Posted by admin on March 6, 2009
After all the warnings Pasav gave, I never thought he would take me down the staircase. “We must locate Kirien’s crucible. I have waited long for such an opportunity, and with the Horde delayed for the long winter, we will have time to recover it.
“What is the crucible?” I asked.
Pasav chuckled softly in the dim light. “I forgot, Kyven, that there is so much history you don’t know. Many years ago my comrade, Kirien, constructed the crucible to help us with our on-going battle with the Horde. The artifact was completed, but Kirien died before we could activate it. Those who still dwell in these halls were once Kirien’s servants or slaves. His experiments, if you will.”
We had already met a few of the inhabitants. Strange beasts, distorted combinations of animals. The keep itself was built into the mountain, with a small courtyard and well surrounding a small outer structure. The bulk of the keep was deep underground, hidden in darkness and evil now. Evil and danger so thick I could feel it clinging to my lungs as I breathed.
A small globe of yellow green light floated near Pasav’s pointed hat. He carried a longsword, sharp and expertly handled. I favored a shortspear myself, although a sword also hung clumsily at my belt. I was tall at fourteen, but far from brave.
Suddenly a shadow scraped against the stone just out of sight. My heart stopped, but Pasav’s voice was calm. “Show yourself. There is no safety for you in darkness, nor danger for you in the light, unless you bring it.”
I tightened my grip on the spear. Into the shadowy green light stepped a scaly gray creature. It walked a hunchbacked gait, supporting the weight of a pair of twisted wings that would not properly fold on its back. A bony ridge ran from its head down its spine and formed a short whip of a tail. When it spoke, its voice was like a rusty chain being dragged along the dungeon floor.
“You are a friend of the master?” It asked.
“I was,” replied Pasav. “I seek the crucible. Do you know where Kirien hid it?”
At the sound of its master’s name, the creature began to grovel on the floor, whimpering and muttering, “master is gone, master is dead.” I noticed for the first time the claws at the end of his fingers, and that two of the fingers from his left hand were half missing. The wings did not fold as they should because one was broken and had never been properly set.
“Do you know about the crucible?” my master repeated.
When the creature did not respond, Pasav appeared ready to move on. Then, to my surprise and shock I heard my own voice asking, “Do you have a name?”
The muttering stopped, and the creature raised his head. Briefly its eyes flashed green, and it answered, “Borlock, Keeper of the Laboratory Key.”
Pasav stopped in mid-stride, and then turned to face us both. I stammered, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. Pasav chuckled once again, and the glow atop his hat brightened, showering us all in a soft pool of light. “Well, Kyven, you started this conversation, you really ought to finish it.”
As infuriated as I was with my master for once more making me his joke, I lost track of my fear. “I am Kyven, and this is my master.” I almost said Pasav’s name, but something in the wizard’s eye told me not to go that far.
“Kyven,” Borlock repeated.
“We need the crucible to stop the Horde. Did your master keep it in the laboratory?”
Borlock looked suddenly both excited and unhappy. I could only guess how long he had been trapped here, and how long he had been since anyone spoke to him. “You have come to stop the Horde? You are a friend of my master?”
“Yes, I’ve come to stop the Horde,” I said, “although I never knew your master.” I looked the creature over, and after a moment said, “If you help us, you can come with us. Show us where the crucible is, and we will help you get out of the dungeon.”
Pasav’s chuckled turned almost into a laugh at my words, but weather because of my idiocy or some other reason, I couldn’t fathom. Borlock, however, seemed to become both more excited and yet more sad. “I cannot leave, I must yet serve my master while I live, but I can show you where the crucible waits.” Now Pasav placed his eyes firmly on Borlock, and the creature became suddenly fearful. “But it is guarded. Evil enemies broke the locks and hold the laboratory. The crucible they do not touch, for it is powerful and they fear it, but none else may touch it either.” He gestured to his broken wing and scars. “I have tried many times to get it back.”
Pasav seemed suddenly cheerful. “Not to worry Borlock,” he said, “just show us where it is and you’ll have your lab back. But first lets rest a bit and then we’ll be off.” The old wizard sat down next to the wall, and fished some food from his pack. Warily, I did the same. This would not be the first time I had witnessed Pasav lure an enemy into a state of security, and I could not sense if his motives were genuine. Borlock seemed impatient to be going, until Pasav invited him to share our meal. From the squeals of joy and delight, I can only guess that Borlock had not tasted real food since before I was born.
Within a few moments we were on our way again. Borlock seemed eager for us to rid the laboratory of its current occupants. I felt queasy at the idea of fighting whatever had already bested the nightmare leading us through the dungeon. In the time that had passed since we first entered this dungeon – I could only guess that it had been days – I had come to understand that not all darkness is evil, but I never imagined anything as hideous as Borlock could be so helpful. He knew his way without error, and lead us several times past danger. As we went, he taught me a great deal about how to use my spear, and the tactics to use when fighting beasts and men. We scoured the dungeon for another day, each moment delving deeper, and in that time I made a close if somewhat odd friendship.
“What sort of creatures hold the crucible,” Pasav asked as we descended what I hoped was the final set of stairs.
“Denizens of Morthol,” replied Borlock grimly. “They are but lesser servants, but the crucible gives them power I do not understand.
Pasav let out a loud “harrumph” and muttered something about “bungling with the powers of the seven hells.” I knew from past experience that Pasav was expressing his utter distaste at another’s “complete incompetence” despite having achieved impressive results. Morthol, I would have to assume, would not be a pleasant home, and its dwellers were likely not on speaking terms with surprise visitors. I had heard of demons from my mother, and didn’t doubt they existed, and although this seemed just the place for them, I couldn’t help being taken aback at Borlock’s reaction when we reached the bottom of the stairs. He stopped quite suddenly, and began quivering with obvious fear. From a tattered belt pouch he slipped a slender gold key, and held it out. Pasav took the key, and the creature said, “The leader is Galyra. They will sense my approach, if they haven’t already. If I come with you my terror will surely be the end of us all. Take the first corridor to the right and you will find the laboratory.”
For once, Pasav didn’t chuckle, although I did catch a smile breaking briefly across his face. Borlock seemed anxious to retreat back up the stairs. I knew my master would never let such a valuable resource go so easily. “Borlock, if they know that you are here, then we should just as well make use of it.” The creature’s fear intensified, and a look of confusion spread across his face. “Your terror has indeed boggled your wits,” said Pasav gently, “but my wits are still about me. How many of these lightbreakers are there?”
Borlock calmed visibly at Pasav’s words. “Galyra, and a half dozen others. I managed to slay several of them a long time ago, but they have destroyed my weapons and traps, so I can no longer fight them. They know better than to venture above these stairs, where I still have some surprises, but this entire area is under their complete control.”
Pasav looked thoughtful, and mused, “if things are as I believe they are, then we needn’t worry too much about the lightbreakers. Our primary concern is to activate the crucible. Once that happens, I believe you will find the keep a much nicer place.” Although he could see the questions on my face, my master continued without pause. “Kyven and I will wait in the darkness where the laboratory corridor begins. Borlock, you simply need to snoop around the laboratory. Go scout them out, but the moment you sense danger, get out. Run back up the stairs, and find a safe place to hide and wait. Kyven and I will handle the lightbreakers, and whatever else comes out to find you.” As he spoke, Pasav untied the sash around his robe, and then re-knotted it so that a good length hung out at the end, which he handed to me. “Don’t let go of this, my boy, or you will perhaps not find your way out of this darkness again.” The light suddenly winked out, and I grabbed tightly at the sash, wrapping it a couple of times around one hand, and clinging to my spear with the other. The darkness was absolute, and with it also came a silence deeper than sleep, so deep the breathing of my companions sounded as loud now as the cries of battle that had brought me to my master. I followed the tug of the sash, my eyes splayed wide in a vain search for anything to see.
After a few moments of slow walking, the sash went slack, and I heard the muffled whisper, “sit down.” I quickly and quietly did as told. My eyes attempted to penetrate the blackness, but the effort was fruitless. I heard Borlock shuffle away, but within seconds there was nothing but silence and darkness. The sound of my heart beating, and Pasav’s breathing.
Imperceptibly, a shadow approached, and only after several seconds did I realize that Borlock must have been returning. I recognized the sound of his movement, but only as he passed us by in the corridor. He left a familiar chain-rattle whisper, “two follow,” as he left, and I nervously repositioned my spear. In the distance, a faint light became visible, outlining the shapes of two demonic humanoids. Their heads were outlined with spiked horns, and their bodies covered in a thick leathery hide. A thick mane of black fur clung to their necks and arms, and each carried a large flame bathed broad sword.
I have often asked Pasav why he didn’t just blast the lightbreakers with fire, or put them under a spell or something, and all he ever says is “I always needed an extra scar.” Of course, to my mind, trying to leap up and attack a pair of beasts while a scared boy is clinging with all his strength to your sash is probably not a good idea. In any event, Pasav fell on his back, giving the tusked demons both our location and a tactical advantage. Some instinct inside of me tore my grip from the sash at that moment, and I quickly launched my spear at the nearest enemy. The sharpened blade pierced the demon breast, and as it did an unearthly heat or acid began to consume the shaft. The lightbreaker toppled and landed on top of my master. As Pasav struggled to free himself, the second was quickly upon me, attacking viciously with his sword. I defended the blows with all my might, but strength seemed to dissipate from my limbs with each parry. My own sword’s weight grew with each pass, and I knew I could not hold out for very long. I had never been in a position to run away from a battle before, and now that the opportunity presented itself, I realized for the first time that I was willing to fight and die for the old man who had given me a life. That thought gave renewed strength to my limbs, and I fought back just long enough for Pasav to gain his feet and finish the fight for me.
My master’s left arm and chest were torn where the demon’s horns had cut him, but perhaps the largest smile I had ever seen on his face beamed back at me through the dying iridescent glow from the lightbreakers’ bodies. He put his arm around my shoulder, and the little globe of light appeared over his head. “You fought both bravely and well,” he said, “now let’s finish this nasty business so we can find a comfortable place to eat and rest.”
His calm demeanor penetrated my mind, and I walked coolly towards the laboratory door. The door itself, though outwardly unremarkable, bore the unmistakable mark of magic that I had grown used to around Pasav. There was a keyhole just below the handle, which perfectly fit Borlock’s golden key. Pasav muttered some arcane words as he unlocked the door, and motioned me to step back. There was a quick flash of light from within the keyhole, but the door did not move until Pasav pushed the handle, and it swung open easily.
The scarred and burned bodies of three more demons writhed on the floor not far from the door, and a fourth was crawling desperately toward a corner on the far end of the room. The stench of burning flesh reached my nose, and I stifled my vomit by looking elsewhere. On a pedestal at the far end of the room, beyond a table, sat a large steel vessel. The power radiating from that portion of the room made it unmistakable that this was indeed our quarry. In front of the pedestal, however, stood one last obstacle, perhaps the most beautiful obstacle I would ever face, and certainly the fairest I had encountered then. At fourteen, a boy is likely to have known few girls, and even fewer women. Certainly he would never have met a creature perfectly formed in every way, or one who possessed such a sultry and magical voice. The dark hair and lips contrasted stunningly with the ivory skin, and only the smoking dagger in her hand betrayed her innocent appearance. She dressed in burnt leather, whose purpose was more to reveal than to conceal or provide comfort, and when she spoke her authority was unmistakable.
“Finally, someone has come to save me,” she said in perfect innocence.
True to form, Pasav chuckled to himself, but tears welled up in my eyes for pity. Trapped here among these demons, enduring terrors I could hardly imagine. I moved forward, to help her, but a firm hand restrained me.
“I had not expected to find you here, Galyra,” said Pasav, “although I imagine you have indeed found this more of a prison that you thought it would be.”
“You mock my suffering. Why? Set me free and I will help you. I can tell you many secrets of this place, but we must hurry.”
She sounded reasonable to me, and I didn’t understand why Pasav chose to ignore her pleas. “No time for that,” he said, and quickly he raised his hands. As he did, the glow about his head became a blinding light, and he shouted words of power. The steel vessel screamed in response, blasting out a shriek of grating metal. A fire consumed the pedestal, but the crucible continued unmoved, floating above the flame.
Galyra screamed in anger, and flung the dagger unerring towards my master’s throat. At the last instant, Pasav moved aside, and the weapon clattered to the floor. Galyra flung the table aside, and prepared to assault without weapons, when suddenly she was lifted as with an unseen rope and dragged towards the crucible. A blue light erupted from the vessel, surrounding the seductress and consuming her. The whimpering lightbreaker in the corner was likewise lifted and dragged into the crucible, and together their cries of anguish crushed against my ears. I covered my head in fear, but Pasav made me lift my eyes and witness the transformation. Everywhere that darkness had been was replaced with light and splendor. The dull gray stone floors of the laboratory in the proper light became polished marble. The otherworldly evils everywhere within the keep began to be consumed.
“Kyven, my boy,” I believe we made some progress today. As we turned to leave, we met Borlock. He looked just as hideous in the light of the crucible as he had before, if not more so. Yet now I could discern the wisdom in his eyes, and the kindness born of long suffering.
“You are the true masters of the keep now,” he said, “and I will serve you while I have life.” The wretched gargoyle then bent his scabby head and knelt. Pasav raised him gently, and smiled softly.
“You have a great deal of work to do here. Rally the loyal servants, and rebuild the keep befitting the wizards of old,” he said.
“What about us,” I asked.
“You and I have shall just have to wait until the next adventure to answer that question, and with any luck it will be a long time coming.” Something in the twinkle of my master’s eye told me that our adventures would come far more often than I would ever get used to.
THE END
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Posted by admin on January 14, 2009
I have always found it odd how a person never truly gets used to discomfort. I didn’t like starving any better after having starved, eaten, and starving again. I didn’t like fighting any better after having learned to do it properly either. In fact, I would go as far as to say I just don’t like being uncomfortable in any way, but in particular I don’t like being cold and wet and hungry while hunting a pack of vicious beast-men. My companion, a small, yet unnervingly vicious, boar-dog (what else do you call a failed wizard’s experiment), seemed equally annoyed at both the weather and the mission. “You must warn the King,” my master had told me, “the Horde is moving.” That was before we discovered this scouting party, and now I had two missions to accomplish (discounting the part about staying alive).
The tracks were easy enough to follow in the light snow of early spring. Two years of hunting these beasts from place to place had trained me well to know their marks. “Do you smell them, Grunter?” I asked. She raised her tusked head in response, and let out a soft whining grunt. “I know, they aren’t far now. We’ll catch them tonight, in the light of the moon.” Grunter wagged her squiggly tail with excitement, and dashed ahead along their trail. We had not gone far when I spied a lone buck scouring the hillside for food. My first instinct was to draw my bow and get some food, but I knew that it would only slow me down, and that I had to stop the scouting party before they reached the mountains proper. I knew better than to chase the horde into the mountains, in their own festering realm; that would be a task for another day.
True to form, I found them just after sundown. Two days without sleep, and nothing but a night of violence to look forward to. Unfortunately, as fate would have it, I wasn’t able to catch them in the wild as I had hoped. We were close to a village, and the beasts had discovered one of the outlying farms. I found them by the light of the fire where the barn was burning, and the sound of the violent screams, of torture and battle.
From their tracks, I knew that there were at least six in the group, and from experience I doubted there were more than ten. Grunter saw the fires and noise, and charged into the fray before I could stop her. I hesitated only long enough to loosen my sword and string my bow. Darkness was my ally at the moment. I could see their black shapes easily in the firelight. Two were busy slaughtering animals as they fled the barn. I could hear the others in the farmhouse. I lodged an arrow in the nearest beast-man’s breast, and hit the second in the left leg as he charged. These beasts are vicious when cornered, or in numbers; but wounded and alone they tend to flee, as this one did, to wander off and die alone and painfully in the cold hills.
I ran to the house. Inside I could hear Grunter’s barking and grunting as she grappled with her foes. I heard the sounds of metal clanging, and knew that someone was putting up a fight. I cast my bow aside and drew my sword as I entered through the already destroyed farmhouse door. Inside I found the farmer and his two children, a young man and woman fighting with the four beasts. The good wife was already lying on the floor, and the humans had sustained several wounds. The nearest beast had a large gash in his arm and leg, and was not able to turn and react as I finished him. In his shock at seeing my entrance, the farmer’s son dropped his guard, and a beast-man tackled him, quickly rending out his life with his claws. The two others turned to face me, and used their weight and strength to force me back out the door, where we could fight on open ground. Pasav, my master, and Borlock, my good friend had taught me through daily drills over the past few years how best to deal with both beasts and men, and stiff experience had confirmed their teaching on several occasions. I felled the first as he stepped from the farmhouse, and the second put up only a meager fight before I removed his claws and head. I re-entered the farmhouse to find the daughter struggling to keep the final beast at bay with a broken chair. He either didn’t see me enter, or didn’t care, as I was able to dispatch him without effort.
The farmhouse was the shambles, a mess of blood and broken clutter. The barn burned freely, although we managed to save a horse and an ox, and most of the chickens escaped alive. We worked hard to save the livestock and grain before I remembered to ask her name.
“Alandra,” she said, stifling back both grief and fear.
“I am Kyven,” I told her. “I am sorry that I did not catch them sooner.”
“So am I,” she replied. Her face was covered in soot and dust, hiding the fading freckles of youth and covering the soft highlights of hair that would have been a soft blonde; but even the tattered and dirty rags could not hide her girlish figure just on the brink of womanhood.
“Where is your shovel,” I asked.
“We have a shed for tools and things, I’ll go and get it.”
“Take your time. Just get it and bring it here. I will bury them behind the house.” She left for the shed, and I began the gruesome work of dragging the bodies to the back of the farmhouse. The beast-men I simply heaved onto the burning timbers of the barn, unceremoniously removing their weapons and boots as I went. I found Alandra weeping near the farmhouse door, and my heart felt about to burst with grief and sorrow. I knew the pain of losing a father, and I would never forget the day I left my starving mother to join a war I still don’t understand.
“I don’t have a tent or other shelter,” I told her, “and it would not be wise to leave here tonight.” She looked at me with glazed eyes, hardly hearing or seeing. “I noticed the house has more than one room, why don’t you get some sleep. I will bury your family, and if you have a god, you can reverence them in the morning.” She did not seem to want to move, so I lifted her and helped her into the house and past the violence to a room with a bed. I had tried to clean the blood and mess, but nothing I could do would ever remove all the signs of violence.
I spent several hours in the night digging graves. The ground was hard and my limbs worn, but I knew that we would need to leave the farm in the morning. Kindness does not come easily to me, I lived a hard life, but I knew that I must help Alandra, if only in part to repay the kindness my master had shown me. Some few hours before dawn, I collapsed next to Grunter, wrapping my cloak around me for warmth near the still warm embers of the barn.
The day dawned bright and clear and warm, the first of the true spring, the spring that brings the flowers and new life. As luck would have it, the farm was still rather well stocked for the winter, and I enjoyed a good meal. I often fancied myself a cook (after all Pasav couldn’t cook edible food to save his life) but Alandra showed me that I would need more than a campfire to rival the great chefs of the world. Grunter was cheerful; still exhilarated from the events of the night, and continuously bounced and sought affection. A night’s sleep had done a great deal to calm Alandra, and she and Grunter became quick friends. But the uncertainty of losing her home and family loomed heavily on her mind. After the morning meal she went to the graves and commended their souls to eternity. I watched and waited in silent patience.
“Alandra,” I asked, “do you have any relatives in the village?”
“No,” she replied. “My family was new to this valley. We came here, to Amsterhome, after the last war with the Horde. Where are you going, Kyven?”
“I am taking a message to the King, and then I suppose I will return to the Keep of the Black Crag.”
“Where is that?”
“West, and North, in a pass high in the mountains. The King is to the east, I have never been there before.”
“Me either. Can I come with you?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to put her into danger, and I didn’t want to have to take care of her. The mountains were dangerous, and the going would be hard and slow. She noticed my hesitation, and my eyes must have betrayed my feelings.
“I can cook, and I know how to work hard. I won’t slow you down. We can take the horse, and we can sell the ox and the farm in the village. We can bring the chickens and I have blankets and supplies.” I had lived a solitary life the past few years, and the few women who now lived in the Keep were certainly older than Alandra, but they seemed to share her need to chatter, and the tendency to jabber when they felt nervous.
“We will see what we can find in the village,” I said. She broke a half smile, and I continued. “There may be a place where you can stay and work.” Her smile disappeared. “The mountains are dangerous.” She glared at me and crossed her arms, and I felt suddenly small and weak. “I won’t leave you stranded,” I said at last. “If there is nothing in the village, then you can travel with me until we find something better.”
Alandra did not seem totally convinced at my compromise, but she didn’t argue much either. “Don’t just stand there like dolt,” she said, “help me get my things together, and round up the horse.”
I complied without question. Of all the things I knew, I knew how to follow directions best. The Keep was a large place, and required a great deal of cleaning, especially after fighting off the previous inhabitants, and Pasav made entirely sure that I was familiar with both broom and mop. Before noon we had packed the horse with sufficient provisions to last several weeks, and bound everything else of value to the ox, and were on our way to Amsterhome.
Amsterhome was just a simple village then, not yet grown, and had but one in and a shop that supplied the farmers. We traded what we could for gold and clothes. Alandra had no boots, and she refused to wear those I had taken from the beast-men. Their weapons brought a nice price, a fine horse; and the village constable treated me with great kindness after hearing the story. I cautioned him to post sentinels to watch the foothills since more scouting parties might come from the mountains; a piece of advice he took to heart in the weeks and months to come. Although there were many willing to take Alandra in, she refused to stay, insisting that there was nothing left for her in the village, and that she didn’t feel right about just taking their charity. I must admit I enjoyed having someone to talk to (if only once in a while), and Grunter would have been upset to see her go.
Harperston was several days’ journey east of Amsterhome, but a winding road eventually met up with a winding road that eventually turned into a winding highway patrolled by the King’s guard and repaired by the King’s serfs. We followed that winding road together. I had studied the maps of the northern kingdom, sometimes referred to as the Old Empire, and knew that we would pass through many villages and farms. Since I had accomplished the first part of my journey, this second leg seemed a joy in comparison, and our hearts were light and easy.
Alandra and I quickly became good friends. It seems the gods have always blessed me with good companions. She was merry, even when speaking of sad things, and told me of her family, and the struggle they had fought to earn some bread from the stubborn soil. I recounted to her my days of smithing and of following my master, Pasav, the sometimes haphazard wizard. “I don’t believe in magic,” she said, and seemed disappointed when I told her that I was not a wizard and didn’t know any magic.
“I know how to sweep and clean,” I told her, “and I thought I knew how to cook until I met you.”
“You also know how to fight,” she said, “and that is something very few know how to do.”
“A useless skill,” I replied. “There is no glory in death, and besides, I don’t like it. I prefer to hunt game in the woods, or help with experiments in the laboratory. At least then I know I’m not going to get killed, and usually there is food around.” Alandra laughed wildly at my remarks, but I failed to see the humor, after all I was a simple person.
We reached the King’s Road ten days after leaving Amsterhome. We struck north, and within a few hours the landscape began to change. The haphazard farms turned into well-groomed fields surrounded by low rock fences and crowned with large farmhouses and fine barns. Hedges sported spring growth, and traffic on the road thickened with each step. My eyes darted everywhere to take in the new sights, and Alandra gasped at every bright color and new sound. Neither of us had ever seen a nobleman’s carriage before, nor seen a courtier dressed in their fine clothes. Those who saw us generally gave way, as I sported a sword, and we had horses to ride. The majority of the peasants were as dirty and ragged as those I had always known, and the only horses they used were those on the farm. Grunter drew more than a handful of stares and gasps of surprise, and she seemed thoroughly content to puff out her chest and strut next to the horses playing queen of the road. Once we passed a group of men bound at the throat in steel collars to a line of chain. “Who are they,” asked Alandra, “what have they done?”
“Pasav told me about the slaves that they bring from the southern lands. They bring them here to toil on the roads and keeps, and to serve the mighty warlords. Some, of course, are simply criminals; thieves and robbers.”
Alandra’s face turned suddenly cold and thoughtful. I looked at the slaves, and noted their dirty blonde hair, a stark contrast to the dark browns and blacks that dotted the heads of most people we met. “My grandparents came from the south,” she said, “or so my mother used to tell me. Your hair is light as well, Kyven, she said, although not as light as mine.”
“I come from Craverton,” I replied, “a starving village, crushed by war. I do not know anything else. I am from the Keep of the Black Crag now.”
The paved highway led straight to the wide city gates at the south end of Harperston. Tall, sturdy buildings loomed over us from behind the city wall. From inside the gate we could see a mighty castle rising on the far end of the city. I supposed that if we were to find the King we should go there, so we made our way along the main street until we came to the castle gate.
A balding, stout man in a uniform sat on a little stool in the shade of the archway of the castle gate, and watched our approach with amusement. The gate itself was flung wide open, a large construction of oak and steel. The castle wall was a good four meters tall, build of stone and mortar; just as impressive as the Keep of the Black Crag. A few soldiers wandered the battlements, but in general the fortress carried a calm, sleepy feeling.
When he realized that we actually wanted to enter the fortress, the guard stood up and blocked our way. “Now what would yourselves be wanting in there,” he asked.
I had not often dealt with men, but I knew that most were stupid, and rest easily swayed; and I had a mission to complete. I removed a small medallion Pasav had given me, and showed it to the guard. “Lord Pasav, my master, sends me with a message to the King.”
The guard chuckled, “Oh, Lord Pasav, now. And where from does the mighty lord hail?”
If every guard was going to be this much trouble, I decided, I might just as well go home. “From the Keep of the Black Crag,” I replied calmly. “It is an urgent matter, regarding the continued onslaught of the horde.”
The mention of the Horde seemed to take the guard back a step, and he scratched his head a moment. “Hey Garf,” he called, and a scrawny man in a dirty uniform appeared from a door just inside the archway. “Watch ‘ese two a moment, will ya’. I’m gone to get his Lordship Sirus.” Garn appeared as disinterested in us as we were with him, and he took his place silently on the stool and drooped his head for a nap.
Three quarters of an hour later, the chubby guard returned followed closely by a tall, wiry fellow clothed in a long black robe with silver trim. This new gentleman appeared as sour and stern as a constipated gargoyle, and his voice was both stiff and sharp.
“You have a message from the wanderer Pasav?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I replied, “it is for the king.”
“Then give it to me, and I shall take it to the king.” It was not a question, simply an order delivered to an underling. Grunter barked and growled, and Alandra rolled her eyes.
“My directions were explicit,” I answered. “I must deliver it to the king in person. Not to anyone else, and especially not to anyone claiming to be able to take it to him.”
The stern exterior cracked a little as he placed his fingertips on his temples and closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them again. “Very well, wait here with the guard, and I will speak to the chamberlain.”
Three quarters of an hour later, a man in a fine silk shirt and fine trousers, leaning on a stout oak staff and wearing a thick leather purse made his way towards the gate. He was of average height and build, but his smile was contagious and made his otherwise plain face more attractive than it should have been. “I understand you would like an audience with the King,” he said as he approached.
“Yes,” I said shortly, “I have traveled these weeks from the Keep of the Black Crag to bring it.”
“And your tokens?”
Again I removed the silver medallion and showed it to the chamberlain.
“Very well, if you will give me the message . . . ” he caught my scowl mid-way through the sentence, and quickly changed tactics. “The guard will see to your weapons and your horses, come with me.”
We followed him through the outer courtyard, which was more like a little village in itself, with smithies and various shops inside crafting supplies for the soldiers. The inhabitants seemed oblivious to our presence, despite our frequent staring and wide eyes at all we saw. “There are more shops in this courtyard than people in my entire village,” commented Alandra at one point. Eventually we came to a small room, with a fine polished pine table, a sofa, and four cushioned pine chairs.
“Wait here, and the steward will come and get you soon,” directed our guide and then vanished out the door.
A quarter of an hour later, a young woman with yellow hair and a dirty, long, black dress appeared holding a tray filled with cups and cakes. She seemed taken aback by our appearance, but nevertheless stated, “Would your Lordship and Ladyship care for any tea and cakes while you wait?” Alandra looked at me, and I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t imagine they were trying to poison us, and after the things Pasav had tried to feed me, I couldn’t imagine this would be worse.
I smiled, and said, “yes.” Alandra, sensing a person of her own status, began to bombard the girl with a myriad of questions as she poured the tea and served us. Her name was Anlaw, and she was indeed from the southern lands. Her family was captured in ‘the war’ and she was purchased as a house slave to work here in the castle. Anlaw seemed overwhelmed by the attention and retreated as quickly as possible into the depths of the fortress kitchens.
Three quarters of an hour later, the door opened, and short man with a long gray beard, clad in a silk shirt and fine trousers said, “Come with me please. His majesty is rather busy, but has granted you an audience.”
We followed him to yet another room, not much different from the first, except that the table was much larger, and there were several more chairs. At the head of the table sat a powerfully built man with a short-cut beard, streaked with gray. His head bore a thin gold circlet, and a great sword hung at his side. Pasav taught me to bow when I met the king, and to show respect, so I did. Alandra followed my lead, and we waited for him to rise and address us.
“Very well then,” he said. “Stand up and give me your message.”
We stood up, and I removed a roll of parchment and handed it to the king. The seal of the Keep was still intact, and the king seemed amused at seeing this. “So, the Keep is alive again,” he asked.
“Yes, majesty,” I said, “Pasav, Borlock, and I have worked hard to put it in order.
“So, Kirien’s steward is more than just a legend. Did you hear that Lars,” laughed the King, “legends are coming to life again. Indeed, the times are changing. Now, lets see what we have.” He cracked the seal and unrolled the parchment. I did not know the full content of the letter, but I know it contained a great deal of important news. The king studied it with particular intent, and then asked, “Did you have anything else to report, Kyven?”
For a moment I was taken aback that he knew my name, but I quickly regained my composure. “I tracked and killed a scouting group for the horde, eleven days ride west of here, at a farm near the village of Amsterhome.” The king raised an eyebrow at my statement, but seemed to brush the information away as inconsequential.
“And do you know the contents of this letter?”
“No, your majesty.”
The king let out a long and loud laugh then. “That is just like Pasav, send the poor boy on an errand he knows nothing about. Very well, we shall make the shock a complete one, for all parties involved. Let us retire to the royal court.” He seemed to muse for just a moment, and then shook his head, “no, better they appear as they are, give all my kin a surprise they won’t forget. Lars, summon my court. Ring the alarm. Pasav has decided to provide us with some entertainment.”
Somehow the glee in the King’s voice did not provide me with any comfort. Lars quickly swooped us together, and pushed us out of the room. As we were leaving, I heard the king say, “Lars, fetch the boy’s sword, he will need it.”
A short time later we found ourselves standing before a dais, atop the which sat a pair of large thrones. A middle-aged woman who would have been stunningly beautiful in her youth, with long black hair now streaked with silver sat in the smaller chair. At either end of the dais were somewhat smaller chairs, filled with young men and women bearing a striking resemblance to the King and Queen. All around us people in finely dressed clothes were forming ranks along the walls. The hall was a great bustle of chatter as people tried to guess what was afoot, and we were the subject of many stares and sideway glances. After a time trumpets rang out, announcing the arrival of the king, and quickly silencing all the chatter.
The king entered, now bearing a larger crown on his head, and dressed with a flowery robe of state, crested with a lion and eagle, the symbols of the empire. When the King spoke, his voice was calm, yet tinged with humor, and the entire hall received his words in abject silence. “My lords and ladies, the time of legends is upon us. Our fathers unleashed evil upon this world, and now we are beginning to remove it. Before you now we have a champion in this great cause. I present Lord Kyven of the Keep of the Black Crag, Knight of the Old Empire.” A stir shook the room at his words, and more than one gasp of surprise. “And as a knight, Count Kyven has exercised his right to accuse my champion, the Lord Dracum and general of my armies of treason to the crown for sloth in the exercise of his duty to eliminate the forces of the horde.” Now the courtroom erupted with shock and anger. More than one foul word reached my ears, and more than once I felt myself becoming angry. I took Alandra’s hand and shrugged. I could see the questions on her face, and the fear, but I had no answers. I gave her the most re-assuring look I could and waited for the moment to pass. A trumpet rang out and the hall became quiet again. A large man, clad in armor for battle stepped out to stand next to me near the dais. He smelled of ale and sweat, and the scowl on his face froze my heart. “A trial of single combat will decide his guilt or innocence,” said the King.
Dracum’s voice was deep and heavy as he addressed his liege. “You majesty, these charges are false and foolish. I have lived my life in service to the crown and dedicated it to the destruction of the horde. What proofs does this boy offer?”
The king took on a slight smile as he replied. “The charge has been stated, and the sentenced passed, but I shall humor you. Three years ago did you not face the armies of the Horde near a village here within my own province?”
“Yes, my lord, of course,” stammered Dracum, “and they were destroyed.”
“Indeed, they were destroyed, and so was your army, was it not?”
“Well. That was that bungling meddler. I warned him not to interfere.”
The king’s tongue turned sharp as a razor. “You were ordered to cooperate with the wizards, were you not?” Dracum made no reply. “Indeed, it is our tradition to fight the wizard’s curse with the wizard’s weapons. He delivered a warning to you that day as well, a warning you ignored. Thousands of men burned that day and joined the horde, and today the Count of the Keep of the Black Crag has come to challenge your allegiance and test it with the sword.”
“Very well,” said the General, “I do not wish to destroy the boy, but if that is your will. My sword,” he boomed, and shocked silence penetrated the court. A page’s footsteps were heard running to the door.
My heart sunk. Was I doomed to always wield a sword? I did not wish to die here, before Alandra, with a sword in my hand, in dirty clothes before people I did not know. I could only trust that my master would not have me killed without cause, although what good my death would bring I did not know.
In a few minutes, the page returned, bearing a broadsword of the finest quality. Lars took Alandra by the arm and escorted her to a chair at the edge of the dais, away from the combatants. “Remove your armor,” stated the chamberlain. “The boy has none, and the rules of etiquette state equal ground. The combatants are granted a moment to prepare their estates and settle their affairs.”
Having no one else to turn to, I went to Alandra and said, “I’m sorry I brought you here. I didn’t know I was just coming here to be killed.”
Alandra cried and hugged me close and whispered, “you aren’t dead yet, Kyven. You saved me once, I’m sure you can save yourself now. What was it that you say Pasav always told you? Fighting is a job best done quickly. Anyone who can kill six beast-men can surely handle one fat dullard.” She gave me a wink and a smile, and I knew Pasav hadn’t sent me here to be killed.
“Combatants approach,” rang the chamberlain’s voice. I obediently took my place before the dais. “No quarter shall be given. Cowardice punished with death.” Two meters away stood my new enemy, gripping his sword and cursing under his breath. A trumpet rang out and the general was on me in an instant.
His blows came like lightning, but I danced away easily, letting my sword direct his energy safely away. “The key to single combat, Kyven,” always said Borlock, “Is patience and cunning. You have to wait for the mistake and wear the opponent down. Constantly attack but never over commit.” As usual I followed the advice I received, never allowing the larger man to use his full arsenal of attacks by forcing him to defend. We fought back and forth for several minutes, neither gaining an advantage, until his face was drenched in sweat and his beard clung to his face and head. Now he kept his guard only through shear determination, but his attacks had become both infrequent and ineffectual. I recognized now the cold calculation I had seen on Pasav’s face in so many past encounters. I understood the endless drilling and why battle after battle Pasav had made me chase beasts from the Keep at sword point rather than using his magic. There was a job here to do, no different than sweeping the kitchen cellars, and no more difficult. I allowed my foe to overextend, and danced aside. Without passion or malice I brought my sword down on his neck, once more realizing how much I hated fighting.
THE END
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman
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Posted by admin on December 19, 2008
The great advantage of being a scientist is that you see the world for what it is, as it is, and you maintain no bias one way or the other about how it is. The great advantage of believing in something is that no matter what you see or hear or are told, you will find what you are looking for. Greg’s advantage laid in a unique combination of belief and science sometimes labeled insanity. A thin, elderly man with only a few strands of gray hair, thick glasses, and a penchant for polo shirts; Greg hardly presented an imposing figure.
Seventy-three years is not too long a time to spend conquering a planet. Nearly everything imaginable had been invented during his lifetime, and each new product both created a new niche in his plan and fueled the fire of his disappointment in humanity. A race of people willing to spend their lives in front of a little box of glass and plastic is not fit to govern the planet I live on, or so he believed. The television and personal computer, however, were wonderful devices for restraining humans and Greg had every intention of utilizing them to their fullest potential.
The major side effect of wanting to dominate a planet populated by six billion people is that you either have to delegate some of that power, or you have to limit the numbers of slaves. This particular point had bothered Greg for several decades; at times even affecting his ability to work. Killing people (or anything else), was not something he was good at; it wasn’t even something he had ever done. In then end, however, he had given way to human nature and decided on the easy way out; eliminate the excess. So, down to brass tacks, start by eliminating (without destroying the planet) approximately six billion people. Step two; convince those who remain that you are the rightful ruler of the planet. Step three, live happily ever after.
Step one, as Greg viewed it, was the most difficult, (after all who wouldn’t want to follow him after everyone else was dead). Naturally if he didn’t plan on keeping anyone alive it would be much easier. Of course it would have been even easier still if he had amassed a following of individuals to help him. Once more the problem of working alone on such projects with a limited budget remained unsolved. This time, however, it would definitely work.
Greg had great faith in human incompetence, having experienced it first hand on several occasions. There is no fool like the one who believes the system works, he had often taught his children. Despite his efforts, however, they still paid their taxes and held down regular job.
Once more Greg worked furiously at his basement computer, attempting to simultaneously monitor the working of the World Health Organization (WHO), and NASA. Launching your own satellite into Earth’s orbit can be difficult; doing so undetected and without cooperative outside help took nearly a decade. Doing it twice more was, as Greg put it, “beautiful.” Others may have dubbed it insane, but then their vote didn’t count much at this point anyway.
With a nudge hand here and there, he had managed to keep news of his biological attacks in South America and Africa sufficiently shrouded in confusion as to render the opposition incompetent. Developing the proper virus to do the job was almost as difficult as launching satellites. Information is plentiful and easy enough to gather, but acquiring the proper chemicals can get you arrested, and Greg was passionate about his criminal spotless criminal record; not so much as a parking ticket (not that he drove much these days).
Greg’s attention diverted from the WHO to the internal proceedings at the European Union, and the United Nations. Cracking the control of a single government was easy enough; he had, after all, helped to break and built several countries over the years, but simultaneously eradicating government heads around the globe was a true challenge. The first key is unrest, always unrest. Start with the people and then slowly let the level of discomfort rise until those at the top could feel it; then remove the top. Full-scale cyber-attacks on the European and Asian economy would begin tomorrow. He had tested his methods in the past, gradually fluctuating the worldwide economy; a lifetime of preparation for this moment.
He smiled to himself, scratched his scraggly beard and balding head, and pressed the enter key.
To continue to divert attention away from events in the third world, Greg unleashed a pair of new electronic viruses that would distribute themselves throughout developed countries, keeping businessmen and employees equally busy for a few days. He transmitted an email to a doctor in the Congo (who by now was certainly carrying the biological virus), recalling him to his home in northern Europe. A similar message found a doctor in Nicaragua, and the doctor returned to Australia. Greg reached for his coffee mug, empty. All right, get some coffee and then tackle North America.
Greg got up from his swivel chair, his thin frame leaving a shallow impression, and stretched his arms and back. Books lay stacked all around him, notepads, pencils, files containing all imaginable information; and over all of it sat the strong odor of coffee and meticulous malice. Greg whistled quietly to himself as he skipped up the stairs. Eighty-six and still more fit than any television raised punk. At the top of the stair he met his daughter. “Going on a coffee run, you want anything,” he asked.
“Dad, its midnight, I was just headed to bed. Don’t wake the kids when you come in, ok.”
“Sorry, Mandy, I’ll be quiet when I come in.” Grandkids were great, if only their parents weren’t so annoying.
Thirty years ago a doctor twenty years his junior told him to give up the coffee, alcohol and late nights (he never did smoke). Greg sent flowers to the doctor’s widow, but secretly he didn’t feel much remorse. Destiny decides how long you live, and you decide how much you enjoy it. Greg was destined for greatness, and immortality. The garage was full of the keys to immortality. Experiment upon experiment latched together in a careful chain, all to produce panacea. The rats, dogs, and neighborhood bums who were now cured (one way or the other) of their ill health were all greatly appreciated. A super immune system combined with genetic anti-aging created an agent that cured just about everything, including the common cold and cancer.
The Go-mart, or whatever they called the place these days had the best coffee available at midnight (or any other time), and Greg found the crust on the nacho cheese particularly appetizing. The hired help, as usual, reminded him of the reasons behind his never-tiring quest, but then so did pretty much everyone else he met. He used his credit card to pay for the order, after all the transaction would simply ‘disappear’ by morning anyway. Greg sipped his coffee smugly on the way home.
Back at the lab he checked his resources and progress. He didn’t have enough money to manage a full-scale release of the virus in North America, or Europe, and a partial release would only give the Americans time to find a cure, so an alternative must be found. Fortunately, a lifetime of planning allows one to consider these possibilities beforehand. Greg rummaged around in his desk until he found the correct set of cables, and connected a small device to his computer. He quickly loaded a new program, and giggled slightly as the green light on his gadget sprang to life. Radiation emissions on computer and television screens around the world, but most heavily concentrated in the United States, would now reach toxic levels. By the end of the week video game geeks would be dropping like flies.
Enough damage for the moment, he decided. Time for a drink and some light reading. He found a bottle of beer in the mini-refrigerator, and opened a thick file labeled space exploration. The improbability of humans discovering extra-terrestrial life always amused Greg. If only they really tried. Of course, if they really tried I could stand them. Greg continued to peruse his various files for over an hour, lost in the possibilities of what could be. The world was finally becoming a unit bound by more than just gravity. The potential for world cultures to merge, language and customs to join, and new leadership to be defined was being fulfilled. All too slowly. With the right people, living forever, all of the waste and laziness and destruction would be eliminated. Six billion to find a few thousand; at least he had good odds of finding decent help.
Time for more nachos. Compulsively, he swiveled the chair around to check the progress. His chair bumped against the transponder, and the device fell to the floor. “Damn!” he exclaimed. Greg picked up the box, noting that the case had cracked. He shook it a couple of times. The rattling told him soldering was in order, and Greg let out a soft sigh. “I’ll fix it when I get back.” He left the broken equipment on the desk and stopped at the bathroom on the way out the door. The convenience store was only a few blocks away, and the night was warm, Greg walked, as usual. For a change, there was another customer, obviously in a hurry. The engine of their beat-up Toyota was still humming, and the lights were on. Some punk kid, as it turned out, harassing the clerk. Why don’t people just let people do their jobs, he thought. Greg opened the door and headed to the coffee.
“Hey old man, where you goin’” the punk accosted him. Greg gave him a stern look, failed to see the gun, and proceeded to the coffee. The clerk screamed, the punk fired, and Greg’s panacea failed to stop the bullet.
In other news, a doctor in the Congo discovered a cure for a mysterious virus believed to have been transported through insects in third world countries, saving the lives of thousands. He had received a message recalling him earlier, but stayed to finish the job anyway. NASA discovered yet another mysterious satellite, believed to have been launched by a terrorist group, and destroyed it. The department of defense announced a new cyber-security system. The European Union managed to quell fears of instability, and the United Nations reported that political unrest was at an all-time low.
Prospects for the world in general looked good, although crime in some suburban areas appeared to be on the rise.
THE END
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman
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Posted by admin on December 10, 2008
Six years, Jarak thought; six years, three months, and nine days. The cell looked much the same as it had six years before. The straw on the ground had changed intermittently, but the stones were the same dull gray they had been, and the smell of unclean bodies was the same, if only less noticed now. Six years in Havarfast’s dungeons was a feat accomplished by few, although Jarak was not particularly thrilled about being among the select crowd of criminals who managed to survive that long in the wizard’s grasp. Jarak slipped a knife from inside his tattered tunic, and began prying loose a stone in the ground beneath the straw. Most men died from despair in the dungeons, not from the venomous food, or the miserable rats. Jarak giggled to himself as he felt the stone move, hope kept him sane, and sanity kept him alive.
Beneath the stone a dark hole opened, and Jarak quickly dropped himself under, and slipped the stone back into place overhead. The tunnel was completely dark, but Jarak didn’t mind at all. For almost six years he had been visiting the tunnel as frequently as he could, each visit bringing him a little closer to insanity, and a little closer to freedom.
Six years was too long a time for the master thief to spend wasting his life when adventures abounded at every turn in the outside world. One petty mistake, and Havarfast locked him in this miserable dungeon, simply to save face. Jarak had worked for Havarfast on many occasions, indeed Jarak had stolen many of the elements that had allowed Havarfast to rise to his new position, including his prized staff and crown. In return Havarfast had betrayed him, and withheld payment. The guards caught him trying to escape Dyrwater after pilfering the wizard’s treasury, and that final chance had ended him in the dungeon.
Jarak slipped stealthily down the tunnel, to its blank end. Behind him a cord stretched in a straight line back to his cell. At the tunnel’s end, he came upon a worn spade, which he used to chip his way towards freedom. He took the shovel, and with one nudge broke through the wall. Cool air filtered in, and Jarak broke into a frenzy, digging and clawing his way into the moonlight. He breathed the fresh air, and stifled a shout. Within moments he managed to drag himself out of the hole. The castle sat atop a large hill, and Jarak began to pile stones over the hole to cover his exit. The work was finished long before the sun rose, and the thief slipped quickly into the night.
Dyrwater, the town that had grown up at the base of the castle, would have to offer Jarak refuge for the night, until he could find faster transport to some other region. Jarak slipped over the wall at the edge of town, and stole silently through the predawn shadows to the center of town. Many new buildings and streets had been built over the years, including a number of taverns and inns. In the back of his mind he hoped the inn he looked for still remained. He worried in vain, for prominent on the main street of town, near the center, still stood the Blue Drake, its delicately painted sign slightly iridescent in the moonlight. The first rays of sunlight were sneaking over the mountain peaks that surrounded the town and castle as Jarak knocked at the front door. “If Darnum has rented my room, I’ll strangle him,” mumbled Jarak to himself.
After knocking loudly a second time, a husky voice growled at him from behind the door, “I’ll open in a moment, be quiet or you’ll disturb the guests.” Jarak heard the bar being lifted from inside, and a key turning in the lock. After a moment, the doors swung out and wide open. Jarak stepped back, and looked at Darnum’s unchanged face. The innkeeper was still as stout and bald as ever, and his long beard covered almost his entire dirty apron. Darnum held his silence when he saw Jarak’s face.
Jarak looked quickly up the deserted street, making sure no lights had appeared in the gray, and that all of the windows had remained closed, and then he slipped quickly past the innkeeper and into the inn. “How did you escape,” asked Darnum, “and what are you doing here. The guards will search here first, you must leave at once.”
The common room was empty, but the smell of breakfast had begun to drift in from the kitchen. “Let me into my old room,” Jarak began. He saw the concern and confusion on his old friend’s face, and assured him, “I won’t stay long. Give me some food, and I’ll be gone before the guards arrive.” Darnum hesitated, but then retrieved a key. Jarak bounded up the stairs, his heart pounding inside of his chest. The old room, at the very top of the inn was small and cramped, and seldom used unless the inn was filled beyond capacity. Even the bed had been removed in recent years, and a thick layer of dust covered the floorboards. Jarak quickly found the loose board in the windowsill, and moved it aside. From the hollow of the wall he retrieved a small leather bag filled with jewels, and a few gold coins. Just as he returned the board to its place, he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“I didn’t know you’d hidden it here, of all places,” said Darnum. “I would have spent it had I known,” laughed the innkeeper.
“I know,” replied Jarak. Darnum carried a tray with food and drink, which he proffered. Jarak ate gratefully, and quickly.
“Where will you go?” asked the innkeeper.
“I’m not sure, north probably. I need to see what’s changed in six years.”
“The color of gold hasn’t,” was the dry reply, “and neither has Havarfast.”
“Still bitter,” laughed Jarak.
“Don’t let him catch you again, or you won’t live to escape a second time.”
Jarak quickly ate the meal, and dropped a few jewels and a gold coin onto the tray. He tucked a half a loaf of bread and some cheese into his tunic. “Havarfast won’t see me again,” he chuckled grimly, “and I doubt anyone in this town ever will either.” Jarak opened the window, and slipped onto the roof of the inn and towards the edge of town.
*
The north shires were peaceful lands, where a prosperous merchant, such as Jarak, could ply his trade and peaceably enjoy a free life. Two years after his escape, he had not returned to the land of Havarfast’s reign, and had made a flowering business for himself as a jewel merchant, and expert trader. He owned a little shop in the quiet town of Eastonshin, where bandits were few, and the farmers fat. His evenings he passed at the local pubs, in particular The Glass Tavern.
Travelers were rare, but in recent weeks many had passed north (or south) as Kings and Wizards sought to expand their influence. Jarak sat at a table near the hearth, enjoying a game of cards with a few dwarven merchants plying their trade in the south. There’s no need to pay for what you can get for free, Jarak thought, as he dealt another hand, and found the pile of treasure growing steadily before him. From his vantage, Jarak could see all who entered the tavern from the main door, and when a thin stranger clad in a dark green cloak walked in, his attention left the game for a moment. Valsh, the barkeep sent a spindly maid to take the order, but then followed closely himself to inquire if the stranger would require a room, or other refreshment. Of a sudden, Valsh pointed a stubby finger towards Jarak’s table, and pocketed a coin. The stranger rose, and Jarak indicated to his companions that they would soon have company.
“‘Tis a private game,” suggested Dalhern, a broad dwarf with a thick yellow beard as the stranger approached, “and we’ve only begun.”
“Cards are not my strength,” replied the stranger, his voice smooth and relaxed, the words dripping from his mouth easily, “I would rather speak a moment with the jewel trader.” The stranger eyed Jarak closely, and smiled, “perhaps there is business that we may accomplish before the evening is done.” Jarak noted the stranger’s fine clothes, and rings beneath the worn cloak. The dwarves grumbled loudly as Jarak rose, but calmed noticeably as he left a fair portion of his winnings sitting on the table.
“Come with me,” Jarak said, “and we’ll see what can be done.” Jarak went to the bar, and tossed Valsh a coin, “we’ll need the back room for a time, send Jeanne in with the good wine.” Valsh nodded and laughed, then yelled for the maid and jerked a thumb at the back room. “Do you have a name,” asked Jarak as they settled into the thick smoky shadows of The Glass Tavern’s back room.
Jeanne entered with a tray set with goblets and bottle. The stranger waited for her to leave before replying, “Tellus. I have heard that you can identify any jewel carved from the Auvul Empire to the Free Lords in the south.” Tellus spoke calmly, but Jarak noted the earnestness behind his eyes, and slight desperation at the corner of his mouth.
Jarak chuckled. “That is an exaggeration, albeit pleasant, but far too much.” It wouldn’t be the first time in the past two years, or several years before, that someone had come with questions about his past; or a grudge. “I take it you have a question about a jewel.”
Tellus removed a pouch from his tunic, and opened the contents onto the table. “Tell me why I haven’t been able to sell these in any of the lands south of here, and why I have had to flee for my life to these freezing lands.”
Jarak quickly identified some of the stones he had stolen from Havarfast, as well as a few other more common trinkets. “You must be some kind of thief,” laughed Jarak, “indeed, there is only one other who would dare lay his hands on those.”
“And who would that be?”
“The tale is common enough,” laughed Jarak, “of the only thief who ever pilfered that treasury and escaped. Jarak was quite famous until his death. The guards of Havarfast searched for him in every corner of the kingdom. Rumor has it that the old wizard himself has even searched for Jarak. But he died when bandits fell on him. Most of the jewels were recovered over a year ago.” Jarak finished his tale quietly, and looked Tellus in the eyes. “Where did these come from?” Jarak drank deeply from his goblet, and filled it again.
“Bandits fell on a traveler in the south, they fled when they saw my approach, but they left behind a small pouch. Its owner was a paunch, balding man, with a long beard. He died with me looking on, cursing the name of Havarfast. Inside the pouch I found the jewels. Can you help me distribute them?” Now Tellus waited, and as he did, he too drank from his goblet. Jarak chuckled softly.
“Of course. Come to my shop at midnight.” Jarak drained his goblet once again, then stood and left the room. He left the tavern quickly, and laughed out loud as he left, and hurried along the dark streets.
Promptly at midnight Tellus appeared, knocking at the door of the shop. Jarak opened the door quickly, and let the stranger in. A tallow lantern lit the room where a small table was set with wine and cakes. Jarak sat quickly down, and gestured to Tellus.
“Two years is a long search,” Jarak said softly, “I’m almost surprised at your persistence.” Tellus looked briefly shocked, but quickly resumed his calm.
“Then you’ve guessed,” he said menacingly. Jarak nodded, and poured himself a glass of wine, and then filled his companion’s cup. “Then you know why I’ve come.” Again Jarak nodded, and sipped at his wine. Without breaking his smile, he offered Tellus his cup. The stranger batted the cup away angrily, “I haven’t come to drink, particularly not with a thief and assassin.”
“You were always rather disagreeable, Havarfast,” laughed Jarak. “I only took the wages you cheated me.”
Tellus pulled back the hood from his cloak, and mumbled arcane words. As he did, his face shimmered, and Havarfast took his place. The Wizard’s short cut beard and dark eyes were unmistakable in the lamplight.
“You should have been content with what you were paid.” Havarfast was growing angrier by the moment, and his eyes burned with fury. Jarak managed to remain calm, quietly sipping from his cup. “And now, my revenge will be complete.”
“Don’t you mean my revenge?” said Jarak. The mage balked. “I believe our contract for the assassination of your brother was complete freedom to run the underground in your realm. The contract for your staff was for an unofficially sponsored assassin’s guild. And finally for your crown, the source of, or at least proponent of your power, was to be delivered in exchange for the smuggler’s guild. Perhaps I would have cut my losses if you hadn’t put me in prison. Perhaps I would have let you live if you hadn’t murdered Darnum.”
Havarfast cackled, “that fat oaf. You should never have left the sorcerstone with him. Without it you have no protection from my powers. And you should never have trusted him, he told me where to find you even before we burned his inn to the ground.” Havarfast suddenly stood up, and waved his arms, screaming arcane words of power. Iridescent streams of energy cackled at his fingertips as he unleashed a bolt of power at Jarak. The magic fizzled, and evaporated when it touched the smiling thief, and the wizard stepped back, babbling.
“Two years is a long time to set a trap, Havarfast, and, contrary to what you may have been told, yours wasn’t the only sorcerstone. The assassin’s guild here in the north has been very helpful, and will probably be my greatest support when I take your crown. You should have tried the wine, it is much less messy that way.” Jarak slipped a knife from his boot, and quickly lodged it in the wizard’s throat. As he did, the wizard caught a glimpse of a small blue stone on a chain around his neck.
THE END
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman
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Posted by admin on November 21, 2008
Joao Sebastian looked over the quiet waves to watch the longboat that was moving steadily toward the ship that waited at anchor. “Cao Italiano,” he said, and spat to accentuate his words. “He leaves us here to rot, on this forgotten island, while he goes to find the gold on the continent.”
The sun weltered, and the sea breeze died silently. Even in the shade of the tall trees, the jungle still burned. The noise of insects infected the air with a constant buzz. Joao Sebastian felt the anger see out at him from the crew behind him, searing into his back as hotly as the sun on his face.
Joao heard Vasquez grunt indifferently and say, “Dios quiere.”
“Yes, Vasquez,” agreed Joao Sebastain, “this is exactly what God has wanted for us. We are to wait here and die on this forgotten place while that Italian dog returns to your Queen with the glory and the gold. I did not leave prison to face this, Vasquez. I did not cross these waters to face the savage spirits here.” Suddenly Joao Sebastian’s face changed, and he smiled. He turned to Vasquez and with a friendly gesture said, “but come, my Spanish friend, and we will find the treasures that Nuestro Senor has provided.” With that Joao Sebastian rubbed a leather hand across his brown face and started across the beach toward the jungle.
-*-
“They are coming, father. I have seen them. They are covered in odd clothes, and they turn at the sound of a cricket. Birds flee before them; the jungle is silent. Even the trees do not know how to receive the strangers. These can not be the spirit sons which the gods promised to send us. They are dirty.”
“Do not judge too quickly child. The spirit children of the gods are unused to our world. Only by their hearts can you tell them from the deceivers that the Dark one may send. Go and watch them, and pray to see their hearts.”
-*-
Four months of storm and hell for this. To be left at the end of the earth where even the devil will not come. To purge the ignorant pagan of his beliefs and cure him of the evils of gold and silver. Four years in a Spanish prison to spend four months in a Spanish hell with only an Italian dog to turn to. This is not why I left my motherland. To see the ocean, that is what I told my mother. Yes, to see the ocean, but also to have a little bread to eat. What is an orphan to do? Sail away to cut timbers in the burning jungle.
“Cut faster you dogs,” growled Joao Sebastian. “El Capitan wants this fort built and dedicated to Nuestra Senora La Virgen before he returns from the mainland.
“You screech for nothing,” replied Vasquez, “El Capitan isn’t coming back tomorrow. We have time. Or do you fear El Capitan more than Nuestro Senor, the King of our souls. God will provide for the righteous.
“El Capitan killed Nuestro Senor a long time ago. El Capitan is your god now, and he has already sent us all to rot here in this hell.” Joao Sebastian pointed to a dark rock that knifed above the trees, a hundred meters over the calm waters of the bay. “There is where we build the temple to our golden god.”
-*-
“They are attacking the forest. All day, like animals, they have cut down the trees in the sun-god’s shadow, and carried them to the holy grounds, father. They burn fires there now, and stink of sweat and anger. Animals they have killed, and they burn them on the fires and eat them. I do not like these spirits. The leader, he works and does not perspire. The others, they fear him. They do not speak to him.”
“Have you seen their hearts, child? Only when the gods open your eyes to see their spirits will you know them. Of course if they are spirit children of the gods they will go to the holy places and offer sacrifices. You must watch them and learn their rites. Of course they must seek nourishment in our world somehow. And we, unworthy souls have not offered them anything because of our much fear.”
“And what if they are deceivers sent to defile the holy grounds?”
-*-
At least there is meat in this lost place. Joao Sebastian looked around the skeleton of a building they had managed to erect that day. Not the worst structure he had ever seen, but hardly a fortress. “Vasquez,” he called, “set up a watch. Have the men take turns. I don’t want anything from that jungle to find its way into our new home.”
“Of course, Joao Sebastian,” said Vasquez, though his tone clearly indicated his low regard for his leader. “We’ll protect your fortress with our lives.”
Joao Sebastian turned his eyes from the fire with effort and wrapped his eyes around Vasquez’ mind. “Of course you will because it is all you have,” replied Joao Sebastian. “This is all you have anymore, this jungle and me. If the fort goes then we die.” Vasquez scratched his lice nervously and stood up to leave. “Do you think the Capitan will come back for us? Eh, Vasquez?” Joao Sebastian rained laughter on the Spaniard, until Vasquez opened his mouth to respond and Joao Sebastian cut him off. “We were left here because that perro was running out of supplies and he never liked any of us from the start. If he could have afforded to get rid of me sooner, he would have. But no, I was too valuable, until he realized that I’m not as stupid as the rest of you. There is no gold on this island, only mosquitoes. On the continent there is treasure, but when he comes, what will he say to us? Eh Vasquez? Will he say, ‘look, we’re rich, what a fortune we’ve made,’ or will he say, ‘Nuestro Senor has not been as kind as I had hoped my friends, perhaps fortune will treat us better another time.’ Well, Vasquez?”
Vasquez turned his eyes from Joao Sebastian’s dark glare. Vasquez ran a nervous hand through his dark curls, scratching where the lice bit, and answered, “I don’t know Joao Sebastian. Either way this is better for me than dying in a prison. I had a sentence of death in Spain. I had no hope.”
Joao Sebastian’s voice became suddenly calm and quiet as the sea breeze. “And here you also have a sentence of death, and I am your only hope. If it is not starvation or disease, then surely the savages will take us. Yes, Vasquez, they are watching us, waiting, and surely they will come.” Joao Sebastian suddenly let out a raucous laugh that filled Vasquez with terror. His dark eyes danced wildly in the firelight as he looked ofr his secret bottle.
No, I did not leave my Portugal to live with Spanish dogs. If only Nuestro Senor has been kinder, perhaps then I would have been the Capitan instead of just a Portuguese dog that knows the stars and the savage ways. Yes, I know the savage ways. I can steal form them and use their women and make them slaves as well as any. And the gold. Yes, I had gold, enough to get a ship of my own perhaps. Yes. More, enough to have a good crew, not like El Capitan, scraping the prisons. And all lost for the death of a nobleman’s whelp. Joao Sebastian took another pull at his secret bottle.
-*-
“Some sleep, and some watch the night, father. The leader, he does not sleep. But he does not watch. He is like in the gods’ trance, but his face is full of pain, not joy, father.”
“Have you seen his heart, child?”
“I have prayed and watched. Others also watch. They say we should kill them, that they defile the holy ground. Others say we should give them gifts, that they are the spirit children. I pray. I wait. But the gods do not answer. If these are the spirit children, why do the gods not reveal their glory to us?”
“The gods sent them here to try us. Be careful, so, to choose correctly, or the whole village will feel the gods’ wrath.”
-*-
Joao Sebastian slipped out of his trance with the first indifferent rays of the sun. Already the sweat of his companions was beginning to stink as the company roused and resumed the building. Joao Sebastian noticed for the first time in the dawn light the ghostly angular shadows cast by large stones that surrounded the camp. The stone they were building on was covered with sod, but a circular section near the center had been cleared away, and holes had been drilled at symmetrical points into the rock around the central pit. What the sailors had naturally taken for the best spot for a fire contained more ashes than Joao Sebastian remembered burning the night before. In the pink dawn the jutting rock seemed a bloody crown for a savage dead king.
“Vasquez,” he called, “what do you make of these holes?”
Vasquez looked with interest for the first time at the holes in the ground. He was obviously confused for a moment, until he saw what Joao Sebastian saw, and his face wound itself into a deep frown. “We are not alone,” he said flatly.
“Very good, Vasquez,” mocked Joao Sebastian, and then his voice curdled, “call the men.”
-*-
“They stand around the holy place, father, talking in strange tongues. The leader has strange crystal eyes. He does not sleep. He marks our sacred places. He walks a careful pattern and does not put out the holy fire in the sacred place. They burn the sacred fires, but heir sacrifices are not accepted. The spirits do not approve, that much I can feel. These creatures cannot be the spirit children of the gods. I have prayed, and their glory has not been revealed.”
“You say the leader has strange eyes, child. That can be dangerous or glorious. Perhaps the fair ones are the spirit children, and he has deceived them. Take the sacred lance and kill him. Then try the others. A trial will tell all.”
-*-
“El Capitan said here,” retorted Vasquez angrily. “Here is the spot. We’ve already started. We’ve ammunition and powder. I’ll not leave.”
“Then rot,” growled Joao Sebastian. The wiry Portuguese sailor grabbed a pistol and tucked it into his belt. “I’ll be back to bury you.” With that he turned and stomped angrily into the jungle. Yes, I am dead, but you are dead too, Spanish dogs. They will come and eat your hearts. I have seen their angry spirits watching us, waiting in the night. Now the time for waiting is over.
The jungle received his intrusion in cruel silence. Save for the subtle buzz of mosquitoes the jungle was quiet. Joao Sebastian felt eyes on his movements, but he didn’t take out his pistol. After he had gone perhaps a hundred meters he heard a hushed whistle in the distance from the jungle behind. But he hadn’t seen a bird all day. Strange eyes seemed to bore into him, until Joao Sebastian finally grew weary of his stalker. He changed course, casually turning for the beach. A muffled crack behind him, and Joao Sebastian sensed his hunter’s frustration. Another moment passed in silence, two, three. Now! Joao Sebastian heard the swift movement of the arm before the spear actually took flight, but his reaction was slow. He turned and ducked in one smooth motion, but the lance grazed his left shoulder. He pulled the pistol out and fired as his attacker screamed a war cry. Joao Sebastian couldn’t tell if his shot was good or not, but the attacker didn’t come again. Joao Sebastian crawled his way to the base of a tree and sank down to look at his wound.
The obsidian point had dug deep, and he could tell from the burning that he had been poisoned. At least the bone is intact, but what does it matter. I am dead. In an hour or a day, if not the poison, the gangrene, the spirits.
-*-
“I have broken the deceiver’s spell, father. His magic was strong, he used the dark fire, and I am burned, but the spell is broken. The wound is deep, but I have seen them all unveiled. They are stupid and slow without his magic.”
“Very good, child. The gods will reward your valor.”
-*-
Joao Sebastian passed the afternoon beneath the shade of a palm tree near the edge of the beach. Even from the beach he could feel the jungle come alive with the savage spirits. The same dark magic that had struck him would strike again. As the shadows fell across the jungle, an even darker shadow came over Joao Sebastian. Vasquez will curse me before he dies. All those dogs will curse me, but it will not save them. God will strike them down with the hand of the heretic.
-*-
“There is a note, Capitan, here on his body. He scribbled something, but the writing is faded. “Mueran Perros . . .’ is all I can see. He must have fought the savages here, cursing them even in death. There are no other bodies.”
“Did you search the rock, did they build the fort?”
“There is nothing Capitan. Not even one timber is there. There are signs of chopping and hauling, but even the tools are gone. We found a spear near the skeleton with an obsidian head and a few feathers, but that is all.”
“Fate is fickle, a few more shares for us. Too bad for them. Let’s go.”
THE END
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Posted by admin on November 12, 2008
Waiting for Spring is a long time since chrome flew and landed in the blue on the other side of purple. The light on the wump cousins differed from the needle-sticker lamps more than Los Angeles differs from Chicago. Since the pills, though, the wumps do not come and the wump-leader does not laugh with Charlie. Only sitting and rebuilding, within the needle-sticker softness, mean, and move time to time, or wear hats. Perhaps Charlie can visit in the Spring and drink the pill free air while the wumps play in the sun.
The needle-stickers say Charlie passed away when the Rolls jumped. The car fell sixteen stories, or about that from a building in Los Angeles. After that the needle-stickers seem to have lost the license plate in the fog until even the building has blown away. How the wumps will manage to get a car through the door before visiting in the Spring is rather confusing.
The wumps are pondering now, with their dark hats pulled low covering their glowing faces from the prying fingers of the moon. Four of them pull, and scrape the paint from the Rolls Royce, chewing the silver siding while the last laughs and tinkles the starlight. Charlie goes into the garage, wearing his driving gloves and hat, smiling and breathing the fumes of Sherry. Some of the purple wears off on the silver. The wumps get involved personally.
The purple bodies will press the silver clanger into the street, and eventually up the elevator. They will be strong and fast, and well timed, so that although Charlie will believe he has finally tamed the silver beast he will really only be entering the mystified trance the needle-stickers will call passing away. The wumps will guide the flashing metal to the high up place where sixteen different stories will be told by the wumps to pacify the needle-stickers into forgetting the pains caused by the pills. The car will scream and fall; Spring will arrive, and the needle-stickers will go.
But Charlie was mad, wine-mad or red-mad before the passing-mad or awa-mad that holds him now. The wumps were also mad; red-mad or fight-mad, and when he flew over the edge into the emptiness of the dead city an odd smile crossed his bent nose. The Rolls shot in crystalline glory from the window where the wumps laughed, and Charlie’s teeth glittered in the night. The wump cousins, dressed in blue and wrapped in red and yellow light found Charlie cased in silver. Confused, they waited and the wump leader mixed purple and silver until the needle-stickers came and washed their white on Charlie. A sheet or a blanket or paint washed them and the wumps went away until Spring.
Until now, the after now of the needle-stickers, the wump leader sits, wrapped in purple perfection, repeating the chant that leads the drive, waiting for Spring. Her golden tresses have rubbed into purple, where remembering mixed with pills creates Chicago crossed with wumps in Los Angeles. The silver streak in her hair is no the same silver in Charlie’s hair before the wumps took him. It is the silver of chrome touched with dark purple.
The needle-stickers smile and frown, and are altogether unpredictable. They enter and exit, and say that the wumps have also passed, and that Spring is and has been, and that wumps will is have never known them. And the wumps do not visit. The needle-stickers say this though they do not like the wumps. They do not fly or eat silver, and they have not tasted the pills of the wump leader’s memory.
In a corner where the needle-stickers have not come, she has waited for the wumps. In a voice which the needle-stickers have not wanted to hear she has called for Charlie and pulled at the silver in her hair. With a nightmare which has not forgotten itself the car hurtles again and again, and the seering purple hat she once wore has become tatters in her hands. A silence which burns soft and heavy has not stopped shouting as the needle-stickers and Charlie to stay and touch the green with her in the Spring.
Spring will pass, passes, has passed, merrily, until the hat has tattered the hands as well, and the silver is flecked with gold, dimly where the wumps came.
THE END
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Posted by admin on October 10, 2008
Through trees and past thriving vegetation, thoughts and prophecies swirled like fading ghosts in the morning mist, bringing with them the old news from far off parts. The sad rumors of long-finished or distant battles found their way into the heart of all the forest life. Memories of past conflict and strife long dead aroused a subtle sadness in Shin’to as he returned to the home he had left because of war. But in this wind, the subtle scent of coming change stirred within him the hope of clam, or victory, or ending that put his troubled spirit at ease.
Shin’to noticed a figure moving toward him along the path. She was clad in dyed deerskins, and spirit charms tinkled softly from where they hung at her belly. The perfect scent of something totally unlike the Sha’gi soldiery or magic he had learned and taught drifted on the breeze, and Shin’to sighed lightly. “Good morning, Sha’gi,” intoned Cha’li respectfully.
“Good morning, Cha’li,” Shin’to said in a serious voice, and then laughed. “What are you doing so early in this part of the village?”
“I was sent to gather acorns. The trees are so much more productive on this side of the village.” Cha’li paused, and then smiled, “and I heard that you might be returning.” Cha’li’s smile faded quickly, and her voice took on a tone of what Shin’to recognized as utter fear, “is it true that you have come to face the purifications?”
“Yes, that’s why I came back, among other reasons.” Shin’to smiled, and hoped she could understand. “Our enemies grow tired of warfare, and our soldiers as well. We need the protection of the gods here, in the village. Kin’fal has called all of his Sha’gi to return in preparations for the coming of the Accepted. You know that no Sha’gi may stay in the village until he ahs been purified of the taint of war.”
Now Cha’li smiled. “Then it’s true, you’ve come for good?”
“If you’ll have me, I’ll stay forever.”
“And if you are the Accepted?”
“That is nonsense. No one knows when the Accepted is coming,” replied Shin’to. “The Sha’gi are only to await his arrival, it doesn’t say in any of the legends that he will be one of us. Besides, even the Accepted must have a soul-mate somewhere.”
“Then you will speak to my father after the purifications?”
“Yes.” Cha’li stood close, and the aroma of her womanhood filled Shin’to with new energy. He brought his arms up to embrace her, but stopped and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Until after the purifications,” he mumbled. Cha’li nodded, and looked as if she would weep, but then she smiled and they parted ways along the village path.
Further along the path, he saw the Semper-fire in the inner ring of huts burning warmly, and he was filled with inner delight as he approached. The familiar glow of the fire god surrounded him, and he knew that for now the village would be protected. The sentinel stiffened as he approached, the sacred war lance took the familiar defensive position, and Shin’to smiled to himself. Shin’to raised his arms, revealing the twisted patterns that formed the signs of the gods printed on his skin beneath the thick outer robe, and passed into the inner ring.
The village elders sat, waiting, in a small semi-circle before the fire. Each ancient figure was fully arrayed in the ceremonial dress. Eagle’s feathers and kalawa hide sewn painstakingly into holy robes for the gods adorned the elders. Shin’to was younger by far than any of them. He could have been grandson to any of them, but as he now looked over the council, he found that the familiar smile of his true grandfather had disappeared from the elder’s face. As council director, Maeke’to was the epitome of solemnity, and the aura of sacred order engulfed Shin’to with awe. “Please be seated,” said his grandfather, “we have much to discuss, and there are many matters yet to deliberate.”
Shin’to sat silently in the center of the semi-circle, facing the council and waited. “On behalf of the village we welcome your safe return, and hope that your experience was worth while.” Shin’to did not respond. Ceremony forbade his yet untried lips from defiling the sacred council. Maeke’to smiled, and the guard approached with a still glowing ember. “To try the lips and purge the follies of untruth,” intoned the council. The guard proffered the coal awkwardly to Shin’to, and he took it in his lips, and waited. The warmth of the fire god spread throughout his body, and joined and diffused the heat of the coal. He could smell the flesh burn, but felt only calm assurances as the coal died away.
“Has the initiate endured?” questioned seven voices in unison.
Shin’to carefully removed the blackened ember, and respectfully answered, “the initiate holds no fear of deception. The inquiry may begin.” To Shin’to’s surprise, the council seemed put off by his response. He couldn’t read the emotions in their faces, but he could sense that something was wrong. “Have I done wrong?” he asked calmly.
“No, child,” responded Kor’ti, elder of Ain’la, goddess of air, “you have done nothing wrong. It is only that you have endured so the ordeal. Many initiates do not speak for a time after the trial of lips. We commend your fealty to the god of fire.” The elder finished, and Shin’to waited in dumbfounded silence as the council prepared itself.
“Let the inquiry begin,” said his grandfather at last. “The Acceptance is to involve seven tests, one for each of the seven Elder Gods. There were to be seven purifications preparatory to the seven purifications to come, and seven tests. How fared the initiate?”
“Seven purifications prepared seven tests. Seven tests prepared seven purifications. I come before this council purified, tested, and ready for the purifications to come.” Shin’to worded calmly the prepared response, and smiled inside. He could fell the approach of the gods as he spoke. The earth beneath him softened, the air around him cooled, the clouds cleared, the fire dimmed, and the sun slowed its steady course on the horizon. He knew that the god of death and spirits, as well as the goddess of feelings were near by, but their part of the ceremony had not yet come, and would not approach for another moment.
“There lack yet two purifications,” intoned the council. “Is the initiate prepared for the purifications of heart and spirit?”
“May my soul and heart be cleansed to match only the cleanliness of the gods.”
Shin’to felt a tingling begin to rise within his body as the two gods approached. The elemental gods and the god of time slipped away from him at their coming, and Shin’to smiled to himself. The guard approached once more, and motioned for him to rise and present himself to be purified. Shin’to rose as commanded and stood with his arms outstretched to his sides and waited. A wisp of spirit light descended from the heavens, and he could feel himself being consumed by the power of the Gods. Before him a quiet vision opened, and he could see Cha’li standing before him, her beauty revealed. Dim memories of childhood happiness returned with awesome force. He could see in his mind past joys, and feel in his heart something he had only known before in dreams. A sudden desire to approach her overcame him, and he could feel himself stepping forward to embrace her, but somewhere a voice told him that it was not right yet. He stopped. The vision wavered. “I will be gone forever,” said the vision, “do you not love me?”
“Wait,” he cried.
“The image paused. “Come with me,” said Cha’li, “come away to the possibilities that could exist.”
The same power that overcame him before returned now with greater force. Shin’to could feel himself being drawn toward her, and he relished in the joy of the moment. But in the depths of his battered psyche, something warned him of some imperceptible danger. Shin’to wavered.
Desire filled him with the power of a tidal wave, and for a moment he was unsure. “I must refuse,” he answered, “or my heart will be broken forever. How can I take you and refuse the Gods. They will yet give you to me.” Before him the vision wavered once more, and then disappeared. He could feel the energy rising within him, the burning of the spirit power.
Shin’to’s arms dropped as the vision closed, and the sweat began to drip from his exhausted limbs as the energy faded from his body. A nervous murmur rippled through the council, and the guardian spirits withdrew their invisible presence. Shin’to could no longer fell the support of the elemental gods. He realized now that he would face the final test alone, with only his own powers to support himself. He sighed deeply, and faced the council. The withered elders sat impassively before him, the golden beams of firelight reflected in their tan faces, and Shin’to drew strength from their strength, and found the resolve to continue.
Suddenly, the elders’ faces faded into nonexistence, and once more a vision opened before him. He found himself surrounded by thick blackness. Noxious vapors abounded, and he could feel the suffocating weight of death overwhelm his senses. Breathing became deadly difficult. The pressure grew as the vapors condensed. Shin’to could feel himself being crushed by the power of the darkness; could feel himself being lost. “Kin’fal,” he cried out finally, “rescue me from this darkness. Bring light to this desolation, Lord of Spirits, and safeguard my journey through thy deadly realm.”
The darkness lifted slowly, unwillingly, and left him alone in a dreary wasteland. Lying about him were the scattered bones of a war-torn plain, and the silent stench of death. Far off to his right he could see some few broken hills. To his left he saw a murky stream flowing from a filthy fountain. Beside the stream wound a broken path to a lonely mountain beyond the fountain of filth.
Shin’to stepped onto the path, and with ragged steps began a journey toward the menacing lonely mountain. The way was twisted with thorns and briars, broken by stones, and wound indiscriminately through the desolation of the plain, but Shin’to was determined to follow its painful course. As he traveled, he prayed, and as he prayed the way was illuminated, and he could see the stumbling stones before he tripped, and the pain left his bleeding feet. Before him the mountain rose like a tired monster skeleton in the distance. Shin’to shuddered, but he knew that somewhere on that mountain was his only hope.
As he reached the stony foothills before beginning the steeper ascent, Shin’to noticed that the top of the mountain was covered with bright green trees, and that he no longer traveled alone. Before and behind, strange people struggled along the path, people he had never met before, but people he knew somehow. Many stumbled and struggled, a few fell away completely, lost to wander the plain of desolation in the thick vapors of darkness, but Shin’to continued onward.
The journey up the mountain was difficult. Often the slope was steep, and he found it necessary to use his hands on the razor sharp rocks to struggle along the bloody path. Soon his hands and knees were a mass of blood and stinging pain, and as the tears welled up in his eyes he felt his commitment falter. The stream no longer looked so murky to his taste, and the sweltering vapors drained the life out of him. Craving the dark water, he paused for a moment, and contemplated the possibilities. There were no guarantees that salvation awaited at the top of the mountain, and also no guarantee that the water would do him harm or good. Indecision racked his brain for a time, and the way became suddenly very unclear.
He dropped one last time to his knees, at first only to rest and think, but he soon found himself begging Kin’fal, and once more the way opened before him. The path was suddenly clear, and the stones no longer jagged. The wounds in his body no longer bled. He moved once more along the path, passing some who moved slowly, but helping those who struggled. “Do not be tempted to leave the way,” he warned, “there is no life in desolation.” Many did not heed his unwelcome words, and either fell from the stony peaks, or wandered aimlessly back toward the miserable war-swept plain.
Shin’to reached the final summit with a triumphant breath, and looked about him. Far below stretched all the lands he had ever known and much more, villages and tribes, forest and streams, mountains and lakes he had never known. Suddenly he could understand them, know that they were, where they came from and why. Knowledge filled him as the spirit energy had and he was burned with the intensity of knowing even who he was.
“Welcome, son,” said a quiet voice behind him. “I have waited long for thy arrival.”
Shin’to turned calmly, and faced the Spirit Father. Instinctively he dropped to his knees and pressed his face to the earth before the god.
“I have brought the here for a special purpose, and this day thou art no more. The gods burn within thee, and prepare thee for thy special course. Wilt thou accept?”
Shin’to looked up from the ground, and pondered the frightening decision. The history of his life began to suddenly put itself together. The past successes, the battles he should have lost but didn’t, all returned, and he knew that he had always been something more than Sha’gi. He could feel the pressure of responsibility weigh on his shoulders, and he knew the pain and sorrows of those who he was called to serve, and his heart fainted. In his heart he knew there was nothing to really consider. “I accept,” he murmured, knowing he could never refuse, “what would you have me do?”
The weight of the call bore down on him once more, and he cold feel himself being crushed beneath the tasks he knew he would perform. In agony, his body cried out, and the council saw the young warrior cast suddenly to the ground before them. Shin’to’s mind screamed in fear, but he knew there would be no turning back, and the resolve he found emptied all the pain and pressure of all the previous trials, and he entered a quiet spiritual bliss.
“Thou shalt know as I teach,” said Kin’fal. “Go now, having found thyself and conquered, forget not, and lead thy people to me.”
The vision vanished with a blast of dark wind and a clap of thunder, and Shin’to felt the joy leave him before the council. His tattered hands on feet bled only a little now, but the pain returned and he could no longer find the power to stand.
“How fared the initiate,” came the hushed chant of the council.
Shin’to raised his eyes slowly, and their familiar faces gazed back in awe. A new love for them overcame him as he realized that they knew that he knew and understood them as only the Gods could. He willed the exhaustion from his mind and body and stood tall before them. “The initiate comes before you purified and prepared as the Accepted of Kin’fal. I come now to lead this people to the Spirit Father.”
“Accepted of Kin’fal,” intoned the council in quiet awe, “we follow, serve, love, and obey. Led us, they people.”
Shin’to looked quietly over the crowd of villagers that had suddenly flooded the circle. The villager’s faces were awed or filled with tears or confusion, and Shin’to knew and understood each of them, and his heart was heavy. Among the many, Cha’li stood too, weeping, her body shaking in the warm sun beside the dazed figure of her father, and as a cheer rose from the villagers, a dart of the unknown future pierced his heart. But the cheers rolled over him with the force of a thousand voices, and their energy and spirit was his energy and spirit, and the Accepted of Kin’fal realized that the future was his to command.
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman
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Posted by admin on September 24, 2008
I turned and shrugged into the wind, allowing my despair to float onto the battlefield. Ten thousand lives of men and more were destroyed behind me. I could not face the smoke and ash of the burning city that I had been called upon to save. How little it mattered. Within moments, they would be upon me and my life would join the thousands I had destroyed. I cast my sword onto the muddy earth and waited for the deathblow that never came.
General Torc personally supervised my incarceration. I had expected his minions, always so fond of slaughter, to simply dispatch me and move on to the next poorly equipped soldier. The general, however, had sent word both as to my overall appearance, and how I should be treated.
“The growth of an empire is a challenge fraught with sacrifice and born through rebuilding,” were the first words he said to me. I stood before him, unarmed, clad in a dented breastplate and helmet held on by thin leather straps. My shoulders were stooped with battle fatigue and my body ached from endless last-ditch efforts, but I didn’t fail to see the cunning behind his dark eyes. I could see the smudges on my face reflected back in his polished armor. I could see the hours of training and practice lining the muscles in his arms and legs. He rode tall in the saddle, his shoulders square as he looked down upon me, and I knew that he sensed that my despair was not yet complete, and my passion for freedom not yet burned out. I answered him nothing. The time to play my hand had not yet come.
I was placed on a horse, my hands bound, and I was allowed to view the gathering up of what remained of my forces. Less than a thousand men remained. We had fought bitterly and the victory had been very, very costly. The vast majority Ridgeport was indeed in ashes, and the young women and children were being made into slaves, either to serve their new masters in rebuilding the city or loaded onto carts to be shipped like so many cattle back to imperial cities. There were no more old ones.
The food as a prisoner, I found, was better than the fare of a soldier. I shared my tent with no one, although guards were constantly watching. The horse he gave me was a fine animal, finer than any Ridgeport had ever offered me. And I had both parchment and ink with which to record my thoughts. I understood his tactics. The empire could use good soldiers. No, the empire needed good generals. What else did I have, what else could the world offer me? A fair tactic, I mused, as I munched the fine bread and cheese that had been laid at me door. Soon, I was confident, young women would be provided, or boys if I preferred. The art of gentle persuasion had not been lost on the pillaging conqueror. He was as efficient as any war machine, and nearly as inhuman.
In two weeks he did not speak to me again, but one of his lieutenants paid a short visit. The boy was barely thirty, equally well trained and equipped as his general, but brandishing the patience of a puppy. “The general has sent me to inquire as to your comfort and health,” he began. Plausible enough, but the lie was far too evident in his eyes, although his delivery otherwise conveyed a reasonable mastery of the deceptive arts. A man like Torc would not need a pimple faced-goon such as this to ask me.
“I am faring far better than you will be when you leave this tent,” I replied. A remarkable, yet entirely pleasant, mix of arrogance and fear played itself out in his eyes. “What is your name?”
“I am the one asking questions,” he replied with more anger than was necessary.
“Of course,” I mocked. It was a half laugh, calculated exactly to touch off his nerves. No, indeed the general would definitely not have sent this one. “But I will not speak to someone I do not know.”
“Lieutenant Havril Garamond, of the imperial army, commander of this prison convoy.”
“Very well, lieutenant, ask your questions, and make them useful since your time as commander of anything has been cut very short.”
At this point the whelp almost struck me. He caught himself just in time; he knew that would be going to far. What he didn’t realize is that he had already gone to far. I smirked in response.
“I am sorry, lieutenant,” I lied, “I should not be so rude.” His shoulders relaxed, and he regained some of his air of arrogance. “Would you be so kind as to take a message to your general.”
“Of course,” he replied. I wrote my request as eloquently as possible on a piece of parchment, rolled it, sealed it and handed it to the lieutenant.”
As I wrote, he asked, “How is it that you came to be commander of the defense at Ridgeport?”
“The same way that you came to be standing here waiting for this message,” I replied, “destiny.” When I handed him the paper, I realized how unkind I had been, and understanding his destiny better than he did repented a little. “I suppose that isn’t a very fair answer.”
“I had hoped for something more concrete,” he said.
“Very well,” I began. “After leading the successful coupe of the late emperor Truril, and placing my late cousin on the throne, I tired of political intrigue. Furthermore, my deranged cousin had the audacity to slaughter my wife and sons to further cement his position. At which point I decided that the empire no longer held a place for me. Rather than watch him decay I fled to more comfortable parts, hoping to avoid the agony of watching his son take the throne. The world is a wide garden for an enterprising man, and Ridgeport needed enterprise.”
“So you came here to be a general, abandoning your loyal troops in Feneva?”
“No, nothing like that at all. My loyal troops would indeed have followed a general here, but I do not think they would have followed a wine merchant or a farmer, which I both was before and became again. I ran a healthy winery here in Ridgeport, and grew the finest grapes in the west.” I allowed myself some nostalgia as I spoke. Torc would certainly use the knowledge to his advantage if it had been new to him, but I knew that he was cunning enough to either guess it or spy it out himself and then to apply its meaning and use to the current situation. The question, of course, that I had to answer was whether Torc was acting strictly in his own interests, or if he was still functioning as someone’s lackey. I was, after all, a prize with many uses. So I made my ploy for solving this mystery.
“Have the general’s armies fared as well further north?” I asked.
“The general has no need to dirty his hands with the pig driving in the north lands, that is left for Laroc,” replied the lieutenant. I smiled inwardly, but was careful not allow any emotion to show on my face. A smile or a frown might be misconstrued at this point, and the lieutenant needed no further provocation.
I looked at the parchment in his hand, and said, “Please take care to deliver the message intact,” and even that dullard could tell the conversation was over.
The following day I was summoned, as expected, to preside at the execution of Lieutenant Havril. Disobeying orders in anyone’s army is dangerous at best. Doing so in General Torc’s army, particularly when it involves a treasure as valuable as myself is simply suicide. Lieutenant Havril made himself a very useful means of conveying that message to the remainder of the troops. Following the execution, General Torc invited me to dine.
The feast enjoined was sparse military fare. Slave girls served in abject silence, and the few I recognized were wise enough not to draw attention to themselves. I am not sure why Torc chose not to provide any entertainment that particular evening, but in retrospect I am glad he did not. Many worries weighed heavily upon me at that point and I do not believe I would have received satisfaction. In any event, the conversation turned quickly to political events, and the younger officers appeared eager to discuss the affairs of the empire. It was not terribly difficult to sort which lackey served which purpose to the general, and which few, like Havril, were expendable. I don’t generally like the outspoken ones, but a rather tall, broad man with an exceptional mustache after the eastern tradition caught my notice, both in the way he verbally browbeat the others quickly into submission, and in his intelligence into matters generally obscured.
He noticed for instance, “that we’ve been slogging out here in the forsaken western swamps for nigh on a year to get what?” At this juncture, for effect he kicked one of the unfortunate serving girls, “A few scrawny slaves,” and now he leered in my general direction, although he was careful enough to not sound too offensive, “and a doddering relic from the past.”
Quite naturally his little speech raised a cry of scorn from the general body. “For the glory of the empire have we captured the great city of Ridgeport, and are returning with its spoils to Feneva,” was the general consensus. “And when general Massoun has seen the changes in the capitol, he will gladly join us. There is no general like Torc, who leads us to conquest, destroying the enemies of the empire that others would not dare face.” I smiled now, a little bemused at this sort of talk. Would I indeed join this rabble of half-wits? Did Torc really understand the game he was playing? Of course he did, but I could sense that he was not truly capable of winning. He could come very close, but he could not win.
Torc supervised this display in silence, allowing his men to play their parts without interruption. I was almost convinced it had been entirely staged, until I understood that the nervousness in the general’s countenance stemmed not from my seeing through a charade, but rather from my not discerning the situation. I waited for an opportune moment, and proclaimed, “I shall never join the barbarism of the empire.” I allowed my hidden passions to play into my voice and body. “As long as a bloody tyrant holds the crown, it is an empire cursed by the gods, and upheld only by its pact with infernal powers.”
Now, although I do have some deep spiritual convictions, it must be understood clearly that this was little more than a ploy to arouse the passions of the men and to signal Torc that I understood the situation and was prepared to negotiate. I had not quite expected the explosive reaction I received. “He blasphemes against the emperor,” they cried, and I was quickly dragged from my place and flung to the ground before the tables. “Let us kill him!” they begged their general, and for a brief second I thought they might not wait on his approval. But I had underestimated both Torc’s control over his men and their loyalty to him.
With his stern and steady voice, he said, “Silence,” and silence ensued. “General Massoun grieves still for the loss of his family, and when he is better informed of the situation, he will join us.” He then looked at me, and stated, “You must be tired, general.” I nodded my consent. “Return him to his tent,” Torc ordered, and I was immediately gathered up from the ground and escorted back to my tent.
I sat in darkness in my tent, waiting for Torc to arrive. I did not have to wait long. The time had come for us to discuss openly his plans, whether to claim the throne for himself, or to play the part of puppet to another in the capitol. Of course he would have to claim it himself. I had not heard of anyone in Feneva with the guts, or much less the money, to finance a reckless general with only half an army to command to assault a worthless city in a swamp. My thoughts were interrupted when the bulky form of general Torc entered.
“I presume by now that you have figured out why I’m here,” he stated, flatly. His voice was gruff and yet weary. His eyes betrayed him. He was desperate, and so I concluded helpless, at least in a political sense.
“Disenfranchised with your own situation, you are desperate for a way to preserve not only your position, but your wealth and even your very life. With no allies in Feneva, you have abandoned the capitol, giving some excuse to go pillaging across the countryside, and have secretly captured me. Only your closest officers know who I truly am, but word has spread that Ridgeport is burned and an important prisoner has been taken. You will use these half rumors to re-negotiate a position of power in the capitol, and failing that simply either sell me to the highest bidder, or if you are brave enough to present me before the emperor and claim your just reward.”
“You guess pretty good,” he replied. “But how can you be so sure that I am working alone?”
“I do not say you are completely alone, but certainly without any connections to speak of. Because with the right connections you would have been directly commanding our armies both to the north and south, and we would be waiting here to be re-supplied instead of simply waiting. I am quite convinced you are in a very desperate situation.”
I don’t know exactly what I expected at that point. Each person reacts a little differently when faced with the truth of their situation at the hands of another person. But I certainly had not expected his reply.
“You are correct about many things Massoun,” he said, “but not about everything.”
I prepared myself for his continued self-denial.
“I am indeed a very desperate man. You see, I actually do love the empire. Fornost is a terrible creature, barely capable of being called a man, much less an emperor.”
“I knew him when he was a child,” I bemused.
“He has grown more evil. And his evil has infected every part of the capitol. Our borders in the north are actually collapsing, not growing under Laroc’s supervision. There is no longer a war to be waged in the south. Although the provinces are compliant for now, they will soon rise in rebellion.” He laughed a little, “a rebellion that power-mongering politicians will start themselves.”
His eyes glassed over with a demi-maniacal hatred of his own situation and the world at large as he continued. “Fornost is a beast. He gluts himself in every imaginable pleasure. His thirst for slaves and money is endless. A person cannot abide his presence and still feel human. Even the most powerful nobles dare not face him lest they be forced to perform some lewd act at his whim, or bear witness to yet another of his atrocities. But no one does anything because in their hearts they are the same. They envy him and his power, and because he can abuse his power they are free to abuse their own. Yes, I am a desperate man, and that is why I have come here to these swamps to burn your city. So that you would have nothing to turn back to. Nothing to keep you from claiming your right as emperor.”
I only half listened to most of his tirade, but must admit that his last bit caught me entirely by surprise. I suppose I had been a political pawn for so long that the idea of actually attempting to take the throne myself had simply left me entirely. Yet here stood a man capable of great ambition, with a formidable army at his command, asking me to take what most others would take for themselves. I thought a moment before I replied.
“You are right about one thing.” I paused to look at his eyes, and as I expected they were eager for my response. “I have nothing to go back to. You are very efficient, I’ll give you that.” He laughed, a little smug, and I laughed as well, but not for long. “You realize that we will both be killed if we fail?”
“Death is a small price to pay to redeem an empire,” he responded.
“You realized that you will be killed if we succeed?”
I don’t think he was quite ready for that eventuality, but I knew that he would have face that truth sooner or later. After all, there could only ever be one emperor, and no supreme ruler could ever trust a confidant who gave him supreme power. But I was prepared for his reply.
“Death is a small price to pay to redeem an empire,” he responded.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Death is a small price to pay, but even those small prices add up quickly.”
He proceeded to tell me of his plan. I found it much better laid out than previously anticipated. Among my colleagues I was always known as an infernal conspiricist, but next to Torc I was tame. I generally developed very cunning plans, and attended to the important details, often relying on human nature to fill in any gaps. Torc left nothing to chance. We both knew that direct assault on the capitol would be effective, yet hopeless in case the opposing army decided that their depravity was worth fighting for. However, a direct assault aided by additional inside turmoil would certainly give us time to seize the throne. The essential idea was to aide the provinces to the south to start their rebellion, and allow them to truly threaten the capitol, even allowing them to destroy opposing forces if necessary. And then to simply assassinate any of the more powerful politicians, including, of course, the emperor. Then I could safely declare myself in the capitol, negotiate a peace with the rebels and save the day.
Although there were several difficult hurdles to overcome with the plan, Torc informed me that he had indeed already started the rebellion, and that his army was currently the only thing stopping the rebel army from sacking the capitol. “Feneva is at our mercy.”
Within a matter of weeks we had traversed the countryside back towards Feneva. I must admit, in that short time I grew both restless and nostalgic. I had no real hope of success, and didn’t know what I would do even if I did succeed, but I was overcome with some amount of joy, more so than I had been in years. So I took a slave girl from Ridgeport as a wife. A consort would have been more fashionable, but she was actually from the nobility of that city, and proved to be a wonderful companion despite her youth and lack of proper training. I passed my time idling away the hours. Torc had the situation well in hand, and although I took great care to learn the details of his regime, I did not interfere with the daily decisions regarding his operations.
Meeting the leader of the rebels was hardly enlightening, but I believe it changed me a great deal. Houron was hardly a unique individual. He was that kind of leader who found himself there more through luck than ambition, although ambition ran thick in his blood. He was a powerful brute of a man, both tall and strong, covered in thick black hair with the constant smell of sweat and fish. The machine of war he called an army operated on vain hopes of freedom and the greedy ambitions of its generals. Houron, nor his cronies, held any real ideals about what they were doing.
“Give me a piece of land,” he said, “and a few servants to work it for me.” He swilled his wine without thought or care and feasted heartily on anything brought before him.
“Spoils to the victor,” I replied cheerfully, allowing myself to participate in the revelry for my comrade’s sake. “There will be land and riches enough to go around.”
Torc, I noticed, raised an eyebrow at my comments. I am not sure which question was bouncing back and forth in that brain, whether for his own interests or the empire’s. He simply raised his cup cheerfully and joined the celebration. We were now only a day from the capitol.
We sent an emissary demanding the immediate capitulation of the emperor, as well as the full support of all politicians in the empire. Naturally, we received only the messengers’ heads in response, but we had expected little more. General Laroc had an army less than a week away, and they would attempt to buy time until he could arrive and save them. We allowed them to play their game. I had no intentions of sacking that city; it would be far too costly to rebuild.
Although I had never faced Laroc in battle before, I had known his family well, and those who instructed him in the art of war. I took closer counsel now with general Torc. Although I trusted his decisions to a great extent, he was still unaccustomed to winning an impossible battle. We would need to keep the majority of our forces to guard the city while the remainder of our army defeated Laroc’s much larger force. Naturally Torc advised against this move, but his resistance was short lived. “It is the best way,” I stated. “Your troops are seasoned and well trained. They will not be facing a man of any real intellectual account. Laroc is not a strategist nor even a warrior, he is a politician in a suit of armor.”
“How can you be so sure,” asked Torc. “He has campaigned well, and I have met him on several occasions. He has always appeared very sharp to me.”
“Because he is who he is,” I replied. “A man cannot cease to be himself. As a boy he once played with my own son. He would often bully the other children, until one day a smaller boy caught him in a hunting snare and left him tied in a tree for a day. Laroc never discovered that the trap had been set intentionally, nor had any of his family, and that brash bullying boy never learned his lesson. I am certain he will overlook the trap he is walking into now.”
I do not believe that my answer satisfied Torc, but he did not question my strategy. We had reached that pinnacle which he could never hope to scale. This far he could have come without my help, but to actually succeed he would have to win two impossible victories, the first with Laroc which he may have been able to do, and the second at Feneva which he could never do.
Laroc’s troops first encountered our forces five days later. Our guerillas first began harrying the enemy three days before. The strategy was simple enough. Slow them down. Cut off their scouts. Harass them as quickly and efficiently as possible from as many sides as possible.
The final maneuver was costly, albeit not as costly as a frontal assault would have been, but it took a great deal of convincing to pull off. Asking men to kill themselves rarely is a good battle strategy, but I found some who were willing, and gullible enough to believe I could save them. The basic idea was to make a feint with a large enough force to get Laroc’s army to pursue them, and then to use the main force of my army to attack Laroc’s rear. Amazingly enough it worked; and as Laroc is one of those generals who enjoys fighting from behind his forces, we captured and executed him without problem. To my even greater surprise, some of the men from our advance force survived.
Entering Feneva would prove more difficult. Naturally our army could easily storm the wall and after a few months siege the city would fall. However, that would weaken both the empire and my own ability to govern it. I am not a man fond of waste. So I sent them again an emissary, this time bearing a corpse-less head of his own. With Laroc dead, some politicians were prepared to negotiate. Not formally, of course, but secretly. I had some cousins still in power, and many old friends, as well as a few ambitious youth. Each without knowledge of the other participated in a subtle plot.
Members of the opposition were convinced to attempt to flee the city at given times and places. Naturally they were captured. The useless were killed. The useful held as comfortable prisoners. In each case word was spread of their successful escape. Messages reached the emperor of conspirators and traitors within my ranks. Stories of assassination attempts on general Torc and myself found their ways into taverns. And Feneva relaxed. I sent a great portion of the rebel army back to their provinces with instructions on how to remove their local governors. Then the emperor died, mysteriously overcome with a fit of insane rage, stabbing himself in the heart. The only witness to this tragedy was his most trusted advisor and the leader of his personal bodyguard. A day later his sons were found butchered. The city was thrown into a panic. Where would they turn for leadership?
The city gates were opened, and my bodyguard and I made our way to the palace. I presented myself before the great council, and I promised to avenge these horrible deaths and bring peace again to the empire. As the only living relative of the emperor, it was both my right and my duty to restore the glory of the empire. In addition I had a substantial force of men willing to destroy anyone who stood in my path.
In a short time conspirators were found and hanged. Those who did not support my cause were executed for not supporting the previous emperor. During this time Houron was found to be responsible for the death of one the other would-be heirs to the throne, and likewise executed. In fact, the majority of the rebel leaders were found to be responsible for much of the mayhem and were all killed quietly and quickly. Support for my cause was both unanimous and energetic.
Finally, I found myself alone, in the palace with my power. I sat beside a shallow pool of water near my apartments, gazing at myself in the ripples. I saw and felt the blood on my hands. How many had I murdered along the way? How many exiled? How many lives destroyed? For the sake of the empire? For the sake of ambition? Just to see if I could actually do it? I smelled of blood and dung. I felt my body covered in blood and mire. I tore off my filthy bloodstained garments, and thrashed about in the water, trying desperately to wash the stains from my body. Exhausted, I sat down and looked out over the city, and in my mind I saw the vineyard I first purchased near Ridgeport. I saw the home and the country fields where my children grew. I saw the battles I had won, felt again the glory. And I saw myself standing on that hill near Ridgeport watching the slaughter. The blood returned.
I heard Torc enter. He was alone, but I knew he would be unarmed. I clothed myself and called for fruit and a knife to cut it. We talked. Some pitiful matter regarding affairs in the city, I wasn’t really paying attention. In my mind all that I could see was the blood and pain that he had caused me. The thirst of power had driven me to atrocities I never believed myself capable. When the knife came I took my revenge. I passed all the blood and power and guilt onto Torc. As I slumped to the ground, I felt again the smoke and ash of a burning city and was grateful for the deathblow that saved me.
THE END
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