The Sands of Time

By Maus

Return to Wayland in this thrilling sequel to The Prisoner of Moorhead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: West Egg Books
• Release date: Jun 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798894438146

Book preview

The Sands of Time

The Wayland Saga Part 2

Eric Maus

West Egg Books

Copyright © 2024 by Eric Maus

Cover Art by Meghan Antkowiak

Map by Eric Maus and Meghan Antkowiak

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

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Contents

. Chapter

1.BLACKHEEL DUNGEON

2.THE DESOLATION OF THE LURCH

3.SHORES OF THE WILDER COAST

INTERLUDE 1

4.THE RIFT

5.THE FORTRESS OF GORGORA

6.BILGETOWN

7.BEWARE THE DARK

8.THE CRUELTY OF ARKANIA

9.VOYAGE COMMENCES

10.THE LONG WALK

11.ABANDON

12.THE DREADLURK LEVIATHAN

INTERLUDE 2

13.THE SHINING CITY

14.HUNTING IN THE LURCH

15.NIGHTPEAK

16.THE THRONE OF SUSENYOS

17.A TALE OF TWO PRINCES

18.RATS

19.THE SLAVE PITS

20.SANDHAWKS

21.HEIR TO THE RED THRONE

INTERLUDE 3

22.THE SNATCHERS

23.WHY DO YOU FIGHT?

24.WARTALON

25.THE BATTLE OF BAZ

26.HONOR AND SACRIFICE

27.THE EYES OF BAZOOL

EPILOGUE

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

About Eric Maus

Dearest Reader,

At the end of this book you will find a glossary of terms, to provide optional assistance for distinguishing between swords, ships, and characters. Beware! Spoilers may be lurking.

Chapter one

BLACKHEEL DUNGEON

Jennifer Fang’s eyes peeled open. Rows of rusting iron bars rushed past. Her face was dry and aching. Her temples throbbed, as if something inside her skull was attempting to break out with a hammer and chisel. She was disoriented and her senses were quite murky, but there was no stopping the stench of this place: mold and urine and vinegar. Her legs were limp, dragging behind her as she was moved. Her arms were trapped upright in some horizontal metal contraption which rested upon her shoulders; it had been locked around her neck and wrists. On either end of her were two Arkanian guard bots, their armor a dull gray, their faces flat and featureless. They held onto the contraption with large metal hands, and dragged her down the stinking corridor. Walking out in front of her was a woman, straight-backed and cruel, a large ring of dull keys held primly between two fingers.

The light was dim, and the air was cold and damp. Jennifer’s lips were chapped and cracked, and they stung something awful. As her mind cleared, she tried to remember how she came to be in this place. She was a member of the Rankless, an insurgent group dedicated to freeing all of Wayland’s peoples and overthrowing the Arkanian kingdom. She had risen to prominence and fame in the group, and was proud of the large, black ‘X’ tattooed into the back of her neck, signifying her as a criminal and reprobate, at least in the eyes of King Faust. She had accomplished much in her career as a renegade, disrupting many vital Arkanian operations, and winning many pivotal battles alongside her fellow zealots. But not long ago, she had received a phone call from an old friend and ally, a man named Arthur Goose. He had asked her to board a train headed for the wild city of Wurzburg, to protect a boy named Max Windsor from the clutches of the Arkanians - they wanted him to procure a weapon for them, something that would help them crush the Rankless once and for all. She had found the boy, and saved him from bloodthirsty assassins. She helped him safely arrive in Wurzburg, but once there, they fell into an Arkanian trap, and both she and Max had been captured. However, they were sent in opposite directions: the boy had been taken north, while she had been shipped south, directly to Constantine, the capital of Arkania. Being such a desperate criminal, there was quite a bounty on her head, and the Arkanians were gleeful to see her in custody. She was taken before an Arkanian judge, a sour, pasty-faced old man, who had sentenced her to a lifetime of servitude in the salt mines of Pukrakine, deep in the deserts of Bazool. And so she had been transferred from dank prison to dank prison, steadily on her way south. She had attempted to escape a few days ago, but was unsuccessful, and had been heavily drugged. And now she had regained consciousness, probably a bit closer to her destination.

The two guards dragged her down a spiral staircase, and the light slowly grew dimmer and dimmer the further they descended. Snot began to trickle from her nose, and she sniffed.

Ah, you’re awake, said the tall woman, whom Jennifer guessed was the warden.

Where am I? Jennifer asked, her voice weak and almost inaudible.

Blackheel Dungeon, said the woman. On the outskirts of Montgomery, right on the border of Arkania and Baz. The woman smiled, an expression filled with evil and cruelty. The last stop in the Red Country for you. After this, it’s nothing but sand and rock and skin-blasting sunlight for the rest of your miserable days.

Mm, I like the sun, actually, said Jennifer, smiling back at the woman. Looks like you could use some, though. Your complexion is ghostly.

The warden ignored this jab, though the spiteful grin slid from her face.

This will do, she said, indicating toward a large wooden door at the end of the corridor. It was bolted in three different places, the hinges on the outside of the cell. The warden found the right key on the ring, and opened the door, while the robots removed the constraints from about her arms and neck.

In you go, said the warden, and the guards tossed Jennifer into the darkness, her elbows and chin skidding along the wet stone floor. They slammed the door behind her, and she heard each lock slide back into place. 

Muffled footsteps slowly faded back up the stairs.

Then silence. Thick, unadulterated silence.

She looked around. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the minimal moonlight that streamed in through a tiny window high up on one wall. It seemed like a fairly large cell, larger than those she had been in previously. She pushed herself up onto her hands. She still couldn’t feel her legs; she pulled herself up into a sitting position, with her back against the wall. It smelled like mildew and mold.

She felt something crawling on her neck. She grabbed at it, and felt something with spindly legs squirming in her fingers. She crushed it and flung it away.

You get used to the spiders.

Her heart nearly exploded in her chest. The voice came from somewhere in the shadows.

Who’s there? She tried to project and sound intimidating, but her voice cracked pathetically.

There was a scuffling, and a small figure emerged from the darkness. He was shoeless, and his feet, proportionally large, were quite hairy. His clothes were bedraggled, but seemed to have once been very refined. Long, pointed ears jutted out from beneath a mop of dusty hair, and he stood no taller than her waist. He grinned at her. Hello there.

She breathed a small sigh of relief. Ah. Just an elf.

He snorted. Just? That’s not very nice.

She looked over at him. Believe me, I’ve been imprisoned with worse.

Well, I’ve been cellmates with more dangerous creatures than a skinny human. He pointed. Like that dead beetle over there.

She rubbed her wrists, which were sore from the chafing. She leaned her head against the wall behind her, the stones wet against her matted hair.

He slumped down across from her. I wonder what a lady like you did to wind up in a place like this. Put too much salt in a lordling’s birthday pie? Forget to clean some duchess’s toilets? C’mon, out with it.

She didn’t answer, but he kept talking.

Thievery for me. Yep. You probably aren’t surprised, but I’m quite the accomplished burglar. Stole both of General Billington’s golden sabers, and got away with it. Lifted the entire reserve from Bloodlock Bank without so much as sounding a bell. I once stole a jewel-studded belt right off of King Wizzenfaust himself, and replaced it with some twine before his royal trousers could drop around his ankles. I even lifted a chest of diamonds from right under the nose of a snoring dragon. I’m sure you’ve heard of me?

He paused, as if waiting for her to admit to having knowledge of these apparent accomplishments. She shrugged at him, and winced at the seething pain between her temples.

He looked aghast. You’ve never heard of the Midnight Sneak Thief? The Constantine Cat Burglar? The Magpie of Midrow?

He could’ve been speaking gibberish for all she cared. No.

The elf drew in his breath, putting on an air of mock offense. Well. You don’t get out much, I guess. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gavert Nerripittleph, but my friends call me Gav. I’d be honored if you would do the same.

I’m no friend of yours, elf.

Not yet. You’re with the RL, aren’t you?

What’s that to you?

Just making conversation. I’ve been in here alone for almost three hours. The isolation had me teetering on the precipice of madness, no jest about it. When I heard the guards unlocking the door, I was elated that it was another prisoner and not moldy bread or some bowl filled with a block of frozen, fly-ridden porridge.

Three hours, huh?

I couldn’t bear it. I tried to make conversation with the guards, but I don’t think there were any down here at the time. I yelled out to other prisoners, but received no replies. I heard quite a few morbid screams echoing down the chamber though. They say the torturers here are top notch, paid right out of the King’s purse. They still employ the same wretched devices they used hundreds of years ago: finger peelers, bone-crushers, eye-suckers. I’ve heard they even have a tank of Sapphire Beetles. One swarm could pick your carcass clean in under a minute, or so I’ve heard. If you’re with the RL, say goodbye to all your favorite toes, because they’re gonna squeeze all the logistics and secrets out of that -

Do you ever stop talking? Jennifer snapped, cutting him off.

I do, but I’d rather not. Gotta keep the old organ nimble, as they say. He tapped on the side of his head with his index finger.

She sighed. What’s an elf doing in Arkania? Besides stealing, I mean. Isn’t this climate a little warm for you?

Gav shrugged. Exiled from Nidore, sadly. The elf queen didn’t take too kindly to my raiding of the royal treasuries. But mother has always been a bit of a stick in the mud.

Your mother is the elf Queen?

Don’t look back, that’s what I say. The past is the past, you know? I’m a forward-thinker, I am, Gav said, his blue eyes sparkling. Try not to reflect too often on the old lady and her rules.

Jennifer rolled her eyes. He was crazy, she decided. But at least he wasn’t going to try and eat her, like the ork she had been celled with back in Redwood. She hoped, anyway. Is there any way out of here? Have you tried looking for a way to escape?

Right to business, you are, said the elf. And yes, I’ve tried a few different things. Can’t reach the door hinges, can’t spring the locks, door is very strong, floor and walls are stone, so tunneling would take centuries, and the guards all seem to be robotic, so bribery or seduction is off the table.

Well, okay, then, said Jennifer. Very thorough. She glanced up at the window in the wall. What about that?

He followed her gaze. Sure, bars might be rusty and breakable. But even if we knocked them loose, could someone of your size fit through such a small hole?

Her eyes narrowed. I’m a human, not an elephant.

Not much difference, if you ask me, Gav said. Why don’t you give me a little boost and I’ll assess the situation.

By now, most of the feeling had returned to her legs, and she stood up, using the wall to support herself. She was a bit wobbly, but she could stand just fine. She made her way over to beneath the window, with the elf following behind her.

Okay, toss me up on your shoulders, he said.

Bossy little prince, aren’t you? She grabbed him under the armpits, like somebody lifting a toddler, and hoisted him up so that his large feet were resting on her shoulders. She wrinkled her nose. Sure you weren’t imprisoned for gross negligence of personal hygiene?

All elves’ feet smell, that’s just something you’ll have to get used to, said Gav, as he stretched out his arms toward the window. Ah . . . almost there . . . not quite. . . I need a little more lift. Mind if I stand on your noggin?

But before Jennifer could reply, he was scrambling up onto her head, nearly a toe in her mouth, and whopped her hard in the eye with his heel.

Ow, she growled. Careful, or I drop you.

. . . there it is . . . got it! exclaimed Gav, and she watched him scramble up onto the window ledge. Oh dear.

What is it?

That’s quite a fall, he said. Can’t see the ground. Just drops away into blackness. We might be imprisoned right on the Rift.

Jennifer considered the possibility. The Rift was a gigantic crevasse, the primary dividing line between Arkania and Bazool. Many said it had no bottom, that it just kept going forever. Tales of horrible creatures crawling up from its depths plagued the villages and towns nearby, monstrosities large enough to gulp down a city in one mouthful, before slithering back to their dark lairs.

How are the bars?

Gav shook them. Don’t budge. We’re not getting out this way.

Okay, she said. Come on down. But carefully. If I get kicked, you’re going to live up there.

Gav scampered down quickly, and then laid on his back on the cold stone floor. Guess we’ll just have to wait for the next transfer to attempt a breakout. Where are you headed?

Salt pits, she said, sitting down next to him. You?

Same for me, sadly. He shook his overlarge head, and held his hands up to the moonlight. Do these hands look suited for intensive labor? I won’t last a week in those conditions.

I think I can agree with you there, Jennifer responded.

So what’d you do? Why are you in such big trouble? he rolled over on his side, peering at her with his big, owlish eyes.

Got caught trying to help a refugee escape, she said. Though it was more my backlog of misdemeanors that landed me here.

Why the Rankless? the elf asked. Aren’t you all a bunch of reckless terrorists, just wreaking more havoc on this already hurting world?

We’re not terrorists, said Jennifer. We believe in something, and aren’t afraid to fight for it.

But why you specifically? asked Gav. What did Arkania ever do to you?

Jennifer was silent for a moment. She saw her mother’s smiling face, heard her father’s booming laugh. They had been beautiful people, her family. Native Arkanians, they were. Her ancestors had lived in the city of Constantine for generations and generations, and were proud of their heritage. Her parents, Boris and Antilla, had owned a restaurant called Fang’s, which had first been opened by her father’s grandmother, years and years ago. Served the best slugfish and biscuits around. They were very respectable and hard-working citizens. One day, a troop of Arkanian dragoons had piled into the place, hoping for a hot bite and a pint of ale each. One of them, a man with the snout of a pig, made a pass at her mother. Antilla hurried away without saying a word, her eyes hot with tears. The officer and his cronies followed her back into the kitchen, jeering and demanding she come back. Her father sternly asked them to stop. The pig-faced soldier pushed him aside and grabbed Antilla’s arm. Boris grabbed a rolling pin from off the counter and struck the dragoon on the side of his neck. The other soldiers restrained him, and then the highest-ranking officer, a man named Perzagor, had pulled a pistol and shot her father in the stomach. Jennifer remembered how much she, then only a little girl of seven, had screamed. She tried to rush to her father’s side, but had been grabbed up by a big soldier.

Burn the place, Perzagor had said. Throw the woman in prison.

What about the girl? asked the big soldier.

Perzagor looked her over, his eyes hard. To the textile mill, I should think. They’re always in need of laborers.

And that’s exactly what happened. The dragoons torched the restaurant. Young Jennifer was sent off to the mill, to work her fingers to the bone eighteen hours a day making luxurious clothes for Arkanian royalty, while her mother grew sick and died in an Arkanian prison, probably very similar to the one Jennifer was in now. The women who ran the mills were old and cruel, and treated her no better than vermin. Her fingers would bleed when she worked, and more than once she put a big needle through her skin. When she was fifteen, she ran away from the mill, and boarded a boat bound for Nidaria. That had been almost twenty years ago.

And she had thought about nothing but revenge ever since. 

No answer? the elf asked, still peering at her. Just love the thrill, I suppose. Can’t help but resist authority?

She smiled joylessly. Something like that.

The elf continued to talk, jabbering on about this and that, regaling her with tall tales of his exploits, and Jennifer pretended to listen, until finally, she slipped off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

At around noon the next day, the cell door creaked slowly outward. The warden stood behind it, flanked by four armed guards, two human, two robotic. The humans were dressed in the black of Arkanian dragoons, but had green bear patches on their shoulders, to signify their status as guardsmen.

Come forth, the both of you, said the warden, her tone dry and almost bored. A prison convoy will take you south today, across the Bazooli desert to your final destination. Try anything foolish in my dungeon, and I will not hesitate to have one of these guards kill you where you stand. Try anything foolish out on the sands, and Dreadstone will break your legs and leave you for the Nighthowlers. Do I make myself clear?

You make yourself very clear, said Gav.

The warden raised an eyebrow at Jennifer.

Yes, said Jennifer.

They both approached the cell door. Though she knew the conditions outside the dungeon would be foul, Jennifer was excited to leave the stinking cell behind. One of the human guards stepped forward, holding two pairs of iron manacles, which he promptly clasped around both Gav’s and Jennifer’s wrists.

Follow me, would you? the warden indicated with a long finger, and turned to head up the corridor.

Jennifer and Gav did so, the elf struggling to keep up, as his legs were half the size of all around him. He cracked a bad joke at one point, and one of the guards promptly struck him with the butt of his rifle. Gav kept quiet after that, and a dark blue bruise began to form beneath his eye.

They wound through hall after hall, up staircase after winding staircase. Jennifer could hear the wails of prisoners echoing through the horrid dungeon, the sounds of misery and torture bound up in the very soul of this place. She couldn’t help but wonder if she knew any of the people locked in these cells, and she yearned to one day return here and liberate them all.

At last, they reached a cavernous room, which slanted up to a yawning doorless archway, through which poured gray daylight. The warden marched them straight through this archway, and she blinked as her eyes adjusted to the natural light. The sky was filled with brooding clouds, which cast a dull pallor over the landscape. Red lightning crackled through the sky over the tall brown mountains to her right, which, if her geography was correct, was the Kanook range. She could see the tallest of them all, Nightpeak, disappear into the storm clouds. A dry wind tossed her hair about her face, and drove stinging bits of sand against her skin. Directly in front of her was the southern reaches of Arkania, she surmised, a place of patchy grasslands and parched riverbeds. She knew there were lusher regions the further north you went. And behind her - she turned to look, and couldn’t help but suck in her breath - was the Rift. It was a gigantic tear right through the world, a chasm that tore the land apart. She guessed it was somewhere near five miles wide, and spanned farther than she could see in either direction. It fell away into utter, soulless darkness. The prison, Blackheel Dungeon, was built right into the edge of the Arkanian side, which deterred any desire to escape, she was sure.

And on the other side of the Rift was Bazool, the Southern Desert, a seemingly endless expanse of yellow sand and rust-brown rock. Despite the overcast sky, the heat was sweltering and will-breaking. Sweat had broken out on her forehead and arms already.

This journey to the salt pits was not going to be fun.

Her plans would involve a detour, however. Or a change of destination, at the very least.

A group of fifty or so individuals stood in a cluster not too distant from the archway. The majority of them were chained together, and Jennifer knew these were fellow prisoners, also headed to the salt pits. The rest were slavers. Jennifer counted eight in all: two bony orks, two sniveling wererats, two rusty guard-bots, a hulking ogre, and a human. Mercenaries, she assumed. 

The human slaver approached them, stepping away from his caravan. He had to be one of the ugliest people Jennifer had ever seen: a long, sallow face etched with deep creases, skin like Phantan leather; a greasy, limp beard that only grew along the sawblades of his jaw; a thin body and a hunched back. He wore a long brown duster coat, and on his head was a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. His limbs were long and ape-like; his two long legs disappeared into tall black boots, and one of his hands was malformed, growing into a thick, greenish stump, covering in long white spines. This condition, Jennifer knew, was caused by contact with the deadly Toocha cactus. The infection would eventually spread across his entire body, years from now, leaving him to die a slow, agonizing death.

Saved the best for last, I see, he said, his voice slimy and deriding. He walked right up to Jennifer, and cupped her chin with his one good hand, which was cold and moist. She immediately pulled away, snapping her head back.

As always, spoke the warden, gazing haughtily upon the last two prisoners. The elf is a pest of the highest order, a thief and a scoundrel, causing much chaos and unease in the King’s cities.

Gav snorted. A pest? That’s nice, coming from an overgrown spider like you.

The warden flicked her hand absentmindedly, and one of the accompanying guards struck Gav again, this time much harder, right between his narrow shoulder blades. The small creature stumbled to his knees.

Might feed him to the other prisoners if we run out of rations along the way, mused the slave driver.

The warden shook her head. No. Perzagor wants all high profile prisoners sent to the Citadel. They will battle in the arena, for the entertainment of the Bazooli elite. Keep them alive.

The name sent a bolt of fury through Jennifer. Perzagor. He was the governor of the Reaches now, his influence spilling into Bazool. And she was being sent right to him.

The slaver didn’t look at her, but placed an acknowledging hand to his hat.

And the woman, the warden continued, is Jennifer Fang, renowned criminal and thug, a notable member of the Rankless rabble. She is quite slippery, mind you, and has attempted escape a number of times since her recent capture. The Red Country will be most displeased if she manages to slip through your remaining fingers, Dreadstone, and it will be you who pays the price if she does so.

Believe me, said Dreadstone, his yellow eyes now fixed upon Jennifer. This little zealot isn’t going anywhere. And if she tries, she’ll wish she hadn’t been born.

Jennifer didn’t say a word, and calmly held the slaver’s stare.

Lugnuk, Tarkbog! Dreadstone hollered, over his shoulder. The two orks came running. Chain these two maggots up with the rest.

Chapter two

THE DESOLATION OF THE LURCH

As Jasper’s boots sunk slowly into the gray sand, he feared he wouldn’t see tonight’s sunset. Or any sunset, ever again. This could be the end of the line.

Behind him were the amassed vessels of the Arkanian Grand Navy, some hundred ships, hulking shadows in the dark waters of the Wandering Sea. Before him were the dank marshes of The Lurch, a land of acid pools and black magic. Fog enveloped most of the landscape, but he could see ominous rock formations rising from the mist.

Jasper Squid, a boy of sixteen, was one of thousands of Arkanian Dragoons splashing from transport ships onto the dark beach. They were naval reinforcements, sent in to strengthen the initial wave of infantry troops, brave soldiers who had been decimated by the opposition.

His given name was Jasper Aurelius Youngblood, son of the Grand Admiral Nottington Youngblood III, but all young naval enlistees received the surname Squid upon arrival to Basic Training, to make them feel equal with their fellow recruits. No matter if you were a nobleman’s heir or the spawn of a fishmonger, all Arkanian soldiers served one purpose - to live and die at the behest of their king. Once a recruit reached the rank of lieutenant, their family surname would be restored.

Jasper was tall and lanky, his hair blond, his eyes blue. He had a long face, with pale, freckled skin. He stood dressed in the standard Arkanian infantry uniform: a black coat, black trousers, and heavy-duty boots. A Black Squid patch was sewn to his left shoulder, designating him a member of the Grand Arkanian Navy. Plates of leather armor covered his thighs, shins, chest, and back. Beneath his uniform he wore a layer of scale-skin, standard issue and strong enough to stop most blades or glancing projectiles. He gripped a Hellfire rifle in his hands, and an ornate saber hung at his side, a sword given to him by his father.

This would be Jasper’s second battle. The first had been a navy skirmish, where an Arkanian warship had attacked a pirate vessel. Jasper had only just crossed onto the enemy ship before the battle was over. He had fired his rifle once, the bullet missing its intended target and embedding itself in the mast. Despite his lack of involvement, he vomited afterward, soaking his newly polished boots in partially-digested breakfast.

And now here he was, about to charge into the foul marshes of The Lurch alongside his comrades, the King’s most loyal patriots fighting to protect their families back home. The reinforcements were led by Atlas, eldest son of King Faust and heir to the throne of Arkania. Earlier in the month, Romulus, the younger brother of Atlas, had petitioned the King to allow him to invade The Lurch, to bring an end to the brutality inflicted by the kahira, Bazooli rebels who called The Lurch home. Kahira raiding parties had become an affliction upon Red border towns, slaughtering inhabitants and livestock alike, carrying away and feasting upon the prisoners. They were monsters, and Romulus had finally had enough. The King granted his request, and the prince had swept south with a battalion of his most trusted warriors. A bloodied messenger hawk had arrived a week later, carrying a communique: Romulus had been ambushed by Manjiki, Sorceress of Gonbragon, his army all but destroyed. Romulus’s message had detailed that he had slain the Sorceress, but his troops were still battling for dear life, lost deep within The Lurch.

So the King sent his eldest son to clean up the mess, sending every troop that could be spared, to stomp upon the kahira and finally bring The Lurch into the Red fold.

If the Sorceress proved to still be alive, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Her infamous witchcraft and curses had been the cause of the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of Arkanian soldiers. The Archbishop Turpin himself crafted Holy Relics to protect the soldiers from her Soulsmiter. If she was dead, the Arkanians had a chance to destroy the kahira once and for all.

Jasper’s stomach roiled like a bed of eels, anxiety pulsing through his veins. He hadn’t eaten this morning, to avoid vomiting again, but he doubted he could stop the bile if it rose. He had