Original Submissions of type 'Stories'
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Grandfather Carru and Mock-the-Void by Delirium
Added on Mar 23, 2007This larger-than-life tale appears to originate from the Sun Runner tribe, and was passed around in Luir's for a while after it was told during a tall-tale contest.
This is the story of Mock-the-Void and his battle with old Grandfather Carru, as it was passed down to me by my father and his mother's father's father's brother's uncle's father's father.
He was out hunting, young Mock-the-Void, with his bow of mekillot rib and a quiver of diamond-tipped arrows, trotting along the trail which would someday become the great North Road. He went past the bluffs; they were still growing, too, they were just a pack of rowdy boulders back then. Bow in hand, he stalked on, past the King of Plants, the Queen of Lizards, past them all, low as a shadow and just as silent, when he saw.. Him.
Big old Grandfather Carru, who he was hunting, for he was big enough to feed his entire tribe for years, and his hide was thick as a baobab tree, speckled with ages of weaponry from failed hunters before. Grandfather Carru's antlers were so big and sharp, they kept poking the northern sky and ripping little holes, some of which you can still see on clear nights.
So Mock-the-Void slunk up, watching in awe as old Grandfather Carru grazed on boulders with his mighty, sharp teeth, taking them up between his powerful jaws and - CRUNCH! He stood in shock as Grandfather Carru crunched the very rockblood from that boulder, and drank it with a brutal twist of his neck, swallowing the remains!
Now Mock-the-Void was brave but smart, so he waited for Grandfather Carru to sleep, watching nearby, watching and waiting. And he waited.. and waited.. and waited...
Until finally, four weeks later, old Grandfather Carru put his head down and stayed still. Thunder rose from that nose, which was big enough for an elf to run through, and Mock-the-Void knew he slept. Mock-the-Void crept up, with his finest diamond-tipped arrow nocked on his mighty mekillot-rib bow, and he aimed...and let fly...and struck true beneath the shoulder, where the heart would be.
There the arrow stuck, for Grandfather Carru's hide was too tough for even Mock-the-Void's arrows, which had killed mekillot at two hundred paces.
So Mock-the-Void crept away and found the King of Plants, who he'd passed on the way. The King owed him a favor, for a favor done in childhood, so now to the King he asked for a seed. The King of Plants had seeds so sharp, so vicious, that they could pierce old Grandfather Carru's hide, and he gave one of those seeds to Mock-the-Void. After a week's labor with the finest wood and the truest cut feathers - from the fiercest verrin ever to fly, of course - tipped with the King's seed, he had his arrow.
He went back to old Grandfather Carru, whose prints a man could stand in. Moving low as any quirri could be, he snuck around to the sleeping beast's face, for he wished to look in his eyes as he let the arrow fly.
There he was, Mock-the-Void, in Grandfather Carru's face - and the old beast woke.
Now my father's mother's father and my father's mother they come into disagreement on this bit... my father's mother says Grandfather Carru winked... and my father's mother's father, he says Grandfather Carru just lowered his head and charged. His foot plowed up the rocks and sent them rolling clear to the east, forming the cliffs that we now know.
Mock-the-Void was brave, if at this point a bit foolish, and let his arrow fly steady and true right into one of old Grandfather Carru's eyes. Now, when you shoot, your feet are still, and still means you don't run.
They say that Mock-the-Void was hit so hard he flew halfway across the known world before he went into the After, and they found his boots in the far valley of Xytrix Za - ten years later.
But!
That arrow was in Grandfather Carru's head. It took him two full weeks to realize he was dead, but all of a sudden he fell with a mighty crash among the scrub and rocks, right beside a vast deep chasm.
Mock-the-Void's cousins and brothers and sisters were watching, and they saw him fall. They crawled in through his nose to cut him apart from the inside, for his hide was still too thick to cut through. And there a vine sprouted, curling up from the arrow in Grandfather Carru's head, and grew, and the King of Plants led his people north and settled along that vast chasm and grew fat off Grandfather Carru's remains.
That is the story of Mock-The-Void and great Grandfather Carru. And it's why carru hate men and elf to this very day.This is the story of Mock-the-Void and his battle with old Grandfather Carru, as it was passed down to me by my father and his mother's father's father's brother's uncle's father's father.
He was out hunting, young Mock-the-Void, with his bow of mekillot rib and a quiver of diamond-tipped...
Continue Reading...Just an ale by Okthen
Added on Dec 25, 2006A night out for a 'rinther...
When the stranger walked into the room, little did I know what the night had in store for me. It had been the usual sort of day for me in my alleys that I call home, stole for my food, barely enough. Decided it was time to kick my feet up in a nearby tavern.
The smell of ale and smoke hit me in the face as I slipped in amongst the thick crowd of the tavern, weaving my way quickly through the rowdy patrons and approaching the bar. I muttered a brief acknowledgement to a couple of grim looking men seated along the bar, their faces shadowed by the deep hoods of their cloaks. Petty thugs,I figured, as most folk were around these parts.
A burst of laughter erupted from a nearby table, I turned my head briefly towards the commotion before snickering and turning back to the bar top.
I turned my attention towards the doorway, gazing absently at the crowd milling about the room. A few voices were quickly raised above the din of the crowd, two bulky looking men jumped to their feet, their eyes dripping with malice. They glared at each other before both turned and stalked towards the entrance. I snorted, knowing all too well what was in store for them.
It was then that I saw the stranger, he towered over most of the other men in the room, his build was very thin though, a lithe looking man with dark hair falling around his face. His gaze passed mine without the slightest hint of acknowledgement, yet I saw him glance back towards me soon after.
My attention was quickly pulled away from the stranger as the night wore on before I decided it was time to head back home. I eased from my stool and began trudging through the crowd, stepping out onto the foul smelling alley outside, leaving the noisy establishment behind me as I began sauntering down the streets.
The scuffle of feet moving quickly along the trash-ridden alley grabbed my attention, shooting a swift glance over my shoulder before hurrying my step. I fumbled a hand towards my belt, looking forthe familiar feel of my blade. No luck. Damn, somebody must’ve pinched it back at the tavern.I tugged my hood further over my face, hoping the shadows could conceal my identity.
I hear the footsteps again as I hurry towards my destination, the muffled sound of boot on stone seeming to echo along the alley.
What does this fool want? I snarled towards the stranger, lowering my stance as I prepared to fight or flee. The stranger lunged at me, a glint of dark obsidian showing up in the dim moonlight. I twisted to the side, barely escaping his blade. I turned to flee down the street but more cloaked figures stepped from the shadows. I whirled in a circle, cursing as I saw no way out, and they were on me.
By ThirdEye...Final words from The Lottery (I liked the ending)....
When the stranger walked into the room, little did I know what the night had in store for me. It had been the usual sort of day for me in my alleys that I call home, stole for my food, barely enough. Decided it was time to kick my feet up in a nearby tavern.
The smell of ale and smoke hit me...
Continue Reading...A Moonlit Night by Briar
Added on Dec 24, 2006A child finds her element within Tuluk's Ivory Walls.
The chiming click-clack of sandals, the rhythmic wheezing of tired, desperate lungs, and the constant shifting of heavy fabric about flailing limbs echoed through the long, marble-floored halls.
Run! Run! Run!
The little girl, her night-clothes still clinging to her body in weighted drapery ran as her thoughts compelled her to. Her small hands tore at the ivory toggles at the front of her silk robe, pulling awkwardly as her feet continued to drum into the floor, carrying her as fast as they could from those that chased. She thought she could still hear the din of their black boots pounding in pursuit and continued to flee from her bedchambers.
Lirathu, full and brilliant, shone stark against the starless night as shafts of light broke between gauzy curtains along one side of the hall, bathing the child in fleeting pools of silver. In a flurry of brown and gold, her robe fell from her shoulders, melting to the floor in a muted puffing sound as she bolted farther down the hall. She turned right and right again, and ran until she pushed through screen doors of pymlithe lattice to a lush garden.
Her tiny hands batted angrily at the brush as she darted through trees and manicured foliage, away from the trails, burrowing deep into the cluttered garden held captive in high, ivory-painted walls. She stilled, coming to an abrupt pause and choked, sucking in wells of breath as she turned her head to the side, listening to the lulling breeze that crept around, attempting to cool the still clinging heat from the earlier day that sweltered. Wait, she told herself, her thoughts even hard to understand in the painful cramps in her legs and lungs.
Silence.
The hushed drumming of foot-pads echoed in the distance, sounding like fingertips tapping a beat onto a silk pillow. Run, her mind screamed but she stayed still and forced her eyes closed. Listen, she told herself as she raised her trembling hands outwards and lowered to a crouch, hiding within a clutch of flowering bushes. She felt the breeze touch her skin, prickling the flesh alive as the air suddenly chilled and her fingers outstretched to tentatively grasp the earth beneath her.
The gardens dimmed with the light of the silver moon paling and fading as a graying twilight took over in the matter of a breath. Some manner of moist, faint smoke began to form, creeping from within the green depths of the trees to thicken along the narrow, marble-floored paths. The sound of steps stopped in the distance and began again in opposite directions from one another. The little girl waited, her eyes held closed and her breath slowing, coming in softer gulps as she listened intently.
Help me, she whispered mutely to the brush as she opened her eyes and looked down at a small ishra flower that surprisingly lifted its four-petals to face her. A shiver ran down the purple flower’s dark green stalk and a ripple of movement shifted abruptly through the garden as trees and flowers came alive, blossoms opening and tendrils, roots and vines unfurling, stretching across the paths, seeking those that searched. With a faint rustle of her amber-colored silk shift, the little girl rose halfway from her crouch and peered through the topmost branches of a bush to see the distant trail as a nearby crash sounded through the growth.
One of the black-clad men had fallen. She could make out a vague figure, his form veiled in the thickening, moist air. His body writhed soundlessly as something from the ground seemed to attack him. The little girl lowered, ducking down to the ground as she looked quickly to the flower beside her. Its pollen-filled center quaked briefly as it shook itself off, sending a scented plume into a tiny space of air about it. She watched, waiting and began to move into the brush on hands and knees in the direction the ishra’s face turned.
The wind blew down and through the garden, filling it with a chilling, hammering roar as the child moved slow and carefully across the ground. A myriad of roots shifted, curling back within the soil as she passed, closing in behind her. Another crash sounded in the distance, a faint cry cut off short following it.
Pausing, the girl looked up through the clinging, humid air that remained thick and dark and came to her feet. How many was there, she thought and stood still. She squinted her eyes and balled her dirty hands into fists as she tried to remember. All she could recall was gloved hands slipping between the curtains of her bed, reaching for her in the dark. There had been no warning, no sound, but strangely the child could recall the strong scent of her mother, clove and a mixture of laok and jasmine powder, on the figures who attempted to wrestle her out of her bedding. She had escaped, squirming between hands and arms and bolted for the door. How she’d managed to outrun them, she couldn’t understand. Nothing made sense.
Silence stretched and she waited, listening. On the southern end of the garden she heard the sound of the gate’s heavy locks and moved suddenly, without thought, towards it in careless strides through the brush. Pushing desperately once more at the garden, the little girl began running through its trees and brush, the wind roaring in her ears as the fog began to darken the wooded area into a near blackness.
Through blackened trunks and grey-looking foliage, a shaft of silver shown through the misty veil. It pooled over a white-stoned trail through the branches of sagging wylrith tree and deepened the darkness that hung like a void in the opening of a vine-covered stone alcove. Sucking in sharp breaths that stung, the child darted towards the light, her eyes going wide as she fought for words to shout out in the gate’s direction.
Run! Run! Run!
Stop!
She did, coming to a stumbling halt just a cord within the shaft of moonlight and stared, breathing quick and heavily as she dug a hand into the pain in one side. Her eyes darted across the path as she stood between the squirming roots of the tree, its limbs creaking and swaying, brushing and reaching to touch her, as if to draw her back into the gardens. She looked beyond the light to the blackness of the alcove and squinted at a faint, silent motion.
A pale hand reached out of the dark alcove, stark against a black sleeve and held a round, sugary cookie with in its long, spindly fingers. With a flickering gesture the shadowy figure beckoned the little girl closer. She stood still for a stretching moment before instinctively sliding one barefoot behind her into the brush.
‘Storia Dasari,” said the voice, feminine and familiar to the little girl.
Momma, thought the little girl and she moved forward as the wind screamed and the trees thrashed behind in silent pleading. She stepped through the pooling light of Lirathu and extended her tiny hand to the cookie as she stared at the darkness within the alcove.
A pair of cold silver-flecked, black eyes flashed within the shadows and met Storia’s brown eyes. As she took the cookie in her hand the hand of the figures withdrew into the black and suddenly the thought took hold in her mine: Those are not momma’s eyes.
A whisper of leather.
A flash of a shimmering blade.
Silence and stillness suddenly embraced the gardens for a long moment. Brown eyes searched the darkness of the alcove, wide and confused. The cookie slipped through her fingers and fell, breaking apart on the ground. She fell, the shift of color and light flashing around her as the moon shone above, filling her eyes with white. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, all at once she felt numb and cold, heavy and lost. Momma, she asked Lirathu as the moon shown clear above. Momma why, she asked again, as the scent of her mother filled her nose, coated her tongue and filled her thoughts with the woman’s face. Everything began to fade, slip into the white that hung above.
Storia lay dying, blood pooling beneath her, glittering like liquid rubies lit by fire. The red ebbed further outward, forming a halo around her amber-colored curls as she continued staring up into the silver moonlight. The shadowy figured stepped forward from within the alcove, wiping his stained blade upon a white silk handkerchief.
“It is done,” said the black-clad woman as she turned her face to the side, casting a sidewards glance into the deeper black of the alcove.
Alithia Dasari melted out of the darkness of the alcove. She was not a tall woman, in particular, and she had dark red hair that fell in a straight, shimmering curtain to her lean hips. Her face was pale, with a touch of perpetually ruddy cheeks, and her eyes were the color of deep, blackened gold. She lowered her eyes to the dying child and held them there for a moment, indifference showing clear before she raised her attention to the black-clad woman.
“Do not state the obvious, dancer,” the Chosen Lady said as she turned gracefully from the alcove and moved down the path. She paused with deliberate ease and drew her eyes over the shoulder of her emerald-silk gown as she added with a neutral tone. “Remove it from my estate.”
Without another look to the crumpled child on the ground, Alithia returned to her smooth stride and faded into the distance down the path.
The black-clad woman looked down at the child, watched as the glassy look overtook her wide, confused eyes. The woman knelt down, taking up Storia’s pale, limp hand in her own and pressed her lips to the child’s knuckles. She watched.
Storia turned her eyes slowly to the woman’s, searching her silver-flecked, black eyes. She could not speak but she looked at the woman, asking why silently as her fingers twitched within the woman’s. Her fingers tightened around Storia’s in turn and she nodded tightly.
“You are what you are, little one. You are an abomination. I am a dancer. For you, I exist. For me, my blades exist. Do you understand?”
The little girl could only blink, tears welling in her eyes as she stared at the woman.
“Look to Lirathu, little one, She will guide you. Mercy is Hers. Go to Her,” said the black-clad woman as she clutched the child’s fingers in one hand and watched, waiting.
Storia turned her eyes to the moonlight, staring as the sight faded, glazing over until nothing remained but empty flesh.
“She loved you, this is why,” whispered the woman as she rose, letting the dead child’s hand fall through her fingers to hit the ground with a faint thud.
The black-clad woman removed her cloak with a single flick of a slender hand, exposing a pale tattoo of Lirathu on the inside of her wrist, and deftly covered and rolled the child within it, concealing every inch of Storia’s body. Settling the limp form between her arms, the dancer moved, silently and in steps down the trail that seemed more fit to the slow rhythm of a bard’s song. A bloody outline of a child’s upper body and haloed head painted the top of the alabaster flagstones of the pathway, lit brightly by Lirathu through the sheer veil of the clinging fog.
The chiming click-clack of sandals, the rhythmic wheezing of tired, desperate lungs, and the constant shifting of heavy fabric about flailing limbs echoed through the long, marble-floored halls.
Run! Run! Run!
The little girl, her night-clothes still...
Continue Reading...Krath's Touch by Bebop
Added on Dec 22, 2006A Krathi magicker is endowed with Suk-Krath's power for the first time much to her own surprise.
Loni's eye's scoured the arid, glistening horizon for a long moment as a tiny bead of sweat fell from her brow and a vein of water slid from her skin. With a crunch of her boots she crouched down, extending a hand to steady herself against the grainy mixture of salt and sand that blanketed the land here. As the sun began to peak up over the horizon, the slightest hint of it's face sent Suk-Krath's bold beams of light shooting through the sky and over everything else. Loni had been out scavenging the sand for lumps of salt large enough to sell, a tedious but worthwhile task for a lonely half breed of the commoner's quarter. As one hour turned into two the form of the burning sphere of Suk-Krath in the sky continued its daily path, floating with ease higher into the heavens. Intent on the glistening crystals and the coarsely woven salt sack slumped over the sand next to her, Loni was unaware of the tall insectiod that had spotted her over the flat horizon and was fast approaching each of it's several legs pulling over the sand in synchronized time.
Hearing the sound of sand crunching rapidly in protest under the many, moving legs of the towering insect Loni cringed flinging herself back to peer up at the scrab with quickly widening eyes. It's mandibles clacking and rubbing against one another eagerly the beast clacked one clawed pincer extending it towards the scrawny, auburn-maned young woman. Stung by the paralyzation of dread she could do nothing but fling her sun-baked, slim arms over her face expecting the inevitable. Blinking she jolted to hear what sounded like the abrupt roar of a bond fire as the musky smell of smoke wafted to her nose in all of what could not have been more than an instant. With a guttural shriek of surprise the stunned insect swept at the air with it's claws as the girl rolled over in time to see the beast turning it's knobby legs to carry it away in bewilderment. Squinting as the creature departed she noticed smoke trailing from the scrab's, what now appeared singed, chitin in-casing.
What had just happened? Shaking and still sprawled on her back, Loni's emerald eyes darted left and right trying to locate the source of the flames before she scurried to her feet. Standing a long moment as the pace of her heartbeat gradually beginning to thump back to regularity, the girl smeared a hand over her face and she took a shaky breath. She rested one hand on her hip and dropped the other to her side, pressing her lips together as she realized she should get her salt sack and leave. She should leave now! But then, there was the smell of burning again, black smoke wafted to her nose and Loni's brow furrowed upward as the sound of a crackling fire floated to her ears akin to the smell. Her eyes followed the tendrils of smoke downward. Was the flame at her feet? Had someone shot a low flying flaming arrow? But in a moment of horrifying revelation her emerald eyes dropped to her hand and caught the flashing and dancing of the flames in their depths. Her hand was burning.
Shaking, she slowly and feebly began to close her fist, mouth dropping open with a mortified squeak that barely escaped the back of her throat. Struggling mentally to grasp what had happened, and why she could not feel the flames her fingers curled. With the tightening of her hand just as a candle is snuffed the flames evaporated leaving only a trail of smoke and Loni's heart racing once more. Swooning, Loni grabbed her head beginning to stumble towards the ivory salt road that would ultimately guide her to the Black City of Allanak. The sun seared her eyes, her throat was parched. She reached out for something to stable her quivering hand but there was nothing and as she stumbled forward, her legs gave out. She groaned in pain and exhaustion as her face met the hot sand and the heat began to envelope her like boiling water. Collapsing over the sand Loni wandered if she was suffering from Krath's Touch. The scrab. The fire. Everything had been an illusion. It must have been ... what were they called? A mirage. Yes a mirage. It must have been. If not that would mean that she was....
She gasped as every drop of moisture was sucked quickly from her mouth and throat. And then everything went black.
When Loni awoke she was standing naked and deep inside what looked like a hollow mountain. A perfectly round, flat of stone was positioned under her feet and beyond that what looked like thick, bubbling liquid flame boiled and popped around her. Something had sunk in now, and she was not afraid as the magma crept up over the small area of land that was her perch and began to form around her skin. She accepted it feeling neither cold nor hot but warm and soothed. The magma bubbled and oozed over her bare, thin frame she closed her eyes feeling the serene heat of the thriving liquid. Her arms lifted, her eyes closed, her mouth opened and as the magma sunk into her mouth and ears she could feel the flame begin to pump through her veins. It was empowering her, it was speaking to her, whispering riddles in words that she had never heard before but that she would never forget. The words came in song now as each throbbing of her heart circulated the energy of the Sun but just as the melody came to the loudest most melodic point Loni's eyes opened wide.
Her face was pressed against a cool bed of coarse salt and the sky had turned from crimson to black ink, it's infinite expanse absent of the radiance of Suk-Krath. Taking a deep breath Loni rose to her feet and reached up gently smoothing her hands over her sandcloth garb and dusting crusted sand from the side of her face that had used the earth as a pillow. Looking nothing short of taken aback, Loni stared off into the sky her thoughts only mildly interrupted by the soft lull of the occasional wind, relieving the land of the intense heat that Suk-Krath spared it only at night. Running a hand through her hair her ajar mouth slowly squirmed into a smile and then laughter spilled from her lips. Joyful laughter as a rise of adrenaline flexed through her veins as she began to realize the new powers that she now enjoyed. Howling in the excitement of her ecstasy Loni rose her hands over her head shooting out gusts of flames and casting shapes around her in trails of amber light in an improvised dance of elation. No longer a helpless breed Loni, was now a Krathi.
Loni's eye's scoured the arid, glistening horizon for a long moment as a tiny bead of sweat fell from her brow and a vein of water slid from her skin. With a crunch of her boots she crouched down, extending a hand to steady herself against the grainy mixture of salt and sand that blanketed the...
Continue Reading...A lost warrior: Part I by Kelen
Added on Sep 26, 2006A Tuluki warrior is lost by the deaths of those he cares for, and unleashes his rage in a clash on the field of battle in the red desert.
A lost warrior
“Khalise…” I said softly. Why? Why did she come out here before me? I told her it was not her place…And she left without me knowing. So I of course followed, too late.
After another moment, I shook my head, turning from the catwalk, and slowly, I walked back down into our camp. I passed the entrance to the mine itself, striding through row after row of tents and heading for the large, bahamet-shelled wagon up against the western cliff wall.
Laraef said we were going tonight…and I will make those bastards pay for killing the only thing I had ever loved in this world besides my home. I knew that their deaths wouldn’t numb the pain, but it certainly would ease my mind, knowing that I tried to avenge her.
I rested a hand on my sword hilt, striding up the boarding ramp, dipping my head to a few Jihaen and Lirathan robed templars as I passed. The group was lined up ahead of me, the Faithful Lady Felysia and Faithful Lord Durathar were here already. I stopped at the end of the line, next to Larke. He, of course, gave me his cool gaze, which I was more than tired of. What else I had to do to convince him I wasn’t a spy was beyond me. I had slain the wind beast Dran, and yet he still did not trust me.
“The objective is to destroy their wagon. Sergeant, you will lead the men in this mission.” Felysia said, nodding faintly to Laraef.
Laraef nodded and scowled, pulling on an enemy’s uniform. I took off my sunburst-crested helm, and pulled on one of the Tor’s helmets, and a jade saber’s cloak. The rest of our group followed Laraef’s lead, hastily changing their uniforms.
“You look like a scorpion in that.” Larke said to Laraef, clearly amused. Laraef did not share his amusement and muttered quietly.
“We will accompany you half-way, you are to take two jars of oil, and a torch. Do not engage –anyone-, the objective is the wagon. Ride in, and get out. We must move with haste, and do this before dawn.” Durathar said.
I nodded once, kneeling down to grab two jars of a murky black liquid. I rose to my feet slowly, turning to follow Laraef back down the boarding ramp. We entered into the makeshift stockade nestled against the canyon wall, and each grabbed one of the hundreds of kanks available, and walked back into the main camp.
Thankfully, the fools made their camp close to ours after moving it. It was dangerously close, close enough that we stopped scouting out of our north gate. And this, this was my chance. I had avenged Curachek by killing the whiran, and now Khalise filled my mind…
“Kel.” Laraef said quietly. I nodded to him, noticing I was the only one still not mounted. I clambered onto my kank’s back carefully, and rode up to his side. Faithful Lord Durathar was mounted on his horse, and Faithful Lady Felysia unlocked the northern gate. In a matter of moments, our band and over four-hundred soldiers were on the move.
We emerged from our camp, into the northern ravine. The canyon split north and west. The northern path, I knew, went on some ways, and eventually opened up into the scrublands, and led home to the Ivory. The western path, our path, had a much darker end. I looked over my shoulder as the gates slowly closed, and caught a last glimpse of over two-thousand Tuluki soldiers, and then turned my attention back to the matter at hand.
We rode through the canyon easily, it turned south for a ways, and then west again. We rode through the darkness for what seemed an eternity, until finally the narrow canyon opened up in all directions, and Durathar raised a fist, halting the unit.
“Sergeant, you know where the enemy camp is, correct? The dune is west and south of here. Be swift. Move unseen. And in his name go now, before dawn.” He said, nodding once.
“Yes, Faithful Lord,” Laraef said, turning about. Myself, Larke, and a few other riders spurred up behind him, moving quickly in the lightening darkness. We turned south after a short distance, and halted once we rounded the cliff wall.
A sprawling camp, displaying jade and black banners sat to our east, and we would have been spotted if not for the darkness. A few hundred soldiers were visible, as well as the wagon, but we all knew there were more. We raised our hoods, and Laraef took a deep breath.
“Stay close…Be quick…” he said, spurring his kank off suddenly. We all rode close to him, and I took a deep breath as we rode past the first enemy sentry without trouble. Then, as if we were cursed, light broke over the cliff walls, its sudden brightness catching me off guard. One of my jars slipped and crashed to the ground, and Laraef hurled his first at the wagon.
“Attack! Attack!” I heard an Allanaki officer near me shouting as he charged at Laraef. I saw Larke throw a jar, and I launched mine at the wagon with all my might, and hurled my torch with a shout.
I turned my kank around, slashing a soldier near me with my sword as he reached out for me. I glanced over my shoulder, and saw Laraef cut a Borsail regular open before their whole unit and a brutish mul dragged him off his mount.
The rest of my party rode past me, and I finally came to, realizing my danger as I spurred my kank off.
"Laraef…Not you too…How many must I lose to this war…?" I thought, finally catching up with our group, rounding the canyon again. After a short time and a hard ride, we reached our force again, and I slumped forward on my mount for a moment, catching my breath.
Durathar straightened up expectantly, glancing from me to Larke.
“Well?” I heard him say curiously. I shook my head, and Larke spit on the ground.
“We did it, Faithful Lord, but…Laraef…” He said after a moment. I sighed, glancing back west, scanning the horizon for signs of pursuit. Durathar pressed us quickly.
“But the wagon, did any of you see it catch? Was it destroyed?” He asked hopefully. I shook my head quietly.
“I cannot be certain Faithful Lord…I know my torch hit the wagon, but I was not around long enough to see it ignite…” I said quietly. Durathar sighed, and nodded after a moment. I heard one of the Tuluki soldiers shout, and point west frantically. I turned my gaze in the direction he was pointing, and drew my sword.
Not far off on the horizon, a lone templar rode with a large force marching down the canyon behind him. They were coming straight for us. Durathar raised his fist, and pointed two fingers north, and half of our force moved in that direction almost instantly. I rolled my shoulders against the shield I had strapped on my back, and tugged the reigns lightly to ease my restless kank.
This could be it…I could be with you soon Khalise…But I still have work to do here…I will show these bastards my fury…and they will feel the wrath of our army…
“Make ready! We meet them!” Durathar shouted as the enemy force drew dangerously close. The enemy commander dropped back into his force for protection. I followed him with my gaze, scowling. He was tall, with orange-tinted skin, and I would not forget it on the field.
“Charge!” I heard the orange-skinned templar shout from the west, as the enemy force shouted and rushed forward. Durathar actually smiled, and spurred his mount west as well.
“Forward!!” Durathar yelled, and I waited for the vanguard to meet the enemy force. Our lines crashed into the Allanaki forces, a brilliant clash of black and white. I spurred my kank forward, growling.
“Leave them in awe of our forces!” I shouted, my gaze set on the orange-skinned templar. I glanced over for a brief moment, and saw Larke riding close behind me, his gaze set on something else, and I finally saw it: the enemy officer that had helped bring Laraef down.
I arced my sword down, cutting a woman's face open as I rode through the enemy line, and slashed my blade back up, shouting fiercely as another enemy fell back with a bloody scream.
The enemy templar saw me, and growled, muttering as he raised his hands. I gritted my teeth, and swung my sword down at his neck when I flew past, nearly cleaving his head off. Larke dropped back, and chased down the already fleeing enemy officer. I circled my kank around, just in time to see the enemy templar fall to the ground with his mortal wound.
“I have slain the enemy commander!” I shouted as I raised my wyvern-hilted sword high into the air.
My short attention on the templar gave an enemy soldier time to spear my mount, and sent my flying forward off it. I broke into a roll, and rose to my feet, grasping my sword in both hands. I was behind enemy lines, but luckily most soldiers were fleeing, or they were focused on our lines, and not me.
The enemy soldier that speared my kank charged up behind me, spear lowered to impale me. I side-stepped, hacking off the tip of the spear and then the soldiers arm. I twirled around, just in time to parry a blow from a charging soldier. He grunted in surprise at my reflex, and drew a small dagger from his belt as he slashed in at me again.
I rolled my left shoulder a bit, loosening my shield straps slowly but surely. He lunged in at me, far too aggressively. I slide my blade right up between both of his, cutting his chest open, and then followed with a brutal downward slash, digging my blade deep into his shoulder as he fell.
I had perhaps ten seconds, just enough to swing my left arm free of the shield strap and reach back to grab it. An arrow flew into it with a dull *thunk* soon after, and another arrow pierced my shoulder.
Ah…No…No…Not yet…You must wait for me longer Khalise…
I staggered back, slouching my shoulders down. A searing pain rushed through my body as I reached up, jerking the arrow free of my shoulder. I saw the enemy lines breaking, and they all rushed past me, fleeing for their lives.
I growled, ignoring the pain, and slammed my shield into a soldier, knocking him on his back as I followed with a downward slash. His legs jolted at the force of my blow, and he died instantly. I glanced over, and saw Larke cut down the enemy officer as he rode past.
The enemy cried out as they saw their commander fallen behind them, and ran back horrified, but not one of them escaped. The many that made it past me were chased down by our soldiers, and given a swift end. I dropped to one knee for a moment, breathing heavily, staring at the faces of the fallen. So many were young, even younger than me, and I was twenty-five. I stood up, a sickening feeling overwhelming my stomach as I took both of the rings off the enemy commander. I clambered onto the templar’s kank, mine was dead by now, and I rode back towards our force.
“Victory!” I heard shouted across the field. Surprisingly few of our soldiers had fallen in the battle, and I learned quickly that the other half of our force had circled the canyon, and come upon them from the north while I was behind enemy lines.
“Let us make haste, fall back, we return!” Durathar shouted after a few moments, turning his kank back east. I slid the templar’s ring on, following closely behind Durathar, our tired army trailing us. We made our way back through the canyon, where we found our camp gates open, and we rode in, greeted by cheers from the main force.
Victory…Let them enjoy it. It is a hollow victory for me…Khalise, if you could ever be avenged. Even if I killed every witch…and every soldier…it would not be enough to make them pay…
Our force dispersed. II didn’t hear what Durathar had said. But, I did catch that we were dismissed.
I put my mount in the stockade, and moved back over to the wagon, I was tired, exhausted. But it was not time to rest. Not yet. I walked up the boarding ramp slowly, my dark bangs clouding my vision. I dipped my head carelessly to a few templars as I entered our wagon, making my way past some storage crates to the bench where Felysia and Durathar sat.
Felysia turned her gaze to me as I kneeled down, presenting the witches ring. Durathar studied me quietly, and Felysia glanced down to the other ring on my finger.
“Faithful Lady…The enemy commanders ring…I wear his other one. I had thought to keep it to remember this day.”
Felysia took the ring I presented her with a nod, and spoke some words in an unfamiliar tongue they spoke commonly only to each other.
Durathar nodded, and turned his gaze to me, offering a smile.
“You have made me pleased that I chose to let you join the legions, Kelmandos.” Durathar said quietly. I bowed my head, still kneeling down.
“And for slaying the witch, you may keep the ring, Private.” Felysia said with a nod. I rose after a moment, nodding once.
“I am honored. Your graciousness knows no bounds, and I will continue to serve to my full ability.” I said quietly.
First the Tor lord’s armor…The Borsail leader’s sword…Now a witch’s ring. Certainly, though I may have failed my love, I have not failed my home.
I turned after the Faithful both nodded, and turned my sapphire gaze to the floor as I walked out of the wagon tiredly. I spotted Zeiri on my way out, and waved shortly, barely able to move my arm.
He was young…far too young…But his heart is strong…He may make it through this. He nodded to me, and I kneeled down slowly, crawling into a vacant tent among the hundreds of others.
Laraef…You of all people did not deserve to fall yet. Curachek…Khalise…This war is taking its toll on me…What will I do when I return home to nothing...?
A lost warrior
stood in silence atop the catwalk, staring north into the canyon. The
sun slowly set, and my mind was clouded. I didn’t understand.
“Khalise…”
I said softly. Why? Why did she come out here before...
Continue Reading...An Artist's Precision by Cogato
Added on Sep 7, 2006A northern professional of the art of assassination performs an act in Allanak.
The small room with its blank stone walls seemed a comfort as he sat there quietly on the wooden stool. In his right hand a small obsidian blade was being slowly sharpened by a square piece of dull-grey granite in his left. Soon it would join the other four already snugly secured in the back lining of his pouched belt. As his hands worked his mind was elsewhere, going over the scenario that he had already spent the past three weeks planning to the most miniscule detail. But, with the planning now complete and the dark of night fast approaching the time for preparation was upon him. He liked these moments most of all, like the quiet rehearsal of a bard before singing for his Lord.
The nervousness always knotted up his stomach and the anticipation he fought down to keep his calm composure as well as his state of mind brought a smile to his face. Even after all of these years it made him feel like a child again, huddled under a cart after nabbing a piece of fruit from Old Hop’s stand in the market and just waiting for the peg-legged codger to finally catch him one day.
That thought brought him out of his memories for a moment to peer down towards the nub where his right pinky finger used to be. After snatching up a ripe purple belshun fruit from Hop’s stand as a boy he darted into the crowd with his loot in hand as he always did. Watching over a shoulder to see the old haggard gimp fading in the distance and screaming in rage, as a carefree boy he just smiled with abandon. An expression which quickly faded as he suddenly found himself on his rump after thumping heavily right into an oncoming solider of the city. Before he could find his feet to flee from this new threat he was snatched up by his hair and he knew without a doubt there was no breaking free from the hard-faced soldier’s stone grip. As disgruntled as ever Old Hop finally caught up to him and after much debate the wiry old merchant convinced the soldier that a finger and not a whole hand would do for this petty crime, IF the boy would swear to never come near his stand again. Of course he swore with as much sincerity as a young terrified boy could muster, and when his finger was removed with a swift swipe of the soldier’s blade he was truly thankful to the old peg-legged merchant and he never stole from Hop again. It was likely the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.
The granite came down the length of the small blade once more and after checking that its throwing-balance still held true it was tucked into the back lining of his belt with the others. He leaned down towards a sandcloth sack between his feet and came back up with a bundle of beige linen and a small clay bottle. After spreading the cloak out on the stone floor in front of himself he uncorked the bottle and brought it to his nose. The strong sweet smell of ginka wine filled his senses and he had to admit the fellow had good taste. With a tilt of his wrist he poured the wine in equal amounts over as much of the cloak on the floor as it would cover then bundled it up once more and stuck it back into the sack along with the empty bottle. Now from the sack he produced a coil of light-colored hemp rope and a small off-yellow spiraling spike of bone. Sitting these two items aside he produced a small square packet of rough paper and reached for a large clay bowl on the table next him and a soapstone jug. Slowly he sprinkled the contents of the packet into the bowl, a fine black powder, then poured the water from the soapstone jug in as well. With his right hand he mixed the contents until the water in the bowl had taken the color of the powder and into this now black water he dropped the coil of rope and the small spiraling spike of bone. He would let that sit for a while to make sure the dark stain held on the items.
With night still a few hours off he was anxious and busied himself with checking that his personal tools were all in order for the third time in the past hour. A pair of obsidian daggers, one on each hip and each sporting a barbed tip that held a rather nasty bite lent to him by a red-spotted leaf he favored as his taint of choice. A small pouch hanging from his belt held the tiny glass vial he had waited weeks to attain from a contact that took even longer to find. It would prove crucial to his plan and he held it up to the light to check its contents yet again before tucking it away. A pair of gloves adorned with the hooked claws of an anakore for climbing were in a pocket on his dark-colored cloak along with a tiny loreshi whistle and a couple of blue wax candles. A strap-sheathe on his right ankle held a bone blade with a more potent poison which could induce severe vomiting and certain painful death almost instantly. He always carried this tool just incase things went wrong and for this reason he hoped he would never need it.
He leaned over and reached into the black water in the bowl to produce the now darkly stained coil of rope and the small spiraling spike of bone. He tucked the coil of still damp rope into the pocket on his cloak and then held up the spike to examine it. It was crafted well if he did say so himself and with the eye in its blunt end it resembled a thick twisted needle. He tucked it into the pouch on his hip along with the vial then turned towards the door, taking the sack on the floor and jerking up his hood before exiting.
Closing the door at his back the Gaj tavern was already full of folk and it was still an hour or so until night fall. He smirked, leave it to the southern folk to find any time suitable for drinking rather than working. He made his way out from behind the bar with a single nod of appreciation from within his hood towards the bartender for the use of the back room. The greasy pot-bellied man didn’t seem to notice the gesture as he wiped out a stone mug with a grimy cloth. With his head held low he made his way past a scantly-clad woman offering her “wares” to a brown-clad mercenary at the bar and moved steadily towards the doorway and the street beyond.
Exiting the tavern he found a street just as crowded as the tavern its self. All about him traders moved down the path pushing worn carts or pulling along kanks loaded down with obsidian slag. A small unit of soldiers moved further away from him down the path towards the gates to the west and a flat-bed wagon was being pulled past them by an inix that was in turn being led by a spindly woman. Dust filled the air with all of the foot traffic and he quickly moved from the entrance to the tavern to be on his way. It didn’t take him long to find himself outside of the three-story mud-brick building where he would be performing tonight. His stage was on the third floor and he had already been up to inspect it earlier in the week while he was preparing for his act.
Moving into the narrow alley at the side of the building he made his way from the busy street into the more shaded corridor. In the north when the wind was right you might catch a cool breeze coming off of the forest trees, in the south the wind was hot no matter where it came from, he hated performing in Allanak. Making his way through the narrow passage he then found himself at the back of the building in a wider more spacious cross-section where three of the alleys came together. With night approaching quickly no one spent anymore time in these alleys than they had to as they could be a little less than safe depending on who you happened to bump into.
After peering down the corridors once more to make sure they were empty he reached into the pocket in his cloak and pulled on his anakore-claw gloves quickly. They were ideal for gripping the crevices in mud-brick walls. Just as he had earlier in the week he easily slipped up the wall towards a small window on the third floor and slipped inside. He stuck his head out once more to make sure he hadn’t been watched in the moment it had taken him to scale the wall, satisfied he turned to look at his stage.
It was a two room apartment, the room he now stood in being the larger of the two. A baobab bed sat in the corner with a soft mattress laden in escru wool, a testament to the wealth of the occupant. Further displaying their wealth were a pair of dark-leather couches centered around a glass-topped green-marble table in the middle of the room. What concerned him most of all though was a small wooden chest of drawers next to the bed. He moved across the room and knelt down to open the bottom drawer where he found a large clay bottle. He uncorked the bottle and out drifted the familiar aroma of ginka wine. Reaching into the pouch on his hip he delicately pulled out the small glass vial and removed its wax stopper before carefully pouring the grayish liquid into the bottle of wine. He shook it roughly a few times after re-corking it before returning it to the drawer.
Hastily he then turned towards the door that led to the smaller chamber and opened it sticking his head out to peer around the scantly furnished guard quarters. The small room had one cot against the wall and a footlocker next to it. With all of his wealth the man he was performing for only provided his trusted companion with this. A frown came to his calm face as he quietly closed the door and took a knee reaching into the pocket on the inside of his cloak to take out the coil of rope and the small spiraling spike of bone. The door to the room opened inwards and he had made note of this when he was here earlier in the week. He decided then that this trick would be his best course of action. Two inches from the floor he slowly began to screw the spiraling spike of bone into the wall on the left side of the door. Once screwed all the way in so that only the eye of the dark spike protruded from the wall he unrolled the coil of hemp rope a bit and ran the free end through the eye. With a simple bone tack he nailed this end of the rope at about knee height on the inside face of the door.
Night was fast approaching and he knew from watching his charge constantly for the past week that every Ocandra and Detal he got staggering drunk at the Bard’s Barrel and would soon be falling up the stairs with the aid of his guard-woman. He backed up from the door and moved down the wall towards the bed as he quickly uncoiled the rope step by step, being careful so that the black cord lay perfectly flush with the wall and the floor. He left the end of the rope on the floor about six feet, about the height of the guard, from the doorway then moved to two sconces that held candles on the wall at about chest height. One was next to the doorway and one was by the window he had entered through. The maid-servant had already been in earlier in the day and replaced the spent candles so the occupants of the room would have light for the night. He took the pale ivory-wax candles from the sconces and quickly replaced them with the dark blue candles he had in his cloak.
He took a long moment to peer around the room and double checked the drawer that held the wine, all of his tools, the rope, and door then moved to slide beneath the low bed.
Darkness soon fell outside and the room grew dark, shadows spilled into the room and further concealed him beneath the bed. It wasn’t very long before he heard the familiar sound of drunken laughter coming up the stairwell. That feeling was back in his stomach and a faint smile came to his features which he quickly covered with the stoic expression of a professional. He heard the door to the outer chamber from the stairs of the complex open then close and the laughter and talking subsided a bit. A moment later the door to the room he was in opened, the black rope secured to the bottom of the door stayed low to the floor in the darkness and drug along as the door opened and then closed. The man didn’t seem to notice it in the shadows. In his drunken state the man took a while to strike the blue-wax candle in the sconce and he cursed the maid-servant noisily as he noticed that the hazy light the blue candle gave off kept the room more dark than lit. Under the bed the artist smiled to himself again. With the flickering of the dim candle he could see the drunken man make his way across the room towards the bed, or he could see his feet rather.
After sitting on the bed the man leaned over, as the artist knew he would, and opened the bottom drawer of the small wooden chest. He took out the clay bottle and beneath the bed the artist heard the cork pop free of the container. A moment later he was easing out from under the bed and coming to stand next to the drunken fellow that now lay on the bed next to him. He leaned down over the man to peer into his open eyes and he smiled at the calm breathing he heard, sufficiently paralyzed. The smile faded from his features as he remembered that he would only have the drunk in this state for a short period of time before the poison would wear off. He reached into his pocket and took out the small loreshi whistle as he moved towards the rope on the floor. He held the whistle in one hand and pulled his dagger from his hip before resting on a knee at the wall near the doorway.
A sharp piercing sound cut through the air for a moment then he hastily tucked the whistle away. He took up the free end of the rope in his other hand then leaned into the wall on his shoulder, still on a knee. In just a few seconds the door burst open and a hand wielding a sword entered the room ahead of the guard-woman. She didn’t get far though as she started to charge in while opening the door the other end of the rope was held taught in the artist’s hand this time and an effective trip wire was created in the opening. The guard-woman fell forwards over the dark cord at her knees and he moved to catch her on the tip of his dagger, his other hand now free of the rope he also covered her mouth to cover a scream that would never escape her dieing form. He lowered her gently to the floor and slowly closed the door once more before tucking his dagger back into the sheath on his hip. He smiled to himself as he mused that she would have probably died happier if she knew she had been part of a true artist’s piece of work. Then again, she was just a southern and probably couldn’t appreciate the beauty of it. He shrugged away the thought and moved to the bed where his stiff friend awaited him.
Quickly he removed the man’s beige linen cloak and produced one the same color and cut from the sack that hung from his beltline. It still smelled strongly of the wine he had poured over it earlier in the day and he nodded approvingly. He sat the stiff form of the man up on the bed and quickly wrapped the alcohol scented cloak around his shoulders and brought the hood over his head. He let the man fall gently back on the bed as he quickly moved away to enter the smaller guard quarters. He looked around for a moment and soon found what he was searching for folded up in the footlocker, the guard-woman’s cloak. He took off his own cloak then and left it on the floor, he wouldn’t need it further. Draping the guard-woman’s cloak about himself and raising the hood he moved back into the larger chamber and came to sit next to the man still laying rigidly where he had left him. He reached to lift the man up a bit then draped the paralyzed fellow’s arm over his own shoulder, holding his wrist in his opposite hand. Together they stood, the artist holding him about the waist with his free hand beneath their cloaks then together they moved from the apartment.
The stairs were a bit of a hassle to get down with the full weight of the man to encumber him, but he made it with no less difficulty than if the man was simply too drunk to walk on his own. When the pair moved past the attendant at the front desk the well-groomed man only saw the usual. The Borsail aide was too drunk to walk again, this apparent by the overwhelming smell he wafted, and his guard-woman was helping him out likely to go get more booze.
The street was dark now and the traffic had lessened considerably from what it had been earlier in the day. In a moment a canvas covered wagon came ambling down the path being pulled by a large silvery inix. When the wagon stopped in front of him the artist took a few steps with the aide in tow around to the back of the wagon where a pair of thickly-muscled men were waiting within the canvas. They quickly hoisted the paralyzed man up into the wagon and a large pouch was tossed down to the artist.
One of the men whispered gruffly “Good work, tha’ guard bitch is dead?”. The man standing behind the wagon nodded from within the confines of his cloak. The thickly-muscled man then said in a lower voice “Tha’
The small room with its blank stone walls seemed a comfort as he sat there quietly on the wooden stool. In his right hand a small obsidian blade was being slowly sharpened by a square piece of dull-grey granite in his left. Soon it would join the other four already snugly...
Continue Reading...Kazyn Pays His Debt by Barzalene
Added on Sep 7, 2006Fictional account of the liberation of Tuluk centered around in-game events and pcs.
In the final days of the Rebellion there was a change in mood - a pervasive feeling as if the men and woman who rose to lead gave off more heat, more energy. Chakal was bigger than his shadow in ways Einat couldn't describe. Einat worshipped Chakal. She adored him in the way that the bland and ordinary love those who are the special ones, in the quiet unseen way that the dull and unbeautiful love the polished gems who outshine them. In those final years of the occupation, she rode beside him, slept beside him, ate beside him and fought beside him, all the while waiting for him to notice her for more than just a strong bow arm. She waited for him to see the beauty in her no one else saw, because he was Chakal, and he was capable of everything. She yearned to be not one more soldier serving under him, but the lover wrapped around him, fingers entwined in his brown hair, making his every exhaled breath her own.
Einat's hate for Kazyn was not as spectacular as the way she loved, but it was keen and honed. In the year after his betrayal she would claim she had always suspected him. She hated his flat southern voice, the way he looked and even smelled Naki. The truth is, she did not suspect him, and her enmity was earned not by where he came from but where he was going. How could it be Kazyn to whom Chakal revealed his fears and hopes and plans? How did Kazyn earn the smiles and small off-hand moments of humor that Einat coveted? Kazyn was not even Chakal's lover, worse, he was Chakal's friend.
Kazyn had come from the Black City where he'd killed one of their robed witches, an event he'd offered up as proof of his dedication to the Ivory when he'd arrived. One day Kazyn left camp and all that remained of him were the rumors. Einat heard stories- the Faithful Lady came to Chakal. He was warned. The Faithful knew what Kazyn was. They knew that Kazyn had told the red witch Dora of every plan he knew, every name, every description. The Templar said he wore the jade cross on his black officer's cloak. Chakal listened to the Faithful Lady, but he loved Kazyn and he could not really believe. Every day he he looked off to the south as if waiting for Kazyn to return with information, or an excuse or any justification.
Einat's dreams were filled with Chakal, but her days were not. Her days she spent hunting for food, and when she'd meet other hunters talking with them about the stories she'd heard, of the Tuluk that had been taken from them, and the Tuluk that would be again. She made friends, and acquaintances, sharing her food, her spice, her wine, and she shared stories, always the stories. Until the day for battle came.
The rebels assembled in the forest, a guide led the way to Torgan's camp. Faithful Ladies and Lords came from their excile. Mutants, an army of mutants were there. The Rebels came, one cell after another. Even a contingent from Red Storm. Everyone who hated the Nakis and would make a stand were there. What most struck Einat was how the camp smelled: the sun on the sands - hot has it's own smell, dust filled the air, mounts kicked up clouds of it, and the mounts themselves, six legged, four legged and two legged catching the mood from their riders and reeking of excitement and fear. The sweat of leather clad bodies, all of them smoking their warspices, combined like the odor of a kuraci orgy. Once she fastened on her veil, the melange was filtered through the odor of her own breath..
Another curiosity that occurred for her was how in the noise of all those fighters on all those mounts and the commands passed back and forth faded, she only heard the sounds of her own leathers creaking and her own heart beating. The sounds must have been close to deafening, but she barely registered the noises at all.
Chakal, on his kank came alongside her and rode there for a few moments, dropping back from his place beside the assembled Faithful in their red and white robes. Sweat plastered his hair to his brown skin. She glanced so many times at his profile, as he rode beside her, and once for a heart stopping moment their eyes met. The thrill of his absent nod, made her dizzy. His mouth was turned down and sad. He glanced back occasionally. Was he even on that day thinking of Kazyn?
She never had the chance to ask Chakal if he saw Kazyn's hand, in some way, behind the mass of soldiers who met them. It seemed to Einat as if every Naki in the black city must have been sent up for the day. Would they have been as prepared if not for Kazyn? The rebels had known before leaving camp, from the Kuracis, that the Naki's would not be surprised, but she hadn't expected the sheer numbers. Einat wanted to run, but glanced at Chakal, and rode on, holding her bow, waiting for the order.
She was unprepared for the chaos of battle. The rebels were unprepared for route. Outnumbered, greatly and terribly outnumbered they fought on. Dying one by one. It was loud, so loud and The High Precentor Kul's arrival was not heralded by the sound of approaching riders and marchers, or if it was that herald was lost in the din of dying. For Einat, there was no telling if the Nakis were as surprised as she when Kul's army turned the battle, and took control of it. Einat concentrated only on avoiding the swords, trying to strike blows, and ensuring that it was only the enemies she lashed out at with her spear.
If not for Chakal she might have turned an run. She probably wouldn't have, but people like Einat don't credit their bravery, only their fears. She felt what courage she had came from being near him. Loosing volley after volley of arrows, until the battle came too close and she strapped her bow to her back, and drew her spear. Standing beside him she saw the point of the obsidian sword protruding from his back. He fell to his knees, the blade had already been wrested from his body, and his eyes already had begun to glaze.
Einat dropper her spear and knelt to hold his body, still warm enough that she could pretend that it was a lovers embrace. His blood spilled across the sand turning into an awful soup. She sat there, not flinching, holding the man who would never be her lover and rocking him like a baby...until a red and white-veiled figure pulled her away.
In a lull in the fighting she fell in with a regiment of archers. That is how she came to be one of the few humans marching toward Luirs as the Southern brutes were ousted from The Ivory, and the victory Chakal had dreamed of and died for was born. She marched, one foot in front of the next, seeing only the red wet sand, almost black with blood under Chakal's body, rather than the dry red sands beneath her feet, until the army stopped outside the Outpost's gates. All day she spent in the burning sun shooting arrows over the walls until her fingers bled. She had nothing to do directly with Kuraci decision to side with the Tuluk forces, but indirectly? She'd spend her share of time in the outpost, smiling, smoking and always telling her stories. When the gates finally opened she was relieved, but not surprised.
Hate is a lot like love. In a crowded room you can hear your love's voice first. Though the chaos and the mayhem, the crowds she knew Kazyn. Oh, he looked so prosperous, fancy black cloak and that same scarred proud face. Not even the onrush of soldiers boiling from between the opened gates toward their lines could draw her attention from him. She knew him by his posture, and the way he held his head. She drew her bowstring back, and watched the arrow fly. Even the axe planted between her shoulder-blades from an unseen soldier behind her couldn't draw her eyes from Kazyn, and she saw him stumble back as the arrow hit his shoulder, and the last thing she saw was a blade coming down at him from off to his right.In the final days of the Rebellion there was a change in mood - a pervasive feeling as if the men and woman who rose to lead gave off more heat, more energy. Chakal was bigger than his shadow in ways Einat couldn't describe. Einat worshipped Chakal. She adored him in the way that the bland...
Continue Reading...Slavers (pt. 1) by Djarjak
Added on Sep 7, 2006A Northerner relegated to a Borsail slave camp learns where a slave stands and decides subtlety is a better escape than force.
The persistent tugging on his wrists draws Niorejin into consciousness. His mouth feels cottony and a bitter taste prevails. Opening his eyes yields a sharp, head-splitting pain in spite of the relatively dim light in the room. He groans, trying to turn, and he finds himself shackled to a wall. Instinctively, he pulls against them, but they do not yield, and he only succeeds in making the pin-pricks and tingles of his bluing fingertips worse.
“No use in tha’,” a tired-sounding voice to his left says. “Slava’ shackles be da’ bes’ in Zalanthas. Make no mistake, son; you here fer da long ride.”
Turning, Niorejin looks into the bloodshot violet eyes of a grey skinned female mul. Her hairless pate shines with sweat in the light, and he can smell spice on her lips. “Feck,” he says. “Feck!”
Looking around the room reveals two other captives, swaying with the wagon’s motion. His gaze first finds an attractive woman with matted blond hair whose scandalously short garments disallow her from concealing the shame of her state. Niorejin notices a spot on her right inner thigh where the pink flesh is shiny and puckered in the shape of two Wyverns in the midst of a compromising act.
“Yeh. He’s gonna be out fer a while,” the mul says. “Ya got no help here, Tuluki.”
That’s fine, he thinks. I know where I do have friends. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply and tries to achieve the quasi-meditative state required to use The Way. Juiya. Juiya. Where are you, Juiya? Each time, he gets close, but he feels her mind slip away from him. “Krath-damn it!” In his frustration, he cuts his wrist on the bone shackles and some blood runs down his arm.
Footsteps echo outside the door and a figure wearing a hood and a veil branded with the silhouette of a yellow inix opens the door. “Quiet in here, eh? Or we’ll withhold yer water. Hard death dyin’ o water-want, I hear.” The figure drags a bucket from just out of sight and it sloshes, steaming from the floor-boards and evaporating in the heat. The smell of water provokes a visceral response in Niorejin, and he moans in spite of himself. “Good slave. Now be quiet ‘til we get ta camp.”
The light from the windows high above the shackled slaves begins to darken, and the wagon finally stops moving. The near hypnotic rocking has lulled most of the captives into a restless slumber. But, when it stops, the sound of many booted feet jars most of them awake, the well-muscled young man excepted.
The door opens, and six figures dressed in the same, drab hood and veil combinations enter. Each is branded with a different color and a different animal. Niorejin identifies a red kank, a black wyvern, a green erdlu, and a white greth before Red Kank approaches him with a ladle to offer him water. Greedily, he drinks the water, but the taste is bitter and sharp. Poisoned, he thinks, and loses consciousness.
* * *
When he awakes, he and the other slaves lay on rough woven-fiber mats on the floor of a large sandcloth tent. Outside, he hears the voices of many people shouting back and forth, coordinating the movement of slaves.
“… runnah. Make sure he doesna see da sands t’day, eh?”
“Hai-Yet!”
“… worth something if he thinks he has a way with the ladies, put him in with the courtesans.”
“Think we got a fighter? Put him in wi’ da gladiators an….”
“Ni-Yet!”
“Hey, Green Inix, good to see yeh back in da ranks. Lord Borsail chew yeh a new one…”
“…new slaves, an’ bring me dat whore. I want ta try dat one out afore we put her back on da block”
“Hai-Yet!”
The tent flap opens and two figures in veils and hoods duck through, each of them wearing manacles on their belts. One of them is the green inix. The other is a brown kank. Brown Kank’s head swivels around the room, taking in the still-unconscious forms of the mul, the brawny lad, and two newcomers that Niorejin has not yet had time to assess. Pointing, Brown Kank walks to the slave-branded girl; he and Green Inix lift her by both arms, and she hangs limply between them as they exit. Someone on the other side ties the tent flap tightly back in place.
I wonder what they plan to do with me, Niorejin thinks, and he tries the Way once more without results. His head is foggy, maybe a residual effect of the drugs. He sighs and rubs his wrists. A bandage has been wrapped around one of them, dried blood crusted in the interstices. One of the newcomers stirs, groaning and pushing himself onto his elbows. A days old beard grows from his face, scraggly, and he stinks of herbs. A shining pink brand of a wyvern covers one cheek.
As Niorejin watches, the old man stumbles to his feet and starts checking the other unconscious slaves’ clothing and hair. The level of the search strikes him as incredibly personal, but as he watches, he notices the old man stash away a pair of lockpicks, a sandcloth bandage, two leather thongs, an inix-tooth, and three ‘sid. Resourceful. I should have thought of that.
The old man approaches him and Niorejin glares. As though thinking better of it, the old man sits nearby. “I’m Dakk,” the old man says.
Niorejin ignores him and examines the edges of the tent, looking for a loose seam or a way underneath the wall. “Dese tents is mighty tight, I seen. I should know. Been in ‘em enough.” He looks back at the old man who shrugs. “Eh. Do whatever yeh want. But if yeh want escape, yeh’ll hafta talk with Gorm. An dat means yeh have to cooperate wi’ dem an’ be classified first.”
“Who’s Gorm,” Niorejin asks?
“Ah! A Tuluki!” the old man grins, his teeth rotten but not yet missing. “He’s one a de’ water-bearers dat goes between da tents. But he dinna come here. Dey dinna gi’ watah ta here. Dey starve yeh out, see. Figger a man’s more willin’ ta cooperate if’n he’s thirsty, righ’?”
The mul stirs and wakes next, rolling over and sitting up in a quick, smooth motion that belies her combat training. Shortly after, the other stranger wakes. Then the brawny young man groans, clutching his head.
“And how is it you know all this?”
“Eh. I been here. Keep escapin’. Almost got free. Got all’n da way t’oasis. Dem kank-herders turned me in, though. Figgered ‘twas better’n havin’ slavers pissed at em I reckon. Pah. Dey threatened ta hobble me if I run again. Four times now, an’ dey got me every time.”
The other newcomer crawls over to the brawny young man and tears some strips off his tunic. “Cover yer head. Yer water-wantin’,” Drakk tells the brawny one as the newcomer offers him the strips of cloth.
“That’s mighty kind of you,” Niorejin tells them with a smirk. “I figured Southern Barbarians would kill each other as soon as help them.”
The newcomer looks at Niorejin and makes a rude gesture. “He’s mute,” Drakk says. “Rumor has it he’s one o’ da best bards in all da South. Name’s Halmoc. Templar cut his tongue out when he wrote a song he din’t like too much. Guess he’s still pretty good wi’ his instrument’s. Lark, an’ it wo a great song, too. ‘An’ he always answered yes… An they put him with a escru… An’ he always answered yes!’” With a cackle, the old man slaps his knee, but the expression on mute Halmoc’s face is pure rage and frustration.
They’re southern barbarians, alright. But they probably hate the south as much as I do, Niorejin realizes. He shakes his head, and the brawny young man speaks, “Sorry. I tried ta help you all. I saw dey had slaves in da wagon, I tried ta break you out, but dere were too many of ‘em.”
“Break us out,” the mul asks? “What for? What’n da seven sands’re we s’posed ta do in da middle o’ da feckin’ desert if’n ya’d breaked us out?”
“I dunno,” the young man stammers. “I just thought…”
“Neh. Ya dinna. If ya’d thought, yeh wouldna been here,” the mul says. “If’n yeh know what’s best fer all o’ us, ye’ll cooperate until they sort us an’ put us where we wanna go. Don’ be causin’ trouble.” Smacking her fist into her open palm for emphasis, the mul pins him with a stern glare.
No friends there, Niorejin thinks. “Eh. Well, I for one thank you for trying. How did you come to travel with these barbarians, anyway? Your accent doesn’t sound like the city.”
“Oh no, I’m from da village, Yaroch. Dere was gladiator try-outs. I’m da best fighter in da village. Tried out ta see if I could earn da sid an’ fame ta help my sister an’ my pa. Dere gladiator fair kicked my arse, but dey said I was da best one dey’d seen in a tenday, so dey brought me on ta travel to da city.”
The mul snorts. “Dere ain’t free gladiators, boy. All gladiators be slaves. Yeh was rooked.”
Indignantly, the young man says, “Neh I wasna! I seen a templar hisself gi’ a metal sword ta famed human gladiator Jumberlorvor. Twas da festival o’ blood an’ roses what did. An’ he went free. Was walkin’ da streets not two hours after da matches.”
“Wass yer name, boy?” The mul asks.
“Malloch. Malloch Vriendath.”
“Listen up, Mal. Yeh listen good. Dere’s a lotta kind a slaves. Yeh hear? Dere’s slaves dat get stuck in a pen. Dere’s slaves dat ends up in a tent like dis one. Dere’s slaves dat sleep on silken mats an’ wear a collar around dere necks all da same. Dere’s even slaves dat walk da streets wi’out a leash. At da end o’ day, though, dey all is back in a cage. Even if it’s got silk sheets an’ a pretty lass in it, it’s still a cage cause dey’re watchin’. Yeh hear me?.”
The furvor of the mul’s speech triggers the boy’s good grace to blush. “Man… I don’t wanna be a slave….”
Drakk shakes his head in amusement. “Yeh. Well, have fun runnin’. Yer welcome ta try runnin’ wi’ me next I go. But if’n dere serious ‘bout hobblin’ me…” He looks pensive for a moment before continuing. “Yeh ever seen someone hobbled? Dey hold yeh down, an tie yer feet to stakes… den dey saw off yer feet jus’ above t’ankle.” The old man saws his finger over his ankle for emphasis. “I seen seasoned warriors wi’ brutal scars all over ‘em pass out from t’pain.” He shakes his head. “I might stay. I mean, some of ‘em ain’t got life so bad. Silk pillows an’ a pretty wench? Sounds mighty fine ta me. I dinna. I tried runnin’ four times now. Only a matter o’ time afore dey get serious about it an’ put me somewhere unpleasant.”
“The lows.”
“What?” Niorejin turns to the mul.
“The lows. It’s da place in da arena pits where dey put da gladiators an slaves who won’ cooperate. No food. No water. Gotta fight for it. An’ it’s where dey keep da beasts, too. Sometimes da gaj gets out…. “ the mul shudders and a startled silence spreads around the tent.
The tent flap opens, and the pleasure slave is pushed through the flap. As she stumbles, she shrieks back at her captors, “I will show you!” Tears run down her face and the clipped tones of her voice shrill a parody of nobility. As the men tie the flap fast, she walks to a far corner and sits, her knees clutched to her chest.
“Dey hurt you?” The anger in the mul’s voice is clear.
“No more so than any master.” She shakes her head. “They know how not to ruin expensive goods.”
“If’n yer so expensive, den what’re you doin here,” Dakk asks?
She looks at Dakk, her expression all hauteur. “It’s not any of your business. And nevermind. I’ll be back where I belong soon enough.”
“No, really. Tell us,” Niorejin says. The old man may be an ally. The mute, and the boy surely. Not the mul. What about her?
She sighs and stares up at the ceiling. “Some idiot slave boy convinced me to run away with him.” She looks back to Niorejin and continues, “He thought life in the desert as a free person would be better or something. Convinced me that he knew a man who knew a man and we would be free. Two weeks wandering in the desert, and I nearly died of thirst. The slavers rescued me.”
“Rescued yeh? Dere slavers!” Malloch’s disbelief works its way through his posture and he nearly rises to his feet.
“Yes. They rescued me.” Her eyes focus on Malloch, giving her words emphasis. “As a slave, I had three even meals per day. No, more than even. They were gourmet meals compared to the swill we were living on during our flight. And really, my master was a fool. Easy to appease in exchange for the comfort.” At Malloch’s look of disbelief, she wipes the tears from her face and barks,”What, you think your living, struggling and toiling in the dirt and sand is better? For what?”
No allies there, Niorejin thinks.
The tent flap opens again, and a masked figure bearing the mark of a brown erdlu points to the mul. “Qu’or. You’re summoned.”
The mul climbs to her feet and walks towards the entrance. Four men stand just outside, clubs drawn. “Hold out your hands, Brown Erdlu says.” His voice is young. When the mul complies, someone produces a thong of thick, wet leather and ties it around her wrists.
Once the mul has been led out, Brown Erdlu points to Malloch. “Now you.” Once his fists are lashed and he is led off, Brown Erdlu points to Niorejin. “And you.”
Briefly, Niorejin debates cuffing Brown Erdlu. There are only two men left at the tent now. He sizes them up, thinking, if Brown Erdlu is young, he may be able to take both. But, looking around, he sees more slavers and remembers what Drakk has said. “If yeh want escape, yeh hafta talk ta Goram…” So, he allows his hands to be bound, and he is led to a corral where two other slaves stand. He recognizes one as Malloch.
A slaver designated as Yellow Scrab addresses the slaves. “Muls go to da arena. Da rest of yeh may serve a higher purpose. Do either of yeh have any special talents?”
“Feck you, slaver.” Malloch spits on the ground.
“Waste yer water on me, then, slave. The desert’ll deal with yeh soon enough. But if’n yeh expect ta get soma dat water back, ye’ll cooperate wi us.”
Niorejin can see some of Malloch’s color drain from his face. “Neh,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse and resigned. “I got no talents other’n fightin’. Jess’ farmin’.”
Yellow Scrab nods to Brown Erdlu, and Brown Erdlu cuts Malloch’s bonds. Yellow Scrab looks over at the other two slaves and gestures to the woman, who walks to the middle of the corral and takes two wooden clubs from the rack. Niorejin notices a bandage on her left shoulder. “Take your weapons. Let’s see what you can do.”
Malloch looks at the woman. Her figure, slight from water-wanton, shows little musculature or presence. Malloch snorts and stomps over to the rack with aplomb, taking a bone sparring sword and a hide-reinforced chitin shield. For a moment, Malloch circles the woman, and she stands still, her eyes on him until he walks behind her. Then he lunges.
Almost faster than Niorejin can see, she lunges to the side, leaving her left leg planted, and sweeping her left club through the sand and up, behind her. The sand flies in Malloch’s eyes, and he trips over her leg, sprawling gut-first onto her second club which she has held behind her and used like a spear. “Again,” Yellow Scrab says.
This time, Malloch approaches with more caution, stepping forward with his shield, swinging his sword with his arm fully extended. She snaps one club quickly at his left knee, and the other at his right wrist. He crumples and drops his sword. “Very good, Minha. You may take water.”
The woman nods and walks to a cistern by the gate post, taking a long drink from a ladle. “Now you,” Yellow Scrab says, turning to Niorejin.
He walks forward and looks in the rack. There are clubs, like the woman has used, a spear, a primitive looking wooden axe, a wooden dagger and sword, and a shield. Niorejin tests the weight of the spear and puts it back in the rack, turning to face the slaver instead.
“No weapons?” Surprise sounds clearly in Yellow Scrab’s baritone. “Very well. Thannor.”
The second slave walks forward, a ropy man with skin the color of obsidian. He takes an axe and a dagger from the rack. When he turns, Niorejin has already grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the dagger and pinned it behind Thannor, the point in his back. With his other, he lands a solid chop to the side of the slave’s head. The slave groans and collapses, unconscious on the sand.
“Very nice. Should yeh cooperate, yeh may e’en make a ‘lete guard. Tell me. Have yeh any other talents?”
“I have a very good memory.”
“An’ how good a memory is dat?”
Niorejin shrugs. “Try me.”
Yellow Scrab nods, and after a moment, says, “Terrible sunback an’ itch ‘tween kumiss. Twelve aprons askither an’ darken bloodsand. Ghastly verdant an’ morass thither. Kank storm dinna six men hate.”
Before Niorejin can speak, Yellow Scrab holds his hand up, flashing two fingers, then a thumb, then four fingers, then two. The woman slave he has forgotten about attacks him from behind.
Her first blow catches him unaware, sending a spike of pain through his side as she strikes above his kidney with the flat of her club. The second swipe he dodges, pinning her arm across her body with his chest. He uses his right foot to pivot, knocking them both off balance, and lands solidly on top of her, his legs locked over hers, and his free hand on her free wrist.
“Terrible sunback and itch between kumiss. Twelve aprons askither and darkened bloodsand. Ghastly verdant and morass thither. Kank storm did not six men hate. Two. One. Four. Two.” Niorejin rolls off of his opponent and stands, dusting himself off.
Yelow Scrab looks to Brown Erdlu and says, “Amber tent. Box six.” The woman gasps and protests, “But!”
“You have not been addressed, slave.” Yellow Scrab turns to her, and her face flushes. “When you are as good as he is, you can join him in Amber tent.” Then he turns to Malloch. “You will be designated Blue tent. Both of you will receive water and training there.”
The
persistent tugging on his wrists draws Niorejin into consciousness. His mouth
feels cottony and a bitter taste prevails. Opening his eyes yields a sharp,
head-splitting pain in spite of the relatively dim light in the room. He
groans, trying to turn, and he finds himself...
Continue Reading...The Bones of the Desert by LM
Added on Aug 7, 2006An event of the arcane salvaged from the personal journals of Warlord D------ Tor.
It was moonrise when I first saw the girl. Jihae on this desert is always red, and on a battlefield the color phases over from red into the truly sanguine. As I pen this, I remember when the need for numbers was the main strategy of the war leaders of the day, when the Templarate would press children and aged alike into service for the Highlord – long may He reign.
It was moonrise, as I said, when I first saw the girl. The latest skirmish was over with the passing of the day and she stood there, a forgotten spoil among bodies. My Scorpions, with a discipline grown lax and shameful with the sorrow of loss, straggled behind, breaking rank to crouch by their fallen comrades. I would attend to them in a moment; first, the girl. She had a message for me. Similar slips of paper saying much the same as this one would arrive in the hands of others over the next few hours, for the commanding Blues would trust nothing to the way of the mind. Not this time. Not this war.
She looked small and soft amid the shadows and the jagged pikes and broken arrows which stuck haphazardly up in all directions among the dunes. This was an illusion; the tribal was as wind hardened as any desert dweller, and only her youth and surroundings gave the lie to her appearance. How she was forced into service, I never thought to ask. Likely she was the closest non-soldier to hand near the increasingly barren encampment, two leagues off. Barefoot, she crouched in the bloody sand by a fallen Scorpion, naked curiosity on a naked face.
“You’ll die for that,” I said, snatching the folded parchment from her grip with my free hand. The rustle of paper sounded loud in the hot moonlight. I had my orders, then, and sand sprayed as I wheeled towards my broken unit, shouting to the nearest soldiers. The girl was still here, I was preventing her from running.
“That was a stupid thing you just said.”
Indeed, the dune shadows seemed to hold a deeper intelligence, a base cunning and hunger, and did we not lose as many men to the sands and the heat as to the northern forces? If there was a third army in this war, the earth we fought on was candidate enough. The ground shifted and trembled beneath my feet, causing cries of consternation to rise behind me. The child struggled like a bird in my grip, still intent on lunatic backtalk.
“It will come for you too, if you are weak!” Enough of this. Lack of sleep and water made me paranoid. I raised my sword to cut her down, but with unnatural, frightened strength she wrenched free of my imbalanced grip, running for the dunes she worshipped and controlled.
“The sands take you then, you little desert monster!” I yelled, and then I had other things to worry about.
++++++++++++++++
When I saw her next, in the arena stands, the war had been over for five years. I had not forgotten her, for her pronouncement had been eerie enough to stick in my mind – though the thoughts I spared her were few indeed. I’d assumed her long taken by the desert, as she had said that day. She was very much alive, grown tall and slim and pampered. Her dark hair hung in long, neat braids. But a suede collar wrapped her neck, the clasp a familiar wyvern, and her eyes were still as blue as the day I stared into them on the battlefield, ready to snuff their feral hauteur. Today, she wasn’t mine to kill. But I remembered her secret.
I took her chin, turned her face from side to side. She did not stop me, though we both knew I insulted the Lord Borsail by touching his slave without invitation. Still, he had other things to occupy his mind, and she was there to entertain. Besides, I was about to do him a favor.
“I remember you,” I said, and released my grip on her face. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the haze of dust in the still air.
“Yes.”
“How did you...”
“War prize.” She lifted her shoulders helplessly. The halting sirihish she spoke sounded like music. “It matters not my people did not fight, still, I was brought back to city. It was this, or...” She touched her collar, motioned to the sands below. "I was lucky to catch his eye." The roar of the crowd nearly drowned out her words.
“It suits you,” I said, turning my attention back to the fight. Her next words were bleak, sarcasm bordering on dangerous, as the gladiator’s battle against the captured anakore staged below us drew to bloody completion, the arena sand a wash of mottled reds.
“I am not the only desert monster tamed by city walls.” I turned back to study her, my voice dropping low. Her young Lord laughed melodically two seats over, oblivious to our conversation.
"Your position is a dangerous one. If they haven't found out yet, they will soon. The sand can't save you here, girl." And then she was as frightened as I'd ever seen her, even with a sword at her throat in the middle of a war.
"You will tell."
"It would be a crime not to."
"That is not yes." With an impatient motion of my hand, I affirmed what she didn't want to hear.
"Give me one week, please," she pleaded in my mind.
"And let you harm the Lord Borsail?" I answered in kind. Then, aloud, "No." She was too lovely altogether, with refined looks which would produce an expensive line of slaves. I hated to do it for reasons other than the waste, and the certain anger and embarrassment of the Lord C-------. But duty and honor are creeds by which my family lives their life, and by my duty and honor would she die. She was white with fear beneath brown skin, a leather leash round her ankle and attached to the balcony rail preventing her from running as I could see she wished to.
"I will take one hundred of your people with me," was her whispered pronouncement, even as I discreetly called for the attentions of the necessary authorities.
++++++++++++++++
She is gone now, and I am old. But I do not forget the way she died, the way her master's face drained of blood with his rage, the way she followed, passively, until the very ground beneath our feet betrayed us, throwing us by tens from our feet. The road split into two, three parts, buildings crumbled on the heads of the soldiers. She fed the hungry earth with the blood of an entire unit who had gone mad with the fear of that wild desert which was unable to be shut out of the city completely. Perhaps the sands would have remained passive if I hadn't threatened their child. Perhaps I should have said nothing. Perhaps many things.
She died, eventually, or so it was said. Never to my blade, or the blades of the soldiers, or to the power of the Highlord which took the sight from her wild eyes, but to the city street, the earth which she begged to end her. There was nothing left afterward but a drift of sand, a chasm, and a ruin. No body. Perhaps she is beneath us still.
No, she wasn't weak. She did not take quite one hundred, though it was close. But she didn't kill me. To this day I wonder why. To this day I have slept with less ease in my bed, for deny as I might, I know the sand outside blows against the walls of Allanak. Patient, gradual, inexorable, ever hungry, the desert waits with the wind to take us back into itself. In the end it is the desert we return to. I have seen it done, I have heard it said. The desert comes for all of us. Even me.
- From the personal journals of Warlord D------ Tor
Ocandra, the 142nd day of the Descending Sun, Year 47 of the 21st AgeIt was moonrise when I first saw the girl. Jihae onthis desert is always red, and on a battlefield the color phases over from red
into the truly sanguine. As I pen this, I remember when the need for
numbers was the main strategy of the war leaders of the day, when...
Continue Reading...The Loss by TheBlackKnight
Added on Jul 18, 2006A story of an old man, haunted by his childhood decisions.
“The Loss”
Sit and stay a while for I have a tale.
A tale you might learn something from,
Something about love, life and yourself this night.
For this tale is about a young boy.
A boy, his name matters not, who was born years and years ago, in a land far, far from here.
Born with talents and gifts you see, and some banished him, some hated him, but others did not others saw his kindness and embraced it.
For he was born with the ability to heal, to revive, to rejuvenate the body and spirit,
And this boy used those talents to help as many as he could, but soon his life changed
And changed it did, for he fell in love, in love with a girl. A girl so kind and so beautiful few could match it.
Their love was pure, their love was kind, and special, for what young couple’s love is not.
For years they loved, and soon where brought together by their parents’ wishes. Not long after that their love grew for they had a new addition to the family. But there was something lurking, something hidden in the shadows, in the depths. For the boy had learned more, had learned not only to heal, but to harm, and soon vowed that he would use this power to free all his people from tyranny, from hatred. But little did the boy know that the further he pushed, the more power he tried to conquer the more it would conquer him.
Quietly the night fell over the couple and their child as it always had for years. The darkness rising over their home in a smooth gentle embrace. And suddenly lightning falls from the sky, slamming into their house, and in a flash, their child is gone. Gone like the wind, gone like the desert sands after a storm, gone gone gone. Awakening the young boy, who was now a man, and realizing what had just happened, quickly rushed for the door. Hoping, crying, wailing, they stood at the door for hours, but the man knew, the man understood. It was HE who took their child, and HE alone could bring the boy back. Pulling his partner from his arms, he gather his clothing and made for the door, striding slowly quietly into the darkness of the night, he walked, walked until sunrise, until his heart no longer felt the tug of his own child. The sun rose, and lighted the way, lighting the desert, and suddenly as quickly as it had risen, it left again, leaving the man in darkness. And there stood the boy before him, the boy he once was, and the boy he had given birth to all the same, standing naked, holding nothing but a single sharp dagger in his had. As quick as the desert winds he strikes, stabbing forward at his very own father, stabbing for his heart, for his life to take it from him, but there was nothing there, nothing but the sands, the wind, for his father was gone years ago and all that was left was the boy, the child. After a few moments, the child was startled and jostled heavily as if being shaken by some outside force. After a few moments, he awakened, in a small elegant room apparently inside a manor in some city. But that was not all; he was clad in silks, in beautiful flowing silks as soft as any in the known world. As he peered, a cold sweat dripping from his brow, heart pounding heavily in his chest, he soon realized it was northing more than a phantom, a nightmare, sent by Drov to torment the now elderly man for all that he his childhood choices, and all his childhood losses.
“The Loss”
Sit and stay a while for I have a tale.
A tale you might learn something from,
Something about love, life and yourself this night.
For this tale is about a young boy.
A boy, his name matters not, who was born years and years ago, in a land far, far from here.
Born with...
Continue Reading...The Gladiator - Chapter 1 by Djarjak
Added on Jun 7, 2006Djarjak, mul gladiator slave is introduced
The rumbling noise of a thousand people is only a distant murmur here. Clay and stone surrounds Djarjak, the dried grasses strewn here and there are a privilege he has only recently been given. Yet, he is far from the breeding pens and the work stalls where he began. Now he has a room. His Room. Ownership: not something often given to the owned. And, above, the crowds shout his name.
Taking the set of flimsy sticks he has been allowed to practice with in his hands, he begins to dance. Slowly at first, the muscles on his back begin to limber with the activity. Flexibility as important as strength, clarity of mind even moreso, he lets his thoughts drift and loosen with his limbs.
A soft knock comes at the door. Djarjak does not know how long it has been since he began the dancing. Sweat drips slowly from his hairless brow, the torchlight trailing down from the bone-meshed bars above. He looks to the door and lowers his weapons from a posture of practice into that of defense. "Who goes?"
"It's me, Hest" squeaks a voice from the other side of the stone and wood slab. "We need help."
Djarjak grimaces, his face darkened by the artificial twilight."Who is it?"
"Tjan."
"Tjan? Tjan is dead." Small fingers peek around the edge of the door, and the mousy thief's face peers in from the gloom.
The thief shakes his head, "No. Escaped. They caught him. He's hurt pretty badly. Vark needs your help with him."
"Where?"
"The lows. Dunbrek's."
Djarjak nods his head, slinging the sticks over his shoulders in the criss-cross leather sling, and walks into the corridor.
Hest shambles along in front of Djarjak, the thief's leg permanently lamed by a fight with a dujat. Now he hides in the corners of the pits to avoid being thrown into the arena again. Cowardly. But he hides well. It draws an odd sort of respect from the other criminals and the slaves. Even the gladiators have a grudging appreciation of it, but it is not a point of respect. It is they who must risk their hides in the arena instead.
As they walk, the ceiling slopes downward. Shouts from eager gamblers and bloodthirsty laborers wax and wane in a lusty crescendo growing ever more distant beneath the increasing layers of stone. The torchlight flickers blandly off the roughly hewn sandstone and grows dimmer as the air grows warmer and becomes stifling with moisture.
The lows are where the animals are kept. The smell of gortok and gwoshi and blood mingles with dung and sweat. Grunting and hissing noises here and there reveal sign of some darker denizens.
The unruly gladiators are kept here.
Djarjak shudders in spite of himself. 'He who does not obey is deprived the glory of the Highlord.'
There are always rumors.
The overseers seldom watch the lows. Food and water is not provided here. Those who wish to survive must travel for it, or bargain. It is the arena within the arena, where a man will barter his soul to a devil only to have it eaten for his trouble.
It is the only place for slaves to go to avoid the attention of the servants to the King.
A dark shadow passes overhead. Hest and the mul gladiator press themselves hurriedly against the wall as the footsteps rattle on the bone grid ceiling. The silhouette of a human slaver in a sandcloth aba walks stiffly between the hidden slaves and the torches. Djarjak doesn't dare a breath. Quickly, the man passes, yet it is only after a slow count of thirty that the two allow themselves to move from below.
As they peel themselves away from the wall, a voice sounds nearby. "Harrumm. Slack, there, then, letting the spear-chuckers see you."
Djarjak unsheathes the sticks quickly and without thinking, a low growl coming from his throat. Hest lets out a yelp of surprise and leaps behind Djarjak's bulk.
With a grating chuckle, a tall and spidery figure strolls out of the darkness ahead. "Wary, little mul..." smiling,the figure's angular head then swivels on spindly-thin shoulders tos tare at the little thief with almost insectoid intensity, "and...Hest."
"Blast it all, Dunbrek!" Djarjak slaps his sticks against the stone with a dull thwack. "How do you do that?"
"Do what, little mul? Perhaps your eyes only go dim with age, humm?" The wide-set silvery green eyes blink in a picture of innocence from the hatchet-face.
Djarjak growls again, muttering, "Dirty breed."
"Yes, little mul," he nods, "But only half of me. Half of me is half of you. All of us pointy-ears. Pointy-ears, pointy-ears, pointy-ears, harrumm... But you are late. Come."
Setting off in long strides, the almost seven foot tall half-elf assassin strides further into the heat and dark as Djarjak and Hest grudgingly follow.
Dunbrek's cell is a large one, spread with woven mats that few doubt are stolen. Lanterns light the place, and a small chest sits in one corner. Bargains with demons have kept the place intact, and few would risk what awaits them to contest it.
A short, human woman with ratty-blonde hair wearing the torn robes of an ex-pleasure slave bends over a figure lying on the floor. As they enter, she looks up to them, her face grimed and solemnly set.
Hest smiles to her and stammers a bit. "H-hello, Vark. I b-brought him, like you asked."
Her face lightens slightly and her lips curl as she nods. "Thank you. But there is little time. I will need your aid, Djarjak, if you will give it."
Djarjak, his skin dark brown in the torchlight, makes his way to the cot where a mangled figure lies twisted into an impossible shape. The woman turns to look at the figure as she says, "His bones will need to be re-set before I can deal with the rest of his wounds. I need you to help me set them. I'll show you how."
The mul nods, his expression becoming bland as his eyes glaze, and reaches out to grab a leg.
Later, as they walk, Hest says, "they say he made it to the desert, Djarjak." The thief looks up at him and wrings his hands. "Say there's others out there."
Djarjak continues to walk, not looking at the pale little man walking beside him.
"They say Tektolnes can't reach some places, that he..."
"Hisssh!" He turns on Hest with a feral look in his eye. "Don't say such things. You know that they know. They always know!" The mul looks around quickly and walks with a renewed pace.
The thief looks around himself with widened eyes and then stares at the floor with a frown. "What if they're right,Djar?"
Djarjak shrugs his huge shoulders. "Then may we all live to find that place."
Overhead, they do not hear footsteps, and Overseer Teoman Borsail of the jade cross grins in the shadows between torches.
...
Leaping from the depths of sleep and grabbing at his side, Djarjak wakes again from the dream of the bahamet to the sound of raucous laughter from above.
"Time to fight, Djarjak. Wake up!" A soldier with the clawed wooden rod standard to all slave handlers grins at him between the bone mesh. "Today you fight the dune demon. Look, they even brought sand in for you..." a grainy handful of sand filters down into his eyes and mouth, making him sputter.
"Bastards," he croaks, and leaps towards the bars above, gripping them and shaking them violently.
Above, the soldier makes a tsking noise and steps on the mul's fingers, the bone spikes in his boots making Djarjak grimace in pain. "None of that, mul. We will have you moved to the lows and out of your comfortable little home, eh? Now, get up. It is time to fight."
Falling to the floor, Djarjak clutches his bleeding and shredded fingers to his chest and presses out of the door.
A clattering behind him signifies that the claw is retracting, and soon, the footsteps overhead begin following him to the gate.
The great doors of iron-banded hardwood which compose gladiators gate swing open, leaving him to squint in the brilliantly bright light. The claw comes down thrusting him forward, and he falls to his hands and knees outside the gate.
"Behold citizens of Allanak! Blood for Tektolnes!" The crowd's cheers rise to a bloodthirsty height of madness as the overseer shouts an introduction to the fight. "Djarjak, prized fighter of Borsail will take on the feared mass of three anakore!"
Three? Three! Djarjak frowns, beginning to feel genuine fear as he checks the weapon rack: a stone dagger and a primitive obsidian spear. He briefly laments not having his fighting sticks and turns, but the doors are closed behind him.
"Let the fights begin!"
Underneath him, the sand trembles as the beast-gate opens its maw. He sees nothing emerge and contemplates a lunge for the open door, when it begins to close. Quickly, he leaps to the weapon rack and retrieves the tools he has been allowed for the fight.
The spear is thin obsidian, too light to be much good. The dagger is flaky at best. Sharpened too many times by a chipper, it was once perhaps a short-sword judging by the hilt. Grim odds, someone must be punishing him.
Without giving Djarjak further time to contemplate, twin arms with claws almost doubling their length launch out of the ground on either side of him. Sand sprays in all directions, and some of it gets in his eyes. Blinking furiously, he grabs the weapon rack and pulls hard, vaulting himself over the top and out of the way of the demon.
"Bakh!" the spear has fallen and rests just behind the domed head peeking with beady-eyes from beneath the sand. This is not going to go well.
The rumbling noise of a thousand people is only a distant murmur here. Clay and stone surrounds Djarjak, the dried grasses strewn here and there are a privilege he has only recently been given. Yet, he is far from the breeding pens and the work stalls where he began. Now he has a room. His...
Continue Reading...Northern Tale, A by Proxie
Added on Mar 25, 2006A brief glimpse into the life of a Tuluki noble's child following her mother's death and during the Occupation.
I was a young child when my mother was killed, until that day sheltered and protected by my mother's position and wealth, paraded as a showpiece with my brothers when the occasion required. I remember a late night, being grabbed up, the scent of blood heavy on the air. Taking me past her shrouded body as my brothers and I were removed from Silverwood by a back way. They wouldn't let us look, I found out later, the elves had taken her head as a trophy. My mother's men had sad faces, some the reddened eyes of grief, while we rode, seated before them on ratlons, the silver and blue cloaks enfolding us. The night was cold. My teeth chattered. We traveled a winding route, to lead off any who might follow.
They stopped at the Pyramid. Spoke to Brooks, hushed tones, a brief argument. Where were we to go? The threat was still heavy in the air, the runners could have been just beyond the light's edge. He came, looked at each of us, laid a hand on my cheek. The Precentor's name was mentioned, and then we were riding again. Wind fast, dawn breaking, to the northeast, to Tenneshi. Father's family. Turned over to them, to our relations, clothes on our backs, other things being packed up and brought. My brothers, Thadrian and Tarquin, and I, Nuala, finally tucked into a nursery, silken sheets cool on our weary bodies. And we never heard her name again in open conversation. Vivienne Reynolte was dead.
Years later, the Occupation. Another night, the uneasiness thick on the air, our lessons interrupted by chaos in the yard. Luirs had fallen, had betrayed, had fallen, none were certain. The Nakkis were coming, with their army of magicks and black soldiers. We rushed to the nursery, stripped off our silks, our jewelry, our fine boots, slaves brought coarse cloth that chafed my skin. Sandals that bit and didn't fit properly. Numut dye to hide our protected flesh. We wanted to fight the barbarians, wanted to fight for our north, burning hatred for those who had hired mother's death still nurtured.
Set aside by the guardsmen, girding themselves for battle, jaws set in the line of men not coming home. We must survive, the blood of the nobles, to hide, to not suffer the fate that Reynolte was facing; the full army at their gates, murdering, raping all that moved. Magicks twisting flesh and bone, sand and stone, driving the Gol itself mad with it's taint. For the northlands they rode that day, for the northlands, my brothers and I, and the other Tenneshi young hid. We joined households for a time, never too long, moving to another before the overseers caught us. Some were caught. Some were tortured, some died. Younglings to old, those of noble blood who were caught faced the southerner's wrath full on.
And we kept our lineage strong, we kept it as pure as possible. I married with a cousin, had my family, always in hiding, always in fear. My brothers took wives, in secret as well, we produced our next generation of blood. My brother's oldest daughter fell, slain by the Borsails as they captured her for breeding. She did not let them take her. Our friends, shelterers, protectors died for us. Their names will never be forgotten by me. Today, an old woman, I write this tale for those who can someday read it. This week I hide in the depths of my beloved city, and I bid whoever finds this to read it to those beneath them. The blood of Tuluk lives on, eagerly awaiting the day when we find victory.
I was a young child when my mother was killed, until that day sheltered and protected by my mother's position and wealth, paraded as a showpiece with my brothers when the occasion required. I remember a late night, being grabbed up, the scent of blood heavy on the air. Taking me past her...
Continue Reading...Nomad
CHAPTER 2 - Surviving the Wastes, The by Cogato
Added on Feb 9, 2006Further adventures of the nomad as he survives the waste.
The terrain that lay before the nomad was challenging to cross atop a mount, much less on foot. Elios knew that he only had enough water to last him a few days at most in this dry landscape. He was traveling northward with swift strides of his long legs and he keenly felt the weight of the two tandu-leather skins of water in the pack on his back. Of course he knew that his legs would tire more quickly with the heavy pack laden with the water. He also knew that if the Pah was dry when he reached it he would die without the water he carried now. He decided it was worth the burden.
Suk-Krath, the horrible burning ball of crimson light that was the Zalanthan sun rained down its heat upon the desert this day just as fiercely as it had ever other day in the eons past. Though the origin of its name had been lost long ago with writing being outlawed to the common man by the Highlords of the city states, it was worshiped as the giver and the taker by more than one tribal culture. Every man, woman, and child knew that the great ball of light could steal your life away just as swiftly the sharp tip of a blade. Many was the caravan that came to ruin, entire parties of travelers dehydrated and dead in the wastes due to underestimating the power that the sun dictated. Elios had lived his entire thirty three and some odd years in the wastes though, and if any man stood a chance of surviving the days of travel ahead this half-elf surely did.
By the time late afternoon fell upon the traveler Elios had put many miles between himself and the ravine where the braxat and Arrow lay dead. The sandstorm had relented a bit by now and he was not leaning all of his weight against the blowing wind when he walked to keep from being blow over now. Though travel had become a bit less taxing on his spindly legs Elios did not intend to spend a night out on the open desert in the blinding sandstorm, it would hide any beasts that came upon him in the darkness. He knew of an outcropping of stone just a few more miles ahead that would shield him from the brunt of the storm and offer him at least some crude walls for protection in the night. Elios trudged on and just as the last rays of the descending sun were leaving the western horizon he stood before the rock outcropping.
This outcropping was really more of a series of boulders that happened to rest in a rough semi-circle to give the appearance at a distant of a low wall. Most of them were made of brittle red and yellow sandstone that the ferocious wind was constantly reshaping but a few were solid granite. They were head high and leaned together in a fashion that would allow Elios to squeeze in beneath the break at their base where they did not touch. Elios moved up to the tiny cave and peered inside it making sure that no other creatures had decided to call this den, rare in this area home for the night. In a few seconds Elios was sliding into the narrow cubby formed by the leaning and piled boulders feet first. The den was just deep enough to accommodate his full lanky height and he bent his knees up just slightly so his hair did not stick out of the holes opening. Luckily Elios was not bothered by closed in spaces otherwise he could not have managed this refuge for the night. It was just wide and broad enough to keep from rubbing the tip of his angular nose and the sides of his shoulders. For a long while Elios lay silent within the den, even after the last rays of Suk-Krath had departed leaving him in darkness. Only the grating sound of the wind outside of his hole could be heard and eventually, feeling safe that he wasn't being tracked, the weary traveler drifted off to sleep.
Elios was awake long before dawn came. Dreams of Arrow falling over the cliffs edge and tumbling down toward him, its many eyes pleading with him for help in despair had plagued his night. He had awoken in a cold sweat if there was such a thing in the desert and had not slept the last few hours of darkness before the sun rise. He cursed himself once and again silently as he lay there in the dark den awake. He surely did lament his fallen friend but he also knew that he was lucky to have survived the encounter that came about due to his own carelessness. He should have never left arrow behind for the small gains that the durrit would have offered even if he had caught up to and killed it. The pelt and claws could not even be sold to replace the value of his mount, much less the deep friendship he held with Arrow. Elios had fell victim to the 'Wall Dweller Greed' as his people, The Followers of Vrianne, called it. He had let the gain of coin cloud his good judgment and for this act of selfish greed Vrianne had taken back the friend she had given him.
When the rays of the crimson sun did break the horizon the sandstorm that had plagued the land for the past week had finally died down to a strong breeze. The hot northern wind blew Elios's long yellow hair out behind him as he trotted along. He tried to go in a straight line as much as he could but ever so often he would have to go as far as two or three miles out of his way to circumvent a gorge or mesa. The farther north he traveled the more the land began to rise and fall into great spires of red sandstone. Mesas of yellow and red stone jutted up out of the sandy earth with un-scaleable cliff faces that spanned for miles in all directions. The going here was slow and tedious as Elios had to climb up and down more than one canyon or cliff wall that he simply could not take the time go around. By mid day he had barely made a few miles of progress from where he had slept the night before. With the difficult terrain and heat to drain his strength Elios found himself drinking half of one of his two leather water skins while he stood atop one low mesa. He peered off toward the distant northern horizon and without the usual constant sandstorms Elios could see and marked in his mind the faint grayish haze of the Shield Wall in the distance.
The Shield Wall was a series of solid stone mountains that spanned almost the entire Known World and bisected the hemispheres of the northern and southern deserts. The southern deserts held the most desolate wastes on the face of Zalanthas, miles upon miles of empty dunes that held no life. Though almost directly in the center of this wasteland the city state of Allanak stood. Ruled by the sorcerer king and self proclaimed Highlord Tektolnes. The templars that did the Highlord's bidding watched over the people with an iron fist, keeping them sufficiently suppressed and controlled. On the northern side of the mountain range the land was still arid and dangerous, but the Shield Wall afforded the lands of Gol Krathu some protection from the always shifting dunes of the south. The region held many types of dry and hardy plant life compared to the south and a great forest of agafari and baobab tress even stood, somehow managing to survive in the sandy earth. The grasslands to the northeast were likewise abundant in animal life compared to the south and the people of Tuluk erected their city state directly in the middle of these two geographical planes. The people of Tuluk were no less suppressed than the southern people, likewise having the knowledge of literacy outlawed to them and the Sun King Muk Utep ruling from his great ivory pyramid with the aid of his own templarate. Though out of both the Sun King's and the Highlord's rule there sat a small village atop the shield wall half way between the two great city states known as Luir's Outpost and it was a haven to any travelers in the area. This was where Elios had to get to before his supplies ran out if he hoped to survive.
The Shield Wall was a series of solid stone mountains that spanned almost the entire Known World and bisected the hemispheres of the northern and southern deserts. The southern deserts held the most desolate wastes on the face of Zalanthas, miles upon miles of empty dunes that held no life. Though almost directly in the center of this wasteland the city state of Allanak stood. Ruled by the sorcerer king and self proclaimed Highlord Tektolnes. The templars that did the Highlord's bidding watched over the people with an iron fist, keeping them sufficiently suppressed and controlled. On the northern side of the mountain range the land was still arid and dangerous, but the Shield Wall afforded the lands of Gol Krathu some protection from the always shifting dunes of the south. The region held many types of dry and hardy plant life compared to the south and a great forest of agafari and baobab tress even stood, somehow managing to survive in the sandy earth. The grasslands to the northeast were likewise abundant in animal life compared to the south and the people of Tuluk erected their city state directly in the middle of these two geographical planes. The people of Tuluk were no less suppressed than the southern people, likewise having the knowledge of literacy outlawed to them and the Sun King Muk Utep ruling from his great ivory pyramid with the aid of his own templarate. Though out of both the Sun King's and the Highlord's rule there sat a small village atop the shield wall half way between the two great city states known as Luir's Outpost and it was a haven to any travelers in the area. This was where Elios had to get to before his supplies ran out if he hoped to survive.
Elios climbed down the opposite side of the mesa and continued northward. He had picked out the clearest path he could discern to get to the Shield Wall and beyond that to the Pah which still was a day and a half away if his trip went uneventful. By early afternoon Elios smiled faintly to himself as he moved along, weaving past the mesas he had marked in his mind that would guide him on his mental path. He decided it was worth the extra effort to climb the mesa and pick his path when late afternoon came around and he had covered twice the ground he had in the first half of the day. He hadn't eaten in a few days and his stomach soon reminded him of that fact. He stopped at the base of a large grey pillar of stone protruding up through the sand and sat in the scant amount of shade offered by the pillar to eat a few bits of dried meat from his belt pouch. Within a few moments of chewing and breathing heavily Elios stood and wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of a sandcloth sleeve before starting off at his swift pace once more.
By nightfall Elios could easily make out the defining peaks of the Shield Wall in the distance. The growing clarity of that mountain range spurred Elios to move onward even in the darkness. He normally wouldn't have risked traveling in the dark even with the absence of the storms, but Lirathu the white moon and Jihae the red moon graced the night with their light and he could see well enough he decided. By the come of dawn the weary traveler stood with the arm of the Shield Wall to his east instead of to his north. Sweat beaded down his face as he stood atop a short dune, peering down toward a green dot in the distance marking the Pah'.
The Abi'li Pah as it was known by the many tribal elves that called the surrounding desert home was a rare and beautiful sight for any Zalanthan to behold, it was an oasis. The dense growth of stout trees surrounding the shallow pool of muddy water offered valuable shade to any passing traveler. Though often enough the pool was dry and only damp soil marked where the pool sometimes was. Today was no exception to the rule fore as Elios came out on the other side of the dense trees he saw what he had feared, the pool was in fact going through a dry time. Elios squatted down for a moment and cursed his luck as he ran a hand through the still damp soil in the very bottom of the shallow hole. He had been depending on refilling his water supply here and being on his way, but now he knew he would be sorely pressed to make the rest of the journey to Luir's Outpost on the water he had. Just as Elios started to stand some movement at the nearby tree line to his right caught his eye and he spun about, his hands reaching for the hilts protruding from his beltline.
A pair of slanted light-grey eyes peered out toward Elios as a tall lanky hooded figure made its way into view from the foliage. Elios was a bit startled at first but seeing the desert elf in full view now he decided it best to try and get clear without a fight, he was on the tribal elf's self-proclaimed land after all. Tribal elves were known to be volatile at best especially when dealing with anyone that wasn't an elf. That went double if you were on their land standing in one of their water holes. The elf and Elios stood quietly peering toward one another for many uncomfortable moments though both of them appeared relaxed with their arms at their sides. Finally the elf spoke, 'You are a long way from home, mud blood'. Elios did not reply, he spoke the elf's language allundean well enough but an idea occurred to him before he spoke and he just stood watching the elf blankly. The elf frowned visibly toward Elios for many long moments then said something in a language Elios did not understand. Still, Elios stood silently at the bottom of the hole. The elf eyed Elios up and down for several moments, then scowled and turned on a heel in the sand, starting off at a swift sprint. All elves were natural runners, but desert elves were known for it even more so than for their bad tempers. By the time Elios had walked slowly to the upper lip of the empty pool the elf was already a dot several hundred yards off and moving north with all speed. Elios knew that the rest of his trip had best be a quick one fore desert elves shared everything with their tribe mates, even the joy of a kill.
Elios began to hastily make his way east from the oasis. He had intended to go north to the Dol Takar road then head east to the North road before he headed to Luirs. That wasn't happening this day since the tribal elf had went off in that direction and surely would be coming back this way soon with his kin in tow. Elios did not fancy the thought of meeting on the path with the fearsomely territorial folk. He had no choice but to follow the arm of the Shield Wall to his south until he reached the point where it met up with the main run of the mountain range. From there he would have to climb the sheer rock face, travel across its top and move down its other side where the North Road would be waiting. This was a more direct path for sure and would be much faster. But for anyone who ever laid eyes on the sheer rock face of the Shield Wall, brittle and always being shaped by the wind, the idea of climbing the barrier was daunting at the least.
Elios ran on sweat beading down his face and from his body to drench his sandcloth garb with moisture. Ever so often Elios peered back over his shoulder expecting to see tall tribal folk closing the gap on him fast. But when Elios reached rock face of the main range of the Shield Wall, looming overhead and into the sky for hundreds of yards, he had seen no sign of the desert elves. Dark green eyes stared up at the rock face, wisps of sand being blown from it's crags by the wind. This would be a difficult climb indeed and Elios saw no ledge to afford his already weary body a rest once he got on the wall. He could not rest here at its base with a tribe of tribal elves no doubt closing on him quickly though and so he moved to the wall, reaching up toward the first handhold he saw available. As he began to pull himself up the sandstone crumbled away in his grasp. This would be a difficult climb indeed.
A few hours later Elios was over halfway up the rock face being a skilled climber but his arms were shaking with the strain of supporting his weight. He glanced down toward the ground a couple hundred yards below and he groaned lightly, knowing there was only one way to go now and that was up. Before he brought his gaze back up to the wall above him he spotted three dots on the western horizon moving quickly toward him. He did not take time to consider if the elves would come up the wall after him he just hoped they did not carry longbows. Elios climbed another ten feet then peered back to take in the progress of his pursuers and they were no longer dots on the horizon, the agile and swift runners were already in clear sight and one of them was pulling a bow from his shoulder as he ran. Elios grunted and began to pull himself up the wall as fast as his worn out arms and legs would propel him. Another fifteen feet up the wall and Elios heard the faint sounds of a voice below but he could not make out what was being said at this distance and with the wind whipping about his body as it was. What was being said did not matter to Elios at the time though he just wanted to get to the top the lip of the wall a hundred feet above and he wanted to get there fast. He peered down again and he noticed the form of a tall hooded figured with a bow drawn taught.
The pain of the arrow striking Elios in the back seemed faint to him and he continued to pull himself up the rock face, adrenaline coursing his veins and pushing him forward. Another arrow was loosed but it came in short and skipped audibly off the stone a few feet below where Elios now clung to the side of the cliff. Elios never took his gaze off of his destination the lip of the wall was just a few more yards above him. He reached for his next handhold and an arrow grazed the side of his face before striking the wall just over his head, chipping away some of the sandstone wall so that dust fell painfully into his eyes. He continued forward anyways and a couple yards later he was pulling himself up over the lip of the wall. He rolled onto his side panting heavily but was more than elated that he had escaped the clutches of the elves. Even if they started climbing now he would be half way to Luir's Outpost by the time they reached the top of the wall and far out of their reach. He kept rolling on his side to lay on his back and fires ignited in his senses when the pain of the arrowhead digging a bit deeper into his shoulder blade got a hold of him. He sat up slowly and winced as he pulled off is pack only to notice two more arrows lodged securely into the pack its self. He reached over his shoulder with a single hand to assess the damage and found that the entire arrowhead hadn't even made its way into his flesh. Luckily, desert elves aren't known so much for their brawn and their spindly arms keep them from being able to pull the more powerful longbows that would have put Elios well within lethal range even as high up as he was. He pulled the two arrows from the outside of his pack and picked up the slightly bloody one, noted that they were fine quality and slid them into the quiver over his shoulder. Elios drank the last half of his final waterskin then and rose to his feet, pulling his pack onto his back once more as he stood. It was less than a day's travel to Luir's Outpost and he did not intend to have any more mishaps on this less than fortunate trip.
Luck was with the traveler for the first time in many days and he had no falls while descending other side of the Shield Wall. He came onto the North Road weary and exhausted and he wished he had saved some of the water he had finished off back atop the wall. Luir's Outpost was less than half a day's travel to the south though and the going on the reasonably well maintained road was easy in comparison to the dunes. The horrible burning sun still beat down upon him and the pain in his shoulder didn't relent as he traveled with his pack on his back, but he was a seasoned traveler had seen worse situations in his past. As he walked he put his mind off of his horribly biting thirst and instead spent his time recalling the many travels he had undertaken in the name of his deity Vrianne atop his recently fallen friend Arrow. He recalled the countless weeks that would have been spent in solitude if not for the silent company of his mount while out living in the wastes. Elios was a half-elf and as with most half-elves he was not accepted by the vast majority of the 'civilized world'. He was an abomination in the eyes of most people who lived within the walls and so instead of taking their scorn and misdirected hatred Elios preferred to spend his life in the solitude of the desert. But, since he had come across Arrow he had not been entirely alone anymore. A wild and young kank when they first met on the grasslands south of Tuluk Arrow did not take to Elios' form of taming at first. Elios ended up on the sand and almost trampled more than once while trying to turn the wild bug into a decent beast for riding. In time Arrow become more accustom to having the nomad on his back and even more accustom the blue fruits the rider fed it from time to time. In a matter of a couple of months Elios was sleeping curled up on the grassy earth of the northern plains against the bug and Arrow came to take comfort in having the rider near. The silent love and friendship that Elios and Arrow had for one another could not be tested or broken, both were alone without the other and both had nowhere else to go.
Now Elios was alone again for the first time in years and he searched his thoughts for exactly how he was going to come about another mount. He needed one to continue to make supply runs for the Kuraci but at the same time he was never very keen on riding a wall bred bug. He found that wall bred mounts, even inix and sunback weren't as hardy or dependable as one tamed from the wild. He decided after a few hours on the path walking in the heat though that at this point any beast would do if it didn't throw him every couple of feet. He would pick the best of the mounts he could afford in Luir's Outpost when he reached it and be on his way to the village of Redstorm East to pick up his spice haul and get it back to the Kuraci. The trip would take several weeks and would put him through gith lands, the southern wastes, and near the perilous Sea of Silt. He did not look forward to the trip but he made most of his coins off of runs this way for the different merchant Houses of the cities and he had not made one in some time. By the time the crimson sun was setting in the west Elios was making his way up an incline in the white stone road toward a pair of tall gates. The walls of the outpost had several towers rising up from their tops and paths beyond and a few dun-clad guards stood watching the steady flow of traffic through the gates. Elios pulled his hood up around his features and quietly moved through the throng of patrons into the post.
The terrain that lay before the nomad was challenging to cross atop a mount, much less on foot. Elios knew that he only had enough water to last him a few days at most in this dry landscape. He was traveling northward with swift strides of his long legs and he keenly felt the weight of the two...
Continue Reading...Reaper, The by The7DeadlyVenomz
Added on Jan 4, 2006History of the Reaper, as told by the Historian of Tektolnes.
Author's note:This story is based in both legends and personal knowledge of the killer known as the Reaper. The most important portions of this story did happen, but some sections are a result of my observation of the killer's character and demeanor throughout his history.
In no way do I mean disrespect to the Reaper nor do I seek to judge his motivations. He is what he is. The Reaper is not a man who acts without reason and purpose, and even his daily routines are carried out with an almost unerring calculation.
No one knows now where the Reaper is. It is rumored that he died years ago under the command of a Sergeant Bindoe, in the terrible battle known as the Great War, where the Northern and Southern king-gods clashed for the second time. The southern forces were ultimately thrown out of their forty year occupation of the Northern lands, and the Glorious Highlord Tektolnes suffered a great loss of soldiers, both high ranking and not.
Though the Reaper never officially served the Highlord, it is known that he carried out a number of killings for the God-King. His rank as a sub-human prevented him from truly joining the ranks of the Dragon, but his effectiveness and loyalty were never questioned, and he emerged as one of the most dangerous and yet under-estimated and unknown men in the history of the world.
The Reaper is truly one of the Highlord's greatest losses. This story is only a brief peek into the world of the Reaper. I intend to write a full manuscript at a later time, but at present, I am occupied in the copy of tomes from Steinal. These old books are priceless and are beginning to decompose, and the process of preserving them is crucial.
The full chronicles of the Reaper will have to wait until a later time.
Templar Signus Kinar - Historian of Tektolnes
The Reaper drew near the hallway which led to the Templar's room. He moved with confidence, his senses primed even here in this safe house. No place was truly safe, but the barracks of the templarate of Tektolnes was as close as it was possible to be. Here, no one died but who the templars deigned, and though it had happened before, the act of fouling one's own holy quarters was looked upon with disgust.
The Reaper was the only person in these halls who was not a human. Sub-humans were not accepted into the ranks of the Militia, other than the valuable half-giants, and certainly not into the ranks of the templarate. The Reaper was tolerated solely because of who he was.
No one truly noticed the dwarf, his manner of passage and air of belonging there blinding them to his race or identity. As always, when in public, or when any place where he might be noticed, he wore his mask and cloak.
The mask was an ugly thing, created from the skull of a gith. The back of the skull and the lower jaw had been removed, and the bone was dyed a dull black. On the forehead, a simple, blood red sickle was painted. His cloak was a similarly simple affair, blood red in color and unadorned but for faint black filigree, which served as trim for the cuffs and the hem of the garment.
The Reaper approached the doorway of the Templar's chambers. He glanced about, then listened for a moment. On the other side of the stone door, he could hear two voices. One was the Templar. The other was someone else, and the Reaper did not recognize the voice. This disturbed him, and he stood still, considering turning and leaving.
The thought was extremely brief. As always, the Reaper's mind worked in a simple and coherent manner, and he knew as soon as he heard the voice which he did not recognize that he would go in. He lifted his hand, wrapped in black leather and graced with the claws of an anakore, and knocked shortly upon the door.
The door was opened from the other side by someone he did not recognize, and he knew that this was the voice which he had heard. Sitting in the middle of the room was the Templar, seated at a large marble desk. The top of the desk was covered with various tomes and papers, some quills and ink, and a few sculptures; one a stone thing depicting a Templar in full robes, a ball of light, brought to life by a red ruby stone, clasped in the nad of the tiny figure, aloft and menacing, the other a simple obsidian and jade cross, serving as a paperweight. There were also a few assorted figurines: a mantis in death, a mul and a dwarf locked in combat, and an obsidian dragon, perched atop a metal city.
"Reaper. Come in." The Templar motioned to a chair opposite him, made of wood and black and jade streaked leather. "We'll talk."
The Reaper looked up at the man who had opened the door. The man was a soldier, clad in the garb of the Militia, and a captian by the insignia he wore. He was a hulking creature, tanned darkly, and wore heavy obsidian armor, marked with jade engravings. Across his back hung a huge warsword. He nodded shortly at the Reaper as he looked down at the dwarf, but the Reaper did not nod back. He simply proceeded into the scantily appointed room and took the seat indicated by the Templar.
"This is Captain Rillian, Reaper, and he was just leaving. We will speak in private." The Templar did not say this as a fact, but rather an order. The Captain bowed to the Templar and moved out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. The door clapped hard, the sound of stone on stone, and the sound echoed dully in the room.
The Reaper sat quietly in the wooden chair, his feet dangling above the black floor. His eyes studied the Templar without disguise, observing his hawkish features and his thinning hair, which still retained a glimmer of its former reddish color. The Templar wore the robes of the Red, and it was rumored that he would be next to be awarded the robes of the Black.
After a moment of rifling through his desktop of papers and books futilely, the Templar looked over the desk at the Reaper. He could understand why people who had seen the dwarf felt off-balance. The gruesome death's head where the face should be, the blood red cloak, the unadorned black leather armor, all combined to create an imposing figure, despite the Reaper's short stature. The Templar could call a hundred soldiers right now and this sub-human would be dead, but even he always felt secretly uneasy. A person simply was forced to admit their mortality in the face of this short killer. He had often thought that perhaps this was the Reaper's most useful gift, the way he made people feel off-balance. And it seemed so unintentional on the part of the Reaper.
The Templar swallowed and cleared his throat, easing himself back against the back of his own chair. The Reaper had not bowed to him upon entering. Such insolence was only tolerated because the Templar still had use for the Reaper. The Templar believed that the Reaper's time would soon come to an end. Even now, he had a killer training. Given a few more years, perhaps he would be the equal of the Reaper.
The silence in the room was stifling. The Reaper and the Templar both sat, studying one another. The Reaper did not stir, his clawed hands on his knees. The Templar watched the Reaper in turn. The best way to end these sorts of uncomfortable moments is to speak, and so the Templar did so. "Reaper, I've a task for you. There has been yet another outrage from the magicker Sethose. As you know, I've not been able to obtain his location, and the one time that he was sighted, twenty of the Highlord's soldiers died. I will not have this again."
"I have been awaiting your return from the North. Is the Yargay dead?" the Templar concluded. He sat forward, eyeing the Reaper and clasping his hands before him.
The Reaper's deep voice rolled like distant thunder from under the death's head mask. "Yes, he is." Then he was silent again, watching the Templar.
The Templar smiled, allowing a brief feeling of joy to occupy histhoughts. The Yargay had been a northern warchief, a man who had felt it his personal mission to cleanse the world of the wide-spread Allanaki presence. He had gleaned a small party of zealots from his tribe, the Ankar Dol, and these zealots had taken to the sands. From Tuluk to Luir's to Allanak itself, the warchief had led his followers on a bloody, astonishingly successful series of hit-and-run raids. He had been astonishingly elusive, and would show up anywhere he pleased, striking hard and fleeing. The man had seemed invincible.
But he was dead now. "And his men, the Sand's Own, as they called themselves, what of them?" the Templar asked the Reaper.
"They are also dead, Lord Templar," said the Reaper in a cold, deep deadpan. His claw-graced hands remained where they had the entire time, upon his black-leathered knees.
"Good, good. It is good that you do so well, Reaper. The Highlord is always grateful."
"Of course he is."
The Templar started to frown, but he knew the insolence had not been intentional. He carried on, mindful of the dwarf's impatience. Such foolishness could be tolerated when one was in private. Besides, the use of the dwarf was crucial, for the moment, at least.
"This Sethose, he will need to die, and soon. The Highlord is displeased with our inability to discover him. Although we can, of course, track him to the ends of the world, from the canyons to the Sea itself, it is looked upon more favorably to use others. So I charge you with this."
"He will die."
The Templar did not question the Reaper. He knew that he would not have to. So he only nodded. "Very good. Do you need any information on this man?"
"Where was he seen last?"
The Templar rifled through his cluttered desk again, finally pulling forth a thin leather notebook forth. He opened the book and scanned the pages, utilizing a skill that only those of noble blood possessed legally. Finally he came to the page he desired and stopped, reading down it quickly.
"South-east of Luir's some distance, near the old Conclave establishment. Do you know where that is?" he asked the Reaper, looking up from the words upon the page.
"Yes. There is nothing else of note?"
The Templar shook his head. "No. he did not fight, but faded away. Three units of our troops were headed out that way to escort a supply of Red Storm grain."
The Reaper nodded, a motion that looked less than human with the mask in place. "That is all I need then. I will return in three weeks or less with his head." He stood without preamble, sliding from the chair to the floor.
The Templar only nodded, watching the dwarf. The Reaper turned after giving a short bow of the head and walked to the door. He opened it. Outside, the Captain stood, fiddling with his cloak. He looked up as the Reaper emerged, then moved into the room as the Templar called his name.
The Reaper walked down the hall quietly, and when the Captain looked back after the dwarf, it took him a moment to spot him.
The Templar sighed and rose from the desk, straightening his red robes. "I despise that creature, yet his utility demands that he be kept alive. One day, we will train one of our own, and we will not need a dwarf to do our work. One day, I hope to see them all enslaved again."
The Captain grunted. "That is the Reaper then? He is...unnerving."
The Templar glanced at Captain Rillian. "For you, Captain. But one day, you will see that he is just a man. There is nothing supernatural to him, like the rumors seek to establish. He bleeds like any other man. Sit down. We have some things to go over."
The Reaper moved down the street known as Caravan Way. The road was busy with wagons and commoners, animals and people of all the four major races, and the black-cloaked soldiers of the Allanaki Militia. Tribal elves, regarded with suspicion even by their city kin, dashed at insane gaits through the crowded streets, and half-giants loomed here and there, looking about in their curious way or going about tasks with unerring solidarity. Dwarves, clad in the armors of various Houses or in the garb of the desert, trudged along, their short stature often hiding them among the more prevalent humans and elves.
The insects known as kanks carried their riders through the streets of the stone city in halting gait, and war beetles, inix and even sunback lizards could also be seen, their riders able to survey the street from a more advantageous point. Hulking mekillots, trained from birth to perform their tasks, pulled wagonsladen with gypsy wares, grain, meat, and all manners of stuffs through the seething mass of humanity. The streets of Allanak in the late afternoon resembled an overturned ant nest, all disorder and confusion.
Through it all the Reaper stalked, unnoticed and unhindered. While most were coming in for shelter from the impending Zalanthan night, he was leaving. He liked the solitude of the wilderness, the quietness of it all, and the ever looming presence of danger. He hated mounts, but he was forced to utilize one now, for even on kankback Luir's Outpost lay nearly three days away.
So he entered the stables just off of Caravan Way. The half-giant stablehand led his black kank from the stables, after he had presented the proper ticket and amount of coin. The hulking creature did not bother to even think of the little person's odd appearance, and lumbered off on his feeding duty. The Reaper draped his packs over the kank's back and mounted the creature.
The Reaper rode from the gates just as the soldiers were closing it. Behind him, as he faced the dimming red desert, he could hear the call, "Close the gates." He sighed and looked up at the sky. There was a storm coming, and the desert lay in silent homage to its impending arrival.
As he gazed over the sandy dunes before him, he could see nothing moving. Grunting shortly to himself, he passed under the giant iron dragon perched over the gates to Allanak and turned the black kank to the north-east, his cloak's loose folds snapping in the rising wind as the insect moved over the loose ground.
The Regular named Karl stood at the southern gates of Luir's Outpost, the infamous headquarters of the Kuraci Merchant House. Once the hideaway of the Dragon's right hand man, Luir, so it was rumored, the ancient stone edifice stood on the crest of the Shield Wall, its imposing black walls and sharp spires creating a vision against the sunset.
Karl's heart swelled with pride every time he looked at the Outpost so. Even with the vile Allanaki presence, the Outpost was splendid, in a deadly way. Looking over at the Militia soldier who stood at the gates with him, Karl could see that even this barbarian was impressed. No one could deny the sheer dominating presence of the Outpost.
The sun was setting and the white moon was high in the sky now, with the red moon following closely, as though the two minor bodies were racing one another. Karl's relief would be here soon, and he could go to the Storm's Eye and drink a couple of ales, and maybe even get that serving girl into bed. Shali was her name, and a beauty no less. Dark, raven hair, and skin like the sand itself in color. Huge breasts, wide hips, and a behind that made Karl think of things other than swords. Green eyes, and lips so full...
Karl almost missed the motion of the Allanaki soldier who had been admiring the profile of the Outpost with him earlier. He saw a black and jade swirl from the corner of his eye and turned, casting his gaze on the soldier, whose features were unseen beneath the heavy black helm almost all Allanaki soldiers wore. The soldier was questioning a dwarf who had entered the gates.
The dwarf was unremarkable. He wore a dusty sand colored aba, and his leathers were worn. A spear hung on his back, and he held the reins to a black kank. His skin was black, and his eyes shielded by a pair of worn sunslits. He looked the part of a hunter, or a mercenary. There were plenty of his type here in Luir's.
"I have just come in from the sands, hunting," the dwarf said. There was a odd quality in his voice that sent a shiver down Karl's spine. If the Soldier felt the same, the helm hid his reaction.
"Yeah? You look unfamiliar...and your kank is unusual," said the soldier, his voice reedy and dust ridden. He adjusted his hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist as he looked at the black-shelled kank; to Karl, the motion seemed to be a nervous one.
"I am a hunter. Sometimes these sands cast forth anomalies. I was fortunate enough to capture one of those. I am not from here, at any rate. I am from Red Storm, where your grain is grown. I assure you, I will not be here long. But night approaches, and I wish to rest in a civilized place for a while." The dwarf glanced at Karl, and though he could not see the eyes, he felt unsettled. He made his way to the soldier and the dwarf, straightening his dun colored cloak in an attempt to appear important.
"We do get hunters who are not from around here," Karl told the soldier. "You are new here, but surely even in the great city of Allanak, there are those you do not know."
The soldier looked irritated and waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "Yeah, yeah, that's so. But I was interested in his kank...the insect's unusual." The soldier turned back to the place where the dwarf was. Karl did as well, snorting softly.
The dwarf was gone. The Allanaki soldier looked around for a while and then shrugged, and Karl's relief came shortly thereafter. Banil was the Kuraci's name, and he clapped Karl on the back with a chuckle, telling him that Shali was in the inn even now...
Life was a circle, thought the Reaper, as he sat atop a dune in the desert, just west of the Salt Flats. Luir's was a day and a half behind him now, and the desert, eternal and imposing, was his and the wildlife's alone. He munched idly on a dry strip of chalton meat, and sipped sparingly from his leather waterskin. His black kank sat beside him, feeding on the grass pellets that the Reaper reserved as feed for the insect.
Far away, treading over the desolate saltlands, wild mekillots could be seen, monsters who could wipe an entire division of unwary Byn mercenaries. Most of the huge lizards were a ruddy red, monstrous creatures with thick necks and mouth full of sharp teeth, Their prey crawled along the same saltflats, huge ugly worms with no conceivable purpose but to feed the mekillots.
Perhaps half a mile away, in a valley between the dune the Reaper sat upon and another smaller dune, a small lizard with shimmering skin gave a shrill squall of pleasure as it snared the scorpion it had been stalking. Vultures circled overhead, ugly creatures with bald necks and heads and cruel curved beaks. They transcribed listless circles in the red sky, searching the waste for a newly dead creature. A variety of other animals, some small, some large, stalked the dunes all around the Reaper, carrying on with their life as their kind had done forever.
Yes, life was a circle, reasoned the Reaper, as he watched all of this. The strong preyed upon the weak, and the weak in turn preyed upon the strong. The strong preyed through force, and the weak through guile and deceit.
He took the jozhal as an example: the little lizard fed upon the small insects of the desert. He in turn was hunted by hunters with two legs and four alike, but survived through sheer trickery. The scorpion the Reaper had just watch the lizard kill had fallen prey, but other scorpions had stung other lizards, then used them as food. Everything came about in a time.
The Reaper, however, seemed to be above the circle of life. Yes, he had once been prey. He did not tell the Templar who he worked for this, but he knew that the man had tried to have him killed even as he sent him out on a mission the first time, long ago. After the Reaper had killed the target, a woman named Doria, three men had ambushed him on the way back to Allanak.
He remembered the event like it was yesterday. The single, vibrating thump in his heart as the men had approached, like ghosts from the sands on the horizon. There had been silence, and the killers had not made demands. The Reaper likewise knew what they were there to do. So there had been a brief moment before the influx of sheer violence, and the killers had circled one another, sizing each other up.
The Templar had underestimated the Reaper, of course, for the dwarf had escaped the ambush, killing one of the men and seriously wounding another. Perhaps it had been a test, perhaps an actual attempt to end his breath. But that event had taught the dwarf a valuable lesson. Trust is hard earned. There had been other attempts, or the rumors of such, but there were no one who even knew who the Reaper was, much less anyone capable of nearing him unawares.
In a way, he understood the devious elves. They set tests for anyone whom they felt they might even wish to trust. But the Reaper did not. He did not want to trust anyone. He was a loner. To him, trust was a weakness reserved for the mundane population, not for a killer who lived by wits and skill alone.
The Reaper knew that he had a touch of the arcane in him. He did not have to try to invoke it. It simply worked of its own accord. He had turned minds without a word, by thinking. He could see magickers who twisted the very fabric of reality itself to hide, and he had a sense of danger before there even was such. His dwarven heritage made him naturally semi-resistant to magick and poison alike, but he had come from the womb nearly invulnerable to such, so strong was his blood.
His touch was something that the Reaper did not think of often. He preferred to keep that portion of himself hidden away, even from himself. As a child, he had known what he would do even before he was ten. He had discovered his focus after he had attended his first hunting trip. The joy he had experienced while assisting his father had been unparalleled. The two raiders who had tried to rob them on the way back to the farm had been even more exquisite to kill.
He pulled the sickles from their black sheaths at his belt and examined them. They had not seen blood in nearly two weeks now. He loved and trusted the weapons. They could lop the head from a man or lance through leather armor or through a gap in bone gear like a needle, piercing the heart or some other vital organ. He pulled a black stone from his packs, rough and created for the purpose of honing the thin obsidian weapons. He had once been promised a set of black iron sickles by the Templar when he had first entered the Highlord's service, but that had been some seven years ago. He did not expect to see them between now and the day he died.
He glanced up as he sharpened his weapons, scanning the barren desertscape. There, to the north, moving through the sands, was a lone figure. He could tell by the way the air around the figure shimmered that the person was a magicker. But his eyes were sharp, and he could also tell that it was not the man he had been sent to kill.
The Reaper was not one to kill for no reason. He knew that unreasonable murder was regrettable, but the bloody act gave him pleasure, and so the path of a killer was his excuse to continue killing without moral objections. He bore no being hate, for hate made one irrational. The Reaper was a logical creature, and he refused to dilute it by allowing emotional outbursts or even thoughts. He remembered the way his father and mother had reacted after he had come to this realization. He had not been back to the farm since.
He pulled his hood back, rubbing his bald head as he watched the faraway figure. He knew the magicker could or had not seen him, and in fact, was going the other way. He pulled his hood in place again, then sheathed the sickles in their separate sheaths. He put the stone away and the meat and water, then picked the mask up from its position on the sand beside him. He placed the thing over his face, covering his features, tying it about his head. Then he stood up and looked out over the waste, his stout form small against the desolation.
He mounted the black kank and secured his saddlebags, then clicked to the insect and guided it down the slippery dune. To the south lay the village of Red Storm East. It was several days away from where he was now, and he was positive that in that time, he would find the defiler's hideaway. It could not be the Conclave...
The morning was hot and early, the unrelenting sun rising and breaking through the night's sandstorm with violent quickness. Despite this, Krath was too late to greet the Reaper, for the killer was already moving, guiding the black kank over the sands, which had turned from reddish dunes to brown and white slopes and rises. To the west, the Salt Flats lay out of sight, while to the east, the imposing natural walls which marked the end of the known world could be seen as a dim line across the horizon.
The Reaper had been out in the sands for nearly three days. Tonight, he hoped to be in Red Storm East, and carry out his search for the defiler from there. It was a known fact that the persons of Red Storm hated magickers, and any sightings would more than likely be critical information. He had no doubt that the farmers and silt sailors of the seaside grain growing community would assist him with information if it was possible.
He had passed the Conclave a day ago. It had been silent but for the mysterious thudding that sounded like the boom of long dead drums. It was popularly held that the Conclave's compound was locked up tightly, by unknown forces and means. For the Reaper however, it was not, and so as he had entered by his side way, he had lurked for nearly an hour, going through the dry and dusty halls and rooms. As he had traversed the old structure's rooms, making certain that no one was present, the thudding had pounded into his head, its source unknown and unfindable. He had finally left, the undead drums pounding in his head still.
Even a day later, his ears still throbbed dully, but it was going away. Dawn had died by the time he brought his kank up a dune and pulled it to a halt. Something was going on to the west. He looked out over the dunes, his cold eyes narrowing behind the frozen grimace of his mask. A massive mekillot loomed in the dunes nearly three leagues away, thrashing violently. The Reaper squinted and frowned. The mekillot was more than twenty miles from its territory. He wondered what the giant lizard was doing so far from its own lands. One could wander, of course, but generally, the lizards did not do so unless greatly agitated. Perhaps the monster was even now bearing down on a party of ignorant hunters.
The Reaper shrugged and clicked to the black kank, turning it away from the speck in the distance and heading towards the south. The Killer had no time to investigate, nor the desire to do so. He had survived for a long time by simply existing, allowing all but his prey to do so as well without help or hindrance. The mekillot would live or die alone. He had moved perhaps twenty feet when he pulled the insect to such an abrupt halt that the normally docile creature protested with an irritable clicking of its mandibles.
The desert had gone silent. City folk would swear that but for the winds, the desert was always silent. This was not so. One who spent any amount of time in the sands could hear the speech of nature, the sound of growth, and the comfortable language of death and life. But that familiar sound was gone right now. The desert was silent, and not even the light wind, which blew from the west, made much more noise than a whisper.
The Reaper cocked his head, holding both him and his insect almost completely still. He pushed his hood back from his head, revealing his smooth, bald black head. His faintly pointed ears took in every sound available. He listened so hard that he even heard his insect's heartbeat.
There it was again. A barking laughter. The Reaper's red eyes narrowed, and his head turned. The faint breeze brought the sound of the mekillot to his ears, and he could hear it dying. And something else came to his ears. The laughter of jakhals.
The Reaper did some quick reasoning as the sun beat down upon him, burning the sands about him in its daily manner. The only regular place jakhals were to be found was deep in the Canyons of Waste. That was west of Allanak, and some distance at that. For jakhals to be this far up north only meant one thing. The killer pulled his hood up with a frantic and fast motion.
He whirled the black insect under him and prodded the creature to a run, urging it down the brown dune he had been on. Sand sprayed up behind the insect's legs as it covered the leagues in a rapid skitter. As he rode, the killer tightened the straps on the small black shield he used on his right arm, and made certain that his crescent killing tools were loose in their sheaths. His blood red cloak flared and rode up, sweeping from around his frame and up over his shoulders like unnatural wings as he rode into the oncoming breeze.
To the west, ahead of him, less than two miles away, the mekillot was dying. He watched the monster crash to the ground, writhing in its death throes. Its ruddy hide was spotted with darker red, and he knew that the creature's lifeblood was leaking from its massive form. And around the dying lizard, he could see a pack of black lizards, miniscule side by side with the mekillot's bulk. Then he saw a looming humanoid, and he cursed and pulled the reins hard, bringing the kank up around and behind a dune, out of sight of the pack of hunting jakhals.
He came from off the kank, bringing it to its knees so that it could rest. He hobbled the insect and bared a sickle. Dropping to his belly, he worked his way around the side of the dune, staying low to the ground. Overhead, cast as profiles against the red of the Zalanthan sky, seven vultures circled, marking the place of the dying mekillot. And the sounds of barking laughter reached his sharp ears, along with the death rattles of the giant lizard.
He crested the dune on his belly, dragging his short body through the white and brown sands. Below him, he counted nine of the vicious lizards who were still alive, though a few were wounded, and eleven of their comrades dead about the gigantic corpse of the mekillot. The looming humanoid he had seen was a braxat, uncharacteristically clad in several pieces of heavy armor and wielding a massive warhammer. And even this massive shelled humanoid was small next to the corpse of the mekillot.
The killer groaned to himself. He disliked half-giants because of their lack of cause. But the primal braxat were even worse, for not only did they lack the childish intelligence of a half-giant, but they were much more aggressive and single-minded. One was not likely to be able to be distracted as a half-giant might be, nor could they be reasoned with.
He watched as the jakhals tore the flesh from the dead mekillot, and grunted as the braxat produced several huge canvas sacks, walking about and collecting the meat. The teamwork was exceedingly odd. Braxat did not have the intelligence to work magick, and yet, there were the unnatural jakhals. Natural jakhals were of a different color, not much different from that of a jozhal. This only produced one logical answer. Both were working for another.
It was late afternoon by the time the hunters finished with their task and the Reaper crept back to his kank. He throat was parched, and he quickly consumed a few swallows of precious water. Then he mounted up, pulling the black insect back into the shadows of the dune. He watched as the jakhals and the braxat passed his location and moved towards the east. He waited for a half hour before allowing himself to ease from the shade of the dune. Even as deadly as he was, he did not want to face a horde of jakhals and a braxat together. So he waited until they were gone.
He picked up the trail, and over the next three hours, he followed it relentlessly. It was late at night when he reached the trail's end. Ahead of him, the cliffs which marked the end of the known world loomed above him. He frowned, looking up at the face of the cliff. All around him, the deadly desert spread, but here at the foot of the cliffs, chunks of rocks from landslides over eons of time lay embedded in the white and brown sands.
There. Crude stairs, carved into the very cliffside itself, crawled up the side of the natural stone walls, and disappeared in the darkness of the one moon night. But the white moon relentlessly forced its light down through the heavy dust in the air, and a darkness darker than the darkness which marked the presence of the walls themselves marked the entrance to a cave, some fifty feet above the ground.
The Reaper was not comfortable with entering the cave with night approaching. This defiler, Sethose, was known for his deeds in the dark of night, and the Reaper held it to reason that if the man was more familiar with the night, that it was best to work during the day, despite that the cave itself might be dark regardless. He had no idea how far back the cave ranged, or what was up there. He only knew that the trail the heavily-laden braxat and the jakhals had laid ended here, and so it also held to reason that this defiler dwelt within. Typically, defilers did not share territory, and since the jakhals that he had seen could only be conjured up by a defiler, to the best of his knowledge, the sorcerer he was to kill must dwell within.
He elected to spend the night at the base of the cliff, and to climb the steps in the morning, when he could see. He hobbled his kank and unpacked his saddlebags. From them he produced several herbs and began to brew a mixture in a small wooden cup with a bit of water from his supply. When the mixture was thick and only marred by the most minute specks of herbs, he produced his sickles and coated them in the syrupy liquid, then brought forth the five black skull-hilted knives from the baldric about his torso and coated them as well.
These he laid aside to dry in the warm night air, then delved into the saddlebags again. He pulled a quiver of ten bolts and a small black crossbow forth. The bow he strapped to his belt. The solid bone bolts he dipped into the remainder of the mixture, tipping the cup to gain the most of the syrup. Then he laid the bolts aside to dry, alongside the sickles and throwing knives.
The cup he washed out and placed back in his bags. Then he brought forth some chalton jerky and several travel cakes. He sat silently in the sands, cross-legged, and ate and drank as the night wore on about him. In the distance, the desert sang its unending song, the howl of the wind and the cries of night creatures a symphony in the darkness.
The moon was on the horizon, seeking solitude, and the red moon was rising across the world, when the killer picked up his weapons and began to stow them. He slid the sickles into their sheaths again, then his quiver of bolts, minus one, on the other side of his laden belt. The free bolt he loaded into the crossbow, but he did not wind the weapon. He replaced the ranged weapon on his belt and slid the five knives into his baldric.
The Reaper sat back down, his eyes on the cave before him, and removed his mask, letting the cool breeze strike his features. His mind drifted even as his senses remained primed. His memories carried him back a number of years, before he had become who he was.
He was only twenty-three then, his body bursting with energy, his mind with childish notions. Yet even then, he had been in love with death for nearly thirteen years. There was never to be another thing to replace it. But there was something very close, in those days.
He had been hunting men for nearly five years by then, collecting bounties and heads. There was enough killing then to satisfy his cravings, before the actual bloodlust had taken hold of him. He had put no thought to having children or a mate, but he had his natural male urges, and had entertained them any number of times.
One took his fancy as no other had. She had been a Bynner, in the Scorpion Unit, and she was almost twice his age. She was slim for a dwarf, yet more than an equal for any human female in stoutness. Her structure was defined as though she had been sculpted from a rock, and she was no whore. It was not her powerful frame that overwhelmed his senses though, nor her playful streak, rare in a dwarf. He had fallen in love with her eyes. They were blue, but they almost glowed, they had been so bright. Against the sandy brown of her skin, they had shone like jewels. His time with her had been so short. It was almost unthinkable, to have cast his life away as he had, his family and all, and yet to have this stranger whom he only saw in the Gaj Tavern capture his heart. Her name had been K'jay, and she had taken a liking to him as well. After a month and three days, they had made love.
He had spent three bounties of obsidian on a room and dinner for her, a vast expenditure for the frugal Reaper. After they had eaten the dinner of nobles and aides, rare meat from a bahamet and wine from the North's finest vineyards, they made love for long hours on a bed covered with fur from an animal the killer had never recognized. When they came, it was seconds apart, and they lay together, the cool breeze easing in the lone window and wafting over their naked, sweating forms as they lay intertwined.
In the morning, K' jay had risen, walking to the window and looking down upon the street from their second floor room. The rising sun profiled her powerful body as it crept up in the ruddy sky to announce the beginning of another day. She had turned half-way, one of her firm, large-nippled breasts visible, and smiled at him, her brilliant blue eyes flashing, before she collected her Byn wear. She had dressed, and he had lain silent upon the bed, gathering her in, watching her fluid motions.
Even now, years later, he remembered her whispered promise before she left the room. She had bitten his ear roughly and then, as softly as a feather, had murmured, "You are mine, Thunderstone, and I am yours." Then she had left and he had smiled, and his mind had eased, and his bloodlust had almost seemed to disappear. He never saw her again. When she did not come to the tavern that night, he asked the Sergeant who had been her superior officer where she was. During a mission that day, the veteran mercenary said, in the sands to the south of the city, K' jay had died to a gith's spear. They had not brought her body with them, the officer said when the Reaper pressed. There had been no time. For all he knew, the wildlife was consuming it even now.
The boy that would become the Reaper drew a dagger and cut the officer's throat there in the Gaj, in front of everyone, and then left and disappeared into the streets. He had left the city under the cover of night and rode out to where the battle had taken place. There, miraculously, lay K' jay's naked body, untouched, surrounded by three ravaged gith corpses.
He buried her there, under the twin moons' gaze, and promised her that he would never love another. Then he had risen as the sun had done the same, and disappeared for six years before returning as the Reaper.
The sun was rising again now, and he watched the first ray of light creep over the distant horizon. Soon it would be time to enter the cave. He forced his mind to the present. He replaced the mask on his face and tied the silk cord which held it on. He got to his feet and checked his gear once more. Then he moved towards the stairs, visible now in the light of Krath's burgeoning wrath.
Something made him halt. To the north, still a league away, two figures were approaching, moving with purpose across the sands and following the line of the sheer stone walls. Beneath the bone mask, the Reaper's brow furrowed, and he tuned his senses in that direction. Everything about them seemed ordinary enough. But one never knew, and the killer did not want to face danger from two separate angles. He forced himself back to his kank, glancing up at the cave entrance, and sat, waiting.
One was a human, a giant black man named Chable. The other was an very short elf, tanned and scarred and slender even for his kind, and his name was Kry. They both loped across the sands without need of kank, their belongings strapped across their backs. They wore desert colored sandcloth, and the elf carried a long barbed spear, while the big man wore a large two-handed battleaxe on top of his pack. They had been a pair for ten or more years, and spent their days searching for treasure. As far as they knew, they had covered much of the known world, but the elf Kry often spoke of finding new and undiscovered things.
Chable would chuckle and make light of Kry's ambitions, but the ambition of stealing long lost treasure from undiscovered tombs and cities appealed to him as much as it did the elf. Perhaps this is why they made such a good team.
The elf, as all elves do, despised the concept of using a mount for his journeys, and years ago Chable, when he had discovered that the elf could outdistance his beloved yellow kank, had abandoned the insect and taken to his feet as well. It had not gone well at first, but he had gotten to the point where he could sprint as fast as the elf could jog. He was always looking for a new challenge and, the elf warned him, this concept of ever matching an elf in running across the desert was as unwinnable a situation as he had ever come across. Chable would always chuckle and gasp and keep running.
Both of them saw the short figure beside the black kank as they moved towards the location that Kry had scouted out. Chable huffed and glanced over at the elf, but Kry kept running, shrugging back. Neither bothered with words when they were running. They had been together so long that they could read each other's movements.
The sun had managed to pull itself halfway up when they came to the foot of the cliff where the cave stood. Chable came to a halt next to the wall and bent over, catching his breath, while Kry loped towards the cloaked dwarf in an unassuming gait, nodding amiably.
"Ho, traveler," the elf said as he came up to the stranger. "What brings you out this way? Just heading out from your camp?" Kry looked about as he said this, and noticed that there was no campsite. He sized the short man up and glanced out over the dunes, checking for traps.
"No," came the voice of the dwarf, rumbling like thunder from under the mask secreting his face. "If you are looking for trouble, it is wise for you to look elsewhere. You will die on these sands if you force your acts here."
The elf stepped back, his hands raised, and glanced sidelong at Chable, who was still bent over. "Nothing like that, traveler. Just trying be friendly and all. No reason for violence."
He motioned around the desert. "Just what are you doing out this way?" The short man pointed upwards.
"I have come for the man in there. You should go your way."
Chable had managed to catch his breath by now, and overheard the stranger as he came up by Kry. He looked up at the cave entrance and then glanced at Kry. "Ain't nobody up there, lad," he told the cloaked dwarf. "Just an empty cave. My mate here done been up there before. Just a big empty cave." It was a lie, but if the short man had come for treasure, it just might discourage him. For some reason, the big man did not like the idea of facing the dwarf, and he could tell that Kry did not either from the way he kept shifting his stance and looking out over the endless dunes.
The dwarf shrugged. "Then I am going up to kill the man whom I think is there. When I leave, you may return unhindered."
The scarred elf squinted, eyeing the masked dwarf. "Just who is up there?"
"The sorcerer Sethose."
Chable looked up that the cave in alarm, then frowned. "Uh...n...Kry, did you see anything odd? Like, something that probably shouldn't have been there?"
Kry looked up at the cave and then at the dwarf. "Hmm. All you want is the magicker's head?" he asked, ignoring Chable and watching the silent dwarf.
The dwarf nodded but did not respond. Chable tapped his friend's shoulder with a thick finger. "Why don't we let him go on in and do whatever he does, then we can go in later? I don't like the idea of facing any sort of magick. 'Member Stockal? That was not fun!"
Kry glanced over at the big black man. "What if we go with him? Then he can't take what we want, and if we can help him kill a magicker, then more power to us."
Chable gaped at the elf. "Krath no! I ain't going toe to toe with no jakhals and odd monsters! Go if you want, but when you don't come back, I'm selling that gold coin and keeping the sid fer myself!"
Kry shrugged and turned back to the dwarf. "Do you want help?" he asked, watching the cloaked dwarf. "My name's Kry, and this big lummox here is Chable. If there's magick up there, like you says there is, then you shouldn't mind an extra arm or two. I ain't bad with the spear, and ain't nobody swing an axe better than Chable here."
"Kankfucker!" raged the giant human. "Said I ain't going. All that woodoo stuff is for the insane."
The elf tried to reason with Chable, waving his arms in an animated fashion, as he did whenever he was exasperated. "Look, you slow-footed human. If he goes in without us, he can snatch the treasure or he could die, and then we would have to face the damned magicker alone. If we go in with him, we can make sure he don't steal any of the treasure and make sure that he finds his man. It's a must-go either way!"
Chable threw up his own hands, grumbling. "Fuck you and your thinking, Kry, you gaj-lovin', death hunting longear. Dear Whira, why do I take up with these sorts of idiots?" he mumbled to himself, beseeching the sky, but he pulled the hefty battleaxe from his pack and began giving it a once over.
The dwarf shrugged. "Come as you will then." And he turned and moved towards the steps, baring a sickle and tightening the straps of his shield.
Kry glanced at his partner and sprinted up the stairs, coming up directly behind the dwarf, who took the stairs one at a time, purpose in his step. The elf checked his own gear as he followed the dwarf, glancing back to see Chable lumbering up the stairs with the massive axe over his left shoulder and a dark scowl knitting his brow. The elf snickered.
"Kry, you and your friend are an odd couple," the dwarf commented without looking back.
"You ain't too common yourself, friend," countered the elf. "Not every person I run into wants to go hunting magickers. What's your name?"
"If you ever know my name, it will be just before you die."
The elf growled in irritation. "You are astoundingly confident, stranger. You're about to go into a cave you think belongs to a magicker...no, wait...a sorcerer even, and you got two folks you don't know but what might want to kill you, and all you have to say is slick jibes and kankshit." He chuckled. "Better be glad we need you, or we'd be testing your confidence right now, buddy."
The dwarf stopped so abruptly that the elf almost ran into him. The dwarf turned on the narrow stairway and stared at the elf for a long moment. Behind Kry, Chable had finally caught up. The black man blinked down at the dwarf.
"And you would be dead. I am the Reaper," said the dwarf, and the killer turned and began ascending the stairs again. Behind him, the elf looked at Chable with wide eyes and then hurried to catch up to the dwarf.
"Heard of ya, but never thought I'd meet you, man," said the elf as he caught up to the killer. "I thought you were a story mothers told their kids to scare them to sleep. But wait, how do I know you really are the Reaper, and didn't just say that to scare me?"
The dwarf took the last step and stood on the brink of the cave. "You will know or you will not. I do not care," he said, staring into the darkness beyond. "Now, will one of you carry the torch?"
The Reaper frowned as he pushed into the caverns which lay beyond the deceptively simple cave entrance. The trio had been in the dry tunnels for an hour now, but it was still cool down here, far away from the volatile heat of Krath. The elf was the one carrying the torch, which was guttering. It was almost time to cast it away and light another.
The killer was surprised to be frank. They had encountered nothing as they had pushed into the aimless, beehive-like maze, trudging ever eastwards. He had expected at least face a small-scale assault by this time, but there was none to be had. Behind him, the two explorers were whispering in low voices about the annoying lack of treasure to be found thus far.
They pushed on for another hour through the endless tunnels before the killer called a rest. He could hear the big man rasping for breath, his grunts echoing through the thin air. The big man groaned in relief and sank to his knees, and the elf sat down beside him. The Reaper sat across from the duo and crossed his legs, closing his eyes.
The two newcomers seemed to be reasonably intelligent, and he had not felt the urge to kill them that he usually felt when meeting newcomers. The elf was the brains of the team, while the man provided the brawn. He knew the elf was suitably impressed, while the human didn't really care. He knew that the two would likely try to kill him after Sethose was dead, and he began to even now plan for when that happened.
Kry's voice broke his thoughts, and he opened his eyes, eyeing the elf from behind the facade of the death's head mask. "So, tell us, Reaper, are all those stories true, like when you took on a whole raiding party of escaped muls and killed them all in hand to hand combat?" the elf asked, his amber eyes prying.
"I did not kill them in hand to hand combat."
"Oh..." and the elf seemed to be at a lose for another subject. But the human had a question, and his rich voice, a tenor which would have been demanded in any troupe of bards that the Reaper had ever heard, rolled forth, bouncing from the walls of the tunnels.
"What are we supposed to be expecting in these tunnels, Reaper? You ever killed a magicker before? What, giant worms, dragons, what?"
The Reaper looked at the man and shrugged. "Many things are possible. Living statues of stone and metal, packs of black jakhals, walking and fighting skeletons...many things. You must be prepared for anything, at anytime. Sorcerers are not chained by the typical laws of nature."
The big man tilted his head and cast his brown eyes upon the Reaper's masked face. "Then why do you think that you can kill him?" "I am the Reaper," answered the dwarf simply. "Despite all of the chains that this magick-worker can break, there is one that he can never sever. That is the chain of blood. When it leaves his body, he will die, and all of the chains that are broken will relink themselves."
Kry smirked. "If he don't kill you first." The elf studied the killer in the flickering light of the bone torch. "Why do you travel alone? It's dangerous for folks to be traveling alone nowadays, with all the gith and such. Then there are the Blackmoon and other raiders. Do you have no friends?"
"I have none, and desire no friend."
"You always been that way?"
"Always is a long time. I once had friends, before I was the Reaper. Now I do not."
Kry grimaced and glanced at Chable. "Well," he told the Reaper. "I suppose that you do not need any. But I and Chable here, we intend you no harm. If what you say is true, then we won't tell anyone about you. You'll get your man, we'll get our gold, and all will be well."
"When the sorcerer is vanquished, I will leave and go my way, and you will go yours. You will never see me again. And do not be fearful of telling others of me. I want the fools to know that death is coming."
The elf snickered and rose. "As you like, Master Reaper." He looked around as Chable rose beside him, hefting the giant battleaxe. The killer did not rise, and sat looking off into the darkness, his _expression hidden behind the gruesome death's head mask.
Chable looked down at the dwarf and frowned, looking off into the same direction. "What's the problem, lad? You see something?"
The killer held one hand up, the finger extended, and stared silently into the passageway. Suddenly he rolled to his feet. "Arm yourselves," he said, freeing his sickles and tossing his shield aside. "We are about to have company."
Kry dropped the dim torch and pulled his spear from his back. As he brought the weapon to bear on the tunnel, a odd clattering sound reached his ears, and then a band of reanimated skeletons were among the trio, moving spryly and wielding great swords and hammers. They were a motley crew, the dead remains of dwarves and elves and humans, but the reanimated bones fought with a deadly relentlessness.
Chable hacked the head from one and blocked the blow from another, but the beheaded skeleton kept coming, swinging its weapon blindly and furiously. Kry sprang into the midst of three of the creatures, stabbing and smashing the blunt end of his weapon into the skulls of the monsters.
The Reaper dashed forward, sweeping up a dropped hammer and sheathing his sickles. Then he was among the walking bones in a rage, the undead weapon falling among their ranks like the hammer of some long dead god. Bones shattered, weapons flew, and in the end the two travelers and the killer stood amidst a heap of shattered skulls and ground bone.
Kry glanced at the dwarf. "Uh, Master Reaper," he said, motioning to the killer's arm. "Shall I bind that for you?" As he spoke, he pulled a clay jar of some foul scented balm and a pair of bandages from his belt.
The Reaper considered the elf for some time before finally unlacing the sleeve on his left arm. One of the skeletons had managed to lay a blade on the dwarf, despite his speed. He watched silently as the elf applied the amber-colored balm to the shallow wound, then bound the wound with the bandages and secured them. Then the Reaper laced his sleeve up again.
The killer moved away without a word, dropping the hammer and pulling his sickles forth again, after strapping his dropped shield to his back. He moved into the darkness of the tunnel from whence the skeleton unit had appeared. Kry scooped up the torch and scurried after the cloaked dwarf, Chable hot on his heels.
As Kry caught up to the dwarf, Chable ambling blindly behind him, the Reaper spoke, his bass voice low and brooding. "We are close. One should be watchful."
The elf nodded and dropped back some, relaying the news to the big black man. Chable grumbled but nodded, and together, the three explorers moved deeper into the caverns.
Sethose had lived longer than most of the world's population. The stick thin, hawk-nosed human was one hundred and thirty-eight years old, nearly half a lifetime longer than most dwarves lived. Until the last two years, he had lived in solitude, his powers his only solstice. For a while, he had a female elven slave. He had amused himself with her company for many years before she died of old age.
He did not crave human contact, and this recent rash of personal appearances was not his cup of ginka wine, but it was necessary. He knew that he had perhaps a few more decades of life, but he wanted more. It was his hope that his power would attract the attention of one of the God-Kings. If he could draw one of them out, then he could perhaps discover the secrets of their eternal lives. Then he could kill them all and rule the world himself. He had been perfecting his plan for the last seventy five years. He did not intend to fail.
He glanced over at the huge black rat that scampered up onto the arm of his stone throne. The rodent was as big as a baby gortok, and its fur was sleek and well-kept, unlike its city brethren. He frowned as the rat chittered.
"Oh?" he grated, stroking the rat's fur. "The skeletons did not halt their progress. Very well, then let the gates of Drov open for the fools. I'll not be thwarted by a trio of ignorant, ambitious glory-seekers." He waved his hands, mumbling several words, and the very rock of the floor before Sethose shifted and spewed forth six bulky hunched beings, with eyes of onyx and skin the grey of the granite which had birthed them.
"There are some explorers nearby who wish to die," he addressed the elementals. "Ensure that they do so." The living rocks nodded with an odd grating sound and ambled away with thick steps into the darkness of the hallway beyond the sorcerer's chambers.
"But what idiot sends out a group to only test his guests' talents? Let it not be said that I was a man who did not believe in overkill," the sorcerer said to the big black rat, and he motioned to one side of his throne. The braying laughter of jakhals filled the room. He only glanced at them, and they loped off into the same darkness that had swallowed the elementals.
As they disappeared, a dull thud reached his ears, signaling the arrival of the braxat called Brixx. The hulking creature moved into the sorcerer's cavernous chambers, bending his head to enter. He came to a stop before the sharp-eyed old man.
"Brixx, we have visitors. Please make sure that my hospitality is not remembered," said the old man, peering up into the dull eyes of the sub-human. The shelled braxat grinned crookedly and shrugged a shoulder, clapping the head of the huge warhammer he carried against his meaty palm.
"Shore nuf, Lord Mashter. Brixx be the general you wanting," the hulking thing said, then turned, bending his head again as he moved into the darkness.
Sethose smiled subtly to himself and petted his rat, returning his mind to the task so many years in the making.
They had gone deeper into the tunnels, and Kry was wondering just how close they really were to the sorcerer's lair when a roar ripped through the caverns. Chable stopped and brought his axe to bear, and Kry dropped the torch and whipped out his spear. But the killer moved on, leaving them both in the darkness. Kry cursed and scoped up the torch again, hurrying after the dwarf.
He was about to ask the dwarf in no uncertain terms why he had left them, but the dwarf stopped in his tracks so fast that the elf almost ran him over. Then the killer dropped into the crouch of a stalker, his left arm flickering and reappearing with a small black crossbow readied. His bass voice echoed through the tunnel. "Give me light, and keep it steady."
Kry did as ordered, looking around and seeing nothing. Chable did not see anything either, and said so pointedly. The song of flying crossbow bolts greeted his words, and there were five distinct thumps, and then the Reaper came to his feet. He put the crossbow away and produced his sickles again, then nodded shortly and said, "We can proceed now."
They had gone only five cords into the darkness when Kry saw what the Reaper had seen. Embedded in the eye of a black jakhal, a short bolt protruded. As they moved on, he saw four more of the dead lizards, a bolt in a vital part of each corpse. He grimaced as he stalked through the tunnels, following the killer. "How did you know they were there?"
"I saw them," said the Reaper, and he came to another halt, holding up a hand for silence. Then he turned his head towards what seemed to be a solid portion of the tunnel, his _expression hidden. "We are not alone."
Kry looked about curiously, his amber eyes seeking out the source of the killer's distress. Chable poked at a piece of the wall, his heavy brow furrowed. "What's thi..." he started, then grunted in abject surprise as a hand with three fingers formed from the solid stone and gripped his wrist. The giant human jumped and tried to jerk free, but the powerful grip was unescapable. Kry stared, unable to move, and watched as a humanoid form struggled to free itself from the tunnel's walls.
"That is an earth bound elemental." The killer spoke as he moved past the elf, and in his left hand was a spike of solid diamond rock, while in his other hand was a small mallet. Chable jerked futilely as the dwarf approached, trying to free himself from the grip of the creature. But the dwarf placed the diamond on the elemental's wrist and brought the small mallet back and forth once, sending the sharp tip of the spike into the stone limb and shattering it.
Chable leaped back as the creature howled and drew back into the wall, and he checked his bruised wrist. The Reaper pocketed the small hammer and nail, then looked around. "I do not think he would only send one," he said, and even as he spoke, the stone beneath them trembled and belched as though the mountain was undergoing an earthquake, sending small stones down from the ceiling. From the cracks ran molten rock, and this liquid stone formed into thick bodied, lumbering stone monsters, six of them. One was missing a hand.
Chable swore and swung his axe hard from shoulder to hip, but the bone weapon's blade bounced from the skin of the monster and cracked. Kry did not even try to attack. He backed away until his back met solid stone wall, torch held high, and watched as the creatures slowly advanced.
The killer brought his hand from his cloak's interior pocket, and in it was held a pale pink glass globe of misty air. He hurled the fragile ball to the floor, and it shattered in a shower of thin shards with a musical sound. The mist worked its way up from the floor in what seemed to Kry like eons, but in reality was only several seconds. One of the elementals had struck Chable by then, and the big man lay unconscious on the floor with four of the creatures circling him.
As the mist reached them, they simply faded away, as though they had melted. The chamber was still, and the mist worked its way into the darkness, wafting out of sight with the invisible air currents. Kry stared at the Reaper, but the killer only looked around for a moment and said, "See to your man." Then he sat down cross-legged and closed his eyes, the sickles lain in his lap.
Brixx was one of the most intelligent braxat alive. That said, he was still dense. What he lacked in intelligence however, he more than made up for in pure power and ferocity and iron will. He had come to serve Sethose almost twenty years ago, and though the braxat was aging, he was still a fearsome foe.
He did not think in terms of right and wrong, but rather in terms of good and bad. Good for him was eating as much as he wanted and having a special warhammer made just for him and servants to rub his feet and shine his shell. Bad was walking around in the canyons and fighting other braxat for the next measly meal and arguing with his mate and raising a bunch of screaming, whining, irritant tykes. Brixx hated every single one of his thirteen children.
Right now, the hulking creature was supposed to find some little people and step on them several times, then go back and get his shell polished. Then he could probably sit down and have a huge meal, then sleep for a while. So Brixx kept his pack of ten jakhals on course, following the powerful lizards through the cramped tunnels of the Master's domain.
The jakhals were giving voice now, in that laughing sound that made the braxat think of his children, and he knew that his quarry was nearby. So he came around the first corner and let his jackals free, drawing his hammer from his belt and readying the polished stone-headed weapon with loving care. He clattered in his shoddy, custom-made armor as he came around the second corner, roaring with battle glee.
Brixx was dense, but he was not too dense to stop and gape. Five of his jakhals were fighting tooth and claw with a very thin little man and a small thick little man. The other five were advancing on a very short man with a skull on his face. The very short man with a skull on his face's left and right hands flashed five times, and four of Brixx's jakhals stumbled to the ground, with tiny sharp things in them. The last one died with two moves of the very short man with the skull on his face's hands, which held a pair of little curved things that looked like one of the moons when they were very new or very old.
The other two had dispatched two of his jakhals, and the very short man was moving to help them. Brixx roared again, his rumbling rage rolling through the tunnels. Then he charged forward, sweeping his warhammer around in a violent blow. He caught the very short man in the side and knocked him from his feet, sending him through the air and into a wall with a thud. Then he moved to help his two jakhals, roaring at the top of his voice and swinging his hammer at the small thick little man.
The enraged braxat didn't see the Reaper struggle to his feet, his head in his hands, staggering for a moment before reaching under his cloak and retrieving his crossbow. With blood seeping from his left nostril, the killer loaded the small weapon and took aim at the back of the shelled monster's neck.
Brixx stopped in midswing, ignoring the very thin little man's stabs at his knees, and swatted the back of his neck. Something had stung him. He looked down at the two little people in front of him and started to swing his hammer again, then roared in anger as he was stung again. He swatted at his neck futily, trying to locate the little stinger thingies. Twice more he was stung, and he wobbled, almost falling, muttering irritably.
The little people he had been fighting had killed all of his jackals now, and were just watching him. The small thick little man was waving a broken axe around like he owned the world, and Brixx grinned to himself. As soon as he figured out where these little stinger things were coming from and killed them, he was going to show the small thick little man what for. He finally felt something and yanked out the little thing. It almost looked like a little very thin person's sharp things, but it didn't have a knob of stone at the end, and it didn't have the same kind of feathery things at the other end. It did have his blood on it though.
He had turned around now, and he saw that the very short man with a skull on his face was up again, surprisingly. In his hand was a funny looking tool, and he was walking towards Brixx. Brixx managed to raise his warhammer and look fierce.
"Who you is?" he roared at the very short man with a skull on his face. Brixx was very proud to be able to speak in the little folk's language. He would be by Sethose's right hand when the Lord Master was ruling the world. Then he would get his shell polished all day, and he would have slave mates that he could kick in the head instead of arguing with.
Something was wrong with his eyes, and he rubbed at them with one hand and his neck with the other, dropping his special hammer. He would get it in a bit. He felt like going to sleep. But he figured that he would step on these little folks first, then go to sleep. Otherwise, Sethose might not be happy. But his eyes felt so damned heavy.
The last thing the braxat named Brixx heard before the poison took him was the cold voice of his killer. "I am the Reaper." And Brixx thought to himself that the very short man with the skull on his face sounded like that noise in the sky when the Lord Master made big sand storms.
Chable was nursing a broken right arm and sitting on the braxat's shelled back, and Kry could not stop the pounding of his head nor quell the blood which still crept from the wound in his side. Despite his injury, the big black man was pumping his axe with his good hand, grinning like a child, and the elf had to smirk up at him. He understood what the big human was feeling. This whole journey had put fear in him like he had never experienced, not even in the arenas of Allanak, but by Krath, winning felt good.
The killer was forcing himself into a painful position, and Kry heard a loud pop echo through the cavern as the dwarf grunted. Chable looked down from atop the braxat and asked the dwarf what the sound had been.
"The sound of my arm snapping back into its socket," said the Reaper, and there were two more pops before the dwarf finally managed to attain his feet.
Kry grimaced and started to rise, holding the bandage to his side. Chable had splinted his arm with two bones from the body of one of the jackals, and he slid from the dead braxat's back too, hefting his axe. But the killer shook his head.
"You two have done very well, but I will go from here along. It is not very far. If you do not see me in half an hour, it will be wise to leave as swiftly as is possible." The killer winced and grabbed his wrist and twisted, and Kry heard a grinding sound. "I will see you both later."
Then he went from corpse to corpse, pulling his knives free and sliding them back in the baldric. The fifth was shattered against the wall it had struck when it had missed the target. The killer left that one where it was and then glanced at the bolts embedded in the dead braxat's neck, shaking his head to himself.
The Reaper was loading his crossbow with the last bolt in his quiver as he stalked away into the darkness, his steps reminding Kry of something calculating and predatorial.
Sethose was lost in the recital of a spell when the news reached his ears.He had recently discovered an ancient spell that drained the very life from servants, but the spell was incomplete, and he had been working on the completion of the enchantment for nearly two months. But the rat's chittering broke his concentration.
Sethose listened in a vast amount of irritation as the rat chittered, understanding everything the rat was trying to tell him. "What!" the old sorcerer screeched? "Brixx is dead? And the jakhals, and the elementals? What are these people who have come into my lair? And who is the Reaper?" He reached down and grabbed the rodent up, shaking it.
But the animal did not have the time to respond, for a cold voice that sent chills down Sethose's spine did instead. "I am the Reaper."
The sorcerer started and spun on his heel, spending the black rat's life in a spell to protect himself, but the force shield came too late, for even as the last word came from his lips a black bolt found his right eye and emerged from the back of his skull. The sorcerer saw only the killer's black death's head mask as the force shield flared around him and the darkness came to claim him.
Author's note:Sethose was never heard from again after the Reaper was assigned to kill him. Chable was a northern lumberjack by trade, and Kry an escaped ex-gladiator from the arenas of Allanak. Although Kry was caught two years after the War and reassigned to the arena where he died in his third match, Chable disappeared and his whereabouts are not known, though it is likely that he may still be in the North, working his trade.
A large transaction is recorded in the records of Nenyuk's bookkeepers between House Kurac and an unidentified second party. Although the second party is unknown, it occurred less than a week after the killing of Sethose. The man was a giant black-skinned human with a huge gold-gilded axe in his possession.
As I have said before, the Reaper has not been seen since the Great War. The events chronicled in this story happened less than a year before the Rebellion in the North occurred, and the Reaper was considered to be near the peak of his career at this time. It is known that he was used to scout various rebel camps, and his use was primary in preventing Southern causalities.
If he was truly used as a common soldier in the field, then the error was a terrible one. He was far more effective as a lone killer, but it is likely that the battlefield itself, though rankling his cautious nature, would have evoked some pleasure, and the assignment would have been accepted.
Templar Signus Kinar - Historian of TektolnesAuthor's note:
This story is based in both legends and personal knowledge of the killer known as the Reaper. The most important portions of this story did happen, but some sections are a result of my observation of the killer's character and demeanor throughout his history.
In no way do I...
Continue Reading...Nomad
CHAPTER 1 - The Braxat, The by Cogato
Added on Oct 13, 2005A nomad battles a fearsome braxat.
Desolate, this one word summed up the only way to describe the world that was his. Beasts that could tear the life from the most battle hardy warrior called this place of his home. Bands of evil men who sought to destroy, rape, and pillage were his only neighbors. In its vast scorching sands that spanned the horizon in all directions, there could be found only death and despair for most. But he was not most, he was what most would call a wild man. A renegade that bent knee to no other man, who's path was decided by little more than the wind. He was a nomad.
Though the sand blew with a ferocity that would cause most to take shelter, the nomad would not be found curled up in a hole this day. He slid to the side of his kank, a massive ant-like insect who's hardy nature made it his preferred beast of burden. The fall from the creature's back was considerable, but he landed on slightly bent legs with a stealthy silence that would make the most light-footed street urchin applaud. Silence was of the greatest importance in the barren land that he called home, there were no barriers to keep noise from reaching the keen senses of any that might lurk in the distant dunes. As the nomad knew, there was always some vile beast waiting just beyond his line of vision, poised to strike. If this paranoia was simply due to his own unnecessary fear, or a dire survival tactic was not of importance. In the deep desert, only survival matters after all. The nomad did not make it so many years by taking any chances.
With swift short steps the nomad made his way up to the edge of the ravine, crouching just as he reached its sandstone drop off. For a long moment he stayed just where he was, straight backed and on a single right knee. His deep green eyes took in all that he could through the blowing sand about him. All the while his keen, slightly pointed ears listening for anything he might find alerting. He saw and heard nothing at all accept for the constant grating sound of the blowing sand, in the nomad's home, this was always a good thing. He peered up toward the distant ball of crimson light, checking once more that he was heading in the direction that the trail was going before the sandstorm came to erase all evidence of his prey. Then, laying down on his stomach slowly, he peered over the edge of the ravine.
The canyon below was not large in comparison to most of the massive gouges that dotted many areas of the known world. It only dug into the sandy earth to create a fifty or so foot drop, but its walls were steep, and it ran from east to west for many miles. The nomad didn't take a moment to consider anything more, his prey had went this way, that was all that mattered. After scanning the floor of the canyon once more from his high perch and being satisfied that he saw nothing of consequence, the nomad pushed up to his feet. Turning on a single heel he moved back to the side of his kank and hastily began unlashing his saddle bags from the creature's side. After removing the medium sized leather satchel from the insect's sandy-yellow carapace he dropped to a knee once more and began searching through its contents. In a moment he had his woven leather rope out and was hastily working one end into a loop. He slung the loop around a piece of jagged stone jutting out from the lip of the ravine and then rolled over the side of the cliff, slowly descending.
The nomad held the half-inch thick leather rope tightly in both hands before him, the toes of his rough leather boots finding a small but seemingly secure lip of stone to support his weight. With short hops the nomad carefully picked his way down the side of the cliff face. The face of the sandstone cliff appeared easily scaleable at first with many visible hand and foot holds mottling its surface. But it soon became apparent to the nomad that the coarse stone was brittle, and he scrambled for a purchase more than once when a foothold would break before he finally reached the floor of the ravine.
Down here where the walls of stone rose up around him on two sides, the stinging sands ceased to pelt the nomad. He began surveying the sandy earth at his feet for the trail he had lost earlier in the day due to the storm. It wasn't long before he came up on the clawed tracks that marked his prey's passing. The faint imprint of three toes in the sand, each having a four inch dig mark where the beast's claws protruded into the soil when it moved. The nomad was pleased that he had guessed correctly about the durrit moving in a relatively straight path even in the storm. He set out moving through the canyon on the creatures trail. He hadn't got out of sight of where he first descended into the ravine before he came up on his prey. The durrit was already dead.
The nomad quickly dropped into a crouch his gloved hands instinctively moving to the bone hilts that protruded from his belt line. His eyes first darted up to inspect the higher ground, only the constant roar of the howling wind graced the ravine on both of its upper sides. Then without a conscious thought he moved to the wall of stone nearest him and placed his back to it, taking comfort in the solidity of this one defended side. After many long moments of watching the upper crests of the two canyon walls and growing confident that if an ambush was to come it was not from above, he moved closer to the dead durrit.
One hand still held firmly to the bone hilt of his obsidian sword as he approached the site of the massacre, fore that's what it was. The corpse of the biped beast that would normally stand head high was now on its side in the dust, a massive section of flesh ripped from its narrow chest. One of its legs was almost completely severed from the body at the hip. An arm lay a few feet from the corpse, seemingly ripped straight out at the shoulder socket. After surveying the area for a single instant and the shredded corpse the nomad saw what he had feared to see, a single set of tracks that spelled dread.
Fifty feet above back where a slender rope dangled over the edge of a cliff and a single yellow kank stood skittering slowly about, there loomed the beast that would strike fear into any traveler. A braxat it was called, a hulking beast that stood at a towering twelve feet on its back legs. Though it often moved at tremendous speeds with the aid of its large muscular arms. Both of its five fingered hands ended in large razor sharp claws that could tear straight through a wooden shield, or crush any being unfortunate enough to get caught in its grasp.
Despite looking crude and barbaric at first glance with its bone spiked leathery flesh, the braxat was not a stupid beast, simply cruel and savage. Above all else a braxat loved to bring torment to the humanoid races of the world. They loved the sound of a screaming elf or human as their limbs were ripped from their bodies or their flesh severed with large raking claws.
It had seen the single half-elf traveler earlier in the day a few miles back from where it was now, and decided then that this one and his mount would make a fine meal. It reasoned that the tiny humanoid was tracking the durrit that had strode through earlier in the day and rushed ahead quickly, wanting to reach the durrit and put its ambush into motion. After catching the durrit at the bottom of the canyon it now stood next to, the braxat made short work of the beast and left it far below to lure the single half-elf away from his mount. The beast's plan was sound, kill the traveler's swift mount and strand him. Then the hulking monster could slowly hunt him into exhaustion where the braxat could then enjoy his slow death.
The braxat used the harsh weather to its advantage, its double lidded eyes able to see much farther in the blowing sandstorm than those of its prey. Ducked behind a stone outcropping a hundred feet away the creature watched as the half-elf slid down his rope into the ravine, and its trap.
The giant ant like creature that now stood next to the ravine alone seemed skittish, probably somehow sensing that the braxat lurked nearby. But Arrow would not flee from the point where its trusted master had left it, it would remain there facing whatever peril befell it until Elios returned to fetch it.
Breaking the revered silence for an instant the nomad said in a low whisper the only word that came to mind. "A braxat".
As if to answer the words and substantiate what the nomad already knew, a distant roaring thundered throughout the canyon from somewhere above. It was immediately followed by the screeching sound of some distressed beast. The nomad turned quickly pulling his short foot-long obsidian dagger. The nomad knew what the sound was, knew that he had fallen for the ambush that was not intended for him. He had faltered, and he knew that if he did not make haste, Arrow, his only trusted companion would soon pay the price for his mistake.
In an instant the nomad was in a dead sprint back toward the rope he knew he could not possibly reach and climb in time to save his mount. In a matter of just a few seconds the nomad had sprinted the full ninety or so feet back across the rocky canyon floor to the rope still dangling from the cliffs edge. Taking his obsidian dagger in his clenched teeth he quickly took up the rope in both hands and placed his feet in the first secure holds in the sandstone wall preparing to climb. Another high pitched squeal echoed down into the canyon. The nomad's sinewy slender arms pulled against themselves then on the verge of snapping, propelling him straight up the rope without the slightest bit of aid from his boot clad feet. In just a moment the nomad was half way up the rock wall when his look of fear quickly turned to one of terror.
Twenty five feet above the large form of a kank slipped over the edge of the ravine, letting out a gurgled screech as it started to topple straight down toward the nomad.
Boot clad toes quickly scraped across the sandstone cliff face and the nomad swung out from the wall and to his right. His eyes never left the rapidly descending creature as his feet went into motion trying vainly to propel him out of the kank's path. Just as the kank was reaching him he knew he could not completely get out of the way. Then, as if knowing its masters peril even though it could not, a spasm in the throes of death caused the kank to turn slightly in fall. Its thorax struck the wall turning it completely over onto its back as it descended. The nomad did not miss his chance and he quickly fell flat against the wall, bruising his right cheek and chest in the process. The desperate maneuver saved his life then though as the kank's corpse barely missed him in its head long roll.
It took the nomad a moment to reorient himself after striking the wall. By the time he had re-set his feet against the wall to push himself out to arms length, the corpse struck the canyon floor with a sickening crack of chitin. The nomad peered down toward his fallen comrade, his only trusted friend. He knew he could do nothing for the now dead beast. Suddenly a shadow cast down on him from above and he looked up just in time to see the huge form of the braxat leaping out from the edge of the ravine, following its latest victim down.
Massive leg muscles flexed and supported the braxat as it hit the canyon floor next to its newest kill. It knew the creature was dead but in its blood lust it did not care, it needed more. It tore into the corpse ripping at it with its viscous claws and tearing out huge hunks from the corpse's exposed flesh with its sharp teeth. When at last the braxat's animalistic rage had come to an end, it peered around looking for its soon to be victim. The half-elf should be close by, it had just saw him in the bottom of this canyon. But its prey was not where it should be, its prey was not falling into its plan.
The nomad climbed the rope quickly once more, but his movements were not driven by fear as one would suspect. The nomad's movements were now driven by an anger and a hate. An anger at himself for leading his companion to its death and a hate for the creature that had deceived him. The nomad scaled the edge of the ravine and rolled on his side before coming to his feet. He spotted what he had hoped to find, his saddle bags still laid on the sandy earth where he had left them. The nomad ripped the satchel open sending the button clasp flying off into the sand and he quickly produced a small leather quiver of arrows. Next he reached over his shoulder toward the horn longbow that was secured to the side of his backpack with a leather tie. Pulling at a single protruding length of the tie the bow fell free into the nomad's waiting bronzed hand.
The bow was fabulously crafted from a length of curling horn. The horn came from a large antelope like creature that grazed on the distant dry grasses of the northern plains, rightfully named a duskhorn due to the dark hue of the curling horns that were its namesake. The bow was not adorned with intricate carvings as most bows and was not even sanded to complete smoothness. Too many years in the hands of its current owner in the deep desert had turned it into a rough, rugged, practical bow. But, its slight re-curve fashion made it very powerful and its slender frame made it an easy pull for the slender arms of the half-elf that now held it.
The nomad stood slowly, his frame seeming to shake slightly with the tenseness that now was apparent in his whole body. A tan leather quiver in his left hand and a duskhorn bow in his right the nomad stalked up to the edge of the ravine, peering down toward the vile beast that had just slain his only friend.
The braxat turned its large head to see the rope still dangling from the wall, but the half-elf couldn't possibly have climbed out of the canyon in the short amount of time it had taken to kill the mount. Why would a puny being like that even want to climb up to the waiting claws of a braxat, especially for a mere kank? The braxat peered up toward the crest of the ravine anyways, despite the logic. There he saw only the blowing sand of the storm that always plagued these badlands. The braxat decided that the half-elf must have fled further down the canyon looking for some escape from his certain doom.
Just as the braxat took a long step forward his reasoning quickly changed. He had no choice but to see a different point of view, looking down to witness the grey-fletched arrow now protruding from his upper thigh. Though the projectile was relatively puny compared to the braxat's bulk, its sting rang clear enough in the creature's nervous system. The braxat quickly turned its gaze up toward the lip of the ravine, ready to face this new rival that had stupidly stood to face it.
If a braxat's rough facial features could display total shock, then the nomad certainly would have been the first to witness the spectacle. He stood there defiantly, his deeply tanned face staring back at the beast now peering up at him. His long golden-blonde hair blowing about wildly in the wind the nomad reached into the quiver now slung over his left shoulder. Another arrow was notched into his bow and the nomad quickly lifted it once more, pulling back on the plant fiber string firmly as he took aim. The nomad released as the braxat took a step forward toward the sandstone wall and the arrow missed its mark, skipping of a large stone where the braxat had just stood.
The nomad cursed himself silently for not buying more arrows back in Luir's Outpost. Though he could not have known he would be doing battle with anything more than a durrit this day. He pulled his bow once more and released another arrow straight down just as the braxat reached the wall. The crude projectile of stone, wood, and feather struck true this time though, digging six inches into the braxat's right shoulder. If the beast even noticed it didn't give any outward sign. Still full of anger, his fallen friend in his line of vision, the nomad pulled and released once, and then again, and then a third time.
The creature was still coming up the wall at him, he had two arrows left.
As the viscous bite of three more arrows rained down upon it, the braxat only grew in its anger, and thus its rage. It could see the new stems of fletched wood clearly. Their sting drew its eyes down to see them, two protruding from its upper left shoulder and the other from the right side of its bulky neck. It knew that it was not seriously injured, and even if it had been its boiling hate for its new enemy would not have let it flee. The coarse stone of the wall was brittle though, and even with the aid of its large claws the climbing was difficult for the braxat. Mostly because in its thrashing climb it tore its handholds straight from the wall, the stone falling the twenty five feet below to shatter on canyon floor. A simple wall would not keep the beast from the pathetic being that dared to stand against it though. It turned handfuls of sandstone into gravel as it progressed up the wall, pulling its self closer to the one that had caused it pain.
From ten feet above another arrow found its mark. At the close range of the shot the braxat keenly felt this arrow sink deeply into the left side of its chest. Pausing for an instant to let out a roar filled with what could be determined as pain or rage, the braxat sprang forward with a single pull of its massive arms. It sailed the remaining ten feet straight up the wall, it was now in striking distance of its intended prey. One clawed hand dug into the lip of the wall, its other bulky arm reached back preparing to unleash the fury of its anger. In a single mortal swipe that the half-elf could not hope to dodge or survive, the braxat would find its ecstasy in the demise of the one that had dared to rise up against it.
The nomad, his bow drawn taught and his eyes narrowed on the hulking beast that now loomed before him did not budge. He knew the horrible claws of the braxat would steal the life from his body in a single blow, but still he held firm. This was the creature that had stolen his only companion from him, the beast he would not flee from or let escape. As the massive claws came forth, the nomad held firm.
Nimble fingers held the bow string taught, the bite of the plant fiber cord painfully digging into the calloused flesh. At the last instant the fingers unfurled, releasing the plant fiber string and sending the stone tipped projectile forth. It was only a couple of yards between the nomad and the braxat, and the arrow had been shot from a bow that was pulled to the point of snapping in on it's self. The sharp tip found its mark then and the right eye of the braxat exploded back into the beast's skull, three quarters of the shaft looming grotesquely out of the creature's head. The impact caused the massive beast to wail and thrash and it's razor sharp claws flew harmlessly high above the now crouched half-elf's head.
An arrow protruding grotesquely from its now empty ocular socket and gore streaming down the side of its face, the braxat still managed to somehow hold firm to the lip of the ravine with its other hand. The nomad saw his chance.
Dropping his bow in the dust beside him the nomad lunged forth. He knew that if the beast regained its senses before he could dislodge it from the edge of the ravine, he would be sorely pressed to even survive the impending battle. The distance was short and the nomad slammed his shoulder heavily into the elbow joint of the braxat's anchored claw. Though his movements were fueled with anger and desperation, he made a serious mistake in estimating the hulking braxat's sheer strength, fore the joint did not budge. Then, almost as an afterthought, the nomad released the bite of his tightly clenched teeth and his foot long obsidian dagger fell down into his right waiting hand.
The nomad dropped both knees onto the digits that were dug into the sandstone at his feet then and drove the point of his wickedly sharp blade into the top of the hand they were connected to. The braxat let out a thundering roar and immediately loosed its grip, it toppled backwards and at that moment it realized its mistake, but it was too late. The large beast fell the full fifty feet backwards into the canyon, landing just next to the corpse of the kank it had slain. The nomad peered over the edge of the ravine to witness the unmoving humanoid form, the fletching of his arrow still securely sticking out of the creatures head. Turning on a heel then the nomad moved purposefully away from the edge of the ravine, bending over to retrieve his bow and satchel before moving on.
The nomad would not lament his fallen comrade, the one who had saved him time and again from the cruel world that was his, and kept him company in his many months of solitary travel. In the deep desert, one could not afford to waste the precious water of tears.
Desolate, this one word summed up the only way to describe the world that was his. Beasts that could tear the life from the most battle hardy warrior called this place of his home. Bands of evil men who sought to destroy, rape, and pillage were his only neighbors. In its vast scorching sands...
Continue Reading...Little Black Gem, Part I
"Discovery", A by Spencer Sisson
Added on May 15, 2005A shady deal in a back alley leads to surprising inner revelations.
His name was Eight-Stone.
Actually, it wasn't. No one names their child Eight-Stone. It was likely Amos or Lo or Malnes or some other gutter name, the kind given to a baby in his mud-brick tenement when there's ten other kids to worry about and not even a cup of water between them.
But Eight-Stone was what he called himself. It was the name he used when dealing with Westsiders like us.
He was an elf, of course; most of those Eastsiders were. He had the long, spidery limbs and dark hair common to a sharpear, his lean frame shrouded with a grimy sandcloth cloak. In his fingers he held an obsidian dagger which he flipped every so often, sending it tumbling about in the air over his head before it fell back into his palm.
The room was barren except for two simple bone chairs, the seat and joints lashed together with leather scraps, and a desk of similar construction. The furniture seemed out-of-place in the gutted tenement, standing out amidst the filth-streaked planks of the floor and the rags and rubble strewn about.
"Sit," The elf ordered, indicating the chairs with the tip of his blade.
I glanced over toward my companion, Kali. His grey eyes were trained on the gleaming obsidian as the elf gave his dagger another flip. "I thought we agreed no weapons." Kali said evenly.
"Shut the feck up and sit, roundear."
As we sat, our host began to pace, keeping to the other side of the desk and continuing to toss that dagger like he was a juggler down in the big bazaar. By the way he moved, with his yellow sneer and slanted eyes glinting in our direction, it was clear that this feck thought he was twenty cords taller than Kali and me.
I was starting not to like our dear friend Eight-Stone.
After a beat Kali spoke up again, in soft, deliberate tones. Kali had a way with words, a strange way of talking that made everything sound like a good idea. His tongue was like a merchant's rod, pulling one thing from another without even leaving his seat. I decided to leave the talking part up to him, and concentrate on that blade as it floated through the air like solid smoke. "I'm Kali, and this is Arad, and we represent this alley. I understand your tribe wanted to speak to us about something?"
"We require more territory."
A smile creeped across Kali's sallow features. "Well, Eight-Stone, we've already granted your tribe the freedom to travel through here whenever you like."
"No," Eight-Stone snarled as he gave his weapon another flip, "we require control of the buildings as well."
"I don't understand. That wasn't part of the agreement we had with your tribe."
"We're making a new agreement." The elf plucked the blade from the air, and gave it another toss.
"But Eight-Stone, those are people's homes!"
"This isn't negotiable." He caught the dagger again. I heard his fingers tap against the leather grip.
"I'm sure we can work something out, here, Eight-Stone, if you'll just-"
"Either you give my tribe the fekking buildings, roundear, or we take them."
Flip. Catch. Flip. Catch. Eight-Stone continued his paces, and I chanced a look over towards Kali. He was sitting in his chair, straight-backed and firm, but in the missing teeth of that practiced smile, in that extra wrinkle on his forehead I sensed a seething indignation. He took a deep breath and continued, saying, "I don't think that'd be wise, Eight-Stone."
"And why not?" Flip.
"Now Eight-Stone," Kali began, rubbing his hands together. A tongue that had fooled countless vendors and militiamen flashed between his teeth as he continued, "let me just say Arad and me know what you're saying. I mean, you and your tribe are clearly in charge here. We're just people. Krath, we're not a threat to you, and if you want our alley, it's yours. What we're concerned about..." he glanced over at me, as if he expected me to add something. He shook his head as he continued. "What we're concerned about is that if you and your tribe take our alley, some of the boys deeper in the Westside might not like it."
"What do you mean?" Catch.
"Well, the Westside gangs have been gaining influence these days, you know? And this alley is pretty close to Eye territory. Feck, you might even upset the Guild. And then you've got a real spider's nest on your hands."
The dagger stopped moving.
"Are you threatening me?" Eight-Stone hissed.
Kali blinked several times, and shook his head. "No, man! Feck, no. Like I said, we're just people. But what I was saying-"
"Because my tribe won't tolerate threats. And weren't not afraid of your shortleg friends!"
I could feel Kali tensing up beside me. "Eight-Stone, you're not hearing me!"
"I've heard enough from you round-ears."
Eight-Stone stepped towards us. There was a rustle, followed by a queer little ringing noise, like some one dropping coins on a stone floor. I looked over towards Kali and saw that his face had been split open by a long, ebon spike.
Eight-Stone's dagger.
I toppled off my chair, and hit the ground, scurrying away from the horrid spectacle. Kali's mouth hung open in silent protest, his head swung backwards from the force of the blow. He'd been hit right in the eyes, and it had happened so fast I didn't even see it. From over the table I saw Eight-Stone reaching into his cloak, and a garbled string of syllables escaped my mouth in terror.
Suddenly, there was a brilliant flash, and my eyes were filled with night.
When I woke up, I smelled smoke. Lots of it. I raised myself up from the ground, and saw that the tenement was burning. Clay bricks and bone slats groaned and snapped with fire. The desk had been overturned, tendrils of flame creeping along it, but Kali's lifeless form still sat in the chair next to me, arguing with ashes. An acrid heap of cloth and flesh smoldered in the far corner- Eight-Stone, I realized. My senses were floundering in the smoke, and my groggy mind groped about for the cause of the fire. And that's when I saw my hands.
They were burning, yet they didn't burn. My hands were engulfed in flames, from the tip of my fingers to my wrists, but I felt no pain. My flesh was somehow undamaged; it was smooth and tan beneath the fires, unlike the crisp husk the elf had been reduced to. I stared at my hands for a long moment, among the falling timbers and ember rain, when suddenly a single word came to me. A word that tore through my mind, a word that was sharper and straighter and colder than any dagger.
Magicker.
Soon other words came, all of them terrible, like a volley of arrows. Suk-Krathi. Fire witch. Sun mage. Panicked, I stood and ran, escaping the smoldering tenement for the perpetual gloom of the alley. I kept running, my hands still aglow, like twin torches leading me through the Labyrinth. I couldn't go to the Eastside. They'd kill me. I couldn't go to the Westside. They'd shun me. And so I headed south, stumbling through the twisting alleys, passing beneath the cold, knowing gaze of the templar's statue. I passed beggars and orphans, who didn't look at me, but rather, the fire I carried. The fear in their eyes stoked my own, and I ran even quicker. I ran until my lungs frothed blood. I ran harder than I ever had before, with my hands flaming and my chest aching and all the fires of Suk-Krath, the great crimson sun, searing through me.
His name was Eight-Stone.
Actually, it wasn't. No one names their child Eight-Stone. It was likely Amos or Lo or Malnes or some other gutter name, the kind given to a baby in his mud-brick tenement when there's ten other kids to worry about and not even a cup of water between them.
But...
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Spice Run by Dyrinis
Added on Feb 2, 2005Vaske, an elvish youth, ends a bad day with one of the most dangerous assignments that House Kurac has to offer, a Spice Run.
Vakse peered down Caravan Way nervously, watching from a secluded alleyway for signs of any approaching templars. It had been a rough day for the elvish youth, hinging on the fact that a House Agent had caught him flirting with one of the Al Kere women back in Luir's Outpost. He had been punished for "threataning relations" as the woman obviously had no intrest in the dark-skinned elf, and sent on one of the more dangerous assignments that the House had to offer, a spice run in Allanak. Vakse uttered a series of curses in Allundean for ever coming near one of the natives. The elf glanced out at the Way one more time, then slunk out of his cover, walking down the wide avenue while trying to look inconspicuous. As he passed into Meleth's circle and by the Temple of the Dragon, he glanced inside nervously - breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that they were all occupied, and crashed head-on into a glaring blue-robed templar. Vakse bolted, his long legs carrying him faster than the three lumbering half-giants that accompanied the overturned templar. The elf sped by a bustling inn and onto Merchants' Road, where he sprinted east, following the road past the bustling bazaar and straight to his destination - the Merchants' Quarter. As he came to the sidestreet leading to the area, Vakse remembered what he had done to pass the gate-guards and thought to apply it here. He spied out a rich-looking merchant wearing the sash of House Salaar, and as the merchant passed through the gate; Vakse followed at the distance of about three cords, head bowed. The brawny mulish mercenary set to guarding the quarter payed the elf and his adopted master little heed, and went on to stop a half-elven gladiator from entering.
The Salaari followed the Road of Commerce to Salaari Way, unheeding and uncaring of his new servant. Vakse dodged into a paved backstreet and glanced both ways for templars, a natural reflex that had been taken up in the past three hours under Allanak's walls. Vakse fished out a scrap of tandu-hide vellum from a pocket in his carru-hide pants. After scanning the document and confirming his orders, Vakse snuck down the dusty side-street, avoiding red-robes and soldiers, until he came up to a large dwelling made of a dark red stone. Vakse knocked twice, then thrice on the baobab door, creating a small noise that he was not comfortable with judging by his predicament. After a few moments, a man in a crimson aba answered the door, and spoke in the common tounge, Sirihish, "What foul winds bring you to this dwelling, elf?"
Vaske replied, using the password that the agent had given to him, "The whirling sands blow me into your home."
The human arched an eyebrow, and ushered Vakse into a sparsely-furnished front-room. The elf eyed his surroundings with a keen eye, noting a discolored panel on the wall, probably a hidden catche for storing valuables...and spice. The elf raised a deeply-tanned hand in a brisk salute, saying, "The sandstorms bring you a delivery, Lord Hujat."
The apparent Hujat snorted disdainfully, replying,"I can only hope that it is what I have been waiting for for three months, courier."
Vaske nodded, retrieving a small hide bag brimming with a crumbly yellow powder - Krentakh, one of the more powerful spices to be found in the Known World. Hujat's eyes widened in anticipation and greed, and he walked over to the discolored panel that Vaske had noted earlier, releasing the lock by pulling on a stone statuette perched on a cylini shelf nearby. The panel popped open with pressure, exposing a small trove of obsidian coins and a diminuative amount of spice, mainly Melem-Tuek from what Vaske could tell. The human nobleman pulled a large pouch brimming with coins from the darker recesses of the wooden acalove, handing it to Vaske with a regretful expression. The elvish deliverer smiled thinly at the pale-skinned human, then turned to leave. Hujat sneered to himself, cursing the House for sending an -ELF- to deliver.
Vaske hopped out into the street, dashing back to the main road, his thoughts full of the obsidian in his pack. His thoughts were clouded with avarice and greed, and as he turned the corner he failed to notice the blue-robed templar approaching him, flanked by three muscular half-giants, and rubbing a freshly-collected bruise upon his forehead. The templars eyes were the color of his robe as they alighted in reciognition of the elf, who still failed to notice him. What Vaske did notice was a set of huge hands that clamped over his shoulder, and the feeling of being dragged a few feet to his left. The elf immediately shot out of his dreams of obsidian palaces, and his eyes flew to the glaring templar in front of him. The templar spoke a few words to his soldier, and the huge man ripped the pack off of Vaskes back, causing no small amount of pain as the straps dug into his shoulders. The templar retrieved the pack and rummaged around in it. Vaskes face turned white as he realized that there was a pinch or five of Zharal in one of the pockets. Fearing for his life, Vaskes hand flew to the obsidian shortsword hanging on his belt, breaking free of his captor with sheer quickness alone. Vaske flew at the templar, blade exposed. He was nearly there, and the templar was just beginning to look up.
When he hit something as hard as stone, the chest of a half-giant.
Vaske looked up from the ground, dazed - and met a swinging axe made of obsidian, nearly the sharpest material upon Zalanthas. Vaske's dazed eyes followed the axe, wondering where it was going - until his thoughts cleared, but by then - it was too late. The templar grimaced as a crimson shower sprayed the already red sandstone cobbles, and muttered something under his breath,
"Damn Kuracis.."
The End.
Compiled by the Sage Dyrinis,
On the eighty-second day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Lirathu's Defiance,
Year Thirty-Three of the Nineteenth Age
Vakse peered down Caravan Way nervously, watching from a secluded alleyway for signs of any approaching templars. It had been a rough day for the elvish youth, hinging on the fact that a House Agent had caught him flirting with one of the Al Kere women back in Luir's Outpost. He had been...
Continue Reading...Choice, The by Delirium
Added on Feb 2, 2005A hermit ponders his choice of lifestyle.
When you live like I do, you get used to many things. The intense heat, the burning sun, the stinging sand that manages to get everywhere, no matter how well you cover yourself. The lonely hiss of the wind, never ceasing in its patient efforts to reshape the dunes, to scour the bones of those that have already lost their battle with this unforgiving world.
I am an outcast, even among mutants and freaks. Mages like me have few choices, and none of them are easy.
One is to hide your true nature, to suppress the urges that are a part of your very being. To feel your powers gnawing away at you like rats devouring your body from the inside out, and to know that to release it and ease your pain would be to set foot down a path from which there is no turning back. To know that if you don't, one day you will end up losing control. That day will likely be the one you die. Whether to a frightened mob or to the ever vigilant justice of the templarate, it matters little, for those that wield the awesome and unpredictable forces of nature are never permitted to remain free once they're discovered.
You could choose instead to submit yourself to a lifetime of humiliation, to be collared with the infamous black gem. To be set apart from society, sequestered within the walls of the Magicker's Quarter, at once identified and loathed for the tainted being that you are, no matter where you go. To know that despite the things you have in common with other mages, each one of you is to be trusted less than the common people outside the Quarter's walls - commoners who are afraid to tread the ground you walk on, and would destroy you if they only thought they could.
Nonetheless, considering the alternatives, it's little surprise that many choose the life of being gemmed.
The alternatives? Death, or the desert.
When you live like I do, your day to day existence takes on a certain rhythm; it takes on the motion of the dunes and the shifting sands. You learn to move with the wind, with the sun, with the cooler blessings of dawn and dusk. Water is the ever-present desire in the back of your mind and on the tip of your tongue, more precious than the finest silks. Mortal danger hunts you at every step; whether presented by a ravenous beast, a band of raiders as desperate as you for water and survival, or within the very land itself, it is there. Storms can happen without warning, the mildest of them kicking up a blinding fury of whipping sand and wind that tears at your clothing, rubs your skin raw, and fills your nose and mouth with the gritty taste of desert life.
It's the life I've chosen. Better this, I say, than to be subject to the filth, decay, and corrupt whims of the Black City, or die to the fanatical judgment of the Ivory. Better this than to be used like a toy by a southern noble, to be broken and then discarded. Better this than to be a slave, utterly lacking freedom of choice and will. Better this than to be caged, collared and held back, to live in constant humiliation and fear.
There is a certain fierce pride I take in surviving until the sky takes on its evening purple hue, and living to see the red glory of Suk-Krath blaze above the horizon each morning. There is no better place than the desert to find that place within yourself that shows you just how strong you can be; and also how worthless and small you are compared to its stark, indifferent beauty. It moves my feet forward step by step, and it keeps me struggling to conquer this land that always wins in the end, to control these powers of mine that cannot ever be completely tamed.
Yet when the storms rage for days outside my crude shelter, the supply of precious water in my skin dwindles to a last tiny sip, and my belly grumbles in weak protest at its meager rations of food, I often begin to wonder at the choice I made.
When you live like I do, you get used to many things. The intense heat, the burning sun, the stinging sand that manages to get everywhere, no matter how well you cover yourself. The lonely hiss of the wind, never ceasing in its patient efforts to reshape the dunes, to scour the bones of those...
Continue Reading...Almost True Story of Eems, The Raider, The by Barzelene
Added on Feb 2, 2005A girl tells the story of a famous raider to the crew she has fallen in with.
They gathered around the fire. Outside the cave, the wind blew and tumbled. Inside, the smell of roasted scrab permeated everything. The two wind-tattered time worn men huddled around the roasting meat and with them a little girl. They were all thin, and they all drooled as the meat cooked.
All three looked up when the thick one walked in. Since they wouldn't tell her their names, she thought of them as the tall one, the skinny one, and the thick one. Mekuria stood and walked toward him. "Here he is!" Then to the thick one, "You got away."
The thick one said, "I 'ad ta deal wit all of 'em, got lucky an lost 'em all but one." The thick one had distracted the gith as the rest of the group escaped back to their cave, or home as Mek liked to think of it.
Mek said, in her squeaky little voice, "I was so scared I thought I'd pee on myself."
The thick one looked for a long moment at the tall one, who understood in the way that men who work together for a long time understand without words. The thick one told Mek, "Ya wanted life in tha wastes...ya got it."
The thick one settled in close to the fire's heat, and pushed back the hood of his dusty brown aba.
The thin one turned the slab of meat, exposing a perfectly browned underside. Mek sat forward and watched the cooking meat, with sleepy eyes. "Being a raider is tiring."
Peering up from the meat, the thin one said, "How old are ya, eh?"
"I'm twelve. How old are you?"
As he fiddled with the spit the thin one said, "'Round forty somewhere."
Mek nodded and said, "That's old."
The three men had another silent exchange then one asked "Where is yer parents?"
With an insouciant grin, Mek said, "Home saying, 'Where is that girl?'"
Laughing, the scarred, thick one said, "You ran away from home?"
"They want me to 'do something with my life.' And this wasn't what they had in mind."
For a moment, the only sound was the sizzling of the meat and the abrasion of sand on stone. Finally, one of the men opined, "You should go home...yer lucky to 'ave a mother an father."
"This aint an easy life."
"Go home and say what? 'Yes I'll go be a merchant and learn to sew and sit in a shop till I'm dead?'"
The thick one said, "Yer missen out on a lot if you stay with us."
Mek said, "I hope so."
Holding out a bit of perfectly roasted scrab, the thin one said, "Eat this."
Around a mouthful Mek said, "You'll be glad you let me stay. I've always wanted to be a raider."
"Aint an easy life...aint like sayen "I a'ways wanted ta be a noble"."
Mek said, "I wanted to be a raider ever since I heard of Eems. Since I was little."
The tall one said in his creaky voice, "You're still little."
Waving his comment away, she said, "Of course, we're going to need veils, but we're on the right track."
The thick one chuckled and took another bite of his meat. "Been doen a'right without 'em fer 'bout twenty years."
Mek shook her head adamantly, "No, to do it correctly, you have to wear a veil."
Breaking into a grin that showed broken teeth, the tall one said, "Oh, really?"
"Oh yes. Like the story."
"What story is this, little one?"
Rolling her eyes as she lost patience, Mek said, "Eems the Raider. You have to know it. I can't remember it all, so I have to make some of it up. You tell me if it sounds right." Then Mekuria began to speak, at first with her mouth full of scrab, and later as the fire burned low, with lips that held just a residue of grease.
"A long long time ago, in a city in the south lived a man named Eems. Eems worked as a guard for a rich and powerful woman. They spent most of their time together; he escorted her everywhere."
Thin said "No, no, 'worked as a guard'....was head guard for something better than just worked."
Mek nodded and said, "Was personal guard for?"
Thick said, "Tha works."
"Eventually he became her confidant and later her lover." Mek's voice skipped a little on the word lover, and she had to cover her mouth to stop an impending giggle. The men waited politely for the girl to continue the story.
"At first, everything was fine, but as he became more devoted to her, she became more careless with his affections."
Tall interrupted, "Average woman."
Mek glided over the interjection, though she gave Tall a meaningful look. "Broken hearted, Eems decided to resign his post. Now, while this woman (And personally I think she was probably a Fale) did not return Eems' love, she did not intend to let him go. They argued bitterly and eventually she had him beaten."
Thick said, his tone bawdy, "I wonder if she's still available."
Raising her voice, Mek went on. "Determined that Eems never work for anyone else she had his cheeks branded with her house sigil."
Thick muttered, "My kinda girl."
Even louder, Mek repeated, "Determined that Eems never work for anyone else she had his cheeks branded with her house sigil."
The three men tossed smiles across the fire, but kept silent as Mek took up her tale once more.
"Eems' passion had shifted from affection to loathing, and he stole from the estate one night with a bag full of valuables, his armor and a slave named Gaidon."
Thick, unable to resist, asked, "How'd 'e get the slave in a bag?"
The tall one could no longer hold back the laughter. "I love how "a slave" is on the list of stuff he took with him like a slave is a bag of tubers."
And the thin one contributed, "P'raps 'e was a talented packer."
Sniffing indignantly, Mek lay down and worked at fixing her cloak so it covered her totally. She rolled the hood into a small pillow and prepared to flounce into sleep. From the fire came a question. "What was the slave's name?"
"I'm not telling you."
A deep voice rumbled, "Gaidon."
Mek sat up and crossed her legs under her. She nodded and said, though a bit petulantly, "Yes, Gaidon. Now pay attention. Eems and Gaidon left the city to live in the wastes and for a time everything went well. But eventually they ran out of sid. Eems sunk into despair and Gaidon was left to deal with the practicalities of how they were going to make it on their own with no sid to speak of. One day while Gaidon was out hunting scrab, he came across a soldier, sleeping in the sands. Now, Gaidon, had no affection for the city's soldiers so he tied the soldier up and walked away with everything he owned."
Thick nodded and said, "I like it so far."
"Where was I?"
"Tied 'im up."
"Yes. Well, Gaidon returned to Eems with sid, supplies, and a new lightness in his heart. Turned out robbing that soldier was the most fun he'd ever had. Gaidon figured this was just the thing to draw Eems out of his funk."
"We're sunk inta despair, let's go kill and loot!"
"Shh, let da girl speak."
"Eems had reservations about turning to a life of crime. For one thing, it seemed rude, and for another with his branded face he was easily recognized. Gaidon convinced him to tie his veil over his face and try it just once."
"Again with the veils."
"Mek just spoke louder and went on with her story. They waited on the road until a traveler came by. They hailed the man but when he stopped, Eems found himself unable to knock him down and take his belongings. Instead, he engaged him in conversation."
One of the men laughed. "Conversation."
"No, I like it."
"They talked about the weather, and the political climate. Eems asked the traveler where he was headed. Gaidon asked if he wouldn't like to give them a few sid. When the man refused Eems lopped off his head, and they took his kank and his belongings."
Tall said, "Just like that? Maybe the man should be belligerent. Ya went from 'Eems found himself unable to knock him down and take his belongings' to 'When the man refused, Eems lopped off his head.' How'd that happen?"
Thin said, "'E needs to make a comment on 'is past lover."
"Yeah."
Mek nodded, and then went on. "Ok, so he becomes this big raider politely engaging people in conversation and killing them when they're rude. He only ever took half their stuff if they were nice. He meets a beautiful woman and convinces her to live in the wastes with Gaidon and himself. The people they like the best they ask to join them in the wastes. One day the stumble upon his old employer, and even though she's rude they do not kill her. They leave her naked and sidless in the road as they ride off into the horizon."
"What do you think?"
Tall said, "Leave a naked woman?"
Thin said, "Are they crazy?"
Giving up on the men, Mekuria settled back into her cloak. She soon fell into a deep and still sleep. She woke to a small insect walking across her cheek. She sat up and brushed off her face. The rays of the sun crept into the stone home, illuminating the men. All three had covered their faces with bits of torn cloth arranged to look like veils.
They gathered around the fire. Outside the cave, the wind blew and tumbled. Inside, the smell of roasted scrab permeated everything. The two wind-tattered time worn men huddled around the roasting meat and with them a little girl. They were all thin, and they all drooled as the meat cooked.
...
Continue Reading...Tool He Crafted, The by Priestess
Added on Feb 2, 2005A noble faces that which he created.
Tongue thick in his throat and eyes bulging, he crawls across the floor towards the pool of silken skirts around my ankles. Rich black silk, a gift he had given me on one of his earlier visits, woven with just the hint of red in the fabric which granted them the appearance of dark wet blood. .A fitting gift for you., he had said at the time, my back streaked with blood from his lash and his breath ragged from his pleasure. I lean back in the delicately carved chair, dragging up the heavy silk of my skirts as he claws at the carpet. He tries to scream, his swollen tongue muting the sound into a low desperate moan as he begs me for help, for life.
Raising my voice slightly, knowing his guards stand in the hallway outside my door waiting and listening for the sounds of my pain and his pleasure, I smile at him as I let out a long ragged scream. Long accustomed to making these sounds for him, my perfectly practiced cry echoes across the dimly lit chamber. The walls are padded with faded silks; old whores trying to conceal the ravages of time behind the obscuring veil of darkness. They drink the cries and screams of patron and whore alike, these walls, with a hunger born of centuries of dark nourishment. I see his eyes widen, blood filling them now, and I know his time is short. The poison is everything the guild had promised. Awareness of his own impending death is there for me to read, shimmering in obsidian dark eyes, as I watch him, silent except for the expected cries of pain that bring no undue attention in this dark establishment.
His hands spasm now, fingers curling and releasing in the final moments of his life and I know the time for my revenge will never be more perfect. I lean forward, pitching my voice just loud enough for him to hear it. Purring the words, I let him hear the pleasure it has brought me to see him before me like this, positions reversed in the ultimate reflection of our ongoing relationship.
"I suppose you are wondering: why? You have so many enemies, My Lord, most so trivial that you have dismissed them. Even poor men have memories and obsidian though, and your enemies have joined together in this cause. Enough obsidian to buy my freedom from this place, to buy my passage from this cesspit of a city. This is for Eola, whose wife you raped and had silenced. For Dargan, whose daughter happened to cross your path in the marketplace shortly before you took her as another of your 'toys'. You always were too hard on your toys, dear Lord Oash. This is for Bertrand, for Arkon, for Zas, for Fraen, and for so many more. Alas, I think you will have stopped breathing before I could name them all."
I slip from my chair, skirts pooling around me like drying blood, lifting his head to cradle it in my lap as I look down into his rapidly fading eyes. I can see Drov entering him, and I watch, mesmerized, fingers brushing through the wispy locks of his sandy colored hair, holding him close in his final fleeting moments.
"I really did care for you, in my own way, my Lord. Our games pleased me as much as they did you. You made me what I am, found me in the alleys and crafted me into your perfect vessel of pain. Still, a whore is a whore. Isn't that what you always told me? Whores are bought and someone topped your price, .I whisper softly in his last moment.
I can see when Drov takes him; smell the heavy acrid scent of blood and urine as his body spasms once more before relaxing with a soft gurgle. I sit on the floor, his head in my lap, for long moments just looking into the face of the man who made me. The man who broke me and reshaped me into his ideal and unknowingly forged the instrument of his own death in the process. I almost wish I had thanked him, but I doubt he would have been appreciative. I can hear the guards outside, talking quietly to each other. They won't grow concerned for hours yet as our games have always been long and elaborate. I slip the silver signet ring from his finger, palm the pouch of coins he always keeps in his belt and gently lower him to the floor.
I slip the coins into a pocket in my belt, adding the ring to the stash sewn into the secret lining in the bottom of my sturdy knapsack, and pick up a thick, black sandcloth cloak that lays waiting in the closet. Pausing as I gather my meager belongings, I look around the room a last time. My eyes linger as they pause on my benefactor and I think, in a way, I will miss him. The pain he brought me so regularly is a familiar companion if nothing else, but the deed is done now, my fate is sealed. To remain is to face certain death, and having watched Drov's embrace once this night, I find I am not as uncaring about when it finds me as I once was. A unit of T'zai Byn mercenaries will be awaiting me at Merchant's gate, and a new life lies ready for me outside the window. As the first faint rays of Suk-krath appear over the tenement walls, washing away the dark shadows of night that drape themselves with oppressing affection on the alleys, I slip out the window and down to the ground below.
Tongue thick in his throat and eyes bulging, he crawls across the floor towards the pool of silken skirts around my ankles. Rich black silk, a gift he had given me on one of his earlier visits, woven with just the hint of red in the fabric which granted them the appearance of dark wet blood. .A...
Continue Reading...Scaien Wall, The by Gorbei
Added on Feb 2, 2005A Byn Runner's experience at the battle of Luir's during the rebellion.
Part 1Another day, doing chores for my trooper masters. I'm standing in the mess hall, sweating by the stoves, making another big batch of stew. I look around the filthy stone room. I'll probably have to clean it later. I go back to stirring the pot with a big wooden spoon absently and I lose myself in thought about my upcoming graduation for a short time. I look to the left, out the big mess hall doors to where the sergeant and troopers from my unit are gathered for the contract today. I turn back to the stew and watch it bubble as I stir it slowly, waiting for the horn to blow. I feel a tap on my shoulder a few moments later and turn to see a stocky bald man. He's one of the troopers. "'ey, sergeant Kaleb say we need one more."
I immediately toss the spoon to the head cook Cailin, rip off my apron and jog out of the mess hall, chuckles from Cailin and the trooper following me.
My unit and I leave the compound as soon as I am ready, and sergeant Kaleb, a grizzled, gray skinned dwarf, briefs me on the mission. "Tha templarate's hired us ta go ta the Northlands fer a couple o' months," he tells me as he grimaces, "Seems hey got a little rebel infestation they want us ta look at. Ya can ride, right?"
No, not really. "Yea, of course," I reply with confidence. We walk the rest of the way in silence.
When we get to the stables we see sergeant Steiner there with his runners and a couple of his troopers. "Hello, Kaleb. Heard about your contract and I thought I'd take my runners along for some desert training, you mind?" says Steiner, with a grin that folds the long scar on his cheek.
Kaleb looks for the bunch of nervous runners with a wry twist of his mouth. "Faugh, if ya gotta, but we en't waitin. fer 'em." Kaleb shakes his head with a mutter.
Both Steiner and Kaleb pull out a handful of stable tickets, and most of the troopers produce their own. As the stable hands rush to locate everyone's kanks, Kaleb approaches me and shoves the reins of a large, twitchy, yellow kank into my hands. "Hope ya can keep up, runner," he states, before turning to distribute kanks to his troopers that don't own their own.
I nervously look the kank in the eye, glance around at the others in the stables, mount the beast, and quietly try to get it to move, with no success. Fuck.
When we leave, Kaleb immediately notices my troubles and covers his face with a hand and mutters angrily. "Ya said ya could ride!" he angrily exclaims to me. He points to two troopers, Bjarne, a large, brown skinned man, and Racoi, a tall, cocky elf, and orders, "You an' you, ride in the back wit' him, keep him outta trouble."
We leave the gates shortly and I ease my half-spear off of my back as I struggle to make my mount keep up. The two troopers assigned to me ride easily at my sides, watching the bland desert scenery in boredom. Later, we see the group stop and wait for us, far ahead, for the third time. The troopers glance sidelong at me from their kanks, and I sigh and kick mine, trying futilely to speed it up. Suddenly, a dark red blur dashes over a dune and slams into the side of my kank. My mount rears up, screaming, and drops me on my head as my guardians leap from their kanks, yelling battle cries. The scrab scuttles over to me and I woozily try to keep its pinchers away from my body and neck with my short spear in one hand as I fumble at my belt, trying to free my long dagger, with my other. Bjarne charges the vicious animal and bashes it away from me with his large hammer. Racoi is close behind, his swords already drawn and slashing. I scramble to my feet and circle the creature. The scrab squirms as I slide my weapon into its body, under its shell. Racoi takes this opportunity to jab his obsidian sword into the scrab's neck. Bjarne uses the pause to slam the scrab on the top of its head, hard. Racoi's sword snaps at the hilt as the scrab falls, shuddering, lifeless to the ground. Racoi sends me a withering glance and discards his stone hilt. I rub my stinging hand. Then, our comrades finally arrive. Steiner moves to the fallen scrab and gives his recruits a quick lesson about skinning one, and where to hurt it best. Kaleb approaches me and asks, "Ye all right, lad?" with more concern than I would have expected from him.
"Yea, I think so," I reply, before looking down at myself. I see that the attacker managed to rip a respectable chunk of flesh from my hand while it was on top of me. I suppress a moan before it can escape.
A portly, pock marked trooper named Raul steps up from the sergeant's side and takes my hand to inspect the bleeding wound. "Bah, 's not so bad," says Raul with a grim grin as he wraps my hand with a thin white bandage. He then gives me a pair of armored gloves to protect my hand and keep the bandage in place. I smile shakily and thank him before we all mount up and start moving again.
We are almost to Luir's Outpost, and I'm looking forward to the rest. I just sit and watch my kank's head bob, occasionally flexing my hand. I look up and scan the barren desert road for a moment before returning my eyes to my mount's head. Wait, something's missing. I look up again and think for a moment before sitting upright and searching the horizon. The main group is out of sight. I shout to the bored troopers at my sides that we have to hurry up and start kicking my kank in desperation. Racoi grins over to Bjarne and nicks my kank with his sword, causing it to run at speeds faster than any I had ever traveled at in my life. I clutch the reins tightly, and my face must have portrayed something comical to the troopers, because they laugh heartily as he ride easily beside me. "Careful, runner!" Bjarne calls to me.
Abruptly, the road turns sharply at the edge of a gorge. The kanks scramble frantically on the gravel at the lip, but their momentum carries them inevitably forward into the chasm. My mind gets blurry snapshots of Bjarne's tightly shut eyes and Racoi's wide, fearful mouth. The irony strikes me only slightly before the ground does.
I lay on the rocks, my vision swimming, only slightly aware of some movement near me. I blink slowly, my eyes rolling independently, and try to think of anything. I blink again, the sun jumps slightly in the red sky. I'm suddenly aware of some figures on kanks, shouting from the top of the gorge. I part my lips, I taste blood. I blink again, and he figures are gone. I look around myself and notice that I hurt. I see Racoi stumbling around and Bjarne lying on the ground near me. Three kanks, one large and twitchy, are scampering around, trying to crawl up the steep cliffs. There is a sand-scoured, broken down wagon some distance away. I slowly sit up and find the figures again, standing over a different part of the gorge that looks less sheer. One of the mounted men rides his kank slowly to the edge, pauses, and two of the other figures heave the kank and rider over the edge. As the flailing kank carries its rider down the steep scree slope, I chuckle, and taste blood again. I frown and look down at myself, seeing that the skin not covered by armor is a mass of small cuts and growing bruises. My face is probably not much better. I stiffly try to stand, then think better of it and prop myself up against a rock instead. Bjarne starts to stir. I turn back to watch the spectacle of the falling riders. As I see the second-to-last kank to come off the cliff, my mouth drops open. The kank catches itself on a dip in the terrain as it's pushed over the edge, causing it to flip over. The person and the mount tumble into the valley, smashing each other into the ground. At the bottom, the kank claws the air, trying to flip itself over and off the rider. The last figure quickly urges his kank down as I try my best to stand and limp over to the scene.
The figure that fell was sergeant Steiner, and now he's lying on the rocks, unconscious and badly injured. His troopers are already in the process of making a makeshift stretcher for him out of their brown Byn abas, and sergeant Kaleb, the last figure down the slope, is darting around at a surprisingly quick pace, trying to find good shelter. He pauses for a moment when he spots me, screams furiously, and then takes off once more.
Four troopers carry Steiner to the broken wagon on Kaleb's order, as two more herd a family of jozhal from the main room. Racoi, Bjarne and I follow them in. We make ourselves comfortable as one of our medics sees to our wounds, and watch Steiner being laid out carefully while the other medic scurries around him. Everyone but the wounded and the medics leave the cabin of the wagon to find a way out of the gorge. Kaleb gives me a seething glare as he stomps out. Our medic soon leaves to go help with Steiner and I lay back on my pack to recover and wait for the others.
I wake up. It's later, and I'm feeling slightly better now, so I decide to get up and see how the others are doing. I walk stiffly down the creaky ramp, out of the wagon, and see an odd performance by my colleagues. The kanks couldn't climb the cliff walls, so it seems that the strongest of the Bynners took on the task of dragging the kanks against their will by the reins through a small tunnel to he west. The bandaged form of Steiner is leaning on a crude crutch, speaking with Kaleb, and I overhear part of their conversation.
"I'm gonna fekkin' kill 'im!" growls Kaleb, his eyes burning.
"Get a hold of yourself Kaleb. No one died. No harm, no foul," Steiner states calmly. He flexes his sling-bound arm, lifting and turning it, to prove the triviality of his injuries. "He probably hurts more than I do."
"No one died, but they could've! An' we wasted mos'o the morn." Kaleb spits out, before noticing me.
"YOU!" screams Kaleb as he stomps hastily over to me, waving his weapon menacingly, followed slowly by sergeant Steiner. I stand paralyzed, trying to decide whether or not to flee for my life. Kaleb could defeat me with minimal effort if he decided to use his heavy stone axe.
"WHAT under Krath's fekkin' heat were ya THINKIN', runner?!" shrieks Kaleb, his diminutive form seeming to tower over my above average height.
Racoi and Bjarne arrive from the wagon as I reply, stammering, "I lost sight of the group, so we started to hurry, but lost control around the corner, sir."
I take a step back as the sergeant begins to sputter, his eyes angrily wide. Racoi steps in to save me. "It was my fault, sarge."
Kaleb lets out a yell of frustration, slamming his axe into the ground, before turning to storm to the tunnel. His expression causes most of the runners, and some of the troopers, to scatter out of the way.
Bjarne bends to pry the angry dwarf's axe from the ground, stating in his muddled northern accent, "Don' wurry too much, 'e won't 'arm ye, an' e'll cool off inna couple o' weeks." Racoi chuckles, nodding knowingly at Bjarne.
After the last of the kanks have been forced through the opening, I help Steiner hobble to it and we all duck though, crawling through the darkness to the other side. We emerge, blinking, then move to calm the jittery mounts. Sergeant Steiner's runners surround him and they begin the ride back to Allanak.
I watch them depart, and then turn to find Kaleb standing in front of me. "Steiner ain't 'round ta save ya now, runner," he growls.
I swallow and prepare to dash into the desert. Sergeant Kaleb takes his axe from Bjarne's hands and waves the hefty stone weapon in my face.
"If ya EVER endanger my troops again, I'll kill ya. Got it?" he rasps to me with his deep, gravelly voice.
I nod silently, trying not to vomit. Kaleb turns and goes back to the mounts. I shove my hair into place under my helm and quickly straighten my armor before following him. We all jump onto our kanks and set off along the cliffs beside us. The mounts can't go as quickly along the rocky surface as on the road, and I have less trouble keeping up.
After backtracking for an hour, we finally make it around the cliffs and back to the road. Kaleb stops in the shade and puts up a hand, telling everyone to give the mounts a rest. My kank is inexplicably spooked by something and scampers around the corner of the mesa that's granting our shade.
I hear a deep, gravelly shout of protest and urge my mount back to the group, just in time to see the sergeant furiously fling his axe over the road. He jabs a stubby finger at Raul. "Get that fer me, trooper."
Kaleb runs up to me, grabs me by the leg, and hauls me off my kank, slamming me into the ground on my back.
"I told ya never ta ride ahead again," Kaleb reminds me as he squats on my chest with a finger hard under my chin. "Ya got an eight count ta tell me what ta do with ya, 'cause if ta leave it ta me, yer a dead man."
I start to stammer and look to the troopers. Most are pretending to be engrossed with taking care of the mounts, some are just watching a short distance away. Raul returns with the dwarf's weapon. Kaleb's fifth finger drops. My eyes widen and I begin to panic. Between terrified breaths, my voice strained by the weight of the dwarf on my breastplate, I plead, "Make me walk the rest of the way to Luir's!"
Kaleb steps off of me and lifts me roughly to my feet by my breastplate. "You're runnin' the way ta Luir's, boy," he says to me. Then, turning, "'ey! Get up! We're leavin' fer the Outpost! Raul, lead the way."
The chubby trooper looks down at me with a hint of sympathy from his kank, and starts to ride slowly down the road. Everyone else follows as soon as they are ready.
Despite the slow pace, I still have to jog to keep up and quickly become tired in the intense desert heat. Whenever I lag behind, though, Kaleb whacks me with the flat of his axe from atop his mount. At one point, I stumble and fall. Kaleb pretends to accidentally drop a water skin, which I grab from the dust and drink from, greedily. A few minutes later, the sergeant reaches down and hauls me to my feet by the hood of my aba, then makes me run twice as fast to catch up to the others.
When we finally make it to Luir's Outpost, my face is blood red, my throat is raw from breathing heavily in the wind-blown sand, the inside of my armor is sopping wet, and the sun is low in the sky. The sergeant says to Raul, "Give 'im some water, make sure he don't die."
A few troopers go to stable the kanks, one walks down the street to secure rooms at the inn, the sergeant leaves to search for a contact, and Raul approaches me, saying, "You ran good today, runner. There's a lot of troopers that wouldn't have made it as far as you."
Wheezing, I nod my gratitude to Raul as he helps me to the inn. After he assists me in bandaging my badly blistered feet, I sleep soundly until morning.
It's a clear morning, with only light sands blowing in the air, as we leave Luir's Outpost to the north. I am riding a large gray kank this time, who is much more docile than my last mount. I have a much easier time keeping up. Kaleb talks loudly as we ride, telling us the information on the contract that he learned last night.
"We'll be livin. in the Northlands fer at least a couple months," he calls to us, "guardin' the gates from rebels, an' routine patrol. Should be easy 'sid, if ya don't get homesick."
The journey continues without much incident. My mount follows the others on its own, so I get to watch the red desert setting slowly include more plant life and become greener. We arrive at our destination late in the afternoon.
Part 2We've been in the Northlands for over a month, helping the local soldiers with the rebels. Most of the time it has been pretty easy, standing guard at the gates, chatting with the locals, except for one night, when the rebels somehow slipped poison into my water skin. I got violently ill, and my muscles seized up. There wasn't any lasting damage, but the troopers all had a good laugh. Another duty of ours was a routine patrol outside of the walls. At first, I wasn't allowed on most of these, because sergeant Kaleb still didn't trust me on a kank. A few weeks after our journey up here, though, the rebels managed to ambush and kill him while he was on patrol with Bjarne and Racoi, as they reported afterwards. Raul received a message from out lieutenant that he was to be promoted to our new sergeant, which Racoi and Bjarne seemed a bit bitter about. Raul let me go on patrol more often, which I enjoyed because patrolling is slightly less boring than guarding the gates and it gave me the chance to leave the flat stone roads and half-constructed buildings of the city to see the lush countryside.
I stop reminiscing about my time here and snap back to the present. I stand in a row with the rest of my T'zai Byn unit, a step behind my sergeant. An aged templar is giving us a speech, which I just missed most of. I look around myself. To my left is another unit of Byn fighters who have just arrived, with a recovered sergeant Steiner at the head. To my right are ranks and ranks of Allanaki militia; heavily armored half-giants and some of the most battle-hardened men I've ever seen (aside from my colleagues and I, of course). I smile and wonder why they even bothered to hire us. I turn my head back to Lord Templar Sathis, who is now moving toward us, and my stomach rumbles. The small pile of obsidian coins I brought with me recently ran out and I haven't eaten in at least a day and a half.
"These mercenaries," Lord Sathis calls to the gathered crowd of Allanaki soldiers, with a wave of his arm, "have been hired to aid us in the fight against the rebel force." He turns toward us. "Until victory, you are no longer mercenaries, but are soldiers of Allanak. I expect that to be your attitude," he tells us, with a severe glint in his eyes that may or may not be magick.
As the old templar shuffles away and begins a new string of speech about national safety, I shake my head and let out a small chuckle. Raul turns slightly toward me and silences me with a harsh glare. I sigh quietly and my eyes start to wander again. They fall to my plain, stiff leather sleeves and I start thinking of the stripe that's waiting for me back home. Suddenly, everyone is moving again. I blink in surprise, and then run to where my unit is already getting ready to leave. I ask Raul what's going on, exactly. Raul responds with a snorting chuckle, "Weren't you listening, runner? The rebels are coming, with an army. We're stationed at the vineyard."
I frown and nod. We soon start the hike south.
We arrive at the gates in the early afternoon where a small section of the militia is waiting for us. The two sergeants go to discuss our strategy while the rest of us sit on a ridge just outside of the gates, and prepare to wait.
We've been here for several hours; it's now the middle of the night. I'm looking into the sky, watching the two moons ride silently past, and I realize something. "You know," I state to no one in particular, "I'm twenty-two years old, right now."
"Happy birthday," says Raul, tearing the paper-wrapped honey-cake he is eating in two, then tosses me half. I smile and devour the morsel.
I watch a shaggy half-giant trooper play with a set of small wooden soldiers.
Drums. My eyes flick open and frantically scan the dawn-dyed horizon. Many, many loud drums, in the distance. I scramble and scoop up my obsidian headed halfspear and long bone dagger. I stand and watch the sky nervously, my eyelid twitching with each slow, collective beat.
Some of the veterans around me have frightening expressions of twisted calm, which is almost comforting to see. Sergeant Raul is wearing a deadly grimace. I can't find Steiner's face in the group, and the enemy appearing on the horizon ends my search.
At first, it's just a thin black line, barely visible over the immense, dusty yellow plain. Gradually I can begin to discern individual shapes in their ranks. Tribes and tribes of savage plains-men run shrieking at us. Some are riding huge beasts of war, some are beating massive hide drums in time.
Much more terrifying is the front line. Hardly recognizable figures of all shapes and sizes. Mutants. War mutants. My mind shudders as I attempt to interpret them. There is one, the biggest one, I think: huge, muscular and gangly, it's literally bristling with barbed spikes. Lumps of muscle pulse under its grainy gray skin. At its feet, I notice another: almost hidden in the cloud of dust being raised, I spot this small energetic beast. It looks like some pathetic botch of necromancy, all arms and legs. Tumbling and hopping, it is barely keeping in front, and is lacerating itself with its oversized, hooked claws and teeth in the process.
I blink, quickly shake my head and sweep the line, trying to take it all in before they reach us. I get only a general impression, of sharp fangs, violent features and inhuman noise. It seems that some of the creatures were made with unholy racket solely in mind, spinning and shrieking with endless zeal.
I clench my weapons and teeth tightly. I put a growl in each breath, trying to raise courage. Then, everyone's together. I can't hear; blood is pounding in my ears as I jab at my opponents. I notice Steiner's arrival from inside a large bush, nearly decapitating a reptilian humanoid with the first strike of his glittering obsidian daggers.
I slowly become almost detached from the battle as I mechanically move from opponent to enemy to opponent, helping my friends and allies with well-placed attacks. Duck, step, strike, step, strike. I observe the violence and conclude that sparring was never like this. Step, step, strike, duck, strike. Next, a painted, muscular woman. Step, strike. Rivulets of blood run down her colourful chest as she drops to his knees. I spin around, my eyes painfully wide. My nose begins to bleed softly of its own accord. Duck, walk, step, strike, step, strike, parry, parry, dodge, parry. A spear-like arm rips past my head, under my helmet and splits my ear in two. The mutant retracts its arm and I am shoved harshly back into my body. I shiver and let out a cry when I realize that a tribal and two mutants are trying to kill me. There are no allies in sight. I frantically parry their attacks as best I can, each one getting closer than the last. Blood is starting to leak from the bottom edge of my helm. My arms already burn from berserk exertion. The spear-armed thing jabs me in the shoulder, lightly. My aba is abruptly soaked with blood, and the weight of the mutant brings me to my knees as it flings itself at me. I only fully realize that most of the blood isn't mine when Sergeant Steiner intercepts the other mutant, a small, clawed, bird-like thing. I disentangle myself and turn to the savage, then give a fast sigh of relief. Steiner calls out intensely, "Keep with the group, runner!"
The man sneers at me and sends a boot into my breastplate. He takes flight as I stumble. With a smirk, I assist Steiner and we dispatch the remaining creature quickly. Back to back, we scamper to return to the others.
I can't tell how much longer the skirmish lasts for, my mercenary comrades and I guarding the gates in a knot. The battle ends even more suddenly than it began, the enemy in abrupt retreat. There is a collective sigh, which releases the tension. It's late morning, and light sand is whipping though the air.
With Raul standing beside him, Steiner calls out, "Take what you want from the bodies, but be quick about it! They may come back."
My hunger grips me again, I had forgotten about it during the fighting. I wander over the battlefield for a few minutes before seeing a bag strapped to the back of a scruffy feather-clad tribesman. I pluck it from his stiff body and find a bundle of vegetables and nuts. I wander slowly back to the group, snagging various treasures and chewing a handful of seeds contentedly. I finish those and reach into the bag for a thick, green tuber. I take the first bite, but before I can swallow I cough the plant particles in front of me in a spray. I rip off my bone breastplate and fall to my knees, clutching the left side of my chest. My blood is on fire!
The two sergeants hear my moans and come running over. Steiner kneels in front of me and quickly assesses me with his hands and eyes. He then snaps a hand into a pouch on his belt, pulling out a red, thumb-sized tablet. He pushes the tablet past my chattering teeth and clamps a hand over my drool-smiled mouth. The tablet tastes terrible, and I would have spit it out if not for Steiner's hand, and his rough growl: "Swallow!. I swallow, and I can track the tablet as it abrasively makes its way o my stomach. Steiner releases me and lays me on my back. My head rolls to the side and I watch scavengers pick over some corpses as I wait for my blood to cool.
I let out a shuddering sigh, and begin to feel light-headed. "You may feel light-headed for a while, but you'll be fine, runner," states sergeant Steiner as he stands to he feet.
"Didn't your momma tell you if you don't know what it is don't put it in your mouth?" chuckles Raul as he helps me up. I nod absently in response.
"He did it again, boys!" cackles a nearby, bushy-bearded trooper.
My head feels like it did in the gorge. I seem to have my balance, though, and Raul leaves me to go greet Racoi and one of his elven friends, who each seem very agitated. After a brief chat, filled with rapid hand gestures directed at the city, Raul turns and bellows, "Everyone back inside! They've broken the gates!"
I closely follow everyone into the walls and watch dumbly as two half-giants barricade the partially constructed gateway, as I try to shake the clouds from my brain.
I turn back to my group and a messenger is explaining the situation in more detail. Apparently, the rebels have access to a small group of magickers, who blew down the western gate with ease. The attacking army pushed through, and the war is now inside the walls o the Northlands. Our unit is suddenly smaller by quite a few men. Raul picks up the dropped weapons and loudly curses the deserters, who are scrambling through the gate, over the makeshift barricade. I stand my ground, because I know that if it gets too dangerous, our sergeants will tell us to get out of here. Besides, my mind is still too befuddled to grasp the full concept of magick.
We then see a lightly armored unit march around the corner, far down the road. They see us at the same time, and quickly form a line facing us, drawing arrows into the bows they are carrying. These are the first true rebels that we've seen, and they are all wearing shabby red and white veils. As everyone around me dives for cover or ducks behind their shields, a huge man at the end of the line shouts soundlessly and waves a signal with his sword. A volley of arrows is launched. I squeak in fear and throw my hands up to guard my face just in time.
An arrow pierces my hand and nicks my left eyebrow. Three more heavy missiles slam through my breastplate, into my abdomen. I wobble, peering at my transfixed hand, during the brief respite as the second volley screams at us. Two final arrows slide into my right leg, one in the thigh and one in the ankle, and bring me crashing to the ground face first.
I sneeze through my nose. Sticky blood is now covering my chin. A boot lands heavily beside my head. I rest my face on my arm and begin to stare listlessly, trying to look dead.
Almost immediately, though, strong hands grab me under the arms and start dragging me on my back. I shift my eyes slightly to view my captor. It's the shaggy half-giant trooper, and he drops my in an alley, away from the fighting, near sergeant Raul. Raul wordlessly drops to his knees, shaking his head as he pulls the arrows through my hand, thigh and ankle. He leaves the ones through my breastplate alone. I let my head roll while he works, to look across the street. I notice a small girl watching me from a window. She smiles just before a terrified parent hastily pulls her away.
Raul lifts me to my feet by my shoulders. "Can ya walk, runner?" He lets me go.
I stumble into Raul and hug his thick, armored arm until my feet manage to scramble under me.
I lift myself up and nod, and the sergeant tells me, "Get somewhere safe. You're in no shape for fighting," before striding out of the alley into the fray.
I stumble, limping, out of the alley in the other direction, onto another side street, away from the skirmish.
An hour later, I'm still trudging on one leg through the alleys and wide fields of the city, struggling against the pain.
I've been trying to stick to the shadows, avoiding main roads and anyone I see. I'm moving steadily north, towards a tavern I know of. I think, "I'll be safe in the Sanctuary," through the haze.
The arrows in my stomach aren't deep, but soon after I left my unit, I snapped each of them off and carefully removed my breastplate anyway. I've been carrying it with me since then, and now it slips from my fingers and clatters to the ground. I can't go on. I slip to the street beside my bone armor.
After a short time of wallowing in self-pity, I notice a bald-shaven half-giant wearing trim linen clothing and a large leather pack round the corner to the south. I wait until he reaches me before croaking, "Help me," past blood encrusted lips.
The half-giant leans over, peers at me for a moment, shrugs his massive shoulders and grabs me by the hood of my aba. As he drags me over the bumpy hard-pack, he says, "I got a friend," and I manage to pass out.
I awake, having to forcibly open my crusty eyes. I'm alone, behind the bar of the tavern that I was heading for. A sharp burn in my midsection prevents me from sitting up, so I look over my bare chest. There are three enflamed incisions in my abdomen that are covered in sticky, white salve, and three bloody and broken arrows lie discarded beside me. I think of the giant.s friend and silently thank him or her. Thoughts of others vanish from my mind as I roll onto my side, slide a bottle of kalan wine and a full ginka pie out from under the bar, and have a long awaited meal.
Once I'm satiated, I stand gingerly and find that I'm feeling much better. I straighten my filthy, torn aba around myself, and notice with a frown that several pieces of my armor are gone. I step into the room, where I see a few citizens taking shelter under tables. Finally, I realize that the sounds I had been hearing are the noises of distant battle.
I poke my head out of the exit and my brows knit together at the sight. A few cords to the left of the door kneels Lord Templar Sathis of the Red, his carcass propped up by a javelin embedded in his spine. The wide road is littered with corpses of many different origins: from tribals to Allanaki soldiers, from scavengers to nobility. He air is gray with smoke from various burning buildings, and far down the road, I can see the smouldering ruins of the powerful gate. Near the gate flies the red and white banner of the rebellion, in place of the jade cross of Allanak. The only live allies I can see are fleeing a group of rebels in a small knot. I'm not safe here, I realize.
I leave the tavern and begin to search the city for my unit, traveling in the same manner as I had before, keeping to the lesser-used streets.
After an hour or two of gnawing fear, I come across a semi-constructed tower of stone by the city wall. Outside of the tower lies a bloody brown rag, similar to the one around my own body.
I shudder as I step into the shadowed carnage within the skeletal building. Everywhere, bodies are slumped. Blood covers the unfinished walls and my friends. mangled remains lie silent in the red moonlight the peeks through the naked rafters. I whimper and let my stained aba fall to the ground. Several enemy corpses also rest with us, and I shakily procure a relatively clean, light brown dustcloak from one as a replacement. Without looking back, I slip from the tomb. As I walk south with my dustcloak held tightly shut, the only living people I see are wearing red and white. Some glance at me, but none look twice. When I finally reach the unfinished south gate, I give a shuddering sigh and begin the long hike back to Allanak. I wonder fleetingly if I'll still be paid for the mission.
Part 1
Another day, doing chores for my trooper masters. I'm standing in the mess hall, sweating by the stoves, making another big batch of stew. I look around the filthy stone room. I'll probably have to clean it later. I go back to stirring the pot with a big wooden spoon absently and I...
Continue Reading...Last Chance by Elvenchipmunk
Added on Feb 2, 2005A tribal elf comes of age, and learns of what life means in Zalanthas.
The deep red sun rose up into the pale pink, cloudless sky. The birds were chirping, the trees waving in the wind. Down on the ground, it was the start of a fresh new day for the village of Elrohir.
In the small, wooden house at which the elven child Isirin dwelled, fresh pastries, meat, beverages and other delicious elven food was being served for breakfast. Both Isirin and his father came to the table to eat. "Father, you do know what day it is don't you?" asked Isirin, the child of the family. All of the elves of Elrohir were required to learn both the language of the elves, Allundean, and the human tongue, Sirihish.
"Of course Isirin, how could a father forget when his son reaches adulthood. I have arranged for a ceremony tonight at the banquet hall to initiate you fully into the tribe," replied Khalin, Isirin's father, and most cherished relative.
"Did you get me a present father? You were gone for a few days last week, did you get me a present while you were away?" asked Isirin excitedly.
"You will have to wait and see, my son. I can tell you though that I have also arranged for a special trip for you and me into the woods after the ceremony tonight."
"Into the woods?" a grin spread across Isirin's pale face. "We're going hunting!"
Khalin couldn't help but let out a broad smile as he saw how happy he had made his son. "That's right Isirin, hunting. Now that you're an adult, I think you can take on the responsibility of hunting with me to be able to contribute to tribe." There was only Isirin and Khalin who were left in their family, as his mother was taken away by human raiders a while back, and Isirin was an only son. Because of this, the whole tribe contributed food, and by this way, the whole tribe was treated equally and given the same amount of food and equipment.
As they were finishing up their first meal of the day, Khalin said "Isirin, hurry up and finish your breakfast, we've a long day ahead of us. I must finish setting up the banquet hall for your initiation. I need you to go play with Havin, so there are no surprises that will be ruined for you."
"Yes father. I can't wait to tell Havin that I'm going to be going on a hunting trip," said Isirin proudly.
"Have a good time, Isirin," said Khalin as his 14 year-old son left the hut.
As Isirin was walking down the pebble-strewn road, he couldn't stop thinking about the hunt, and his present! What could it be? He wondered. The thought left his mind as he saw Havin, his best friend, playing out in his yard.
"Havin! Havin! Guess what? For my birthday, father's taking me out on a hunt! I'm gonna use a bow an' everything!"
"Really Isirin? You're so lucky. My birthday isn't until a long time from now. I wish I could go out on a hunt."
"You will when you're 14, you've still only got a year until you are. That's not too long."
"Ya, I guess you're right Isirin. Anyway, I got a few neat figurines that we can play with. Do you want to go and play with them?"
"Sure Havin. I haven't anything better to do until the initiation."
"Great! Let's go as soon as I get them from my room. One minute."
Once Havin came out of his straw-hued hut, a small bag in his hand, Isirin and him started on their way. After a little while, the pebble road gradually turned into a dirt path, and once they came to the place where they usually played, a small field, it was but a path of long grass.
"Let's get some to set them up on," suggested Isirin. Havin nodded his head and off they went around the field, picking up branches that had fairly flat ends. When they had both decided they had enough, they went back to where they started and began setting up the stands. Once he had fitted together his first stand, Isirin pulled a slingshot out of his jacket. "Hey Havin, put a figurine on that stand, and I'll try to shoot it."
"Alright, but if you miss, it's my turn."
"Alright, just load it up."
Having put the small wooden figure of a gith with a sword in hand inside, and set it gently onto the flat end of a piece of wood. Isirin picked up a few rocks, loaded one into his slingshot, steadied himself, pulled back on the string until it couldn't go any further, and let go.
Smack. The rock hit the figurine dead on, putting a large dent in it. Isirin watched satisfyingly as the figurine flipped off the wood, hitting the ground softly. He smiled at Havin.
"Okay, I get the next one", said Havin as he released an uncontrollable grin to Isirin. They did this for a few hours until Isirin's dad came down the path. "Isirin, have you not been watching the sun? It's time for your initiation", said Khalin with a hidden hint of happiness.
Smiling, Isirin said, "Alright, Havin, you're coming?"
"Yes, I wouldn't miss something like this."
"Alright then, follow me," said Khalin as he began on his way back up the path.
When they got into the banquet hall, a large building made from wood and bark, they went in through the two front doors, and in front of them was a big room filled with tables and tables of food. As they entered, all of the elves sitting at the tables, nearly all the elves in the village were clapping. They made their way to the front table, except for Havin who went to sit with his family.
Isirin's father started his speech. "Elves of Elrohir, tonight, we celebrate the 14th birthday of my son, Isirin." Khalin gave Isirin a quick smile before returning to his speech. "Now this is no ordinary birthday, because it is his fourteenth, he is now a man, but not officially, that is why we are here tonight." A series of hands clapping were heard, then all was silent as Khalin continued. "After tonight, Isirin will have been blessed by the gods of old, and he will be officially, a man!" More clapping non-stop, then Khalin gave the sign and all of the elves got up and headed over to the food.
At the front of the line, Isirin took all kinds of different food that had been made by different elves in the village. He started off by getting some steaming hot vegetables, delicious ginka pie, and a large steak of tandu. He finished off his plate by getting some honey-glazed horta fruit for dessert. He then headed back to his table and took his seat.
Once everyone had completed their plates, Khalin stood up, said a prayer, then the feast began.
Elves are not sloppy eaters at all, so there were forks, knives and spoons laid out at each spot, all made out of wood. After the eating was done, and the talking ceased, which took a while, as elves are not quick eaters due to their cleanliness, Khalin once again rose from his tree-carved wooden chair and cleared his throat. "Now that everyone has filled their stomachs, I would like to commence the initiation. Isirin, stand up please." After a slight hesitation, Isirin rose from his chair, nodding to his father. "Now, if everyone could bow their heads as I speak the initiation prayer." Everyone's faces pointed to the ground, including Isirin's, but not Khalin's. Khalin drew his scimitar, a finely crafted obsidian weapon with the symbol of a tree engraved into the blade. He placed it on Isirin's shoulders.
"Isirin, you are now adult, you now have many responsibilities. Do you promise to hunt for the tribe, to do your share in the thriving of this village of Elrohir?" Isirin nodded his head.
"Do you promise to not betray, steal from, or hurt anyone else in the village?" Another nod from Isirin.
"And you will respect your elders, whether you like their decisions or not?" Again, Isirin nodded his head slowly.
"Then, by the power of the gods of Elrohir, I hereby declare you a hunter of the village Elrohir!" said Khalin, his voice rising from beginning to end. All of the elves rose their heads and began clapping and cheering, Isirin rose as well, unleashing an uncontrollable smile. "Thank you father," he whispered to Khalin. Khalin ruffled his hair in return. "Isirin, I have a present for you when we get back to the house."
They entered the hut, Khalin hurrying to the lamps to light them, as it was pitch-black outside, only his lantern was helping them see. As Isirin entered, he saw, in the corner, a polished length of curved wood with a tight string attached, and a long bag made of animal skin with a strap on it. Smiling, Isirin said "A bow and a quiver! Thank you father! Will we try it out soon?"
"I've arranged for us to go hunting in the morning, Isirin. I've also arranged for you to be given your very own blade, and swordbelt."
"Thank you father. I can't wait!"
"Well, maybe go to sleep now, and we'll go test out your bow and scimitar in the morning."
Isirin ran as quickly as he could into his room, removing his clothing until he had only a pair of old shorts on, then climbed into his bed, a pile of animal furs on top with animal skins stuffed with feathers on the bottom. He was too excited to fall asleep right away, so he tried to stay up. The longer he did this though, the quicker he got tired and eventually fell asleep.
The next morning, Isirin awoke with a start. As he looked up, there was his father, all dressed in his hunting gear, a green cloak with his bow slung across his back, and his scimitar sheathed in his belt. "Isirin, get up, it's time to go." Isirin jumped out of bed, got on his cloak that was given to him the past night, along with some other hunting gear, and went to get his bow and quiver full of arrows. He grabbed a few pieces of bread and a cup of water, wolfed them down, and then followed his father out the door.
On the way to the hut where Isirin's new scimitar was being kept, he slung his bow across his back like his father, and strapped his quiver to his back as well. When they got to the hut, they picked up the scimitar from the rack where it was being kept, and it was given to Isirin, who sheathed it proudly on his belt after having looked it over admirably.
They left the hut, and made for the village gates, which were no more than ten cords tall and were fashioned into spikes at the top. The four guards there nodded to Isirin and his father on their way out, opening up the tall gates. When they were past the gates, they closed from the other side with a loud thud, and ahead of them, lay the forest.
The leaves on the tall trees of the forest ruffled in the wind, the light from the slowly rising sun reflecting off the shining surface of them. They entered the forest, following an old path deeper in. They were moving along the path slowly, keeping to the cover of bushes, their green cloaks camouflaging them.
"Over there", whispered Khalin, pointing just off to the right of the old, worn-down path. Isirin looked over slowly, nodding to his father as he spotted the four-hoofed mammal, a tandu, its brown hide shining in the morning sunlight. Khalin pulled an arrow from his leather quiver and nocked it onto his bow, as did Isirin. They slowly rose from their position behind the bush, now standing up to their full height, both of them aiming steadily at the tandu. Two arrows whistled as they flew through air at the tandu, killing it instantly as one of them hit its neck, and the other its body. Khalin smiled at Isirin as he said, "Good shot Isirin, that shot would've nearly killed him by itself". Isirin flashed a smile back at him.
They slung their bows across their back as they walked over to the body. Khalin drew a small knife, and then another, handing one over to Isirin. "Here, you start by cutting out the meat by its back." Khalin drew his scimitar, cutting off the tandu's head, blood spilling from it for a while. When it was stopped, he used his knife to cut off the hide carefully, and finished off by getting out the rest of the meat that Isirin missed. Khalin took all of the body parts on the ground, and tossed them into a large bag, which he threw across his back. "Let's get one more, then we'll set up camp for the night".
After looking for a few hours, they found a large tandu, shooting it down like the first. Again they walked over to the body, skinning and cleaning it up. When this was done, it had been a while since they had set out, and it was dusk. "We'll set up a small fire and tent here, Isirin". Isirin set up the tent as Khalin went around finding branches, starting a small fire once he was done.
Once the fire was ablaze, Khalin got out a couple of pieces of tandu, setting them on sticks. He gave one to Isirin who set it over the fire, as did Khalin, cooking it. "This is good, the others will be pleased when they see what we brought back", said Khalin after taking a large bite out of his piece of meat. "I didn't think there was so much meat on a tandu, father, I am glad we only need to kill a couple to last us a while", said Isirin as he too took a bite out of his meat.
"Yes, it is quite good for nature that we only need to kill two. Right now though, you need to get some rest", said Khalin, smiling at Isirin as he licked his greasy fingers.
"Good night father." Isirin climbed into the tent, snugly underneath his blanket. Khalin climbed in after the fire was out, did up the tent, and fell asleep beside his son.
The next morning, just after dawn, Khalin woke his son. "Isirin, time to head back. Are you hungry?" Isirin shook his head. "Alright then, let's pack everything up and leave", said Khalin as he left the tent, beginning to take it down. Isirin stepped out of the tent, rubbing his blue eyes. Once everything was rolled up and packed away, they began walking slowly in the direction of their village.
As they reached the edge of the forest, thick smoke could be seen rising up over the trees and into the morning sky. "Father! What is that?" exclaimed Isirin, in an almost panicked voice. "I'm not sure son. Follow me, quickly, we'll go see what this is about".
They reached the outside of the forest, and widened their eyes at what lay before them. The whole village was on fire, or already burned to the ground. The remains of bodies littered around the broken gates. Isirin collapsed to the ground, kneeling as he put his dirt-covered hands to his crying face. "Father, who would do such a thing?" said Isirin, tears beginning to trickle down his face. Khalin shook his head, dumbstruck.
"Isirin, we must gather our things from the house, and never come back here. Do you understand?"
"Yes father", said Isirin, nodding.
"Good, let's go in, but be careful, and try not to be seen, there could still be enemies within the village".
They entered the village gates, again under the cover of their cloaks. They quickly made their way into their hut, which was burned, but not badly. Isirin tripped on the body of an elf, putting a hand to his mouth and covering it to prevent vomiting. He quickly rose back to his feet and entered the hut behind his father.
They grabbed a few bags of meat, fruit, and several waterskins full to the brim. "Isirin, let's leave, we must head into the city of Tuluk, and maybe we can stay there for the night before heading elsewhere". Isirin nodded agreeably, still a little shocked by the sight around him. Dead bodies of elves he had known littered everywhere. Here and there, he could see the body of a human, their throat cut, or their body with a gaping hole in it, bearing the symbol of a blazing sun on their red and white uniform. Somewhere nearby, he could here moaning. "I..si..r..in..", said the voice, sounding quite scared. "Who is that? Where are you?" said Isirin, looking around him.
"Ov..er.he..re.. I..sir.in".
Isirin looked in the direction of the voice, and there was Havin, lying under the debris of a burned hut. "Havin! Hang on, father and I will get you out!" Isirin and Khalin moved over to where Havin lay, and slowly removed the debris from on top of him. Once it was all off, it was clear that Havin had been pierced by a sword in his chest. Thinking quickly, Khalin tore a piece of cloth from Havin's already torn, dirty shirt, and placed it on Havin's chest, covering up the wound. "There, it should heal in time, but there may be a scar there for a while", said Khalin, as he stood back to his feet.
"Havin", started Khalin, "Isirin and I were about to leave for the roundear city of Tuluk, it will be safe there for the night. Do you wish to accompany us?"
"Yes, I will go with you. I do not see much other choice", said Havin weakly as he rose from his position.
"Good, then let's go."
Just then a sword fell on Khalin, cutting him at the shoulder. "Father!" yelled Isirin, turning as he drew his scimitar just in time to block a blow from a human Tuluki soldier. The force from the blow knocked him off his feet though, and he had to jump back up quickly before the next blow fell. He raised his scimitar above his head, faking a swing to the right as he twirled around, cutting into the soldier's waist from the other side. His bone sword fell to the ground as the soldier of Tuluk collapsed, bright red blood pouring from his side and mixing with the brown dirt. Isirin finished him by cutting off his head, breathing heavily as he stuck his scimitar into the ground, his eyes filled with rage. He moved over to where the lifeless corpse of his father lay, a pool of blood circling around it. "Father..." Isirin fell to the ground, whimpering softly as he shut his eyes, dozing off into a deep sleep.
He woke later that night, opening his eyes quickly as he looked around him. Nobody was to be seen, and he was now under a pile of leaves just on the edge of the forest. He rose to his feet, looking around once more. This time though, he noticed Havin, sleeping peacefully underneath another pile of leaves, his injured chest relaxed. Isirin walked sleepily over to Havin, shaking him. Havin woke with a start, backing away before he realized it was Isirin standing overtop of him. Havin, we must head to Tuluk and seek shelter there".
"Isirin, the ones that attacked the village, who were they? I have seen them before, marching out in the wilderness."
"They were." begun Isirin begun, pausing for a moment before continuing, "I'm not sure who they were, but we best avoid any others, in case they wish to kill us."
Havin nodded, standing up. "Yes, we must go to Tuluk, I have heard that elves are welcome there, from my father". Havin slumped next to a large tree, shaking his head as he held back tears. "If only he were here now".
"If only this had never happened", said Isirin as he sat down beside his friend.
Hours passed as they sat there, alone, under the night sky. Isirin woke the next morning, standing up quickly as he moved over to a small bush, hiding behind it. He peered up over it, in the direction of the village. There he saw a pair of humans, rummaging through the corpses of the elves and men alike, taking what they please. What's wrong with them? Why do they not honor the dead? thought Isirin, slowly walking over to where Havin lay.
"Havin, wake up", whispered Isirin. "There's a pair of roundears going through the bodies of the dead, what should we do?"
Havin sat up, looking into Isirin's eyes. "Isirin, you must make a decision, do you want to be a killer? And take from them what they took from our elders? Or do you want to flee to Tuluk, and never come back. The decision is yours not mine."
Isirin grinned as he drew his scimitar, then his father's which he had taken to honor him, and keep something from him to remember him by. "I choose the path of the killer, and I will spill the blood of those that dared challenge our elders. Havin, will you join me?"
Nodding, Havin drew his swords he had picked up off the ground. "Yes, I will help."
They crept slowly across the forest floor, stalking the raiders' every move. Once they were close enough, Isirin unslung his bow from his back, and handed his father's over to Havin, as well as a few arrows. They both nocked an arrow, taking aim at the raiders who had now taken a seat beside the village walls. The arrows sung as they flew in the direction of the raiders, both of them hitting one of the raiders in the back, he fell to the ground. The other one turned around, seeing his dead partner, looking behind him as two tall figures in green cloaks rushed out of the forest, weapons drawn. He spat out the ale he had in his mouth, drawing his one longsword and picking up a small dagger from the ground.
Isirin charged to the right and Havin to the left, the raider nervously bracing himself as the two elves screamed, slashing at him. He didn't even have enough time to scream before his head was cut off and a large hole was cut into his body. He fell to the ground, beside the rotting body of his friend, a large pool of blood forming around them. The two elves sheathed their weapons, Isirin exhaling heavily as Havin sat down on the blood-soaked ground. "Now, we must go to the city, before a whole group of roundears come and kill us", said Isirin, riding to his feet.
They began heading in the direction of the city of Tuluk, and soon set foot inside the Harzen gates, just before early afternoon. "Halt, what is your business here in Tuluk, newcomers?" asked a large human with jet-black hair as he moved out into the middle of the road, blocking their path.
"My business is." Isirin paused as he saw the red and white armor that the soldier displayed, widening his eyes as he noticed a blazing sun etched into them. He turned to face Havin. "Havin, we need to get out of here, it's not safe". Havin nodded, and they turned around.
"Hey! You two! Stop! What is your business here in Tuluk! If you leave without giving an answer you will be killed!" Isirin and Havin kept walking.
"Guards! Grab them!" yelled the soldier, but the two elves had already left the gates. He walked over to the gates; the elves were not to be seen. Just as he turned his back, two arrows flew in from the forest, striking down one of the gate guards, and another two flew in and killed the soldier that had questioned them, piercing his neck as he collapsed to the ground.
At the edge of the forest, concealed behind a bush, Isirin and Havin ran west, eventually finding a hole in the ground of suitable size for the night. They both climbed in. After having unrolled the tent and entering it, their furs laid out across the ground, Isirin said, "Havin, what are we to do now? How will we get revenge on the roundears?"
"Isirin, we must seek aid from other tribes, unite as one, and maybe then we can challenge the roundears".
"Yes, we shall set out to find another tribe in the morning. Good night Havin".
"Good night Isirin".
They awoke next morning to the sight of a lizard, roughly one quarter their size, standing overtop of them, its chitin carapace dulled in the blackness of the hole. Isirin pat Havin on the back. "Havin, what is that?" asked Isirin, pointing to the lizard.
"Uh, I think it's a skeet, my father used to hunt them for their chitin. Yes, it's a skeet".
"Are they dangerous, Havin?"
Havin shook his head.
Nodding, Isirin rose from his spot in the tent, shooing the skeet out. With a grunt, Havin rose as well, clutching his chest. "Well, at least the bleeding has stopped, and I think it's being healed quite nicely", he said.
Isirin helped him up, then left the tent, rolling and packing it up. They left the skeet hole, continuing north until they found themselves on a white stone road. "The North Road", said Isirin, looking around. "My father told me about it. To the east, it leads into the city, and to the west, it leads into an area called the Tablelands, where another elven tribe lies. That is where we must go."
They left west, running along the road at a steady pace. They encountered a few skeet on the way, which they just left. They also saw a human riding upon a grey kank, whom they just ran right by, without saying a word. Once they came to the intersection where another road started, Isirin pointed down its length. "There, Havin. Down that road is where the tribe is. Are you ready? They may not help us".
"After what we've been through Isirin? I'm ready". They ran down this road, stopping when they came to the gates of an outpost. They walks inside, the elves around them staring. Isirin walked up to one and said, "Might you tell me where your chief is?"
The elf pointed to the north, where a large building lay. "Thank you", offered Isirin as he and Havin continued into the tavern. Once inside, Isirin asked again where the chief was. One of the elves pointed to the east, where a curtain lead into a small room filled with cushions. They walked into it, and there they found a large elf, with a hat made of feathers. As they neared him, Isirin dipped his head, and, after seeing Isirin, so did Havin. As he neared the chief, Isirin said, "My name is Isirin, and I am a child of the Elrohir. Our village." he paused for a moment, "our village was burned to the ground by soldiers of Tuluk. Now, we seek aid from you, and hope that you will gather your warriors and challenge the city with us".
A long pause went by, then, the chief spoke, "I have just spoken with the elders of my tribe using the Way, and, we have agreed to help you, and may there be peace between our tribes for years to come", said the chief, smiling faintly. Whatever of our tribe is left, thought Isirin. Havin turned to Isirin, smiling. "We will begin gathering our warriors, we will meet you at the northern gates of the outpost at dawn". Isirin and Havin dipped their heads before leaving the building, walking over to the gates, where they set up their tent.
At first light, Isirin and Havin were set, and so left their tent. Outside of it there were gathered over a hundred good warriors, all suited up for war. The leader of their army, an elderly elf with grey hair and green, brown and yellow warpaint, walked over to Isirin, dipping his head. "I am Karil of the Leaping Sands, chief of the army before you. You are Isirin are you not?"
"Yes, that is me. Are the warriors ready to leave chief?"
Nodding, the chief said, "Yes, we're all ready, shall we go now?" Isirin gave him a quick nod. "Leaping Sands!" Karil shouted, "you have been summoned here today to help a tribe in trouble! The evil roundears have burned their village! Killing their children, wives, brothers, fathers, sisters and mothers! This will not be tolerated! And so today, we leave the outpost for war! Let's go!" A series of cheers went up as they began the journey down the road, the clinking of bone armor sounding as they went.
Once they came to the North Road, Isirin, who as in the front, spotted a human riding a kank just north of there, coming towards them. He motioned for Karil to stop as he unslung his longbow from his back. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocking it as he aimed north. The arrow flew straight, knocking him off his kank as it his body. The man looked up just in time to see a face filled with rage, then his world went black. Standing over top of the headless body, Isirin sheathed his scimitar, unstrapping the kank. The kank, once turned free, ran off into the wilderness. The elven army soon moved up to where Isirin was, Karil nodding to him as he arrived. They continued on their way.
Tuluk was in sight, the gates crawling with soldiers armed and ready for battle. Isirin halted the army, turning around. "Elven brothers! Are you ready?!" he yelled.
A series of cheers went up as Isirin turned back to face the city. "FOR THE ELROHIR!!!!" he yelled as he charged at the city, his elven brethren following him. Havin at his side, he arrived at the gates, followed by over a hundred others. There the two armies clashed, Isirin at the front of the elves, and a few Templars at the front of the Tuluki's. Ducking as a Tuluki soldier swung a sword at Isirin's neck, he quickly leapt back up slashing at the soldier's neck, slicing right through it, his other scimitar cutting off the soldier's arm.
He looked around him, the elves were putting up a good fight, they might just win the battle. Then as he looked just to the right of him, there lay the body of Havin, twisted and mangled beyond recovery. Furious, he swung around his scimitar, cutting into the flesh of an unsuspecting Tuluki, who fell back, and was trampled by the sheer number of people. Twirling around, Isirin killed many soldiers, and was by now exhausted.
Up on the towers were now archers, firing at them unchallenged. An arrow hit Isirin, and blood began to spill from his chest where the arrow had struck. A soldier was advancing on him, his sword raised. He looked around him again, only this time all he could see were a few elves, and soldiers swarming in around them. Another arrows struck him, this time in his thigh. He grunted, that soldier was getting ever nearer. Then, he was pulled away from the soldier, who flew back as an arrow hit him in the face. He looked behind him; there was Karil, holding onto him by the arm. Behind Karil was a unit of twenty or so elves, bows unslung from their backs, firing with near-perfect aim every shot. The Tuluki soldiers around him were being cut down now, but the elves were reduced greatly in numbers, and so the soldiers fought on.
Karil pulled Isirin away from the battle where he lay beside the archers as Karil rushed back in, cutting ferociously with his bastard sword until he too, was cut to pieces by the Tuluki's onslaught. The soldiers then charged the archers, the last remains of the elves. They drew their swords, bracing themselves.
The soldiers hit them like water on rock, cutting them apart in nearly thirty seconds. There were around thre units of Tuluki soldiers left now, most of them wounded. They were now going around, looting the bodies. Isirin rose, walking over to the nearest soldier, and killing him in one, swift blow to the neck. This drew the attention of others, who rushed at Isirin. He dodged, blocked and parried with all his remaining strength, but he was exhausted. He collapsed to one knee, slicing at a nearby soldier's waist, inflicting a grievous wound. He raised his remaining scimitar up over his head, looking up towards the cloudless, night sky, the thin breeze in the air catching his air and swirling it around. He looked back down towards the soldier charging him, everything else fading away. A smile spread across his dirtied face. Then his vision failed, turning into blackness; his next words were never heard by a living being.
The deep red sun rose up into the pale pink, cloudless sky. The birds were chirping, the trees waving in the wind. Down on the ground, it was the start of a fresh new day for the village of Elrohir.
In the small, wooden house at which the elven child Isirin dwelled, fresh pastries, meat,...
Continue Reading...Sixty Crowns by Brian Tackle
Added on Feb 2, 2005A pickpocket tries to scrape together enough 'sid to heal himself from the mugging he'd received the previous night.
Two-Hands woke up, face down, when the sun burned deepest red. There was dried blood on his chin, and a splinter had found its way into the pulpy flesh of his thumb where it seemed to pulse with infernal malice in time with his heart. There was a smell like spilled beer, too long unattended, gone sun-bad and reeking. The dancing lights of Tankin's burned nearby from out the second-story windows like small beacons in the late evening gloom.
Then he spent the rest of the sunset inventing curses for himself.
His two good knives were gone. The shoddy one still pressed up against the small of his back in a leather thong. Waking and rolling over, its broken hilt had ground some spectacularly painful grits of sand into his skin. He picked out one grain and looked at it, marveling at its very un-round shape. He started thinking about how things should be a lot rounder, as a general rule. They don't cause so much pain that way.
The money was gone, too. The pay from last night's job squandered mostly on cheap wine and the dubious company of heavily painted women--but no, there had been some even after that. More like a lot. Twenty double hands of sid and two uncut ambers in a pouch. Little scrap of leather tie still wagging from his belt, the clean edge where it was separated from his person by a pair of scissors.
Robbed by tailors. Two-Hands wasn't in the mood for telling that to anyone in particular, least of all the early crowd at Tankin's. Better to nick the price of a healer and live out his shame in private.
He rolled to his feet, colours dancing in front of his eyes from standing up too fast. The sound of a flute echoed 'round Tavern Circle from the other side of the Gamehouse, the kind of slow somber melody you hear clerics trying to compose all the time. Older, lesser, broken world and all that. The southern sky was heavy with storm, somewhere between purple and black in the last rays of the sun. Jihae was just beginning to rise.
The easy marks were the Uptowners who strolled down into the Crater at night to catch a thrill or two, laughing and brazenly displaying their opulence to each other. For some reason they believed themselves immune from pickpockets' hands and muggers' knives because the Silver Grain had turned into an after-hours place for soldiers.
Two-Hands approached one of them.
"Oh, excuse me sir," Two-Hands mumbled.
Isela used to call them rags. Just bump into a rag, she'd say, and count the money later. Could never understand why she called them rags. He got sixty, though. Good enough. Didn't have anything to put the coins in, but he had them.
He maneuvered his way across the Common Market toward the stairs of the Crater. It was already full dark down by Tankin's, that far beneath street level. Above, he could see the rooftops of the Silver Grain and Rajasthan's water hole, still burning with a faint gold- red glow that threw black under the arabesque fluting.
Marching up the rough stairs to the Upper Commons, Two-Hands decided that his ankle was broken. He thought someone said you can't walk on a broken _anything_ let alone your foot. Felt broken, though. Lot of pain. Some of the sid in his hand slipped out between his fingers and smacked dully on the ground, and the light hit them all wrong and twisted Tektolnes' face into a leering grin.
"I hope your eyes fall out," Two-Hands said to the filthy urchin who snatched up the coins almost before the dust of their impact had settled.
"Yeah, well I hope you die!" the urchin yelled.
Somehow the childish insult stirred up intense rage in Two- Hands and he tried to grab the kid by the hair and toss him down the stairs. But the kid was young and quick, and he slithered away into the thin night crowd. Two-Hands reached aroundfor his dagger, the one that wasn't good, so he could throw it at the kid. But his hand was full of sid and while he was trying to figure out a way to hold both the dagger and the coins, the kid vanished out of sight.
Fifty-four sid. Still enough for a minor magicking. His chin had started bleeding again. He didn't remember getting hit on the chin at all.
There was some sort of rhyme about getting better and drinking water, he remembered. Who'd said that anyhow? Probably not Isela. She was tough, like they are when they grow up in the warrens, the sort that takes a good beating without even blinking.
Rajasthan's was right around the corner but Two-Hands passed it by and made his way across the Upper Commons, the Silver Grain catching his eye on the left. There was an unusually thick pack of peasants outside of Nenyuk-East who were being harassed by a white- robed Templar and some soldiers. Two-Hands pressed through and walked toward the South Bridge, wondering if he should stop and rob the crowd blind.
"Hey!" the Templar shouted.
Two-Hands decided to keep walking.
"Bring that man with the shriveled arm over here," he heard the Templar snap.
He thought he felt fingers brush his back, where the shoddy knife was, but he ignored it and kept walking. His feet padded on the unresilient stone of the bridge. A shadow passed across his eyes and a grunt came from behind, and a rattling crash.
Keep walking. Don't look back. Isela wouldn't look back.
He looked back anyway and saw a half-giant sprawled out on Agafari Street. The soldier's eyes had rolled up into his head and saliva drooled from his open mouth. His massive club was crushed underneath him in a crazy way, still clutched in a plate-sized hand. Further back, in the Commons, steel threw back the light of Jihae, blood red moon, slashing a downward arc through the air. A blue arrow protruded from where the giant soldier's spine met his brain, but it looked black under the moon.
Dusty alley closing in on both sides, shadow, a breath of cold, then flickering lamplight on Dark Moon Road. The heavy sound of armored footfalls. Two-Hands moved like the softest breath of wind, making no sound at all. "Ungh!"
The Yellow Star twinkled in front of Two-Hands' vision, and Kelvik's Eyes glared back at him. He heard: "Watch out, beggar!" And another one said, "Kruth, man, make way for Utep's soldiers!" A hairy, armored legionnaire stood over Two-Hands and spat in the dust. "Didn't you see us coming, cripple?"
Two-Hands picked himself up off the ground, brushing himself off. He tried to apologize but the soldiers had already rushed past and raced off toward the riot in the Commons. Someone howled a war cry in the distance.
One, two, three...As Two-Hands fumbled in the dirt for his dropped coins he noticed that Tektolnes had a crown on his head. Never saw that before. Funny how I never saw that before. Just a circlet 'round his egg-shaped skull, nothing more.
Okay, he thought, I still got thirty-eight coins. That's got to buy you _something_ at a healer. He figured he couldn't even see straight anymore. His chin was bleeding profusely. He was starting to feel an acute pain in his chest, and it hurt to breathe. Anything's got to be better than nothing.
Two-Hands knew There was this elf who kept a place in somebody's old cellar toward the end of the road. Her name was Oriphen or something. She was supposed to be able to do this leg-bone kind of ritual that would fix you up good. Two-Hands didn't like it when people went rousing up all that creepy totem-magick kind of thing, but he was hurting bad. Jihae was a lot higher in the sky than he remembered. There was dirt in his mouth.
There was this time a few years back when he and Isela had done a double-job for some Surif's son. The kid was almost in tears, this girl was the love of his life and her father wouldn't let them see her anymore because somebody squealed they'd got themselves spiced up good over Lim Ctul's or something. Son says, Just get me his belt, the one with the family crest on it. Plops down half payment in a thick sack, like double what Two-Hands got last night. So they said Sure, need a few days to plan. And the son just happened to forget to mention the ginka, which just happened to get a hold of Isela. Ginka like you see in the forest, and even the little savages don't go near it.
The dark houses flowing past, the street somehow moving itself under his feet in the direction he wanted to go. He was almost at the end of the road.
That smell, what he smelled near Tankin's, it was like that. Ginka just slid right out of the girl's father's garden, right out of _nowhere_ for Belar's sake, with this smell like spoiled beer. Later on he asked some merc at Tankin's what it was. Skin, he'd said. Ginka no like skin.
He knocked on the door. No answer. Windows blind.
It was Oriphen's place for sure. Or whoever lived in the house upstairs anyhow. He knocked again. His stomach lurched. A drop of blood beaded on the tip of his hacked-up chin and blobbed off, landing on the street. The dust sucked it up like some kind of thirsty beast. He thought he was going to vomit.
The door opened a crack and a ruddy light splashed out.
"Uaptal's beard, what happened?" one voice asked.
"Some beggar," said another. "Cripple. Look at him."
Two-Hands stretched out his arm, let the sid fall on the floor inside the house, flat glass coins pinging on the wood. He couldn't even talk, the pain in his chest bending him over with pulsing agony.
"That's not going to buy you very much," said the first voice.
"Sixty crowns," Two-Hands managed to whisper.
"Nah, it's not even thirty."
He remembered the poem then, the one about water. The one that Isela taught him when they were waiting for that girl's father to fall asleep that night.
O deeply healing pow'r like skillful hands Of surgeons, warding 'gainst the evil blight That Sixty Tyrants rained upon the lands, With love like water, cures and cleanses white And brings the mountains low with thund'rous sounds. One drink worth more than all their iron crowns.And maybe he said it out loud, too, because they stared at him for a moment, unbelieving, and then took him inside. And when he passed over the threshold he let her go, they let him go, and then they healed him.
-==)------------ Grig Del Acieur
(brian.j.takle@uwrf.edu)Two-Hands woke up, face down, when the sun burned deepest red. There was dried blood on his chin, and a splinter had found its way into the pulpy flesh of his thumb where it seemed to pulse with infernal malice in time with his heart. There was a smell like spilled beer, too long unattended,...
Continue Reading...Blood, The by Marko
Added on Feb 2, 2005A fight in an alley reveals the Blood.
Screams of rage and anguish resounded loudly through the dirty alleys, the clash of obsidian against bone twisted through the maze of alleyways and dead ends. The downtrodden denizens of the streets plodded on with their pitiful existence, not knowing nor caring as to the why or who of the fight. Every now and then, a ragged form would look up and listen, a twisted expression of perverse pleasure forming upon gaunt and emaciated features. Such is the way of the street: do not question, do not interfere, above all, do not get involved.
Cries of surprise followed by a flurry of squeals of pain announced something new, something different. A couple shuffling shapes paused, looking up, the cowls of tattered robes almost concealing the faint shaking of their heads. Do not get involved or it'll make you dead. The thought is tangible in the dank, stale air of the alleyway. One small figure, draped head to toe in a dusty, ripped robe dared to venture forward, creeping through the littered alleys.
The muffled thud of flesh hitting stone marked the scene of the fight. The figure in a dusty, hooded robe halted in a shaded alcove, strangely deserted. Before, on the street, lay three bodies, blood oozing out forming a large red pool. Around the bodies stood four cloaked figures, locked in the mesmerizing dance of death. Before his eyes, one more body thumped to the ground, blood gushing from an obvious gash in its back. One form on the ground stirred, an older man, hair white as lice, stained by the thick ichor of blood. The sudden silence in the alley was deafening to the concealed figure, as he watched the three remaining cloaked forms turn to regard the stirring man.
One stepped forward and knelt by the old man, sheathing his obsidian blades. Before the concealed figure's disbelieving gaze, the cloaked form gently assisted the old man to his feet. In a resounding baritone voice, the cloaked form said, "If ye e'er need help again, ask. We are here."
"Th..than...thank you," stammered the old man as he haltingly disentangled himself from the cloaked form. "The..they want'd m..me.. 'sid."
His hand waving dismissively through the air, the cloaked form said, "No need for thanks. This is our duty."
The old man paused from his slow, but definite limping away from the cloaked forms and turned his blood stained face around, "Th..the..then.. y..y..you musssst b..b.b..be Blood."
The cloaked form nodded once and turned to his companions. With confusion the concealed figured noted that the old man relaxed visibly and that his trembling subsided. Without haste the old man slowly on his path away from the three cloaked forms who had begun to strip the corpses of useful gear.
One of the forms looked up as the old man disappeared from view and looked directly at the concealed figure's hiding spot. In a quiet, reassuring voice the cloaked form said, "Come out, I know you are there."
Reluctantly the concealed figure emerged, the dim light of the alley bathing him in its soft embrace. Swathes of threadbare, dark brown sandcloth barely concealed his small, gaunt form. Spindly arms and legs poked out from the edges of the cloak's protective shielding, and a haunted, dirty face gazed out from beneath the hood.
In the dim light filtering through the alleyway the three stood tall and proud. Their bodies wrapped by long dark cloaks with deep hoods. Of the three, two held dark obsidian blades that faintly gleamed in the murky air. Of indeterminate race or sex it was easier for the reluctant figure to know what race they weren't, not half-giants nor were they elves for they were not tall enough.
In a faltering voice, the reluctant figure said, "Who are you? The old man said you were Blood... what?"
The one who had spoken to the old man stepped away from the bloodied scene by his feet. In a quiet voice he said, "We are the Blood. We watch over the alleys and do what we can to help the needy."
"When no one cares to interfere, we will," he continued, "Ours is the law of the street taken form. We patrol to keep the alleys safer than they were and protect the children of the street."
As he fell silent another of the dark cloaked figures spoke up, "When e'er we bin 'round tha' peeps they be feelin' saf'r 'cause we be watchin' out. We chase them elves an' trouble mak'rs right out or, if they be givin' trouble, we kill 'em. We 'ave our own place an' take care of our own. Ain't much... but t'is bett'r than naught."
The third figure looked over and spoke, in a soft, feminine voice, "We are the blades of street law. We are revenge, we are protection, we are life."
The third fell silent and the reluctant figure stood straighter, his gaze challenging yet uncertain. In a loud voice he proclaimed, "I have see what ya've done. I know what ya speak ta be true. I want ta be Blood."
The three remained silent as they exchanged looks and then finally the first said simply, "Come."
Screams of rage and anguish resounded loudly through the dirty alleys, the clash of obsidian against bone twisted through the maze of alleyways and dead ends. The downtrodden denizens of the streets plodded on with their pitiful existence, not knowing nor caring as to the why or who of the...
Continue Reading...Smiles in a Marketplace by Dawn Byrnes
Added on Feb 2, 2005An old Kuraci Regular reflects on his life.
Navan Tal applied pressure to the flint arrowhead he was knapping with a piece of carru antler, a few flakes falling away in precisely the pattern he desired. Weathered from years of Suk-Krath's rays, he was clad in worn carru-hide pants and boots, a cord keeping his white hair out of his aquiline face. Pale blue eyes narrowed as he held up the half-completed arrowhead to the sunlight to check for flaws. Finding none, he returned to his work.
The low wordless hum of hundreds of people trading and talking filled the marketplace of Luir's Outpost. Tribal elves in sandcloth argued with silk-clad Tuluki merchants, a few gypsies in their blue and white roamed around looking at the wares of Arabet nomads, all under the watchful eye of dun-cloaked Kuraci regulars. A similar cloak lay by Navan's side, worn by years of sandstorms and harsh usage, but he was off-duty today.
It has been a long time since I joined the Kuraci, he thought as he flaked the flint a little more. Many more years than I expected to see.
The reason sat in a more sunny part of the courtyard, patiently mending a brown muslin shirt. Ree was no longer young herself, tawny hair streaked with silver and sweet face worn by time and care. But her fingers moved as quickly as a younger lass's, and she still carried herself with that air of quiet competence she'd possessed since the first day Navan had met her in Allanak.
A long way from the brown aba of a T'zai Byn Runner and the city of the Highlord. Ree still wore the blue-stoned bracelet she'd had when he came, a gift from her first man, she'd told him. Navan didn't begrudge her the trinket because she wore the diamond nose-stud and the blue silk scarf, now faded by the passing of many years, he'd given her when they were joined. She had been the one to bring him into House Kurac all that time ago, when she was an apprentice merchant.
They'd had good years together. She'd made full merchant, he full regular. Neither needed nor wanted any more than to be comfortable and happy.
Ree looked up and smiled at him. Navan returned the gentle quirk of the lips, and she lowered her head and returned to her mending. "I'll give you diamonds and silk," he had promised when they had first become involved. It was one of the few promises he'd managed to keep.
"I'll give you children," she'd vowed, and kept it. Even now, their eldest daughter was patrolling the Silver Wheel, tall like her father and tawny-haired like her mother. Their other two daughters and a son served with the House too, as merchants and a guard. Their's had been a full life, and Navan found he didn't regret a thing.
With a content smile, he returned to his knapping, as the young ones bickered and bartered, under the eyes of the Kuraci regulars. It was their world now, and he was more than happy to let them have it.
Navan Tal applied pressure to the flint arrowhead he was knapping with a piece of carru antler, a few flakes falling away in precisely the pattern he desired. Weathered from years of Suk-Krath's rays, he was clad in worn carru-hide pants and boots, a cord keeping his white hair out of his...
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