Thread Weaver

By J.S. Frankel

Fenton Mardwich, amateur artist, steps through a wormhole and lands on Kaseto, a medieval world that's been conquered by a vicious, brutal race.

 

He's immediately put into service not as a soldier, but as a scribe, a war correspondent, someone who will record the action done by the Dranians, his new captors, and their leader, King Hallefwatt. 

 

Aiding Fenton are Litro, Sekisa, and Angyalla, a winged woman with a mission of her own. Through fight and flight training, mock battles and real ones, the four bond and plan their escape.

 

Once they do, though, it becomes a battle of survival. Fenton's life has to count for something. And if it means fighting the enemy and perhaps dying, then that will be his mission—and his destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: May 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781487434854

Book preview

Dedication

To my wife, Akiko, and to my sons, Kai and Ray. Thank you for making every single day my greatest adventure.

Also, thank you to Sara Beth, Lolo, and Emily, Mirren Hogan, Lyra Shanti, Helen Dunn, Rachel Glickler, Gigi Sedlmayer, Leslie Rosanoff Kroll, Joanne Van Leerdam, Schuyler Thorpe, and especially, to my sister, Nancy Frankel, who has always supported me through thick and thin.

Chapter One: Recruited

New York City. Manhattan. Nine-forty-five AM. Central Park. Saturday, June first, two days until summer vacation.

A song I’d once heard said that if you went downtown, you could find someone just like you, someone who was lonely and needed a hand to show them around... or something along those lines. As I sat in Central Park, ignored by everyone, I came to a conclusion.

That song lied.

A parade of people, all colors of the rainbow, all shapes and sizes, passed by. On this beautiful and warm June morning, I should have felt relaxed, but my mind was on an upcoming audition, a showcase, really, for what I did best—drawing. My nerves jangled so loudly they practically rang like coins spilling on a manhole, so I breathed deeply to relax. Hyperventilating wouldn’t help my cause.

This audition could determine the course of my future. Acing it would set me on the path to glory, while failure would condemn me to oblivion. To get my mind straight, I feverishly sketched a young couple sitting on a park bench a few feet away.

Sketching usually calmed me down, but not today. Nerves or haste—or both—caused me to draw a line through the woman’s eyebrow.

Crap.

I tore the page out and tossed it in a nearby wastebasket. I hated messing up. It was part of the artistic process, but all the same, tossing away a picture was like destroying a part of my soul.

Get a grip, Fenton, I murmured. You got this. You got this.

Or did I? I was too nervous, and since nervousness counteracted any kind of productivity, I put my pen and sketchpad down to check out the people. About half of the pedestrians wore masks. Those who did, congregated. Those who didn’t, they were shunned by those who did, including me.

Since the recent pandemic, a lot of New Yorkers had gotten more careful, but there were some who threw caution to the winds. Virus? We ain’t afraid of no stinkin’ virus!

I’d been lucky so far. A few people I knew from school had caught it, but they’d recovered, although the aftereffects lingered. I’d stayed away from them, too.

At any rate, since it was Saturday, I’d come out to do what I did best before the audition. Landscapes, people, animals—everything was my jam. Meredith Maxwell had once been my jam, but that relationship had gone with the wind.

One-hundred-twelve days—that was how long we’d dated. Sure, I’d kept track. Almost four months, and when we first met, we couldn’t have been more different. Meredith was tall, blonde, and pretty beyond pretty. In fact, she had it all. Rumors circulated around the school. Like, what does she see in him?

Self-doubt could be crippling, but I had to admit it, in a way, it was true. I stood about five-ten, weighed one-seventy-five—somewhat stocky and hardly jock material. Sports-wise, swimming was the only thing where I didn’t embarrass myself.

Looks-wise, I was also nothing special. The mirror told me so. I had a high and aquiline Roman nose, higher cheekbones, and a narrow chin, which made me look like an upside-down triangle. Brown eyes and short dark hair completed the picture of someone very average. I had only one thing going for me—my artistic skills.

And Meredith knew it. When we first met, she asked me about the sketchpad I always carried around. Drawings, I said, trying not to pass out from the excitement of the hottest girl in school talking to me.

Drawings, huh? She perused each one and went wild. Fenton, you have some serious talent.

Maybe.

Maybe nothing, she declared, and after that, I became her official artist and unofficial boyfriend, although nothing outside of a few kisses ever happened. It wasn’t like she saw anyone else. She didn’t. No, Meredith was into herself bigtime. Make me look good, she’d say as she struck a cheesecake pose.

How could I not? Uh, you’re perfect.

That was my standard answer. I know, she said, taking a compact out of her back pocket and preening as she fixed her makeup. I know.

We’d laugh, but she was into serious self-worship, and she never complimented me on anything outside of my artistic ability.

And... it had finished. It had always been a one-sided relationship, anyway. So, here I sat, internally whining about it. I’d never mentioned it to my uncle, Frank Mardwich. He was too busy with his brick-laying business and had little time for his only nephew, yours truly, Fenton Mardwich.

Guardians—the state said we needed them, but maybe I’d have been better off alone in my case. Frank wasn’t totally terrible, but if I had a choice... oh, hell, I’d had no choice in the matter. He was my only living relative, and when things got bad, he was there.

Bad meant my parents dying when I was sixteen. My father, short, extremely fat, a heavy smoker and someone who didn’t care one bit about his health, had dropped dead of a massive heart attack when he was forty.

He’d come home after finishing his accounting job at his firm, ate a meal consisting of deep-fried chicken steak and six slices of bread, followed by apple pie and ice-cream, complained ten minutes later of having gas, and then he fell over. Lights out, done deal, and he was deader than the fried cluck-cluck he’d just consumed.

My mother, also short and fat, followed him into oblivion two months later. I was now an orphan. I’d felt terrible when my father had passed away, but I always thought my mother would be around. Wrong, and now, I was totally alone.

At the funeral, my Uncle Frank, a short and not-quite-obese-yet man in his late forties, turned to me with a grim visage. Fenton, I’m sorry about your father. I was working when he passed, so I couldn’t make it to the service. Your father and I were brothers. We were close, and this is the least that I can do.

Call his excuse just that—an excuse. I’d seen Frank all of three times in my life, twice at Christmas parties we’d had in the past, and now, at the funeral. Close was not a word that described his relationship with his brother, and I got no feeling of sympathy from him at all. But with no one else to stay with, I had to accept his largesse.

I ended up moving from where my parents lived—New Rochelle—to a smallish house in upstate New York, Ithaca, to be exact. Frank put my old house on the market, so say goodbye to the old life and welcome to the new one.

He picked me up in his truck with a logo on the sides, proudly displaying his services. Frank’s Bricklaying Services. During the ride, neither of us spoke to each other. I was too wrapped up in my misery. He was too wrapped up in his work with his smartphone jammed to his ear, talking over prices and dates and times with prospective clients.

We’re here, Fenton.

His voice roused me from my internal observations. We’d stopped outside a small house at the end of a street filled with identical houses. Faux-Georgian style, white walls, and an iron-wrought gate showed me that I’d arrived squarely in middle-class land.

Here? I asked.

Sure, it might have come across as being kind of rude, but at that moment, I was too miserable to care. I didn’t mind having no money. I minded being uprooted and brought here, but as a minor, I had zero rights. Frank controlled my destiny, at least, for another two years.

To his credit, Uncle Frank didn’t get angry. I’ll admit that it isn’t the palace you and your parents lived in, but it’s a home. I laid the brick, and it’s a quality job.

Inside, the house was clean enough. That was the best thing I could say about it. It ain’t much to look at, décor-wise, Frank said as I struggled upstairs with my suitcase and duffel bag. But that’s what we got.

It’s okay, I mumbled. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be a jerk, Uncle Frank.

He pushed past me, took my duffel bag, and heaved it through the second door on the left. After that, he leaned against the wall and motioned for me to enter. That’s okay, Fenton. Circumstances are what they are. Your parents had their lifestyle, and I got mine. I’m a bachelor, and I work hard for a living, so you’ll be on your own a lot. I hope you can handle it.

I’ll be fine, Uncle Frank. Thanks.

A look at the cracked walls and fading blue wallpaper showed me that the house had been around for a long time, but still, my room had a bed, a desk, a computer, and it was clean. Ginny might come around later to talk to you, he added.

Ginny was his lifelong girlfriend. Short and chubby like him, she had a pleasant face and a ready laugh. I remembered her from the second time Frank visited my parents at holiday time. Although she was a decent person, she wasn’t family. And since she wasn’t family, she wasn’t someone I could get close to.

Anyway, I got you enrolled at a local high school, Frank said as he leaned against the doorjamb. Ithaca Park High. It’s only a couple of blocks from here. Not a bad place, from what I hear.

Uh-huh. Do they have an art club?

He arched his eyebrows. You draw?

Of course, he didn’t know. He wasn’t the type to get interested in anything unless it pertained to his business. Yeah, a little, I answered as I opened my backpack and took out my sketchpad.

I’d never taken an art lesson in my life, but something inside me told me about perspective, foreground, midground, background details, shading, depth, and more. It was like a little voice guiding me along, something I couldn’t explain.

My parents, quiet but hardworking people, said that they were proud of me. Our son, the artist, they’d tell their coworkers and acquaintances.

Now, they were gone, and I was with a relative who probably didn’t care about any talent I had. It turned out that I was wrong. Frank leafed through my portfolio, emitting a low whistle and nodding appreciatively at every page. That was the first time he’d ever shown interest in anything I’d done. Some talent you got, Fenton. Who’s this?

He’d pointed at a picture of a woman I’d drawn. Tall and slender, she had dark, brooding eyes, a narrow face, a womanly body—and wings. I’d modeled her after a superheroine I’d seen in a television show.

My future girlfriend.

Call that a poor attempt at a joke, but he duly laughed, and then he left me to set up shop. Yeah, me, myself, and I. Meredith had come to the funeral, hugged me goodbye at the end, and the next day, she’d sent me an email, saying that she wanted to break up.

Take care of yourself, she’d written. That was it. Cry world—not. I was on my own again, but by that time, I was used to it.

As for school, the kids were okay, classes were hard, but I coped. The big thing for me was drawing. I wasn’t academically inclined, but I figured that if I had enough talent, I could hook up with a comic book company or an ad agency—or something.

And that was why I’d come to Central Park. An online job search said that an internet company, Fantastic Comics, would be holding tryouts for paid summer internships and could lead to full-time work. That could mean something big for my future.

Or was I kidding myself?

Well, I had to try. That much was certain, and the hour soon approached. The building was only a block away, so I closed my sketchpad and hoofed it over. I’d worn a pair of jeans and a dress shirt, along with loafers. I wanted to look cool and confident, although I was neither of those things.

At the entrance, about forty people, some my age, and some in their twenties and thirties, were waiting. A sign that hung over the doorway said in bright blue and red letters, Welcome To Fantastic Comics! Our Art Is The Public’s Pleasure!

A tall, skinny man in his mid-twenties with a head of red hair, a face full of zits, and a stoop, probably from sitting at a drawing board all day, had been talking to a group of kids, basically telling them to go home. Psyching them out, maybe—that’s what I thought.

And if it was, call that a total dick move. We were all after the same job, but a person didn’t have to be a dick about it. Mr. Redhead spotted me and came over.

Forget it, kid, he said. Right away, his halitosis hit, and my nose hairs wilted. He hefted a sketch pad. No one’s getting the job ‘cept me.

Yep, dickhead and dick move—confirmed. Yeah, right, I responded, feeling this guy’s aggressiveness and trying not to inhale. Show me what you got.

A few murmurs ran through the group. Fight time, and it was high noon. In real life, they had fights. In some movies, dance-offs. Now, it was draw-offs. Zit-face opened his sketchpad and held up his work, turning around slowly so everyone could see. I had to admit, he was good. His work showed depth and finesse.

How about it, people? he asked with a broad smile. In return, got a few hand claps. He then tried to stare me down. Think you can top this?

I could. His work was good, but his signature pictures were the same, a reflective look at the ground. His other poses, heroic, sad, brooding, and so on, weren’t anything special, at least, to me.

If there was one thing that I was good at, it was mood. My parents dying had brought it out of me. I knew about loss. I knew about loneliness. Chances were that this guy didn’t.

Top this, he repeated.

In answer, I held up my pictures and the crowd grew quiet. Something had to be wrong. New Yorkers were never quiet. It didn’t matter what color or size or shape they were—they weren’t shy about saying if they liked or hated something. Their silence indicated that something had to be wrong, but what?

On the verge of packing up and going home, one kid about my age yelled, Oh, man, you rule!

Everyone else chimed in, and my ego soared into the stratosphere. Zit-face hastily closed his sketchpad and slunk away. Yeah, I ruled—at least for now.

At ten, the doors opened, and everyone piled in. A pretty blonde woman greeted us in the main hallway. Hi, she said brightly. My name is Loraine Conner. I’m the assistant to the owner and president of Fantastic Comics, Jack Martel. He’s over there.

She pointed at a table fifteen feet away where a guy in his forties who was wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt leaned against the wall. He held a smartphone to his ear and spoke into it but paused long enough to give us a friendly wave.

Loraine then laid down the rules. I hope you’re ready, and this is how it works. Each of you will present your portfolios to Mr. Martel. He may ask you to draw something for him, just to see how you perform under pressure.

Everyone glanced at each other, but I figured it to be a nothing-burger. I’d come this far. I could handle this.

Uh, anything? one person asked.

Lorraine nodded. Correct. After that, it’s his decision.

She then handed out numbers. I got lucky number seven. We all stood in line, waiting semi-patiently. Martel took his time with everyone, checked their art, but overall, at least for numbers one through six, his answer came across clearly. Nice... but not what we’re looking for. Thanks, anyway.

Maybe some of them had gone through this interview process before, but no one complained, not even zit-face, who walked out with tears streaming down his cheeks. Everyone who’d auditioned before me got a bag full of comics and posters from Martel. It’s compensation, he said.

Well, at least I’d get a few comics out of it. When my turn came, Martel took my portfolio, glanced at it, and then he handed me a piece of paper and a pencil. Draw me something heroic. Man or woman, it doesn’t matter. Make it dynamic. Make it good.

Hmm, no introductions, no handshakes, only the command that I had to draw something for him. Heroic? I could do that. Uh, lifting a car, back-breaker on the bad guy, flying... what would you like, sir?

He offered a faint smile and said, Surprise me.

Right, surprise him. I went at it right away, and I decided to go with a powerfully built man flying through a brick wall to rescue his girlfriend on the other side. Sure, it had been done before, but at that moment, inspiration hit. I attacked the paper with a vengeance. I was the hero. The woman on the other side was my girlfriend, and no one was going to harm her—ever.

Blocking out all sound and movement from everyone else, I feverishly drew and converted the vision that my mind had dreamed up into substance. Shade here, add another line there, pencil in muscle and sinew, and then, Let’s see what you’ve got, son.

Mr. Martel’s voice brought me back to reality, and I handed the picture over. My heart hammered against my chest wall and drops of sweat fell from my forehead onto my hands. Hastily, I wiped them on my pants and hoped that Martel wouldn’t notice.

He didn’t. He was too busy looking at the picture I’d drawn along with the other, older sketches. He didn’t say anything at first, only studied each of them thoroughly, turning them this way and that. Finally, he asked, What’s your name, son?

Fenton Mardwich, sir.

He chuckled. Drop the sir bit, son. How old are you?

Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in two weeks.

Martel pursed his lips. You go to school, art school, something like that?

I gave him the information about Ithaca High, and he arched his eyebrows. He sounded most skeptical when he asked, You don’t go to art school or anything?

My confidence almost evaporated, but I put on a strong front. First impressions were everything. This interview was everything. No, sir, I just belong to the art club.

Crap, he said not to call him sir! Uh, I guess you could say that I’m self-taught.

Now, a slow smile spread across his face. Most of the great comic book artists were and are. Artists in general, really. Okay, I’ve decided. You’re in.

I’m in? Just like that? My confidence returned like a tidal wave, and it was all I could do to refrain from doing the proverbial happy dance. You mean, you like the pictures?

Martel’s smile segued into a grin. I don’t like them. I love them! I’ve never seen anyone work so well under pressure. That picture I asked you to draw on the fly—it’s a cliché pic, but you did it up right.

At his words, the world went away and then returned. You really like them?

His grin grew broader. I never lie, Fenton. This is beyond anything I’ve seen. Come back in twenty minutes, and we’ll talk more about the paid internship.

For a moment, I couldn’t speak and then I mumbled a thank you. Welcome to the big time, kid, he said as he waved for the next number to approach. See you soon.

I walked outside, feeling lighter than air. Me, Fenton Mardwich, Mr. Nobody... my uncle would flip. I decided to throw caution out the window and took off my mask to inhale