Earls of Iron: Part 1 of 6

Fables of Blood and Fate
Book One
Earls of Iron


A Fantasy Novel
by
Jason Norman Thompson
Part 1: 1-15,000 words
Contents:

Thule: The Western Realms and the Eastern Domains

Creations: Essential and Profane

The Gathering:

The Seven
The Champion

The Earldom of Tellus Isle

The Breaking:

The Lure
The Scavenger
The Snare
The Keeper
The Warchief
The Hunters
The Darkness
The Viper
The Gateway
The Mistress

The Kingdom of Reaumverd

The Wrack:

Marital Customs of Western Thule

The Chaperone
The Innocent
The Nabbers
The Massacre
The Slaughter
The Croft
The Usurper
The Serpent
The Earls
The Glade
The Mystic
The Beast
The Pyre
The League
The Cull

The Ruin

Passing
Thule: The Western Realms and the Eastern Domains

The Gathering

“Germena toxicus fructus lethalis creare.”

Obscurus Observiciona
(137 M.A.)
Caecum Oculus
(106-145 M.A.)

“Toxic seeds bear deadly fruit.”

Dark Observations
(Translated by Felicitas Placabilis, 1121 M.A.)

Creations: Essential and Profane

“Years, four thousands, one hundred, seven and fifty in number have passed since the Story of the World that Mankind calls Mundus did begin, when the seven Bonadeus, the Gods of Good, did come from another World.
Sapiensmagister did lead them hence, Wise Master, God of the Dominion that is Intellect, He whom Mankind calls Sapister.
Benevolence and Curiosity did inspire Him, and so it was Sapister, Principal among all the Gods, who did first draw forth an Iota of His Divine Essence. He did take His Spirit, and with mud, saliva, breath and blood did He blend it.
Thus did Sapister shew the Magic and the Means by which Vital Beings might be Fashioned, and His six fellow Gods did bear Witness to His act of Essential Creation.
And thus did Sapister Create the Immortal Demigods of the Dominion that is Ingenuity: Primabaro, First Man, and Primafemina, First Woman; They whom Mankind call Priaro and Primina.
They did settle in the Place that Mankind calls Lemuria, where Primina did bear forth many Children, the Lemurians, who did become the Prime People of Mankind.
Then did each among the Bonadeus for Themselves a People Create.
Caelumrector, Sky Ruler, God of the Dominion that is Sky, He whom Mankind calls Caeltor, did draw forth an Iota of His Divine Essence. He did take His Spirit, and with mud, swan feathers, breath and blood did He blend it.
Thus did Caeltor Create the Immortal Demigod of the Dominion that is Air: Astrumanimus, Star Spirit; He whom Mankind calls Astrimus, and for him a Spouse. Caeltor did Create Astrimus as a Man, wingéd, and plumage of brightest silver did He have. The Children of Astrimus did become the Aerken, Prime People of the Skyborn.
Normagleba, Rule the Soil, Goddess of the Dominion that is Earth, She whom Mankind calls Normeba did draw forth an Iota of Her Divine Essence. She did take Her Spirit, and with mud, granite, breath and blood did She blend it.
Thus did Normeba Create the Immortal Demigod of the Dominion that is Rock: Dominiumprofundis, Dominion Deep; He whom Mankind calls Domund, and for Him a Spouse. Normeba did Create Domund as a Man, short, powerful and hirsute, and at Delving was He skilled. The Children of Domund did become the Dvaryn, Prime People of Dvarkind.
Lmpharex, Water King, God of the Dominion that is Water, He whom Mankind calls Lymex did draw forth an Iota of His Divine Essence. He did take His Spirit, and with mud, salmon scales, breath and blood did He blend it.
Thus did Lymex Create the Immortal Demigoddess of the Dominion that is Sea: Pastorimarina, Shepherdess of the Sea; She whom Mankind calls Pasina, and for Her a Spouse. Lymex did Create Pasina as a Woman, comely to behold, and the body and scales of a fish did She have. The Children of Pasina did become the Meerken, Prime People of Meerkind.
Solpater, Sun Father, God of the Dominion that is Sun, He whom Mankind calls Solter did draw forth an Iota of His Divine Essence. He did take His Spirit, and with mud, lava, breath and blood did He blend it.
Thus did Solter Create the Immortal Demigoddess of the Dominion that is Dawn: Rosnebula, Dew Mist; She whom Mankind calls Rosula, and for Her a Spouse. Solter did Create Rosula as a Woman, and wholly composed of flame was She. The Children of Rosula did become the Ignavivus, Prime People of the Sunborn.
Lunadomina, Moon Lady, Goddess of the Dominion that is Moon, She whom Mankind calls Lundana did draw forth an Iota of Her Divine Essence. She did take Her Spirit, and with mud, horsehair, breath and blood did She blend it.
Thus did Lundana Create the Immortal Demigoddess of the Dominion that is Childbirth: Fetusobstetrix, Birth Midwife; She whom Mankind calls Fetrix, and for Her a Spouse. Lundana did Create Fetrix as a Woman, horned, and the body, legs and tail of a mare did She have. The Children of Fetrix did become the Kentauros, Prime People of the Moonborn.
Regalisquidditas, Regal Nature, Goddess of the Dominion that is Emotion, She whom Mankind calls Regitas did draw forth an Iota of Her Divine Essence. She did take Her Spirit, and with mud, tears, breath and blood did She blend it.
Thus did Lundana Create the Immortal Demigoddess of the Dominion that is Peace: Silvadomina, Forest Lady; She whom Mankind calls Silvina, and for Her a Spouse. Lundana did Create Silvina as a Woman, slender and fair, and skin of shining silver did She have. The Children of Silvina did become the Silvken, Prime People of Fairkind.
Then an Iota of Their Divine Essence did Sapister have each of His six fellow Gods grant unto Him. He did take Their Spirit and Fashion it to His Desire.
Thus did Sapister Create the Foreparents to the six other Peoples of Mankind, whom He did send forth to inhabit every region of the World of Mundus.
Well-pleased with Their Creations were the Bonadeus, and They did go forth to dwell amongst Their Peoples. With Guidance and Assistance in all their many Works did the Gods Grace Their Creations, and in the Arts of Agriculture, Astronomy, Arithmetic, and many other Crafts and Lore and Skills and Ways did the Gods Instruct Their Peoples.
Cities Wondrous and Fair to behold did they Construct, most pleasing to the Heart and Mind and Eye, each with many Marvels filled.
Thus came to pass the Primary, Golden Age, a Time of Peace and Contentedness, Purity, Plentitude and Bliss, when together in Fruitful Harmony did the Gods of Good and Their Essential Creations Flourish.
For many years, seven hundreds, six and eighty in number, did the Primary, Golden Age of the Story of the World that Mankind calls Mundus endure.

* * *

The Primary, Golden Age did end when the six Malideus, the Gods of Evil, did come from another World.
Morsrex did lead them hence, Lord Death, God of the Dominion that is Death, He whom Mankind calls Morex.
Malice and Envy did Inspire Him, and so it was Morex, Principal among the Gods of Evil, who did draw forth a Sliver of His Profane Puissance. He did take His Power, and with excrement, vomit, urine and blood did He blend it. Thus did Morex shew the Means and Magic by which Monstrous Abominations might be Formed, and his five fellow Gods did bear Witness to His act of Puissant Profanity.
Thus did Morex Shape the Immortal Demigoddess of the Dominion that is Murder: Morsdomina, Lady Death; She whom Mankind calls Morina.
Morex did Shape Morina as a Woman, lovely and pale, and fangs sharp as spite and wings black as night did She have.
So, Morex did take Her for His Spouse.
The Profane Power to Form more of Her Ilk upon Her did Morex Confer. Her Powers did Morina Exercise by Committing Murder among the Peoples of the Bonadeus, and the victims of Morina did become the Vampyri, Prime Race of the Unliving.
Then did each among the Malideus for Themselves a Race Shape.
Tenebrosusrex, Shadow Lord, God of the Dominion that is Darkness, He whom Mankind calls Tenebrex, did draw forth a Sliver of His Profane Puissance. He did take His Power, and with excrement, nightmare, urine and blood did He blend it.
Thus did Tenebrex Shape the Immortal Demigod of the Dominion that is Suffering: Somnusluxuria, Sleep Lechery; He whom Mankind calls Somuria.
Tenebrex did Shape Somuria as a Vulpus, a fox-headed One, Possessed of Cruel Cunning and Guile. The Profane Power to Form more of His Ilk upon Him did Tenebrex Confer. His Powers did Somuria Exercise by Destroying the Immortal Souls of the Peoples of the Bonadeus, and thus Possessing their Corporeal Forms, and the victims of Somuria did become the Vulpusken, Prime Race of the Nightkin.
Mobrusprior, Disease Elder, God of the Dominion that is Pestilence, He whom Mankind calls Morbior, did draw forth a Sliver of his Profane Puissance. He did take His Power, and with excrement, cancer, urine and blood did He blend it.
Thus did Morbior Shape the Immortal Demigoddess of the Dominion that is Plague: Peremptoriusavis, Deadly Bird; She whom Mankind calls Peravis.
Morbior did Shape Peravis as a Monster, terrible in aspect, and the sleek body of a serpent and the sharp-beaked head and taloned legs of a raptor and great night-black wings did She have. The Profane Power to Form more of Her Ilk upon Her did Morbior Confer. Her Powers did Peravis Exercise by spreading Contagion among the Peoples of the Bonadeus, and the victims of Peravis did become the Cockatricea, Prime Race of the Phantasmagoria.
Arbitidolor, Supreme Ruler of Pain, Goddess of the Dominion that is Suffering, She whom Mankind calls Arbilor, did draw forth a Sliver of Her Profane Puissance. She did take Her Power, and with excrement, agony, urine and blood did She blend it.
Thus did Arbilor Shape the Immortal Demigod of the Dominion that is Lust: Gigasrex, Giant King; He whom Mankind calls Gigex.
Arbilor did Shape Gigex as a Man, gargantuan, and teeth sharp as sorrow and a voice loud as thunder did He have. The Profane Power to Form more of His Ilk upon Him did Arbilor Confer. His Powers did Gigex Exercise by Committing Rapine among the Peoples of the Bonadeus. Offspring did the victims of Gigex spawn, and His get did become the Geants, Prime Race of the Geantkin.
Terribilisregius, Terrible Royal, Goddess of the Dominion that is Fear, She whom Mankind calls Tergius, did draw forth a Sliver of Her Profane Puissance. She did take Her Power, and with excrement, terror, urine and blood did She blend it.
Thus did Tergius Shape the Immortal Demigoddess of the Dominion that is Despair: Flammahalitus, Flame Breath; She whom Mankind calls Flamitus.
Tergius did Shape Flamitus as a Horror, and a horned head and clawed legs and great night-black wings did She have. The Profane Power to Form more of Her Ilk upon Her did Tergius Confer. Her Powers did Flamitus Exercise by Committing Immolation among the Peoples of the Bonadeus, and the victims of Flamitus did become the Dragyns, Prime Race of the Dragynkin.
Materduella, Mother War, Goddess of the Dominion that is Conflict, She whom Mankind calls Maella, did draw forth a Sliver of Her Profane Puissance. She did take Her Power, and with excrement, venom, urine and blood did She blend it.
Thus did Maella Shape the Immortal Demigoddess of the Dominion that is Hatred: Hirsutusubfemina, Hairy Under Woman; She whom Mankind calls Hirina.
Tergius did Shape Hirina as a Woman, grotesque and hirsute, and horns dark as jet and brown hide like leather did She have. The Profane Power to Form more of Her Ilk upon Her did Maella Confer. Her Powers did Hirina Exercise by Committing Rapine among the Peoples of the Bonadeus. Offspring did Hirina spawn, and Her get did become the Hobgobelins, Prime Race of the Gobelinkin.
Upon the Pacific Peoples of the Bonadeus did the cruel Races of the Malideus prey, and neither Mercy nor Pity nor Remorse did they shew, and great was the Anguish among the Peoples.
Then the Bonadeus did Muster and each did draw upon the Divine Essences of Their fellows, which Spirit each of Them did take and Fashion to Their Desire.
Thus did the Gods of Good Create the Immortal Demigods of the other Peoples of the Bonadeus, who did number five and thirty, and whom They sent forth that the Peoples might Contend with the Perverted Races of the Malideus in every region of the World of Mundus and cast them down.
By the annihilation of Their Depraved Races were the Malideus sorely Vexed, and upon the Bonadeus and all Their Peoples did They Declare War.
Then the Malideus did Muster and each did draw upon the Profane Puissance of Their fellows, which Power each of Them did take and Fashion to Their Intent.
Thus did the Gods of Evil Shape the Immortal Demigods of the other Races of the Malideus, who did number thirty, and whom They sent forth that the Races might Slaughter the Peoples of the Bonadeus in every region of the World of Mundus and cast them down.
Destroyed were all the Cities Wondrous and Fair to behold, most pleasing to the Heart and Mind and Eye, and all their many Marvels with them.
Then a Sliver of Their Profane Puissance did Morex strip from each of His five fellow Gods, and with Their Power did He Forge an Accursed Weapon of Terror, Ferrumsanguinus, That which Mankind calls Bloodblade.
Morex did take up Bloodblade to Wield with His own Hand, and Fearsome was the Ruination that He did Wreak upon the World that Mankind calls Mundus. Mountains did Crumble and forests Burn and seas Boil and Desolate barren wastes did Fertile plains become, and Slaughter beyond reckoning was visited upon the Peoples of the Bonadeus.
Then an Iota of Their Divine Essence did Sapister have each of His six fellow Gods grant Him, and with Their Spirit did He Craft a Majestic Weapon of Righteousness, Gladiofatum, That which Mankind calls Fateblade.
Sapister did take up Fateblade to Wield with His own Hand, and Awesome was the Annihilation that He Wrought upon the Races of the Malideus, and the Wreckage that He did make of all their foul works.
Thus did pass the Secondary, Dark Age of the Story of the World that Mankind calls Mundus, a Time of War and Torment, Sorrow and Loss, Suffering and Grief, when Opposed in Catastrophic Adversity did the Gods and Their Creations, Essential and Profane Strive.

* * *

For many years, two thousands, three hundreds, eight and forty in number, did the Secondary, Dark Age endure, and did only end when the seven Bonadeus and Their nine and forty Demigods did Overthrow and cast down the six Malideus and their six and thirty Demigods.
Never could the Immortal Malideus and Their Demigods be slain, so the Bonadeus did Condemn Them to an Eternity of Confinement in vast Subterranean caverns, on the Place that Mankind calls Thule, and They did Raise from the Earth a great Barrier to Contain their Captives and this did They Name the Godswall. Immutable Oaths to Guard these Prisons for all of Time did the Demigods of all the Peoples of the Bonadeus swear, and these Eternal Guardians did take up Their Endless Vigil.
Thus did the Godswar end.
Then together did the Bonadeus Confer and They did Resolve to Withdraw from the Concerns of Their Peoples, that they might Govern themselves without Interference.
Much of Their Divine Essence did each of the Bonadeus Surrender unto Sapister, and he Wrought Great and Wondrous works, from which all the Peoples of the Bonadeus might ever after Benefit, and to the Place that Mankind calls Lemuria did the Bonadeus retire, for Terrible Devastation had been Wrought there throughout the Course of the Godswar, and this They sought to Repair.
Thus did the Tertiary, Mortal Age of the Story of the World that Mankind calls Mundus commence.
From whence, none among Mortalkind has known the Gods.”

Preface to A Comprehensive History of the Mortal Age
(1000 M.A.)
Loremaster Phullon Megepisteme
(476–1023 M.A.)









The Seven

Sunshine beamed down from a clear sky and light sparkled upon the ocean. A stiff breeze filled the brigantine’s sails as waves parted before her prow like satin sliced by a blade. Sleek dolphins surged through the water around her: tiny minnows against the vast ship. No Captain stood at her helm, no sailors clambered in her rigging, no mariners moved on her decks; yet the crewless ship sailed her course straight and true. No land lay in any direction.
An erne flew towards the brigantine then vanished with a flurry of ash grey plumage. The figure of a man stood upon the deck: a tall broad being who exuded an aura of ancient puissance. He had light grey skin and his cinereous eyes were strange: entirely that brown-grey colour without pupils or irises. He did not blink. A luxuriant mane swept back from his brow to his shoulders, hair the colour of rose quartz. His toga was platinum, cast so fine it rippled like spun silk. Shades of grey shifted through his cloak: storm clouds in tempestuous skies. A bag hung at his hip, fashioned from a glaucous gull.
He pulled a great weighty tome from the gullbag, bound in grey leather. He tossed the book aside and it floated on air then flipped open and bold script appeared. The page filled and turned and the writing continued.
The grey man swept his hand through the air and a grand oaken table appeared on deck with seven tall thrones around it: a golden one at the head of the table, the others silver. The figure sat on the golden throne.
A blue jay swooped across the deck then disappeared. The figure of a broad young man stood by the table. He wore a robe of azure silk and a cloak flowed around his powerful form as if shaped from water. He had periwinkle skin, ultramarine eyes and short tousled cyan hair. A pearlescent conch on a silver chain hung from the rope of sapphires looped about his waist. He glanced at the hovering book then addressed the seated figure.
‘Still writing your memoirs, Sapister?’ ‘Always, Lymex. Truths are ever worthy of note.’
‘Too true,’ said Lymex.
‘Still ruling the waters?’ said Sapister.
‘Always. And the others?’
‘Have been Summoned to this Gathering. They shall come, as you have done.’
A white dove fluttered by them then the figure of a statuesque woman sat on the silver throne to Sapister’s left. Her skin shone with pearly luminosity while her ageless face bore an expression of cool hauteur. Fathomless profundity swirled in the depths of her seashell eyes and a wealth of cornsilk hair flowed down her back. She wore a peplops as pristine as fresh-fallen snow with a smooth eggshell cloak. The ivory staff propped against her throne blazed with incandescence: bright as an iron bar in a furnace. With her back held as straight as a spear, she rested her elbows on the table and arranged her hands in an attitude that suggested boundless forbearance.
‘Sapister,’ she said in a crisp precise tone. ‘We have been Summoned, so have we come.’
‘We are graced, Regitas.’
‘Aye, Lady,’ Lymex sat opposite her. ‘That we are, as ever.’
Regitas smiled and her frosty demeanour thawed.
‘Why, Lymex, we have missed your voice so. We trust that one is well?’
‘Aye, Lady. Busy with my endeavours, mustn’t complain.’
Her laughter rang out, clear as crystal and merry as bells.
‘Who in the world would listen, dear love? Who would care?’
A bright green parrot flashed past Sapister’s head, flew the length of the table, banked and turned. The figure of a young woman appeared on the ship. She had large eyes the colour of mint leaves and lime skin; a teal chiton draped her curvaceous form. Barefooted, she pranced towards the others and wavy emerald tresses streamed out behind. With every step, she dipped into a turtle’s shell at her hip, pulled out a fistful of tiny seeds and strew them upon the deck. Small shoots and creepers sprang to life from the polished timbers, leaves sprouted; buds burgeoned, blossomed into flowers and burst open. She left a swathe of vibrant colour in her wake as she sprang up onto the table, gambolled towards the others, stopped and smiled.
‘Hello, Sapister,’ she said.
He regarded the table with an amused expression. Little plants flourished and carpeted the smooth oak.
‘Hello, Normeba, one trusts that you are well?’
‘Exquisitely so, thank you for asking. Hello, Regitas. Hello, Lymex.’
‘Good to see you, sister,’ said Lymex.
‘It gladdens our spirit to have you near,’ Regitas said.
Normeba chuckled, crossed her ankles and sat on the table with fluid grace. She planted her elbows on her knees, spread her hands and grinned.
‘You know me; I always bring a little life wherever I go.’
A cardinal flew towards the assembly. A scintillating silver hawk screeched and streaked down with talons extended. The cardinal swooped. Claws snatched air and the raptor shrieked outrage; wings blurred as it pulled up to avoid an ignominious collision with the deck.
A tall embodiment of feminine sensuality stood behind Regitas with her back to the table. Flawless lavender pink skin, mauve eyes and raspberry lips accentuated her exquisite lineaments. Luxuriant waves of vermillion hair billowed down her back. They twined like ribbons of silk, kissed and teased by the wind. A thick golden chain graced her long lovely neck and a ruby pendant, large as a pigeon’s egg nestled between her breasts.
A sleeveless scarlet chiton draped her luscious form. She wore a short cloak, which shifted from orange to flame to crimson to rose to fuchsia to pink: all the shades of sunset followed by dawn without one blink of night.
Amused by the hawk’s clumsy antics, she threw her head back in shameless delight, laughed with wanton abandon and squeezed her hips with her elegant long-fingered hands as she vented her mirth. She turned and sat on a silver throne with a dancer’s fluency of motion.
‘I almost caught you, Lundana,’ said a sonorous voice.
The figure of a man with pale silver skin and old silver eyes materialized on the throne opposite her. A thick braid of silver pink hair hung between his shoulderblades and a silver chiton and cloak draped his slender frame, the metal as fine as cloth. Twin silver bracelets etched with intricate whorls covered both forearms. He shone like a star.
‘Caeltor,’ said Lundana, ‘you catch me only when I wish to be caught.’
She stretched her arm across the table and Caeltor clasped her wrist. Lundana tilted her head and smiled.
‘See.’
Caeltor stroked the soft skin of her wrist with his thumb.
‘This I know,’ he said, ‘yet never stop trying. Love is passing wondrous strange.’
‘Almost as much as you, my love.’
Normeba dipped her hand into her shellcase and scattered seeds over the lovers’ linked hands. These germinated in moments and put out small green shoots that grew into stems, which twined around Lundana and Caeltor’s arms. Tiny buds sprouted, burgeoned, unfolded and roses bloomed. Some were deep bloody red, others bright shiny silver. Sweet fragrance exploded from the flowers.
‘Hello, Lundana,’ Normeba said. ‘Hello, Caeltor.’
‘Thank you so much for the blooms, Normeba,’ said Caeltor. ‘You are ever very thoughtful.’
‘And you, good Caeltor, remind me that life is love, just as mortals do.’
‘Mortality grants perpetual awareness of truths we oft overlook.’
‘Yes,’ Normeba said, ‘but mortals call us gods.’
‘No harm in that,’ said Lymex, ‘provided we do naught to encourage their worship.’
‘Such blasphemies were the domain of the Malideus,’ said Regitas. ‘Who suffer eternal torments for their evil, as is only meet and just.’
Lundana looked around the table. ‘Where is Solter?’
‘He comes,’ Sapister said.
A stark blaze of sunlight filled the sky. The glare washed over the brigantine and her passengers looked up to see an immense ball of flames high above. The fireball unfurled into a great burning bird then the phoenix winked out of existence and the golden figure of a man stood in the air. He had saffron skin, lambent golden eyes and a spiky shock of jonquil hair crowned his head. A goldenrod toga draped his body while a fiery cloak danced in the air behind as if tossed by strong winds. He bore a flickering lance of flame.
‘I have come, as Summoned. Only because I was Summoned.’
‘Solter,’ said Sapister. ‘Must I Summon you down?’
‘No. You must not.’
Solter vanished then reappeared on the throne beside Caeltor and thrust his flaming lance into the deck.
‘This Gathering is an indulgence,’ he said. ‘Our work in Lemuria takes precedence.’
‘Yes, Solter, it does,’ said Regitas. ‘A salient truth, of which we are each all too aware. Yet that alone cannot render this Gathering redundant.’
‘We Bound ourselves,’ Solter said. ‘As inextricably as we interned our dark Brethren, thus we chose to constrain ourselves. We cannot break those bonds, no more than the Malideus can. We must not interfere in the affairs of mortals, not until the Homecoming is upon us.’
‘Solter,’ said Normeba, ‘we must act. Dark seeds were planted long ago. They begin to grow. Their poisonous fruit shall destroy all we have made.’
‘And striven for,’ Lymex said, ‘and toiled and struggled to maintain. We must act.’
‘Imminent dire phenomena threaten to initiate a new era. One of terrible upheaval and devastation, to surpass that wreaked upon Mundus during the Dark Age,’ said Caeltor. ‘We must act.’
‘The horrors of the Godswar,’ said Lundana. ‘All shall pale in comparison and fade into insignificance. We must act.’
‘The obvious has been stated, we concur,’ Regitas said. ‘We must act.’
Solter sprang to his feet and crackling flames wreathed his body. His silver throne tore across the deck to smash through the brigandine’s rail and plummet into the ocean with a loud splash. Solter’s eyes blazed as flames shot from his mouth.
‘NO!’ he roared. ‘We caused the Godswar. We trespassed upon our Brethren’s jurisdictions. We meddled then and Lemuria was destroyed. I can never allow that to happen again.’
He grasped his fiery lance and levelled it at the others.
‘You all know this. I will act alone against you if I must.’
Sapister’s book snapped shut. A deep boom reverberated in the air and a tremor ran through the ship from stern to bow.
Sapister stood tall. His eyes glinted with intense clarity. All in an instant, the flames that shrouded Solter snuffed out, unseen forces repaired the timbers rent by his throne’s violent passage and the silver throne stood where it had before his outburst.
Solter screamed defiance and drew his arm back to hurl his lance.
An expression of profound sorrow creased Sapister’s stern features. He held out his hands in placatory supplication.
‘Please, my son, I implore you. I love you. We all do. We need you. We cannot lose you.’
‘Yet all conspire and seek to bend me to your will.’
‘No, my son. Nevermore, shall I repeat those mistakes. Nevermore, shall I cause a schism amongst us. Nevermore, shall I harm this family. I ask only that you hear my words. Consider them. Should you then believe that inaction is the most sagacious course, we all shall abide by your decision. The choice, and the power, I surrender unto you.’
Regitas gasped, ‘Father. You cannot.’
‘I can. I shall. I have.’
Sapister sat. His book opened. Words materialized on the page.
Solter hesitated then lowered his lance and sat but did not relinquish his grip on the fiery weapon.
‘There can be no direct intervention,’ he said. ‘We are each and all aware of what is to come but we must remain ever mindful of our past transgressions. We dare attempt only the most subtle of influences when dabbling with matters of fate. Each of us shall choose one mortal and suggest an action that may, if pursued, alter that mortal’s destiny. One deed, which might see the chosen mortal set upon the path of fate and tempered along the way. Coercion and Domination are, as ever, forbidden to us. One small suggestion, that is all. No more and no less.’
Normeba flung a smattering of seeds at Sapister’s book. They disintegrated on impact and a puff of dust was borne away on the breeze.
‘Father,’ she said, ‘what if these implanted seeds should fall upon barren soil?’
‘We must not act.’
Solter raised his arm. A ball of fire shot from his palm, arced through the air then plunged into the ocean with a sizzle.
‘Father, what if the struck spark should sputter and die before it can catch and ignite into flame?’
‘We must not act.’
The roses wrapped around Caeltor and Lundana’s hands unwound, drifted into the air and knotted together to form a coronet, which floated over to Normeba and settled on her head. She smiled at Caeltor. He tapped his silver bracelets together and a pure clarion note rang out. A tiny tornado appeared on the tabletop, plucked leaves, flowers and stems, twirled them around and disappeared. Shredded petals and greenery hung in the air for a moment then pattered down.
‘Father, what if the stirring air should have no more effect than an errant puff of wind?’
‘We must not act.’
Lymex stood, walked over to Solter, took the conch from his belt and tilted its mouth over the fiery lance. A thin trickle of water poured from the shell and struck the flames with a hiss as the liquid dissipated in a cloud of steam.
‘Father, what if the waters of inspiration should run dry?’
‘We must not act.’
‘Father, enough,’ said Lundana. ‘The message is clear. I need not offer some prosodic demonstration. Besides, you all know how deeply I despise rejection and failure.’
‘Indeed. The point has been made,’ Regitas said. ‘Although we do feel obliged to make another. This course shall see mortals employed as instruments. Tools. And are not all tools disposable? It seems reasonable to presume that some will be broken and discarded. We can only express our pity towards the poor creatures. We feel reluctant, Father, yet we see no alternative but to agree.’
‘Yes,’ said Solter, ‘this action is appropriate. We must act.’
‘We must act,’ Sapister said.
His book closed, floated over and slipped back into his gullbag. Sapister clapped his hands. The brigantine, her passengers and the dolphins vanished. The ocean rolled on, oblivious.

The Champion

The quill’s tip scratched across the page then stopped. The Nobleman hunched over the escritoire looked up from his work and gazed at nothing. With a pensive expression on his face, his eyes narrowed and he vented a frustrated huff. He straightened in his chair and cleaned the quill with a rag but did not look at his hands as he did.
Every night, when most in the palace and the city beyond were abed, he retired to the library; there to compose the fictional memoirs of his alter ego. He cherished the quietude. Always, his nocturnal fabrications flowed like water from a jug but that night his mind felt distracted and he could not fathom why, which irked him.
He placed the quill in its holder, stoppered the inkpot, laid his hands flat on the polished teak writing desk and splayed his fingers. The jewel set in the verargent ring he wore on the heart’s finger of his left hand drew his eye. He regarded the gemstone in the soft candlelight.
The perfect smooth globe swirled with every conceivable shade of green. It was no mundane jewel but a tiny fragment of Normeba’s eternal essence. A minor Globus Potentatus, an Orb of Power, which conferred many attributes upon its bearer. Normeba, Lady of Earth, was the divine patroness of all Hunters. The man at the desk was Abalta Lamhiarann, Champion of the Hunt.
He had owned the ring for a long time, having inherited the Artefact from his predecessor as his Mantellum Officium, the Mantle of his Office. The Orb bestowed longevity and Abalta could choose whether he aged as a mortal or became younger with the passage of time. He had manipulated the aging process for centuries.
Abalta studied the ring and considered the great lie he had lived for the past thirty years.
Three decades earlier, he fell in love with the Xulontopian sculptress, Kalos and decided to marry her. On their wedding day, Abalta had seemed to be a man of twenty-eight. Although he now looked middle-aged, the Champion of the Hunt remained no less puissant or capable than ever.
Kalos bore him three children, Clavis, Jocundus and Gemma. To protect his family from his many terrible enemies, Abalta had concealed his true identity and position from everyone.
Abalta lifted his hands and twisted the verargent ring around his finger. The Orb of Power was warm. He felt wholly repulsed by its presence and all that it represented. He had to suppress an intense compulsion to hurl the thing from him, with all the considerable force he could muster.
He did not need sleep, because of his Mantellum but Abalta sometimes indulged in restful slumber. He thought that a spell in bed with his wife might exorcise his groundless melancholia.
Abalta’s gaze fell upon the open book before him. Julapium 17th 1414 M.A., the entry was dated. He made a mental note to rewrite it. He stood, closed the journal and set it back on the bookshelf, beside the other volumes he had penned over the decades. He went to the library doors, pulled them open and waved his hand as he left; with the power of his Orb, he snuffed out the lit candles and closed the doors behind.
Abalta walked along the corridor towards his suite of rooms. The two guards stationed outside snapped to attention. Decorus was broad and bald, while Jungere was slight and wore his black hair in braids. As the guards swung open the double doors, Decorus stifled a yawn. Abalta bade the men goodnight and strode through the doorway and the guards swung the doors to behind.
He passed through the brightly appointed dayroom. Its colourful frescoes, rich upholstered couches and elegant understated furnishings reflected his wife, Kalos’s, refined sensibilities. Abalta pulled open the doors to their bedchamber.
He slid the knife from its sheath on his belt and stood, poised in dangerous intent, as eyes swept the room.
Kalos lay in a sprawl across the bed. Her head hung over the edge of the mattress and her long wavy black hair spilt down onto the floor. Abalta could see no blood but Kalos was a study in utter stillness. Glazed grey eyes stared out of her inverted face. The puce bruises on her neck and the unnatural tilt of her head told Abalta how she had died: she had been throttled then her neck had been broken.
The glass door to the balcony lay ajar. Abalta drew upon his Orb of Power and hurtled across the room with incredible speed, to burst through the door in an explosion of shattered glass. He saw a dark figure on the, adjacent balcony, outside his elder son Clavis’s bedchamber. The assassin turned to look at Abalta but no surprise registered on the man’s pale face and he reached for the door to Clavis’s room.
Abalta used the momentum of his headlong charge and dove over the balcony rail then drew upon the power of his Orb, to fly through the air in an arc. He threw his knife and the blade sank into the assassin’s back. The murderer turned and Abalta raised his left hand in a fist. A lance of silver energy blazed from the Orb of Power and thebright beam slammed into the killer’s chest. The impact hurled the man from his feet and he crashed through the glass door into the dark room beyond.
Abalta maintained his eldritch assault and the assassin thrashed about on the floor, as he completed his wild dive and levitated down onto his son’s balcony. As he strode into the bedch bedchamber, the brilliance that poured from his Orb lit the room. The intruder’s woollen clothing and black hair ignited; he convulsed on the marble floor, mouth agape in a soundless scream.
The awful stench of burnt wool, singed hair and seared flesh filled the air. Clavis woke and sat up in bed, a bloodless expression of shock on his face. His wife Claustrum jolted upright, shrieked and clutched at her husband. He shrugged her off, sprang naked from the bed and snatched his verargent rapier from the scabbard hung on the wall.
Abalta pressed his assault. The tendons of the assassin’s neck and face warped into a stark agonized grimace and the killer’s eyes rolled back in his head. His back arched in one final titanic spasm then he collapsed and lay still as stone.
The lurid silver light winked out and darkness swallowed the room. Tiny crackles of energy danced upon the corpse and a horrendous fetor overwhelmed the reek of roasted man. Abalta swept his left hand through the air; all the lamps, lanterns and candles in the bedchamber flared alight. In moments, the assassin’s body deteriorated into a rancid mess of rotten putrescence. Abalta knew then that the remains did not belong to any mundane hired killer but one possessed by the dread spirit of a Vulpusken.
Clavis hurdled the bed to land in a crouch beside the rank smoking carcass. He drove his spellbound rapier down in a two-handed reverse thrust, skewered the corpse and embedded the slender spellbound blade in the marble beneath. With a throttled squawk of outraged disgust, Clavis fell back from the corrupted abomination and landed on the bed.
Claustrum barrelled into Abalta and rocked him on his heels. Her frantic hands scrabbled at his chest as she voiced breathless panicked utterances, in the primal tongue employed by men, before the gods taught them how to speak. Claustrum seemed oblivious to her indecorous state of absolute undress, as did Clavis.
Abalta paid little attention to his son or his terrified wife. He felt stunned, for he recalled his participation in the wholesale annihilation of the Vulpusken, a century before. Over the course of a four-year campaign, the Champion of the Hunt, his comrades and their allies had eradicated every egg, larva, imago and Queen, in each of the Vulpusken’s thirteen colonies. The extermination had been necessary, because Vulpusken were Shapestealers; Formthieves, each able to send its incorporeal essence away from its body to possess another’s. Through the psychic link it maintained with its true form, a Shapestealer fed upon the spirit of its possessed host, until the victim died. The Vulpusken then generated a potent illusion, which fooled all the senses, not just sight, to make the corpse seem alive.
No Shapestealer could have survived the vile race’s extinction, yet irrefutable evidence of one’s existence lay before Abalta. Death had dispelled the illusion of life and forced the Vulpusken to abandon its host. Its shade had escaped into the dark night, just after Abalta’s attack.
The doors to the bedchamber swung open then the two guards on duty outside burst in with their swords drawn. Short stocky Bassus had dark hair and a beard; Candor stood tall and fair. They goggled at the naked spectacle of their Lord’s elder son and his comely wife. Then the foul stench assailed them and their widened eyes turned to the hideous heap of leavings that steamed on the floor. Decorus and Jungere bustled in and pushed past Bassus and Candor.
‘My Lord,’ said Decorus. ‘Your Lady wife has been most foully murdered. I fear her neck was broken.’
Abalta nodded at the grisly carcass, ‘That was but the simple tool used to commit the vile deed. To avenge Kalos, I must find the one who guided those murderous hands. An evil creature. I shall have need of your loyalty, men. That, and your courage. To help hunt down my adversary, and to protect my children. Can you promise me those? Without question, or hesitation?’
‘Father?’ said Clavis. ‘Father, what happened to Mother?’
‘She was killed,’ Abalta pointed at the remains, ‘by this thing, before it came for you.’
Claustrum sat on the bed and began to sob. Clavis put an arm around her.
‘But, why, Father?’ he said.
‘Because of me. Because of who and what I am.’ Abalta turned to his guards. ‘Well, men? What say you all?’
Decorus drew his sword and knelt, with the point pressed to the floor and his hands on the quillons.
‘I, Decorus Lineamentum, swear fealty to you, my Lord. My life is yours.’
Candor, Bassus and Jungere mimicked his actions and words. Abalta allowed no married recruits among his guards and retired any who wed, so none of the four had a spouse or children.
‘Rise, men,’ Abalta said. ‘You have my gratitude. Now, find two sacks, take them down to the crypt, open the sarcophagi of Vovere Vulgata and Elabi Populi and put each man’s bones into a sack. I shall be in my bedchamber. Bring them to me there, along with four casks of lantern oil. Be swift about this task, men and try not to draw anyone’s attention. Go now, with my thanks.’
The guards sheathed their swords, saluted, hands on hearts and hurried out.
Abalta turned to the naked couple on the bed.
‘We must talk,’ he said. ‘The whole family. Get up and dressed, I shall fetch your brother and sister.’
He went to his son, Jocundus’s, bedchamber and roused the twenty-two-year-old. Then Abalta woke his fourteen-year-old daughter, Gemma and brought them both to Clavis’s room. When they saw the decomposed mess on the floor, Gemma recoiled with a gasp.
‘What is that?’ asked Jocundus.
‘It killed Mother,’ said Clavis.
Gemma bowed her head and wept, while Jocundus clenched his fists then turned to his father.
‘This is your fault,’ he snarled. ‘Where were you? You were supposed to protect her.’
‘I failed,’ said Abalta, ‘and, for that, I am sorry, son. More than you can imagine, your Mother deserved better and I am sorrier still for what I must now tell you all.’
Abalta put his arm around Gemma’s shoulder. He reached for Jocundus but his son shrugged off the embrace and stalked across the room, to stand near the shattered balcony door.
‘My children,’ Abalta said. ‘Know this, before I begin. Each of you, I love more than breath and I always shall.’
‘As you loved Mother?’ said Jocundus.
‘Begin what?’ Clavis asked.
Gemma murmured, ‘Love you too, Papa.’
Abalta sighed, led her over to sit on the bed and moved back to the doorway.
‘I do not deserve your devotion, for I have lied to you, all of you, all your lives. I am your Father, yes, but not whom you believe me to be. My name is Abalta Lamhiarann and I am the Champion of the Hunt, in service to Seilgscoil, School of Hunting. I was born in six-six-six M.A., and I have lived for seven-hundred-and-forty-eight years.’
‘Father,’ said Clavis, ‘grief has unhinged your mind.’
Gemma said, ‘Papa? What are you saying? What do you mean?’
Jocundus scowled but said nothing. Abalta activated his Orb of Power and levitated off the floor. His body blazed with silvery light and his voice resonated with sonorous might.
‘I am who I say; the Champion of the Hunt. Look upon me, my children, and know the truth.’
They gazed at him, mouths agape in terror and awe. The radiance vanished and he stood once more as a man.
‘You bastard,’ said Jocundus. ‘What are we to you, then? Playthings? Pieces in some twisted game? And what was Mother? Did you ever love her? Or any of us? Answer me, you lying bastard. Tell the truth, for once.’
‘Yes, I loved her. I love you all.’
‘Liar. If you truly loved us, you would have trusted us with the truth.’
‘Father,’ said Clavis. ‘Jocundus is right. You are to blame for our Mother’s murder, because you know what that thing on the floor is, do you not? And do not even dare to think of telling us another lie.’
‘That was just a man, but he was possessed by a Vulpusken.’
‘Dogturds,’ spat Jocundus.
‘Impossible,’ said Clavis. ‘Shapestealers are extinct.’
‘I know,’ said Abalta, ‘for I helped destroy them. It was necessary and they deserved their fate. Capture was too problematic, because of their nature, and they numbered too many: hundreds of thousands. So, we exterminated them. I was there. We committed a monstrous evil; genocide, to save ourselves. I always knew it would someday come back to haunt me, and now it has.’
‘Stop it, Papa,’ wailed Gemma. ‘You brought this evil upon us, so why are you still here? Why, Papa? We would be safer without you. Take your horrors with you, and leave us in peace. Please, Papa, just go.’
‘Yes, I intend to; I must.’
‘Good,’ said Jocundus, ‘you killed our Mother, not some Shapestealer, not this thing. She is dead because of you, and she loved us as you never have. You were never there; always off on your mysterious, ‘business ventures’. And now we know why. So, go on, for you are not my Father. I never want to see you again.’
‘Father,’ Clavis said, ‘it would, perhaps, be best if you went. Your School can protect you but you cannot protect us, or Mother would still be alive. Let us go to her now, and grieve for her, and bid our last goodbyes.’
‘I shall go,’ said Abalta. ‘But that alone cannot make you safe. The assassin did not come for me. It murdered Kalos, and it would have killed you, Clavis, Claustrum too, had I not intervened. It would not have stopped there. However many Vulpusken survived, I helped annihilate their kin. Now I know that they exist, I can hunt them. They shall be too busy evading my wrath to dare another strike against any of you. But for now, it is best that they believe me dead. Clavis, as my heir, you must replace me here. Take my titles, position, lands and holdings. This palace, everything in it and all my possessions. Jocundus, support and advise your brother, for you need one another. There are things I must do here and then I shall go, but Gemma comes with me.’
‘No,’ said Jocundus, ‘truly, you cannot be human. First, Mother and now you want to take Gemma. How can you be so cruel?’
‘Cruel? You know nothing of cruelty, boy. You have been cozened all your days. Kept safe, here; protected. Life is cruel, son of mine; now you are a man. You too, Clavis. Time, then, to be men. Deal with this world, and all of its wicked cruelties. Your sister is but a child. I can protect her, where you cannot. My School is a haven and she shall be safe there, even from Vulpusken.’
‘And what about me, then, Father?’ Gemma said. ‘Do I have no say in my fate, or am I just another plaything to you? Some silly, pretty, charming little doll, made to amuse you? Do you like this dress, Papa? What about my hair, Papa? My shoes, Papa? Me, Papa? You disgust me, Father. I admired you, adored you, believed you a man; but you aren’t, are you? Not really, not where it matters, you patronising swine.’
‘Enough!’ roared Abalta. ‘No more indulgences. I am your Father. You are my children. And you shall obey. Clavis, Claustrum, Jocundus. Go down to the vestibule. Await my pleasure there. Go now. Should any of you dare utter a word, I shall bind you all like hogs. And haul you there myself. Go. Gemma, you stay.’
Abalta watched his sons leave with Claustrum. He went over to his daughter on the bed. He looked down at her. She turned her face away.
Abalta sighed, ‘I love you, Gemma. I know I have lied to you. So many times. But, please. I need you to believe me. I love you so much. I have to bring you with me. See you safe. I feel empty, without your Mother. But, Gemma, without you, I would despair. I bear great responsibilities. Because of who I am. Because of my position. And I am too powerful. Too dangerous, even, for this world to be safe, should I ever surrender to despair. I do not seek your sympathy. Or your understanding. And, no. I have never seen you, or anyone, as a toy. But I do need you. I need to be sure of your safety. Before I can do what I must. Gemma, I cannot promise to share the details of all that I do. Some secrets are not mine to divulge. But I shall never again lie to you. Do you believe me?’
Gemma looked up, ‘No. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I want to, yet how can I? I can only try, Papa. That will have to be enough, for now. You need to earn anything more.’
Abalta smiled. He opened his arms. His daughter stepped into his embrace. He closed his eyes. He breathed deep of her fresh fragrance. He delighted in the tangible truth of her. She pulled away with a soft smile.
‘Papa, I need to dress now, and pack for our journey.’
‘Yes. Bring only want you need or treasure most. Then, go join your brothers. I shall see you soon.’
‘Can I say goodbye to Mother, first?’
‘No, Gemma. I do not want you to see her. Not as she is now. That would taint your memories. Better, my love, to remember her as the wonderful woman she was.’
Gemma nodded. She ran out. Abalta stood for a moment. He walked across to the corpse. He yanked his son’s rapier out of the floor. He sheathed the weapon. He left the room with it. He went to his bedchamber. He packed a leather satchel. He then went over to the bed. He cradled his wife’s broken body. He murmured her name. He bade Kalos’s spirit farewell. He did not weep.
Time passed. The four guards returned from their errands. Bassus and Jungere each bore a hemp sack. Decorus and Candor carried two small barrels apiece under their arms. Abalta lowered his wife’s corpse onto the bed. He got up. The men set their burdens on the floor.
‘Good work,’ said Abalta. ‘Gather what you need for a journey. Get horses ready. Saddle Gemma’s mare. And my stallion. Wait for us in the stables.’
‘Where are we going, my Lord?’ asked Candor.
‘Seilgscoil. In Inisfiain. Pack only for a few days’ travel. We can get supplies en route,’ Abalta nodded at the casks. ‘Take three of those, when you go. Leave one outside each of my children’s bedchambers.’
The men saluted. They went out with three barrels and left one behind. Abalta looked into the sacks. He emptied Vovere’s blackened bones onto the bed, next to his wife. Vovere had been burned at the stake, many years past. Abalta reposed Kalos’s body in a supine position. He folded her hands over her heart. He arranged her loose black hair to frame her face. He picked through the jumble of bones. He assembled Vovere’s skeletal remains beside her. He stepped back. He moved a femur and several ribs then switched a radius and an ulna to achieve anatomical precision.
Abalta broached the cask. He sloshed oil throughout the room. He grabbed his satchel, Clavis’s rapier and the other sack of bones. He left. He doused his sons’ bedrooms. He reconstructed Elabi’s diminutive skeleton on Gemma’s bed. He splashed oil over the furnishings. He spilled a trickle from the bed to the door.
He walked to the stairs at the end of the corridor. He raised his hand. He used his Orb of Power.
Abalta Lamhiarann, Champion of the Hunt, put his attempt at a normal life to the flame.
He vanished into the night.

The Breaking

“Cenfath dean daoinemaith chomh gominic donamothaige, tamail andonaceanna degnath maithmothaige?”
An Oiread Sin Ceista
(422 M.A.)
Togalai anCrionna
(311-459 M.A.)

“Why do good people so often feel bad,
while the bad ones mostly feel good?”

So Many Questions
(Translated by Mens Plenus, 906 M.A.)

The Lure

The paved road from Fissilis village winds through a narrow defile that cuts through the Scandere Peaks. Low murky clouds obscure the sun and darken the land. Icy rain pelts down and a stiff breeze chills the morning.
Eight slow cobs pull the iron orewagon along the road. Two columns of Earl’s Guardsmen flank the vehicle, wearing cuirasses over black clothing with steel helmets on their heads.
A young woman in a scarlet leather coat hunches on the orewagon’s box. A blustery gust of wind snatches the hood from her head. Leim’s green eyes glint with annoyance and her freckled face puckers into a scowl as she yanks the hood back over her auburn hair.
Salax the wagon driver and his son Fons sit to her right; old Rosina the clerk shivers and mutters on her left. Leim turns her head to look down at the miners with their wives and children huddled on wooden benches in the back of the open orewagon. Her gaze slides to the raw quartz blocks behind them and the silvery liquid metal locked inside the translucent crystal. Leim shudders and looks away. Although the verargent cannot interfere with her powers while it remains encased in quartz its proximity unnerves her.
Elatus rides on Leim’s right and Vagus leads the file of lancers to her left. The two Warriors wear suits of plate armour and closed helmets. Barding protects their chargers. Elatus catches Leim’s eye and raises his helmet’s visor.
‘Nice weather for ducks ain’t it Sorceress?’ Elatus says with a grin.
‘Quack bloody quack,’ Leim sneers. ‘I hope you rust.’
Elatus leers, ‘Y’know I keep my weapon too well-oiled for that.’
‘Pity about your head. Bloody men...almost as bad as the damned rain. And twice as wet.’
‘Dry yer eyes,’ Elatus laughs. ‘It’s glorious. Let’s y’know yer alive.’
‘Breath and a heartbeat do that much. I mean, honestly, would it kill that bloody Earl to give us a canopy for the rain? Since that’s all it ever does here on Tellus Isle? Rain, rain and more rain, except when it snows.’
‘Now, now, Sorceress. Temper, temper,’ Elatus laughs. ‘Y’know the rules. Comfort breeds complacency. Besides, old Suavis ain’t half bad as employers go. For a Noble. I’ve known worse, sure as the gods’ve abandoned us.’
‘Don’t blaspheme,’ says Leim.
Elatus blows air through his lips and his mount mimics him so he does it again but the horse ignores him.
‘Why not?’ he asks. ‘It’s not like they’re gonna come back n strike me down after near five-hundred years, is it? Not bloody likely. But old Suavis might if we don’t do our job proper. He’d have us all strung up by the heels n flayed alive if we was to go n lose his precious consignment through unattentiveness or indolence.’
‘Yes, yes, Elatus. I know the drill. And I’ve told you before, stop trying to impress me with big words. It’s not going to work. Not when you just make them up. It’s inattentiveness, not unattentiveness. Although I find that inattention serves just as well and is easier on the tongue.’
‘Well, scuse me for bein,’ Elatus says. ‘Not all o us was lucky enough to study at Poerschule. Ain’t that right, Vagus?’
Vagus ignores the question.
‘Don’t give me that,’ says Leim. ‘Every last student of the Seven Schools learns to read and write. And swim and ride. Even meatheads like you. Besides, if you truly wanted to be more articulate, you would have stayed on to Graduate.’
The morning becomes gloomier and colder and the torrential rain intensifies as the road slopes down into a hairpin bend.
Elatus shouts, ‘Well, Sorceress, if y’hate this job so much, why not go back to yer precious Poerschule? I’ll tell y’why. Because yer a Quitter.’
‘And what of it? What if I am a Deferee? At least I did my Term of Service. Six whole years. I didn’t just up and bugger off the very instant I got out into the Realms to do my Apprenticeship, now, did I? Exactly when are you going to return to Baroschola to do your duty? Never. That’s when. You’re nothing but a no-good Runner, Elatus Princeps. That’s all you bloody well are.’
‘Is that right? Y’ve a cheek, Leim Stathol. I weren’t the one too scared to face Primatrillium. Call me whatever y’want, I didn’t run away from the First Trial. Ranked fifth in my Echelon. So, aye, I’m an Absentee but at least I’m no Quitter. Worse, a Chicken Quitter n the only reason I left in the first place...’
‘Sorry.’
‘...n got older while y’stayed young...’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘...were to be with you, cause that’s what we agreed... wait...what?’
‘I’m sorry, Elatus. I know you left for me and that’s why you haven’t gone back and I love you for it. Never mind the rain, I’ll put up with wind and snow, hail and sleet. Anything, so long as we’re together. I count myself as blessed every day of life and none of this,’ Leim waves her hands in the air, ‘can ever change that. I won’t complain anymore, I promise. No matter how tedious things get. No matter how dull and routine.’
Vagus turns his head and raises his helm.
‘I like tedium,’ he says, ‘and I love dull routine. Thrive on it. Better that than battle and strife, hardship and pain. Besides, this job’s easy and it pays well. What more could you want?’
‘That’s right,’ says Elatus. ‘Just imagine what it’d be like if we’d stayed on n Graduated. Aye we’d be Lords n Ladies not lowly wagon guards but we’d be off waging war on the Evil Races. Unlivin n Fiends n Gobelinkin n the absent gods alone know what other kinda monsters. Fightin Shadowlords all over Thule with narry an instant’s respite. Bugger that for a game o soldiers. I know yous feel the same way or you’d be off doin that instead o guardin orewagons in the rain. Achar would agree with me if she were here. Where’s she got to anyways?’
The orewagon trundles out of the ravine and a weight lifts from the company as they escape its dark confines. Riders straighten in the saddle while passengers lift their heads to look around. The downpour slackens to drizzle as the skies brighten but the sun remains hidden behind sombre clouds. The road ahead runs straight down a long escarpment then levels out and disappears into Gentiana Wood.
The rocky slope is strewn with boulders, stunted hazels and tangles of gorse. As the gradient declines, withered patches of grass burgeon into healthy green meadows. Wooden fences parcel lush fields into pasturage where horses graze. Timber outbuildings and white-walled farmhouses dot the landscape.
‘She’s probably in there,’ Vagus points at the forest, ‘out of the rain. Achar’s got more sense than the rest of us put together though that isn’t really saying much.’
The company passes the rutted track to Prunum village as the rain abates to a light misty drizzle and the orewagon nears the woods.
‘Typical,’ Elatus says. ‘What’re the odds it’ll stop rainin the very instant we get to shelter?’
‘That’s a sure bet,’ says Vagus. ‘Not that I care. Another couple of miles and we’re home. I can’t wait to put my feet up in front of a blazing fire with a nice hot mug of mulled wine.’
‘Mmm,’ says Leim. ‘That sounds just lovely.’
‘Is that all yous two can think about,’ says Elatus, ‘the bloody gargle?’
‘Certainly,’ Vagus says, ‘and what’s wrong with that? I love the drink. Nothing else makes me quite so happy. Unless it’s a plump merchant’s son with a fat arse, fatter purse, soft eyes and warm hands. Or is it warm eyes and soft hands?’
‘That’s fine for you, Vagus,’ Elatus says.
He looks straight at Leim, who adopts an expressionless expression and fixes her gaze on the treeline.
‘Yer not gettin hitched in a couple o days,’ says Elatus, ‘an yer not expectin yer first child an yer not tryin to save coin for all the...’
Leim’s eyes widen. She gasps and twists her body. Her hood falls back as she flings her arms out towards Elatus. Amber light pours from her hands and a golden nimbus surrounds him.
Elatus hears a sharp soughing hiss, the whisper of wind in a wheatfield and sees the shafts of three arrows appear in Leim’s chest. Another rips clean through her throat and a fifth sinks into her temple. Blood blossoms bright and red on her pale freckled skin then Leim’s body slumps.
An arrowhead strikes the golden light just in front of Elatus’s face and falls to the ground. The light vanishes and he realizes that Leim’s last act was to protect him from the attack that killed her.
Utter dismay swamps Elatus and he is only aware of what is happening in a vague numb distant way. Salax, Fons and old Rosina lie dead, pierced by arrows and Vagus has one buried in his face. Blood gushes down his cheek and he throws his head back and howls.
Elatus flicks down his visor though it seems his arm moves as slow as a dollop of honey poured from a pot. A dull clang makes his ears ring and the chaotic tumult of battle overwhelms him. He shakes his head, forces his senses into focus and realizes that archers hidden in the trees are ambushing the orewagon and an arrow from their second volley has just struck his helmet. He looks around through the visor’s narrow slit. Guardsmen and horses lie on the road and the orewagon is full of corpses.
Elatus knows he ought to tally the losses, formulate a plan of action, take command. Before he can do anything, another flight of arrows strikes. People and animals scream. A feathered shaft appears in Vagus’s mouth and chokes off his screams. He topples from his charger and his corpse hits the road with a clattering crash.
Elatus counts eight living soldiers, some with arrows stuck in unprotected limbs, others without mounts. They look bewildered. Elatus spots a huddle of people crouched behind the iron orewagon, draws his sabre and points the blade at the soldiers.
‘Save the villagers,’ he shouts. ‘Leave the wagon. MOVE!’
A volley kills two Guardsmen. The others pull survivors up onto their coursers, spur their mounts then gallop back along the road.
Elatus rides over to a bawling little girl, reaches down and slings her over the saddle before him like a sack of cabbages. He grabs a boy and yanks him into the air. Another flight of arrows strikes. Two shafts slam into the child’s small body and the boy judders and goes limp. Elatus drops the corpse, rams his heels into his charger’s flanks and catches up with the other survivors.
They ride out of range of the archers and Elatus looks back to see a group of women emerge from Gentiana Wood. They wear dark clothing. They carry longbows. They run after the riders.
Elatus moves to the vanguard. He feels a fierce hot surge of triumphant pride. His decisive action and leadership helped the survivors escape the ambush. Then grim reality murders the brief burst of joy in his heart. Most of the company lies dead. He lost the precious verargent to brigands. He watched his friend Vagus die. Leim is gone. Their baby too. Elatus wants to sob and scream and kill. He hurts so much he wants to die. To end his pain.
‘Mama?’ the little girl draped over his saddle stirs and looks up at him with wide brown eyes. ‘Where’s Mama?’
‘Hush child,’ says Elatus. ‘Don’t you worry. We’re safe now and I’m sure your mama’s just...’
On either side of the road ahead, dozens of figures rise from the pasture. They bear javelins and wear piebald black-brown-and-green clothes. Their arms go back, they sprint forwards and a storm of missiles arcs through the air.
Elatus’s mouth drops open and his eyes bulge behind his visor. He hauls on the reins then a great jarring blow smashes the breath from his body and he tumbles from his horse.
He groans and tries to push himself up then sees the steel shaft jutting from his chest. He coughs and fluid pours from his mouth. Warm and wet, it runs down his cheeks and chin. Elatus feels calm and untroubled. He lies still. The clouds clear to reveal a bright tract of sky. The sun beams down at him like the face of a lifelong friend. The little girl cries out. This disturbs Elatus’s peaceful state. He shifts his eyes behind the visor. A man and a woman loom over him, dressed in the patchy black-brown-and-green clothing. The man’s hairless head is bare, his skin blacker than pitch. He regards Elatus with cold green eyes that glint with cruel amusement.
‘This un got away from ye, Nuntius,’ the bald man’s voice grates like two blades scraped together. ‘Good thing I were waiting for him, ain’t it?’
Elatus focuses on the woman. Her clothes cling to her body in ways that even a dying man cannot help but admire. Her features are just as alluring as her form. Coal-black wavy hair surrounds a clear-skinned youthful face with soft coral lips, gorgeous cheekbones and tilted cornflower blue eyes framed by long dark lashes and curved brows. She looks down on him with a sympathetic expression.
‘He showed courage, Mancus,’ her voice is sensual but sweet and lilting. ‘He did not abandon the others but sought to save the children despite the danger.’
‘What danger?’ Mancus scoffs. ‘Sure, he were safe as a turtle in his shiny steel suit. Until I come along n spiked him.’
He kicks Elatus’s cuirass, squats, grabs his helmet, yanks it off, tosses it aside and glares into his eyes.
‘Here, Nuntius,’ says Mancus. ‘Y’ever hear a lobster gettin boiled alive? See, I were thinking. We might have ourselves a wee fire n see how loud this one squeals when we roast him alive in his pretty shell. What say you to that, brave Sieur Knight?’
Elatus tries to speak. Blood dribbles from his mouth.
‘Leave us,’ Nuntius says. ‘Take the others with you. Finish up here. We have no time for your insane games.’
The black-faced man sneers, rises and moves off. The woman hunkers down in his place and peers at Elatus then she sighs and a beauteous smile graces her face.
‘Taking is all that I ever seem to do,’ she says. ‘But I can, at least, give you peace, Guardian Elatus Princeps.’
She reaches over to caress Elatus’s cheek then her cool fingers brush his neck just under his jaw.
‘Your School would be proud,’ she says. ‘So would Leim. Sleep well, Elatus.’
He watches her hand move away, sees the small bloodied knife and his vision dims.
Nuntius waits and watches the light fade from his eyes. With gentle fingers, she closes his eyelids then rises and walks away.

The Scavenger

Levis Fortiare strides down the road out of the mountains. His fishing rod is slung over his shoulder. There is a jaunty spring in his step. The skies are clear. The sun beams down. It is a fabulous Vertere morning with more than a hint of Vernalis in the air.
Levis hears the harsh hectoring of ravens. He looks ahead, towards Gentiana Wood. His eyesight is poor. He sees blurred shapes on the road. He squints. He stops dead.
At the edge of the forest, an empty orewagon sits in the middle of the road. Levis remembers watching it rumble through Fissilis with an escort of soldiers, while he sat eating breakfast on the inn’s porch. He hurries to investigate.
Dozens of bodies are sprawled in the orewagon. More lie on the road. Nothing moves, save the carrion birds gobbling the tender parts of man and beast alike. Levis’s grey eyes narrow. His tanned face screws up in revulsion. He gives an outraged shout. He drops his fishing gear. He charges down the slope. His arms and legs pump. His long blonde hair streams out behind like a bright banner. The scavengers squawk in alarm. They take to the air. They settle among the trees. Levis reaches their gruesome feast.
The first body was Salmo. Levis knew him well. He knew most of the dead. Many frequented his father’s inn. Some were regulars. Salmo was a practical tenant. Not anymore and never again. Dried blood cakes his face. His throat is a raw wet hole.
Levis moves among the corpses. He recognizes most of the men, women and children. His stomach roils. He breathes through his mouth to block the stink of emptied bowels, exposed innards and spilled blood. The children’s lifeless bodies disturb him. He thinks of broken discarded toys. He checks all forty-five corpses. The killers did a thorough job. Levis finds no survivors.
The black birds of death croak and caw without cease. Levis feels that they taunt him. They mock the departed. He stoops. He plucks a few stones from the road. He hurls them at the feathered vermin. His aim is bad. He hits nothing. He turns back to the carnage. He tries to ignore the beady-eyed host in the trees.
When the company passed through Fissilis, Levis saw huge lumps of quartz in the orewagon. He assumes that brigands ambushed the party to steal the verargent. The wanton slaughter makes no sense. He understands why the robbers killed Leim the Sorceress, Achar the Ranger, the Warriors, Vagus and Elatus, and the twelve Guardsmen but not the miners and their families.
Every corpse bears deep puncture wounds, caused by arrows. Some carry wide holes from spears. Swords, axes, lances and knives litter the road. No arrow, bolt, spear or missile of any description lies among the fallen. Their absence is peculiar. Levis reasons that the brigands took the weapons they used to kill their victims but left the Guardsmen’s arms behind.
Levis wonders why the thieves did not steal everything of value. Arms and armour are expensive. The two Warriors’ gear is of very high quality. He draws his small knife from its sheath on his belt. He walks over to Vagus’s remains. He crouches beside the dead man. Levis averts his eyes from the gory ruination of Vagus’s face. He cuts the leather thong that secures the dead man’s moneybag to his belt. Levis hefts the leather bag. He pulls it open. He sees the gleam of Silver Spheres and Golden Globes inside. This puzzles him. Only the most remiss of robbers would neglect to loot the dead.
Levis finds an empty hemp sack in the back of the orewagon. He visits each body. He stuffs all the coin into the sack, along with the few other valuables he finds. Only a fool would leave the money and jewellery behind for the next person to happen upon the massacre. Levis tries to ignore the birds’ beady eyes, upon him, as he works.
He cannot fathom why the brigands butchered the horses. Most bear wounds from arrows or spears but gaping gashes in their necks tell Levis that many had their throats slit. The soldiers’ coursers were prime examples of horseflesh, worth a solid price at any market or fair. Perhaps the bandits wanted their crimes to remain undiscovered for as long as possible. Maybe they killed the animals, rather than risk any strays returning to Fissilis or wandering on to Latus town. Why they did not just take the horses is another mystery.
Levis swings the weighty sack over his shoulder. He begins to move back up the road towards the mountains at a steady easy lope. He gives a little bark of a laugh. He turns. He goes back to the orewagon. He drops his sack on the ground. It clinks. Levis unbuckles Elatus’s sword belt. He slides it clear with the sturdy leather scabbard attached. He searches. He finds the Warrior’s custom-made sabre nearby. Levis picks it up. He cuts the air a few times. While not a spellbound verargent weapon, it is a fine blade. He sheathes the sword. He loops the belt across his chest. He snatches up his sack. He sets off again with the sabre slung over his back.
Levis reaches the track to Prunum. He stops. He looks back. His brow furrows in perplexity. Why kill every living thing and remove the weapons used to slaughter them, yet do nothing to conceal the bloodbath? Why not stack the bodies on the orewagon and hide it in the forest? Why rob the orewagon for the valuable verargent, yet slaughter valuable horses and neglect to loot the dead?
Levis is a pragmatist. The dead are beyond his help. His discovery of the massacre affords him an opportunity for further profit. He can hire a horse from one of the local breeders and ride straight to Aesfortis. He should reach the Capital long before anyone else stumbles upon the orewagon and thinks to report it. Everyone says that Suavis Ferrumanus, Earl of Tellus Isle, is a generous man. He will surely reward the man who brings him news of the robbery and massacre. Elatus’s distinctive sabre will add credence to his testimony. He will stop to hide the sack of coin somewhere along the way. Only he and the bandits will ever know who robbed the dead. The murderous raiders are not about to come forward to contradict his version of events then get hanged for their crimes. No one will know of his theft. Unless someone comes along and teaches the ravens how to talk. He snorts. He peers down the road. He sees the vile scavenger birds gorging on flesh again. He grimaces.
Levis turns. He sprints along the track towards the nearest farmhouse. Bright dreams of wealth and glory fill his mind as he runs.

The Snare

They run barefoot in a long-striding loose-limbed lope that gobbles up the miles. The mercurial weather has turned in the four hours since the Earl despatched Huntlord Seasta Doighsuil and his Apprentice, Scout Othar Cuardaigh, to investigate Levis Fortiare’s wild tale of robbery and murder. Dusk approaches. Heavy clouds obscure the sun. Deep shadow drapes the land. Sleet slants down from the leaden heavens. The wind blusters. The evening is cold.
They approach a slight rise on the track from Prunum. The Huntlord raises his fist to signal a halt. A ferocious gust snatches at Seasta’s heavy black-brown-and-grey linen greatcoat. Othar wears an identical garment. Seasta casts a disgusted glance at the pewter clouds. Lines, etched deep in the Huntlord’s rugged features, chart the many hardships endured throughout his long life.
Seasta directs a muttered oath at the dismal elements. He yanks his sodden coat tight. He hunkers. He moves forwards in a crouch. He peeks over the slope. Othar joins him. Seasta nods to the left. Othar looks across the fields. He sees the empty orewagon in the distance with bodies littered all around.
‘Looks like Levis was telling the truth,’ Othar says.
Seasta nods, ‘Aye, laddie. Knew that already. Scouted with a hawk, afore we left Earlshome. Considering there ain’t been no real brigandry here for nigh on thirty years, I told Suavis I wanted to come, and see it with my own two eyes. Besides, there ain’t much point being your Mentor, if you don’t get to do no real Apprenticing, now, is there?’
Seasta pulls a black leather case from his pocket. He passes it to Othar, ‘Here, laddie. Tell me what you see down yonder.’
‘Yes, Master,’
Othar unfastens the clasps. He removes the top of the case. He pulls out a brass spyglass. He trains it on the orewagon.
‘No verargent. Transferred to another vehicle, then. Why bother? Just take orewagon. Guardsmen, citizens, horses. All dead. No arrows or spears in them. None anywhere. Strange, that. Why remove them? Corpses scavenged. Probably crows. Soldiers still armoured. Two horses with barding. Most saddled. Weapons lying about. Makes no sense. Thieves steal. No sign of struggle. Slaughter, then. No movement. No sign of life, or anyone in woods. Confirms Levis’s account, Master.’
‘Aye. And what else?’
‘I don’t know. Wait. No scavengers.’
Othar puts the cap back on. He hands the spyglass back.
‘Master,’ he says. ‘There must be people in the forest. I think it’s a trap.’
‘Aye,’ says Seasta. ‘Good, laddie. Why set a snare, ’less you’re trying to catch something? This ain’t the work of brigands, that’s for sure. They kill, steal and run. This here’s something else, altogether. Like they wanted some fool to report it, then us to come a-running for a gander.’
‘You think they might be lying in wait for us, Master?’
‘Lying in wait? Aye. Hunting bigger game, though.’
‘The Earl?’ says Othar. ‘But, Master, why would he come here?’
‘Young Castus’s getting hitched in a couple of days, ain’t he? And they’re staging the Nabbing near here. Just the other side of them woods. A lot more coin in kidnapping, than in robbing. Especially when you’re grabbing a Noble or two. Or ten.’
‘What should we do, Master?’
‘Wait till it gets dark,’ says Seasta. ‘No moon. Not with them clouds. Get closer. Take a proper gander. Maybe go for a wee dander in them there woods.’
‘But, Master. Shouldn’t we go back and report this?’
‘And have the Earl come a-running? Laddie, I know Suavis a sight better than you. He’d like as not take it upon himself to deal with this personal. Play right into these buggers’ hands, he would. Besides, we can’t just be going scurrying back. Not without scouting proper first. Else, we wouldn’t be doing our job right. So, c’mon.’
Seasta creeps back down the rise. He slips under a fence. He moves across a pasture. He sits behind a boulder. Othar follows. He joins Seasta. The Hunters wait in silence.
Night falls over Tellus Isle. The wind abates to a breeze. The sleet turns to rain. It intensifies. Birds call. They wing back to nests in the forest. A dog barks in the near distance. A woman calls a name. A door slams. Light gleams from farmhouses and crofts. Bats swoop and squeak overhead.
The breeze shifts. It carries the scents of woodsmoke and smouldering peat to Othar. He imagines a cosy kitchen crowded with folk, rich cooking smells in steamy air, a table laden with wholesome fare, warmth, firelight, laughter. A horse snorts and stamps nearby then is still. Othar shivers. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets. Seasta taps his shoulder.
Othar turns. He looks at his Master in the soft dark. Seasta puts a finger to his lips. He digs a hand into the damp soil. He lays the other on his Apprentice’s shoulder. The Huntlord closes his eyes. He inhales through his nose. He exhales in a low hum. After seven deep breaths, Seasta concentrates. He draws upon Earth. His training as a Hunter allows him to reinvigorate his fatigued body with elemental energies and channel the power into others.
Although Othar learned this aspect of Wildskills as a Wayfarer, in his second year at the School of Hunting, Seasta’s decades of practice grant him mastery far beyond his Apprentice’s meagre capabilities. Warmth pours into Othar through his Master’s hand. Tension eases from him. Seasta banishes his enervation, caused by the long hike from Aesfortis, along with anxiety about their assignment. The Huntlord removes his hand. Othar feels fresh and alert, dauntless and strong. Seasta pulls his other hand from the muck. It is clean of dirt.
The Huntlord motions. He sets off across the pasture in a crouch. Othar follows. They reach the top of the rise again. The land slopes down towards their destination. Between the Hunters and the orewagon, two fences split the pasturage into fields. A third runs parallel to the road.
The two men skirt a small herd of sleeping horses. The animals huddle together in the cold wet night. The Hunters’ stealthy passage does not disturb them. Darkness and rain reduce Othar’s visibility. Raindrops patter on his hood. He strains to hear any noise that might betray the brigands’ presence.
The Hunters slip under the second fence. Seasta stops. He turns. His hands spell out a simple message in Wildsign, the secret handspeak of Hunters: slow...silent...wary. Othar nods. They approach the road with extreme caution. They stop often. They listen. They look.
The wind shifts.
Seasta barks, ‘Away.’
The Hunters turn. They scramble back up the incline. Othar hears a great whooshing whump. Light flares at his back. A wave of intense heat washes over him.
‘Left, left,’ Seasta cries from behind, all attempts at subterfuge gone. ‘Fissilis Pass.’
Othar glimpses tenebrous figures on the fence atop the slope ahead. He spins. He follows his Master in a flat run towards the corner of the field, where the track from Prunum meets the main thoroughfare. Flames blaze high into the night sky, along the stretch of fence beside the road. Othar realizes that the cunning brigands filled the drainage ditch with wood and oil, which Seasta must have smelt, just before they ignited the fire.
The Huntlord sprints through the pasture. He ducks. He weaves. Othar mimics his actions. A steel shaft appears at his feet. Othar trips over it. He sprawls. A javelin flashes over his head. It misses his Master by inches. Othar springs up. He runs. Javelins and arrows fall all around. Seasta hurdles the fence. He turns.
He yells, ‘Ware.’
Othar dives forwards. He rolls. He springs up. He runs on. He reaches the fence. He sees Seasta dance about on the road. Othar leaps over. Two arrows hit the wooden rail with solid thunks. Othar stands, agog in wonder. He watches his Master wield his spellbound hunting sword with both hands. The verargent weapon confers phenomenal speed. Seasta’s arms blur. He cuts arrows from the air before they can touch him.
Othar looks down the road. He sees an armed crowd running towards him. Many more, stood behind, fire bows. They wear the torn bloodied garments of the orewagon’s slaughtered escort and passengers. Othar realizes that they must have lain as if dead when he examined the area with the spyglass. They then maintained their charade while he and Seasta crept up on their position.
‘Move, laddie,’ growls the Huntlord.
Startled, Othar turns to run. A heavy blow to the back hurls him forwards. He cries out. He lands on the hard paving stones. He tries to get up. His hands slip on the slick surface. His right shoulder strikes the road. It feels as if a hot poker has lanced his back. Raw agony overwhelms Othar. He hollers.
Seasta grabs his left arm. He hauls Othar up. The Huntlord shifts his grip to the front of Othar’s coat. He holds him upright. Seasta deflects arrows with the sword in his other hand. One fletched shaft slips through his guard. It nicks his cheek. It lodges in his hood. Seasta ducks. He throws his Apprentice over his shoulder. He turns. He faces his opponents side-on like a fencer. He then skips backwards along the road. He knocks arrows aside all the while.
Othar bounces about on his Master’s back. He notices, with curious detachment, the arrow stuck in his shoulder. The head passed through him. His blood smears the tip. Every movement brings another jolt of pain. Othar feels nauseous. He twists his head away from the wound. He looks down the road again. He counts fifteen men and women in the mob that charges towards them. Several throw knives. Seasta bats them away with his sword. The hail of arrows peters off. The Huntlord moves out of range. The crowd grows closer. Seasta turns. He runs.
His Master grips Othar’s thighs tight. Othar flops about when the pace increases. He grabs the back of Seasta’s coat. He turns his head. He sees brigands hurdle the fence where he and Seasta did. They join the others in the chase. The road steepens. The Huntlord maintains the distance from their pursuers. He carries Othar into a narrow gorge: Fissilis Pass.
Rain beats down harder. The road meanders. Othar loses sight of their adversaries. His Master follows the incline up into the Scandere Peaks. After a while the Huntlord stops. He sheathes his sword. He gasps air.
‘Damn,’ says Seasta. ‘That were close.’
He plucks the arrow from his hood. He casts it aside.
Othar groans, ‘Hurts, Master.’
‘Aye, laddie. I know you’re hurting, but we gotta keep moving. Soon as I get me breath back. Getting too old for this kinda malarkey. Still, needs must, when night’s devils ride. Only a couple of miles to Fissilis, then we’ll be safe. So, hang in there, and we’ll be getting you fixed up, in no time at all.’
‘Master,’ murmurs Othar. ‘Leave me, if you must.’
‘Hush, now. Don’t be daft.’
Seasta sets off again. They move through the dark wet defile. Othar slips into a fitful doze. Fissilis lies on Scandere Plateau. The road grows steeper as they approach the village. Muddy rainwater oozes down the slope. The paving stones are slick underfoot. Exhaustion washes over the Huntlord. He struggles up the incline with his Apprentice. His pace slackens. He cannot draw upon Earth through the road’s dead stone or the ravine’s rocky walls. The mud is too watery to be of use either.
Seasta forces a fresh burst of speed from his aching muscles. His breath comes in frantic gasps. He slips on the mucky road. He falls flat on his face. Mud splatters and drenches his sodden garments. Othar screams. The Huntlord manages to hold onto his Apprentice. Seasta struggles to his feet with grim determination.
‘Master,’ wails Othar.
A ferocious blow strikes Seasta from behind. It propels him forwards. His legs buckle. He drops Othar. The Huntlord sprawls on the road. He pushes up onto his knees. He rests on all fours. He pants like a dog. Lank clumps of wet hair hang in his mud-smeared face. He tries to stand. A jolt of agony shoots through his right leg. Seasta reaches around. He grips the shaft stuck in the back of his thigh. His gaze falls upon Othar. The young man lies in a facedown sprawl. A cluster of arrows juts from his back. The Huntlord’s Apprentice is dead. Seasta forces his exhausted body up. He turns to face his pursuers.
The murderers stand in a line across the road some thirty paces away. Seasta counts fifteen people. They wear black hooded coats. Each bears a shortbow. The Huntlord roars in defiance. He drags his spellbound shortsword and his hunting knife clear of their sheaths.
The sinister figures advance. Just ten paces separate the relentless hunters from their prey. The assassin at the centre of the line throws back his hood. He reveals handsome features. Tousled blonde locks frame his face.
‘Time to die, old man,’ he says.
He pulls an arrow from the quiver on his back. He nocks it to his shortbow. He draws back the string. He raises the weapon. He aims at the Huntlord. The other killers mimic his actions.
‘Come on, you blackguards,’ cries Seasta. ‘All at once, or one at a time. Fight me, you craven vermin.’
‘No.’
Bowstrings twang. Fifteen arrows hiss through the air. The Huntlord’s sword blurs. The spellbound blade deflects seven shafts. The rest slam home in his body as if he were no more than an archery butt. Seasta falls down in the mud. His eyes glaze. He is as dead as dirt. The plain verargent ring on the heart’s finger of his left hand loses its bright lustre. It fades to matt black.
Rain falls from the night sky. Five of the killers pass their bows to comrades. They walk over to their victims. They tear the arrows from the corpses. They toss them aside. One collects the spent shafts and the Huntlord’s weapons. The others heft the bodies.
They carry their burdens back to the group. Their leader pulls his hood up. He turns. He marches down the road. The others follow. They vanish into the darkness. The rainwater washes away all trace of their presence.

The Keeper

A cheery blaze crackles in the grate although the copper pipes that carry hot water throughout Sophoskhole, School of Wisdom, warm the chamber. The room’s sole occupant lounges in a plush armchair near the hearth. He has an open book in his hand. An earthenware tankard of mulled wine sits on the small table at his side.
Lorelord Takhus Graphe is a heavyset man. He wears a thick grey woollen robe, pullover, trews and socks. Bright green slippers offset the sombre attire. His hairless head gleams in the firelight. His dark eyes glow with amusement. His lips curve in a wry smile. Verargent Class Rings glitter on the fingers of both hands as he runs them through his trimmed black beard and takes a long drink of wine.
His learned colleagues at Sophoskhole hold the six volumes of Touse Sooth’s Misbegotten Escapades of Mumpy Muttonhead in open contempt. Takhus derives rueful delight from the boisterous yarns. The eponymous Meerlanter mercenary’s scandalous exploits remind the Lorelord of his professional life before he enrolled at the School.
Takhus sets the stein on the table. The Class Ring on his right forefinger grows icy. The shiny truesilver becomes as black as jet. Takhus spits out a foul obscenity. He hurls his book against the wall. He springs to his feet. He bounds across the room with swift grace incongruous in so hefty a man.
The Lorelord yanks open the doors to a tall wooden cabinet. He tosses books and oddments onto the floor. He removes a sealed leather scroll-case from a hidden compartment. Takhus slings its strap over a meaty shoulder. He leaves his sanctum. He breaks into a shambling run towards the Hall of Messengers.