Tides of Fate

by Sean J Leith

  The soldier bowed his head and lowered his axe, receding back into the circle.

  “Wise choice,” Jirah said coolly, releasing his hand from his blade’s hilt. “I say again,” Jirah snarled, “what is it that you want?”

  “I am here to give you a choice.” Asheron slowly walked around Jirah in a circle. “I’m not a fool, Mirado. Your information networks will find out many things. Eventually, you are going to hear about individuals disappearing,” Asheron gave a long pause. “And you are going to ignore it.”

  “Killing more innocents, are we, wretch?” Jirah growled.

  Asheron hissed at him in response. Jirah was more livid with every word from Asheron’s putrid mouth. The man lived with no morals, believing that orders were all that mattered. Jirah hated that day, the day he left the militia six months prior.

  The soldiers converged on Jirah a second time, but Asheron once again waved them off. “Mirado.” He slowly walked closer. His dark plate boots crunched the leaves and sticks of the forest path. It reminded Jirah of the innocent bones Asheron had broken. Each crack was but one of hundreds. “I follow orders,” he said coldly, then halting. “You are a disgrace. You abandoned our cause to fight with animals. I maintain order. You breed chaos.”

  Each word from Asheron’s mouth enraged him. His presence stole light from the moon, but the flame upon Jirah’s head burned brighter as he angered. “What did you call my people?” Jirah yelled.

  “Animals. Unsophisticated—” He took a step forward. “—barbaric—” Another step closer. “—animals.” Before Jirah could yell once more, Asheron raised his hand to wait. “Ignore what you hear, or everyone in your little camps will die. With the number I’ll bring, not even you can stop us, Mirado.” Asheron cackled one last time. “I can’t imagine what will happen to you.”

  The camps were all hidden. The only one that knew all the locations was himself. “You’re bluffing.”

  Asheron looked to the soldiers that surrounded them. “Let me ask you this—do you truly wish to take that risk?”

  Asheron was not one to play games. He was straightforward unlike his vile brother. He preferred his questions straight, his words succinct, and decisions without any form of ambiguity.

  Asheron pushed with a list. “Death will come for them all. Your giant, your emotionless rock, and even your sister, Mirado.” He took a step forward. “I know where your camps are.”

  “Where is my sister?” Jirah said. She wasn’t in a camp. She was missing. I lost my entire family for far too long. I can’t deal with that again. Ever since he ran from his home, he thought of them every day. He feared going back even more.

  “Caught in a web—I can say that much.” Asheron’s tone lightened, as if to smile crookedly behind his dark visage. “Choose, Mirado. Your men, or the others?”

  Jirah thought for more than a few moments. I can’t abandon my men—I promised I would keep them safe. I don’t even know what others he speaks of, he thought. Jirah didn’t know what to do. There were many unknowns, and his victories had been vast. He thought of his sister, Pali, Felkar, Alex, Gorkith, Serafina, and innumerable others. “You cannot force my hand, pathetic worm.”

  “Hmm.” Asheron stopped in front of Jirah. He turned slowly as his cloak fluttered behind him like a ghost. One measured step at a time, he approached Jirah. Asheron came to stand over him, the pits of eyes looked down on him. “You must decide.” His voice was guttural and vile. “Or your men will die with them. They disappear, your men die, or they both do.” He moved his black helm in close. Jirah’s flame flickered in the reflection of the dark steel. “This is a professional courtesy, Mirado. Choose.”

  Jirah stared him dead in the eyes. Jirah honored his pact with his troops. I will not betray them. I will accept my responsibility, and the consequences, he vowed. “My men.”

  “Good.” As he spoke, Asheron backed into the dark with his soldier. “Worry not—I will ensure you know that I speak the truth.” He vanished without a sound save for four final words: “I will be watching.”

  “Asheron!” Jirah yelled.

  His voice echoed through the blackened hills and trees. All that followed was silence. Damned wretch, he’s gone.

  The moon above brightened once more, and Jirah looked to it for guidance. Ignore what you hear, Asheron had said. Jirah did not have a concern for gods, believing it was men and creatures that ultimately influenced the land. Yet now he found himself asking the Four Creators for aid.

  “Gods,” Jirah said aloud, “what am I supposed to do?”

  Jirah was always a man of answers.

  Now he looked to the sky with nothing but questions.

  Chapter Nine

  Aura of Naiveté

  Zaedor Nethilus

  Zaedor walked through the streets of Amirion after his daily teachings, on the way to his favorite tavern for dinner with an old friend. As he went, he helped the sick where he could, answered questions, provided insight to those who needed it, and enjoyed the cool breeze that passed through the city from the eastern seas.

  The sun-bleached stone streets were scorched a bright white, heating his heavy plated boots as he walked. His armor was proudly pristine, shining brightly in the sun. He removed his steel helmet to cool his head, and his long blond hair flew out the back.

  As he went, he admired the ornate architecture of the old kingdom, grandfathered from the times of the God’s War. They remained a neutral state, which the late King Tirilin respected. Amirion’s present ruler, King Faelin Caldrilla, gained great respect within his kingdom. They remained separate from the Renalian nation but lived as allies.

  Things had been turbulent since Bracchus’s death, however. The fresh, self-proclaimed rulers of each new state sought King Faelin’s aid, but he stood strong against their requests. Each claimed the high throne for himself, with the exception of the leader of the Risen Isles, Raiya Firkann. Amirion stayed separate from the fray, as they had been their own entity since the banishment of the Broken clans by Bracchus the First, who wielded the rusted blade—a sword said to be passed down to the royal family by Shiada herself.

  Banners of all colors flew on the homes of each family in the kingdom. The lengthy Grand Knight Road ran all the way through the hexagonal city, a wide, flat stone beast that moved through every district. Zaedor’s strolls always began in his favorite place in the city, the temple district. It was the smallest, but also the most revered.

  The temples of many gods lined the streets including his own, which possessed the largest clergy in Amirion, the Temple of Shiada. The temples were long, ornate stone structures surrounded by pillars and carved insignias of each deity. Shiada’s was the six-point sun. It was similar to Amirion’s sigil, the sun with the upturned blade. He felt they were one in the same, as if she was a citizen of Amirion herself.

  The temple quarter was always clean, its pristine streets well kept by the city workers who maintained the streets both inside and outside of the city.

  Zaedor came to the merchant’s district, where merchants and permanent residents alike sat at tented booths as well as stone and mortar buildings. They hooted and hollered about their deals of the day and offered food and drink to priests and military leaders at no cost. The smell of salted fish, fresh fruits, and baker’s bread filled his nostrils, which were coupled later with the searing forges. While offers were thrown his way as a member of the clergy, he tended not to take free gifts, as he wanted residents to gain the income they deserve for their work.

  His favorite establishment made him hunger for a fresh meal. Ah, Flourin’s Cookery. He briskly walked through the thin double doors, his belly roaring louder than the merchants outside. He chatted with the owner, Flourin, and sat down with Lothel, who awaited his arrival for their routine dinner.

  Zaedor trained with Lothel in combat years ago. He was a strong proponent of peace, using blade and shield only to defend his teams during sparring skirmishes. He was an honorable man, Zaedor thought of him as a brot
her. He always strove to protect, rather than defeat. “How are the new squires and recruits?” Zaedor asked.

  “You know how it is. They don’t know the stances or the tricks, but I’ll help them learn,” Lothel said. He was the teacher in the barracks now. Countless citizens went through his training, then dispatched to the city walls or in the town patrols, along with all other citizens trained in combat. “Any news from the temple district? I hear more and more gather there daily due to the war outside the walls.”

  Zaedor nodded. “Yes, it is concerning. More and more hope for guidance and assurance, but we can only do so much.” In the month prior, the number of attendants doubled in Shiada’s temple alone.

  Lounging back, Lothel drew his mouth out in displeasure. “The war is raging across the plains, brother. Rawling struck at the north in a surprise attack, and hit quite a few cities, pillaging and burning towns to make a statement. What are we supposed to do? Sit by?”

  “We are neutral, Lothel. We cannot dance about interfering, endangering all we have worked for.” It was a horrible thing, but their kingdom remained strong because they stayed separate, and would continue to.

  Over the course of the meal, they spoke of fighting tactics, their teachings, and the adventures of the hunt from a couple of days before, as Lothel hunted in his free time. Zaedor, however, preferred rock carving. His home held many small stone figurines of horses, gargoyles, mountain lions, and more.

  Zaedor would always carve a figurine for his wife, Eryndis, on her birthday. She was beautiful—tall, with bright green eyes and long, fiery red hair. They had been estranged for the past year and separated just recently. On her last birthday, he still carved her a small wolf made of white marble, flecked with a smokey grey. It was her favorite animal, yet she had a hint of sadness in her eyes as she accepted it. Zaedor did not know why. He still hoped he could reconcile with her one day.

  When Zaedor was well fed and their banter came to an end, he left his graces and the copper for the meal, shook Flourin’s hand, and went on his way. He shook Lothel’s hand and patted his shoulder as they parted, and his friend walked to his home in the residential district.

  Zaedor continued to the military district, the largest part of Amirion. There were buildings upon buildings of battle quarters laid in neat rows, and thousands of citizens in the kingdom were trained in combat. All physically able men and women were trained to fight. Even though Amirion was neutral, one could never be too careful. The ramparts surrounding the city went on for days, and archers stood at all angles. Their warriors were great, unstoppable in battle.

  From any point in the city, the grand Blue Citadel, home to the royals, could be seen in the eastern end. The banner of Amirion was visible throughout the city. It was a bright yellow, eight-point sun, decorated with a gold and silver blade, nestled on a field of ocean blue. It resembled a peaceful kingdom that brought light to those who wished for it. The Citadel was a massive, rectangular behemoth. It featured a near-flat front, with towers protruding out at an angle to overlook the city below. It was two hundred feet high, with walls thick enough to withstand any bombardment.

  Zaedor walked through his kingdom’s streets and couldn’t be happier to see it every day. His life was dedicated to this place—his god, his city, and his king. He needed nothing more. He was as satisfied as could be; he lived to serve.

  “Excuse me!” a child’s voice called out. “Excuse me, Captain Zaedor!” the voice called again. It belonged to a small boy he spotted during his teachings that day.

  Zaedor turned and lowered himself to the child’s level. “Hello, young man, what can I do for you?” he asked, warmly greeting him with a smile.

  “Can I come to your classes on combat? Please?” the child begged and shook his gauntlet feverishly.

  Zaedor was taken aback. Combat was only for those who reached adolescence at the age of twelve, and this boy was barely eight years old.

  “I’m sorry, my friend, but combat classes aren’t until you’re bigger! My teachings of Shiada are important as well, you know. Where would we be without her protection?” The child looked disappointed. Zaedor knew he needed to help him with what he could. “What’s your name, son?” he asked.

  “Noah.” The child said in a quiet voice, eyes fixed upon the stone road below.

  “Listen, Noah,” Zaedor brought his chin up to meet him eye-to-eye. “We may be a warrior kingdom, but all of our ways are important,” he began. “Look above you, and all around you,” He pointed up to the grand arches of the God’s Gate, the entrance to Amirion, then to the massive Blue Citadel of the royalty. “We have learned that patience is crucial in daily life. Without it, we would not have the patience to build such grand structures. Each building has its own base and foundation. Each building block is necessary to complete the final structure.” Noah raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side. Zaedor diverted from the issue at hand. “What I mean is, one must train his mind first,” he pointed to Noah’s forehead. “And we must also train our hearts,” he slowly moved to Noah’s chest, “so that we can wield our blades with respect. Each teaching is important. Without learning the basics, we cannot be strong individuals, soldiers, or a people.”

  Noah’s expression brightened, but he didn’t seem entirely convinced. He thought for a second, then decided to make a small exception for him. “I’ll tell you what,” Zaedor leaned in close, whispering lowly. “Next week, I can show you a few defense tactics after my teachings. No weapons allowed, though. And just this once. How does that sound?” he offered with a warm smile.

  Noah’s expression brightened, smiling as he jumped up and down. “Oh, thank you, thank you! I can’t wait! I want to learn to protect my dad just like my mom does!” he ran off quickly.

  “What a funny boy,” Zaedor said to himself as he resumed his walk.

  “Captain!” a man hollered with a light tone. It was Fildon Creadath, and his wife, Lilanda. A short, stout man with a long, grey beard, Fildon was a counselor for the King. His wife was tall and broad, with long, auburn hair, a priestess in the Temple of Shiada. He knew her well, as they often crossed paths at the temple.

  “Greetings, Counselor Creadath. How may I help you?” he asked.

  Fildon’s smile faltered, glancing to his wife. “It’s Rawling. He came back last week for an audience. He asked for our allegiance again. Kieran came last month, but left, respecting our king’s will. He proposed a steady peace—as long as Amirion maintained their neutrality. Rawling seemed more irritable this time. I swear on the gods, that man is unstable. It worries me.” He glanced to his wife again and held her hand. “What should we do?”

  His wife touched Zaedor on the shoulder. “You know the king better than I. Could you speak with him for us? At least ask him what he could do? During these turbulent times, who knows what the other rulers will do. It just concerns us. What if we’re caught off guard? Our children—” her voice dropped off softly. “We don’t know what to do.”

  “I have some time tonight. I will go to speak with him. You actually caught me on my post-teaching stroll through the town,” he chuckled to himself, looking to the clear blue sky above. “But what about you, Counselor? Would the King not be more willing to listen to you?”

  “I tried. He believes that Rawling trusts his judgment, and he respects the old ways. He sees no reason to think otherwise.” His lip quivered in as he spoke. “Perhaps if more voices speak up, he will listen. Let me know what he says tomorrow, would you?”

  “Yes Captain, please let us know. I’ll see you in the temple tomorrow? Shiada be with you.”

  “And with you. I will see what I can do.” He smiled happily. A visit with the King was always a joy, regardless of the purpose of his visit.

  Zaedor took his leave and headed toward the Blue Citadel ahead. The fortress represented the strength of his people—and housed a king of much respect. Every member of the city was a proud resident, especially Zaedor. He lived for his kingdom and his god. He loved te
aching residents about Shiada. She was the deity of protection, devoted to aiding the weak, and she rewarded those who promoted goodness.

  She was said to have aided all races alike in the struggle against the sinister Draconia in the wars of old. Without her, victory would not have been possible.

  Zaedor came to the gate of the Citadel, and the guards allowed him to pass freely. He was a Captain and one of the head clergymen, after all. The Citadel was as high as he could see, featuring bright walls lined with broad blue banners bearing the sign of Amirion. It was truly a symbol to his people’s strength and fortitude. The grand halls were a maze, impossible to navigate if he hadn’t already known the way. The sun shone through the large open windows. Knights stood at every door. Their white armor was as bright as the Grand Knight road, paired with lances and blades sharper than he had seen.

  Climbing the stairs of the Citadel was a true trek; some say men have died attempting to ascend the whole structure in one morning. Luckily, the royal chambers were on the third floor. He waited some time while the guards went in to speak to the king, and then returned sometime later to wave Zaedor in. Night began to fall since he arrived.

  Zaedor finally walked through the large doorway, into the grand hall. Stone pillars ran along the throne room on both sides, leading up to the Amirion throne where King Faelin sat leisurely, his wife, Tilandre by his side.

  The King of Amirion greeted Zaedor with a warm smile. “Ah, Captain! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace. It’s about the so-called King of Zenato.”

  The King let out a long, exhausted sigh. “Shiada save me. Zaedor, not this again.” He waved a dismissive hand and rose from his throne. He sauntered toward the window. Staring out toward the city, the King said, “Rawling is not going to do any form of nefarious work, my friend. Doing so may provoke other nations now. He respects the old ways, I’m sure of it. I’ve already sent our most esteemed general to him to talk peace.”