“So you work for the high king’s lapdog?” Simeon asked.
“As you’ve no doubt come to learn,” said Mantas, “that on the Ashen Isle, more so than anywhere else on Amor, appearances can be deceiving. Your sister resides in the ashen court beside that lapdog you so readily assume to be plotting your downfall. Will you join us? Or will you let the isle that bore you smolder in the flames of the next world to come?”
Had these words come from the spymaster, or even his beloved sister, Simeon Lyon wouldn’t have heard them. He looked to each of the five poor souls; their lives cut short, alongside most of their limbs. It was by the marshal’s hand Simeon survived this night, a marshal that could tell him much of the happenings these last few cycles, both the good and the true. Mantas Varg was never known for prophetic rambling. So when it came time for the prince to decide his next destination he knew there was only one course for him. Still, Simeon couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling that the five men that lay on the ground were sent for purposes greater than a mere coin purse.
“I don’t think the castle’s the safest place for me right now,” Simeon said. “I’ve known thieves and I’ve known cutthroats. These men weren’t after my coin. Someone in the castle sent them after me.”
Mantas’ laughter was quick to draw the ire of the young prince, but only after it settled down of its natural accord did he turn to Simeon, and asked, “What makes you think it wasn’t someone outside the castle walls that sent these men upon you?”
“Oh, well,” stammered Simeon, caught off guard at the prospect put in front of him. “That’s a thought that’s going to linger.”
Chapter Nine
Shadow Brokers
Gregory Blackman
Wolves in the Midst
The forests of Uyllia, as they were marked on the map of the magi, were lands untamed by the hands of mankind. There were no roads, not a beaten path in sight, and when Cylena Barst looked she could only see a few of the thousands of soldiers on her heel. It was a tireless journey not easily measured in time, as none had seen the sun in days. Still, they marched onward. Not for their high king or their regional kings from home. They did it for the high prince, the future leader of the free world. That is, free if you happened to fall under the banner of mankind.
It would have been beautiful, had it not been so terrifying for the young recruits of the high prince’s army. These were lands unlike the homes they grew up, so rich and full of life, colors so vibrant mixed with the darkest shades that conjured about the dark, twisted tales this place was known for. A natural place where tree trunks wider than a king’s carriage became so entangled in each other that they swirled around and around in never-ending knots.
This was a land home to the most dangerous of creatures, some unknown to the world, some long extinct on the outside because of the fear they instilled in men, but all of them still very much alive and well in the Wild Lands. Cylena Barst could swear those beasts lingered in the corners of her vision, dancing in the shadows until the opportunity to attack presented itself.
To put those thoughts from her mind, Cylena did the one thing she believed unthinkable in days prior. She turned to the aged battle priest, and asked, “What do the elves worship? I know the kingdoms have the Four Pillars of Man, the dwarves had the Ruby Tree, which the nosferatu stole and renamed the Bleeding Tree, but apart from that I’m afraid my knowledge on the subject of the ancients is lacking.”
“Yes,” replied Jaric, trying his best to contain his emerging smirk. “I had a feeling that was the case. You know, many battle priests would scold you good and proper for lack of faith, but I’ve seen too many battles to ignore the truths behind the other side of the argument.”
“Then why are you still a priest?” Cylena asked, innocently enough.
Unable to contain his mirth any longer, Jaric erupted into a hoarse laughter, and said, “Because my people need me to be.”
Cylena wasn’t sure she understood what the battle priest meant. If one didn’t believe fully in the gods they served, why serve them at all? There were many things about this old man she didn’t understand and hoped to one day learn.
“Um, Jaric,” said Cylena, “about my question earlier…”
“Yes?” he answered, his interest piqued. “Oh! You wanted to know about the elves and their gods of worship. They have none. Or they have too many. It all depends on whom you ask. The Peoples of Uyl is a religion rooted in the natural essence of the world, and their followers, the elves, believe that inside every person, every creature, and every monster there is the presence of Uyl. He is their creator, their cultivator, and in the end, he was their destroyer.”
There it was again. Another shadow danced across the edges of her peripheral vision. This time it was unmistakable, but too high in the trees for Cylena to determine shape or species.
“Would you care to learn about the ice kings of Amoria Minor?” Jaric asked. “Now there are some gods that deserve closer inspection. Worst of all, I fear those ones might actually exist in the world. Cylena, are you listening? Cylena Barst?”
Now the activities from above were undeniable, but it was the movements on the ground that gave them greater cause for concern. The soldiers nearest in the brush looked all about under no apparent fire and held position under their commander’s orders against the trees that swayed before them.
“They’re here!” shouted one of the soldiers on the front line. “We’re under attack—!”
Hundreds of dark figures descended from the trees and swung into battle on knotted vines that entwined the soldiers. The men called out for others to join in the battle and even the odds, only to find their companions bound like themselves, unable to come to their side.
“Jaric!” Cylena shouted. “What the hell, priest? We’ve got to get in there!”
Jaric Goldrun’s eyes were closed and upon his hands balanced a leather-bound book as he whispered words of nonsense to it with complete devotion. Cylena tried to bring him out of his apparent shock, but her eyes were drawn forward where her brothers in arms did battle with shrouded adversaries. It was a massacre on one side, theirs, and no matter how hard she shook the old priest, he wasn’t about to let her join them.
“Jaric!”
“Jaric!”
“It’s a battle prayer,” noted Vyers as he stormed past them with a hefty battleaxe in hand. “Come on, my second, and let’s show the fell beasts the steel of man!”
Cylena could no longer wait for Jaric and pressed on without him, yet she didn’t get further than ten feet in the brush before a light from behind forced her to gaze back at the battle priest who had taught her much in so little a span of time.
“Alavina, goddess of light and the true path,” beckoned the battle priest, his eyes now ablaze in a fiery white light. “Show our enemies your might!”
The tome in the hands of Jaric Goldrun opened on its own, and as if possessed by the goddess herself, its pages came alive. The light of his eyes shone over the flipping pages and caused whirlwinds of light to fly from it to the battles that raged beyond.
Their attackers in the shadows were struck full beam with the battle priest’s wave of white light energy. The elven warriors fell from the darkness amongst a legion of steeled soldiers who were ready to make swift work of them. It wasn’t the end of the skirmish Jaric Goldrun may have hoped it would be, but it was the turning of the tide for the forces of man and they came at the elves with everything they had left.
With her bastard sword in hard Cylena joined her brothers in arms against the horde of barbarous elves. She climbed through the trenches made of roots, pushed her way through the brush already painted with the blood of men to reach the frontlines where the battled still raged.
Her enemy was a sea of tanned faces and war paint, each with a unique marking upon their face. The elves wielded their crude bows, armed with their wooden arrows, and the kind of swords man hadn’t seen in the empire since the elven race was broken and all they had was
stolen. These were poor and nomadic peoples that had managed to keep their sovereignty in the face of the wild lands overwhelming odds. Those hardships would steel them to the world and its atrocities, to the point where not even their ancient weapons would hold each and every one from a fight to the death that came their way.
Undaunted by their appearance, Cylena clashed swords with the first elf she crossed and in a bloodlust never experienced before she cleaved her opponent in half, and all the unlucky elves that crossed her blood-soaked warpath. While her enemies slowed to a lethargic pace, time seemed to speed up for the young soldier who found she moved with fluidic motions of carnage and destruction.
It was a battle that cost more than one thousand their lives, but in the end the high prince and his armies won in a bloody fashion. Those that survived the fighting unscathed cheered as loud as they possibly could with their hands and weapons raised high in triumph. Those left injured, limbless, were less inclined to cheer for their high prince, too wrought with fear that this day might be their last. And the soldier that couldn’t cheer at all would stay there until they rotted away, for there would be no one to dig their graves.
There were none more disturbed by the battle’s events than the high prince, himself. He waved his hand for his troops to continue the march, full aware of the dead and the near dead he would leave behind. This mission couldn’t be allowed to fail. Not even if its purpose was clouded to him. Of that, the high king was absolutely clear.
“Commander,” said one of the footmen near Vyers as he clutched at his stomach, “I’m afraid… I’m afraid I don’t feel too well.”
The high prince and those around him turned to look at the blue faced solider as he grimaced and contorted his body like a man possessed. Some of the soldiers began to worry out loud the elves had cast a dark spell on the man and pulled their weapons accordingly.
“Do not touch him!” Jaric roared. He pushed aside soldiers on route to his high prince and the crazed footman nearby. The battle priest charged forward and made enough of a circle for the man to breathe. “I repeat, do not touch him!”
The footman was panicked, unsure what was happening to him, and now doubled over in pain, but the battle priest beside him made no moves to ease his burdens. Then it all went black for the possessed soldier and he suddenly found himself back on the Ashen Isle he left cycles ago.
While the spirit of the footman may have been relocated, his body was still very much in the forests of Uyllia where the high prince stood with bated breath. He rose from his hunched position to face his prince, but this wasn’t the same man. This was a different person, with different sight and a different impetus in life.
“What sort of sorcery is this?” Cylena asked.
“It’s called celestial tenure,” said the battle priest, “and while it’s a form of possession there’s nothing demonic about it. Only the most gifted of mages can perform the spell, but the empire sometimes find need for it those times when ships or pigeons will not do. This soldier has been replaced, albeit temporarily, though we’re yet to ascertain the reasons as to why.”
The possessed footman ignored the battle priest completely, turned to the high prince, and said, “We must speak in private.”
“Not if I don’t know who’s on the other end we won’t,” Vyers said.
“Nor will you,” said the man pulling the footman’s strings. “Not until we find ourselves with fewer ears.”
Vyers appeared agitated by the man’s response, but for an unknown reason to those that served him, the high prince turned on his heel and stormed off with the possessed footman.
“Set up camp!” Vyers ordered before he disappeared into the shadows with a man of unknown origin. “I want the perimeter locked down! We continue the march on first light!”
The troops looked to one another in confusion, but a quick clap of Jaric’s hands saw them return their focus to the task at hand. Everyone had their orders, and in that Cylena Barst and the battle priest were no different. Their army had traveled for days, fought a battle, and still they had barely crossed the boundary lines of the lands they called wild.
Cylena thought she had seen everything this world had to offer. She had seen children forced into a life of thievery, just so they could feed themselves. Men that were guilty of the lightest of crimes, sent to the mines where they toiled until their death. Slaves put to the gallows, all because they spoke out against their master’s cruel touch.
She had never seen anything like the elves before. Nor did she wish to again.
Chapter Ten
Shadow Brokers
Gregory Blackman
Grifters and Sultans
There wasn’t an adventurer that didn’t aspire to walk the marches at least once in their life. Known to all as the Iron March, it was the longest road in the lands of man, only it wasn’t constructed by man nor was it constructed for them. It was the last gift the dwarves could bestow upon the elves, a metal highway that bridged the dwarvish and elven worlds.
Now, the Iron March connected the kingdoms of man, the elves it was gifted to forced into forests so deep and recluse that no road could traverse, and the dwarves that built its many steps lost to the annals of human history. The irony wasn’t lost on the humans, the elves, or the dwarves, but it was lost on Finley Mudbottom, whose kaernish roots made the concept difficult to grasp.
Because of their different ideologies, the lore of the Iron March spurred a lengthy discussion among the group of four; although much of it was to the ire of Axel Thorogard, who had to stuff socks into his ears to keep the kaern’s ramblings from getting inside.
“Mmm,” said Dashe, grinning wildly towards the stocky dwarf. “Mmm hmm mmm.”
“What?” Axel belted out, unaware that his socks were still stuffed into his ears.
“Hmm,” Korine said. “Mmm mmm hmm hmm.”
“What?” Axel asked once more. “You’ll need to speak up! I can’t understand the lot of you!
A disconcerted Korine Dorset slapped her dwarven companion upside the head. The others weren’t sure if it was out of spite, but she managed to dislodge the socks from his ears, so she solved that problem for them, too.
“I said,” Korine repeated, “Kaffrika lies over yonder.”
“Not long now,” Dashe added, “’til we’re free to fence our stolen goods and be gone from this foul place. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I say we give the Old World a hard look this time. Hardly anyone goes there.”
“That’s because you’d have to be daft to travel across the Siren Seas!” shouted the dwarf, stomping on the ground and shooting his hands up into the sky. “The moment you cross the threshold from Amoria Major to Amoria Minor you’re in her waters, and she won’t let you go so easily.”
“Nonsense,” Dashe declared. “I’ve fought with men from the Old World, fought against them, too.”
“Aye,” said Axel with a stiff nod in acknowledgement, “but for every vessel that slips through her sinewy grip a hundred more sink to the deep depths of the underworld. You can go if you wish, but I’ll be damned if you catch me tempting death in such a manner.”
Axel put an end to that discussion and the party of four was off once more towards the dark beyond, unaware of the two horse riders that followed. They were nearly out of the Kingdom of Haroden, where the empire and its reach ended and the free lands of the nonaligned nations began.
If one hadn’t stepped outside the kingdoms of man, it would be easy to believe the nonaligned nations would be home to those unspoken principles that weren’t welcome in the empire, such as honor, empathy, and liberty. The dark truth was the nonaligned nations were home to ideals that would make even the lowest of the empire’s classed citizen flee in terror.
“You know what I wish?” Axel asked.
His human companions weren’t about fall into the dwarf’s snare, but the tiniest of them, Finley Mudbottom, couldn’t fathom the reason as to why. He rushed over to the dwarf, and with eyes bursting w
ith excitement he asked, “What do you wish?”
“I wish,” Axel said with a troubled sigh, “that we had gone back for the horses.”
Axel Thorogard wasn’t alone in his distress. Call it the horses. Call it all this sneaking about, but every member of the group had their reasons for dismay. It was a sad life they lived. Unfit for all but the most hardened brutes. Despite the many obstacles in their place the group trudged on as best they could, for unless they wanted to give way to the shackle or the sword it was the only option left available for them. The group made their way along the Iron March without incident, and the only other travelers they came across seemed about as interested in the group as they were in the strangers.
These were quiet, scared people the group of four came across, each one afraid of something in their life. They had good reason to fear the open road. If it wasn’t the bandits it was the creatures of the wilds or the drug runners that pushed tones of product along these roads. There were a million reasons not to walk the Iron March. These travelers decided that only one reason was needed to stem those fears and begin the journey towards the other side.
The lands of Kaffrika didn’t sneak up on a traveler. Its many contrasts started with the stark difference in its dusty landscape to the desolate path laid before them, and it didn’t end when one entered a sprawling shantytown. Unlike the lush kingdoms of man, the nonaligned nations were forced to the lesser lands where crops were less inclined to grow.
None of the nonaligned nations knew hardship more than the barren lands of Kaffrika, but that iron resolve only served to steel its people to the world. They were slave traders, cutthroats, and as the citizens of the South Halls could attest, drug pushers and providers.
“There it is,” Korine said. “Slaven, capital city to Kaffrika, a prosperous nation filled to the brim with scum and shit peddlers.”
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