by Mark B Frost
“Abaddon smashed wave after wave of assailants, and expanded his territory by killing neighboring demon lords. But he was no fool, and knew that he alone couldn’t make it past the elite hellspawn guards who protected Amsedon. He needed manpower, and for that he bargained with the remaining lords. They would assist him in his assault on Amsedon, and in return he would allow them to retain their positions under his new regime, which he assured them was inevitable. Having seen his treatment of their brethren, they all agreed.
“While his cohorts occupied Amsedon’s guards, Abaddon went after the tyrant himself. The two stared each other down, waiting for a false move that would lead to the other’s death. Amsedon moved first, eager to demonstrate why he had held power against so many previous insurrections. With similar confidence, Abaddon proved that he was a force to be reckoned with. Both demons thought the battle would quickly be over. Both were wrong.
“It was over a year later a winner was determined. Their ceaseless, cataclysmic battle had spanned the length and breadth of Gehenna. Not a single demon estate survived unscathed, and the land itself had been twisted by the sheer power of the fight. In the end only one dominator could stand victorious. Abaddon, once a lowly laborer, had overthrown the King of Hell.
“After Abaddon had claimed the throne, the remaining demon lords came before him and demanded he fulfill his promises. To reward their cowardly allegiance, he executed them all personally.”
The man stopped pacing and looked to his captor, but offered no response. “You call yourself Daemon,” Atheme explained. “But I have seen you fight personally, and I know you are no mere berserk beast. I thought that if you were to be named after a demon, it would be more fitting that you were named after the greatest demon: Abaddon.”
“You may call me what you wish,” the prisoner repeated evenly.
Atheme gave a sigh and rose to his feet. “I have to admit, I put a lot of thought into that. I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm.” He checked the rune structure of the cell once more, making certain it was at full capacity. “I have a meeting I must attend. I’ll be back tomorrow. If you escape before I get back, please don’t mess with my paperwork. I’m just going to leave it here, if that’s okay with you.”
“That is acceptable.”
Atheme smiled, then headed back down the long hallway.
* * * * *
Cildar was awakened from a fitful sleep by the sound of screams. Instantly all of his nightmares came back to him in a flash of wakeful agony, and he knew that this time, it was real. They were under attack. Vantrisk had struck.
He leaped to his feet and seized his Trine Lance, the ancestral holy relic of the Emles. He tapped the butt against the ground, and the three-pronged crystalline blade of the Lance exploded into radiant light. He dashed through the flap of his tent and within a minute was at the fore of his army, facing the Kyros Hills to the south.
To his surprise, his soldiers were not under attack, but rather stood watching the battle at the base of the hills, maybe a hundred yards away. Cildar rubbed sleep from his eyes and gathered strength from the Lance.
Shasta moved to his commander’s side and began filling him in. “It just started a few minutes ago. The hills lit up like a fireworks display, flames and lightning everywhere. Scouts are saying the Cainites are engaged in battle with Vantriskans. They must have followed us out here. Should we assist them?”
Cildar spent half a minute debating. “No. Not yet. I want to see this for myself.” He pointed to a nearby hilltop. “Shasta, you and I are going to locate ourselves there. Set up a string of runners so if needed we can get word back to the troops quickly.”
Shasta did as ordered and then swiftly caught up with his leader, who was already on the move. “What’s the game here, sir?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. If the Cainites detected the ambush before us, why didn’t they warn us? How long ago did they figure it out? If they’re trying to worm their way into our good graces, this could just be for show.” He began casting grey magic as he moved, granting himself both night and ether vision.
Soon they were atop the hill and looked down into the battle below. The Cainites were engaged with a troop of Vantriskans nearly three times their number. For a moment Cildar almost sent word for his troops to engage, but then he noticed the battle was clearly favoring the Cainites.
He settled his nerves and focused his vision, tracking the battle’s flow. In line with his expectations, the Vantriskans were struggling to use their own magic outside of their altered currents. The Cainites themselves were easily fighting at the level of Cildar’s own Dragoons, to his concern, and perhaps even beyond. As in the legends, the dark soldiers moved swiftly and silently, even during combat, until the very moment they struck. Upon impact their weapons exploded with elemental magics. Waves of fire, crackling lightning, and frigid arctic winds blasted the hills below, all without the normal casting time and vulnerability associated with advanced War Mage techniques.
“Where’s their leader?” he muttered. “Where’s Myris?”
“I can’t make him out,” Shasta responded.
Cildar focused his vision further, and finally picked something out. There was a shadow moving among the soldiers, faster than the others. As it passed the Cainite soldiers it did them no harm, but when it reached a Vantriskan they exploded into fountains of blood, their throats or stomach sliced open.
“There,” Cildar pointed him out to Shasta. “He’s impossibly fast. You’ve seen him before, right? Is he always that fast?”
“Definitely not. I can barely even see him now.”
“Then it must be magic.”
“I thought it was impossible to increase one’s speed though grey magic? Strength, endurance, and reflexes can all be used to imitate speed enhancement effects, but increasing your raw movement speed is impossible, right?”
“I’m unconvinced. I’ve been working on a theory, but I hadn’t had any kind of success. Not like this. I had given up on it, but now...”
In addition to the balance brought by the normal ether currents here, the Cainites were clearly better suited to nocturnal combat, much more easily distinguishing themselves from their enemies. It only took a few more minutes before the Vantriskans sounded the retreat.
Cildar motioned to Shasta and began to slide down the hill. By the time he reached the base, Myris Phare stood waiting.
He gave a bow. “Greetings, Sir Cildar. I apologize for the noise.”
“I’m not worried about the row, I’m more concerned with how your people were aware it was coming when mine weren’t.” Myris looked to the side, the twin flames that hid his eyes dancing in the night. “What’s the problem? No explanation?”
“There is an explanation. I simply fear that it is an insult to the quality of your soldiers. As soon as the Vantriskan forces stepped into the normal currents, many of the detection spells used by our sentries were set off and we quickly moved to intercept. Were your spells not? Or do you simply not know such spells?”
Cildar took a step back, unsure of how to respond. “I-I’ll have to ask my sentries.”
“If you would prefer, my people can handle sentry duties tonight and allow yours to rest.”
“No, that’s fine. You handled the battle for us, I appreciate that. We’ll handle sentry duties from here.”
“With all due respect, given your response to this incident, I shall keep my own posted as well.”
“What I don’t understand,” Shasta interjected before Cildar could snap in response, “is why they would follow us. They couldn’t have known we were going to make camp. For all they knew, we were heading back to Felthespar.”
“Even if so,” Myris answered, “we would have likely camped for the night. Especially if we had been withdrawing or surrendering due to exhaustion. It’s a sound tactic, although it lacks honor.”
“Aren’t night raids while the enemy sleeps a traditional Cainite technique?” Cildar grumbled.
>
“Not while I lead,” Myris responded coldly.
The commanders parted ways, each heading back to his own camp. As the Dragoons marched, Shasta moved close to Cildar and muttered under his breath, “I’m starting to wonder how our people ever won the Arocaen.”
When they got back to base Cildar cleared out a campfire and made a temporary commander’s station, calling in Galbion as well.
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” the paladin greeted the young man.
“Not at all, sir. The life of a medic involves very little sleep as long there are wounded soldiers. I mostly get by on a mix of herbs and white magic to approximate the effects of sleep.”
“That sounds useful. You’ll have to share it with me later. Listen, the two of you are the closest thing to a council I have right now. Since, as we’ve discussed, we’re not coordinating our efforts with Felthespar, it’s up to the three of us to make the best decisions for the army here. We’ve got to take a look at the state of things. As Shasta predicted, our withdrawal from the assault has caused Vantrisk to grow bolder. They pursued us, something I would not have imagined. It ended poorly for them thanks to our Cainite friends, but it’s still a dire sign.”
“The morale is certainly in their favor,” Galbion offered. “Many under my care have been injured several times already in this war, and keep asking why we haven’t been sent a full refresh from Felthespar. Some are nearly six months over their tour of duty.”
“So the first question is, do we surrender? Do we pack up and head home?”
“Absolutely not!” Galbion exclaimed.
“We can’t make that decision,” Shasta agreed. “We’d all face court-martial for abandonment, or worse, treason.”
“I agree,” Cildar said with a nod, “but the question had to be asked. So we stay. That doesn’t mean all of us. Galbion, you arrived, what, three months ago? That was the last group of reinforcements. How many came with you?”
“Two hundred.”
“Alright. Gather a hundred of the most injured troops. Shasta, gather a hundred of the troops who have been here the longest. Send them back home.”
“Sir,” Shasta argued, “I’m not sure we can give up a hundred units still fit for combat.”
“The injured are going to need someone to help them make it home safely. Would you send them back on their own?”
“I suppose not,” the Dragoon answered, rubbing his forehead in concern.
“But you’re right, we probably can’t afford to lose a hundred soldiers right now. Which is why I propose that it is time to let the Cainites join our ranks.” There was no outburst in response to this, but instead an eerie silence. Beneath his mask, Cildar was unable to repress a grin. “Now, don’t everyone jump up at once.”
“Sir,” Shasta finally said, “I want to trust them. All of us want to trust them. But none of us do.”
“We’ve been taught from birth to fear Cainites,” Galbion added. “Of all of Felthespar’s enemies, both historic and modern, only the Cainites are consistently painted as more monsters than men. It is said that they were creatures who dealt exclusively in shadows and death. Having now seen them in action, it’s difficult to find reason to disagree with that description.”
“All of that is true. That’s why even though it’s my idea—my only idea—it’s your decision. The two of you have to come to an agreement on the matter. Whatever you decide, that’s what we’ll stand by.”
The conference went on for hours. Ultimately Shasta decided to argue for the Cainites, and Galbion against, and it was agreed they would do nothing until they were of one mind on the issue. The campfire had long burned out and the morning sun was tickling the horizon when finally Cildar stood and stretched his back, then called to a nearby aide.
“Find Myris Phare. Tell him I need to speak to him.”
Chapter 5.
Lord Archmagus Kinguin Peet
The Tower of Halariu, home to the heralds of the Arcanum, loomed ahead of Atheme. The single structure was the most simplistic of the prominent places in Felthespar. However, the labyrinths and archives of the Arcanum extended deep into the mountains north of the city, and in actuality it was the largest of the territories. As Atheme reached the young herald guarding the entrance, he drew forth a medallion from his tunic. It marked him as a ranking Wizard, and the door was opened to him.
Only those truly dedicated to the Art of Heraldry were given privileges to the Tower. As a high ranking politician Atheme had been inside several times, but it had always required special arrangements and an escort to vouch for his presence. Now he found himself wishing he had gained ranks within the Arcanum sooner, as it was far more convenient to come and go as he pleased.
On Leprue’s advisement, he had come to see the Grand Councilor Kinguin Peet. Kinguin’s chambers should have been somewhere in the Tower, but he claimed to work better away from the disturbance of the currents found above ground. He had instead situated himself deep in the mountainous corridors. Atheme had always suspected that this choice had more to do with Kinguin’s aversion to human interruptions than natural ones.
After several minutes of walking, he stopped and knocked at an unmarked door. He felt the rune structure holding the door closed fade, so he opened it and stepped inside.
The chamber was huge, but absolutely cramped with relics. Atheme was certain Kinguin was not permitted to keep some of these in his private possession, however he knew the man well enough to know his intentions on keeping an artifact would be purely scholarly, even if it involved bending the rules.
The Lord Archmagus himself sat at his desk, his ancient and powerful Staff of the Magi resting across his lap. The Staff was a deceptively simple wooden frame, with an intricate gilded head fanning out into swirling arms. A small but distinctive amethyst crystal was gripped in the center of the golden ornamentation, the Crystal of Aeons, the true artifact which powered the Staff itself.
Kinguin was a slim man, and stood at five feet and eleven inches in height. His attire was mostly red, accented by a black cape and elegant black fedora. Several pouches hung at his sides, containing various ingredients or small research manuals he might need at any given time. He waved his hand towards a chair for Atheme to sit in. “I’m assuming you don’t expect me to go through the formalities and tripe we’re expected to say to each other as political officials?”
“Of course not, Lord Kinguin.” Atheme took his seat and smiled over the desk. “I appreciate you making time for me. I wouldn’t waste it.”
“Now, now, it’s not like that. My intellectual equals are always welcome for a bit of verbal chess.”
Atheme chuckled. “You know as well as I do that there’s not a man alive who approaches being your ‘intellectual equal’. And ‘verbal chess’ annoys the hell out of you.” Kinguin’s abilities to learn and decipher were widely considered to be supernatural. Early in his career he had worked with Calvin on several experiments, and later had rewritten one of Calvin’s books of magic theory into his own book of laws and evidences. By many in Felthespar, Kinguin was considered more valuable than the entire rest of the Arcanum. This was not lost on the other heralds, and caused a good deal of internal friction wherever he was involved.
He waved a hand in front of his face in false modesty. “We’re not here to discuss the shortcomings of humankind as a whole. Although believe me, I have my share of stories on the topic.”
“Straight to it, then. I assume Leprue has told you that I’m running the Vantrisk operation. It’s been a month since he put me in charge, and we can’t stall the matter any longer. I’ve got to make my decision. To do so, I need to know what you know.”
Kinguin reached to a shelf at his side and pulled down a book, then flipped it across the desk. Atheme was accustomed to this response. Kinguin was notoriously thorough, and therefore notoriously verbose. It was not uncommon for him to communicate in books, rather than sentences.
Atheme rubbed his hands together and grabbed the tome. He kn
ew it was a waste of time to ask for a summary, and so dived in eagerly. A few seconds later he looked up, leafing through the pages. “What is this? It’s blank.”
The herald slammed his hands lightly on the desk, just enough to express his annoyance. “I need data, Atheme! I don’t have data. I may be a genius—and I assure you, I am—but I cannot conduct research without data. I’m not a magician! Well, I am a magician, but not that kind of magician!”
“Kinguin, you’ve been locked down here for a month. You must have come up with something.”
“Aye, I have.” He reached again to the shelf at his side and threw three more books to Atheme as he spoke. “I’ve been working diligently on attempts to reproduce the effects of Vantrisk’s rune structure based on the limited and conflicting reports we have from people who have seen it. I’ve constructed twenty-seven potential rune structures that affect similar distortions on the currents. Only nine of them can be written in Cloud Script, which I’m assuming the Vantriskans used since it’s all we ever taught them. Eleven more can be written in the other scripting languages used by the Arcanum. A further six can only be written in scripting languages I invented. And the last requires a combination of eight of the other languages hobbled together in a nightmare you don’t want to imagine.”
“What about countermeasures? Have you come up with any ways to deactivate the barrier?”
Five more books gradually landed in a stack in front of Atheme. “One counterspell for each structure, written in the simplest possible scripting language. Two variations of each, one that works in normal currents, one that only works within the modified currents created by the original spell. The first variation should never actually serve any purpose, and is purely theoretical. But Atheme, without knowing which of the original rune structures they’re using, there’s no telling what any given counterspell will do. In some cases if you use the wrong counterspell you’ll actually magnify the effects of the interference field. In others, you’ll create a tremendous explosion. I lost my cat that way. I rather liked that cat. He was quiet.”
