by Kal Spriggs
***
Lord Admiral Christoffer Tarken
Aboard the Ubelfurst, West of the Lonely Isle
Third of Igmar, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Admiral Christoffer Tarken glared down at the map charts, his cold blue eyes focused on the details of ocean currents and wind patterns. His mind went over troop deployments and patrol routes for the handful of ships left in the North. He glanced up as his steward knocked. “My Lord, Captain Elias to see you.”
“Thank you, Nikolas, please send him in,” Christoffer said. Despite his mounting frustration, Christoffer took comfort in the polite interplay. He didn't miss his steward's look of worry. Nikolas had been with him for almost twenty cycles. The wizened little man had a tendency to nag and worry, but Christoffer knew he was loyal.
The stocky, blonde haired Captain Elias Wachter stepped in with an almost hesitant nature. “My Lord, I wished for a moment of your time.”
“Captain Elias, you are the master of this ship, and in many ways, I am your guest, and please, you may call me sir or Admiral, which are titles I have earned over one that is mine by accident of birth,” Christoffer said. He forced himself to focus on the other man. “My time is yours. As you can see, I do not have much of a fleet to command.”
“Thank you, my Lord– that is, sir,” Captain Elias said. He hesitated, “Sir, I know that we must act quickly, yet it seems that we risk the last fighting ship in the Northern Fleet. I worry that we cannot face the entire Armen force with our one vessel.”
“You are correct,” Christoffer said. He went around his chart table and sat on the edge of his desk. “We cannot fight the force that defeated the Northern Fleet, not by ourselves. But we might get south in time to pass warning. Also, we can harry their ships, force them to spread out and slow their movement. If we can get ahead of them, we can delay them.”
“But we've seen no sign of them, sir,” Captain Elias said.
“Indeed.” Admiral Tarken turned back towards his chart table. “I'm certain you can guess the reason as well as I.”
“Their shamans raised their spirits to shift the wind and currents to their favor,” Captain Elias said. “It explains how they might make such good time and gives reason for the disarray of the currents and winds.”
“Yes, which makes our own passage slower,” Christoffer said. He looked up and met Captain Elias's brown eyes with his own gaze. “We cannot catch them, most likely. Not until after their shamans and spirits wear out. With their ability to... feed their spirits off of our captured men, I think it most likely that they will reach Port Riss several days ahead of us.”
Neither spoke for a long moment. Christoffer closed his eyes, “I had wanted to apologize to you, Captain. I realize that my behavior aboard ship might seem cold. I meant no insult to you or your crew. It... some personal issues have drawn my attention over the past few weeks.”
“There was no insult, Admiral,” Captain Elias said. Christoffer saw no sign that the captain sought to curry favor. He seemed too solid and proper for that, thankfully.
“Well, still, I feel that I failed my duties,” Christoffer said crisply. “I understand that you are married, do you have children?”
Captain Elias gave a sharp nod, “Yes, sir, two sons and a daughter, both the youngest still live in Boirton with their mother. My eldest boy is a midshipman in the Southern Fleet.”
“Good to hear it,” Christoffer said. He had read the Admiralty's report on Captain Elias before they left Boirton, yet that dealt mostly with officers professional details. “Your younger son plan on the same when he is old enough?”
Captain Elias hesitated. It was a slight thing, but it set off alarms with the Admiral. “My younger son, Gervias, seeks to follow in my father in law's career. He's a knight of the Order of King Gordon.”
“Ah, a Restorationist?” Christoffer asked. He kept his voice neutral. He personally did not see much point in their goals. The High Kingdom had fallen almost a thousand cycles previously. Any attempt at such a restoration seemed doomed to failure.
“Yes, sir,” Captain Elias said. He kept his own voice level and met the Admiral's eyes. Some of the nobility, to include many of Grand Duke Becket's personal advisers, felt that the Restorationists goals bordered on treason. Admiral Tarken did not include himself in their number, but the fact that Captain Elias showed such confidence in the face of that suspicion spoke well of his character.
“Well, children often seek such idealistic routes when they are younger,” Christoffer said, with a slight smile. “My daughter for a time wanted to open up a refuge for stray cats, she was quite determined to give up her position and rank to do so.”
Captain Elias gave a loud laugh at that. “Yes, well, I think that young Gervias is quite set on his path. My father-in-law's stories have much to do with that, I believe. At least the Order has done much good work.”
“True,” Christoffer nodded. He had little personal experience with them, but he had heard much of their efforts, both in charity and in the martial sense.
“Your daughter, does she live in Boirton with your wife?” Captain Elias asked.
“No,” Christoffer said. His voice went gruff on him. “My wife died... shortly after my youngest son's execution.”
“Ah,” Captain Elias said.
Christoffer gave him a sardonic smile, “You need not apologize, it is something I've come to terms with after five cycles.” Though the nightmares remain, he thought. “My daughter, Amelia, has quarters at the Citadel.”
Captain Elias's eyebrows rose, “The Citadel, sir! I had not realized your family had such connections.”
Christoffer shrugged, “As I said before, Captain, I take more pride in the titles I have earned rather than those I was born with. And my family, though old, has little more to recommend it than that.” Christoffer snorted, “Lineage means little to me, in truth. History and the mistakes of the past are things I think we should learn from.” And on occasion, atone for, he amended silently.
***
Lady Amelia Tarken
Western Coast of the Duchy of Masov, upon the borders of the Eastwood
Third of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
A longboat beached on the twilit graveled shore of the Boir Sea.
Six of the eight occupants rushed to pull the craft up out of the reach of the waves while the seventh threw the last to the pebbled beach.
“So Amelia, what do you say now?” the man giggled, he stepped out of the boat and prodded the still form with his staff. He prodded harder. After no response, an arc of green energy stabbed from the staff into the still form. He chuckled as his victim thrashed for a moment. “Good, good, awake now?”
A chain of tired but vitriol curses came from Amelia.
“Haven’t lost your tongue, yet. You should be grateful to me, you know. The Armen do that to their slaves sometimes... or you could have died as Willis did. Quite long and painful was our elder brother’s death.” Xavien walked up the shore away from the boat. Amelia could barely make him out, dressed in his cloak, just another dark blot against the dark night. “I am told that he cried out at the end, broken. He begged for an end to it, but I couldn’t rob him of his last moments.” The voice went from gloating to a sort of indifference. “You, my sister, I couldn’t kill you. Not that you won’t suffer.”
“I will not give you the same mercy, Xavien,” Amelia grated.
“Mercy! Mercy!?!” The dark youth cried, and began clutching his narrow frame as he laughed. “Mercy, my dear, I give you a fate worse than that of Willis, for you will have to live with the knowledge of what was done to you. No, dear Amelia, I plotted my return far better than to allow a hint of mercy. I knew the fears of my enemies, and my plans brought them to you.”
The laughter snapped like a parting rope. A moment later, Xavien spoke with a tone of absolute indifference. “Father feared failing his nation and his family, and dying alone and lost. When he returns, he will find Boir destroyed. He will throw
his life away in some gesture of futility or perhaps even take his own life.” The words ceased as he grabbed his sister by her bound hands and dragged her up the beach.
He lacked the physical power to lift her. Amelia bit back a cry of pain as the sharp rocks snagged and jabbed at her. He let her go when they reached at the border of tall forest. The wind whistled through and over the trees. His cloak billowed as he looked west to where the sea had devoured the sun.
“Willis feared death and pain. Like our father, he was made for the clash of battle, the clean death of blade or wizard's shot. The flash of departure, not the lingering death on the surgeon’s table. He was terrified of those tools; he once swore he would never, ever let himself be merely injured. I gave him to an Armen torturer who cut him apart piece by piece, a finger, a toe, his ear… He died horribly, worse than even his deepest nightmare.” The men had finished hauling their boat up above the reach of the surf and now they gathered behind Xavien like a dark cloud, faceless and mute.
“And you my sister, Amelia, you feared loss of control, and you feared that you would be forgotten and alone, forsaken and unloved.”
The wind whistled through the forest, as if Xavien’s words somehow churned the very air. “These men will show you how very loved you are and then I shall leave you. I’ll use the violation of your body to sunder the defenses of this land. And then Amelia, I will forget about you, for you have wasted enough of my time.”
***
Prince Simonel Greeneye
The Eastwood
First of Igmar (Igmar's Feast) Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Simonel watched as his world's twin, K'ali Varsk'vlali, or Aoria as the lesser races of men called it, crested the western horizon just as the last touches of the Mepe Varsk'vlali, the Lord Auir, sank out of sight. He heard the voices of his people raised to honor this most special of nights. Simonel rose to his full height, one of the tallest of the People, over six feet, long and lean. His skin a copper-tinged, gold color, darkened by sun and weather from the red-tinged bronze most common to the People. Simonel felt the wind stir his black hair, which hung long and loose for the ceremony. His green eyes flashed in anticipation for what was to come, an event that he felt had not come too soon.
Tonight the People of the Eastwood celebrated again the blessings of the forest. Tonight they praised the spells and the awakened forest that protected them from their foes. Tonight they honored their King, who’d led them into their self imposed exile. And tonight, Simonel Greeneye reached his majority. Tonight, their Prince would step forward to live life as an adult.
As the voices rose to a crescendo, Simonel straightened to his full height. He gave a nervous grin to Amonel. The Enchantress gave him a calm smile, her amber eyes filled with the wisdom that only six thousand cycles of experience could bring. His eyes went to the silver pendant upon her neck, a symbol of her duties and status. The inward spiraled serpent, carved of stone, had marked the position of the Enchantress since before Maghali Mede had risen, before, even the dawn of history for their people.
Simonel looked over at his father, the King. The ruler of the Eastwood stood at his ease, outwardly celebratory, but Simonel saw the empty space next to him, where no one dared stand and the shadow of loss that hung in his eyes. The wound that time cannot heal, Simonel thought sadly. He knew that his father, most of all, had longed for this day... so that he might soon step down.
His moment of introspection passed. Simonel turned towards the gathered People as the choir of voices began the litany of the Trials of the People. Simonel started forward in the solemn dance that celebrated and mourned seven thousand cycles of history.
The first soft chants came accompanied by a soft, mournful reed pipe that started him around the circle. As always, Nanamak’s solemn playing brought an ache to Simonel’s chest. Simonel did not need to look over to see his mentor's reddish brown face, his spiked, black hair woven with beads, and the mix of sadness and humor that always marked his face. Simonel's body moved in slow, stately steps, each one representative of a clan or hero from those ancient times. In his mind’s eye, he could see the cool springtime of the People, when they lived in small tribes. In the words and notes he saw his people as they’d been in ancient times. They’d lived off the land in small clans, one with the forests and fields and hills. Their tribal spirits fed and sustained the land.
Nanamak’s reed pipe faded even as a deep base war drum began to beat. Simonel felt his pulse beat rapidly at the rise of Maghali Mede, their Ancient King and the majesty and power of the People in the rise of Dzveli Eris Maghali, the ancient Kingdom of the People, in the second pass of the circle. The stories of his namesake made him stand taller, his stride firm, and the ritual movements to the dance sharp and true. The martial drum beat and strong war cries spun him round the second thousand cycles of the People all the faster for what he knew came next.
The harsh blat of a horn and the cries of anger and rage signaled the start of the Age of Strife, and the rise of Andoral Elhonas. The violent murder of Maghali Mede, the fall of the Kingdom of the People, and a time of vicious war and death. No one in the People’s history could ever be so reviled as the Black One himself.
Midway through the third pass around the circle began the first screams.
For a moment, Simonel thought the dance had come to a life of its own. Dark figures came out of the night around the circle. Shambling shapes and shadowed wraiths loomed and the first of the People began to fall in a welter of blood and screams.
The King, his father, reacted first. “To me, rally to me!” His sword, which Simonel had only ever seen used in ritual, struck through the nearest of the attackers, a roiling black mist. The sigils along the blade flared with energy as ancient protections returned to life. The shade screamed and dissipated.
Simonel’s eyes went first to the Enchantress. She maintained the protections of their lands, both runic, spiritual, and those of constructs. Her tie to the Veil, their greatest protection, made her survival essential. A phalanx of hunters had coalesced around her, weapons bared as they fended off attacks. A glance at his father showed that the King also had a rank of hunters to defend him.
A shout of pain nearby caused him to leap into action. Simonel drew his long dagger and spun to the sound of distress. His eyes locked with Nanamak, the ancient who had lived since before the rise of Maghali Mede. A construct of rotting vegetation had pinned the elder to the ground and rough hands struck at him. With a single bound Simonel leaped over a shambling creature and drove his dagger into the construct from behind. The runes on the dagger flashed as they cut the energy that bound the construct even as the keen blade severed the construct's arms.
Simonel pulled Nanamak to his feet and ducked just as the elder drew and swung his hatchet at him in one smooth motion. Simonel turned just in time to see a howling wraith recoil. “Your father needs help,” Nanamak said, his voice calm despite the chaos around them.
Simonel saw a cluster of the attackers and in the middle, a dozen of the People that fought in a ring around the King. He started forward when the earth began to shake beneath him. The tremor threw him from his feet. All at once the sky seemed to shatter in an unearthly wail. The cry seemed to dive into Simonel’s skull. He clenched at his ears and tried to shut it out.
Around him he heard a storm explode. Brilliant flashes of lightning pierced through his closed eyelids, followed instantly by detonations of thunder. The howling wind buffeted him and he felt the ground tremble as trees toppled in the sudden gale.
Behind it all the wail continued, as if a thousand damned souls had found release.
The cry stopped.
Deep in his heart, he felt something shatter. He knew, with a dreadful certainty exactly what had happened. Someone had sundered the Veil. Only magic of the most bestial and bloody could accomplish that. It meant the Eastwood was open to attack and that his people's long stint of isolation had ended. The Enchantress could not have survived such an attack... and anything
that harmed her would leave his father vulnerable.
Some part of Simonel ached to stay curled up and never to open his eyes again. Like all of the People he could will his own death and never had he felt so tempted. Were he any normal man who’d so suddenly lost so much, he might have. But he could not. He was Simonel Greeneye, and he was the son of the King of the People.
Slowly, as if a mortal of advanced age, the young man uncurled and rose to his feet. Around him he saw shattered trees and scattered bodies. Somewhere inside he recognized familiar faces gone slack and alien in death. He felt the blood-lust rise in him, the hunger to lash out and crush the mewling creatures responsible for the attack. He pushed that part of him deeply inside and closed the door on those feelings. He could not afford that, not now.
His eyes went to where his father had stood. A tangle of wreckage and bodies clustered in a group there. A dozen of the People, weapons drawn, had assembled over a single prone form. With slow, painful steps, Simonel walked forward to stare down at his father. The wise and stern features had relaxed. His bright lavender eyes stared upwards at the night sky. One of the People had already begun to wash the King’s face and hands. The black steel dagger that jutted from his chest told the entire story. It smoked faintly, and runes of black fire told just how it had pierced the enchantments and protections over their King.
Nanamak, his face grim and his eyes bright with unshed tears went to one knee at Simonel’s approach. He offered forth the hilt of a the ritual blade, Medis Khmali,the Blade of the King. “The King is dead. Long live the King.”
***
Lady Amelia Tarken
The Eastwood
Second of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Amelia had cried the last of her tears as she stumbled through the brush away from the beach. Her shredded night clothing provided no protection from the thorns and branches. She wished she could die, wished she could become numb. Instead, she seemed to hurt from the inside.
