk of the mountain lake.”

That the ruler of Danoh sought to wrest control of the western valley from his brothers’ houses had been known for some time. But what had happened today was a markedly new turn of events.

The Warrior seemed to guess his thoughts. “You contend with them, too, it seems.”

Indeed, if those knoll-folk were keen to ambush a scout-band of the Sons of the Shepherd in daylight, without provocation. Hasuu met the Warrior’s stare, and willed himself not to flinch, as he weighed the giant’s words.

“We will need the permission of the chiefs and elders to accept your aid, stranger,” he said finally.

The Warrior’s face contorted—into amusement, Hasuu realized when abrupt, softly hissing laughter followed. “Do you think so highly of yourself, that I would have approached you first on such a matter? I have already been to see your council of elders and your shepherd lords. I am sure your chief will have their message by the time you report back to him.”

The stranger’s contempt rankled. “And once we do,” Hasuu replied stiffly, “and verify what you say, I am sure we will welcome your help gladly.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “For now, you have our thanks for intervening against those folk.”

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought the Warrior wore a considering expression. “Very well,” the beast-man said finally. To Hasuu’s satisfaction, he detected a touch of annoyance. “Bury your dead, if you must. Go and see your chief. I shall find you and your band in three days’ time. Then I will teach you how to fight—and how to win.”

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A Note from the Author

This snippet, the first I’ve shared from the Westsong Cycle, was previously available only to those who purchased the Into the Vaporous Realms e-booklet. [2.9.24 update: I’m removing the e-booklet from the webstore and remaining third-party sellers. At some point, when I have the resources and gumption, I want to update the tabletop intro, game system, and starter scenario as part of the larger launch of a Vaporous Realms at War product line.]

I’m posting it in lieu of a Delfii snippet is a December gift to y’all, but also to me and my family in what seems to be, Lord willing, our last move-in / catch-up week. The mountains surrounding our little holler aren’t as tall as Len’s northern Fangs, or as forbidding as Hasuu’s southern hills, but they remind me a bit of both. They’re also the inspiration for one of the countries featuring later in the Westsong Cycle.

It’s set in the time period when the folk of the Vaporous Realms dealt with the aftermath of what Egwae got herself caught up in, post-Len, as the “Watchers” story revealed. If you’ve read “Watchers,” see if you can guess which character in the story below is the link. (We’re definitely in Blurry Creatures territory now. And not just because my new hometown looks like woodbooger country.) Though I consider Hasuu a Westsong character, this particular story finds him in the same region where the Dustsong Cycle took place—centuries after Len.