by RG Long
Daggers of Ladis
Legends of Gilia, Volume 8
RG Long
Published by Retrovert Books, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
DAGGERS OF LADIS
First edition. October 2, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 RG Long.
Written by RG Long.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Maps and More
Click here to get your free book, map, and be placed on my weekly newsletter. People on this list are the first to know about new releases, fresh content, and other great Legends of Gilia news! | 1: The Dark Canyon
2: New Assignments
3: Intel and Infestations
4: The King’s Priest
5: Green Rose Wilting
6: Meat
7: The Plan Begins
8: Little Lost
9: The Wolves of Ladis
10: Time to Flee
11: Lesser Gods
12: Priests of Ladis
13: Ground Gained
14: A Change in Fronts
15: Divided and Conquered
16: For King and Kin
17: The North Road
18: Intermediates
19: Plans That Go Wrong
20: A Dwarf Problem
21: Cities of Woe
22: Birthday Wishes
23: A Little More Lost
24: Subterfuge
25: Unrest
26: Personal History
27: Far From the Tree
28: Furs and Favors
29: Oasis Interrupted
30: Better Plans
31: Hungry
31: Convincing a Lady
32: Missing Soldier
33: The Northern Son
34: A Hole in the Rescue
35: Renewed Vigor
36: Home
37: Cell Mates
38: A Lesson in Religion
39: The Gates of Prommus
40: Pantheon’s Rising
The Story Continues
Maps and More
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1: The Dark Canyon
Pain.
All there was in the entire world was pain.
He was aware of every part of his body at once. Everything hurt. His shoulders felt like they were pierced with arrows. The parts of his body that faced the ground were being stabbed by unseen enemies. His legs. They were still attached, but the pain he felt in them was catastrophic. Surely he was surrounded by villainous people who were ripping his skin off, piece by painful piece.
He dared to open his eyes and saw nothing. He was surrounded by nothing, with nothing above him and nothing to the sides. Only blackness and nothing.
The crushing darkness was all that he was aware of.
Other than the pain.
He moved his fingers. The extremities moved very slowly, but they moved. He was able to disturb the soil he was lying on. That meant he wasn’t surrounded by darkness. There was something underneath him. There was ground. He had fingers that could move.
Painfully, but they still moved.
With a groan and grit of his teeth, he tried to move his arms. They were on fire with suffering, but he could move them. Slowly, with every fiber of his being resisting and fighting against him, he moved his arms underneath him and moved himself a hand width.
Everything hurt and gave him a massive pounding in his head. But he persevered. He was made of tougher stuff than this. He was able to move. He was going to move.
His teeth gnawing on themselves, he forced himself, through the pain, to rise to his hands and knees. Everything ached. Needles pricked at his skin and hammers pounded against his bones. It was a struggle to even move his head side to side.
But he was going to get up.
He had to.
Stretching out his hand, he found a rock and he pulled himself to it. The effort was already winding him. He felt weak. The ground beneath him didn't seem to stay in one place. Rather, it wobbled and couldn’t decide which direction to tilt.
Dry heaves wracked his body and the pain of the convulsions nearly made him lose consciousness. But he persevered. After the fits passed, he was heaving for breath and struggling to remain present in his own head.
But that’s when he heard it.
The voice that echoed throughout the canyon.
“Puny,” it said.
The sound repeated over and over again as it bounced from rock wall to dirt floor. It burrowed into his mind and beat against his ears.
“Insignificant,” it said again. “Weak. Foolish.”
The words flowed over and over again. As each one collided with his understanding, it stabbed knives into his head.
No, he thought.
“I... I am not... weak.” he said, finding the sound of his own voice to be contradicting his words. They were dry and feeble.
The voice laughed. It was a deep, loud, painful, and spiteful laugh. He struggled to cover his ears, to beat away the sound that invaded his head. But even when he put his hands on his ears, the sound still came. It was like the noise was coming from inside his head, not outside of it.
“You are an old man who can hardly hold up his head,” the voice said, even louder than before. “Frail as you are weak. Destined to die alone and unremembered. As foolish as you are fragile.”
He wanted to argue. To deny it. To fight the accusations that were coming against him. But he found it so hard to keep his head up that he could barely reply, let alone come up with a response to defend himself.
“No,” was all he managed to utter.
Again, that horrible laugh that echoed in his mind bore into him like a dagger.
“Weak and powerless,” it said, taunting. “Left to die like a beggar in a ditch.”
This voice was familiar. He had heard it before. It had guided him and led him. It was both familiar and terrible. Once it had been friendly and guiding. But now it had turned on him.
His eyes were adjusting to a new sensation, something both light and darkness at the same time. It was not a blinding light, so much as it was a consuming one.
In the darkness that was approaching, he saw a vague shape beginning to form. Whether it was because of his injuries, the cuts and bruises on his face, or the overwhelming sense of hunger and thirst he felt, the image would not come into focus properly.
Or, perhaps, there was nothing to focus on at all.
The dark purple light came nearer and nearer. He made no attempts to run, but felt his heart beat faster in his chest. At least his heart still had the strength to carry on.
Stopping just before him, the light condensed and the voice came loudly and clearly into his ears.
“Would you like to feel what true power is?” it said in a menacing tone.
He had no more strength for an answer. His hands finally gave way and he fell to the ground and knew only darkness.
2: New Assignments
The streets of Prommus were filled with pilgrims, mourning the king’s son.
Wearing black clothes or, at the very least, a black band on their arm, they came to see the spot where the sword of the prince would be entombed. It was all they could put into the ground as a symbol of their grief.
They had
no body to bury.
Isolian forces had invaded the Theocracy. They had trampled Grellis, their greatest fortress in the south, and decimated their princes there. Arranus was lost as well. Now was a time of mourning.
Soon it would be a time for war.
All of the forces from the Disputed Lands were marching north. It was a fight for supplies. The ships that had once sailed south to fuel the troops had been waylaid. Isol was out in force. No one knew how they had come by such strength. The Theocracy had for so long kept the seas clear of any outside aid to Isol. The Rift Wars had ensured that they controlled the waters to the south. No one could figure out how Isol had come by such power and ships.
But in the thousands, the army of Isol came.
People murmured in the streets. They talked in the pubs. The word was that they would begin to recruit men as young as eighteen to begin serving in the king’s army. Before this, only men of twenty were required to serve in the wars of the Disputed Lands.
The words that were being whispered in the streets were that things were going poorly for the king and the priests. But no one said them out loud. No one dared to. They feared the Ladist Priests and they feared their King.
Fear did a lot for the people of Prommus, she was learning. But it did not stop bandits and thieves from what appeared to be an easy target.
Sometimes greed was a greater motivator than fear.
She walked the calm streets of Prommus’ market district, having stayed out much later than other women did. Most of the men who prowled the streets now either kept their hoods up or their faces low. It wasn’t proper to be out past midmoon for most decent folk. Especially women. Especially women wearing expensive jewelry and a low cut dress.
Unless she was of a different trade. That wasn’t her purpose. Not this night.
She fondled the heavy gem that hung around her neck as she walked down the center of the street. It sparkled in the lamplights and drew the attention of several men as she passed them. Three of them turned with nods at one another and began to follow her.
A smirk crossed her face.
She wore a hood like the men did and only her smile showed through the darkness. It was sly and cunning. She quickened her pace to give the impression of one in a hurry. A quick glance behind her made the men pass smiles at each other.
They thought they had an easy target.
The streets of Prommus were well paved and lit. Fine houses and market stalls lined the usually busy market section that accommodated the well-to-do in the daylight. Several alleys ran in many directions, some with shops that sold bargain products. Others with shops that sold things less mentionable in the morning. Many of the buildings were four and five stories tall. They were built of stone as if the stones were made to be buildings, not the other way around. Prommus was a proud city. In every direction the spires of the priests stood tall and proud.
The palace of the king overlooked them all. With its huge stones and towers, the intimidating court of the king overlooked his subjects and people cowered in its shadow.
But everywhere, they showed the signs of their age. In places, the stones were beginning to separate. Where weeds and dirt grew up between the stones, men had tried to stamp them down or pull them up. But more weeds came and not enough workers were present to deal with the city’s growing problems.
Every man who would wear a King’s Skull and serve as a member of his police force was down fighting the wars in the Disputed Lands. Every other man who was willing to serve had been recruited to fight the Isolian invasion.
Those who were left were not the choicest of picks and they knew it. Most embraced what they were. Especially these three. Just by the look of them she could tell they were bandits. One had a bandage over his eye, while the other two smiled wickedly with only a handful of teeth. Each kept a hand at his waist, probably grasping some hidden dagger or knife.
How bandit-like of them, she thought.
Turning down the least lit alley she could find, finally, she broke into a run. The men let out grunts. Perhaps they were surprised by her move? Or excited for the chase? Whatever the reason, they ran after her.
And she pelted down the alley even faster.
Something about her surprised them, she knew. Whether it was how well she could run, how fast she flew, or how much they had to gasp and pant to keep up, she didn’t know. But she loved every second of the chase.
Turning left, right, and right again, she led them down an alley she had become extremely familiar with. A single lantern hung from a metal pole. It lit a small door that, from the inside, was completely black. Stretching up over the lamp was a solid stone wall on all sides. The woman tried the door, but it was locked.
Of course it was.
She turned to look at the three men who had just caught up to her. Two were panting hard, but one had enough breath in him to be able to stand and catch his words.
“Run out of luck, pretty miss?” he said, managing a smile, despite his red cheeks.
She was pretty sure it was more than a lot of running that made his cheeks turn red.
“I guess we both have,” she said, staring him down.
The look made the smile falter on the man’s face. She was sure he was used to cowering girls who fainted at the sight of men cornering her in an alleyway. Perhaps he had done this so many times in the past that he expected that all women shrank at the sight of him and his thugs.
She was not most women.
Throwing back her cloak and hood, she let the warm summer air sweep over her. Her dress was not a typical long skirt, but rather something cut down the front, which allowed her to run fast and freely. Her bodice was tight around her, but it hid a brace of daggers behind her. These she pulled out of their sheaths as her long silver hair fell to her waist in a braid.
“I’m willing to bet your luck runs out before mine,” she said with a smirk.
One of the thieves took a step back. She caught him in the thigh with one of her daggers and he began to let out a cry of pain. She silenced him with the other blade before the yell could echo across the stone ground. But this alley was covered in cloth hangings and furs.
Turning to see the other man run, the woman ran and kicked out hard at his knees. They buckled and he slammed against the paved alley. No sound escaped his lips either. She was a masterful killer.
The last man had also turned to run the other way, but she was after him in a flash. Her boots slammed into his back and he crashed to the ground. His grunt did manage to leave his mouth, but only because she let it. Turning him over with surprising strength, she held her dagger to his throat.
It was still dripping with the blood of his companions.
“Now that you know I can,” she said, that same smirk still on her face. “Let’s assume I’ll kill you if you even blink without my permission.”
“Then why ain’t I dead?” the man said, with a bit of defiance in his voice. He glared at her with his one good eye.
She liked that. It was terrible when they begged and pleaded for their lives. Miserable, really. This one, at least, knew that she was in control. And that he was nothing.
“Because I need your information,” she said truthfully. “And you’ll give it, or you’ll die. Granted, you may die anyways. So, why worry?”
He spat at her, but she didn’t even wince. She had been treated like that far too often to care.
“I’ve got nothing you want to know,” he said. “Go ahead and end it.”
She pressed down harder with her knife and a small stream of red mixed with the cooling darker blood on her knife.
“Try again,” she said, shaking her head. “And tell me about the king’s son.”
“Dead, ain’t he?”
“Nice try,” Silverwolf said, pressing her blade deeper. A trickle of blood began to roll down it. Fresh this time. “His other son.”
The man’s eyes went wide.
“You... Wha...” he spluttered. “But, how? How did you know? No o
ne knew. We were told to take it to our graves.”
“And you may do just that anyway,” she said. “But I have a feeling you may cooperate first.”
They looked at each other as a crow flew overhead and let out its low, mournful cry. The man blinked.
“Who are you?” he asked, his eyes widening with what she guessed was either fear or wonder.
It didn’t matter which, really.
“A Silverwolf,” she said, sliding the knife closer to his chin and drawing out a new stream of blood. “Now, talk.”
3: Intel and Infestations
It took three steps to get to his boots from where he had been sleeping. Someone must have knocked them over in their haste to get ready that morning. He couldn’t blame them. Getting ready in the morning had become a new and rather unpleasant chore.
Not that he couldn’t blame that person for wanting to get their own shoes on as quickly as possible. The floor at the Inn of the Green Rose was dirtier than the jungle floor they had spent weeks traveling and there was no sign that it was going to improve anytime soon. They slept on bunk beds three high, with hammocks slung in between them. Jurrin and Olma had taken the hammocks, as they weighed the least and were less likely to cause the others to come crashing out of their beds. They also were the shortest.
Stepping on a pile of dirt he was sure was not there last night, he transferred quickly to the other foot, only to find that it fell on something that squeaked and ran off as soon as he jumped up. The room was so dark he didn’t get a chance to glimpse at what the creature was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, seeing as how their belongings were kept in the same space as whatever just ran under his bed.
He let out a sigh and continued his treacherous trek to the door of their room. When he got to the door, he opened it as quickly and quietly as he could. Unfortunately, there was a light just outside and the door made a horrible creaking noise.
“Bah! Give me my ax and I’ll end whoever shed light on my eyes!” came a cry from within the room.
