Dark Decade Book #1: Coming of Evil

CHAPTER 1  : A HERO AWAKENS           


To prevent the fall of the city again, the entire city wall was broken down and put back up of fresh newly carved granite and the foundations was dug more than144 cubics into the ground and stretched more than 432 cubics high. The portcullis was melted down and reforged. Nearly all of the buildings were made of shale and mortar on the first 120 cubics and made with wooden lumber and stucco to the roof. All of the rooves were made of wooden shingles. No portcullis divided the different areas of the city. And standing 96 cubics along every street, at 120 cubic intervals iron lampposts kept the dark of night at bay when lit. Due to the abundant turnout of people and trades Robar had managed to not only meet the loan of A’rion but would also be able to pay most of its debts. Nearly five-score people stayed in the area that lay between the rebuilt castle and the mines. The village of Terrat was thus established. As steward of Robar Castle, Londai sent posts to Arch-Duke A’rion, the magistrate and chief constable to fill the posts of Factor, Constable, Chamberlain, and others along with suggestions as to who should fill these posts. Before his death, Londai had a statue of his father built to honor his memory; his deed, his sacrifice and his legacy. That statue still stands proudly in the castle courtyard. Carved in granite, Lord Harren sat atop his warhorse with sword in his hand pointing toward the city. A plaque of copper was added at the horse’s hooves that read, “To honor the sacrifice of Lord Harren a.k.a. The Warrior Lord, Arch-Duke of Gorn who fell after leading his men to reclaim Robar. Your bravery and sacrifice are not forgotten. Parra Gorn! Parra Sul! Erected by the grateful citizens of the Robarian City and a loving son!” To this day, that statue still stands at the entrance to the castle. Not long after his death, the people of Robar built a garden to honor those that gave their lives for freedom and the grateful citizens had erected a statue of Londai there. He stood there carved in workers clothes with his hands folded over a shovel. Pickaxes and hammers lie at his feet. And only the Words, “The Savior of Robar who triumphed over greed to stand over Loyalty!” were found on the base of the statue. When A’rion had heard of the statue he sent his men to tear it down, only to have them return every time having failed. The citizens had stood and blocked the entrance to Londia Square and the statue armed with shovel and hammers, pickaxes and hand-axes. This so moved the troops that no one would draw arms against them. After the death of A’rion, his only son moved the capitol back to Robar where it has stayed since.

The town-castle had been rebuilt, though funded by ambition and greed, but out of love and loyalty. Surely, the wounded man thought, such nobility still lingered in the line. At the castle gates, the man stumbled over to the gatehouse to Gorn Keep.

“Please sir, I mus’ speak wif’ 'is Grace, the Arch-Duke.” he pleaded with the guard.
“What say ye? Who be ye that His Grace’ll be seeing ye? Are ye a noble, mayhap?” mocked a guard.
“Aye,” laughed another, ”Aye ‘Tis His Grace, the Duke of Dirt! Ha ha ha! No? Well, do ye be the Fife of Filth?” asked the other. He referred to the barbarian feudal system from the swamplands long before Ren-taag was born. The guards roared with laughter at their own cleverness. Tears gathered in the poor man’s eyes. His shoulder ached terribly and he felt the fever that raged in him climb ever higher. He had been laughed at, spat on and denied in the province of Yomaria, as well. Lord Cyril was his last hope, Scymia’s last hope. He must see the arch-duke. His desperation gathered in his throat and he could not stop the sob that escaped him. At his sob, the guards laughed even harder. Impotent rage began to build in his heart as his eyes took in their number, six guards stood in front of the closed gate. Though all were fully armored with standard chain mail, four were equipped with spears and the others had swords hanging from their hip. Though he was no fighter, his desperation began to reach new heights.

         Before he could act on his rash thought, the gate began to open. An armored chestnut stallion strode out of the gates. Atop the horse, rode Captain of the Guard Yentid. Equipped with a full suit of plate-mail armor, the Captain cast a fierce visage. A crimson cloak lay on his shoulders, fastened by a brooch designed in the image of Robar’s coat-of-arms. A red - tasseled helm rested atop a stand on the saddle. Though a sword hung from his waist, in his hand was an ebony spiked mace with the head as wide as a man’s closed fist. The laughing guards were no longer laughing as they jumped to attention, their right hands fisting over their left breast in a silent salute. The Captain brooked no insolence while any guard under his command was on duty. His dark skin and long twisted hair, which hung well past his broad shoulders, were the source of many jokes, much to the bane of those telling them. He was the first of his… kind in the history of the province to be selected as Captain of the Guard, and he took his job deathly serious. What the guards who worked under him feared, more than his stern rules and sharp tongue, was his temper that could burn as hot as the morning Sol. Coupled with his extensive training and fighting prowess, not many would anger the Captain. While many were put off by his charm or boisterous laughter, only the watchful saw his unlaughing eyes and felt a chill when their brown depths looked back onto their own. No emotion played there, no sign of life, other than his blinking. Just twin circles of bottomless darkness....

The man, driven to action by the sudden inaction of the guards, threw himself in front of the trodding horse. Yentid jerked his horse to the side to avoid trampling the beggar. With a fluid grace that belied his clunking heavy armor, Yentid lept down.

“What's this? Are ye ill? If ye no longer wish to live, throw yerself into Lake Ribera and let Kor judge ye as He sees fit.” said Yentid, as he began to help the man to stand.
“Please Sirrah, I mus’ need speak wif’ the Duke. Cr, Crolar has been breached!”
“What say ye? Come man. Ye do not know of what ye speak. Of what ye say. Come now, one of guards will take ye home.” said Yentid kindly.
"Mayhap, 'e is mad, Captain. Or a drunkard." suggested one of the guards.
“NAY, m’lord! Do I smell of spirits that ye would cast my words aside like a drunkard?” with a cry, the man tore open his felt tunic and showed Yentid the festering wound in his shoulder. “Do all drunkards in Robar wound themselves so? Please Sirrah, my time is short, please?” The action of his outburst and the tearing of his clothes took too much from the exhausted man and with a sigh he lost consciousness.

With the practice of being Captain of the Guard, Yentid covered the shock on his face and cast a dark look at his guards. “Ye could not smell that this man was no drunkard?! Mayhap, I shall need to train ye men harder, that ye may tell a drunkard from a wounded man!! Mayhap, a fortnight of patrols near a tavern would suffice. Aye, mayhap near Blackguard Court! At half wages! But that will wait. First, go ye, fetch His Grace from his personal study. Bid him to come promptly to the Hall. Tell him what ye have heard this night. Then, go fetch the Lords Constable and the Lady Steward! Bid them to wait in the library for His Grace.” Yentid barked these orders as he stood with the man in his arms and turned to trot toward the Castle.

         Upon hearing of the man’s dire straits, Cyril had quickly ventured to his Hall. The Royal Hall had been built on the first floor of the large castle. The Hall itself took up a large portion of the ground floor. The ceiling ranged over 600 cubics over head. Ten pillars made of granite spanned the Hall and framed the carpeted walkway to the large throne that sat upon six stairs. Two marble fireplaces graced the walls opposite each other (each one wide and tall enough to stand five men shoulder to shoulder) and the roaring flames provided most of the heat to this room. Torches burned in their scones attached to the walls and six of the pillars. Three round candle chandeliers hung over the room. The carpet that ran from the massive double doors to underneath the throne was of the robarian colours. Deep navy blue trimmed with gold. Hanging along the walls and along some of the pillars were the coat-of-arms that had united the land. The throne atop the stairs was of dark blue silk and behind it burned two censures to give heat directly to the Arch-Duke. Two doors opened near the entry way, one on either side of the massive room. One led to a small series of rooms used as the offices for the steward, bailiff, chief constable, the minor vizier and an empty spare office used for visiting dignitaries. The other led to a small barrack and the office of the Captain of the Guard. Behind the throne, on the left wall was a door that led to a study where the old kings would greet their guests and hold their discussions. A wide staircase led upstairs to a balcony and to the royal bedrooms and suites. A latrine room was installed off the balcony, dining room, and waiting antechamber. Numerous paintings, tapestries and busts of marble and ceramic lined the walls. A few couches and chairs graced the walls from near the center of the room. The antechamber outside of the hall was markedly smaller. Only 240 cubics long, the antechamber was lit by torches in their scones that framed the double door leading to the hall, a candle chandelier and four laterns. Six granite pillars held the expansive ceiling and were decorated with silken coat-of-arms. Four plush-looking, silken couches stretched along the walls and each was framed by two plush silk chairs. Opposite the Hall doors were the massive double doors that allowed entry to the castle. Three doors lined the walls and each was guarded; in the first, near the outside door, was the castle guard barracks. Through that room was another door; this led to the castle dungeon (though it was rarely used since the days of Nimean, son of A’rion). The next door, along the same side and between a pair of couches, led to a latrine room. Lastly were double doors along the opposite wall that led to the dining room. Cyril sped from his personal study, on the second floor, to the balcony overlooking his Hall. The sight that greeted him caused him to take the stairs two at a time. He wore a dark blue silk tunic with a low collar, dark blue velvet breeches and dark blue velvet boots. Hanging around his very broad shoulders, and over an open black velvet robe with red and gold trimming, was a thick golden brockade. And in the center of each twist, lay a stone. They ranged from sapphire, and diamond, garnet and onyx to topaz and emerald. A steel long-sword hung from his waist, with a black leather grip and engraved in the pommel, was the Robarian coat of arms. His long, dark hair lay tied down his back and a gold and ruby signet ring rested on his right forefinger. In the ruby, which sat in the center of the ring, was carved the Robarian coat of arms. And the familial motto, "Parra Gorn! Parra Sul!", "For Honor! For Ever!"  In his hall, Cyril heard the unimaginable. Cyril thought of the look of horror on the man's tear stained face as he pleaded with Cyril for help. His family was still there, his daughters, his son and his young wife. He knew he wouldn't have gotten them out, so he left without saying a word to them; he had left in the night. Cyril had promised to free the city and return the man home. The man lay upon his large red couch. Someone had draped a wool blanket over him to ward off the chill of the night. He smiled and as his eyes began to cloud, he said, "I know’s ye will. Ye kin no' lie. Ye ar' th' Promised 'ero o' Crolar. We ar' saved fer Th' 'ero o' Crolar is before my eyes! Kor's ligh' s'rrounds ye." With those words, the man's eyes glazed and his breathing stopped. He was dead. Cyril ordered the man’s body be prepared for burial then wrapped. He ordered that two messengers be summoned to him that night. If what the man claimed were true, Crolar had indeed been invaded. As no other noblemen, Duke or Arch-Duke, Count or Oren would heed the man, Cyril had promised to free the captured city. And that promise would he keep, or die trying. With a purpose showing in his stride, Cyril made his way to his library to meet with his brothers, Jintak and Fenguir, and Fenguir's ladywife. Cyril entered his library and strode over to his large oak desk at the far end of the room. The silken Robarian coat of arms framed the large ornate desk and chair from the wall; on it a golden knight charged his lance at an unseen enemy atop his golden steed, centered in a royal blue backdrop; and hung around the room after each of the four windows. Torches burned in their scones that were also mounted on the granite walls and on the shelving along the walls. Most of the castle was built with granite long before the Crolarian Empire was formed. In ancient times, long forgotten, Cyril's ancestors had ruled most of modern Western Crolar as kings. What most people did not know, was that Emp. Ren-Taag (who had united the land under his rule more than four hundred years ago) had been King of Robar and had conquered most of the land through annexing a few provinces (through his marriage to Queen Sian of Astor) and through conquest. As the king of Robar, Ren-Taag and Furlain had been second cousins and Furlain had endorsed Ren-Taag to succeed his late father as heir. For the sake of the united empire, and after the founding of Crolar, Emp. Ren-Taag would never again claim familial relations to the House of Gorn.


         The old castle had been repaired and upgraded many times and while still built mainly of granite, wooden timber and stone towers, bastion and walls had been added to the grand structure. A long table sat in the middle of the cavernous room with five leather chairs on either side. A thick tan rug with red and gold flecks dressed the floor and masked the lord of the castle's footfalls. A large fireplace dominated the wall opposite the duke's seat. The glow from the torches reflected darkly off the mantle made of pure dark marble. Where there hung no coat of arms, the walls were lined with shelves of old leather bound binders held closed by straps. The musty smell of leather permeated the room. There, already in the room stood Lords Jintak and Fenguir of Gorn, and Lady Seraya al Gorn, Fenguir's wife. Cyril was rocked, again, by the difference in the looks of Jintak. While the other siblings bore a strong resemblence to their father, Jintak took no favor from either parent. Whereas Cyril, Fenguir and Valgius all had long dark hair and fair faces, Jintak's hair was short and bright. His eyes were the colour and, often, the temperature of blue ice. His stature was that of a thin man who was often sick as a lad with a pale face and pointed features to match. Fenguir had been appointed Chief Constable by his brother, due to his tenaciousness. He wore, simply a green silken tunic with matching breeches and shoes, with a large sword strapped to his back. His brockade was made of silver, but was adorned by the same stones as Cyril's. On his right hand rested the Chief Constable signet ring. Jintak, the youngest of the sons of Gildor, acted as the constable of the town of A’von and had been visiting. The missing sibling, Lord Valgius, acted as the Arch-Duke's Constable for the town of J’inn. Then there was Lady Seraya. Fenguir had truly gotten lucky. His wife was a true beauty; in manner, speech and action. She was a lady in every sense of the word. Though she stood short in stature, she was blessed with wonderful curves and her dark eyes twinkled with temper and intelligence while her dark hair framed an angelic face. A golden yellow tiara framed her head with pearls dotted around a sparkling piece of jasper lying in its center. This night, she wore a pale yellow silk dress, lined with pearls on the pelisse, while a pearl and diamond-shaped jasper necklace adorned her graceful neck. Pearl and jasper earrings hung from her ears; yellow stockings and shoes with pearls surrounding a piece of jasper covered her legs and feet. Though most could not guess, she also wore two short swords strapped to her back that were cleverly hidden by her clothier. Her fighting was above average, but her arcane skills put her high above her own peers. She had, in fact created quite a few spells, though they were mostly fire based. The brothers in the room bowed and the lady curtsied as Cyril swept past. With a dismissive wave, Cyril sat at his desk. By Kor, he hated that his brothers' needed to bow as he walked by. But, t’was his lot in life.

         "Hail, brothers! My Lady! I ask that ye forgive me fer keeping ye from yer own duties. Please, sit. There is much I have need to speak with ye about." Cyril pulled a bellchord that hung by his desk while they sat at the large table. Jintak, not at all surprising, sat further away at the end of the table. Cyril asked his valet, who had answered the summons of the bellchord, to bring drinks for his guests. After the drinks arrived on a silver platter and were distributed in crystal goblets from a crystal pitcher, Cyril began again, "A messenger has just arrived from the province of Largo. He died while giving me his message. T’would seem that the Walled City, Scymia has fallen. The messenger claimed to have snuck into the city and saw this with his own eyes, before sneaking out again. But, it seems that he was discovered leaving and one of the conquering guards saw him and shot an arrow into him. Our messenger played dead and threw himself down into the woods outside of the city, before making his perilous journey here. He pleaded with me to liberate the city and give his last wishes to his family still held inside. I asked ye here because I have agreed to investigate this allegation, and if it turns out to be true, I will ask that ye, Jintak take over my ducal duties here while Fenguir, Seraya and I march to aide the city. What say ye, little brau?"

         "If t’is true, Cyril, ye must send for Imperial aide! Robar can not march alone to fight a war, my lord. ‘Tis naught but wishful thinking. But I know ye, brau. Ye will go. So, will I do as ye ask. Ride and fight well." Jintak stood to his own considerable height and downed the fiery liquor in one swallow. While all of Gildor's childern were tall, Jintak's height exceeded all of them, giving him a thin, reedy look. Though born of a titled nobleman, and thus titled himself, Lord Jintak wore no brockade. "Now, I must go. Brother, Lady. Your Grace!" with these words, Jintak swept from the room, his long brightly coloured robes sweeping after him. After Jintak's brisk, but not unexpected, departure, Cyril spoke with Fenguir and Seraya a little more and related the dying man's last words. Ages past, a hero had been foretold to come to Crolar from a fallen house, in an hour of desparation and darkness. Though many chose to believe this to be more myth than fact, no one really knew what the extent of this prophesy was. 

         As Sol broke the night sky, and a swift breeze blew across the green fertile land, Cyril stood at a window in his bedchamber watching the coming dawn. The wind rustled the thick navy blue velvet curtains and fluttered through his cape. He was dressed in red and black velvet pants and tunic, black silk girdle, and black leather shoes. A black silk purse hung from his belt at his right hip and a black ribbon held his long hair from his face. Gold buttons traversed the front of the tunic, and three golden ropes looped over the left shoulder. A black silk cape was fastened at his neck with the Robarian coat-of-arms. Under his cape, Cyril had his brocade draped about his shoulders and on his left hip, hung his favorite long-sword. But his dress was not foremost on his mind; he had had the dream again. Since his seventh birthday, terrifying dreams plagued him. No matter how old he grew, the dreams chased him. And when Cyril had reached adulthood, the dreams had intensified. This night the dreams had finally awoken him. Knowing that sleep would not come again, Cyril had risen. He washed himself with his wash-basin and then dressed. He knew that Norflan would not like it, but he had needed something to do while his mind raced.  His thoughts on the words of the dying men in his dream, Cyril didn’t hear the knock and approach of his valet. The elderly man startled Cyril when he cleared his throat.

“Blessings of Sol upon ye, your Grace. If ye had awoken early, ye could have awoken me as well. I see that ye have dressed already. May I ask, does this mean that ye have bathed also?”
“Blessings to ye also, Norflan. And aye, I have bathed already.”
“I see, your Grace. Well, I s’ppose auld bones don’ rose like dey used ta’. If’n I’m nau needed then, shall I wake the chambermaids and the rest of the staff?”
“Nay, old friend. T’is only small matters that keep sleep from my eyes.” said Cyril as he looked over to Norflan. His valet had been in Cyril’s family’s service since before Cyril was born. His eyes looked over the man who had chased him on horseback, when Cyril tired of the stiff restraints and protocol that came with being heir to the arch-duchy. He had climbed trees behind the young nobleman; shown Cyril how to pick and throw rocks so that they would skip across the surface of Blackfoot Lake before Cyril plunged into the lake’s depths. Now he saw the man, though bent with age, a dignity showed strength in his spine. A russet blue and green shirt and pant set adorned his emaciated body. White wisps of hair crowned his wrinkled head, and crow’s feet had set deeply around those sparkling blue eyes. It seemed to Cyril that the older the Thalindmen got, the sharper his eyes seemed to get. Cyril turned back to the view from his bedchamber. High on the third level of the castle, Cyril’s bedroom could only be called a suite.

“Wake thee Lady Seraya in a shadowmark. I also need an escort party ready in two shadowmarks and Destiny saddled. Have Captain Yentid, and Sir Eren ready to ride with me.”
“As ye wish, Your Grace, where shall ye meet with the lady steward? Mayhap, in your personal study, my lord?”
“Aye, Norflan in my study.”

Two shadowmarks later, as Sol shined brightly across the early morning sky, Cyril mounted his steed, Destiny, and led his entourage as he rode from the castle-town of Robar. They would ride the Blood Road that would take them past the farmlands (that surrounded the capitol) and the Hills of A’joon. A few shadowmarks later, they would arrive at the Village of Terrat. The Factor had requested an impromptu, but important, meeting with the powerful Arch-Duke. After Sol had spread his light across the earth and sky, Cyril had ordered his lady steward to handle all of his appointments, while he made his trip.

Yentid rode to Cyril’s right atop his chestnut mare. The friends rode ahead of a Robarian covered cart. The cart bore weapons and suits of armor for the village. At the helm of the cart sat two men. One wore the russet blue and black clothes that pronounced him to be a driver, while the other wore dark clothes made of soft cotton from the fields in Largo. A short sword lie across his lap, the weapons master sat upright. Regardless of who accompanied them, t’was his responsibility to see that the weapons and armor arrived at their destination. A score and two armed and leather armoured Ka’Tar rode behind the cart as two knights (with another score and two swordsmen surrounding them) flanked it. The colors of the House of Gorn stood out in the daylight. Cyril’s sword hung from a thin leather girdle across his waist, along with his purse. Yentid and the two knights wore plate-mail, though their surcoats were different. The swordsmen were clad in chain-mail suits of armor. A small breeze blew across the landscape. A few multi-colored butterflies flitted across their path lending a small startling splash of color to the fertile green landscape. Small green hills dotted the land as the road wove through them. Sir Eren, lord Cyril’s seneschal Cyril had requested his friend’s presence; he felt like speaking and a truly honest opinion would he get from the captain of the guard.

“Have ye any thought of yester eve, Yentid?”
“Much had occurred yester eve, Your Grace, of which do ye speak?”
Answered Cyril, “Of the messenger who hailed from Scymia. The words he uttered before Kor took him. What say ye?”
“I know not, Your Grace, what to make of his words. Prithee what prophecy was he speaking of? I know nothing of a prophecy.”
“Tis a prophecy that dates back to the founding of the Crolarian Empire. Legend says that Jaral, the empire’s first Imperial Magistrate and Grand Chancellor, was a gifted seer. And that on the deathbed of Ren-Taag the Strong, the first Crolarian emperor, Jaral made two predictions. I know of only one, tis called Shadows. It states that during an era, there will be a false reign in Crolar. That gold would lead many people from their faith. Yet these are only signs. The prophecy goes on to say that a shadow grows and as the shadow grows, so does his power. If any nation shall draw arms against him, they would be wiped off the face of Myrmidonn. That this shadow would be called forth by a foolish king, and that nations will bow to his rule. But there is to be a hero. A man of darkness, in the light. Tis he who shall battle the Shadow and defeat him.  There’s more to the prophecy, I just don’t recall it all now. This prophecy is over four eras old. Not many believe it anymore, aye, most don’t even remember it exists. Even the Chapel has stopped preaching it. So why would an illiterate farmer from a small village in a neighboring province know of such an obscure legend? And why call me this ‘Hero’?”

Yentid sat quiet for long moments. His mind was whirling with thoughts and he had no answer for his friend.
“I wish to Kor that I knew, Your Grace. Yet, I feel the answers that ye seek shall come to ye. To the matter at hand, my Lord, we have nearly arrived.”

Cyril looked around and was shocked to see that his captain was correct. He had been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he had not realized that they had indeed almost arrived at their destination. With a sigh, Cyril cast his personal thoughts aside and readied his mind for this meeting. His steward had briefed him before his departure and now Cyril called to mind the steward’s words. Oh aye, now he recalled why this meeting had been granted.

The group came around a bend and the palisade wall came into view. The road in front of them went straight to the wooden gatehouse but a separate road ahead merged with the road they were on and veered west toward the town of Endor. On either side of the joined roads and running parallel to the walls of the village, farmland stretched across the fertile plains. Cyril remembered the layout of the village from his steward’s words. As soon as they entered the gates, the village architecture would change. All of the buildings in the village were made of clay brick and wooden lumber. Along the eastern wall stood the brick walls and wooden stalls of the marketplace and along the western wall stood the worker’s homes. Many were ramshackle huts, or makeshift brick and lumber. Only the houses that ran up the center of the village were in good shape. And those were used for the most important people in the village with the Factor’s home crowning the row and opening into the square.

Some of the farmhands and farmers who saw them stopped their work and ran to tell everyone around that the Arch-Duke had arrived, so that a large crowd had gathered near the northeastern palisade gate. Cyril and his party entered the village and his eyes scanned the buildings and people. He would have preferred to enter the farming village quietly. The scent of freshly turned earth and baking breads filled the air as the party trod through the village. Small plumes of dust rose from the ground at the horse’s hooves. When the group had reached the village square, Cyril and Yentid dismounted their horses and waited as a barrel chested man made his way toward them. The man’s clothes were simple and well kept. He wore only a brown monk’s robes and leather sandals. A full but neat beard graced his expressive face. When the smiling man had reached them, he bowed low and addressed Cyril. 

“Your Grace. We are honored to have ye here with us. And on behalf of our hard working citizens, we welcome ye to our fair village. I am the Vicar Albron and by the grace of Father Kor, I serve as the Factor of Terrat. I hope that ye do not mind, but I have had lunch prepared in my humble home and I ask prithee, join me for lunch?”
“Greetings, Vicar Albron. Ye wish us to lunch in the vicarage? Will not my escort’s swords and spears anger the saints or god?” asked Cyril.
“Nay, my lord. I fear that I have not made myself plain to ye. I meant for us to lunch in my home, here in the village. At the Factor’s home.”
“I see. Well, lead on dear vicar. And mayhap ye can tell me why ye requested this journey of me. Oh and I have brought with us weapons and armor for the village guard. I was informed of a lack of such supplies by envoy.”
“Aye, my lord. Ye are truly blessed with a generous heart. We are humbled and thank ye in the name of Judge of Souls. Oh, one other thing, Your Grace. My Lord, the Count Davil is to meet with us also.”
“I see, Sir Factor. Very well. And while we walk, I would again ask why this impromptu meeting. There is much that requires my attention as of late.” replied Cyril as the group began moving toward the small manor built for the factor of the village.
“Of course, Your Grace. About a fortnight ago, a villager made his way from Blackfoot Grove and out of the forest along the edges of Dragonpeak Mountains. As I’m sure Your Grace knows there stands a mining camp on the edge of the mountains and from that mining camp, the three mines are excavated. Now, as the villager made his way across the rocky terrain, he was accosted by a group of bandits. Now all these bandits wore red and black leather armor. They blindfolded and gagged him and bought him to a hidden camp within the mountains. The bandits thought the viilager was the foreman at one of the mines from the Dragonpeak Mines. The villager, who is too afraid to speak with us today, finally managed to convince these ruffians that he is just a lowly miner. After pleading for his life, he was escorted, again blindfolded, to the Blood Road where he was turned looseand warned to never speak of what he had seen that night.”

“Forgive my intrusion, Vicar. But I find it hard to believe that he would just be released and his life spared just to come home and bring it to your humble attention.” Voiced Cyril.
“Verily, Your Grace. Except that this occurred last cycle and the villager moved himself and his family; though I know not where. Please let us…”

The next words of Albron were lost as screams erupted from the south gates. A rugged looking farmhand raced to the vicar.

“Pard’n me, yer factorship. I wus figgerin’ ye’d want to kno’ dat a horde of bandits wur spotted racin this way atop horses. The guard are trynna git all da peepl inta da vill’ge.”

“I’ll send more guards to help defend yer village and the camp near the mines. For now, call yer people into the village. Yentid, assign men to guard each gate. I’ll take a few men and engage the bandits on the road. Ye stay in the village and protect my people!” Cyril ordered as he hurriedly marched to his horse.

“Nay, my Lord. Tis for Father Kor to decide. I’ll not raise nor cross swords wit any man. Especially not over gold or silver. The Heavens will aid us..”

“That may be Factor, but what of your people? Did Father Kor make it that ye be factor so that ye will fail your most sacred duty as factor? ‘Defend the defenseless, lest the wolves devour them as sheep.’ If ye can not defend these people, if ye will not, then I will!”

“Nay, Your Grace! ‘Tis sacrilege ye speak!” Crowed Albron with his reddening cheeks fluttering. “Tis Kor who shall save us! I shall pray fer Your Grace’s soul, lest Malkuth tempt ye away from glory.”

“Pray if ye must, priest. But think on this; I am a servant of Kor and all the people in this province. I am sworn to defend all within to my death if ‘tis needed. I am here when these curs openly attack the Empire that Kor built with Emp. Ren-Taag. I have with me, swords and shields and men to wield them in the defense of the innocent. Mayhap, ‘tis Kor who shall save this village, this day, by using us. But the time for talk is past. I’ll see to a guard post at the mines. For now, do as I bid. Yentid, make sure His Honor obeys my words after we depart the gate!”

“My Lord, please it is my duty to make sure that ye remain safe...” argued Yentid.
“There is a time for friends and a time for duty. Do yer duty now, Yentid. Hold this village. Protect my people! That is your charge! Ye, come with me!” Cyril thundered before turning and galloping toward the south gate followed by his Ka’Tar guard.

Yentid ordered a knight to secure each of the gates supported by four guardsmen.  After making sure that the gates were secure, he then walked over to a covered cart and retrieved two javelius and javelion before the captain of the guard mounted his own steed and raced after Cyril. His steed sent up dust fumes as its hooves ate up the distance and sped through Terrat’s southern gate toward the figure of Cyril as the Lord of Robar positioned his men along the road. The Ka’Tar guardsmen stood spread out just before the farmlands with Cyril holding the middle of the road. Yentid steered his mount toward his lord and could see a cloud of dust rise as the bandits charged.

“Your Grace, the village is secured. There are men guarding each gate and the Factor has been informed not to open the gates under penalty of treason.” Said Yentid.
“Ye were ordered to stay in the defense of the village! Why hast ye disobeyed me?” roared Cyril.

“Aye , Your Grace. I was ordered to guard Terrat. My highest duty, foremost, is to ensure Your Grace’s safety. This comes before all else! I prithee pardon for my disobedience but, I will keep Your Grace safe, even if it means my life! Now, please take this javlieus.”

Two-score of the bandits had broken free of the trees and trotted toward them. None were atop horses. Yentid handed Cyril a javelius and turned his horse to the coming bandits. Half score bandits walked up to the armed lord as the others hung back. Yentid dismounted and sent his horse trotting back toward the village walls.
“Well lookee ‘ere me boys. This foin’ gent is ‘ere to welcom’ us to the village. Wot say ye? See ‘ow ‘e stands dere lookin’ purty rich ta me. I’d wager ‘is clothes ta be worth mor’n you ‘n’ I’ll see ‘n a score years.” Laughed a rough looking bandit through several gaps in his browned teeth. Spittle sprayed through his thick lips and dotted in his dirt matted beard. His raven colored hair was greasy and wild looking and as disheveled as his facial hair. A stained red lether vest lay across his bulging belly, and a sleeveless russet tunic. Black hair curled tightly and lay thick on his big chest and ran up and down his thick arms. Iron studded leather braces graced his wrists and boots. A pair of filthy brown leggings covered his legs. Only the brand on his arm prevented Cyril from believing the man speaking was one of the many paupers hurt by the years of neglect from the imperial city. A horned tiger devouring the head of a man identified the man as a high level bandit. Only the deadliest of bandits wore that mark upon their skin. Most of the petty pickpockets and purse snatchers wore only bracers or vests with the symbol. Twas the symbol of the infamous Black Tiger Bandits. One had to show true promise in the art of thievery, cruelty or murder to even be allowed to know of the bandits. Cyril had only discovered their secrets when he had battled and arrested the most fearsome of them. ‘Twas years ago when he had faced Pason as the Meridian Fighter’s Guild Champion.
“Let me intr’duce meself to ye foin’ gents. I be called Black Raj. And I’ll be relieving ye of ur coin. Wot ye foin gents out ‘ere ta stop us? Or mor’ like make a d’nation ta our cause. So le’s ‘ave i’ then. Just toss ur purse to the ground there or’n we’ll come and take it fr’m ye… ugh….” The man’s words were stopped as a javelius plunged through the bandit’s neck. Blood shot from the mouth and nearly severed head of Raj. A blood splattered and stunned looking Cyril looked over at his captain of the guard.
“Protect His Grace with your lives!” Yentid ordered the guardsmen near Cyril before drawing his mace and charging into the bandits. One bandit swung a short-sword which Yentid quickly blocked with his javelion and smashed his mace into the man’s face, shattering his jaw. He ducked and spun avoiding another sword thrust. Rising to his feet, Yentid faced his attackers even as more bandits raced from the trees behind him. Cyril shook himself and flung himself into the fray, shouting “Ka’Tar, let fly yer rage! Send these curs to Kor, screaming in fear of facing the Ka’Tar! Let them face the terror that made whole armies tremble since ages past. Parra Sul! Parra Gorn!” and with this cry, Cyril charged. He pulled his arm back and threw his javelius, which flew over Yentid’s head and slammed deeply into a charging bandit’s leg. Yentid spun his javelion around him and swung it round, slicing the injured bandit’s throat with the sharp iron tip. Cyril drew his sword and attacked three bandits. Though outnumbered, none of the bandits sword skill were equal to the Lord of Robar; who cleaved and stabbed through any man foolish enough to stand against him. Inspired by their lord, the Ka’Tar made short work of the remaining charging bandits. The battle lasted only moments before only three unarmed bandits kneeled before the Robarian lord and his guardsmen. These were all that had survived the onslaught. Bodies and severed limbs lay strewn around and blood seeped everywhere. None of these men had ever seen such furor and these had quickly surrendered. Cyril ordered their hands be bound in shackles; they were being marched to the castle. Even as the townspeople ran cheering from the village, Cyril looked toward the trees and beyond. He knew this was just an intimidation tactic. The next group would come for vengeance and blood. Coin alone would not suffice. What was going on in the imperial city that needed so many guards, Cyril wondered.

         That had been nearly a month now, mused Cyril. After the death of the unknown man, the messenger’s returned five days later to report that Scymia had indeed been invaded and captured. Next, Cyril had sent post to the Imperial City requesting aide. Not wanting to be idle, Cyril had trained his guard and any volunteers for the long march and forthcoming battle. He also sent out requests for aide to the people whom he had met while traveling Western Crolar. Cyril had called on his friend, the Captain of the Robarian Fighters Guild, Lord Captain Makii to aide him. Makii had immediately ridden out with a full company of fighters. On the day of the march, a reply came from Legensor; there was to be no Imperial aide. Cyril placed the parchment in his satchel, and mounted his horse, Destiny. The familiar weight of his father's long sword hung at his waist, and with a wave of his hand they began the march to reclaim Scymia.

         Four and a score day later he lay on the soft grass two days ride from Scymia, his body hurting and aching. His volunteer army had been ambushed after leaving Greywood Forest. Arrows arched over the open field and rained down on the volunteer army as foot soldiers charged them. One of those arrows smashed into the ground near his horse and Cyril was thrown onto the floor, dropping his sword. As his vision began to dim, he could still hear his army panicking and he sent a silent prayer to the forgotten God of his people.

         "Cyril, my child. Ye shall not die, I have ye! Ye shall live in my light. My people have forgotten Me. There is great Evil coming and ye shall unite My people with My Son! Ye have My word as God, ye shall live until the Evil is banished and My people are free of tyranny. I shall give ye my strength! Now rise Cyril of Gorn of Robar! Arise and go forth, bring My people peace through war, I shall guide thee!"

         Suddenly, a warm feeling coursed through his body and he felt an energy fill him that seemed almost divine in its magnitude. Cyril opened his eyes and drew breath. His mind was a wonder at this marvel! Though he still ached, he knew this day would not be his last, and he remembered his promise to the dying hero. Cyril turned over and rose to his knees, and he saw a group of men, wearing the colors and the emblem of Velitia on the front of their surcoat, charging him. Cyril blindly stretched out his arm and felt cold steel, which warmed to his touch. He grasped the steel and rose; his long, dark hair worn, in his people's ancient tradition as he stood poised and ready for battle. The sun glinted off his armor, and seemed to hone his bronze skin as his sword glared angrily at his charging enemy.

         "Die, Crolarian Dog! Die!!"
         "Not this day. And not by yer hand nor yer sword!"

         With those words, Cyril and his chargers engaged in the macabre dance that is swordplay. Cyril ducked and spun around effectively dodging an attack and slicing one swordsman across the middle. He then brung his sword around, in an arc, cutting down another swordsman, and spun to avoid the thrust of a spear. Lightly panting, Cyril watched his opponents for an opening; he didn't have to wait long. A third swordsman charged Cyril with his sword raised high. Cyril quickly dodged the wild swing, bringing his knee into the warriors belly and thrust him at the spearman. Sprinting behind the swordsman, Cyril kicked him onto the tip of the spear, and in one smooth motion, launched himself into the air, and embedded his sword into the surprised spearman's chest as he landed. Spinning, Cyril blocked an attempted slash, and began to shout as he fought,

         "Fight! Fight my people! We will not fall! Kor is with us. For Crolar!"

         Looking around, Cyril noticed that his army, though fighting bravely, was losing. To his left, he saw Yentid cut down two more of the enemy. Cyril motioned for him to head towards the small hill to the east. There, the scorpions were stationed. As the friends reached the pinnacle of the hill, Yentid ran to ready the sappers to fire on Cyril's signal. The scorpions crews ready, Cyril approached the cliff of the hill, and raised his sword high. With a downward swing, the sappers fired the bolts at the backs of the Veltic Army. Confusion spread as the bolts slammed down toward the ground, piercing and pinning down many in their path. Many of the volunteer army glanced up at the source of the sudden confusion. Cyril looked down upon both armies and shouted, "To arms, Crolar! We will not fail!"

         And with another wave of his mighty arm, more bolts shot from the scorpions. The confused Velts turned to face this threat that had appeared behind them as if by magic. There, atop the hill stood Cyril; the fading sunlight glinting off his armor and sword. Then, with a smile dancing on his face, Cyril launched himself back into the battle as yet another wave of bolts darkened the already dimming sky. Charging down on the confused army, Cyril slashed and sliced his sword through the masses never seeing the archers taking aim. And in one instant three arrows slammed into Cyril's back, pitching him downward. Seeing his brother go down, Fenguir charged the archers and with a furious flurry of singing steel, cut down the bowmen. When the Crolarian army saw Cyril go down, a stunned silence briefly followed until,

         "He was willing to die for us and our families; we will not let it be in vain!!" And with a new wave of morale, the Crolarian Army began to fight with renewed vigor. So great was the massive boost that, the confused Velts soon found themselves fighting an opponent that would not stop. If a soldier fell, another was there almost immediately to take up the fight. Despair was beginning to grab hold of the Velts. A bearded Veltic soldier looked and saw Cyril on the floor and ran to him. He raised his great axe high above his head and was about to sever the head of Cyril when, from the east came a great shout, followed closely by the thunderous roar of calvary. He looked to the east and gasped, his great axe forgotten. There, charging from the Moorian Plains was an entire garrison of armored calvary under the banner of Elriel Isen, 'The Pure', proudly waving in the up current of air. A navy blue reed flanking a pair of blue crossed swords set on a white backdrop, trimmed lightly with navy blue. And there, in the front of the charge, bearing down on the Veltic Army, her wild dark hair flowing behind her was 'The Pure' herself. Plumes of dust erupted from the floor as the hooves of the charging calvary ate their way to their target. The sun glinted off of the plate-mail armor and short halberds of Elriel Isen as her dark cloak billowed behind her. Elriel threw her arm back and turned her blade. And as the stunned soldier watched, his last thought before The Pure's gleaming short halberd guided his spirit free, was that her amber eyes seemed to burn with a fire of promise. A deadly promise and she had every intention of keeping that promise.