Swords don’t kill friends. Zarando does. And you better believe he’ll never forgive himself for it.
Zarando is a god — or at least he answers prayers like a god. When his Agency sends him to a rainy world to answer yet another prayer, he is displeased at best. His state of mind only worsens when he finds out that the world is filled with holes — holes that aren’t supposed to be there. Accompanied by locals Miro and Jagemir, Zarando embarks on a quest to fix the holes. Because that’s his job, isn’t it?
However, not everyone enjoys the idea of Zarando completing his job. What if even his own Queen doesn’t want him to succeed? And what if his friend Daevi is right, and this job is tougher than he can handle?
Most importantly, what if fixing the holes isn’t his job at all?
Swords don’t kill friends. Zarando does. And you better believe he’ll never forgive himself for it.
Zarando is a god — or at least he answers prayers like a god. When his Agency sends him to a rainy world to answer yet another prayer, he is displeased at best. His state of mind only worsens when he finds out that the world is filled with holes — holes that aren’t supposed to be there. Accompanied by locals Miro and Jagemir, Zarando embarks on a quest to fix the holes. Because that’s his job, isn’t it?
However, not everyone enjoys the idea of Zarando completing his job. What if even his own Queen doesn’t want him to succeed? And what if his friend Daevi is right, and this job is tougher than he can handle?
Most importantly, what if fixing the holes isn’t his job at all?
Zarando let out a long groan — the longest he could muster — as a bright light blinded his view. Not again. For the gods’ sake, not a-ksairing-gain.
Not one second later, his world fell away, to be replaced by another. An older one, maybe. He didn’t know, he never kept track of these things. That was Daevi’s department. She knew all worlds to the finest details, knew every little thing that made them unique. Travelled them the most, too. Loith, she might be the only one he knew who travelled them voluntarily.
Mad, she was.
He blinked while his body adjusted to its new reality. Water droplets trickled down his cheeks, his chin. The sound of thunder filled his ears. Great, this world had rain. A lot of rain.
With a scowl, Zarando gazed at the sky, urging the rain to stop and the dark clouds to clear — but the weather refused to listen. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Useless. Now what? He couldn’t just keep standing here. Well, he could, but he didn’t want to, for obvious reasons. And Centric would surely lecture him if he found out he was just standing around on the job.
Rocking on his heels, Zarando glanced around. He had landed on a soggy hill, and in the distance, a few scattered houses nestled themselves against a slope. On a good day — which it wasn’t — he might even call it a village. A short distance away from him his sword lay in a sizeable puddle of mud. Sighing, he patted his belt, searching for his sheath. Because he would have to take that dirty thing with him, wouldn’t he?
With a frown, he looked down at his belt. Where had his sheath gone? Was he supposed to just… drag his sword along?
For a moment, he seriously considered leaving the sword there. It was an old thing, surely nobody would miss it. Zarando probably wouldn’t.
He pursed his lips as the face of Daevi appeared in his mind, staring him down disapprovingly. Well, alright then. He’d take the bloody thing with him.
After bridging the distance between him and the sword, Zarando dislodged the thing from the mud, and proceeded to stare at it apprehensively for a few seconds. Right. Sword. Lovely sword. Lovely, clean, totally amazing sword.
Finally, he put the sword away and turned his gaze to the scattered houses, squinting his eyes at the droplets of rain. Whatever Centric might say, he was not going to do his job in this weather. How was he supposed to perform up to standard when all his clothes stuck to his body? No, he better wait somewhere dry.
He descended the slippery hill and strolled towards the village. Soon he had reached one of the houses, a tiny thing that leaned to its right a bit. Zarando tilted his head to match the angle of the house. Truly a marvel of engineering. He could live here; he liked it.
With the hilt of his sword, he knocked on the dark wooden door.
Knock, knock-knock, knock-knock-knock.
It was the knock Taeri and he had always used in their youth. Sadly, Taeri wasn’t here anymore, nor was his youth; but he still used the knock.
When the door didn’t open immediately, he knocked again. This time he heard muffled footsteps, and a moment later the door swung open. In the opening stood a person with a striking white patch in their hair, that stuck to their forehead as if they’d just been out in the rain as well. They took a moment to examine Zarando before frowning.
“I don’t know you,” they said, in a dialect that Zarando hadn’t heard in a while. Emorian, perhaps? He could never quite remember which dialect was which, even after having travelled a billion of worlds. His brain apparently didn’t think it was important enough. Which, to be fair, it wasn’t — as long as he could understand it.
Zarando nodded at the person. They reminded him a bit of someone, but he couldn’t pinpoint who.
“Apparently not, no.” He extended his hand for the person to shake. “Zareldo is the name.”
The person in front of him squinted. “Za… what?”
“Zaniro,” Zarando smiled. “Can I come in?” He gestured to the rain. “It’s pouring.”
“I was actually in the middle of something.” The person sniffed and wiped a raindrop from their cheek. “Can you come back another time?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.” In fact, he wasn’t afraid at all, but it was something people used to say, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t know, he didn’t interact much with anyone but Centric nowadays. And even that he avoided as much as he could.
He wriggled his toes, upon which a soft slurping noise came from his feet. Great. His socks were drenched. Excellent way to start the day.
Suddenly tired, he looked into the person’s eyes. “Please. I only need a dry place to stay until this biual rain is gone. I’ll be moving on right after that.”
The person glanced at the sky, then threw a quick look over their shoulder. Finally, they shrugged.
“Alright. Come in. I’m Miro, by the way.” Miro stepped aside, allowing Zarando to come in. “Inside you’ll find Jagemir. He’ll not want to talk to you. Don’t force him to do so anyway, he’ll kill you.” Miro made eye contact with Zarando, their expression shockingly serious. “I’m not kidding.”
Suppressing a smile, Zarando nodded earnestly. He did not for one second believe that this Jagemir could as much as come close to killing him, but Miro didn’t have to know that. After all, Zarando would probably never see them again after this rain finally stopped. Probably.
Upon entering the house, he was immediately hit by a strong, herbal aroma that he miraculously hadn’t been able to scent from outside. Undoubtedly because of the rain, biual rain.
Miro closed the door behind him and led Zarando into a room he supposed was the living room. It was a cosy room, with just enough space left between the furniture to walk from one side to the other. In the centre of the room stood a small table, scattered with several belongings such as a metal ring, a flowerpot, and a tower of dirty cups. Zarando scrunched his nose. He wouldn’t exactly call himself a neat person, but this was something else.
On the other side of the room, an open door led to yet another room. The herbal scent seemed to be stronger there, and Zarando curiously peeked into the room, only to nearly drop his sword when a scowling face and two piercing eyes stared back at him.
A chuckle sounded from behind Zarando. “I see you found Jagemir. Jagemir, this is Za…”
“Zanello,” Zarando assisted. He smiled politely, but Jagemir didn’t stop scowling.
Well, this was a warm welcome. Scowls and reluctant hospitality. This was why he didn’t like world-hopping: you never knew what — or who — you were going to encounter, and the people were never as friendly as they were at home. As they used to be at home, at least — people didn’t seem to like him much nowadays.
Jagemir’s eyes slid from Zarando’s face to the sword he was gripping, and a frown appeared on his face. “Nice sword.”
Zarando looked dead at his face. “Thanks. I loathe it.”
“Why?”
“It killed my friend.”
That wasn’t true, of course. The sword hadn’t killed Taeri, the sword had never killed anyone. Zarando had. Yet he loathed the sword, because the sword served as a constant reminder of what had happened. Because it clung to him like the guilt of what he had done. He loathed the sword so that he didn’t have to loathe himself — not that he didn’t do both anyway, but he liked to keep his options open. He liked to pretend that loathing the sword eased the pain a bit.
It didn’t, of course. He doubted that anything could ease the pain.
Jagemir locked eyes with him, and the look in them told Zarando that Jagemir knew biual well that swords didn’t kill people. He decided then that he liked Jagemir, despite the scowling.
Miro pressed themselves past Zarando into the herbal room and started rummaging through cupboards. “I was just making some bénrel when you came,” they explained. They put three mugs on the table and lifted a steamy pan from a stove in the corner. “It might taste a bit odd, but that’s not my fault. My garden is… a bit malfunctioning at the moment.”
Zarando raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Miro nodded, carefully pouring the hot liquid from the pan into the mugs. “Yeah, it’s driving me insane to be honest. Like, the old house on the hill, that I won’t miss. The fishing lake? Worse, but we can get our fish elsewhere. But my own garden?!” They passionately lifted their arms. Zarando was glad the pan was empty by now, otherwise water would’ve been flying everywhere. As if he wasn’t wet enough.
“The audacity to just ruin my garden! Seriously, it can’t go on like this. Someone needs to put a stop to it.”
Zarando glanced at Jagemir, who had conjured some kind of root from somewhere and was chewing it absentmindedly. “To what?”
Miro stomped to the door at the other side of the room and yanked it open. Immediately, rain gushed inward, and a chilly wind made Zarando shudder. “To this!”
Zarando stepped towards the door, even though the feeling in his left ear told him that he definitely did not want to see this right now. Seeing this would most likely mean that he would need to start doing his job, and he wasn’t in the mood to start doing his job yet. His socks weren’t even remotely dry for the gods’ sake. No, he did not want to see this — and yet he stepped closer.
As the rain hit his face and the wind chilled him to the bone, Zarando’s stomach dropped. Just outside Miro’s house, a mere sword length from their doorstep, was a huge, ksairing enormous, endless hole. It stretched through their entire backyard, right to the back fence, which hung pitifully above the dark gap, swaying gently in the wind. It was deeper than Centric’s arsehole — and that said something — and it had a very, very distinctive flavour.
His left ear had been right. His biual job was calling.
When Zarando, the main protagonist of Zarzar: the hole story opens his eyes to a world unfamiliar to him, he makes the understandable assumption that he has been transported there to do his job - just another job, in a long, often thankless string of the same.
He had a job to do. He would always have a job to do, that was just the way it was.
The 'job' in question: the investigation of large 'holes' that have appeared seemingly without cause, swallowing up land, animals, and belongings without provocation or explanation. It's a task that will go on to test his patience, his mettle and his intelligence, and for which he is required to travel far and wide, regularly risking life and limb as he and his companions attempt first to unravel the mystery, and then to stay ahead of swarming evil forces determined to keep them from success.
Presenting this scenario as at the very least a challenging puzzle, not easily solved even by a protagonist with the apparent ability to travel between worlds, makes it clear that this is a problem with very high stakes. The significant negative consequences of failure give the novel a sense of urgency and, later, desperation, as the intriguing plot unfolds.
One of the interesting themes of the novel is identity. Zarando habitually conceals his, offering a variety of names over the course of the novel, and while initially holding himself aloof, soon yearns to better know his companions. They, in turn, are frustrated by Zarando's inclination to hold himself apart, and keep secrets. While this regularly gives rise to conflict, it is also on occasion the catalyst to light-hearted scenes, such as when Zarando's attempts to mislead various sets of guards go awry. Such enjoyable moments offer momentary relief from the weight of the plot, which arguably makes it feel all the heavier on its return.
Another enjoyable aspect of the novel is the focus on friendship - Zarando is moved by the realisation that his companions have become his friends, and strives to obtain their good opinion, despite the pre-existing belief that he couldn't possibly be worth it. Time spent with his companions even encourages Zarando to hesitantly put aside some of his self-defeating beliefs, as well as challenging his deep dislike for himself. This is a particularly enjoyable thread arguably because the stakes are so high: as with the light-hearted moments mentioned above, the evolution of the various friendships provides occasional, welcome respite from the weight of the plot, and grounds the events of the novel in the growth of memorable, well-crafted relationships that benefit from believable complexity.
Further, friendships are transformative in the novel: even characters that are firmly entrenched in negative thought patterns are capable of realistic, moderate change.
The novel does lack descriptive brilliance - there's little vivid imagery, and each setting is described in simple, plain terms. As such, it offers no opportunity to the reader to be immersed in a richly described fantasy landscape. However, the clarity of the prose leaves room for the imagination to play a role in the reading experience, while ensuring that no reader is likely to be left struggling to understand what has transpired.
Additionally, there is some repetition in the prose, which is particularly noticeable in Zarando's thought patterns. Zarando often dwells on his past - on mistakes made, and regrets fiercely and sharply felt - and subsequently so must the reader, arguably undercutting some of the emotional intensity of those thoughts.
Finally, Zarzar: the hole story is an intriguing and enjoyable novel, with an interesting premise, plot and characters, as well as clear and understandable prose. It is likely to appeal to fans of What Mattered Most by Quill Holland, which shares a similarly concerning premise, as well as to readers who enjoy a hero who is a little rough around the edges and isn't easily impressed.