A New Reign

by Bryan Gifford

  The gyrfalcon appeared like a star in the twilight. She shot through the window and landed nimbly on a perch in the middle of the room. Malleus approached and removed the scroll from around the bird’s leg. He unfurled the parchment and read the document, his eyes growing wide.

  He quickly stuffed the scroll in his cloak and retrieved a massive halberd from a nearby shelf. “It’s time, Eritha.”

  Eritha drew a long sword from her scabbard, revealing the bloody crest of the Knights of Iscara on its crossguard. She nodded solemnly.

  Malleus led the Iscara down the stairs and into the guardroom. The soldier by the door drew his arming sword at the sight of them. He turned and locked the door. The three then stepped forward and raised their weapons, the dozen unsuspecting soldiers still snoring contently.

  The hooded man plunged his halberd down on a sleeping soldier, pinning his body to the tabletop with a crunch of wood and bone. The others died just as quietly.

  The three left their bloody handiwork behind and stepped out into the night. The Iscara raised a hand from the folds of her cloak, cradling a glowing spark. The spark swelled and flames snaked from her fingers to engulf a nearby barrack. Screams of anguish soon echoed in the night.

  The sounds of distant battle reached their ears. Soon, fires began to appear throughout the city of Val Idris. They marched deeper into the capital, death and fire consuming.

  A New Reign

  A lone white horse galloped swift across the countryside. It flew like a blur over the endless rolling hills, launched like an arrow from the setting sun.

  Wind crashed into its rider’s face, sending his cowl clapping in the gale. He lashed his reins, quickening his mount’s already blistering pace. He glared into the east, bright eyes narrowed with resolve.

  He cut through the wasteland of Andred. Miles of bleak, icy country stretched out on every side. Rolling hills dotted the barren earth, blessed here and there with the occasional winter shrub or grass. Crevices and gorges wound through the earth haphazard, splitting the expanses with deathly plunges. A strange ice clung to much of the earth, forming a sheet of slippery sheen. Snow trickled from the darkling skies and stung against the rider’s face as he galloped into the dusk.

  An unearthly silence hung over Andred. This peculiar quiet hung like bars around him, daring him to break free. He rode deeper into this cold and lifeless land, purpose burning in his heart.

  The rider reached his destination as night fell. The mighty citadel of Apollynos, the birthplace of Tarsha’s suffering, loomed before him.

  Even after all these years, the place managed to instill a sense of wonder in him. Two gargantuan towers formed the stronghold. They extended for hundreds, perhaps thousands of feet into the air, as if descending from the clouds.

  The feet of the towers stretched out in seven directions like the roots of heavenly oaks, each stone root jutting a distance nearly equal to its trunk’s height. Hundreds of smaller, spike-like turrets wrapped around the towers, their roofs capped with angular iron scales and interlaced with arrow slots and murder holes.

  No attempt at beauty graced its construction. Every curve and corner were painted in blackness with harsh lines that confused the eye. Silhouetted against the night sky and surrounded in a faint drizzle of white, the stronghold seemed a part of the darkness. Or rather, the darkness itself.

  The rider slowed his mare to a trot and approached the abyss of Apollynos. He soon reached the outer legs of the towers and rode into their black embrace. Every fall of his horse’s hooves crunched deafeningly in the snow, screaming in his ears as he continued into the ghoulish silence.

  He stepped into an expansive courtyard nestled beneath the breast of the citadel. The rider looked to every side, only to see sheer walls encompass him. Snowflakes slipped through the atrium’s open roof to settle to the stones. A flake fluttered down and came to rest on the man’s cheek as he looked up at the starry sky.

  The rider came to a large flight of stairs at the end of the atrium. He dismounted and led his mare to a nearby archway and tied her lead rope around a column. Wrapping his tattered cloak around himself, he climbed the icy steps to a vast gate.

  The gate stood even taller and mightier than those of Morven, formed of solid cerebreum. Pure, black cerebreum. The doors creaked into motion and sent a coarse moan through the night, opening to an even deeper black.

  He stepped into the void and entered a colossal, circular room that stretched for hundreds of yards in all directions. The foyer continued upwards toward an unseen ceiling, the walls dotted with countless balconies and stairwells, all made of the same dark stone. The very air sparkled with ice.

  A group of arzecs moved to stand on either side of the entrance. They flicked their tongues, their unseeing faces almost watching him as they raised their glaives in a kind of salute.

  The man turned to face them. He thrust out his arms and a violent wall of wind crashed into the unwitting creatures. The arzecs flailed through the air with a howl and smacked against the stone floor with a crunch.

  Several Iscara appeared from one of the archways above and rushed down the stairs toward the intruder. They crossed the room with weapons forward.

  The Knights knelt before him, planted their sword tips on the floor, and bowed their heads in reverence. The man gestured for them to rise. The motion stirred his cloak, revealing the plain gray leathers and black furs that covered his looming frame. “It’s good to see you, old friends,” he spoke at last, voice cool like winter’s first chill.

  The closest Knight stepped forward and dipped his shaven head again. “Lord Iscarius, we did as you commanded. We rose and attacked at sun’s fall. We slew many of the Destroyer’s creatures before you arrived.” The man lifted his spear. The black blood of the damned dripped down the ornate weapon.

  “Good,” the man called Iscarius replied. “How many stand with us tonight?”

  “Three hundred and forty-eight, my lord.”

  “What of those that denied us?”

  A frown darkened his ugly face. “The last of the loyalist leadership died with Sariel and Alanis. Still, a few stood against us…”

  “That is the price they knew they would pay. What of our agents elsewhere? Has word reached them of what must be done?”

  “Yes, my lord. Eritha and the other Iscara are in position. Their instructions have already been sent out.”

  “Good. You have done well, Barachiel.”

  The Iscara beat his breastplate emblazoned with the sigil of a white rose and stepped back to his fellows.

  “What would you have us do now?” a platinum-headed Iscara asked.

  Their leader turned to her. “Kamael, find Ramiel and have him and his men hold the East Tower. Barachiel, you and I will gather our brethren and make for the West Tower. The rest of you… go forth and slaughter.”

  The traitorous Iscara thrust their blades in the air and gave a murderous shout. Kamael and a retinue of Iscara left the group and ran down the northernmost hall. Others moved away deeper into the inner hallways.

  Iscarius led his group across the foyer toward the main staircase. As they bound up the steps, several arzecs appeared from the archway with fangs bared. Barachiel tossed up a hand and sent them flying over the balcony.

  They mounted the steps and took the hall’s right branch. A large group of arzecs rushed toward them, serpentine tongues flashing furiously to make sense of the charging men. Unsure if these were the traitors, the arzecs formed a shield wall across the hallway, daring them to pass.

  The fourteen Iscara threw out their hands in unison. A tidal wave of wind collided into the faceless creatures. The arzecs blasted back against the walls, limbs and entrails spewing in a gory mist.

  The Iscara traversed the bloody ruins and followed the winding hallway deeper into the heart of the citadel. They passed hundreds of buildings and barracks lining every corridor and passageway. They followed these winding tunnels, hacking down any enemy that stood in their way. Higher
and higher they climbed, story after story, slowly working up the citadel’s interior until they reached the heart of Apollynos.

  A monolithic expanse stretched out before them.

  Great buildings filled every available space of the cavernous interior. Mighty walls and platforms loomed far above on all sides, each adorned with small cities. Below, hundreds of smithies billowed smoke into the cavern. Hammers pounded shrill in the dark and echoed in the far reaches. Rivulets of molten metal formed channels between the smithies, glowing red-hot like the bowels of some hell.

  Andreds roamed the streets, their frozen hearts guiding them toward some unknown purpose. The wretched things filled every street and rooftop, guarding the arzecs as they toiled.

  Iscarius gestured for his Knights to follow and led them down the stairs toward the metropolis. Andreds noticed them and loaded their bows, silently taking aim. Arrows rained down on the Knights, clinking against the stone as they evaded the hail of projectiles.

  The Iscara hurled flashing bolts of light as they passed, launching andreds off the rooftops. They continued through the volleying fire, dropping their enemies as they ran.

  Kamael appeared from a balcony above and dove over the buildings, several dozen men and women sailing through the air after her. She landed on a rooftop and swung her hand, sending out a wave of shadow that propelled back a cluster of andreds.

  They ran along the rooftops, chasing after the other Iscara. Kamael jumped from the last building and plunged her sword through a passing arzec’s skull. She pulled her weapon out in a jet of black blood as her fellow Iscara fell around her and gathered at the intersection ahead.

  A massive pile of bodies lay before them, covering the intersection with mangled, bloodied flesh. Every corpse was a victim of the andreds’ ruthless brutality. Each had once fought for his country, his home, his family. Now, they were united in death, naked and rotting.

  An Iscara shook his head. “To think that we once justified this.”

  Kamael approached the pile with a scowl. “Dying, only to be reborn as the very monster you’ve spent your whole life killing. No one deserves that.”

  Iscarius looked over the mountain of bodies collected for a dark purpose. He’d seen this sight his entire life, but only now did it truly send a chill down his spine.

  “Abaddon will pay for what he’s done,” Kamael muttered. Hate glowed in her pale eyes.

  “Patience,” Iscarius replied, “he will atone soon enough.”

  A flood of footfalls echoed in the city. The Knights looked to the surrounding streets. A horde of hundreds of andreds appeared and surrounded the traitors.

  Iscarius turned and sprinted for a group of andreds as they formed a shield wall. He dodged a spear thrust and kicked off a shield, throwing himself over the enemy ranks. He lifted his arms as he arced over the andreds. At this, a hundred weaves of wind plucked weapons away from their owners and sent them shooting back down.

  Iscarius landed among the slain and beckoned for his men. They turned from the fighting and followed him deeper into the citadel. They wound through the streets, arrows flying like thickets about them.

  Andreds closed in from every side. Wind, light, and fire blasted from the group as they continued through the city, struggling to fend off the ever-growing tides. One Knight finally fell to the ground with an arrow embedded in the back of his throat. The Iscara turned and watched helplessly as arzecs descended over him, howling in delight.

  At last, the Iscara came to an open area, and at the other end stood an imposing archway. They stood now at the base of the West Tower. The tower was well over a hundred yards wide and soared far into the clouds. They looked up into the bowels of this stone beast, its ceiling masked in blackness. A single staircase wound up its innards, slowly ascending into the heavens.

  The Iscara turned to face the pursuing hordes of andreds. They swung their hands in unison and sent a blinding wave into their front lines. Scores of andreds erupted in a bloody mist, yet their comrades continued forward undeterred. Silently they charged with weapons raised to slaughter.

  Iscarius stepped through the group and raised his hands. The molten fires from the nearby forges gathered at the end of the archway. They swelled as one great mass, ricocheting off the narrow hall to leap around the enemy forces. The molten metals enveloped the attacking throngs and set every walking corpse aflame. The andreds fell charred to the earth.

  Iscarius flicked his wrist and sent the plumes bounding up the tower to set several incoming arzecs ablaze. The flames then curled over the steps and scattered in the heat and smoke. Streams of metal cooled in the air to form silvery webs against the floors and walls. Iscarius turned and looked to his Knights, their faces stern in the pyres of the freshly slain.

  “I go alone from here,” he said to them. “Stay and hold this tower until I return. Kill all that try to follow.”

  Iscarius approached the foot of the stairs as arzecs and Andreds charged into the room. Lights flashed behind him and explosions boomed in the cavernous tower. He reached behind his back and unlatched a strap, pulling a sword from the depths of his cloak.

  The sword was well over five feet in length. Its blade was exceptionally thin for its size, two inches in width and scarce thicker than a fingernail. Its black cerebreum blade glistened dully, deep purple veins sparkling in the firelight.

  The weapon’s crossguard fanned out to splay forth its feathers of gleaming silver. The edge of its wing-like crossguard curved outward at the other end and tapered into an elegant hand guard. Its pommel curled into the silver talon of a raven, gripping a black jewel in its claw.

  Iscarius looked up into the darkness. Andreds and arzecs poured down the stairs from every level to form a near constant stream of black. Iscarius drew his cowl closer to his face and took a deep breath.

  He dashed up the stairs and slammed into an arzec, plunging his sword clean through the creature’s chest and into another. The beasts shot back from the force of his tackle and he leapt over their bodies, carving a path in flesh.

  Iscarius thrust his palm out at a group of andreds and sent them blasting up the stairs in a clap of wind. He pulled his sword from his latest victim and continued up the monolithic tower.

  He dashed through the flow of andreds, sword biting and hacking with blistering speed, bodies dropping yards behind him. He climbed higher and higher into the clouds, eventually reaching the shadow of the distant roof. The battle waged below as a small blur, brilliant flashes of color still a spectacle even at this great distance.

  Another foolish horde of arzecs descended upon him. Iscarius deflected a mace and thrust his palm into an arzec. Bone fragmented from his attacker’s chest and sprayed several arzecs. The deadly shrapnel instantly dropped the creatures. The remaining beasts cowered in fear.

  His power as an Iscara was vast, mysterious, something this world could never comprehend. He could barely understand it himself. But it was a gift from the Forgotten, and he would use what had been granted him. With a little coaxing, he could take what existed around him—the air, a spark, even the stones underfoot—and manipulate and magnify. And that meant…

  He held a hand out and the icy air seemed to coalesce around him. The sparkling air smashed together, and spear-like icicles floated around him. The arzecs charged, and he met them with a flurry of ice. The spears shot about him, gutting any creature that came to close. With small flicks of his fingers, the ice responded, waving this way and that. Iscarius swung his sword and bodies dropped, the ice spears impaling the remaining few.

  Iscarius had reached the end of the stairs. He sagged, exhaustion creeping in from his furious climb. This high up, it was bitter cold, and the air froze in his lungs.

  He paused to catch his breath before entering a vast room of stone. His breath evaporated before him, hot mist almost shimmering in the frigid air. He pressed his cowl to his face; the air was dangerous here, especially this close to Abaddon. Things had a way of changing around him.


  Iscarius scanned the darkness for signs of assailants, but only saw the familiar heaps of shadows. Bodies.

  A faint creaking reached his ears. He worked through the mounds of cold corpses and came to one of the many men chained to the wall. Pus and blood caked his body. His skin was pale and deathly green and hung like rags from his splintered bones. His heart thumped slowly against the remnants of his ribcage as he twitched in his shackles. His eyelids fluttered, but Iscarius knew what color those eyes would be. Silver.

  He turned from the horrible scene and continued through the maze of bodies. He soon reached the end and climbed a staircase near hidden in shadows.

  He entered a small room from a side door. The room’s walls and floor were fashioned of black marble. A looming doorway formed most of the opposing wall made of two near-seamless slabs of black cerebreum.

  Iscarius approached the doors.

  “You’re not going to say hello first?” a voice echoed in the quiet.

  Iscarius stopped and looked to a man gone unnoticed in the corner. “Why would I, Mithaniel?” he laughed behind his cowl.

  The man stepped from the shadows with a limping gait and smiled behind a rag. He stood taller than most, though somewhat lanky. Brilliant white hair fell like a mane down his gaunt face and over his shoulders. He wore the black plate armor of the Iscara, although his armor still shone, distinctly lacking of gore.

  The two men shook hands and the pale-haired Iscara turned to the door. “He’s in there….”

  “Have you spoken to him yet?”

  “While the others were having their fun. He said many strange things.”

  Iscarius gave him a curious look.

  “Things about Taran, about Ceerocai. He knows much more than we thought. All our decades of planning, and he still seems leaps ahead of us, even now. Perhaps you’re underestimating him?”

  “Is that a statement or advice?”

  Mithaniel shrugged. “Both, I suppose.”