A Tide of Shadows

by Tom Bielawski

  After whipping his company of veterans back into shape, Argus sailed with his Cklathmen across the Brythyn Sea to strike back at the Vaard. It was unprecedented, no one had ever taken a fight to Vaard and they were caught completely unawares. In fact, many of the Haag warriors had been out conducting raids when the Cklathmen landed on their shores, vengeance in their hearts. Some of the Cklathmen faltered upon learning that there were so few to actually fight in the main city of Haag, but Carym and Argus were relentless. There was not time for pity; a lesson had to be taught to the savage Vaard. The Cklathmen of Hybrand returned the destruction set upon them nearly tenfold. After they razed the main Village of the Haag, they carried on pillaging other nearby villages, looting and murdering their inhabitants.

  Vaardking Erlaf Mersen returned to his homeland and upon seeing the destruction visited upon it, swore to revisit the destruction upon the Cklath. But Mersen had become despised by his people and soon another king had taken his place; one who would not be bothered with sailing the great distance to Hybrand when far softer targets were closer. The Vaardic raids stopped and life began to return to normal in Hybrand, but not for Carym. His best friend, Zach, could only watch his lifelong friend sink further into despair and gloom and anger.

  The acts Carym committed in the name of vengeance sickened him now that it was over. He was ashamed of himself and drank relentlessly, drowning his sorrows in fine Hybrandese whiskey.

  One day, as Carym stumbled home from the Silver Star Inn, he came across a young boy in the street being harassed by a local thief. The boy was bringing some food home from the market and the thief planned to rob the boy of it. Through his drunken stupor, Carym could tell the child was no more than 8 years old, little more than a babe, and resolved not to let this criminal harm the child.

  The cool water refreshed him as he washed his face and momentarily snapped out of his reverie, he forced himself to think about getting ready for work. But, he could no more fight off these memories than fight the hurkin Horde alone. He recalled very clearly, despite his level of intoxication that day, awkwardly drawing his sword from its sheath and threatening the brute. Although he did not remember much of what the man looked like, Carym recalled that he was much larger than himself. The memory of the snickering thief drew Carym away from his morning routine and lulled him back into the world of painful memory.

  Carym saw himself holding his blade before him, and he saw the thief spin to face him. He remembered how the large and ungainly appearance belied the thief’s speed and skill with a dagger. Unable to recall the exact words, Carym remembered the thief mocking him as a dagger sailed through the air and planted itself to the hilt in his shoulder. He feebly swung his sword at the robber, but his drunken body refused to obey him; he lost his balance and fell harshly into the gutter.

  What pained Carym the most about that memory was not the cold steel searing his muscles and chipping bone, rather it was the totally helpless feeling of not knowing if he had saved the young boy from harm. He had been too drunk to move or do much of anything other than wallow in the gutter and fade into unconsciousness as the thief retrieved the dagger from Carym’s shoulder. The pain of his inability to help a defenseless child scarred Carym to the core of his being.

  It was one of those defining moments in life where he knew he was being told something very important; it was time to change.

  After he had sobered up, the constable had related the events to him. Carym had truly grasped how much of his life he had wasted. His anger had destroyed him and it may have cost him his soul. He could only hope that the great Lord Zuhr would forgive his inability to act that fateful day in the alley, and prayed that He might forgive the man his brutal transgressions against the Vaardic people of the North.

  Since then, Carym had sworn off the spirits and immersed himself in his carpentry business with his partner, Zach, and tried not to think about the hole in his heart. He became a popular businessman and he had rebuilt his good reputation. Because he worked constantly, he had been able to save a significant sum of money.

  Carym looked at himself in the mirror, moved his short hair into place and ensured that his thin black beard was neat and orderly. He sighed and looked at his bloodshot blue eyes, thinking that he really needed to get more rest. He looked at the trophy trout mounted on the wall next to his bamboo fishing rod and promised himself a few hours fishing as soon as time permitted. Then he walked outside, locking the door behind him, and stood on his front porch breathing in the cool morning air; it revitalized him and got his blood flowing.

  Autumn was upon the land now, and the mornings were getting cooler, the air refreshing. It was a new beginning for him. Picking up his tool belt and backpack, Carym stepped out onto the main dirt road of his village and walked down the street to the stables.

  Carym did not wake the sleeping stable boy since he was earlier than usual that morning. He went to the stall and fed his horse, Altus. Then he walked back out to the street where he ate his own breakfast; dried beef and some corn bread in a sack tied to his belt. When he was certain Altus had finished eating, he led the “painted” horse out into the street where he brushed and saddled him for the morning ride. Altus was one of the legendary painted horses of the Ash Plains. Tall and powerful with distinctive black and white patches and uniquely hooked ears. Altus was the talk of the town. The horse was a gift from Chief Nagoosa, ruler of a nomadic tribe of humans living on the Ash Plains far to the east. Carym had been rewarded with the horse for ridding tribal lands of a rogue desert firecat, a large hairless catlike predator, not typically seen west of Hurkromin. This particular firecat had slaughtered entire herds of tribal sheep. Carym recalled that misadventure grimly; he and Zach had only stumbled upon the firecat by mistake. Even though the pair came out ahead, it nearly cost them their lives. The massive creatures were said to be hurkin who had been cursed to live out their lives as beasts, roaming the deserts and harassing the enemies of the land of Hurkromin.

  By now the sun was beginning to rise and the sky was changing from black to morning twilight. As the stars began to disappear, Carym climbed onto Altus and began the hour-long ride from the sleepy village of Hyrum to the capital city of Hybrand. About thirty minutes into the journey, Carym heard the sound of thundering hooves in the distance on the road ahead. Imperial Cavalry, he thought to himself. Probably on some urgent mission for the Empire.

  Beyond his own village of Hyrum, in the opposite direction from where he was now going, the road led to the Imperial border town of Herkenberg. Carym surmised that the riders must be going to Herkenberg to quell a dispute with the neighboring kingdom of Galynburg which had claimed sovereignty over Herkenberg for three centuries prior to the Arnathian occupation of Hybrand; a lot of fighting there, of late.

  Carym and Altus ambled slowly off the road and stopped, as required by Imperial law, and awaited the approach of the patrol. Kevyn Macomus was ahead of Carym, pulling his own wagon lead by two brawny Cklathish draft horses, Bonnie and Faeru. Everyone knew Kevyn’s famously friendly horses.

  “Trouble yar way, wat?” called Kevyn as he stopped on the opposite side of the road.

  He was the only person Carym knew who still preferred the older dialect of Middle Cklathish, spoken two to three centuries ago by most Cklathish tribes; today it was only spoken by the Macomus Clan in the Macomay Hills. It wasn’t an entirely different language, and if you trained your ears you could understand enough of what was being said to get by.

  “Nay sar. Na aught but caalm bhind meh,” Carym was good at improvising with this language.

  The old man grunted and nodded, sticking an old yellow pipe in his mouth and began reaching around in the pockets of his vest.

  The morning was crisp and the air was clean, and the two Cklathmen smiled at the beauty of the morning. Kevyn removed a pouch from a pocket inside his blue and red plaid vest, opened the flap, and breathed in deeply.

  He winked at Carym and said, “Ya ont a peench, lad?”

&nb
sp; Carym smiled but shook his head; he was intrigued by the impending arrival of the mounted Arnathians. Kevyn pinched some of the contents of the pouch between his thumb and forefinger and stuffed it into the pipe. With a sideways glance at Carym, he grumbled something under his breath, replaced the pouch, and lit the pipe.

  By now the Arnathian patrol was thundering between the stopped men, dirt flying from hooves, spittle blowing from horse’s mouths, the Imperial Standard snapping as they passed. Carym watched as the soldiers, resplendent in their polished and form fitting breastplates with matching greaves and plumed helms, thundered by. He recognized their standard. This was a highly elite company of knights whose members were often promoted to generalships, lordships, governorships and the like.

  Once, Carym had wanted very much to be one of those knights, yet he learned early in his military career that such was not to be his fate. Carym sighed wistfully as they passed and the dust settled back onto the road; he had neither noble lineage nor famous deeds to propel him to that lofty status. In fact, provincials were rarely allowed to serve in any capacity that might gain them notoriety. Sure, he took part in many battles at sea and fought in fierce hand-to-hand combat, he had even saved the life of the ship’s captain once when his crew boarded a pirate ship. Yet, for all his courage and prowess, he was never formally recognized for any of his deeds.

  “Gooddayonya,” said Carym, as he gently squeezed Altus’ flanks with his knees.

  “Aye, by th’grace o’Zuhr twill beh.” Old Kevyn clucked to his horses and they slowly ambled on down the road, as they did nearly every day.

  Carym continued on, wondering what life must be like in the Arnathian Knighthood. Although he knew of these Imperial knights, he had never served with or under them. Once, he wanted to be a hero and a man for the people. Once, he wanted to do great deeds and help those in need. Disillusioned and disappointed during his Imperial Service, Carym did not want to be associated with anything they represented any longer. There were other organizations whose members claimed to be knights too, but they were largely regarded as outlaws and thieves. And yet, Carym thought cynically, Cklathmen in the Arnathian Empire were largely regarded outlaws and thieves themselves.

  As he wandered along towards Hybrand City, Carym let his mind wander too. His thoughts drifted back to the days when he too served Arnatahia. During recruit training he learned much of the political dynamics of the various regions of the empire. There were few remaining independent nations on the Arnathian Continent that had not yielded to the Emperor. Yet he knew there was an alliance among some of those nations. It was a union whose purpose was to protect each other from their common enemies. The pact between that group of nations had become known as the Alliance of Eastern Kingdoms and they had good cause for concern; they were sandwiched between the mighty Arnathian Empire on the west and Hurkromin beyond the Plains of Ash to the east.

  The Plains of Ash were home to one peaceful human tribe and several tribes of fierce nomadic sub-humans called Ashen, who commonly raided the Eastern Kingdoms of Eagle Forge and Galynburg. Although certainly they were a menace to the outlying villages, the Ashen Tribes were a not a serious threat to the sovereignty of the Eastern Kingdoms.

  Hurkromin, located across the Plains of Ash, beyond the land-bridge that led to the Far Eastern Continent, was the ancestral home of the Orkine Races and the Kingdom of Hurkromin. These races consisted of the hurkin, who were the most intelligent and powerful of the Orkine Races; the Orok Tribes, who existed mostly to serve as slaves and battle fodder for their hurkin masters; and the Ogres Tribes of the Ogrewall Mountains, who were large and powerful, yet did not bend to the will of the hurkin who were superior in numbers. The Ogre Tribes had, in fact, migrated away from Hurkromin long ago and settled on the Northern Continent near where the Wildlands bordered Alfheym, the home of the Crimson Elves.

  Hurkromin was the main threat to the sovereignty of the Eastern Kingdoms, aside from Imperial Arnathia; there were many reports that the hurkin were preparing to wage war on the Ashen Tribes in hopes of gaining a foothold on the Arnathian Continent. Although the Alliance of Eastern Kingdoms was strong, they were not strong enough to fight the hurkin horde and defend against Imperial Arnathia at the same time.

  For the time being, the hurkin would have their fill with the Ashen Tribes and the Alliance was content to let them fight it out; it was widely accepted, though, that Hurkromin would win that war. Meanwhile, the Arnathians simply allowed the threat of impending invasion simmer, hoping the Eastern Kingdoms would invite Arnathia to come to their aid. Arnathia planned to answer that call when it came, of course, but they would have no plan to leave.

  Centuries earlier an ancient order of peacekeepers had been formed. Once, this mighty order had spanned across both continents of the known world. Now the Zuharim held influence in a few strongholds of the Northern Continent and in the Eastern Kingdoms. Also called the Order of Zuhr, the Zuharim were the faithful warriors of Zuhr, the eldest and chief god of Llars. These knights and paladins pledged their loyalty to Zuhr and his son, Ulrych, believing Zuhr to be revered above all other gods and mortals, and believing the god Ulrych to be their spiritual general. The Zuharim promoted order and justice and acted as the law enforcement officers of the lands who had accepted them into their societies, even serving as officers in some armies. Followers of a strong code of honor and chivalry, they believed that they must convert people to the ways of Zuhr and Ulrych by deed and example.

  Zuhr was the traditional patron deity of the various Cklathish peoples, though the Zuharim were not largely present in those lands. Carym recalled that Emperor Arnath was a devout follower of Qra’z, the Lord of War. Arnath had decreed that all the Arnathian Empire would honor Qra’z as the superior god among all others. Other religions were frowned upon and regarded with suspicion and animosity. The practice of magic was considered blasphemous and had been outlawed throughout Imperial lands.

  “Carym! What are you doing?” Hearing a familiar voice, Carym snapped out of his reverie and realized that he was now in front of the Silver Star Inn where Zach stood waiting for him, as he did each morning.

  “Sorry, Zach. Lost track of time,” Carym swung down and tethered Altus to the hitching post outside of the Inn.

  “Uh huh. Let’s get to the Temple. I have no idea what they want us to fix today, but I’m eager to find out,” said Zach anxiously, shivering in the cold of the early morning.

  Qra’z was the Lord of War and he had a greedy side; the Temples of Qra’z were famously opulent. Zach knew the bishop paid his workers very well to encourage excellent work.

  “How much?”

  “One hundred Holy Imperial Crowns each.”

  Carym smiled, thinking of what he could do with that kind of money, and followed Zach to the temple grounds to meet their client. When they arrived at the Temple Square they were shocked to see that a long row of wooden lock stocks had been placed in the courtyard. A squad of Imperial Soldiers guarded a group of prisoners who were shackled hand and foot and were sitting pathetically on the ground.

  “Hey, aren’t some of them clergy?” Zach nodded with a scowl, confirming Carym’s suspicions.

  “What’s going on here?” Carym nervously surveyed the scene.

  “If we were in Arnathia Proper, I’d say it was public discipline,” said Zach with an edge in his voice.

  “There has never been any such punishment in Hybrand before,” Carym was angry. “Especially at the opening of the Games!” He and Zach stared at the stocks with ill-disguised hatred.

  “Come on, we’re supposed to meet His Holiness, Bishop Darius for our orders.” Zach said quietly.

  “Look, that’s him over there by General Craxis. We better get moving, Carym, the crowd is starting to gather.”

  Carym glanced a moment at the scene. The prisoners were huddled together and surrounded by a circle of Qra’zim, the temple guards. Wooden bleachers had been constructed at one end of the square; the Arnathians had a legendary th
irst for violence and blood that sickened Carym and most Cklath people. The fact that the bleachers were full of only Arnathians, except for the old Cheval family, was not lost on the two men. That lot fell in with the Arnathians during the early days of the occupation hoping to advance their status, unfortunately they were rewarded for their efforts.

  Even though the Chevals were privileged among the Arnathians, they were reviled among their fellows. Surprisingly, that revulsion had been exhibited by Lord Cannath himself. Cannath was the surviving member of the Du Val Hyr royal family, the former legitimate rulers of Hybrand before the occupation began, and the Chevals had long claimed to be an older family than even the Du Val Hyr family. Carym guessed they couldn’t get the recognition they wanted from their countrymen, so they got it from their occupiers.

  Carym sneered at the Chevals, resplendent in their Arnathian fashions, but he couldn’t help but spare a glance at young Willam. Carym had heard rumors that Willam and his younger sister Rashel had been speaking out against Arnathian privilege. It was rumored that the pair was on the verge of being disowned by the family House Father, called Hymsylf in old Cklahish. Carym had never been sure there was any truth to those rumors, but he did notice that Willam was an island of traditional humble Cklath garb in a sea of Arnathian opulence while Rashel was absent.

  “Damn Chevals!” whispered Zach.

  He knew that the Chevals were favored among the Arnathian nobility and more than a few Cklathmen had been jailed on the word of old House Matron, Elsa Cheval.

  Carym shook his head with a grim look on his face. They decided it was best not to enter through the main temple entrance. The pair hurried toward the gatehouse at the side entrance. Carym looked back and watched as a platoon of Qra’zim marched in perfect cadence into the square. The boot falls of the guard platoon struck like thunder on the cobblestones, reverberating off the temple walls. They were intimidating in their brightly polished armor with gleaming swords and their wicked Imperial short spears strapped to their backs.