Astral Tides: Into the Void

By Nicholas Kory

If you had the chance to change events in your past, would you do it?

The crew of the Starstorm is broken and divided. Merrill and the others are in Council custody. Dallas and Sebastian are wandering the labyrinthine halls of the ruins of Uhmakhet. And Daltir Stone is lost in his own past.

Consumed by the guilt and the shame of how his life has lead up to this moment, Daltir sees an opportunity to go back and correct all of the transgressions made by his past self. Instead of rebuilding, he hopes to prevent the bridges from ever burning in the first place. But not everyone is open to such efforts, and there are entities which lurk between the threads of time that want him out. Daltir has stepped into a much larger universe than he ever expected. Is he ready for this?

Meanwhile Reziak and Kadrit push forward with their plans on Eravice, bringing together the minds of the frozen, telepathic Nuani and the deceased council huntmaster, Lizreah. Reziak hopes to be able to contact the otherworldly entities beyond the stars, but what he finds is all the more shocking - Lizreah returns to life, now with an inexplicable ability to peer through space and time itself. The huntmaster just got a whole lot better at hunting, and she is out for revenge against those who killed her. Daltir Stone will soon find that he has nowhere to hide, not even in the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas Kory
• Release date: Jan 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781684544769

Nicholas Kory

Nicholas Kory is a twenty-something Science-Fiction/Suspense/Horror author from central Minnesota. He is pursuing his career in creative writing while balancing his home life with a wife, daughter, and baby on the way, two jobs, and involvement in community theater. He is never happy with his own work and constantly struggles with deciding when it's finished and good enough for readers. It is his dream to write and publish books full time while following his other passion - tabletop game development. You can follow visit nicholaskory.com to follow his blog, 'Experience Points', where he catalogs everything he's learning in the world of self-publishing and independent game design.

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Astral Tides

Book Five: Into the Void

Nicholas Kory

ASTRAL TIDES: INTO THE VOID is ©2021 Nicholas Kory. All rights reserved.

ISBN# 978-1-68454-476-9

This is a work of fiction, and any similarity to any person, living or deceased, is pure coincidence and unintentional.

Reproduction in whole or in part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. Your purchase of this book, and support of Nicholas Kory, is greatly appreciated. Please consider leaving a review wherever you made this purchase, or telling your friends about it, to help spread the word.

Thank you for your support.

Thank you for purchasing this book! If you like this story, and want more information on upcoming titles, then I invite you to stop by my website at nicholaskory.com. If you have any questions, comments, or concerns for me, feel free to reach out to me via email at [e-mail].

Thanks for your support! It’s what keeps me going as an author and game designer.

The Astral Tides Series:

Astral Tides Book One: Rimward (2015)

Astral Tides Book Two: The Huntmaster (2016)

Astral Tides Book Three: Eravice (2016)

Astral Tides Book Four: The Shadows of Uhmakhet (2019)

Other Titles:

Elephants in the Living Room (2007)

Cybersaurus: The Awakening (2014)

Behind the Locked Door (2016)

Games by Nicholas Kory

Round 10: Role-Playing Game Core Rulebook (2013)

This book is for Max & Ian, for keeping the competitive spirit alive and writing your own books alongside me.

You’ve come all this way, Scour said. And now here you are, at the end of your journey.

Daltir blinked rapidly, looking frantically around the room. What were his choices here?

We’ve already unlocked the Pathway, Scour continued. If Sahrrim had been stronger, she would be able to go with us.

Go? Daltir asked. Explain yourself, Scour!

Opening a Pathway requires a certain amount of neural strength, which connects us with the Cosmos. Not even a Nuani is resilient enough to survive the connection alone. But with her mind serving as the first link, she took the worst of the experience. I will survive, and I am certain you will as well.

Daltir clenched his jaw as a new realization settled in. You’re a Channeler.

Yes, Scour said. Both of us pretended to have no faith, when really that is what drives us. You in your Maker, and I in the Iyrnith’Urgakra.

Daltir blinked again. The Irrni… he started.

So you can hear it’s name now? Scour asked. That is a good sign.

The gem continued to rotate, faster and faster, and the pressure behind Stone’s eyes and under his temples returned. He felt a tear roll down his cheek, and when it reached his jawline it lifted off and floated in the air. What… he started.

Touch the stone, Scour said. And all of these troubles will be behind you.

Daltir looked hard a Scour, and then at the gemstone. Did you need all of this? He asked. The gem? The datapad?

No, Scour said. The datapad was irrelevant. And the gem, much like Captain Sahrrim, was a welcome surprise.

He felt the tears coming more freely now. The anticipation was getting to him, the relief that after all of these years he would finally find what he had always hoped to find. The one thing — the one person — he had been flying around the galaxy for, and it was all within his reach. He couldn’t help but cry at the relief of it all.

He began to walk forward, and so did Scour, until they both stood a mere two feet from the stone which rotated between them.

Where will I go? Daltir asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Home.

Daltir reached up, his fingers shaking. Slowly they brushed up against the surface of the gemstone, and just as he felt its facets touching his fingertips, his world went dark.

Astral Tides

Book Five: Into the Void

Nicholas Kory

Chapter I

Uhmakhet

Daltir’s eyes opened. He stood in the immense central chamber of the Nuani temple. The pressure in his head was gone. He felt warm blood trickling down from his nose, and reached up to wipe it away. He realized his hand seemed to move slowly, almost as if he were underwater. Yet he stood, much like he had when Scour told him to—

Scour. The Nuani. The secret Channeler. Where was he now?

Daltir turned his head, slowly moving to look around the room. As he did two things happened, both of which unnerved him to his core. The first was that he felt something move both behind his head and inside his head. It was as if a great cable had snaked its way into the back of his skull, and turning his head caused him to feel its shifting presence, its fibers snaking along the folds of his brain.

The second was that he caught a glimpse of a great shadow, an immense silhouette of alien proportions. It was originally behind him, yet receded and moved so as to always stay just out of his vision. He turned back the other direction, but his movements were slow and sluggish, and he never caught sight of the strange shape again.

Daltir did not see Scour anywhere, nor did he see the body of Sahrrim, or the floating gem from her amulet.

He was alone.

Hey! He shouted, and his words echoed off of the circular walls with a strange distortion he had never heard before. He was getting a strong suspicion that shouting was not a good idea.

And then he felt more movement, but not from the phantom cord scratching at the back of his head, nor from the shadowy figure that disappeared somewhere behind him. He noticed, instead, movement from himself. He saw himself, another Daltir Stone, back turned to him, slowly lifting a tool — a weapon — to protect himself from something else, from something Daltir couldn’t see. He then realized that this other self was holding a straight-edged sword, forged of black metal and sporting a sharp line of neon-blue up the length of the blade, glowing with a soft, almost mystical light.

He had seen that sword before. Had held it before. He remembered it, though it felt like a lifetime ago. It was a weapon given to him by… who? A Zemurian? That felt right, but he was having a hard time recalling. He thought back further, and remembered an old mentor, scarred and grisly, but wise in the ways of combat.

Korvoz.

The name flooded back to Daltir. Korvoz.

He looked back up at himself, the other him, and saw the image before him was different. Now, instead of seeing himself raising that sword defensively, he saw himself receiving that sword. It was being handed to him by a tall, presented as a gift, fit, but old Zemurian. Bags under his orange eyes, wrinkles on his gray-skinned face. Black freckles all along the back of his arms. Daltir remembered that, and remembered thinking he had never seen a Zemurian with freckles before.

He suddenly felt a rush of wind assault his back, whipping his black hair forward. He felt a soft and subtle guiding of his movement, as if someone were behind him with hands on his shoulders and urging him to walk forward. Toward Korvoz.

Toward himself.

He took a step forward, and the slowness in his motion was gone. He moved easily and freely, as one would expect to move in a largely empty room. He walked forward, and as he did so an intense light began glowing from the far end. The room got brighter, and he was forced to squint as he progressed forward. By the time he got within arms’ reach of himself, the light was so bright it was nearly blinding.

Go

He felt the command in his head more than he heard it. A cosmically primordial sensation that rippled through his psyche and coursed down his nervous system. It caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end, and he wasn’t sure if his inner desires and curiosity were suddenly given voice in his mind, or if he was hearing the voice of someone else.

Something else.

He took another step forward, and the bright light burned into his eyes. He squeezed them shut, and felt a rush of wind blow by him with such force that he was afraid he would stumble forward into himself.

And then he felt the heat.

Zemur, fifteen years ago

You’ll get used to it.

The deep, gravelly voice sounded ahead of Daltir, but unlike his own it did not echo off of the stone walls of the Nuani temple. Instead it sounded as if it were lifted on a slight breeze, a gust of hot air that Daltir eventually felt on his skin.

His eyes opened, blinking back the light, but he was relieved to see that it had receded some. No longer was it a blinding spotlight shining ahead of him, but it was the yellow glow of a desert sun at midday, shining down on him from the sky above.

He blinked again, and looked around. He was no longer standing in the Nuani temple. Instead, he was standing on a lightly furnished, flat rooftop of a multi-story building. He looked around and saw the rolling sand dunes in the distance, punctuated by large outcroppings of rocks, reaching toward the blue sky like the dark, angled teeth of the world.

Is the heat getting to you? The voice said again.

Daltir turned to his right, and he saw the tall, fit, and aged Zemurian standing not six feet from him.

Korvoz.

What? Daltir asked.

Korvoz shook his head, his four orange eyes rolling in their sockets. You’re daft, he said. Weak in the head. One of the Zemurian’s large hands reached up, his knotted finger flicking Daltir lightly on his forehead. Two Trade Years on Zemur and you’re still sun-struck.

Daltir blinked again. Korvoz, he said.

At least you remember my name, the Zemurian said.

How did I get here? Daltir asked.

Korvoz’s lightly amused expression shifted to one of annoyed concern. Look, Stone, you’ve not got much time left. Now is not the time for second thoughts. He’ll be here soon, and if you’re going to try your little stunt, then you need to be ready.

Stunt? Daltir asked, and then he remembered. The escape?

Dammit Stone, keep your voice down, Korvoz said, now more serious.

Daltir looked around him again. His senses finally caught up with his body, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. He had been here before. This was a memory, from nearly two decades ago. And here he was, standing in it like it were a holovid of his own past.

No, this wasn’t a holographic projection of his memory. This was more real. He felt the breeze, he smelled the sweat on himself, and the smoky scent of Korvoz’s skin baking in the sun, of his biological processes turning the star’s heat into energy for the Zemurian to burn. He looked down to his feet and saw his old boots. He scrunched his toes inside them, watching the boots shift and contort.

This wasn’t a projection.

I’m not a sentimental one, Korvoz said, his voice — and his eyes — dropping low as he spoke. But I cannot help but notice you’ve not said a word of thanks.

Thanks? Daltir asked.

Korvoz’s eyes shot back up, meeting Daltir’s gaze with a scowl, his brow hardened. Alright Stone, I get it, Korvoz said, turning away. Take the blade and be on your way. And if you ever find yourself on the sands of Zemur again, don’t come looking for me.

Daltir blinked, and looked down to his right hand. He saw the blade — black as the space between stars, save for the neon-blue line running from its handle, almost to its tip — and he tightened his grip on the weapon.

This wasn’t a projection, he thought again.

Korvoz, Daltir said.

Go, the Zemurian said as he retreated out of the sun, under the shaded canopy of a sienna-colored canvas. I’ve served my purpose, you’ve made that clear. He moved to a small table where a decanter of gunda juice and a pair of drinking glasses were resting. He began pouring himself some of the dark liquid.

Daltir felt a slight stinging in his temple, behind his eye. He blinked it back, but it refused to recede. He looked up to Korvoz again, and took a few steps forward, holding the blade, tip pointed down, against his chest, his closed fist over his heart. The salute was rigid and stern, just as he had been taught.

You’ve done much for me, Korvoz, Daltir said, maintaining the salute. I will bring honor to your weapon on the battlefield.

Korvoz set the decanter down, but he didn’t pick up the glass. He stood with his back to Daltir, staring down at the drink for a moment, as if waiting for it to indicate to him what he should do. Then he straightened, and turned to face the man directly. He drew the ceremonial knife he kept sheathed at his side, and returned the salute, his knife tip pointed up instead of down — a sign of station.

These blades are more than just weapons, Korvoz said.

I understand.

Korvoz dropped the salute, and Daltir followed suit. The Zemurian reached out with one of his four arms, clasping Daltir on the shoulder in a firm grip. May you accomplish great things with that blade, Daltir Stone.

Daltir nodded, and looked down at the weapon again. As he stared at it, he began to wonder if giving it up was a wise decision, even if it meant endearing himself to her.

He felt Korvoz’s hand slip away from his shoulder, and then felt his feet begin to sink and shift. He saw his boots now stood on sand, not the metal rooftop of Korvoz’s home. He looked back up, and realized he was in the middle of the desert. Strong winds buffeted him, sending his coat flapping wildly to the side.

Incoming!

Daltir heard the shout, and his reflexes kicked in. Years of military training and experience — from boot camp what felt like eons ago, to his days serving as a line watchman, to the defense against the Nuani attack on his homeworld of Hyteria — the lessons instilled in his mind came flooding back. No sooner had the word finished and he was on the ground, right hand clenching tightly around some metal cylinder that felt warm in his grip. And then there was an explosion, and the already oppressive heat from the atmosphere grew as it washed over him, blowing sand and his dark hair past his face.

The dust began to settle, and he opened his eyes again. He knew exactly where he was, remembering this day well. The Garzuhm Desert, or more specifically the hardpan just east of the city of Ro-Zavamahl, and just west of the Canyon of Thunder. It was less than two days after he had met with Korvoz for the last time. Less than two days since he was gifted that blade.

Daltir glanced down to his right hand and saw that the cylinder he was grasping tightly was the sword. It was a zalotherium blade, a gift from a mighty champion of many wars.

And Korvoz had given it to him?

Captain! A familiar voice rocked Daltir from his thoughts. Move!

He looked up and saw his quartermaster — his first quartermaster — Rowan Hammer peeking out from behind a dusty-brown boulder.

As his memory caught up with the present, Daltir realized he knew what was happening. Someone was approaching from behind.

Someone big.

End of the line, Stone, said another voice from behind him, but Daltir knew who it was without turning to look.

Zevekk, Daltir said, and then spit sand out before rolling over onto his back. He looked up at the tall, intimidating Zemurian, who was clutching two red-iron axes in either hand.

Expecting someone else? Zevekk asked.

Hopeful, I guess, Daltir responded. He winced as a sharp pain shot through his temple, arcing within his cranium until it came to an end behind his right eye.

This is your last warning, Stone, Zevekk said. Tell me where they are and I’ll let you go. He paused, considering the man closely, before adding. Well, and I’ll take that blade from you, too.

What a deal, Daltir said without moving, staring up at the nearly seven-foot-tall Zemurian. You’d do all that just for me?

What are old friends for?

I don’t think you’re using that word correctly.

Zevekk opened his mouth to respond, but before any words found their way out, there was a soft thud as a small metal canister landed on the ground beside them. Both Daltir and Zevekk turned to look at the canister in shock, and saw a blinking amber light on one side, a sharp and rhythmic beep beep beep emitting from it’s metallic casing.

No more words were exchanged, and instead the next few moments saw Daltir scrambling like mad across the sand in the direction of Rowan, and Zevekk bounding back the way he had come to hide behind another large rock.

By the time Daltir had made his way to the same rock as Rowan, the canister exploded in another cloud of sand and dust, showering rocks in all directions and forcing him and his quartermaster to take cover.

Dammit Rowan! Another voice shouted from not too far away. Daltir turned and saw a younger, thinner, Rallate Farster taking cover in a small, sandy bowl near the large rocks. No more explosives!

You alright captain? Rowan asked as Daltir pressed his back against the rock, now seated beside Hammer.

Aye, I think so, Daltir said.

Grand, Rowan said. I just got word from Drogos, sir. He’s run into a bit of a snag.

Daltir blinked, his mind still racing to catch up to where his body was. Or, rather, when his body was. Snag?

Aye, sir, Rowan said. Drogos says the contact bolted, sir. A trap was sprung and Orviak fled. Now Drogos and Raleigh are defending the refugees as best they can, but they’re pinned down in the south blocks.

Daltir stared at Rowan, taking in the man’s short-cut blond hair, his striking blue eyes, and the scar going down his left cheek. He hadn’t seen Rowan in well over a decade, and he hadn’t expected to see him now.

But was now what he thought it was? What had Scour done to him?

Sir?! Rowan said.

Daltir blinked. Aye?

Orders, sir?

Zevekk hasn’t moved, Rallate called from his resting place, lying on his belly, rifle perched at the top of the small incline. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

What’s the plan, sir? Rowan asked.

Daltir blinked again. What’s the sit rep?

Rowan’s face went from anxious to frustrated. He sighed heavily. Drogos said—

Not Drogos, Daltir said. Us.

This time it was Rowan’s turn to blink. Sir?

Situation report, Hammer! Daltir barked.

Rowan Hammer pinched the bridge of his nose, then recounted the recent events they had experienced, but the tone of his voice told Daltir that his quartermaster was both bewildered and ready to be done with this job — whatever the job was.

Our ploy worked, he said. "We led Zevekk and a good number of his men out into the desert to buy Raleigh and Drogos time enough to get the refugees out from Zevekk’s compound. But we’ve been made, Raleigh and Drogos are pinned down, we’ve got unarmed civilians that need