by Sean J Leith
He considered this as he sat with the fire. It was his friend, his foe, and his guide. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours. The cogs in his mind turned rapidly as he organized all the plans he spun. There were more than a few stings and rescue missions in play all across Loughran. The war stressed Jirah out even more.
Kieran, the late king’s son, resided in the new northern nation of Orinas, and started a war to retake his throne. No argument with that. The heir to the throne was that of blood, and Kieran was the rightful one, despite his age. If anything, Bracchus’ brother Rawling deserved it as well, but he separated from the others in the desert nation of Zenato. Jirah cringed whenever he thought of the deserts; he hadn’t returned to that place since he left his mother and sister behind twelve years prior. Rawling, the lawless bastard, gave little care to the rights of the helpless. Now all three were in locked a war against one another, and the low-borns were caught in the middle of strife.
It was all a matter of age. In Loughran, most men and women were not married before eighteen. King Rawling the second, also called the Bloody, near three hundred years ago, was crowned at the age of sixteen. He ordered massacres of those that questioned him, executions for little more than a stolen loaf of bread, and war with any nation or people that did not worship him. After that, the Renalian King never took the throne until eighteen, which Kieran was one year off from. Many marriage customs followed; no man or woman would marry until then, at least, in the forests of Loughran where Jirah was now. The north and eastern provinces kept a younger age at times. Once they were grown they were married off—for politics, and sometimes in a rare case for love, man and woman both. A King or Queen would never marry until they were ready to rule, since more deviancy in history occurred in the royal family.
It was not unknown for a young King or Queen in history to bring others to their bed in the name of love—only to have the other woman or man executed by the church of Illadis in the name of the royal dignity. Marriage was sacred, and not to be trifled with. Jirah never married—even though he was pushed to. He never fancied a woman. He had felt something for another, but they hid it from everyone.
Jirah believed Kieran was ready to rule, as did most of the Northern provinces. However, Fillion Drayfus crowned himself Regent as did the other nobles in the west, and now he was King. It was all a ridiculous ploy. Kieran started a war with the nobles of the north at his back. The wars had only one benefit: while ‘King’ Drayfus raged a war against the other two, Jirah had an advantage. He took the chance and began this battle for his people. But no matter what I do, innocents still get hurt. My newest recruits were imprisoned by my own folly, Jirah thought.
But then, something strange came from the fire. It was an image of some kind. He saw five individuals standing before the late king, including Lira—what sorcery is this? Am I hallucinating? Bracchus Tirilin stood before them. Is it a ghost? Just as it appeared, the vision quickly faded.
“You may thank me at a later time, my friend,” a thick voice announced. A large, dark-eyed man in a hooded cloak walked through the dark forest into the camp. His velvet cloak accentuated his powerful stature, and his hands sat behind his back. All members of the camp drew their blades and bows at the strange individual.
“What are you going to do, kill me? I am simply a messenger.” He had solemn red eyes, a black scruffy beard, and an unsettlingly wide smile.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Krogar?” Jirah waved for the others to calm themselves. Their blades lowered as Krogar Steeltooth approached the fire and gently sat down. “And what exactly was that all about?”
A sweetened smile touched Krogar’s lips, and he raised an eyebrow devilishly. He was always one for tricks and behind-the-curtain ideas. “Oh, I just heard you needed a little help.” He let out a hoarse chuckle as he warmed his hands on the fire, his pale white ring shining brightly from the flame. He never took it off, but Jirah knew he wasn’t married to any woman or man. “You needed to know where they were, and I showed you.” He took a tome out from his leather satchel and began to read quietly. The crackle of the fire soothed the tone.
“Find a partner to replace the imaginary one, Krogar?”
Krogar glanced up to the page with a raised brow.
Jirah pointed to his unity finger. “You never take it off.”
With a plain face, Krogar said, “You never put your hair out.”
Another game. “I can’t,” Jirah replied.
“Exactly.” Krogar chuckled.
Jirah glanced around to the others, who looked confused and suspicious. Serafina shot him an especially worriful eye from her patrol by the forest path. Her smoky Rhaegan skin shone brightly from the fire, contrasting the black eyes. Jumpy people had their benefits in a rebellion.
Jirah glanced back to Krogar, never sure of what to expect from him. He was old member of the Renalian military, who too fought in the war against Obelreyon and his Broken armies. Jirah could never read him, which was incredibly irritating. He was an ally in some ways, and an enemy in others. His personality was unpredictable, a bane to Jirah, and he always seemed to do what was most fun.
“So you simply came to show me a vision? What exactly was going on there?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m not sure,” his grin didn’t fade. “I just thought I’d do you a favor.” His rough hands carefully turned the fragile pages of his spell book as if they were handling a feather. “Come now my friend, I thought we were on the same side, here.” He continued, “I do like the little forests here. The Sirilius trees smell of lavender and smooth sea salt. Don’t you agree?”
Jirah frowned and ignored the attempt to change the subject. “How did you find us?”
Krogar let out a deep chuckle as the fire blew swiftly with the wind, giving his eye a sharp glint. “Knowledge is my trade, my friend.” He smirked without looking up. “I love a soft campfire. The flickering of an inferno growing from kindling and embers, glittering off the blackwood maples and sifting in the air, helpless before the elements that oppose it. Yet all fear the power of fire, even shadows. Why do you think that is, my rebelling companion?”
“Because fires burn.”
“Exactly. But what does a fire do when a water looms?” His eyes shone in the firelight, revealing nothing but curiosity.
It reminded Jirah of his friendship with Richard, a Frozelia—Humans touched with the power of water and ice. Rich was his first friend in the military, and the last he would want as an enemy. “Befriend the water,” he replied.
Krogar smirked. “Oh, you are a wise man. It’s funny, though, that you don’t see two feet in front of you. That might cost you. Or will it benefit you? I’m not entirely sure.” His smile gleamed from the fire. “A shift of balance is coming, my friend. Don’t forget the obvious.”
“Why don’t you quit being so cryptic?” Sera yelped from the path, hands fidgeting as she paced. She jumped back as Jirah’s gaze turned fierce toward her. “I mean—” she stuttered. She had a problem with her temper. She was easily flustered with ambiguity, and people she didn’t know. She meant well, though.
“Now now, is that any way to treat someone who’s helping?” Krogar looked to her with his devious grin, as the fire cracked loudly. “You’re a cranky one,” he chuckled again. He scratched his beard slowly and turned his gaze toward Jirah. “Well, my friend, it seems like my presence isn’t wanted here.” He rose, closed his book, and turned toward the forest. “You might want to send some people over my way in the marshes. Things might get a teensy bit hairy there. Perhaps those recruits of yours—I like them.”
“Hey, wait a moment. What was this?”
“Why, a bit of charity, of course.” Krogar’s grin became bigger than ever. Even Jirah was growing uncomfortable. “Don’t worry, my little friend. We have to make sure they don’t shuffle off this mortal coil, right?” He let out a loud guffaw. “Well, some of them.”
With that, he strolled and disappeared into the dark forests. A deafening s
ilence settled throughout the camp. The crackle of the fire echoed through the forest, the wind swept through the trees, and throngs of bats flew through the night sky overhead.
“That guy is weird,” Serafina said, finally breaking the silence. “I don’t like him.”
“Don’t worry, Sera,” Jirah began, still in bewilderment. He looked to the forest, first wondering what Krogar hid up his sleeve, and then what happened to the five recruits. Some of them, he had said. Is there something important about them? Or is Krogar just playing one of his games? It frustrated Jirah beyond belief. “He’s on our side.” If Krogar was a book, Jirah couldn’t read a single word. “I think.”
Chapter Six
Two-Faced Fate
Saul Bromaggus
Saul arrived in Hero’s Fall. The massive peninsula ascended miles upon miles to mighty barren cliffs. It was the same as he remembered as a child, accompanying his father to see the grand temple of the Oracles.
At the cliff face sat the titanic temple, made with impenetrable venomstone preserved by the gods. Saul could feel the power emanating from the various halls and domes; they housed the very spirits of the gods. He could hardly believe he was to stand before the Oracles now, the thousand-year-old prophets who predicted the fate of those who were worthy. No one knew where they originated from. Some theorized that they came from the long-sunken isle of origin within Urikar’s Berth to the east, hidden within the haze.
Saul stepped off his Ravager, and ran his hand along its dark mane, patting it’s short, snoutless head. They were great beasts in war; a charge of Ravagers would be seen as a throng of bright green eyes. Few men lived to tell the tale. If they weren’t fed properly, some Ravagers bit off the rider’s hand. He set his beast in the stable with the others, offering it a large steak of bull’s meat, which it swallowed whole.
Saul walked through the grand opening, into the temple. Statues of the Broken heroes he idolized surrounded the main forum. He saluted each as he passed. One was Icarus the Terrible, the one who conquered Renalia before the Age of Draconis. Next was Grawth the stalwart, the Broken who defended her castle alone against an army of one thousand Draconians, dying in glorious battle. Legend said she pierced the final enemy through the throat with her own hand in her last breath. Last was Aggaroth, the leader of northern Renalia, who dethroned the giants of old and ended their tyranny. They were the heroes of ages past, bringing victory and peace to the land through combat. Each one was seen by the Oracles, given their fate as Saul would be.
Maybe I will be a hero like them, he thought proudly. He wished his fate would be to conquer the enemies of his people in Renalia, reclaiming it for the Broken. They originated there, until they were forced into exile to Kathynta centuries ago. Soon he would know the truth. But if my father’s fate was false, what could that mean? Not only that, but soon he was to be exiled across to the land of the enemies of all Broken—the Hydris.
The main forum was filled with various aqueducts leading along the walls, with statues of gods, goddesses, and their relics. Rough stone and smooth black marble pews filled the center, made for the visitors who wished to pray to their gods or seek the blessing of greatness from the Glories as a whole. Murals of many Broken heroes were painted on smooth stone surfaces, depicting their victories and valiant falls. Saul saluted them once more, before going to Gadora’s worshipping room. It was custom to pay homage to one’s god before seeing the Oracles. It was said that it gave the true blessing of fate.
He knelt before the towering, powerful form. She was tall, with the sandstone-like skin of a Terran. She came to the surface to spread her people’s influence, only meeting villainy and chaos from the demonic beasts that scoured the land in the first age—the Dark Ones. She led her people well and conquered her foes. He admired the fabled weapon at the statues side, Gadora’s edge—the blade that carves the skies—its black hilt came to a Dragon’s head, the mouth open to reveal the orange steel.
It was said she slayed ten thousand of the Dark Ones, a hybrid monstrosity of a race from the abyss who ruled the land and corrupted the souls of all beings. Their leaders were a set of three creatures: Valikar the Eviscerator, Thalasesh the Titan, and worst of all, Khardan, the strongest of them all, deemed the Chaos itself. Together they were said to be unstoppable embodiments of chaos.
Gadora proved the legends false, slaying each with her mighty blade alongside Yggranda, the goddess of the earth. After ending the Dark Ones, she ascended to the realm of the gods and became the goddess of Storms, bestowing power unto those who fight chaos in the land. There were theories of what came of the blade, but none truly knew where it went. The statue’s blade was a replica, of course. Regardless, the stories of her gave him strength.
Looking over his shoulder, he felt the eyes of a Broken or two. With a huff, he asked his goddess for guidance. Once Saul saw the Oracles, he was to return to the Vale—before exile. The day after, he would be taken to the Fissure, and escorted across it to be exiled. Saul hated the thought. Exiled and disgraced. Is life worth such a cost? To live with the Venari, and gods know what else.
He pondered what would come of his people now. Obelreyon did not respect their ways. The dragon forced them to believe in Lornak, or to abide by his laws and follow his orders so that they may have Renalia. Fools, anyone who follows him will only meet death. He was not the brightest mind but knew a suicide mission when he saw one. Renalia may be at war, but they were powerful still. Not to mention, the Isles were in their way, the place they suffered their heaviest losses ten years prior. The Skirmisher’s Guild in the islands was a powerful enemy at sea. He only heard stories, and from them he knew there was a reason the Broken armies were pushed back.
The Torch of Lathyria stood silent for ten years. Nothing more than small trades came in and out of the north now. Their guards stood at the mountainous border still as statues, unwilling to join any cause the Broken presented. If Lornak would help Obelreyon conquer Renalia, what was to stop him from taking the Torch, the Neck, and the Plateau? What does Lornak want in return?
That remained to be seen.
Saul prayed to his goddess. Gadora, goddess of storms, give me strength in times of chaos, make me the storm of your will so that I may wash away disgrace and bring order to the land at your will. My mind like thunder, my body the rain, my blade as lightning from the skies. I fight for truth. He rose to his feet and saluted once more, admiring her strength.
“Bromaggus,” a rough female voice said.
Finishing his words of worship, Saul turned to find the temple leader, and the Warmaster of the Vale. Her powerful stature cast a shadow over him. Her rough skin glowed in the torchlight, and a shadow loomed over her onyx almond eyes, accentuating the crow’s feet surrounding both. One would be a fool to think her weak, as Mirakia Othellun was a fearsome warrior who crushed the disrespectful.
“Are you prepared?” she asked, face hard as stone.
“Yes.”
In Hero’s Fall, one never danced around the point. To veer or confound speech was to show disrespect to another.
“Come with me.”
The Warmaster walked softly, floating like a ghost. She took him through the intricate, ornate passageway at the north end of the main forum. As they entered, Saul looked to her markings. She wore yellow, with the symbol of the three crashing winds, the arcing star of the Oracles, and the blade.
The low ceiling forced Saul to crouch. After a time, darkness took them. Nothing could pierce the shadow of the Oracles, except for their own flames. A flickering blue light beckoned him forward to the end of the tunnel, slowly growing as he approached.
“This is it. Enter. Do not lie, do not fear, and do not reject their prediction. They will tell you when you are free. Come to me when you complete your task. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Saul replied.
Othellun turned slowly, her cloak flipped past as she returned to the main forum behind him.
Saul listened to her footsteps dissipate
into silence. All he felt was a faint wind and the scent of incense coming from the dimly-lit room at the end. Saul approached with caution. As he passed under the arch, he saw three hooded figures making up three parts of a depressed circle around the tri-flamed brazier centerpiece of the room, with one part remaining in front of him. Pine and incense danced through his nostrils with a hint of lime. Colors were hard to make out, as all was lit from the torches at each corner, each oracle with one of yellow, red, or blue. The symbols of every god were carved around the outside ring of the seating circle; he felt as if they watched him. Judged his worthiness.
Saul did not know the intricacies of the ritual. He understood that their symbols would be imprinted along his arm with the light of the color he was to be given. Each figure sat with long, crossed spider-like limbs, coming to feet with seven toes. Their arms rested on their skeletal knees, extending to long fingers twice the length of their palms open to the sky, dimly lit by the flames.
“Sit,” they said in unison, in an elderly, ragged tone. Saul sat in the open space with his legs crossed as well as he could, placing a hand on each knee. “Who do you worship?” the Oracles asked. Their black bug-like eyes watched him closely, as if looking into his soul.
“Gadora.”
“Why do you worship her?” their voices slithered like snakes in the air through their sharp teeth.
“She is a valiant warrior, striking against tyranny and chaos. I wish to do the same.” The Oracles stayed silent for a time. Saul wondered what they thought. They had eyes that saw fate itself, foretelling the future, or so he was told. Some said they were once Broken, twisted by the isle of origin and its mysteries, transformed by the power of the gods.
