"The Song of the Soul" Prologue

A sneak peak at the prologue of Hamish's book: "The Sound of the Soul".

Sand. As far as the eye could see. Sand and scorching heat. Fathom d’Sol stood, looking out at the barren wasteland as a Rakosian soldier cut off his rope bindings. This was his fate now, the sand. The constant drumming and screeching of the harsh desert winds against one’s face. The inescapable and indescribable pulse. He and the three soldiers were standing above one of the many massive craters of the land which disturbed the rolling desert waves of sand.

‘Good riddance,’ grumbled the soldier, as he shoved Fathom forwards, hitting him with the pommel of his khopesh sword. The second soldier spat on him and sniggered.

‘You’re lucky you didn’t get worse,’ the first soldier said. 

What worse could there be, thought Fathom, grumbling as he sat up, his fingers clenching into the sand. Exile into the Desertations was a death sentence in itself. If he was not hit by debris in the first sandstorm, he would not long later die of thirst. If by any change he avoided that; he would get kidnapped by the mysterious Desert Raiders or be pummelled to death by a Belshi. Banishment was certain doom.

Yet Fathom knew he could easily take both the soldiers down in an instant and stop his banishment if he desired, for he was blessed by Kor — as much as the Rakosian An Ri tried to deny it. He was called heretical, a dissident. But no, Kor for sure favoured Fathom as Fathom possessed the Art of Miracles. The An Ri said there was no such thing. He said that unless you were a Priest, to claim to hold powers given to a human by a god was more than sacrilegious, but an evil act in it self. Nonetheless Fathom had the Art. And it had come directly from Kor himself, it must have! So if it meant banishment, Fathom would take it, for surely if he had the Art from a god, that god would watch over him. This was his destiny, thus there was no need for him to fight back. When the Emperor of Rakos Irisi had declared that Fathom be taken into exile under punishment of death, Fathom simply conceded. He concluded that he must go where fate took him. And now he stood, free in an ironic way, to go where he chose. Fathom would not wander the desert aimlessly, he already knew where he was to go. Kor had shown him the way. As soon as the soldiers let him loose he was going to head straight for Mount Arakor to the north. You see Fathom wasn’t alone. There was another, another man that Fathom could not speak of, a man inside the city of Sakaros itself that was guiding him. The man had told him that he had a very important mission. A mission which he was to undertake at Mount Arakor. When Fathom’s ordeal of banishment arose, the insider thought it the perfect opportunity to get him out of Rakos and onto his mission discreetly. Well, not that banishment was discrete in itself, it did however provide Fathom an exit from Sakaros without hint of being aided by anyone inside. However the challenge ahead of Fathom now was reaching his destination. After all, nobody would even begin to expect anything if they assumed him dead. However, getting to where Fathom needed to undertake his mission first meant crossing the entirety of one of the three Desertations: Akrius. The harshest of the three. His situation was made even worse by the fact that the land was running short of water. And for Fathom, water was what he needed most — and not just for drinking.

‘We made bets,’ said the second soldier, ‘on how long you would last out here.’

The first soldier let out a laugh.

‘The An Ri said in his address you would be dead meat on the first night! But don’t worry I, rather ironically, have a little more faith than him. I betted on the morrow.’

‘Well, you can tell the An Ri he can go take a jump off the Crater wall,’ said Fathom coldly, getting to his feet in a splutter of coughs. The second soldier frowned.

‘Why you… how dare you?’ the soldier raised his sword, a look of anger and exasperation on his face. 

Maybe Fathom would fight after all. 

Before any of the two soldiers could react, Fathom jumped to his feet, spinning as fast as a twister in a sandstorm. He landed, his foot impacting into the chest of the first soldier, taking him to the ground. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Fathom said quietly, closing his eyes to concentrate. He raised his arm, the air distorting around it, convoluting like a wave of heat, like a mirage. The sand around him started moving about him in a circular motion, and drops of water began to appear, swirling about. The water mixed with the sand and spun around him, it was attracted to him. Fathom did not know how his magic worked precisely. He did know that it involved using his water — he presumed that water being involved was why he was weaker in the middle of the desert. Water was Holy, it gave people life. Yet for those who had been blessed with the Art of Miracles, those few, Kor granted them another use for Water. It provided Miracles. This was the true use for water. Fathom knew that Kor had blessed him, he had the ability to unlock the powers hidden in the Holy Water. Yet as with any form of magic, it could at times be a curse. The more Miracles he performed the more water he used and consequently; the dryer his own body became. And in a Desertation, water was the most valuable and hard to come by resource there was. Yet whilst saying this, Fathom did not know the exact science of it all. He did not understand why he could interact with gravity, why he could give life to the dead, nor why he could do any of the other miracles he did. Fathom’s master had told him it had something to do with the fundamental building blocks of the universe that made up everything: the Fragments. Fragments contained the spirit of Kor, something that Kor allowed those blessed with the Art of Miracles to interact with and distort to their will. Fathom understood that there was more to it than that — but after all why should Fathom care? It was magic, and magic was something to be kept a mystery to the likes of mankind. Fathom considered himself quite intelligent, but he was no scholar. He simply had special tools given to him and it was his job to use them. And now, he was being forced to use them in self defence. 

Around Fathom more and more sand and water started swirling, this told Fathom that his Art of Miracles was in action. It was an explicit warning against all those who opposed him. Fathom flicked his hand, and the man on the ground started flying backwards, moving towards the top edge crater wall where there existed an immense drop to the crater floor below. With the man flying through the air directly towards the horizon was more sand that twirled and spun around his body in a way Fathom thought to be most beautiful. The soldier kept moving and in the process screaming at the top of his lungs. Fathom released him from his grasp and the man stopped mid air. The soldier then changed direction as gravity took hold, and he began to plummet down to the surface of the crater at least three thousand feet below. The other solider, sword held firmly in his grip, paused. That moment of indecision on his part caused his death. Fathom flew through the air, sand naturally surrounding him. Once again he bent the very natural laws of the universe itself. The soldier raised his sword, swinging towards Fathom. Fathom fell just before the soldier, his arm moving in an upwards motion and grabbing the arm of the soldier that held his sword. The air began to distort once more and Fathom — still holding the arm — spun in a complete circle so he was now standing behind the man. The arm snapped, breaking, and the soldier roared with pain. Fathom held his arm around the neck with his left hand. With his right he bent down, picking up the soldier’s sword which had fell to the ground. He didn’t need any Miracle to rid the world of scum such as the Rakos soldier. He just needed a good old fashioned blade. Just like that, Fathom rammed the sword directly between the soldiers ribs. The soldier let out a grunt, and fell straight to the ground into a pool of crimson blood. Fathom turned away from the now dead body, and looked up back towards the horizon. Taking the edge of his tattered cloak he wiped the sword’s blade clean.

From Fathom’s slightly elevated position at the edge of the Rakos Crater, he could clearly see the vast expanse of the Akrius Desertation. Continuous rolling hills of sands, like the crashing waves of an ocean. It seemed to go on for eternity, the only thing halting its movement was the ominous looming two peaks to the north, far off into the distance. Mount Arakor. This was where Fathom was headed. Most people with any sense avoided a place such as Mount Arakor. One quickly learned in the Desertations that shelters that were not the open vast craters were generally home to the more unsavoury sort of folk, Arakor was not different. It was a home to thieves, murders, rapists and any other sort of criminal you could think of. All of these men (and yes, sometimes women and children) who took shelter under the mount was under the very dubious jurisdiction of a man called Tawkhet, which meant “arrow head”. Tawkhet was man who by many was mystified. He was seen to have an iron rule, and even possess the Art of Sorcery. Fathom, naturally, knew better. Tawkhet was just a lazy, greedy man who through his many manipulations created a name for himself as something more. He wasn’t dangerous at all… in fact the only reason his even biggest underlings were loyal was his extensive bribes. 

Fathom, tying the fallen soldier’s sword to his belt, began to move. It would be a long trek to Arakor, and he and his master were on a deadline. So Fathom, after taking one look back to Rakos Crater, wrapped his dark scarf around his face and head, then proceed to venture into the harsh desert before him.