All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. 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 or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact; prometheuscycle.blogspot.com
Book and Cover design by Silas A. DeBoer
ISBN: 9781311414069
First Edition: July 2014
A Note from the Author
This short story is one of several that precedes the novel "The Prometheus Cycle, Volume I " giving readers a chance to learn the back stories of side characters and to build awareness of this finished novel. As such, these short stories are free, and I hope you build enough of an emotional connection to the characters and the world to buy the novel itself.
While this short story is part of the Prometheus Cycle world, the location is beyond the "Bleak East" which is not touched upon in the novel other than in dreaded rumor. This short story came to me in a dream, a very vivid dream, and deals with the nature of rationalism and prophecy.
"The Gods' Own Voice" is meant to intrigue readers about the eldritch knight order that Danae Celes belonged to before the High King went missing in the history of "The Prometheus Cycle: The Sword, the Star, and the Mirror."
You can learn more about this novel and supporting short stories at prometheuscycle.blogspot.com
"Every theory is a self-fulfilling prophecy that orders experience into the framework it provides."
~Ruth Hubbard
A haggard figure fell from the dunes, a dusty white shawl unwinding as the thin figure splayed hands in a vain attempt to regain control of a descent ordained by sun, heat, and thirst. The gnarled walking staff continued to slide through the baking sand after the figure came to a stop, breathing raggedly, the bright orange sun beating down like the furnace of the gods, a hammer of molten metal with the waste an unforgiving anvil. The blue of the sky was complete, without the shadow of cloud to give respite. The air was dry and hot as an oven, the horizon wavering and dancing to any lonely eye.
Heek-heek-heek! The sound broke the silence from afar, three short notes. Heek-heek-heek! The figure dazedly opened a dirty eyelid, the eye a mass of swollen red spider webs with a pinprick pupil amid an emerald iris. The eye rolled slightly but firmed as it searched the sky. Raw red skin peeled in an unending slough from the figure's nose and cheeks, and dried blood flecked lips wizened from the waste. There, flying in a lazy circle, a single black and white avian lazily called down. Heek-heek... Heek-heek-heek!
The figure pulled weakly at the long scarf, made of a similar material as the loose fitting multi-layered off-white robe cinched by a simple silken cord about its waist. Rags wrapped the figure's feet shod in sandals laced to the knee, and every part of the figure's body was clothed in the same off-white linen, light and airy, but stained from travel.
The avian lazily circled overhead as the figure slowly rewound the scarf around its head, hiding short black curls plastered to a scalp slick with sweat. The gull landed lightly between the figure and the gnarled walking staff, bobbing its head forward as it walked forward on sticklike feet. The sound of waves on the beach drew the figure's attention, and the gull's beady black eyes glanced into the wanderer's motley colored ones, cerulean and emerald. It was a moment, but it was enough. The gull cocked its head and stilled its call. The figure stood still, its hands resting on its knees and its head bent.
The gull took to wing and rose upon the thermals of the afternoon desert, rising higher and higher in long loops before loosening like an arrow across the remaining dunes toward the saltwater shore and the dozen fisherman plying the coast in small pontoon boats with triangular sails.
The figure released its hold on the gull. With a sigh the wanderer groped forward towards the gnarled walking staff. It seemed a piece of driftwood, thick on top and shod with bronze at the bottom. At the staff's crest was a single bronze band lined in Ishtarian script as small as a grain of sand. With a great effort, the wanderer pulled itself to its knees, resting a moment before lurching to its feet, swaying until the staff formed the third leg of a tripod. Slowly, deliberately, the wanderer pushed forward toward the sound of waves and boatmen casting nets.