by Kal Spriggs
She wanted a knife, a blade to cut out the foulness that she felt within her. Again and again she saw the outstretched arms of the men who had attacked her. The blows of the brush recalled their strikes and the whisper of wind in the trees above brought back their cruel words as they satisfied their base urges.
Amelia stumbled onwards. She had crawled into the brush, too battered and shaken to really think about escape and more in an animal need for shelter than anything else. Now she simply sought someplace to lie down and die. She’d had few illusions about the evils of her brother. Whatever dark magic allowed him to survive his apparent execution, he had somehow descended into far worse.
Behind the coarse words of his hirelings and their violations of her body she heard his chanting. She felt her own body twist in more than physical pain as if her very soul tore into shreds.
The wind, which had howled since she’d crawled away into the forest, suddenly died. The distant sound of thunder rumbled to a close and Amelia’s stumbling progress seemed suddenly pointless. She fell, as if a puppet with its strings cut. The rocks and fallen pine needles from the trees dug into her, but she felt too battered and tired to care. The ache inside her seemed to burn deeper. Amelia felt her breathing slow. She realized in a vague fashion that her death approached. The ache somewhere inside her chest had grown. Her skin seemed to burn and she felt the pain of her body echoed by the throb of her lacerated soul.
In an absent way, she hoped her ancestors would welcome her soul or what remained of it. She felt a last few tears well up at that. If her brother denied her the glory of the afterlife, if he doomed her spirit to linger as a broken ghost, it made her physical pain seem so trivial.
Human child, why do you cry?
The voice seemed to speak to the dislocated part of her mind, the only part able to think still. Because I go to my ancestors in disgrace, I’ve allowed myself to be used by a dark wizard. Because he has destroyed my soul. Because I must die.
All creatures die, child. The soft voice in her mind sounded sad. Many before our time. You have indeed been ill used, and many have died from this wizard.
The part of Amelia that still could think felt suddenly grateful that the rest of her couldn’t feel. The confirmation that her brother had used her to cause still worse things upon others would have broken her, she knew. I am sorry.
It is not your fault, child. I forgive the part you played. The woman’s voice in her mind spoke more. I have in my power one last effort. I can save you, but only if you wish to live.
No! Amelia thought. The pains of her body and soul stabbed at her through the fog in her brain. Let me die. Even in this state, I cannot live with this burden.
You can help to stop him. You can accomplish much good, human child. And there are those who will miss you.
Amelia had a sudden glimpse of her father. She knew the pain he’d feel at her death and the death of her brother. She’d seen how hard he’d taken Xavien’s first betrayal. Could he continue after the loss of both of his other children?
Could she abandon him, when she knew he would want her to live no matter what?
I will live.
***
King Simonel Greeneye
The Eastwood
Second of Igmar, cycle 999 Post Sundering
“What have you found, Ceratul?” King Simonel Greeneye asked as he stalked up to the tall warrior. Like many of his people, Ceratul had raven black hair and a tan, almost red-colored tone to his skin. His brown eyes had seen ages of history unfold and though he was not an Ancient, he did have memories from the Rise of Andoral. Unlike most of the People, he stood tall, taller, even than Simonel.
The leader of the band of scouts looked grim. “Our foe has found a way to distract us.” The old warrior seemed to have difficulty addressing Simonel as his King. “They’ve set the western reaches of the Forest afire, and unleashed elementals to sustain it.”
Simonel grimaced, he turned to Nanamak, “Send messengers to the other bands. We must see to the Forest. Have them rally at the Crimson Falls, we’ll stand there to fight the fire.”
“You’ll let half the forest burn!” Ceratul said. “Give me fifty pairs of hands and we can quench this fires now!” The tone in his voice suggested that he knew far more of tactics and strategy than Simonel. He is one of our hottest blooded, Simonel reminded himself, most prone to the darker emotions of our people.
“Our people are scattered looking for our attackers, I’ll not throw them piecemeal at this threat while others may lie in wait,” Simonel said. He chose his words carefully, and he watched the emotions play across Ceratul's face. Simonel saw stubborn anger and arrogance. The arrogance, he knew, was the source of the other man's anger. In his arrogance, Ceratul would never believe that anyone would dare such an attack and his anger came as a result.
“If we act now, we can cut off the fires and then hunt down the humans who dared to attack us!” Ceratul’s harsh gaze swept around the circle of gathered folk. Simonel thought more to shame them to action than from a calculated plan. I pray that I have read Ceratul correctly, Simonel thought, and that Nanamak is wrong in his cautions that our attackers must have some ally within our ranks.
“We do not know who attacked us yet,” Nanamak cautioned.
“We know of no one else it could be,” Ceratul snapped. “The King would not hesitate—”
“The King, my father, is dead,” Simonel said. His voice came in the detached and calm tones he’d so envied in his father’s courtly speech. “I am now King and I say we gather our People to fight the fire and then seek out the true source of these attacks.”
For an instant, he saw rage flash across Ceratul’s features at the rebuke. The passion and nature of his people warred with his oaths and duty. To the young King, it took an eternity for the older warrior to regain control over his face, if not his emotions, and to nod in submission.
***
Simonel Greeneye watched the oncoming fire approach, the roaring flames boosted by unchained fire elementals. Though he possessed little of mind magic, he could feel the malignant intelligence that drove those flames. The ties of blood that made him King also gave him ties to the Eastwood and he could sense the destruction and damage that the attack had wrought. It stung, like an abrasion, and that sting grew as the fire continued to spread.
The smoke and sound grew and Simonel glanced back at Nanamak, “What do you think?”
The wizened man squatted and looked out over the woods. The vast red-rock waterfall they stood on gave them excellent observation of the fire and how it seemed to close in on this single gap in the hills, drawn, or driven, towards the Heartwood. “I think that the elementals will weaken themselves when they push the flame across the river. That is where we should strike.”
“And you, Ceratul?” Simonel asked.
The old hunter nodded, although he still seemed to harbor resentment over the decision to pull back. “The enchanters will have the best chance at stopping the flames at the river. The rest of us can continue to clear underbrush and create barriers.” He cleared his throat. “As per your direction, I sent out scouts to our flanks...”
“And?”
“Gedrain found a band of men and their shaman. They bear the signs of the northmen, Armen of the Semat tribe,” The old hunter grimaced, “It looks like they planned to attack us as we went to extinguish the fires.”
“We'll deal with them after we stop this. Their own fire secures our flank now,” Simonel said. “Anything else, Warmaster?”
Ceratul straightened at the title. For Simonel to use it was, in effect, to award him that title. It was a powerful commission, one which gave Ceratul command of the People's hunters and scouts until the end of this crisis. The People only had a Warmaster when they went to war. “One of the scouts sighted another trespasser, near where the blood magic was used. It's likely she was involved in the ritual somehow.”
Simonel nodded, slowly. “That bears investigation. Have one of your scou
ts watch the woman. We may take her prisoner to learn more about our enemy.” He let out a deep breath. “Please tell your men to be ready. I will join them at the riverbank.”
Ceratul nodded, “I will tell them the King arrives soon to join them in battle.”
Simonel watched the old warrior leap down the rocks towards the base of the bluff. “You were right,” he said, without looking at Nanamak, “But I fear that to appease his sense of self-worth he may try to influence others with his importance.”
“His arrogance is that of a man who is seldom wrong, my King.” Nanamak said. “His curse is one of skill and expertise, which many of us suffer from, especially with countless cycles to improve ourselves.” The Ancient gave a shrug, as if to say that he himself was not entirely immune.
“So our long lives are a curse then?” Simonel asked. A part of him saw the idea as absurd, but already the loss of his father left an aching hollow in his chest. He remembered the tears in his father's eyes on every anniversary of his mother's death.
“Absolutely! One which is our strength and our greatest weakness.” Nanamak said. His dark eyes went distant. “I have loved and lost, chosen a path of darkness and found redemption in my life, yet I have never grown old, never known the contentment that normal men feel when they know that their time, at last, is done.”
Simonel turned his gaze to his mentor. The wizened little man looked much as he had, since Simonel had first met him. He wore the same loose leather armor, his jet black hair was cut short and spiky, with beads and feathers laced in. His tribal tattoos laced his skin in intense, whorling patterns. As always, he wore an expression one part sadness, one part humor, and one part seriousness that Simonel had rarely seen change.
“Do you think I will be a good King?” Simonel asked.
“No.” Nanamak said. Simonel turned to his mentor in surprise. “Your father was a good King. He knew his people and he led them here to the Eastwood, as a part of our exile. He protected our borders, nurtured our culture, and healed wounds that traced back to Andoral Elhonas,” Nanamak said. “He was a wise King and a good friend, but he could not lead our people through what lies ahead.”
Nanamak knelt and clasped Simonel's hands, “You are my King and though we bear no ties of blood, you are as a son to me. You have the wisdom of your father, the compassion of your mother, and the strength and skill at arms of equal to any of our hunters. You will not be a good King, you will be a Great King, as the spirit speaker said on the day of your birth.”
Simonel fought back tears, “Thank you, my friend.” He let out a breath, “Now I think it is time to show our enemies the extent of the mistake they made when they attacked the Folk of the Eastwood.”
***
Lord Admiral Christoffer Tarken
Port Riss, Inbar Island, Duchy of Boir
Fifth of Igmar, cycle 999 Post Sundering
An oily black haze hung on the surface of the water as the Ubelfurst lay at anchor in Port Riss's harbor. The stench of the fire-gutted city hung in every breath. Admiral Christoffer Tarken kept his face a calm mask, imposed by decades of command. He wept on the inside, for he knew the carnage of a city sacked.
Even at two hundred yards away from East Riss, bodies and tangles of wreckage bobbed in the black water alongside the iron hull.
“The garrison rallied to beat them back to the waterfront, Admiral, that’s the only reason anyone survived,” Lord Soren, the Baron of Riss, said. Every word he’d spoke had carried with it total exhaustion and lack of hope. “Even so, they burned West Riss to the ground and they gutted our coastal defenses.” Admiral Tarken had met the man before and thought him a good enough sort, if overly drawn to good food and drink. Previously, his people could afford that. Port Riss was one of the richest towns, a stop-over for all ships sailing north out of the Boir Sea and a hub for trade of all types.
Now the Baron's excess weight hung off him and he looked as if he hadn't eaten or slept in days. His clothing was stained with dirt, soot, and blood. It was obvious that he'd joined into the fighting, for he still wore his sword and he had a stained bandage strapped around his left arm.
“Where did they go?” Captain Elias asked. The Captain, like many of the crew, had become somber. The North Fleet normally staged out of Port Riss. To see so much of the town in ruins and the destruction of the harbor, especially, hit them all hard. Admiral Tarken tried not to think of how many of his sailors had families and homes in the port... and how many had lost those in this attack.
At least Captain Elias had not allowed the sight to break him. The stocky captain still stood tall and Admiral Tarken could see the grim determination in the other man's face. The reminder of the strength of the sailors under his command made Admiral Tarken stand all the straighter.
“They didn’t pass us on our way south. That means they continued south. There’s only one place they can be headed.” Admiral Tarken turned away. His eyes scanned the water to the south. He wished he could see through the smoke and across the hundreds of miles of water to the enemy fleet. “They’re headed to Boirton.”
Please, Amelia, stay safe, Admiral Tarken thought, Willis and I, we knew the risks at going to sea. You must live, my daughter. He cleared his throat. He could taste the fear of the ship. They feared the loss of their families. For that matter, some of them already faced that loss here at Port Riss. “Make the ship ready, Captain Elias. We sail for Boirton immediately.”
***
Chapter Five
King Simonel Greeneye
The Eastwood
Fifth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Simonel Greeneye rubbed at a small red patch of skin on his knee through the tear in his trousers. The young King did his best to ignore Nanamak who stood nearby. Out of the periphery of his vision, he could see the Ancient, and could easily make out the frown that creased his face, and the furrows on his brow.
“I am sorry, Nanamak, that I got too close to that fire elemental,” Simonel said. “I should have remained at a distance to retain control. When that particular one broke through, I had a reserve I could have committed.”
“Yes,” Nanamak answered.
Simonel waited. He could make out no change to Nanamak's face or expression. Simonel returned to his study of the distant force of raiders. He studied the foreign invaders. Their coarse language offended his ears, distant thought they were. They contrasted so sharply with what many of his people viewed as ideal. Their dusky skin, often covered in crude tribal and shamanistic tattoos and their heavily muscled, pot-bellied bodies seemed grotesque to him. Their heavy, cleaver-like axes and broad swords looked crude and designed purely for butchery. They wore a mix of untanned animal pelts, crudely-homespun wool trousers and tunics, patchwork and looted armor, and bare skin.
Simonel glanced at his own concealed fighters. They too seemed savage and wild, yet there the resemblance ended. Their complexions varied from smooth, reddish bronze to the color of starless midnight. Many of the People decorated their skin with vivid colors of body paint, today muted to better blend with their surroundings. Lean, leopard-like bodies, dressed in a variety of styles, all tailored to blend in with the Wood, with mottled patterns designed to confuse the eye, many with sigils woven into the fabric or etched into the leather for protection and concealment. Each warrior's weapon customized to his or her body, designed for the individual warrior to be a mere extension, and each inscribed with sigils of war.
Simonel could not imagine a more dangerous band of warriors. For all that the enemy outnumbered them several times over, he felt confidence that with their extensive training, vast wealth of experience, and better equipment, his warriors would rout the enemy.
Simonel's green eyes inadvertently met those of Nanamak, and he finally had no choice but to acknowledge his mentor's unhappiness. “Did my joining the attack upset you so much?” Simonel asked.
“I have trained you in warfare since your father first put a blade in your hands.” Nanamak said. “I have se
en you train, run with you on a hunt. No other warrior in the Eastwood has better judgment of your abilities, your desires, and your skill.”
Simonel nodded, “This is certain, you've taught me everything I know.”
“Yes, and I never once held anything back, for I swore that to your father,” Nanamak said. “You think I would be unhappy to finally see your skill put to the test? I reveled in the opportunity to see my best pupil, the only one worthy to learn everything I know, in combat. I know you, my King. I know your soul, and I know that yours is a spirit that must always lead from the front. Other races of men would not understand this, perhaps, but we do not fight like them.”
Simonel nodded slowly. When the elemental had threatened his people, he saw no other course but to end that threat. To send anyone besides himself simply had not occurred to him.
“But what makes me unhappy, is that for all the skill that I know you have, for all your abilities, the perfection of form that you've developed over just four centuries, you somehow defy my every expectation... you failed.”
Simonel flushed, “I felled a heightened fire elemental with a single stroke.” The rebuke seemed unfair. He had seen the eyes of even Ceratul go wide after the attack. Other warriors had muttered under their breath and all had hailed him for his quick actions that prevented the elemental from potentially breaking their defense.
Nanamak pointed mutely at the red spot on Simonel's knee.
Simonel's flush deepened. He opened his mouth and paused. He tried to find the words to explain what had happened, yet they just couldn't come. Finally he closed his mouth and shrugged. “The lacing on my sandal came untied.” He took a deep breath, and had to add, “I tripped and fell and struck my knee, that is all.”
