Embrace of the Medusi (The Overlords Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  So, what is EMBRACE OF THE MEDUSI?

  Also by Toby Andersen

  SUPPORT

  Embrace of the Medusi

  Part One

  Prologue - The Trelki Hunt

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Three

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Part Five

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty One

  Part Six

  Chapter Forty Two

  Chapter Forty Three

  Chapter Forty Four

  Chapter Forty Five

  Chapter Forty Six

  Chapter Forty Seven

  Epilogue

  The End

  AFTERWORD,

  Also by Toby Andersen

  Extras

  Velella’s Prophecy

  An Arceth Bestiary - Volume I

  An Arceth Bestiary - Volume II

  Dramatis personae

  Notes on naming conventions, pronunciation and punctuation

  Acknowledgements

  If you are still here...

  So, what is EMBRACE OF THE MEDUSI?

  An Epic Fantasy Horror novel, Game of Thrones meets Alien.

  Action and adventure, intrigue and treachery, all the things you expect.

  But there’s also enormous Medusi creatures…

  …and humanity’s going to have to fight them.

  FROM THE BACK

  FOR A THOUSAND YEARS, TERRIFYING MEDUSI HAVE ROAMED THE LANDS OF ARCETH, THRALLING AND ENSLAVING HUMANKIND, USING US AS HOSTS FOR THEIR YOUNG.

  With the Order of the Medousa revealed, the great Queen of Darkness, Noctiluca, descends upon Theris intent on a thousand years of rule. But the city isn’t her only goal. Her ambitions have turned to Argentor, the next scene of carnage in her bid to thrall the world under the yoke of the Medusi.

  Aurelia Nectris, Empress with no Empire, arrives in Argentor a refugee seeking an army to take back her enslaved city. But under its beautiful façade, Argentor is a writhing nest of intrigue and back-stabbing politics. She will find enemies aplenty, but maybe she can twist them into allies instead?

  Young warrior Totelun, languishing in a Theris jail awaiting torture, hears of a new route back to the Floating Islands from the top of the cloud-touching mountain Cartracia. He must escape, but he needs help. Fortuitous then that his mentor, the ancient nomad Nausithorn is inside the city, unwilling to abandon him to his fate.

  Also by Toby Andersen

  The Overlords Trilogy

  and related content

  Thrall of the Medusi (1)

  Embrace of the Medusi (2)

  Spawn of the Medusi (3) – coming 2020

  The Trelki Hunt (Short Story)

  previously a member exclusive prequel short story

  included as Prologue in this copy of Embrace of the Medusi

  An Arceth Bestiary

  Volume I & II at the back of this book

  SUPPORT

  The best thing you can give an indie author like me is your support.

  JOIN THE READERS CLUB

  And you’ll get notifications and access to my stories before anyone else.

  Members can download the Totelun short story prequel

  – The Trelki Hunt –

  right now, completely free.

  Please note this short story is included in this copy of Embrace of the Medusi.

  Why not review Embrace of the Medusi on Amazon

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  And if you are just browsing the sample, what are you waiting for? The novel starts below.

  Part One

  The Trelki Hunt

  Four Years Previous

  Totelun gazed wistfully across the rolling Cloudsea, lit golden and splendid in the early afternoon, and worried that his father would never return. Sat on the edge of Malent, his home isle, legs dangling over the side and kicking at the reaching fingers of vapour, he watched the flurries of cloud caught in gusts of playful wind. The Cloudsea was calm today, a flat fluffy expanse for miles upon miles in every direction, a far cry from the destructive treacherous miasma it could become when powerful storm winds took hold. Now and again a break would appear in the cloud and Totelun would receive a glimpse of the abyss that opened up below him. From birth he’d been regaled by his uncle’s stories, shamanic legends of the tribes that told of what lay in wait below the Cloudsea for the careless and stupid.

  If you fell, you fell forever.

  Those were his uncle’s words.

  It was a kind of never-death you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemies. The rivers, forests, seas and mountains he could see through the clouds were a lie put there by the creator spirit Anatesh to stop the people of the tribes going insane staring into the void.

  The calm nature of the Cloudsea countered Totelun’s anxiety. His father Altan, had been away for weeks now and Totelun awaited his return with a mixture of trepidation and impatience. Excitement too of course, he wanted to see his father after all, hear his usually brusque tales of the Great Hunt, but he also found he was angry. He felt abandoned.

  Totelun Altanji was twelve, nearly a man grown. Well, maybe some years away from a man grown, if he was honest, but the eldest of his brothers and by Anatesh he should have been taken on the hunt with his father. It was the right thing. It was not only right, it was expected. Other boys his age had left the island with their fathers and uncles, even their grandfather’s, yet Totelun had been forced to remain. He’d made a point of not waving when Altan and the tribe had mounted the huge Thunwing creatures and taken off into the Cloudsea on their epic hunt for the Medusi Celestials. He’d folded his arms and turned his face away. A dignified manly protest.

  This had lasted three weeks.

  Totelun had settled in to wait, nursing his festering wound. When father returns, I will not greet him, he thought, I will turn away. He resolved to make it clear what he thought without words.

  Totelun was adept at sullen silences.

  He was his father’s son after all.

  It was late evening when Totelun returned to the homestead, a large sunken A-frame building built to resist the strongest storms and deter the island’s many predators. The fires were lit despite the hour and his family were still awake. He drew aside the furs across the entrance and found his brothers, Bayar just eight summers, and Naran
only six, crowding round their father Altan. The man was huge; even a few weeks away made that apparent again to his children. His normally short dark beard had grown unkempt. He had a great cylindrical crystal in his hands, its base translucent but rigid like cartilage; it glowed with a murky golden light. Spiky sections jutted out at odd angles, and Naran yelped in mock pain when he poked the point of one.

  ‘This is the Heart of the Celestial,’ Altan said in a booming voice, indulging his sons. ‘Every man it kills, every victim, it draws their life force up its tentacles, and in from its mouthparts and feeds this crystal, making it grow magnificent.’ His father never said more than a few sentences at a time, but just after a hunt was when he was his most generous with his words.

  ‘It kills people?’ asked Naran.

  ‘Of course,’ said Bayar, like it was obvious.

  Totelun’s mother Sedara also welcomed her husband home. A strong sturdy woman, with long dark braided hair, she embraced him and smiled at her son’s excitement.

  ‘It does,’ agreed Altan, turning back to the boys, ‘and other animals and creatures too. Thunwings for example. If it can catch them.’

  ‘But not anymore,’ said Bayar.

  ‘We must keep their numbers down, or we may be overrun by them. Every few years, we embark on the Great Hunt, and we show the Celestials that we are the most dangerous tribe in all the islands. We are not to be taken lightly.’ It was no small accomplishment; the Celestial was a Medusi some two hundred feet across, with hundreds of tentacles that could sting a man to death. They rode the Cloudsea like its haunting guardians.

  ‘And we take its heart!’ said Naran aggressively.

  ‘Yes, we keep the village and the islands safe for another few years. We give the heart to the shamans who use it in their magics.’

  At that moment, Altan noticed his eldest son standing by the door. He stood, leaving the crystal in the cushions.

  ‘My son,’ he said, ‘I have returned. I relieve you of the burden I left upon your young shoulders. This household is my responsibility again.’ He brought a large palm to Totelun’s cheek, tilted the boy’s face up. Totelun kept his eyes downcast. ‘What is wrong, Totelun?’

  Totelun didn’t answer.

  ‘Speak to me.’

  He glanced up, met his father’s eyes.

  ‘You did not take me with you, yet I am of age.’ He shrugged out of his father’s grasp and backed away. He was annoyed that he had crumbled and spoken, but proud also; he’d explained what he felt without becoming angry or upset like the child he tried so hard to leave behind. He could feel himself breathing heavily, but slowly.

  Altan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am your father. You will respect the decisions I make.’

  Totelun said nothing, not trusting himself.

  ‘You were not ready,’ Altan added.

  ‘I’m old enough to take the trial, but you held me back,’ Totelun said, feeling his voice rise. It would not do to shout at his father, man grown or not. The punishment for a man was far more severe than that for a child. ‘You have embarrassed me. Made me look weak in front of the rest of the tribe.’

  ‘I’m protecting you.’ Altan’s voice was also rising, but Totelun could feel his anger getting ahead of him.

  ‘I don’t need your protection,’ he spat. ‘I-’

  Altan slapped him round the mouth, his large calloused palm knocking a surprised Totelun to the floor. He tasted blood on his lip. Halfway to a man at least; that was more than a child should expect, but Altan would never have struck another man without warning. He scowled at his father.

  ‘You will speak to me with respect in this house.’ Altan turned away.

  Totelun glanced at his family witnessing his humiliation. Bayar and Naran stood slack-jawed in the recessed bedding alcove, crystal forgotten between them as they watched. Sedara stood just aside of her husband, caught between extending a hand to gentle him, and fearing his reaction.

  Totelun would not involve her, he would not cower to his mother’s skirts. I must react like an adult, he realised. It was the only way. He could not cry. He could only fight back and receive worse, or leave.

  His eyes burning, glowering at his father, he turned and walked back out into the evening.

  *

  They did not speak again for three days. Totelun had been released of his responsibility to the household, and had relieved himself of its canvas shelter; he set himself up in plain view by the recessed fire pit just a stone’s throw away. His father could not leave the homestead without seeing his son sitting staring at him every day.

  The weather was kind to Totelun for those three days; warm at noon when the birds called and flocked, and mild at night when only the fireflies kept him company. Sedara brought him a blanket when Altan was out of sight, but Totelun didn’t wear it; he didn’t want his father to suspect he might have come inside, nor did he want his mother to take the brunt of any punishment by association. She also brought him food, the leftovers of cornbread and goat’s meat she had made deliberately and hidden. Altan would have asked her not to prepare food for him, to let the boy grow hungry, until he is forced to apologise.

  Naran and Bayar caught his eyes as the left and returned to the shelter when doing their chores, farming the small pieces of land around the homestead, but beyond that they knew better than to approach him. They would find themselves sitting beside him if they crossed their father, and Totelun did not begrudge them the warm comfort of the home; they really were children and still some years from making decisions like he had.

  On the second day his father stood and glared at him for ten minutes around dawn. But Totelun knew he was winning when his father gave a great grunting sigh as he dismissed him for the day. Totelun knew he was all his father was thinking about now. Not the imminent arrival of the Shamans, come to collect the great Medusi crystal, nor the food he would have to share and the feast Sedara would need to prepare. He would make ready for these things, but his mind would be on his stubborn son, sitting beside the fire pit.

  Dawn of the fourth day and Totelun woke when he heard footsteps approaching. Altan stood over him dressed in furs and armed for a hunt. He threw down Totelun’s hunting gear – his half-size bow and leather boots – then produced a small paper note and handed it to Totelun, grunting as he did so and folding his arms.

  Totelun took the paper, seeing the official seal and the old characters of a Shaman’s writing.

  ‘Read it,’ Altan said. ‘Aloud.’

  Altan couldn’t read. In the last decade, the Shamans had taken to educating all young children across the different island tribes in the ancient writings that they used. This would go on for a few short years of the child’s life. Any that proved to have a particular aptitude or calling to the Shamana could continue, but most, like Totelun and his brothers, went back to hunting, or farming, or their family’s chosen profession. Almost accidentally, the Shamana were creating a new generation who could read and write, and in recent years their messages and those of the elite in the tribe were becoming more common. No one cared that for now only children and the Shamans could read them, in a few decades it would be almost everyone.

  His father was too old, and part of the wrong caste.

  Totelun cleared his throat extensively, delaying just the second or two further. ‘It says, “We the Shamana, will arrive on Malent in five days.” It was sent one day ago. “In addition to the formal receiving of the Heart, we require replenishment of Trelki skins, blood and carapace.”’

  Altan nodded, and Totelun couldn’t quite hide his own expectation.

  ‘Get dressed,’ his father said, gruffly. ‘We’re going hunting.’

  *

  Totelun had to admit it wasn’t quite the win he had expected; Altan would never have apologised, and neither would Totelun. He was his father’s son.

  This hunt would have to do by way of apology. And that’s why Totelun took it as a win.

  Trelki hunting didn’t require leaving the home isl
e of Malent, so Totelun didn’t have a ready excuse to strong-arm Altan into letting him ride one of the Thunwings, strange winged creatures more like slugs than born fliers, but in the air, they were as nimble and graceful as a monkey in the trees. They wouldn’t be out on the Cloudsea at any point, and didn’t need to visit any other islands. Malent was a large enough island to support a large forest with enough acres to get lost in, as well as the outcrop which their tribe called home and all the farming areas around it. Despite this, it was one of the much smaller islands in the Floating Archipelago.

  Some islands supported multiple tribes and took a week to travel across, some held their own mountain ranges, huge lakes and plateaus. The Malent forest wasn’t even the largest forest, and you could travel across it for more than a few days. But Totelun had only viewed the other islands from afar, as they floated past Malent or dipped with the clouds, revealing their terrain.

  He had never left Malent.

  Totelun kept silent, hunched on his heels, as his father stalked his prey just ahead. They were deep in the forest, at least a day’s hike in towards the centre. Trees closed in on all sides, stealing the daylight from above, and leaving the forest floor dark and foreboding. Shadows and undergrowth, as well as caked mud and leaves, hid Altan from all but the most observant creatures, and with the still air under the thick canopy, his scent wasn’t travelling anywhere.

  The creature ahead was somewhere between a fox and a rat, a mammal with needle sharp claws and a ferocious attitude that tribesman had tried and failed to domesticate myriad times. The Radchis had the large black dome-like eyes of prey all across the islands, adapted to soak in the scant light that penetrated the forest floor, but it was a born predator. This one was creeping around in the leaf litter, hunting for unfortunate creatures smaller than itself.

  Totelun crouched beside his father, readying his bow at a tiny gesture from Altan. They weren’t taking any chances. Two shots were better than one. Altan slowly sighted down the length of his arrow, his careful motions smooth and slow, intended not to give him away. Totelun watched and learned.