Bastian Everly's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Bastian Everly stood on a crate in the market and shouted for men to follow him. He was the son of a war god, and he wanted a warband of his own. A warband would win him a seat among the gods who laughed at him. But he was fifteen and thin as a fence post, and the only weapon he owned was a plain wooden spear worn smooth by his hands. A butcher looked him over and snorted. "A general in rags," the man said. "Where's your armor, boy? Where's your blade?" The crowd laughed. Someone threw a rotten turnip. It struck Bastian's shoulder and burst. He did not step down, but no one stepped forward either. His father's blood meant nothing to men who saw a beggar with a stick. Bastian climbed down and walked until the streets ended. He had heard mortals whisper of a goddess who lived past the fields. He crossed rows of dead wheat and reached a white house with gold on its doors. Pale flowers glowed near the steps like small moons. He knew he was not allowed inside. He knocked anyway. The door opened. Maren Solke stood there, the goddess of every season and every harvest. One of her hands bloomed with tiny spring flowers. The other was black to the elbow, rotted like a corpse. She looked at his ruined shoulder and his worn spear, and she did not laugh. "You're the war god's boy," she said. "The one the others mock." "I need men," Bastian said. "They won't follow a spear like mine." Maren stepped onto the porch. "A weapon is a seed," she said. "Mine grow both ways." She wrapped her blooming hand around his spear shaft. Green shoots crawled up the wood. Then she gripped it with her black hand. The shoots hardened, darkened, and turned to something like iron threaded with silver veins. The plain wood became a spear that caught the light and held it. Bastian's breath stopped. The weapon felt alive and heavy with purpose. "Why help me?" he asked. "Because the gods laughed at me too, once." She let go. Her black hand had spread wider up her arm now, past the elbow. Feeding the spear had cost her something. "Carry it into the market. Men follow what looks chosen." He returned before dusk. He raised the spear on the same crate, and the silver veins burned in the low sun. The butcher fell silent. This time no one threw anything. Three young men pushed to the front and asked his name. By dark, nine had sworn to march with him. But a boy with a godly weapon draws godly eyes. That night, standing over his new followers in an old stone barracks, Bastian felt the air turn cold. Something watched him from the dark rafters. His father, or worse, had finally noticed the son who refused to stay a joke.