The seven thunders, p.1
The Seven Thunders, page 1
From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring.
— J. R. R. TOLKIEN
Text copyright © 2023 by O. C. Jaime
Cover design, illustration & lettering © by Leah Palmer Preiss 2024
Map illustrations © by Misty Beee 2023
All related characters and elements are ™ of and
© World of Thunders, Inc. Seven Thunders Publishing Rights
© O. C. Jaime.
All rights reserved. Published by World of Thunders Books.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to World of Thunders, Inc. at ask@worldofthunders.com, Attention: Department of Permissions
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: 2024920376
Jaime, O. C.
The Seven Thunders: Rise of the Twinkling Heir / by O. C. Jaime
Summary: A scrawny and cerebral young boy with a knack for tinkering and building things in his sleep is admitted to Glimmeroc, home to the vaunted Fourth Thunder academy of airjocks, where he discovers the truth of his lineage and the destiny that is his to save his world.
ISBN (Hardcover): 979-8-9897066-6-2
ISBN (eBook): 979-8-9897066-2-4
[1. Fantasy — Fiction. 2. Deity — Fiction.
3. Wizards — Fiction. 4. Military Schools — Fiction.]
Printed in the U.S.A.
First American edition, October 2025
Dedicated to my first Thunderheads:
To Ginger, to Brittany, to Amber, to Chase, to Dehan, to Rhya, and to Legend
— and to you, new reader, upon the turning of this page hereby sealed to join their ranks
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
THE VIVIRIM
CHAPTER TWO
SEND-OFF
CHAPTER THREE
INDUCTION
CHAPTER FOUR
SUMMER COMMODORE
CHAPTER FIVE
HEALERWOOD
CHAPTER SIX
WIELDER 101
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE WINDS
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE UHLAN
CHAPTER NINE
IMAGINENT LAB
CHAPTER TEN
NECROGIST
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE GUILDERMAN
CHAPTER TWELVE
FURLOUGH
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ELIOTH & WURREN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE GAUNTLET
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SEAL THE EVERLING
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STURGEON MOON
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ACADEMIC YEAR
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
“The Day of Sorrows approaches . . .
The time of travail has come,”
said Elyon All-Father.
Haeluel Son and Arm to the All-Father
stood from His throne. “Woe unto the
world whose defenders are weak. The
nations rage, and the people plot in vain.
The enemy has his foothold.”
“It is as We foretold,”
the Great Spirit Olesuuway replied soberly.
Haeluel pounded His fist on His grand
throne. “The One Tree suffers, and the
prayers of the penitent fill Our ears.
Issue the calling, Father.”
“Toll the Verily!” Elyon shouted towards the
stars. “I All-Father summon the Vivirim!
Destiny will be deposited this day!”
The Xylarook broke through storm clouds he had unintentionally created with the flap of his wings and screeched, most aggrieved, when he flapped his wings again and could not reverse the weather. Threatening columns, black and grey, swirled about him. The rain fell in hard sheets and hail the size of creek stones. His eagle eyes could barely see in front of him. On his back rode a waif of a girl, partially hidden by the longest feathers on his neck. Her legs were pressed into his lion body trying to hold on. The Xylarook shrieked as turbulent winds fought his descent. His gryphon claws stretched, eager to find the ground.
On the horizon ran the Rwaa, nimble and surefooted; he traversed the snow-capped mountains of the Godhead, bounding with speed in his legs. His tiger roar could be heard for miles.
Inside the keep of the Godhead, known by mortals and the undying celestial servants of light and of dark as the Triune Crowned, two others wrestled with what had reached the divine domain.
The Qwee, carrying trays of powdered nutrients for healing the One Tree, hurried to apply the medicinal ointment. The One Tree loomed above him as he spread the paste, standing as it had since the spawn of creation at the heart of the royal gardens in an elaborate maze of meticulously groomed boxwood. Its great canopy fanned over the hedges, and over jasmine, rose, honeysuckle, and freesia. Hundreds more blooming flowers of every kind surrounded it. The scent of them filled the air. Beautiful furry creatures skittered up and down its limbs. Whistling songbirds flitted and nested on its welcoming boughs. Kaleidoscopes of butterflies danced on its fringes in kissing reverence. It was a tree without equal: giant roots that protruded and dug deep into the botanical garden’s rich soil, tall and wide, with a girthy trunk, thick branches, and perfectly crowned with supple, dark green leaves. From it flowed life to all worlds and by it was the veil between mortality and spirit held in tension.
The Qwee, frustrated, pounded his great fists into the ground leaving behind knuckle prints, his minotaur strength useless. Despite his efforts, the plague spread up the smooth ivory bark like ash-colored veins. The One Tree groaned and shuddered. Servants scrambled in all directions, some unable to hold back their tears. A deepening dread had struck the palace of the Godhead.
The Aegus, the keeper of histories and of the Triunes’ tenets, struggled to understand. He poured through books, some sickening to read. One recaptured his attention after having set it down. He turned its pages slowly. His aged appearance shifting as his hand rubbed the faded ink. It landed on a phrase, and he raised his head to look into the mirror across the room. He did not run from his appearance but stared at himself most intently. What he could see of his shapeshifted flesh was eaten and rotten. His face vicious and fanged. He was not human or creature but transformed into something combined. He slammed the book shut, and what he had chained behind him moved. He returned to his gray hairs and white beard at the knock on his door.
“The others have arrived, my lord,” the doorward said with a bow.
The Aegus disregarded the doorward and went back into his room to fetch his captive. He forced it to its feet. It was head-bagged and chained and made guttural, unworldly sounds.
The doorward stepped back. “It smells, my lord Aegus . . .”
“Never mind that. Where?”
“The sacellum, my lord. There is a new Vivirim among them. Resembles a cat, fur as white as snow, and striped, my lord Aegus. Paws big as tollier petals.”
“Cat?” the Aegus asked curiously. “Stay here. And not a word of what you’ve seen leaves your lips.”
“Certainly, my lord Aegus,” said the doorward, cutting his eyes at the inarticulate warbles of the throat that came from the foul creature the Aegus had head-bagged behind him.
The Aegus tightened his grip on the chains and evanesced, dematerializing with his captive.
The doorward looked on conflicted and most afraid. Death walked the halls of the Gods. Whether it was death himself, he did not know.
The sacellum temple rested a thousand steps up the arduous path of the Godhead. The Rwaa and the Xylarook were already there. Past the niceties of meeting for the first time, they paced, edgily awaiting the others. The Rwaa walked the sacellum’s circular colonnade, unable to admire the celestial views of the mortal world below because of the soup of angry skies. The Xylarook stopped to clean his feathers; his rider hidden behind him seemed to fluctuate between the hardness of flesh and bone and the wispiness of a cloud.
The Rwaa brushed up against the girl and sniffed her.
“Interesting, your rider,” the Rwaa said as she inched away from him. “Was she summoned like you?”
“What interest is it to you?” retorted the Xylarook.
The Rwaa brushed up against the girl’s green gown. “Not Vivirim,” he purred. “Now that’s interesting.”
“Where are you from?” the Xylarook asked skeptically.
“What interest is it to you? I could ask the same,” said the Rwaa, smiling. The great cat purred and shook his head, shirking his amusement. “I was found as a cub by one of the Huhwheri tribe of the Tongshere, wandering out of the most sacred trees of the jungle where they say Ha-el-uel Arm of Elyon the Father bled from his heel to bring health to the land. They raised me. They say I have his gift.”
“What gift?”
“My lick has healing properties.” The Rwaa paced, explaining, “I’ve healed scratches, lesions, sickness of the bone, blockages of the heart . . . I can smell disease. I smelled it the other night.” He stopped. “I saw the One Tree in my dreams. A voice called to me; I believe that’s why I’m here.”
The Xylarook responded, “Well, I am third of the Vivirim, keeper of the climatological order, except that my wings are no longer working as they should!”
“Are you saying that storm out there is because of you?” asked the Rwaa.
“At least you can do something, you whiny, beastly gryphon,” blurted the Qwee as he hoofed in, clomping louder than the storm. “My strength is wasted serving the One Tree. Do I look like some tree physician? I’m a minotaur, for Parsippany’s sake. I should be out there goring through harpies or smashing goblin skulls! Who are you?” he snorted most irritably when he noticed the Rwaa and the Xylarook’s rider. “And who’s she?”
“Sorry for being late,” said the Aegus as he appeared suddenly. “Being the bull again, Qwee?” The Aegus led his captive forward with the length of his white beard and shaleblue robes, struggling to keep up with his pace.
“Orion’s Belt, that smell!” complained the Qwee. “Did you find that thing digging in the refuse?”
“All in time,” the Aegus replied. He put down his book and approached the Rwaa. “You are a cat,” he said.
“I am Rwaa.”
“Are you roaring or saying your name?” quibbled the Qwee, an armor-wearing, black-furred minotaur with near-human hands, who had the size and strength to crush sixty men and blessed with the battle-tested disposition of sandpaper to prove it.
“You must forgive the Qwee,” said the Aegus. “Minotaurs aren’t generally this slow to manners.”
“The Qwee’s an acquired taste,” inserted the Xylarook. “Though I can’t say I’ve acquired it.”
“You are an ameliogen, my lord Rwaa,” stated the Aegus. “Your tongue . . . heals. The Triunes are wise to send you with a vision,” he said firmly, staring into the big white tiger’s brown eyes.
“It was bits and pieces,” the Rwaa said humbly.
“We each have pieces, my lord Rwaa,” affirmed the Aegus. “Woodwife!”
The Xylarook raised his great gryphon wing to unveil her hidden form. “Go on,” he nudged. The waif, delicate and dressed in a moss-colored gown, floated forward, her toes inches above the stones—a warden spirit of the woods of men. She spoke in song.
“Ash and Oak, Beech and Pine, all the wood know the Vivirim divine.
The days are sad; the days are strange.
The Aegus knows, the Aegus sees, trees always know the business of trees.
The Vesperal Willow, though one of a kind, her pain we feel through soil and grime.
Treachery, treachery, her beating heart sings.
To the North there is treachery, and we have tasted its sting!”
The Xylarook draped her with his wing, consolingly. “Shhh. It’s alright,” he whispered. She hid in his feathers. The Xylarook looked at the Aegus. “She and her trees share a connection to the One Tree. You heard her yourself; she, they, feel what ills her. She says that there are others like her, other Woodwives in the world of men that mirror her dread. I hoped that by bringing her here she could help illuminate what is going on.”
“How did you come upon her,” asked the Aegus.
“I found her weeping amongst her oaks, singing her woes,” recounted the Xylarook. “I sometimes enjoy the woods of men when I need to clear my mind. Something about their nature is soothing.”
“It is the praise of the trees, the earth, the streams,” explained the Aegus. “Their liberality in worshipping the Triunes without request or requirement brings you solace. And man too, though less so. As uncouth, warmongering, and broken as they are, some manage good. I find them fascinating and worthy of study. What was this stress you carried, Rook?”
“I was distraught . . .” replied the great gryphon. “I had a terrible dream the night before. An eeriness filled the forests. The Easterlies blew foul like funeral pyres that had been stacked high on the winds. Oceans were streaked with black. It’s as if my wings were touched by this corruption.”
The Rwaa hissed like a cat. “What’s wrong with your horn?” he sneered at the Qwee, backing away.
“What?” the Qwee said touching them both. His face went aghast. His right minotaur horn broke off, having turned an ashy gray. It crumbled under his hoof. “My horn . . .” he bellowed. “The Triunes gave me these silver tips. No wonder I felt like my strength was being sapped from me; thought I was going mad. Mad indeed. What is this devilry?!”
“We are all touched,” said the Aegus. “I shapeshifted into a warney lark not but two sunrises ago to enjoy the morning plumeriola blooms in the royal gardens and found I had tarantula eyes on my head and eight wings to go with eight legs.”
“Where are the Triunes in all this?” said the Rwaa. “I know I’m new, but the Godhead would not be Godhead if something could reach them without their awareness. Perhaps if we went there together, they would take an audience.”
“No one sees the Triunes,” grumbled the Qwee. “The Aegus, once, and he was on his knees with his head down.”
“I saw nothing,” the Aegus made clear. “The Triunes speak. Were you not given a vision of the One Tree? And you, did you not just regale us of a dark and horrible dream that led you to walk the woods by night only to find the Woodwife? And you Qwee, each time you bathed the Vesperal’s roots, did you not feel the truth that what ails her affects us all? Was it not then that you felt your strength sapped from you like it had been purged from a clogged spigot?”
The Aegus pulled out the book he had so nearly overlooked. “This book,” he said, “was written by a Necrogist, and a rather devout believer of the highdead. There are pages here that speak of theories of unlocking unimaginable powers if but the conjurer is willing to pay the price. To comingle magics . . . necromancy and transmutation. What the outcome would be was the postulation. I would not have believed it if I was not shown by the One Tree by my percipient touch that someone had already attempted this. You will be shocked by what you see now. Vacatis liberatus,” said the Aegus.
The Aegus quickly removed the prisoner’s head-bag, having eased the bondage enchantment. Its chains loosened, and it stood there in the silence that followed like an anathema to all that was good and beautiful and resplendent in the grand pantheon that was the sacellum. A fell creature, unnatural, twisted, feral, made by a dark, never-spoken magic. It was dead and undead and remade. The stench of its mutated, rotting flesh competed with the fragrance of the sacellum’s burning incense.
“Behold! The product of desecrated graves and ill words,” declared the Aegus.
“Abomination!” yelled the Qwee, snorting, ready to charge.
“It’s a clumsy creature, moves like its joints are greased with hardened lard. By Abrie’s tail,” said the Rwaa. “Is that braywolf and mortal I smell?”
“Necromorphy,” the Xylarook said in disgust.
“Hex us, vex us,
If devils remake us,
And from the dead take us,” sang Mave, horrifyingly so.
The lurching, lumbering creature lunged toward the Woodwife without care of consequence and with a speed that dispelled notions that it was sluggish or staggering. The Qwee charged, seeing red, and jumped to gore it through, to return it to the dirt and worms where it came from.
But the Aegus prevented it. “Arrestum,” he said, renewing his celestial hold.
“You usher this thing up here to the pillars of creation?!” The Qwee fumed. “Have you no fear of the Triunes? You go too far!”
“I go as I must. Would you rather that the dimensional order between the living and the dead fail?” retorted the Aegus. “Each plume that disappears from the One Tree severs one more ligament of the dimensional order. She weakens, and so it weakens. The Triunes abide it because of their unchangeable nature, and they will not break the first tenet to interfere in the world of men. They look to us. This ‘thing’ is our clue. Many more plumes go missing and we will soon be spectators to darkness covering the whole of creation and the death of all mortal kind.”
“Do we know who’s behind this?” probed the Xylarook.
“No, Rook. Scattered crumbs,” said the Aegus.
“Surely the Triunes know what to do if the stakes are hell and damnation,” growled the Rwaa.
As if in response, a fiery bird manifested above them without warning, hovering within the sacellum’s dome, wings aflame like the flares of a burning sun.
“It’s a sign!” shouted the Qwee.
“Beautiful, phoenixes,” said the Aegus with admiration.
“What’s it mean?!” appealed the Rwaa.
The sacellum shook. Thunder pealed and lightning cracked wickedly. Pieces of its massive columns fell.
