17 December 2025
Jumping ahead in time, we post the first serialization of Book 1 of The Redemption series, and let all know that this book can be downloaded for free from D2D, Draft2Digital, Smashword’s parent company, the link here.
16 September 2013
This week we begin posting a serialized version of our epic fantasy, Chosen of the One, the first book of The Redemption series. Our purpose is to take advantage of some of the resources available here on our website, making it easy for those readers who have trouble getting past the many new ‘words’ introduced to learn what these new words mean, and how to pronounce them; thus, as we post these short pieces of the text, we will link the first of these new words to the glossary on our website: right click on the above link and open in a new tab which will open the glossary in a new tab, encouraging the reader to find out for himself (or herself) what these new terms signify. For those readers who ‘tire’ of waiting week to week for the next installment, we remind you that this first book is available for free from Smashwords, here, where readers can download the entire first book in whatever format suits the reader–for smartphones, tablets, computers, and ereaders. Enjoy!
Prophecy of the Chosen
At the center of the ages come those chosen of the One, they who will end Gar’s dominion; two from my own order: one more powerful than all others, doubled of another; one who opens the forbidden way, sprung from my home; one from Karble, myth reborn, dear to the people, bearing the living waters; one from Melbarth, fire of logic burning in his mind; three from the new order, one king, one queen, mirroring each other, one aperu slayer, sacrifice for another; and the cunning mouse, who penetrates all secrets; all maimed and marked by the burden of their choosing.
Darkness and evil go with them, light guides them, rumor precedes them, destruction and disturbance follow them; choose to aid them to suffer, choose to oppose them to die. . . .
Prophecy of Shigmar
Prologue
. . . and Gar went forth with a servant
taken from the corrupted wedoram
stealing thought-giver, ranging across time
to inscribe his mark, his sign of evil
upon hands, hearts and minds
of the CHOSEN OF THE ONE. . . .
from “The Great Year,” a song cycle by Sir Kovar, written Atno 3553
Atno 3500, Spring
The old peddler pulled sharply on his reins, calling loudly to his mule, needing to shout to be heard over the pounding rain. He set the brake on his cart when his mule staggered to a halt, its iron-shod hooves clattering and slipping on the cobblestones, slick from the downpour. The old wethi lifted one arm to shield his face from the rain, his head turning this way and that, his bright blue eyes trying to pierce the darkness and find the source of the sound that had caught his attention. He found the boy hiding behind an overflowing waterbarrel, his too large feet, along with his sobs, giving him away.
“Come out of there, boy!” the peddler called above the sound of the rain.
The bare, and filthy, feet shifted, as if he were trying to pull them out of sight, but the boy did not rise or answer.
“Don’t be foolish, boy!” the peddler called again. “I know you hide behind that waterbarrel; come out, and I can help you!”
The dirty, overlarge feet finally disappeared; a smile quivered on the old peddler’s lips.
“Fine, then.” the peddler said. “I’ll be leaving town now, and I’ll leave you to your fate. A pity, truly, since I could have helped you.” He grinned to himself, then released the brake on his cart, preparing to shake the reins.
“You can’t leave town now,” a piping voice spoke from behind the waterbarrel, “the gates are closed!”
The old peddler ignored the boy, shaking his reins; the mule started to move, its hooves clopping loudly on the cobblestones, the motion of the mule jerking the cart forward. When he felt the boy jump onto the back of his cart, the old peddler smiled widely, revealing the hint of a much younger wethi.
“You better get out of those wet rags and dry off,” the peddler called over his shoulder and under the tarred canvas covering his cart. “I left out some clothes that should fit,” he went on, “better than those rags you’ve been wearing, along with some sturdy shoes, and some bread and cheese–I expect you are hungry–little boys are always hungry.” The old peddler smiled again, then raised his right hand. An archway of white light opened in front of the mule, an archway large enough for both the mule and the cart to pass through; the mule plodded through, stepping off the cobblestones and onto the hard packed dirt of a country road, out of the downpour and into a night free from rain, the sky clear and the stars shining brightly overhead. Rolling hills surrounded the country road, hills that were neatly ploughed and covered with new shoots. The peddler lowered his hand once the cart had passed through, closing the archway, and lowered his hood, revealing shoulder-length, wavy gray hair that glittered in the light of a quarter moon.
The boy poked his head out of the canvas, revealing an unruly mass of dark red hair. “The rain st–” he began in his high, piping voice, stopping as suddenly as the rain, his eyes widening in fright. His mouth fell open. “How did . . . but we were. . . ?” he twisted his head around, trying to see behind the cart.
The peddler turned and smiled at the boy reassuringly. “Now, what were you telling me about not being able to leave at night?” he asked.
“How did you get out?” the boy asked, and then went on, not able to wait. “Did you make the rain stop? Are you a . . . maghi?” he asked the last in a hushed, almost reverent voice.
The peddler laughed, a musical, boyish sound. “Have you gotten dressed yet?” the peddler asked.
The boy nodded, looking with new awe on the peddler.
“Did you get something to eat?”
The boy shook his head, still staring at the peddler.
The peddler sighed and shook his head. “You won’t listen very well if you are starving,” he said, “so grab the bread and cheese, and jug of water, a blanket for warmth, and sit beside me while you eat, then we can talk.”
The boy did as instructed, returning with food, water, and blanket, climbing out of the cart and sitting down beside the peddler then beginning to wolf down the bread and cheese, occasionally drinking from the water jug.
“Easy, boy,” the peddler said, “you’ll make yourself sick, eating like that!” he exclaimed, then he laughed and waited for the boy to finish. The boy’s hands were as large as his feet, and he had a gangly build that promised he would someday be tall; he looked to be about four years old, maybe older, but he had a mind that was sharp for his age, always asking thoughtful questions.
“Feel better now?” he asked.
The boy nodded.
“Why weren’t you with the other urchins?”
“They threw me out.”
“Why?
“Cuz I got caught–we’re not supposed to get caught,” and when the peddler looked quizzical, he added, “it’s one of our rules.”
The peddler sighed and fell silent for several moments. The mule plodded on, winding among the brown hills, the scent of newly turned earth strong. The peddler’s cart creaked only a little; the boy finally broke the silence.
“You never told me how you left the city,” he said, “or how you stopped the rain, or if you’re a maghi.”
The peddler chuckled. “Little boys have an insatiable curiosity,” he quoted a popular saying, then smiled down at the boy. “Do you have a name, boy?” he asked, not answering his questions.
“Everyone calls me Tam.”
The peddler shook his head. “That’s not right,” he replied, stunning the boy.
“But I don’t have any other name,” the boy protested.
The peddler laughed, the boyish, musical sound that belied his apparent age. “Not yet, boy, but soon you will,” he continued to laugh, and the hint of a much younger person was clearly visible on his face and in his laughing blue eyes, “and soon you will be found by your true parents, who will raise you to be who you were meant to be.”
The boy’s face wrinkled. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said to himself, then spoke louder, “I don’t understand,” he admitted.
“No,” the peddler replied, “nor will you remember this conversation, but you will remember that an old peddler brought you to the village up ahead, taught you some minor ortheks, and left you in the care of those who will look out for you.”
“So you are a maghi,” the boy concluded.
“No, not in the sense that you think,” he replied, “but I know a few tricks I can teach you, like how to make a root rise up and trip someone, or how to make your voice sound like a hundred people.”
The boy’s face wrinkled again in thought. “But I never forget anything that happens to me,” he said.
“Really?” the peddler replied. “Do you remember your mother’s name?” he asked.
The boy opened his mouth, then closed it suddenly; his small, oval face colored brightly.
“You see,” the peddler went on, “you can forget things, and you will forget our conversation, remembering only what I have told you. Now I think you should get some sleep.”
“But you haven’t taught me the ortheks,” the boy protested.
The peddler grinned but did not look down at the boy. “I already have,” he replied, “but you will not remember that I have until you need to, which will not happen for many years yet.”
“But how will I find my parents?” the boy protested again.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” the peddler answered, “they are my servants, and they will find you, soon.”
“But . . . ,” the boy tried again.
“No more buts tonight!” the peddler interrupted the boy. “Now, crawl back into the cart and get some sleep!”
The boy yawned widely, a look of surprise in his eyes that was quickly replaced by sleep; he shook himself, then crawled through the flap and disappeared inside the cart. The peddler smiled to himself. “They really are wondrous,” he whispered to himself, glancing over his shoulder and knowing that the boy was already fast asleep.
Clyde B. Northrup 
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