Stories from a Worldbuilder

It's called Etherwalker: as if Call of Duty and World of Warcraft weren't enough

I know a Creative Director who’s helped craft some of deepest worldbuilding in video game history. His name is Cameron Dayton.

He’s contributed to the lore of World of Warcraft, Call of Duty, and so many more.

Cameron and I have been on Comic Con panels together. He’s a brilliant storyteller. He knows how to craft immersive worlds.

So when he pitched the idea of Etherwalker to Future House Publishing, I was very much on board.

It was so popular, it shot up the charts. In fact, we just came out with a second edition.

But don’t take my word for it

Here’s what others had to say.

“Vividly realized, skillfully crafted, and briskly paced, Etherwalker is a thrilling first chapter for what is sure to be an outstanding saga.” —Micky Neilson, New York Times bestselling author

“It’s unlike anything I’ve read before, and I want more.” —Matt Burns, author of Diablo III: Book of Tyrael

"Cameron Dayton has met the challenge of blending science fiction and fantasy with Etherwalker." —Christie Golden, New York Times Bestselling Author of Star Wars: Dark Disciple

“A heady stew of genetic engineering, Mesoamerican myth, techno-utopianism, and post-apocalyptic dreaming, with a dash of quest fantasy and a liberal helping of nerd apotheosis." —Alex Irvine, Locus-Award winning author

Here’s Cameron in his own words

With over twenty years writing for blockbuster franchises from Activision, Electronic Arts, and Epic Games, Cameron has gained a reputation for bringing powerful storytelling to games. From the Call of Duty trenches to the enchanted World of Warcraft, his tales have engaged, rallied, and inspired millions of readers. Cameron has also written for best-selling comics, anthologies, and co-wrote the independent film Unicorn City, which garnered several awards in the indie circuit and was featured on Netflix. Cameron is a wide-ranging traveler, an adventurous foodie, and the father to three children who are mercifully patient with dad's geeky ways.

Chapters for You

This substack is about science fiction, fantasy, and lore, in all its forms. But of course, it all begins with words.

This is exclusive content we’re not posting anywhere else, except in your local bookstores or on Kindle.

Now we’re going to deliver it straight to your inbox.

Please tell me what you think in the comments. I’ll be posting segment by segment every few weeks or so, allowing you to immerse yourself in the world of Etherwalker.

It’s one of the perks of being here.

Chapter 1

When black the clouds of Northland furled,

Red soaked the skies of Babel,

Those who ruled and clove the world

Death’s tattered wind did travel.

—Lodoroi song

“Found any more soil under all those rocks in your field?”

Grinning and bobbing and shaking his tangle of oily orange

hair, Mishael Keddrik slapped the tall soldier on the back. Once

again, the grocer was attempting to wear down Master Gershom

with an onslaught of bad jokes—a siege of limp humor flung at

a pale and unappreciative target.

Enoch tried to hide his smile, lifting his wrist over his mouth

while pretending to cough.

Stepping around the trader’s wares, Enoch found a spot

behind a bin of seeds where he could listen—and smile—without

being noticed. Master Gershom stared at the grocer, weathering

the storm of bad breath and sarcasm like he did every spring: with

tight-lipped stoicism. Loudly clearing his throat, Master Gershom

repeated his request for salve.

Unperturbed, the round little grocer smiled and reached into

one of the cupboards behind the counter. With a theatrical gasp

of joy, he pulled out a little clay pot.

“And now, boy,” said the trader, calling across the shop toward

Enoch, “if the good Master Gershom will promise to apply this

to his palsied humor twice daily, I shall give it to him for free.”

Enoch pressed his wrist so hard against his grin that it hurt.

Not wanting to ignore the trader, or to anger his master, he

nodded mutely. Master Gershom mumbled something that was

partially a growl and then shook his head, long, white military

braids waggling in counterpoint to his fierce countenance. He

then placed a stack of coins on the barrel in front of him—

more than enough for the medicine—and stormed out. Enoch

followed, past the protesting Mishael Keddrik and out into the

afternoon sun.

Master Gershom strode swiftly across the shallow wagon

path that counted as Main Street—or, as Enoch called it, Only

Street. A century ago, Rewn’s Fork had been a crossroads shared

by two shepherd families, and it had grown just barely enough

since that time to be considered a village.

Enoch trotted after his master. The two stood out in this

shepherds’ town: a pale and scar-crossed scarecrow soldier and

his silent, mouse-eyed acolyte.

As he walked, Master Gershom placed the ointment in his

satchel. “Wait by the well,” he said as Enoch drew near. “I want to

see if Shyde has some iron pins at his forge; we need to reinforce

the south gate.”

Enoch nodded as a nervous feeling twisted through his

stomach. He did not feel good here, in town. He felt like everybody

was looking at him, and there were just . . . too many eyes. Blue

eyes, green eyes, eyes that stared and stared and only looked away

a second after Enoch noticed them. It was a second of judgment,

disapproval, and even a little fear. The people of Rewn’s Fork

had never welcomed these strangers into their town—not fully.

Enoch and Master Gershom presented a discomfort that could

only be tolerated as long as the two didn’t stay in town for long.

Enoch frowned and brushed a thick lock of black hair past

his eyes. He looked at his arm in the sunlight, brown skin that

darkened in the summer instead of turning red. He felt like he

was a blemish here, a smudge of charcoal dragged across the rosy

cheek of Rewn’s Fork.

I’m a break in the pattern.

Carefully crossing his arms, Enoch leaned back against the

potter’s shack, which butted up against the well. The potter’s

daughter, Lyse, had just arrived from the other direction to gather

water, and Enoch could tell that she was studiously avoiding his

gaze.

I guess that’s better than staring.

He watched her discomfort curiously and tried to be more

aware of his feelings. Mindful, as Master Gershom put it. Should

he feel hurt that this girl with the pretty blue eyes didn’t say hello

to him like she had to the two boys over by the fence? He’d seen

other boys bothered by things like that. Enoch frowned a bit and

shifted against the wall.

Master Gershom said that Enoch was a different sort

of person than the townsfolk, and that he kept his feelings in a

different sort of way. Enoch supposed it was all right, this ability

to not be bothered by hurtful things.

Lyse collected her sloshing buckets and walked past Enoch.

He watched her go, noticing that her normally pale cheeks were

bright red. Was that a sign of her anger or disgust with him? He

gave up trying to figure it out and instead focused on the boys

near the fence.

They were about his age, the taller one maybe a year older at

fifteen. He was already sprouting a thin tuft of red hair from his

chin.

Jason? Jaron?

Enoch never forgot a name, but he realized that he had never

actually heard this boy’s name spoken clearly. The other was Ben, a

broad-shouldered lad covered in freckles. Ben had taken to calling

Enoch names whenever they crossed paths but had never actually

spoken with him. Enoch found that odd.

The two were playing some sort of game on a wooden plank.

The plank had a series of holes drilled into it in a regular pattern,

and the boys were moving various stones from one side of the

board to another. In a few short moments, Enoch deciphered

the rules of the game. It was fairly simple: gray stones could only

move a distance of three holes, black stones could move five,

and the two white stones seemed to be able to jump across any

unbroken line of grays.

With a cry of victory, Ben jumped his white stone into a

hole occupied by a black one. The other boy—Jason, as it turned

out—grumbled as his friend took the black stone from its spot

and placed it in line with several other black and gray stones

on the left side of the board. Ben then moved the white stone

forward two holes.

Enoch recognized what was happening here—it was a duel.

The stones represented different actions: a thrust, a parry, or

a feint. Gray stones were quick actions; four of them could be

moved per turn, or two black stones could be moved per turn, or

one black and two grays. The white stone was a finishing move, a

coup de grâce that ended each turn. If the duelist had been able to

string together a series of actions that landed the white stone on

an occupied hole, he got to keep the stone and take another turn.

But it was obvious that Ben was going to lose. In six more

turns, Jason would be able to trap Ben’s white stone between four

blacks and easily take the rest. Enoch was stunned when the tall

boy instead chose to timidly move four grays into a line in front

of his own white. It didn’t make any sense. Didn’t he know that

his opponent could jump past that supposed “defense” with at

least five of the black stones arrayed around the table?

Without thinking, Enoch stepped forward and pointed to the

board. “You shouldn’t waste your advantage like that.”

Jason looked up at Enoch, his eyes going wide when he saw

who had addressed him. “Huh?”

Enoch knelt down next to the board, tracing his finger along

the four gray stones. “You are leaving yourself wide open for—”

Jason’s expression went from a look of surprise to a scowl.

He smacked Enoch’s hand away from the board. “Don’t touch

my toads, orphan. Who asked you?”

Enoch held his hands up, surprised by Jason’s anger. “Toads?

I . . . I’m just trying to show you where to put your guard so you

can turn your opponent’s stroke.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, idiot.” Jason

rolled his eyes and nodded to his friend. “Hey, look at the runt—

he couldn’t talk until he was five, and suddenly he’s an expert at

jedrez?”

Ben had a smirk on his face and seemed to be glad Enoch had

joined the conversation. He swatted at Enoch’s shoulder with a

freckled fist, chuckling. Enoch frowned. Runt? He was not as tall

as any of the boys—or girls—his age in town, but he wasn’t that

much smaller.

“This is a man’s game,” said Ben. “It’s complicated. These stones

are part of an army from the Rain Age—venom toads, coldmen,

and Alaphim. The board is a battlefield. And it’s none of your

pitmilking business.”

Now Ben hit his shoulder again, only hard. Enoch fell back

on the gravel, instinctively bending his legs as he fell so that he

rolled to his feet a second later. He had been so focused on the

patterns in the game that he hadn’t noticed the other boys who

had gathered around as Ben spoke. There were three more of

them: Jason’s older brother and two of Ben’s cousins.

“Scales, that was a pretty little dance,” said Ben, eyebrow

raised. “Maybe the orphan’s albino uncle has been teaching him

how to spin like the girls down at Cavernsway?”

The other boys laughed while Enoch rubbed his sore shoulder.

He looked over at Jason for some understanding.

“I was just trying to help.”

Jason stood up to his full height.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. Nobody asked

for your advice, you little—”

He swung at Enoch, his fist whistling through the air. Enoch

ducked under the blow, now understanding that this conversation

had turned into a fight. Somehow. He took a quick step back,

turning aside into the semprelisto. This was the best stance for

unexpected attacks, and Enoch felt it most appropriate. Master

Gershom had been drilling Enoch on stances just this morning.

“You did need my help,” continued Enoch, trying to help

them understand.

Why are they so angry? Maybe if I explain better.

“You had just set yourself up for five easy attacks, which

would’ve guaranteed a loss.”

Jason swung at him again—only this time, dodging brought

Enoch up against Ben’s sturdy frame. The thicker boy had snuck

up behind him, and now he wrapped his arms around Enoch’s

and lifted him into the air.

“See if you can hit the runt now, Jason. You need me to piss

an X on his face?”

The taller boy cussed and swung, his heavy farm-boy fist

slamming into Enoch’s ribs with a thud. All the breath went from

his lungs with a gasp. Enoch looked around, frantically searching

for his master. He didn’t understand why they were doing this. It

hurt.

“Don’t . . . I was just . . .”

The next hit cracked across his jaw, and Enoch tasted blood.

He struggled to get free, but Ben only tightened his grip.

“Scales! Wiggly little weasel, aren’t you?”

And then Enoch saw Master Gershom. He had just come out

of the blacksmith’s shop across the road and—and he was just

standing there. Watching.

Enoch tried to call out to him, but his voice was weak and

there was no air in his lungs.

“Please . . .”

Another blow to the side of his face, and Enoch’s vision went

black. There was a ringing followed by muffled silence, and Enoch

instinctively moved into that silence.

He paused. Everything slowed around him.

Enoch had learned this—this pausing—all by himself over the

past couple of weeks. He could turn his mind inside and still the

motion of the world around him. He couldn’t actually stop the

world, or even slow it, but he could affect his pace through it—

allow his mind to quietly take its time to think. To plan.

Now seems like a good time.

In his pause, Enoch saw Jason’s anger and Master Gershom

standing impassively. Even with his mind racing, he still didn’t

understand how this happened.

From his pause, Enoch slipped into the afila nubla—the dream

mind. He recited the incantation silently.

The mind is a world, the consciousness its light.

As day turns to night, so shall my mind;

afila lumin setting as the nubla rises,

and so my mindworld revolves.

Master Gershom faded away. All thoughts of the game, of

Jason’s poor strategy, faded. There were just the hands holding

him in place and the fists coming to hurt him.

Dodge, direct, divide. The three simple mind commands freed

his body into instinct.

Leaning back into Ben as though to avoid Jason’s next swing,

Enoch suddenly lunged forward and brought his captor’s face in

front of the blow. Jason’s fist smashed into a freckled nose with

a crack, and Enoch felt his arms suddenly free. Using his forward

momentum, he grabbed one of the arms that had held him,

twisting it as he swung around Ben’s falling body. Ben fell limp to

the ground, and his own weight pulled his arm from its socket.

Enoch stepped away from the body and faced Jason, bending his

knees back into the semprelisto.

Jason stared down at his fallen friend with his mouth open.

“Ben! I’m . . . I didn’t mean to—”

Enoch’s kick swept Jason’s left leg out from under him, and

the taller boy landed with a cry. The others backed away.

Enoch stayed in his fighting stance until they had all slunk

away. He looked at the two boys on the ground, calculating. He

delivered another vicious kick into Jason’s side, and one to Ben.

Only one of the boys groaned.

This was not vindictive; it was how he had been trained, to

make sure your opponent was not only beaten, but broken. Master

Gershom nodded and waved Enoch over to leave.

By this time, several townsfolk had gathered. They whispered

among each other and stared. Here stood that scrawny orphan

boy from the other end of the valley, thin and wiry and silent.

And at his feet lay two much larger boys—one whimpering, and

the other out cold. They were still murmuring as Master Gershom

led his charge out of Rewn’s Fork.

By the way, the DC Super Pets Movie night last night was a smashing good time. Great film. Great people. Stay tuned for our next event, and let me know in the comments where we should hold our next one.

See you in the future.

Adam Sidwell

Creative Director

Future House Publishing & Future House Studios

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