Chaos and Retribution Box Set Read online

  Chaos and Retribution

  Stone Bound: Book One

  Sky Touched: Book Two

  Sea Born: Book Three

  Chaos Trapped: Book Four

  Shadow Hunted: Book Five

  Power Forged: Book Six

  Chaos and Retribution is the sequel to

  Immortality and Chaos

  Wreckers Gate: Book One

  Landsend Plateau: Book Two

  Guardians Watch: Book Three

  Hunger’s Reach: Book Four

  Oblivion’s Grasp: Book Five

  Also by Eric T Knight

  the action-adventure series

  Lone Wolf Howls

  the action thriller

  Watching the End of the World

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  For Stormy,

  Who was so instrumental in getting me

  to pick up the pen once again. Thank you.

  STONE BOUND

  Book One of

  Chaos and Retribution

  by

  Eric T Knight

  Copyright © 2019 by Eric T Knight

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Prologue: Fen

  The man stumbled unseeing down the cobblestone street. The pains were worse today, the worst they’d ever been. Every step was agony. His bones were on fire. His joints felt like they were full of glass. His greatest fear was not that he would die—he’d long since accepted the inevitability of that—but that he would not be able to make it home. If he was going to die today, he wanted only to see his wife and son one last time.

  The buildings on this street were built of stone, four or more stories tall and jammed tightly together. This late in the day the street was completely in the shade. Horse-drawn carts moved down the middle of the street. Along the edges hurried people on foot, none of them paying any attention to the man. To the casual observer he was merely another drunk, and drunks were not uncommon in this part of the city.

  A new wave of pain hit the man, and he staggered, bumping into a woman who was carrying a large basket filled with loaves of bread. “Watch where you’re going!” she snapped at him.

  Falling, the man instinctively put out his hand to catch himself. When his hand made contact with the side of the building there was a loud cracking sound, and the stone split suddenly. The concussion knocked the man back, and he fell down.

  The woman looked from the crack in the wall to the man, and her eyes widened. She gripped the basket tighter and hurried away. Other passersby noticed him for the first time, and began veering around the man, careful to stay out of his reach. It had been years since the red plague last struck the city of Samkara, but people remembered it readily enough. The sweating, wild-eyed man lying on the ground could be infected with it.

  The man crawled to the side of the street. The skin on his hand where he’d touched the wall was slate-gray, and when he tried to flex his fingers they were stiff, and he could barely curl them.

  The changes were accelerating.

  He had to get home.

  Careful to avoid touching the ground or the wall with his bare skin, he climbed to his feet. Heedless of those around him, he began half-running, half-staggering down the street. People cursed at him as he bumped into them, and when he cut across the street to turn down a smaller one he was almost hit by a wagon drawn by a team of horses, the driver snapping his whip near his face.

  The smaller street had less traffic and the man made it all the way to his building without running into anyone else. This street was poorer than the one he’d left, narrow and lined with wooden tenements. Gone were the cobblestones, replaced by rutted dirt and garbage.

  The man tried to open the door of the building he lived in with his right hand, the one he’d touched the stone wall with, but he couldn’t get his fingers to move at all now, and he had to give up and use the other hand. He stumbled through the door, not bothering to close it behind him. He dragged himself up two flights of stairs, every step fresh agony.

  He reached the door of his home, made it through, and collapsed on the floor.

  His wife gave a little cry, dropped her sewing, and hurried to him. Taking his arm, she helped him to his feet and over to the room’s sole bed.

  Sitting on the floor by the iron cook stove was a small boy, only a few years old, playing with some broken pieces of colored tile. He stared up at his parents with wide eyes, old enough to know something was wrong, but too young to understand what it was.

  Not that his parents understood it either. In the months since the strange pains started, they’d gone to every healer and priest they could afford, trying to find out what was wrong, and none of them had any answers.

  “I knew you shouldn’t have tried to go to work,” she told him, gently stroking his forehead.

  “It’s…it’s happening faster,” he gasped and held up his right hand.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at his hand. She touched it gingerly. “How did it happen?”

  “I touched a stone wall. The stone split.” A spasm of pain hit him, and he winced. When it had passed he looked up at her, and what she saw in his eyes made her gasp.

  “Your eyes,” she said. “They’re red, like a fire burns in them.”

  “What’s happening to me?” he moaned, closing his eyes.

  She hesitated only a moment before wrapping him in her arms and holding him close.

  “I’m losing the feeling in my arm,” he said. He pushed his sleeve up, and she saw that his forearm was streaked with gray. Even more unusual—she bent closer to get a better look—there seemed to be chips of stone embedded in his flesh.

  He went rigid suddenly, and his head arched back. His mouth stretched open, so wide that his jaw popped. For a long moment he froze like this, more a statue than a man, then shivers began running up and down his limbs. His eyes rolled back in his head and spittle drained from his mouth.

  He began thrashing violently. She tried to hold him still, but the seizure was too strong for her. He bucked, and she was thrown off the bed onto the floor. She got back up and went to him, but there was nothing she could do.

  Then the building began to shudder, as if it were caught in an earthquake. She pitched sideways and almost fell down. A small crack appeared in the ceiling and plaster dust sifted down. The little boy wailed and crawled over to his mother, wrapping his little arms around her leg.

  His seizure ended, and a few moments later the earthquake stopped as well. She looked at her husband, and what she saw made her scream.

  He was lying on his back, unmoving, his eyes wide and staring. His eyes glowed like lava. His skin had turned completely gray. All of his hair had fallen out.

  At first, she was sure he was dead, and she stood there, one hand over her mouth, frozen by fear and grief. Then, slowly, his head turned. Gray flakes chipped and broke off his neck as he did so. The molten eyes fixed on her.

  “Please...” His voice grated like stone sliding over stone. More flakes broke off around his mouth and fell to the blanket he lay on.

  Her paralysis broke, and she hurried to him. Her hands hovered over him for a moment as she wrestled with her fear, but love won out, and she placed them on his cheeks. His face was cold and lifeless.

  “Oh, my love,” she moaned.

  “Hold Fen up,” he said in his broken voice. “I want to see him…one more time
.”

  Tears pouring down her cheeks, she lifted the small boy and set him next to his father on the bed. Fen showed no fear, only curiosity as he leaned forward and touched his father’s face.

  His father tried to touch him, but his arm froze in place halfway. A last tremor shook him.

  The fire in his eyes faded and went out.

  Prologue: Karliss

  The wind was crazy the day the baby was born. It shrieked around the hide yurt where the expectant mother lay, attended by Spotted Elk Clan’s midwife and two other women. It scratched and clawed like a wild thing trying to get in, tearing at the flap, trying to get under the edge of the yurt and send it flying across the high steppes where the Sertithian people lived their nomadic lives.

  But the Sertithians were familiar with the ways of the wind, and the yurt was strongly constructed and tightly staked down, so it stayed intact and in place, though the hide it was made of thrummed and vibrated steadily.

  “It will be over soon,” the midwife said, as one of the other women bathed the expectant mother’s forehead with a damp cloth. “One more long push should do it.” The yurt was lit by a pair of oil-burning clay lamps. There were two small wicker baskets containing clothes and another filled with tools and sewing implements. A sheathed sword leaned against the wall of the yurt, along with an unstrung bow and a quiver of arrows.

  “For months this child has fought and kicked, as though he could not bear his captivity another moment. Now the time comes, and he won’t budge. Will he always be this difficult?” The expectant mother spoke in a light tone, but her face was pale with pain. The furs she lay on were wet with her sweat. She was a young woman, and this was her second child, but she had been half a day trying to deliver the child already.

  “Just breathe, Munkhe,” the midwife said. “It will all be over soon.”

  “The tlacti told me it would be a son,” Munkhe said. The tlacti was the clan’s shaman. “He said the wind told him so.” The other women already knew this. Such things became common knowledge quickly in such a tightly-knit community. They also knew she spoke to take her mind off the pain.

  “If Ihbarha said it will be a boy, then it will be a boy,” the midwife replied calmly.

  Munkhe grimaced as another contraction came on. She gritted her teeth and pushed.

  “I can see the top of his head,” the midwife said. As if to punctuate her words a fresh gust of wind shook the yurt.

  “The wind is also anxious for your child to be born,” the fourth woman in the yurt said. Henta was elderly, with a severe expression and a downturned mouth that said she rarely smiled. “Perhaps this means he will be touched by it.”

  “Pray to the four winds it is so,” Munkhe said through gritted teeth. She wasn’t sure she wanted her son to be the next tlacti, but Ihbarha was old. It was past time for a wind-touched child to be born to the Spotted Elk Clan.

  “One more push and it will all be over,” the midwife said.

  Munkhe’s back arched as she gave another, mighty push. A cry came from her as the pain increased, but she did not let up, and a few moments later the baby slid forth into the world.

  At that same instant a new shriek arose from the wind as it buffeted the yurt. The wooden pins holding the door flap closed snapped under the strain, and the flap blew open.

  The wind raced into the yurt like a wild animal, whining in its eagerness. It seemed to focus on the child, whirling around it with such strength that for a moment the midwife feared it would be snatched from her, and she clutched it tightly to her breast. The other women cried out, and Henta made a sign against evil.

  Then, as fast as it appeared, the wind was gone. The women stared at each other, shaken and confused.

  “Never have I seen such a thing,” Henta said.

  “My baby!” Munkhe cried, struggling to sit up and see. “How is my baby?”

  The midwife brushed the baby’s mouth and nose clear. “He is healthy.”

  “It’s a boy?” Munkhe asked.

  But the midwife didn’t answer right away. She was looking at the baby, a strange expression on her face.

  The other women bent close. “Most peculiar,” Henta said.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Munkhe said, fighting against the furs which seemed determined to tangle and restrain her. “Is something wrong with him?”

  “It’s nothing,” the midwife said soothingly. “Help her sit up,” she told the others, and when they had done so she handed Munkhe her child.

  “Oh,” Munkhe said. “I see.”

  The baby’s eyes were wide open, which was unusual by itself. But even more startling was the color of those eyes. They were the blue of a summer sky, and blue eyes were extremely rare amongst the Sertithians.

  Not only were the baby boy’s eyes wide open, but he had a huge smile on his face. He looked like he was laughing at some secret jest.

  “I think it is time to fetch the tlacti,” the midwife said, and the younger of the two women bustled out of the yurt to summon him.

  “So long as he is healthy. That is all that matters,” Munkhe said stoutly. The midwife and Henta nodded their agreement, but neither of them spoke. Munkhe looked from them to her baby and clutched him close, murmuring to him.

  When the tlacti arrived, he swept into the yurt without a word or look for any of them. The furs Ihbarha was dressed in were old and ratty. He had a piece of felt wrapped around his head like a turban. On each cheek was tattooed an arcane symbol. His white hair was long and twisted into twin braids, into which were tied a number of small bones, colorful stones, and clay discs. Around his neck, on a leather thong, hung his krysala, the relic he used to summon and control the spirits in the wind.

  He went straight to the baby and took him from Munkhe’s arms, who gave him up without complaint. He held the baby up and closed his eyes. After a time, he lowered the child and pressed his ear to the baby’s chest. He listened, then raised his head.

  “He’s touched by the wind, isn’t he?” Henta said. She tried to keep the unhappiness out of her voice but didn’t quite succeed.

  The old shaman shook his head. He looked down at the tiny infant, his creased and weathered face betraying his awe and surprise.

  “The wind has not marked him. The wind has made its home inside him.”

  Prologue: Aislin

  Netra was in her cottage, bundling herbs for drying, when she heard the cries of alarm. At first, she thought someone had been injured, perhaps one of the workers in the quarry in the hills outside the village where she lived. If that was the case, they would be coming to her, carrying the wounded man to the village’s healer. In her mind she was already preparing, mentally reviewing her inventory of bandages, needles, catgut and so on.

  But she quickly realized she was wrong. This was no injury. There would be no bleeding patient hustled into her cottage by concerned friends. The cries of alarm were not drawing closer, but they were spreading.

  Perplexed, she put down the herbs, crossed the room, and opened the door. It was not long after dawn, and the sun had not yet broken through the thick clouds that had rolled in from the sea overnight. A brisk wind whipped her simple cotton dress about her ankles and tugged at her long braid. In the air she could feel the rain that would likely come later in the day.

  Her cottage stood on the outskirts of a small village. It was a quiet place, far removed from the excitement and activity of Qarath, the nearest city. A place where the most that ever happened was an occasional injury and the usual ailments that people suffered from. Which made it perfect for Netra. After all that she’d already been through in her life, the last thing she wanted was more excitement.

  Her cottage was on the landward side of a small hill, where it got partial protection from the winds that blew in off the sea, so when she looked down into the village, all she saw at first was people milling around, talking and exclaiming loudly to each other. Then she realized that all of them were turned toward the sea, and a number were pointing. r />
  She hesitated, wondering if she should bring her bag filled with healing herbs, ointments and salves, then decided not to. It didn’t sound like anyone was hurt, and she could always send someone running to fetch it if she needed it.

  She headed down the path toward the village and as it wound around the hillside, she saw for the first time what had everyone so excited.

  Just offshore was an island.

  An island where there had never been one before.

  Besides the impossibility of an island simply appearing out of nowhere, there was something clearly unusual about it. It had a yellowish hue to it, and the plants that grew on its surface were of a variety and vibrancy of colors not seen anywhere on land.

  Netra stopped, struck by the appearance of this creature she’d thought never to see again.

  For this thing that appeared to be an island was actually a living creature.

  She hurried down the hill, her heart filled with foreboding. The appearance of ki’Loren, and the Lementh’kal who lived within it, could not but bode ill. Something bad was happening or was about to happen. There was no other reason for ki’Loren to be here.

  She didn’t want to know why the Lementh’kal had come. She wanted to go back into her cottage, close the door, and bury herself in her work. She’d been through enough in her life. She’d earned the right to peace and tranquility.

  But at the same time, she knew that she could not avoid this. Whatever it was, it would have to be faced head on.

  By the time she got down the hill, every villager was standing on the beach, staring up in awe at the island, which was the height of a large hill. A few of them had seen the floating island before, during the war, when it had saved their lives. The rest knew of it only through stories. More than one dark look was thrown Netra’s way as she passed through their midst. They did not know what, exactly, their healer’s role had been during the war, and Netra never talked about it, but they knew she had played an instrumental part in it. If ki’Loren was showing up here, disturbing their quiet lives, it must have something to do with her.