The Howling Delve

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All my love to Mom and Dad and Jeff, because without them none of this would have happened.

With many thanks to Ann Wheeler and Doug Davis, because great teachers should be valued and never forgotten.

Kall swung the staff high, angling it at his best friend’s head.

Kall’s fourteen-year-old limbs were all bone and wire, but the sapling was light and made a whistling sound as it cut the air above the waters of Lake Esmel.

Aazen ducked, crouched, and sprang to an adjacent rock, losing only briefly the rhythm of the violin he had tucked under his chin. The feint at his head didn’t seem to faze the boy or affect his balance in the slightest.

Undeterred, Kall matched his friend’s path stone for stone, taking them farther from the shore. The water turned deep blue, marking the shelf where the bottom dropped away.

“Too light,” Aazen commented as the music—wire screeching, to Kall’s ears—died away. He pointed to the staff. “Needs proper balance.”

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