Destiny's Heir

A shaft of moonlight glistened on the papyrus as Amisi scribbled a note to her lifelong bodyguard. She wrote directions to a sewer shaft that led to an escape tunnel from the Palace of Pharaohs. She begged him to meet her there eight nights after the full moon; and hoped he found it in his heart to forgive her. Finished, she set a weight on the scroll where he would find it, then glanced at the tube carrying her most precious belonging. She considered leaving it for Bak to bring, but on impulse, seized the tube containing the Document of Destiny and crawled from her veranda.
#
Amisi let the memory trickle away. She stood with her head bowed, acting submissive. When she had left her father’s palace, she had shed her old name: Amisi Akhenaten. She was not a flower, she was a hawk. Shahina was her name now, and she would never belong to her father again.
Guards lined the room where she and two other women quietly waited for the inspection of Pharaoh Al’Seick, living god of Lower Judai. Murals of the gods covered the sandstone walls. A relief of the sun god Abiron decorated the floor. Shahina stared at it and took slow, even breaths to calm her racing heart. The rescue of her sister hinged on Al’Seick selecting her as another concubine, another gift from a satrap.
A soldier pushed the doors open and announced, “Pharaoh will see you now.”
Shahina’s heart lurched. She repeated Bak’s lesson to herself. As the hawk circles in the sun, hiding from its prey, you must use a man’s expectation of your weakness to hide your approach. Then, when the time is right, when the hawk swoops down on its prey, you must strike. Remember, a hawk cannot kill a lion, or even a jackal, but they can fly. And sometimes flight is better than fight. She took a deep, calming breath, and mimicked the others as they sedately followed the guard from the room.
#
Atop his lion carved throne in the palace throne room, sat the dominating figure of the false pharaoh. Incense burned, making the air heavy. Shadows clung to the walls as curtains across the open windows blotted out the hot Anorem sun. Al’Seick’s dark eyes scrutinized the women. Next to the once muscular, now bloated Pharaoh, a gnarled old man stood, confident in his supreme power. His black eyes glittered in the torchlight. Shahina felt tiny under his gaze, as if he could see her very soul. He was Pharaoh’s wizard.
“Open their robes,” ordered Al’Seick.
Shahina snarled inwardly at the false pharaoh, but reminded herself that any humiliation was worth bearing for her sister. With her arms spread wide and robes hanging from them, her body fully exposed, she felt like a hawk about to take flight. There was no humiliation for a hawk to show its feathers and there would be none for her. Peering through her eyelashes, she watched Al’Seick climb from his throne and approach. He carried his bulk easily. He was still dangerous.
Al’Seick approached the woman to Shahina’s left and appraised her as he would a piece of livestock. “What is her name?”
“Ife, my lord,” responded a satrap.
The Pharoah nodded and turned to Shahina. “And this one’s name?”
Before the satrap could respond, she spoke up, “Shahina.”
Al’Seick’s eyes narrowed. “Shahina…a hawk are you? But are you an Eyas, or a wild one who has been trained? I’ve always preferred a wild hawk that has been tamed. They hunt much more effectively.” His gaze slid up and down her body, and she suppressed a shiver as he said to the satrap, “I will take this one as a gift. She intrigues me.”
The satrap dipped his head while murmuring his thanks and the hope that she would please him. Shahina’s heart swelled with hope even though she entered the jackal’s den. Her plan would work and she would rescue her sister before her sister’s capture could ignite another civil war.
#
The harem was a world unto its own. Within its confines nearly a hundred women lived, with hundreds of Al’Seick’s children of various ages scurrying about. In the sixteen years since his rebellion, he had thoroughly consummated his pharaoh-ship with his concubines and wives.
The eunuch guard led Shahina over a bridge spanning huge water gardens. Reeds and other delicate plants lined the banks, while fowl of all types flicked their wings and dipped in the water for food. Palm trees shaded the numerous huts of the harem. High walls surrounded the grounds, with many eunuchs keeping watch over the women. To Shahina, it seemed like a prison, yet the guards would not be the greatest obstacle. She glanced at the scrutinizing stares of the women.
The hierarchy in the harem would be rigid, with every one of the women seeking the favour of Al’Seick, and willing to sell out their fellows at a moment’s breath. Shahina surveyed the women, hoping to spot the leaders. They would be the ones to contend with.
Then she spotted her sister.
Her breath caught. Meskhenet’s once soft eyes gazed back at her sharply. While Shahina had inherited her father’s aquiline features, Meskhenet was a combination of both parents, her beauty radiant. Coupled with her innately sweet nature, even Shahina had doted upon her. Yet, Meskhenet’s now feral gaze forced her to look away. She had never seen such a look in her sister’s eyes.
#
Shahina stood in the hut she would share with several others. The guards had showed her where she would sleep, eat, and perform every other menial task. After they left, the other women came forward.
They surrounded her, drilling her with questions. The harem was secluded, so cut off from the outside world that they clamoured for even scraps of information. She offered up what she could while acting naïve in the hopes that they would consider her just one more simple addition to the harem.
One by one, the women grew bored and left, returning outside to lounge by the water gardens. As the last one left, another woman entered. She brushed a strand of grey hair aside and stared down at Shahina. She reminded Shahina of a steel blade, sharp on both sides: a true matriarch.
She studied Shahina for several moments before saying, “You may not have told the hens much, but you shall tell me.”
Shahina dipped her eyes, hoping she appeared submissive enough as she said, “What would you have me tell you?”
“How is the war faring between Pharaoh and Ramos?”
“As best I can tell, stagnant.”
“Is Al’Seick planning anything?”
“I do not know.”
“Yes, you do. Think girl. Did you see any troops mustering? Any supplies being moved?”
Shahina frowned as if in thought. “No, I don’t think so.”
The matriarch scowled at her before muttering, “The fool. If he didn’t have his Medjay he’d be dead long ago.”
Shahina shivered. The woman was right. Only the Medjay, the army of conscripted criminals that Al’Seick had led under the previous pharaoh, kept him alive. With their penchant for violence and cruelty, few could withstand their ravaging attacks. She kept her voice soft. “I heard some soldiers speaking about retaking the Islands of the Gods.”
“Most likely. If Pharaoh hadn’t lost them, Theruze would be able to aid him and he could crush Ramos.”
Shahina kept her face slightly surprised, but mainly blank. Inwardly she seethed. If Al’Seick did not have the dark god Gituk pulling and pushing his destiny he would have been dead long before. The former Medjay may have been a good general, but he was no ruler.
The older woman ran her eyes across Shahina’s face. “Make no mistake. Those are not treasonous thoughts. Even Al’Seick is not divorced enough from reality to believe he is god incarnate.”
“But the Amenophis line is descended from Meir himself.”
“Were…they are gone. Now we have a jackal and a serpent struggling over Judai.” The matriarch’s steel eyes held her gaze. “Ramos, with his forked tongue, may say he fights for the fallen rulers, but he fights for himself.”
Sadly, Shahina could not disagree with the woman’s estimation of her father. She had just been a child during the rebellion and she knew the truth.
The matriarch interrupted her thoughts. “Pharaoh should rid himself of Ramos’s brat. It will only give him reason to attack.”
“But they have established peace.”
A scowl twisted the matriarch’s lips in disdain. “Just because soldiers no longer march does not mean peace has come. The war still continues, only it is a war of espionage with the battles between spies and assassins.” The woman’s gaze softened. “Is there anything else of the outside you can think of, child?”
Shahina shook her head.
The older woman’s eyes hardened. “This evening I will require you to cook me my meal.” The beaded door rustled as she departed.
Shahina sighed. Had she not a mission, the matriarch would have felt her claws. But striking back was pointless considering her goal. She forced herself to begin thinking on her next step. How to contact Meskhenet?
Her solution came though the door. She stared at Meskhenet, shocked. She had expected a fearful sister needing to rescue. Instead, Meskhenet stared back at her with hooded eyes.
“Why have you come?” her sister demanded.
Shahina worked her throat, forming a response. “To save you”
“And what? Take me back to father?”
Shahina shook her head, but Meskhenet hissed, “Do not lie to me. Our father is a traitor! A snake!”
“What is wrong with you?” Shahina asked; her voice pleading as she stood. “Al’Seick killed the Amenophis line, betrayed them. They are the true rulers.”
Meskhenet shook her head and turned for the door. “You are a fool. Ramos betrayed them and pretends to be Pharaoh. And I do not need saving.”
Shahina did not know what Al’Seick’s foul wizard had done to her sister, but it was evident that he had succeeded in divorcing her from rationality. Mind racing, she realized only one thing could rescue Meskhenet: the truth. “Meskhenet, I beg you, sister, read what I have to show you, then you may leave.” She reached inside her robe and ripped the carefully sewn flap open, withdrew the tube and handed it to her sister. “Inside is the Document of Destiny.”
Meskhenet narrowed her eyes as she withdrew the scroll. “What is that?”
“We all have our destinies. They wait for our will and the God’s wills to shape. When I read the Document, I inherited a destiny. I can feel it inside; as if one day I will do something very special.”
“What is that to me?”
“Please, just read it.”
Meskhenet rolled the scroll out, glanced one last time at her sister then began to read.

End of Part 1


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Ingredient to Life

Part 4

The decrepit warehouse stood alone near the outer wall, away from the main streets. Plank siding and doors rotting, the roof sagged with few shingles remaining. It’s worth little, but I have little. Eppie smiled. Now to find the owner and arrange a purchase price.
The citizens who lived near it shook their heads and said they had no idea who owned the building. Finally, he asked an old man, “Where would I find the owner’s name? Surely someone must know.”
“Why would you want that piece of crap?” Eppie only shrugged, having no answer. The old man sucked on his gums before replying. “I imagine the records in the triadem will have the owner’s name. The wizards love to write everything down.”
#
The stone citadel sat near the center of town. Three towers, each housing one of the ruling wizards, formed a triangle with wings connecting the towers, creating a courtyard in the center. The wings were relegated to the treasury, courthouse, and the records office. Eppie found the records portion and began asking about the warehouse.
Finally, a small, hair-thinning man helped him. The clerk’s eyebrows lifted in surprise at Eppie’s request. “We’ve not had anyone interested in that…that aging building. The owner died in debt, leaving us with it. If you clean it up, or repair it, we’ll be willing to assume the debt.” “How much?” Eppie waited for a price beyond his means.
The clerk glanced at the deed. He clucked several times before saying, “Ten Dromoths would suffice.”
Eppie’s shoulders slumped. “I only have two Dromoths.”
The clerk clucked his teeth. “You could borrow the other eight Dromoths.”
“Where would I do that?”
“At the treasury,” replied the clerk, gesturing over his shoulder to the left.
#
After writing up a loan with the treasury for ten Dromoths, Eppie returned. The clerk nodded and took the gold before handing the deed over. Eppie shook his head as he left. Tonight the clerk will carry the gold back to the treasury where it’ll be stored. Sometimes the inefficiency of bureaucracy is amazing.
As he walked with the deed in his fist, his decision began to make sense. It was just a run down building, yet it was now his. Maybe Uncle was onto something when he said, “Every man should own his life and take pride in it.”
#
It had been over a year since Eppie had slept in the warehouse. Pushing the door open, he looked at his true home. It was dim and dusty with rays of sunlight lancing from cracks in the wall and roof, but it was his as he walked in and smiled. His thin blanket still lay in the corner, where he had left it. He set down his bag filled with the book, ink, quill, and paper before walking to the window. Memories of crawling through the window while homeless struck him. He shoved the shutter open to let a stream of light in. That should work.
He looked around, and after a moment, spotted a board along the back wall. Sitting cross-legged, he used it as a writing surface across his knees. He opened the rune book on the dirt ahead of him and set the ink pot and quill by his right knee. After studying the runes for a moment, he dipped his quill and started scribing, using the stream of light from the window.
#
A week later with the book finished, Eppie headed across town to the triadem. Two guards stood at the Adjudicator’s quarters. They wore chain mail and carried halberds in their gauntleted hands. “I have a book to deliver to the Adjudicator,” Eppie explained while looking up from the bottom of the stairs.
“What kind of book?”
“The kind that he commissioned me to scribe.”
The guards glanced at each other before the one stomped into the triadem. Awhile later he returned. “The Adjudicator will see you,” he said, his brow furrowed.
Eppie walked past them, into an entrance way with military statues standing along the sides. A glyph covered arch led into an empty hallway. He looked around, confused. Where is everyone?
“Eppie?” He turned. Isabella had entered from a side room. “What are you doing here?”
His heart beat wildly at the sight of her. “Uhh…” He thrust the book out. “I finished it.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Amazing!” Gesturing with a flick of her head, her long auburn hair swishing, she said, “Come, I’ll take you to him.” She led him down the hallway to a set of spiral stairs. As they climbed she asked, “How’s life at the monastery?”
“They asked me to become a monk and I said no.”
She stopped and he bumped into her. His face red from the instant arousal at accidentally touching her behind, he looked at the wall while she stood only inches away from him. “Really? You said no?”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t follow their precepts.”
“Are you still living there?”
“I bought a house, near the west wall.”
“Really? I must come and see it.”
He met her green eyes. “I would love that,” he replied, his voice cracking slightly.
They stared awkwardly until she said, “He’s at the top.” Eppie nodded and she cleared her throat before starting up the stairs again. Reaching the top landing, a door barred their entrance and Isabella knocked. She smiled sheepishly and Eppie swore he could feel the heat emanating from her.
She knocked again.
Eppie cleared his throat. Think of something to say. Break the silence, break the silence, he willed himself. He cleared his throat again and the door opened.
“Isabella,” Lars frowned, “Eppie?”
“I finished the book.” Eppie looked away from the wizard’s gaze. “I thought I would drop it off.”
The wizard blinked at him for several moments. “Of course, come in. Thank you, Isabella, for showing him up.”
“My pleasure,” she replied, flashing Eppie a smile as he stepped through and Lars closed the door. The room had several tables against the stone walls with book shelves between; a large open area in the center smeared with burn marks and a pedestal sitting next to it. Eppie gawked at everything, from the skull sitting on one table to the sword hanging above another. This is what a wizard’s room looks like.
“I was planning to stop by the monastery.”
Eppie focused on the wizard, feeling the scrutiny of those grey eyes. “I’m not at the monastery anymore.”
“No?”
“They asked me to join…but I couldn’t swear to their vows so they asked me to leave.”
“And now you scribe on your own?”
“Yes, I bought a house along the west wall. I thought I would drop the book off and see if you have another job for me.”
Lars’s thin lips curled as his grey eyes shone. “Of course, I have as much work as you could want. Let me see that book.” He took it and perused it, clucking to himself as he flipped the pages.
Eppie stood, picking at a loose thread on his robe, slowly dismantling the sleeve. I hope he’s happy with it. If he’s not…I’ll never pay my loan.
Finally Lars carried it over to a desk and set it down. He walked to a nearby bookshelf and drew forth a book. “This is the one I planned to have you scribe next.” He gave it to Eppie before walking to another desk and picking up a pouch, tossed it. “The payment meant for the monastery.”
Eppie caught the bag. Feels heavy. He couldn’t resist a glance and spotted two gold coins. The monks gave me the full payment? That must have been Montson’s doing.
In his black robes, Lars folded his hands into each sleeve. “Is there anything else?”
Eppie looked up. “Uhh, yes. When I first came here, I was robbed down by the docks. I was told the Vigilante Tide recognized me as a newcomer and targeted me.” Lars waited quietly while Eppie worked saliva into his mouth. “I thought, maybe you could do something about it?”
Lars sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “I wish I could, but the Tide spans more than just Port Yrath. It controls every Dezmirian port.”
“That was what I was told, but I thought I would mention it.”
Lars laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I’m a small fish against the Tide.” Eppie nodded and Lars guided him to the door. “Thanks for bringing the book. I look forward to seeing your work on the next one.”
“Yes,” Eppie replied as the wizard bid goodbye and shut the door.
It was strangely silent. Eppie shrugged and started down the stairs. One small fish against the Tide? A wizard scared of the Tide. Now I know something is wrong…I know the truth. If the thought wasn’t sobering, he would have smiled to himself as he thought of Montson. The monks aren’t wrong, ultimately only truth exists.
#
A month later, Eppie dusted his hands off as he finished sawing a plank. He swung his arms, stretching, and arched his back. His water pail in the corner was empty as he picked it up and headed outside.
Squinting against the bright sunshine, he shielded his eyes when he heard, “Eppie!”
Isabella glowed with a huge smile. “I’ve been searching for your house, where is it?”
“Right here,” he said, gesturing with his free arm.
She looked up, her features flattening. “This?”
“Come.” He stepped through the door and set down his water pail. “I’ll give you a tour of my…warehouse.”
She poked her head in. “It’s safe?”
He shrugged. “Hasn’t fallen on me yet.”
“Umm,” she stepped into the warehouse, “You sleep here?” He nodded. “What happened in the rain storm last week?”
“I slept over there…its relatively dry,” he said, pointing at his thin blanket.
“You poor thing, huddling in the mud and cold with just those blankets,” she stepped closer and suddenly Eppie felt dizzy. Butterflies swirled wildly in his stomach as she added. “You have done quite a bit of work.”
His progress was an anchor against everything intoxicating about her. He pointed at the walls. “I have replaced the worst boards, and added beams to the roof, stiffening the sag in it. I left that square opening to build a hearth there. But with the roof filled in, I need to scribe outside to have enough light.”
“You need windows.”
“Yes, but first I need a weatherproof home.”
She frowned. “Do you enjoy this…repairing?”
Do I enjoy this…yes I think I do. He considered her question for a long while, finally saying. “I think every man should work on his home. There is a certain pleasure of working with one’s hands, building something worthwhile. I cannot help but compare it to my Uncle’s bakery…that I so long ago despised and ran away from.”
She glanced sharply at him. “Sometime you must tell me your story.” “How about now?”
She only stared at him, so he began, detailing his travelling, then his mugging and the lack of law to being taken in by the monastery. When he finished, she said, “You are very unique, Eppie.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your greed and jealously seems to have been replaced by humility and goodness. You are the purest person I have ever met.”
He shook his head. “I’m not without greed or jealously; now I have the weapons to fight those twin demons.”
She glanced at him. “Remember when we first met and we discussed whether demons truly exist?” He nodded. “Now I truly believe they do.”
“For every light there is darkness. If archons exist because of our goodness, demons exist because of our vileness.”
She shook her head. “No, they are inside us. The capacity to be an archon or a demon, something we all have.”
#
Eppie shut the door to his house and wandered down the street. He passed houses, many of them quiet as the citizens worked at the docks or on ships during the day. In a front yard, a woman beat a rug clean, the dust flicking in the air. Eppie waved and received a nod back. I’m finally becoming familiar.
Ahead, the market square’s cacophony rose into the air. Several women browsed through the wares, as they often did before selecting food for the day. Men haggled with each other, trading goods. Along the wall, Eppie found a vendor selling roasted chickens. He purchased one and ripped a leg off, chewing it while he walked from the market place.
He took a different route home, enjoying his meal as he walked. He gnawed the last of the meat from the chicken leg and dropped the bone. He heard a scuffle behind him and turned to see a homeless boy scamper from the alley and snatch the dirty bone.
Deja’vu swept over him. Eppie saw himself. The boy started to dart away when he said, “Lad, how about you have this leg,” as he held out the other leg.
The boy dropped the bone and shuffled forward. He tentatively took the chicken leg. Eppie knew the feeling—afraid that it was only a cruel joke.
Eppie watched the boy devour the leg, probably his first real food in quite awhile, and felt his heart grow heavy. It’s such a meaningless thing to feed a person once. But teach a person to feed himself that is something great.
“Come with me. I have a big house.” Eppie smirked at that phrasing. “I need help repairing it. If you help me, I will feed you.”
“Why?”
The world can be cruel, thought Eppie as he gazed at the distrustful boy. “Because I was once in your position and was helped from it.” Eppie turned and began walking down the street. The boy followed, still cautious.
When Eppie entered his house, he left the door open. As he sat down to finish his chicken, the boy poked his head in. Eppie pulled some meat from the breast and began chewing. Slowly the boy sat opposite and waited.
Eppie handed the chicken across to him. Together they ate in silence. Eppie finished first, and walked to the bucket of water he kept for drinking. He dipped the cracked and chipped goblet he had scavenged, and took a long draught before refilling it. This is all so similar. He set the water in front of the boy, finally asking him his name.
Quickly swallowing a mouthful of meat, the boy choked slightly before saying, “Jos.”
“How old are you Jos?”
The boy blinked. “My mother died four winters ago.”
He has no idea how old he was before his mother died. Eppie pushed the pity aside, knowing Jos would not appreciate it. “I am Eppie, and this is my home.”
Jos looked around. “It is not much of a home.”
“Yet,” added Eppie
“Yet, what?”
“Not much of a home, yet,” Eppie explained. “As you can see, I could use some help repairing. It will give me more time to scribe.”
“Scribe?”
“Yes, to write books, it is how I live.”
Jos glanced at the building again. “I think you need to find a better way to live.”
The boy is clever. After brief consideration, Eppie proposed, “And in our spare time I will teach you how to read and write.”
“Why?”
“Then you will not be a beggar all your life.”
Jos pursed his lips, before saying, “Then I could learn to become a wizard, and live happy.”
He’s just like I was. “That would not necessarily constitute happiness. Often it is the simple things that make a person happy.”
Jos did not reply. Finishing their meal, they began work on the house. That night, when it was too dark to continue, Eppie lit a bonfire. By its flickering light, he drew the alphabet into the dirt, showing Jos each of the letters. The orphan struggled with the concept, surprising Eppie. I thought he would grasp it easily from how well he understood the repairing of the warehouse. Perhaps intelligence is not linear or uniform.
It was not long and Eppie scribed during the day while Jos worked on the warehouse. Usually he only helped the boy with the heavier work, or sometimes with jobs that required two people. Not once did Eppie regret taking Jos in, but when Isabella stopped by and praised Eppie for helping him, his chest swelled in pride. Then, nearing the end of the roof’s repairs, Jos returned with the water bucket full and another boy in his wake.
Eppie glanced up from where he scribed. Jos set down the bucket and wrung his hands before saying, “I found him like you found me, sir. I just thought we could help him. His name is Bruce. He’s an orphan like me, sir.”
Eppie’s money was nearly gone, most of it spent to feed Jos. An extra boy will take a lot more food and I don’t have the money, a harsh lesson of frugality. Eppie pushed away the thoughts of despair. I will just have to hurry on the wizard’s book.
He stood. “Of course. I will go and get us some food immediately.”
#
To survive, Eppie focused on his scribing while Jos completely took control of the building’s repair. With Bruce’s helping, they reconstructed parts of the walls by replacing old rotten planks with new, golden ones; often stopping to wrestle and play, while Eppie grinned at their antics. At nights they would curl up in their thin blankets by the fire, while Eppie worked in the flickering light until exhaustion took him.
Once the exterior was fixed and sealed from elements, they needed a hearth. Eppie took them to the monastery. It felt strange walking into the building. A few monks muttered greetings but otherwise avoided him and the two boys while they waited in the common room. Finally Montson appeared.
“Good to see you, Eppie.”“The same, Teacher.”
“You long ago stopped being my student. What brings you here?”
“I would like the boys to examine your hearths. They are going to build one in the warehouse I bought.”
Montson extended his hand to the boys. “My name is Montson.”
“Jos,”
“Bruce,” each replied, shaking hands in turn with the monk.
“Pleased to meet you. Come, the hearth is in here.” He led them into the next room and the boys started examining the hearth, crawling right inside it took look up as they chatted excitedly.
“Where do they come from, Eppie?”
“Orphans. They needed help like I once needed, so I’m helping them.”
“That is kind of you.”
They watched the boys discuss the hearth as Jos pointed at the roof and Bruce argued with him, when Montson remarked. “It is such a failing of those who are ignorant to not recognize that age does not mean maturity, or even wisdom.”
Eppie nodded. “Few boys could do as Jos and Bruce do.” He faced his old teacher. “What can you tell me of the Tide, Montson?”
Montson’s grey-eyes studied him. “What would you like to know?”
“Any and everything.”
Montson blew out a sigh. “Well I can’t tell you much, except their history. They started as a group fighting the Athecan rule. They called themselves the Vigilante Tide, a force that would inexorably wash away the Athecans. They were a minor nuisance. Suddenly though, Sepulcher arose, gathering powerful wizards about himself. He re-created the Dezmirian Knights of Antiquity, giving them weapons and armour that would shield them from magic. A brutal civil war was fought, where the Vigilante Tide became a very active guerrilla force in securing the harbours and ocean against the Athecans. We are not sure the ties between the wizards and the Tide, but something exists.”
“After the war, with no Athecans to fight, the Tide corrupted. It changed into a criminal syndicate that continues to control the Dezmire shore. Maybe the wizards are paid off, maybe some of them are part of the Tide; maybe others are powerless to do anything because of the corruption. I can’t say, but whatever motive the Vigilante Tide once had, is now lost.”
“Just as whatever motive most wizards once had is now lost.” “Exactly. To be a wizard is to submit to the corruption. The only chance of succeeding in doing anything is through the politics, but no man can stand that kind of pressure and retain his goals and views.”
Eppie nodded. There is nothing to be done as a wizard. And Lars is probably a part of it, or at least receiving payment. It is a static part of life…one I will have to accept. He felt drained from the conversation. What point is there to fighting it?
Eppie rubbed his face. “Do the Knights still wear magic resisting armour and weapons?”
“No, they’re not much more than parade spectacle.”
The death of another dream.
“What else do you know?”
Montson pursed his lips. “There is much more detail to the history, but aside from those core facts, very little. There’s always been stories of men that breathe under water linked to the Tide,”
“Mermen?” Eppie frowned. “But those are just children’s stories?”
“For every story there is a core, a knot of truth to its existence. I cannot say for sure, but even the oldest records speak of Mermen linked to the Tide, an alliance of sorts between humans and Mermen. But beyond that, it becomes even more fantastical.”
#
Several days later while Eppie scribed, he became aware of the boys intense arguing. The barely started hearth waited behind them. They faced each other, faces red, spittle flying, about to tear into one another with Eppie scowling at them when the door opened. Their fighting ceased immediately as Isabella stepped into the warehouse. Her smile warmed the place more than any hearth ever would. “Greeting’s boys.”
When she fixed her smile on Eppie, he felt his stomach roll over. He only grinned like a half-wit as she handed a cookie to Jos and Bruce. They greedily took them, before chiming a thanks and scurrying away to enjoy their treats.
Busy smiling vacantly at Isabella, Eppie dimly heard her say, “Seeing as you don’t seem to mind these two boys, I brought two other children that I found.”
“Uhh,”
Eyes widening, a blush bloomed on Isabella’s cheeks; she stepped closer, addling him further. “I’m sorry if I made a mistake. I just thought…well they needed help. And you can help them.”
Eppie wished he could slap sense into himself without looking even dumber. Giving his head a shake, he said, “No, bring them in.” He glanced around. “We don’t have any food right now.”
“I already fed them.” She pulled a pouch from her bag. “This is some money. Only the gods know how you pay for all this and feed these boys.” She scanned him with a critical eye. “And I think you should be eating more, you’re too skinny.”
“I can’t take your money.”
“I brought this burden upon you, so yes you can,” ordered Isabella, pushing the pouch into his hand before turning back for the door.
Eppie peered inside the pouch at several silvers and a few coppers. He looked up as she brought the other two children in, a boy and girl, who looked to be brother and sister. Isabella had washed and dressed them in clean clothes, but Eppie could still tell they had wandered the streets. They had the furtive gaze of orphans always looking for the next meal and the next danger. The older brother stood protectively by his sister as Eppie asked, “What are your names?”
“Mic and this is Dawn,” the boy replied, answering for his golden-haired sister.
Despite himself, Eppie smiled. “Welcome, Mic and Dawn.”
#
The siblings adjusted quickly, assuming roles under the leadership of Jos and Bruce. With the extra money, Eppie was able to keep them supplied with stones and mortar as they constructed the hearth. He just hoped it lined up with the hole in the ceiling when they finished. While they worked inside, Eppie spent more and more time outside, where it was quieter from the four youngsters.
Then one night, as a fire burnt close to the nearly finished hearth, the smoke trailing out the opening in the ceiling, Eppie sat squinting at the page on his lap. He left the other four to their supper, not hungry as he focused on finishing it.
Seeming from a long distance away, Jos asked. “What exactly is that book?”
Eppie responded as he checked the final page, ensuring it was identical to the original. “It is a book of magic runes that Lars the wizard asked me to scribe.”
“Really,” replied the Jos as he hustled over to look. Bruce followed close behind, with Mic and Dawn bringing up the rear. “What can it do?” Jos asked as he peered over Eppie’s shoulder, the others crowding behind him.
“For us, nothing; for wizards, it helps them to talk with spirits.”
“Could we become wizards,” asked Bruce.
Eppie twisted around to look at him. “With the proper training and meditation to allow our mind to explore the unknown recesses, yes we could. Anyone can, as long as they possess the intelligence, which all of you surely do.”
Eppie turned back to his work, only to have Jos interrupt him again. “How come you don’t write your own book?”
The question startled Eppie. “What would I write about?”
Jos gestured at the warehouse, “All the stuff you tell us. How to achieve happiness, which is essentially the greatest goal, you know.”
Eppie remained silent, considering the idea. Jos let the question drop, his attention straying elsewhere, but the idea had lodged.
That night, Eppie finished binding the pages of his copy. It was ready for him to take to Lar’s the next day. He looked at the four figures huddled around the glowing coals, and smiled before carefully setting a blank piece of paper on the board he used as a writing surface.
He dipped his quill in ink and leaned forward. His eyes strained against the dim light of the fire as he wrote, ‘Life’s Joy,’ he paused then added below it, ‘A Testament to Happiness,’ and further down, ‘Written by: Epicurus.’
#
The sun shot through the houses as it crept up from the horizon. Eppie sat outside; his board on his lap, holding the two books as he went through his copy one last time, just to ensure no smudges or debris fouled the pages.
Two, black-buckled shoes stepped in front of him. Eppie squinted up at the figure in the sunlight.
“Good morning, Eppie?”
He scrambled to his feet. “How did you know I finished the book?”
“You finished the book?” The wizard stepped closer. “Let me see.”
Eppie handed it to him. “I believe it is error free. Of course you won’t know until you try it.”
Lars flipped through the pages, finally forcing himself to stop. “How did you manage to finish this one faster than the last one?”
Eppie shrugged. “Practice,” he replied as he thought of how frantic he had worked.
Still holding the book reverently, Lars said, “The real reason I came here is to extend an offer to become an apprentice of mine.”
The thought overwhelmed Eppie. To become a wizard was to become nobility in Dezmire. It was his chance at ensuring his own wealth and those of future generations. Before, he had not even dreamt of becoming a wizard because the possibility was nearly impossible. His mind worked quickly as he blinked at the wizard. I had shorn away Uncle’s love, returning every smile with a scowl. I had hated the bakery, wanting nothing so much as to be a soldier, a hero. I had struggled and wished for that admiration, convinced it would make me happy. So many actions to regret, but without them I would still wander lost.
Then he spotted Isabella walking towards him. Eppie smiled. Suddenly he knew his answer. The only respect I need is from those I love. My legacy will live on through them.
He looked back to Lars. And if I joined the wizards, my life would become one tangled with the Tide. I would never be able to accomplish anything as one man. My life would be truly pointless. “I thank you for the offer, but no.”
“No!” Incredulous, Lars asked, “Why not?”
Eppie looked at Isabella. “Because I think I finally discovered the secret ingredient to life.”


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Ingredient to Life

Part 3

Winter came with a skiff of snow. The monks kept their hearths stoked and rarely ventured out. As they focused on indoor work, Eppie discovered a talent of his. By the midwinter festival he was acknowledged as the best scribe at the Monastery.
None wrote as clear as letters, or as error free pages. It earned him unlimited scribe work, while the other brothers congratulated Montson on his teaching of Eppie. Yet Eppie did not complain. He enjoyed reading the books that he scribed. Each one was like a new friend and a new mystery. Every time he sat down, he paused for several moments, revelling in the moment before opening the book to read and scribe a copy. By spring, he was relegated to scribing most of the outside paid work, because he performed the best and fastest job.
One day, Montson paused to watch him, and Eppie asked, “Why doesn’t the monastery assign several brothers to scribe one text to speed it up?”
Montson smiled. “We could, but refuse because the writing will change styles and without reading the text, the tone is lost when one brother takes over where another left off.”
Eppie nodded as Montson touched his shoulder. “You are doing well,” before moving off.
#
It was a bright afternoon, with sunlight streaming through opened windows, and the fragrance of the flowers on the sill blowing into the library, when a hand touched Eppie’s shoulder, interrupting his work.
He turned to look up at Master Jumbalatheo, or Jumblo as the other monks normally addressed him. The head monk of the monastery smiled at him. “Sorry to interrupt your diligence, Eppie, but we have a customer that wishes to speak with you. This is Ms. Isabella; she teaches the Adjudicator’s children.” Finished with the introduction, the master dipped his head and left.
Eppie could not believe it. Her auburn hair shone copper in the sunlight and her simple white dress glowed, making her appear an archon descended from the heavens. The sunlight played on her face, highlighting the freckles across her pert nose. So many times Eppie had considered what he would say to her if he ever saw her again. He had numerous speeches planned, yet they all faded into nothing as he bobbed his head and mumbled, “Pleased to meet you Miss.”
She smiled at his temerity before similarly addressing him. With a shock, Eppie realized that she did not recognize him. Of course, why would she? When she last saw me, I had been a boy weeping in front of the barracks. Now I am an ink stained scribe wearing plain grey robes at a monastery.
Eppie regained his composure with the discovery of his anonymity. “What can I help you with?”
“I need a copy of Kvasir’s Musings.”
“Kvasir?” asked Eppie, surprised at the choice. “Why would you want that for children? His musings are quite difficult to follow, unless one is well versed in his Theory of Balance.”
“Unless someone teaches it who understands his Theory.”
Eppie stared at her, shocked. He had read Kvasir’s Theory of Balance, yet not wholly understood it. He would though. Like any muscle, the brain had to be strengthened. “There is that point,” he conceded. He stood, realizing how small she truly was. The top of her hair only brushed his chin. As he walked to the book shelf, he said, “Do you truly believe that the greater consensus of people live good lives because the archons remain above the pantheon?”
“You mean in the Metakosmia?”
Eppie nodded, hiding his frown as he searched for the book. He had forgotten the term used to describe the space outside the universe.
Isabella continued. “I suppose, but I’ve always wondered about his hypothesis of demons entering our world. I’ve never read a verified source indicating that demons ever entered our realm.”
“Or even the authenticity of Archons?” Eppie grinned at her before turning back to the shelf.
“Perhaps, although for many that would be to deny the virtues of one’s spirit.”
“Then why would one deny the dark side of our souls, and not believe in demons?”
The monks occasionally debated, and often discussed their knowledge, seeking flaws and digressions. Even though Eppie had only observed, he had learned much.
As Isabella smiled at him, he added, “And why do the gods not exist in ultimate virtues?”
“The gods are what we made them.”
Eppie pulled the book from the shelf. “So why do we suppose that there are beings greater than the gods, that we formed our image from, which epitomize virtue?”
Isabella smiled as she sat down. Eppie joined her, setting the book down and continuing the conversation. Truly, when performed proper, there are few things as enjoyable as a great conversation. When the shadows lengthened across the room, indicating the approach of evening, she bid farewell, leaving Eppie to his task.
While he had not read Kvasir’s Musings, his mind refused to focus. It kept flipping back to Isabella, like a child fascinated by the cover page of a book. With determination, he slowly started to scribe. And once he started; the desire to impress her demanded perfection on the text.
Awareness of his surroundings faded as he fell headlong into Kvasir’s sacred knowledge. Scholars and philosophers had spent lifetimes trying to unravel all Kvasir had tried to say. Layers twisted around each thought, proving that even Kvasir had trouble making his most subtle thoughts known on paper. Eppie’s respect grew for the man’s intelligence as he read and worked. Meanings sprang up between the words, showing secrets that he felt only he had discovered.
It was late when he finally stopped and retreated to bed. The next morning he rose before the other brothers and began again. He did not know whether it was the urge to understand more of the text or complete it quickly and see Isabella again. Either way, he worked diligently.
The days slipped by with Isabella stopping occasionally. Each time Eppie’s heart would beat faster as her eyes lit up at the work. He strove for more perfection, wanting to hear her praise again.
All good things end and so did the book. Eppie felt disenchanted as he scratched his name onto the back cover. It was his mark, his legacy. Some part of him wanted to have a legacy such as Kvasir, the foremost mind of this age. He set down his quill, and blew on the sheet, drying his name. Then he sat and stared at it, seeking a way to prolong Isabella’s visits. He sat long enough that she arrived.
A hand touched him on the shoulder. He looked up, recognizing her white dress with the brown sash about her waist. A grin crept onto his face, before he noticed the man beside her. The aged man, whose face demanded brevity, wore black, voluminous robes with the Dezmire gold triangle on his right breast. A golden shield decorated his left breast. Eppie knew who this man was without ever seeing him before.
Isabella introduced them. “This is Adjudicator Lars, the man whose children I teach. I have told him of your wonderful work, and he has come to see it for himself.”
Eppie stood, confused as to why the Adjudicator would wish to see it at the monastery when Isabella could have taken it to him. He dipped his head. “I am pleased to meet you, Sir.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Lars said before gesturing at the work. “I admit my impatience gets the best of me to see this wonderful work that Isabella has told me so much of.”
Eppie felt a knot tie in his guts. This man could crush me like an ant…and he’s now noticed me. He could be part of the Tide. “Uhh…” He handed the book over as his mind screamed. Take it and run!
The wizard, who controlled the military garrison of Port Yrath and oversaw its security, examined the book. He slowly flipped pages, gentle with each one.
He’s looking through it…what does his want with me? Panic threatened to take over, but a glance at Isabella reassured him when she smiled back.
Lars looked up, piercing Eppie with his gaze. “It is magnificent. Isabella has not overdone your excellence. I would have you scribe something for me.”
“Of course”
Lars handed the book back. His throat bobbed as he said, “It must be done to absolute perfection.” He withdrew a book from the folds of his robe. “When I say it must be done perfect, I mean it must be written exactly the same. The writing must be identical, the spaces, cadences, and number of words on each pages exact.”
Eppie took the book, blinking rapidly. A copper wreath decorated the cover. He studied it. This is a rune book. He opened it. Written in a flowing hand, the words were difficult to read because of the author’s use of twists and curls at the end of each letter.
“I can do it, but it will take a lot of time. I will have to practice the style, until I feel I have perfected it.”
Lars, who fingered his robes, relaxed and smiled. “That is good. I only have one more concern.”
“And that is?”
“No harm must befall this book and it must be kept secure at all times for it is very valuable to certain people.”
Eppie’s mind worked fast. “While I do not doubt our integrity and we treat all books gently. We do not have guards or means of secure storage if this book is that valuable.”
“Oh no, I mean merely to keep it close, and be watchful.”
“I will do so,” answered Eppie, wondering if he would have rejected the wizard’s work had not Isabella been standing there, looking so hopeful.
#
Normally Eppie could work with minimal light, letting his hand guide him through it. Now candles surrounded him in the mornings and evenings, while he sat under the window during noontime, using the extra light to see the letters in detail. He started by practicing individual letters, until he could make each one identical to those in the book. It was not too difficult, until he had to string them together and try to write consistently. He kept reverting to his natural style of writing.
Then to complicate things, the book would switch cadences in its lettering. The spaces would change with the style of letters altering slightly. To an untrained eye, it would appear that different hands had written the book. Eppie knew it was all one hand, just different styles.
As Eppie worked through the book, he began to have an inkling of what magic truly was. He failed to grasp the entirety of the work. Just as hours of study were necessary before one could understand higher philosophical ideas, it was with magic. One did not start at the top.
Repeatedly the book spoke of extending one senses. Eppie did not fully understand what that entailed, yet he surmised it had to do with reaching a heightened self-awareness. It spoke of reaching through the connections in plants, even speaking to them as entities. Notions of plants and forests were foreign things to Eppie, who had grown up in a village and lived in a city. Thus it was meaningless sentences being written, making it all the more difficult as the mind tended to wander without context.
As the book gradually took shape, the full disciples of the monastery, the teachers would stand behind Eppie and observe. At first, it made him uncomfortable and prone to mistakes. Gradually the feeling faded and he worked without noticing their presence. Then, one evening as he finished his work for the day, Brother Montson approached him.
“Eppie, would you follow me.”
This never happened before. Eppie immediately thought he must have done something wrong. The what eluded him as he followed Montson into Master Jumblo’s private quarters.
Every disciple of the monastery lined the walls of the cramped room as Master Jumblo stood behind his desk. Eppie walked in, his fingers tugging at a loose thread on his sleeves. Montson closed the door behind them and stood quietly.
Eppie glanced around at the office crammed with books. They stuffed the shelves, rather messily compared to the rest of the orderly monastery. The only apparent comfort was the padded chair that Jumblo sat on and the hearth along the back wall.
“Rest easy, Eppie,” Jumblo said, his fingers knitted across his stomach, “We brought you here for a very simple reason. Yet we do not ask it lightly.”
A small part in the back of Eppie’s mind knew the question before Jumblo voiced it. It still did not feel real as the master asked, “We are extending an invitation to join our ranks as another student of Zeno.”
It seemed surreal to Eppie. They ask me to join when just a year ago I was starving on the streets. Now I have a home and food everyday.
He raised his head and pronounced. “I would be honoured to join your ranks.”
Master Jumblo’s face remained serene as he walked around his desk. “Then kneel for your oath.”
Eppie fell to his knees and looked up at Jumblo, who stood with his hands clasped in front of him. The large man’s voice resonated through the small room. “We,” he said, gesturing at the monks on either side, “The brother’s of Zeno, seek the truth of ourselves. We live free of passions and emotions, for they distort the truth. Without them, we make rational decisions and judge ourselves accordingly. Ultimately, we strive to live in accordance with the universal reason of nature. To do so, one must strive for the four main virtues; wisdom, courage, justice, and temperance.”
“Do you swear to live a life of celibacy, a life free of emotions and passions, to seek truth in whatever form it may be, to live a virtuous life?”
Eppie’s breath intensified. The monks waited expectantly. The enormity of what was proceeding was sinking in.
I do not truly agree with the supposition that life’s highest order is to live in harmony with Universal Law. I doubt its existence; there is just too much in the world beyond rational explanation. Truth and justice are only created in man’s mind. They only exist when enforced, otherwise they are imaginary. A man does not have to seek truth to be happy, for happiness in itself is a goal worth achieving. How can I swear to that?
Even though knowledge waited at Eppie’s fingertips in the monastery, the ability to act accordingly to that knowledge did not. He finally understood the definition of wisdom, and wisdom came with experience.
Then he considered the future, and celibacy. Isabella sprang to mind and if for no other reason he knew he could never extinguish that one hope of love. Without love, without passions, what is life? I can debate philosophical concepts with some of the greatest scholars or I can live my life.
He shook his head. Tears glistened as he stood. “I am sorry, I…I have made a dreadful mistake. I cannot adhere to those vows.”
Jumblo blinked, confused. Eppie could not look at Montson, the kind man who had helped him. He felt he was betraying him, betraying them all, but he had to follow what his heart was saying. His soul did not understand logic.
“I would still scribe for you. I simply, cannot swear to those vows.”
Master Jumblo slowly nodded. “Could you step outside Eppie? We would discuss this…development.”
Eppie nodded and stepped from the room, not daring to look any of the monks in the eye. As he closed the door, his remaining strength failed and tears spurted down his cheeks. He dashed his sleeve across his eyes as he began to pace back and forth, desperately convincing himself he had made the right decision. Eppie finally understood what the monks truly meant by making decisions free of emotion. A person could always fall back on their rational explanation, defeating regrets.
It was a long time as Eppie waited. Voices murmured behind the door, sometimes rising in pitch. He forced himself to focus on nothing and avoid listening to the garbled noise. Then the door opened, startling him. Montson poked his head out. He smiled wanly, “Come Eppie, it’s alright. It is not a crime to refuse vows. It is a crime to break them.”
Slightly reassured, Eppie stepped into the room.
“We have decided that you can no longer stay with us, it would bring discord into our sanctuary. Since you are not staying with us, you cannot scribe for us.” Jumblo glanced at Montson before drawing a small pouch from his desk. “For the work you have done on our behalf, which meals and accommodation seems inadequate, we have decided to make recompenses. This is our deemed payment for those services.” He held the pouch out for Eppie, who hesitantly stepped forward and took it. It felt heavy.
Jumblo added, “You can take the wizard’s book with you, and finish it on your own. Your commission for that project is yours to decide.” He paused. “I am sorry you could not join our ranks.”
“Me too,” whispered Eppie as he left the room in a daze. He vaguely recalled gathering his few things together, including parchment and ink, along with the book and his copy. The monks remained in Jumblo’s chamber; making the monastery seem deserted as Eppie stepped outside.
The sun shone bright. Eppie looked up at it, and took a deep breath. He remembered what his uncle had once said, “Rainy days come and go, but the sun will always shine.”
He opened his pouch of coins, and gasped. Two large Dromoth gold coins shone inside, along with several copper Crats and one silver Dramast.
He considered his next action. He needed a place to live. Only one thing came to mind. He set off, too scared to hope for much.

End of Part 3

Ingredient to Life

Part 2

Within a week, Eppie discovered there were hardly any jobs, explaining the huge number of beggars plaguing Port Yrath. He followed Grisholm’s advice and stayed away from the docks and any ships that docked. At nights, he would hole up in an abandoned warehouse along the edge of town. But hunger forced him from his sanctuary and he quickly learned where there was food to be found, yet his stomach shrivelled and his ribs protruded. His cheeks, normally full and round, hollowed out as his eyes dulled.
Then one night, a fierce group of beggars chased him from the scraps of a meat shop. Numb, his stomach forgetting the taste of food, he stumbled into the street and fell to his knees. The stars seemed so bright against the dark sky, if he could only reach them. Instead, he wandered in the ink. He wept without shame. He had nothing left to lose. He had nothing.
He bawled. Spit and saliva strung across his mouth like a cobweb as it gaped open. His frail shoulders shuddered between sobs. I just want to go home. Just take me home. The memories of baking bread with his uncle tortured him; laughing and whistling between batches while sneaking a warm piece into his mouth and feeling it melt against his cheek as he chewed it, hoping his uncle would not notice. Even the taste of bread eluded him, only driving him deeper into despair.
A hand settled on his shoulder. “Son, can you stand?”
Eppie looked up, his vision blurry. “Uncle Barthus?” he asked, stupidly.
“No son,” answered the man as he helped Eppie to his feet. “Come with me.”
The man guided Eppie down the street by the elbow. Unsure what to say or do, he followed, rubbing the tears from his eyes.
Finally, he opened his mouth to ask, and the man gestured ahead. “That is my home, the monastery of Zeno. You shall come and stay with us. You will earn your bed and food by working for us.”
Tears struggled to return, but Eppie forced them aside. “Why…why do you help me?”
“Why?” asked the man as he stopped and faced Eppie, “Because you did not choose to become a beggar. You are one of many that need help in this city that is not a drunk or addicted to drugs.”
What does that mean? Eppie worked his mouth, trying to form a coherent question as they reached the door to the monastery and knocked. Built from stone with narrow shuttered windows, the monastery had more in common with the barracks than it did with houses.
A young man opened the door then dipped his head and stepped aside. Red coals smouldered in the hearth. Several tables littered the room with chairs at each of them. As they stepped across the threshold, the monk at Eppie’s elbow took the pewter candlestick from the other monk, who kept his head tilted respectfully.
“This is the mess hall.” The monk said before leading him into the next room. Dark wood panelled the wall between the numerous books shelves. More tables and chairs sat, vacant, yet neatly ordered. “This is our study and work room, where most of the scribing is done.”
“What do you mean, scribing?” asked Eppie.
“It is how we sustain our living. We work as clerks, scribes, historians, and scholars for whoever wishes to hire us.” They passed through a second set of doors.
Eppie had not realized how large the building was from the outside. The monk gestured left and right at the doors along the hallway, explaining which rooms were for the senior monks, and pointing out where he would stay, along with the other younger members. They reached the end and pushed into a kitchen. The smell overwhelmed Eppie as his stomach knotted in cramps.
The monk gestured at a stool. As Eppie sat, the man moved across the room to a cupboard and pulled out a loaf of hard bread. He cut several pieces with a nearby knife, and carefully set them on a plate. Then he fetched a bowl of butter and set them in front of Eppie.
Like a starved dog, Eppie ignored the butter as he ripped into the bread.
The monk calmly ladled a goblet full of water and sat it in front of Eppie. “Slow down or you will get cramps.”
Afraid to anger the generous host lest he kick him out, Eppie slowed, and chewed each piece thoughtfully, thinking, this is the best bread I’ve ever eaten.
“What brought you here?”
“I tried joining city garrison,” Eppie said between mouthfuls, “But they turned me away.” He swallowed. “How could they? I deserve just as much chance as they do.”
“I have found that whether your receive something, fails to depend on whether you deserve it. How did you end on the streets?”
“I was robbed, down by the docks. The soldiers said they could do nothing against the Vigilante Tide.”
The monk shook his head. “Justice is an image in Port Yrath, only truth exists. And the truth is that the wizards are either bought off by the Tide and more worried about their own advancement or are a part of the Tide. And the simple fact is no single wizard can do anything about the Tide, it would take all three and there never is three wizards believing in justice. So the best individuals such as ourselves can do is live our lives justly.”
The monk clasped his hands. “Since you will be staying here, I will explain our precepts. We are a monastery devoted to the well-being of one’s inner-self. We seek to provide peace against the discord of the outside world.” He studied Eppie. “To reach such goals we master our passions and emotions, which distort truth, for the pursuit of truth is virtuous. We develop clear and rational judgement by practicing logic, reflection, and concentration.” He paused for a moment, refilling Eppie’s goblet of water for him.
“The human spirit also demands understanding of the universe. Thus, we seek knowledge, the truth of our world. Our primary edict is to achieve harmony with the divine order. No god is too great or too small for worship, yet we live our lives nobly, in the belief that if they are a just god, then they will see us for what we are.”
Eppie neared the end of his meal. His hunger hardly slated, he washed it down with water, and then summoned his courage. “Sir, what is your name?”
“Montson” “I thank you…”
Montson forestalled Eppie with a raised hand. “You will get your chance to pay us back.”
Eppie nodded and finished his water. His stomach growled, protesting the food. He wanted to eat more, yet contained the urge as Montson put the untouched butter away and walked through the door.
In the hallway, he quietly pushed a door open. “The bed nearest is unoccupied. Sleep well.”
Before he could leave, Eppie blurted, “Sir, what did you mean the others chose to be beggars.”
Montson’s grey eyes surveyed him. “They are lazy, drunks or addicted to drugs. Their choices in life left only one path for their life. We could bring them here and give them work and they would end up back on the street, drunk or worse. You I sense only a few mistakes, but not life choices that should forever doom you.”
As Montson closed the door, Eppie whispered, “Thank you,” before slipping into bed. The last thought he had before falling asleep was how wonderful the straw mattress felt.
#
The water sloshed as Eppie dumped the second bucket into the wash bowl. He set the pail down and rested on his hands on his knees. “I can’t believe how weak I am.”
“It’s from not eating,” the burly cook explained. “Take a break and rest. Then you can help me peel these potatoes.”
Eppie had to rest several more times that day and the following days, but as each day passed, his stamina and strength returned. It also seemed his mind gained clarity, if he could judge such a thing.
He saw little of his roommates. Some would help him with chores occasionally, yet they remained silent, thus Eppie did so too. The atmosphere of the monastery was the opposite of Uncle Barthus’s bakery. The monks seemed to conserve every motion and thought to study the world behind hooded eyes. Then one day Montson joined Eppie as he cranked another bucket of water from the well behind the monastery.
The aged monk stared vacantly at the well as Eppie eyed him, yet kept churning his arm, finally bringing the slopping bucket to the rim, where he detached it from the hook and set it on the ground.
Montson spoke. “Eppie, tonight, after evening meal, you shall join me in my study room.”
Eppie bowed, mumbling his acquiescence and Montson strode back into the monastery. The rest of the day passed in a blur as he fretted at what Montson wanted. He dreaded that he would force him from the monastery, but could not fathom why he would do such a thing. After all, I work harder than anyone else and do every chore without question or complaint.
That evening, as Eppie cleaned the dishes from the evening meal, the cook said, “Eppie, leave this to me. Go see Montson.”
He wiped his hands and departed for Montson’s room. After knocking, he twisted his hands in anxiety. Montson opened the door. “Come in, Eppie, and sit down.”
In the corner sat a plain bed, with sheets similar to Eppie’s own. The desk was solid and elegant in its simplicity. Several bookshelves lined the walls, with the shutters on the opposite side of the room thrown open.
Montson sat opposite to Eppie and splayed his fingers on the desk. He studied his long tapered digits for several moments before looking up. “You enjoy it here?”
Eppie nodded.
The moment stretched, until Montson asked, “You seem ill decided on that answer.”
Eppie’s mind worked frantically. I can’t go back to the street…but I still miss Uncle’s bakery. He coughed. “It’s just that I am not used to such sombre people.”
“Ah, yes. Some say that of us. It is simply because we seek enlightenment through rational thought. We approach each situation logically, continually analyzing our actions and the actions of those around us.”
Eppie nodded, his eyes narrowed in confusion and Montson continued. “We also believe that to truly master something, one must teach it. Thus when the person is forced to pass it on to someone, they grasp the concept that much better to explain it. You will become my student, and I your teacher, which from now on you will call me.”
“Yes, Teacher,” replied Eppie.
“Good, do you know how to read or write?”
“Only a few words”
Montson turned a book around and began showing Eppie how to recognize individual letters, then showed him how they grouped together to form words. As Eppie listened, his mind struggled at the enormous concept. Mouth sagging and eyes glazed, he looked like a drunk that finished his last drink. Montson flipped the page then stopped.
He mumbled, “Perhaps I best slow down,” before beginning again. The shadows lengthened in the room and Montson lit candles, giving them light. It was late when he finally closed the book and permitted Eppie to wander to bed.
Too exhausted to dream or think, Eppie entered a comatose sleep, until Montson awoke him to continue learning once again. The weeks passed and language formed in his mind. He read book after book aloud to Montson, who also sat reading.
Whenever Eppie thought Montson no longer paid attention, the monk would stop him and correct him on a word or phrasing. Leaving him shaking his head, wondering, how does he do that?
Some of the books he read were quite dry, merely unedited accounts of unimportant individuals who glorified their importance. Until Montson gave Eppie a book and said, “Now read this silently.”
At first, Eppie struggled. He mouthed the words as he read, keeping it to a whisper. Then one of the greatest miracles happened. Eppie lost awareness of reading as his imagination took over. The scenes danced across his mind and he pictured the wizard’s enclave creating Dezmire, a sovereign nation separate from the great Athecan Empire.
When he finally closed the book, Montson sat beside him. “What have you learned?”
Eppie stared distantly for a moment then focused and said, “That the wizards operate in three’s, a powerful number. Three wizards rule jointly, each overseeing a separate extension of the government. One oversees the law, another trade and diplomacy, and the third oversees the military. Each of these wizards have three wizards that work for them, who in turn have three wizards.
“And now you understand that the soldiers are nothing but peace keepers. The wizards rule and protect us.” Montson said and Eppie’s dreams of becoming a soldier died.

End of Part 2

Ingredient to Life

Part 1

The shod hooves of the warhorses clopped against the cobbles as the knights rode through the town of Duskendale. A gaggle of children ran alongside, squealing in excitement while the town folk paused in their daily chores to study the warriors. Bright plate mail armour encased each Knight. Shields hung from their saddle cantles, jostling against the horses’ flanks.
A loud bang brought Eppie’s attention back into the bakery.
“Enough staring out the window, lad, there is work to do.” His uncle Barthus said through a smile.
The young man reluctantly tore his eyes from the knights, and started kneading the dough again. He scowled. Instead of claiming glory, fame, and power, I am stuck baking bread. It is just so…so demeaning. He pounded on the dough, imagining it as his uncle’s face. He slammed the apple red cheeks together. Crushed that infuriating smile. Mashed the sparkling eyes away.
“Is there something you do not particularly like about that dough?” asked Barthus, watching his nephew from the corner of his eye.
Eppie murmured to himself, “Not another sermon,” as he continued to knead. Just because he raised me, he has no right to act as my father.
Barthus spoke in slow even tones. “I’ve found that one of the ingredients to life, lad, is to measure happiness in small doses, lest it lose its taste.”
Eppie blinked at him. “That makes no sense, more happiness is better.”
“Really?” His uncle cocked an eyebrow. “And if you eat too much sugar, do you not become inured to the taste?” He turned and waddled across the bakery, carrying the trays to the oven.
I will leave tonight, Eppie promised himself as he watched his uncle. I won’t grow fat eating pastries and never see the world.
#
That night, Eppie stuffed what clothes and supplies he had into a knapsack and slid from his room. He crept down the stairs, avoiding the third step because it creaked, and felt his heart thud as the fourth step betrayed him by creaking as well.
A bead of sweat popped on his forehead. I am actually doing this. I will not turn back this time. This time it is for real. He continued down the stairs and carefully slid the locking bar from across the door.
As he made to open it, his uncle said, “Here, lad.”
Eppie jumped and spun all at once. His heart pounded wildly as he faced his uncle.
Barthus held out a bag. “Here, you will need food.”
Eppie could not believe it. Uncle is giving me food to see me on my way? He reached for the bag and met his uncle’s eyes. Something passed there, but he didn’t know what as he took the bag. After stuffing it in his knapsack, he stared at his uncle, and croaked a faint, “Thank you,” before darting through the doorway. I am free. Yet why do I feel guilty? I owe him nothing. He told himself that over and over, hoping he would believe it.
#
Legs soaked, Eppie walked through the tall grass growing between the wagon ruts. Not far from Duskendale the farmyards lining the road thinned, and were soon replaced by gullies, crags, hills, and copses of trees. He encountered only one other person that day; a lone trader with a team of mules pulling a canvas covered wagon towards Duskendale. The trader only nodded while Eppie stood to one side, letting him pass.
That night, he huddled near his fire. After digging a wad of jerky from his bag of food, he discovered a pouch underneath. It contained a few coppers and one silver coin.
His eyes widened. He gave me not only money, but a silver! It takes a month of work for him to earn a silver. He examined the coin in the firelight, not recognizing the curly haired, bearded face on it. After polishing it with his thumb and making it shine in the night air, he placed it back in the pouch.
#
A week later, Eppie arrived at Port Yrath. The city gates were open and rusted solid from lack of use because much of the city was built outside the crumbling walls. He followed the cacophony of noise to the market square and stared in wonder at the press of people. Men and women milled with no apparent purpose while traders hawked their wares on stands as occasional guards sifted through the mass.
The nearest guard wore a chain mail hauberk that reached nearly to his knees with a belt holding it tight against his waist. He carried a club hanging from a loop at his belt with a spear in his hands. The guard lifted the open-faced helmet from his head and mopped his forehead before plunking it back on.
“Good day, Sir,” Eppie greeted the guard, who nodded with his eyes narrowed. “I would like to join your ranks of soldiers. Where can I enlist?”
The guard’s eyes widened before he laughed. Face heating up, Eppie wondered. What is so funny? The guard finally said, “We are not taking recruits. The ranks are full, especially for half grown lads such as you.”
Eppie puffed his chest out. I am nearly as tall as Uncle Barthus, just narrow in the shoulders. “I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to try.”
The guard shrugged, before pointing across the square. “Down two streets is a military barracks, you can enquire there.”
“Thank you,” replied Eppie, with as much dignity as he could muster.
#
He found the squat barracks easily enough. Mustering his courage, he knocked on the heavy oak door. A moment later, a man opened it. “Yes?”
“I’d like to speak to someone about enlisting.”
The man snorted in amusement before turning and letting Eppie in. “Hey, Sarge,” he called to a man sitting with two others playing cards in the smoky light. “This fellow wants to enlist.”
The sergeant looked over and frowned. “We’re not taking any recruits.”
“I was hoping…”
“I said we’re not taking any recruits. Go home boy, there’s a better life than a soldier’s life.” The other soldier tried guiding Eppie through the door with a hand on his shoulder.
Eppie angrily shrugged him off. “Just give me a chance.”
The sergeant threw down his cards and erupted from his chair. Behind him, the other two men smiled at the disturbance as they turned over the sergeant’s cards, studying them briefly before carefully setting them back down.
The sergeant grabbed Eppie by the arms and hurled him at the door. “If you were my son, I’d knock some sense into you. Now go home and apologize for running away, and forget about joining the city’s garrison.”
Eppie caught himself on the door jam, but a boot kicked him in the rear, sending him flying out the door. He landed on all fours and the door slammed shut behind him. Tears building at the corner of his eyes, he straightened on his knees, wincing. I will not go home. Not back to the bakery. He could not bear the shame of facing his uncle.
“Are you alright?” asked a gentle voice as a hand lightly touched his shoulder.
Eppie glared up at the young woman. Don’t you dare pity me! He jerked his shoulder from her touch and stumbled to his feet.
“I’m fine,” he snapped, stalking away.
The streets passed in a blur as he stormed away, silently cursing the soldiers. By the time he calmed, he had reached the far side of the city. Docks poked into the sea as bare-chested men in trousers loaded cargo onto a giant three-mast ship. Wagons lurched and trundled away as they were unloaded. Then a bell rang on the ship, signalling for the sailors to make ready. Eppie stared in awe at the men hustling across the deck. Three rowboats packed with men straining on oars pulled the huge ship out to sea. Eppie watched as the boats unhooked their lines and rowed aside. Like a giant albatross, the sails unfurled as men scurried across the ropes like ants. The sails fluttered and snapped, before catching wind. As if riding the sun itself, the ship pulled into the orange glowing ocean.
It took his stomach growling to break the enchantment. He started searching for an inn while looking for another ship, but only small fishing boats lined the dock with their nets draped across the gunwales.
Between two large warehouses, with the setting sun hanging above them, he spotted a tavern. A sign hung above it, depicting a foaming mug of ale. He struggled to mouth the faded words above it. He knew the bottom word, ‘inn,’ yet failed to grasp the upper word. He shrugged. What is the point of knowing how to read anyways?
A woman waded through the mostly empty chairs and tables as she served a group of men playing dice at a table. Two other patrons sat at the counter as the innkeeper, a bald headed man with tufts of hair poking out by his ears, wiped it down, further polishing the well-worn wood.
“What can I do you for?” the man asked Eppie.
“A room and a meal”
“That will be three crats,”
Eppie frowned and fingered through his money pouch. How can a meal and a room cost three whole crats? He pulled out one of the large copper coins out and rolled it between his fingers as he contemplated.
The innkeeper added, “If you don’t want wine with your meal, it will only be two crats.”
“That will work.” Eppie dug another coin out and handed them across.
The innkeeper inclined his baldhead at a table, “Go find yourself a seat, and Marge will bring you the meal.” He slapped a key onto the table. “Your room is up the stairs and third on the left.”
Eppie mumbled thanks and took the key. The stew filled him, yet the bread was poor in quality. He retreated to his room early, intimidated by the fishermen and dockworkers as they filed into the tavern.
#
It contained nothing more than a straw mattress with several stuffy blankets. He undressed and lay down, listening to the raucous noise. Eppie had never felt so alone. Like a discarded object, everyone shoved him aside. Tears welled in his eyes as he rolled into the itchy blanket. I never should have left. A ragged cough escaped him as he fought the urge to whimper. He cursed himself. Warriors don’t whimper in their sleep. The night passed slowly, until he finally faded to sleep.
The next morning he awoke with his eyelashes crusted together. Rubbing the sleep from them, he popped them open. He continued to rub, further irritating the puffiness and redness. Slowly he got up and began to dress, wishing he was home. Finished dressing, he slung his knapsack over his shoulder and opened the door.
The hallway was silent as he made his way down the stairs and through the empty common room. He waved at the innkeeper who nodded back while wiping a glass behind the bar. He felt the innkeeper’s eyes on him as he left the inn.
Walking down the street, he passed a back alley when a man said, “Hey man? I need your help.” Eppie paused and looked down the alley at the man crouching along the inn’s wall. “What do you need help with?”
“Lifting this,” “Lifting what?” He took several steps down the alley.
Suddenly a man grabbed a hold of him. Eppie writhed and shouted in surprise as the crouching man lunged from his position and clouted him on the head. He staggered sideways as thick fingers ripped his knapsack away. He grabbed the strap, desperately hanging on. His shirt tore as the attackers pried him from his bag.
He crashed against the ground, his shirt tearing completely. A boot slammed his ribs. Eppie rolled, whimpering in pain as more blows descended. Then he heard, “Grab his shoes…hurry.”
Eppie rolled and waved his arms, feebly struggling as the attackers yanked his shoes from his feet. A heartbeat later, he heard their footsteps thunder down the alley. Then they were gone. It took a long time until he finally sat up, a fresh wave of tears washing down his face. He rubbed the bump on his head, snuffling in hopelessness.
They took everything, my money, my shoes, absolutely everything. He stumbled out to the street and back to the inn. Staggering to the bar, he gasped. “Sir, I was robbed, just outside. We must summon the guards. I have nothing…”
The innkeeper walked around the counter and grabbed Eppie behind the neck. “Not my problem.” Eppie struggled, not comprehending until the innkeeper jerked the door open and hurled him onto the street. “Don’t come back,” the innkeeper hissed before locking the door behind him.
The early morning sun rose across the quiet dockside, the slums of Port Yrath. I need to find a soldier. He looked around. But none seem to patrol near the docks. Where they need to patrol! Why aren’t they here, protecting people? The sun crept upwards as Eppie walked into town, searching for a guard. People emerged from their homes, going about their business. They skirted him until he finally gave up seeking help from them.
Then he found a guard. He staggered forward, pitifully asking, “Sir, I was robbed. I need help.”
“What was taken?”
“My money, I had a silver and sixteen crats.” The guard’s eyebrows rose as he continued. “They even took my knapsack and my shoes.”
“Where were you robbed?”
“Down by the docks,”
The guard stepped forward and pushed Eppie back. “I’ve seen this trick before. Get back to the docks and don’t ever think about reporting a false crime.”
His bottom lip quivered. These men are supposed to protect the innocent. “This isn’t a false crime.”
“Sure. Make up something about being robbed then we try to find the robbers and you point out someone who actually earned what he has. Do you have any witnesses to the robbery?”
“No,”
“Do you have any witnesses saying what you owned?”
“My Uncle Barthus.”
“Where is your Uncle?”
“Duskendale,” he whispered.
The guard shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do. So unless you wish to be arrested for making a public disturbance, you best leave.”
Eppie opened his mouth to protest, but turned and started walking away. He spun as the thought struck him. “I tried joining the army and talked to a sergeant at the barracks. He’d seen what I had.”
“What is this sergeant’s name?”
“I, I don’t know.”
The guard turned away as Eppie said the last word. He waited for a moment, but understood and started walking away. I need to find that sergeant. He might be at the barracks.
#
It didn’t take long and he was banging away on the barrack’s door. After a moment a man opened it. “What?”
“I need speak to the sergeant here.”
“Sir, some boy wants you. A different sergeant approached. “What do you want?”
“Uhh, where is the sergeant that was on duty yesterday?”
“Sergeant Grisholm?” Eppie nodded. “He’s on the north gate today. Why?”
“Nothing, I just need to speak to him,” he said as he backed away and started jogging down the street.
The entire walk, Eppie imagined the sergeant going with him and finding the men who robbed him and giving back his stuff. It sped up his pace until he reached the north gate and asked the first guard. “Where is Sergeant Grisholm?”
The guard frowned at him before silently pointing at the gate shack. A small building nestled against the old north gate that had rusted open years ago. He banged on the door.
“Come in!”
Eppie pushed into the dark room to find the sergeant sharpening his sword. “Sir,” He said as Grisholm frowned at him. “I was robbed down by the docks. Two men took my money pouch, my knapsack, and my shoes. I need you as a witness to say I had those things.”
After a moment the sergeant stood. “You’re that boy who wanted to enlist?” Eppie nodded. Grisholm sucked on his teeth before sheathing his sword. “First off, I can’t testify that you had a money pouch as I never saw it, but you certainly had shoes and a knapsack.” “You can help me?”
“Sit down, lad.” The sergeant gestured at a chair leaning against the table. Eppie tipped it back on all four legs and sat down. The sergeant placed a boot on a chair next to him and leaned over the back of it. “What were you doing down by the docks?”
“I just ended up there. Then I found an inn, and this morning as I walked down the street I was jumped. I went back to the innkeeper and he threw me outside.” Eppie blinked at tears. “Why would he do that?”
“You were marked.” Eppie stared, not understanding and the sergeant sighed. “We guards don’t go near the docks. The Vigilante Tide controls there. They are an organization that we can’t do anything about because the wizards aren’t interested in doing anything about it.”
“An organization?”
“A criminal organization,” Grisholm explained. “The innkeeper probably marked you.” He frowned at Eppie. “Meaning you had something worth stealing, so you probably had a money pouch.” The sergeant shook his head. “So two thugs were sent to rob you. With you not knowing anyone, nothing can be done by the law.”
“But, but, your soldiers! Can’t you do something?”
“Do what? Find your shoes and knapsack. We go down there, by the time we get back, we would be relieved of our jobs by the Adjudicator, and probably would be murdered tonight by the Tide just to make an example. So no, I can’t do anything?”
“What do I do?” Eppie pleaded.
The Sergeant stomped across the shack, picked up a shirt laying the corner and threw it to him. “Take this. I can barely put shoes on my kids.” The shirt stunk, but it wasn’t ripped as Eppie pulled it overtop his ripped one. “Try and find a job, but stay away from the docks and don’t let yourself get pulled onto a ship.”
“Why not?”
“Because terrible things happen to lads like you on ships. Now go.” Eppie wandered from the shack, utterly lost. Eyes burning, he blinked at tears and stumbled down an alley. He knelt. Tears splattered the cobbles as he slumped against the wall, lost.

End of Part 1

A Light Extinguished

“Find calm, Dsaling,” Elson hissed to his friend as they swept down the gilded hallway, their boots tapping on the white marble floor. “Remember, the true arrow finds its target and the wild arrow misses. Find your calm.”
“I am calm, Elson. I’m focused.”
“I’d say, but you’re also angry.”
Dsaling’s pointed ears perked and he cast a sharp look over Elson. Face relaxing, he looked ahead. “Thank you, but I will not let my father sway me.”
Elson shook his head. For many rulers, Dsaling was everything they could want as an heir: fiercely patriotic, unbending determination which led to his natural leadership, and a desire to better his people. Unfortunately, Elson reflected, the Prince was incredibly stubborn, to the point that nothing short of a miracle would change his mind.
Two guards flanked the throne room’s entrance, their features hidden by gold masks. White horse-hair crests flared from their helmets and brass chainmail protected their agile bodies. Inside, servants dressed in white livery darted back and forth while aides, advisors, and other powerful Maigens clustered the throne and the king.
Elson did not spot the Queen, and thus noticed the absence of women immediately. His surrogate father, Ksaling had once explained that because of their god, Mani, being male, it was only natural for them to be a male dominated society. Something the Queen continually struggled against and Elson sympathized with.
Most of the powerful Maigens dressed in the traditional robes of their family colours, while a few younger ones wore tunics and leggings with wide belts. None of them wore gold. That was reserved for royalty.
They split for the Prince. Several Maigen’s muttered greetings to Dsaling and dipped their heads, but stared at Elson. He would not meet their insolent gazes. His position of friendship with Dsaling harboured much jealously among the Maigen nobility.
Dsaling spoke directly to his father, his voice loud as the vaulted domed ceiling amplified it. “We need to retaliate immediately.”
Elson controlled his smile. The Prince had found calm.
The King sighed and waved his hand. The servants disappeared through side doors as the advisors and aides bowed and quickly left, leaving the King, his son along with Elson, and a couple other guards alone in the huge throne room.
“Now is not the time to show weakness to the FornJots,” pressed Dsaling.
“Ksaling is coming. It is his duty to see to our safety. Yours is to lead our people,” replied King Deshler, his pale hair framing a youthful face under the halo, the crown of Ma’Gudai.
“Is the safety of a King’s subjects not his duty also? We cannot wait for Uncle to arrive and allow Surt to further ravage our people.” Dsaling retorted, his fine Maigen features taut with anger.
“Ksaling is warleader. You think this is the first attack against our people. Our people are strong…”
“And you will have more children orphaned like Elson and Ellifain!” He pointed at his sword brother.
Deshler glanced at Elson, who kept his features masked. The King sighed and sat back. He studied his son, his smooth brow wrinkled in thought. Then he said, “Assemble the household warriors. I want most of my bodyguards to join your contingent.”
The Prince dipped his head, his long golden hair swishing with the movement. “Thank you, Father. The FornJot’s shall answer dearly for this.” He straightened and left, his white cloak furling behind him.
Elson bowed and the King’s gaze caught his. Those pale blue orbs regarded him and he subtly nodded. The King only stared, but Elson hoped he understand that his only child, the only heir to Ma’gudai would be safe. A moment later, he hurried from the throne room. He passed the two silent guards at the door before breaking into a trot and catching Dsaling.
“Elson,” The Prince said, “Pass the orders to Aemir and send messengers to the Falsoon and Gerrien riders.” He continued his litany of commands until Elson plucked at his sleeve.
“My Prince,” Elson said, “You need to speak to Ellifain first.”
They walked several more steps until Dsaling faced him. “I could order you…”
“And face Ellifain after?” Elson asked.
The Prince sighed. “I will speak to her…tonight.”
“No, she should find this out from you, not someone else.”
The Prince sighed again and Elson knew what he thought. Convincing his father would be easy compared to Ellifain.
#
Elson left the palace. As he stepped into the sunlight, he touched his heart in a quick prayer to Mani and mumbled. “Lord of sun, please bless our course and keep the Prince safe.”
The golden dome of the palace glinted in the sunlight as the white marble of the streets shone brighter than a fresh snow fall. Mansions with sweeping arches and domed peaks lined the quiet streets.
Elson first sought the stables and located two messengers. The young Maigens listened intently, their pointed ears perked, as Elson explained. “Each of you ride to the eastern plains and rally the Falsoon and Gerrien Riders. We ride for the FornJots tomorrow.”
Then he backtracked to the compossium, the military headquarters. A soldier directed him to the courtyard where Commander Aemir, a Maigen warlord spoke with several other officers.
The commander wore a brass chain mail shirt with his head uncovered and a sword sheathed on each hip. Seeing Elson, he waved his hand, dismissing the others. As Elson approached, his hard eyes scrutinized him. Searching for what, Elson had no idea.
They bowed to each other before Elson said, “Ready the men, Aemir, we are riding to force Surt from our western lands.”
“When?” demanded the warlord.
“Tomorrow. The Falsoon and Gerrien riders have been summoned.”
“Dsaling is leading us?”
Elson nodded and the veteran, lines marring his once smooth features from years in the weather, added, “Good. It is time he prove himself.”
#
That night, as Elson washed himself from a bowl of water, his sister, Ellifain entered the room.
“Brother, we need to speak.”
He dropped the cloth back into the bowl of water. “The order to march is Dsaling’s idea.” Plucking his shirt from the floor and donning it, he glanced at Ellifain’s lost expression, and knew this would not be a quick discussion.
“But Ksaling is our warleader.”
“Ellifain, Ksaling is as much our father as Dsaling is your husband. What is the difference if one or the other fights? We must have faith in our Prince.”
“I have heard the arguments, brother. I don’t wish to argue any longer.”
Elson sat on his cot and rubbed his face, suddenly tired.
His sister sat beside him. “I still see that day, brother, when you hid me in that hole along the creek bank. At nights, I hear the screams of our parents as the FornJots slaughtered them. Then the horns blow and the nightmares fade, but I wake up shivering. Shivering like we did when we emerged from the creek bank covered in mud.” Ellifain covered her face and Elson wrapped an arm around her.
She mumbled through her hands. “Without that horror, we never would have lived in the palace as Ksaling’s adopted children, and I never would have met Dsaling. But I can’t imagine Dsaling facing the FornJots. What if they kill him too? I will have lost everyone.”
“They won’t get him, he is the Prince.”
Ellifain shook her head. “But why, hundreds of warriors would volunteer to fight for him. He could send them.”
“He must prove himself. Aimer said it today. It is not because of us or his father, but what the old warriors, the veterans expect. They demand that Dsaling prove himself in battle. No matter how foolish it is for the only heir to risk himself, he feels he must if he is to truly rule Ma’Gudai. And once Dsaling sets his mind, nothing can change it.”
Tears leaked from Ellifain’s eyes as she stared at the wall. Elson squeezed her tighter. “Don’t worry. Dsaling is too stubborn to die.”
#
The next day, over eight hundred Maigen riders rode out of the forked city. They followed the southern branch of the river, heading west in a long file, two abreast. Elson rode alongside Dsaling at the head of the riders. Ahead of them rode the vanguard with scouts farther ahead. Dressed in war gear, with brass helmets and fine brass chain mail, they glowed under the sun. Their white standards fluttered in the breeze as they rode their fine Tithui’an horses.
Dsaling glanced back at the columns. “We look like a ray of sunlight.”
“Suppose it honours Mani,” Elson replied. Then he quietly asked, “So, Ellifain could not sway you?”
The Prince stiffened. “Elson, I love you as a brother, but some things are better left between husband and wife.” Elson smirked as Dsaling added, “But she sure didn’t ask for me to return with Giant heads for trophies.”
It took no skill to find Surt and his FornJot’s. The red-bearded giants left a swath of destruction behind them worse than ten thousand charging elk. Trees were uprooted, grass ground to dust. It was early midday with Mani’s eye still rising when the scouts returned.
The graceful riders stopped their mounts. White grin flashing, the leader said, “Not a league distant we found the intruders. They are camped in a valley.”
“Return to your position,” commanded Dsaling. As the rider loped away, he turned to an aide, “Continue march formation.”
Elson touched his sword, steadying his nerves. He glanced at the Prince and shook his head. Dsaling rode with his chest out, his white cloak flaring as the sun reflected off his golden armour and helmet. He truly was the next dawn of Ma’gudai. At that moment, Elson knew he would lead their people to greatness.
The scouts waited at the bottom of a hill. Dsaling halted as the leader pointed, “Just over this ridge, my Prince.”
With the signal of his hand, the Prince ordered the warriors to form battle lines. In pairs of two, they swung out, almost effortlessly forming one long line of golden horses and golden warriors. They started up the hill. Elson felt sweat sting his eyes. This would be his first true battle, his first taste of steel against flesh. Shivers ran through him.
Next to him, Dsaling said, “Now is our time, Elson. We are the next Maigens. We are the future. Let us take it with the thunder of hooves!”
Elson closed his eyes for a moment, imagining himself back home as they crested the hill. Below them, the encampment of fire giants spread before them. He quickly counted twenty-eight of the beasts with their long brown arms, legs the size of century old oak trees and red beards. Most carried uprooted trees that served as clubs. They only wore leather loincloths because their thick skin hardly needed protection.
Dsaling’s brass sword scraped free. Down the line, the warriors nocked arrows on their short horse bows. Dsaling’s yellow sword flashed and he swung it down and they started trotting down the slope, holding their formation.
Below the giants roared and brandished their trees that were clubs. The Prince urged his horse into a lope and Elson followed suit. The line stretched as over eight hundred palomino horses thundered down the slope.
Sweat drenched Elson as he stayed near Dsaling. He remembered Warlord Ksaling’s words. “Your arrow can punch clean through a deer at ten paces. You need to be close enough to a giant to smell them before releasing. And don’t shoot at their skulls or chest. Their bones will turn your arrows every time. Shoot level, at their midsection. Let your broad-head rip their guts, doubling them over.”
The giants charged them, their strides several horses long. The riders split and squeezed together like a single organism. Mouth gaping, his head huge, a giant ran straight for them and Dsaling cut left, his white cloak billowing, but Elson did not react fast enough to follow. The behemoth swung its tree in a wide arc. Riders swung right, trying to avoid the sweep and in that instant Elson followed Ksaling’s words. “Get in close, close enough to smell them.”
He leaned over his horse’s neck and aimed for under the monster’s swinging arm. Blood pounded through his skull. Sweat made his bow slick as he dropped his reigns and drew the arrow back to his ear. To the right, the tree collided with a rider, instantly crushing the life from the horse and rider.
When young, Dsaling and Elson had endlessly practiced shooting targets at a full lope. Your timing has to be exquisite, having only a fraction of an instant to hit your target. With two running targets, the timing was even more precise.
Elson could feel his horse stretching out, airborne for a moment before his hooves would strike the ground, the perfect moment to release. The thick arm swung overhead as the ground rushed underneath. Then Elson could smell the beast. Like an old latrine left sitting under the sun to ferment. His fingers relaxed and the arrow snapped free. He watched it pierce the giant’s stomach only an arm’s length away, the fletching disappearing from view and then Elson was past.
The Maigens wheeled, nocking fresh arrows. Elson turned to see his beast on the ground, doubled over. Maybe his arrow had struck its spine. They raced in again, their arrows withering the monsters down until they circled the remaining few, driving them to death under a shower of arrows.
Suddenly giants appeared around the base of the hill, flanking them. Warriors split apart to engage the new enemy. Elson spotted the Prince by his white cloak, riding up the hill. He raced behind him. As sword brother, Dsaling’s protection was his duty.
His best friend slid to a stop and froze as he crested the hill. Elson stopped beside him and went cold. The encampment of FornJots had been nothing more than part of it, one outlying group. Below them, as many FornJots as they had riders spread below them. Now, as their horses stood, they could hear the pounding of footsteps, like thunder on the horizon as the giants bellowed roared to each other. In the middle of them ran a FornJot larger than any Elson had ever imagined. He waved a sword made of flame. Then he heard the chant. “Surt!” they bellowed. “Surt!”
“We need to retreat my Prince,” Elson roared, pushing his horse into Dsaling’s.
The heir to Ma’gudai shook his head. “We run from no battle.”
“We are dead if we face that! Now!” Elson rammed Dsaling’s horse around…to see their escape blocked by FornJots. Panic threatened to freeze Elson, then he shouted, “We must break through and ride for our lives! This is not a skirmish…it’s a total war.” Dsaling seemed to come to his senses. He spun his horse and dug his heels in. The horse leapt down the hill with Elson struggling to catch up. Racing ahead, Dsaling shouted, “To me Maigens! To me! To your Prince! Maigens!”
The warriors pulled back from the fight with the enemy pursuing. Already, Elson could see the Maigen’s numbers dwindled. Dsaling screamed, “Charge!” as he lowered his sword, pointing at the FornJots enclosing them. Warriors joined their ranks at a dead lope to create a ragged line as they struck the wall of giant flesh.
Through pure agility, Dsaling urged his horse to leap sideways at a run, avoiding a swing of a huge club. As the club came around, his sword cut the giant’s throat. Elson lost sight of his sword brother as a beast charged him. He tried to perform the same manoeuvre, but was knocked sideways, his horse struggling to maintain its footing. Straightening in his saddle, he dropped his bow as he heeled his horse forward.
Ripping his sword free, he hacked at another giant’s arm. His breath rasped as he followed the Prince who tried to gather the warriors still alive. They were winning through the line of giants, but it was starting to close up again. Then Surt bellowed his challenge. “Fight me, Prince!”
Dsaling stopped his horse and stared at Surt. The huge King waved his sword, a blade of pure fire. He wore grey steel armour, its edges blackened, as his red beard jutted down his chest and an iron crown rested atop his head. He bared his huge yellow teeth as Dsaling spun his horse away. Elson breathed a sigh of relief. The Prince was not rising to the insane challenge.
The next instant a boulder slammed into Dsaling. His horse stumbled and he was thrown clearly off his mount, nearly twenty feet to land and roll along the ground, his limbs bent in impossible angles. A scream echoed around Elson, and he realized it was himself as he slapped the flat of his sword against his horse’s rump. He dropped his sword as he swung down from his four-horned saddle. With an ankle hooked on the opposite front horn and gripping the other front horn, he hooked an arm under his friend’s arm, swung up and threw the Prince over his horse’s withers before sitting back down.
It had taken him and Dsaling nearly a year to perfect the dead swing manoeuvre at a full lope. Dsaling had done it quicker as usual, but Elson did it perfectly as he turned his horse sharply. Everywhere Maigens battled FornJots. It passed in a rush as Elson veered around a giant, past another and free of the carnage. Those able to escape trickled behind as he carried the Prince over the hill, and the next, and the next, and carried him home.
#
It had been the worst disaster the Maigens could remember: several hundred of their elite soldiers dead, the Prince dead. Warleader Ksaling had deployed with the entire force of Maigens, but found Surt and his soldiers already departed back to their home, Muspelheim, far in the mountains to the southwest of the Anorem Desert. Now Elson was without his best friend.
He could barely look at Ellifain. Before people had said she had the most beautiful smile. Now, rashes built around her eyes and nose as she cried her heart out for her dead husband. Servant ensured she ate some, but thin already, she seemed a skeleton. Elson did not know what to do. He had spoken to King Deshler about it, but he had only replied.
“A Maigen soul is like a rose, beautiful and delicate. It can grow thorns to protect itself, but if wilted, will never bloom again. Not like a human soul. It is a weed, tough and hardy, but quite ugly.”
It was midday, with Mani at his fullest strength overhead, when Elson carried Dsaling’s war gear into Ellifain’s room. He set it on the floor and stood awkwardly as Ellifain lay in her bed, her face buried.
“I brought you what Dsaling died in. In the end, I saw him become great. Right before…he was magnificent,” Elson said, tears choking him up. He made to leave and Ellifain sat up and with tears streaming down her face she slipped off the bed and knelt by the armour and weapons.
She choked and sniffled and Elson knelt, taking her in his arms. He rocked her as she clung to him, crying. And Elson wept with her, for he knew, the heart shed only so many tears before it dried up.
A long time later, he released her and stood. He tried pulling her up, but she shrugged him off and picked up Dsaling’s helmet. She hugged the piece of brass and buried her face in it, breathing Dsaling’s smell.
Elson left her, unable to watch anymore. He entered the training courtyard and drawing his sword, went to work on an oak post with hundreds of slashes and hacks on it from men practicing.
His arm was numb and his mind blank when the doors to the courtyard opened and a figured walked out, dressed in armour. Elson stared for moment, recognizing Dsaling’s armour, and beneath it, Ellifain.
Her face was a stone mask as she stopped beside him and drew her sword. “Train me.”
Elson stared at her then shrugged and started showing her how to hold the sword.

Shackles Stronger than Iron

Part 2

The furnishing for gladiators far exceeded those of his former living spaces. When Delios first entered his cell, he tentatively poked the cot, uncertain about it. Slowly he sat down, feeling the softness. That night as he lay down, he tossed and turned until finally retreating to the stone floor to sleep. What Delios truly appreciated was the latrine in the corner.
As filmy pink light filtered through his barred window, a guard brought Delios outside to the courtyard. High walls surrounded it as guards stood watch on them. Clacks and grunts echoed across the yard as men sparred and trained, some with weapons, others with weights. A few looked his way, sizing him up.
His short grey beard jutting forward, Tiberius approached, “Welcome gladiator.” He gestured at the men sparring with wooden practice swords, the cracks ringing across the grounds. “Those are your fellows. You are now a Champion of the Coliseum.” He stepped closer. “You are a hero to the fans.”
A hero for killing innocents; Delios did not understand, and vaguely found that he did not care. He would do what was necessary.
Tiberius walked around him, examining him as he commented. “Strange what that salt did to those wounds of yours. Your skin looks like a crocodiles. It’s like you are wearing armour.” Bored with the inspection, Tiberius stopped in front of him, his grey eyes narrowed. “Come. Let’s see if I made a good purchase.”
The gladiators stopped their practice and moved from the sparring circle. “Mjollnir, come here,” Tiberius ordered. A massive man, his neck thicker than his skull, stepped forward. He was not like the Athecans with straight blonde hair and a reddish complexion.
“Mjollnir is apparently the hammer of one of his gods. It was all he said when I first purchased him, and became his name.” Tiberius grabbed a wooden practice sword and tossed it to Delios.
He caught the blade, shocked by the weight.
Tiberius read his look as he said, “Filled with lead, although a barbarian like you would not know what that is.”
Delios swung the wooden sword back and forth, testing it out. It was straight and about as long as his arm. As he gazed at the sword, still coming to terms with his new life, Tiberius nodded at Mjollnir.
The giant man roared before lunging forward and attacking with a savage overhead chop that would have crushed Delios’s skull. He rolled aside and swung, but the big man was fast as he stepped aside and attacked again. Mjollnir drove Delios across the circle as he desperately parried each stroke, unfamiliar with a sword.
“Halt!” shouted Tiberius.
Mjollnir smiled at Delios, reminding him of a bear about to feast, before turning away.
“The Captain did not lie. You have the ability. Kasper will train you,” ordered Tiberius before he swept from the gladiatorial compound.
A thick gladiator approached. Even though old, he still carried himself like a young man. He did not waste time with pleasantries. “Gladiator, you shall attend my rules with utmost respect, and learn as fast as you can. Understand?”
Delios nodded.
“Essentially there are three vital spots to strike with a short sword,” dictated the former gladiator, “The neck, chest, and groin. With just a sword you stand with your right food forward, angling your body to produce less of a target.” He demonstrated by placing his feet shoulder width apart, his left foot half a step behind his right.
“Keep your blade in front of you and remain on the balls of your feet. Always keep your feet under you. If you lose your balance, you are a dead man.”
Delios mimicked his actions. Kasper grunted, before moving on. “If you have a shield you lead with your left foot, letting the shield lead you into battle.”
Kasper continued the lessons. He showed Delios how to stay low and maintain his equilibrium; how to throw his body into a swing or thrust, and not use all arm strength, allowing him to attack without warning. The days marched by and the routine grew as he added more attacks and defences.
From years of manual labour, Delios’s movements were economical, always conserving energy. Kasper taught him how to detect an opponent’s tells while his expression was always neutral, from having hid his emotion from his former slave masters. Delios never developed any tells.
#
The fresh colours of spring wilted under the ravaging Athecan summer sun as Delios continued his training. He stepped away from Kasper, having just defeated the former gladiator in a skirmish. Delios ran his eyes across the gladiators who silently watched. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he felt their predator gaze, judging the newest addition to their ranks.
Then Mjollnir stepped through the circle of men, and said, “Now you shall try me. Not an old man.”
Kasper stared hard at Mjollnir, until stepping aside.
Mjollnir did not charge as last time. He circled Delios, who also started pacing. Then he saw the weakness. Mjollnir’s left toes turned out with each step, which would mean he would spin slower to his right.
Delios lunged forward. His strike was batted away as he danced right, slashing again. Mjollnir did not turn to meet Delios’s attack. Instead, he drove forward, using his size to knock Delios back. Nimble as a panther, Delios kept his balance and shoved away, slashing again.
They danced across the sparring circle, each searching for a weakness. There were no cheering crowds or roaring beasts, just the grunts of the two gladiators and cracks of their practice swords. Delios began to feel the burn of exhaustion enter his wrist. Mjollnir’s strength resonated with each attack. Many men had lost for that reason alone, but Delios held his own.
A flush began to creep up Mjollnir’s face. The match was taking too long for his pride and too long for most men’s stamina.
Delios drove the big man back several steps. His momentum faded as Mjollnir’s eyes sharpened. Something, Delios could not pinpoint what, changed in Mjollnir’s set to his shoulders. They became more bestial, more bear-like.
Then Tiberius’s voice roared across the courtyard. “Halt! Delios come with me.”
Both fighters stopped. Mjollnir narrowed his eyes before moving away. Delios threw his sword on the weapon rack before he strode under the veranda and into the mess hall.
In the dim light, Tiberius stood in front of the benches and tables, his arms folded. “Did you notice the change in Mjollnir right before I stopped you two?”
Delios nodded.
“Good, that means you look beyond the obvious. You are lucky I caught you fighting Mjollnir. That change meant he was about to enter his rage?”
Delios cocked his head, trying to understand.
“Mjollnir is a Berserker,” explained Tiberius, “Among his people to the north, warriors emulate, almost worship bears. When in battle, they will take on bear characteristics, such as amazing strength and awesome ferocity making them nearly impervious to pain or injury. They even say some berserkers become so entwined with the bear spirit that they will shape shift into a bear.”
Delios had never heard of such magic. One misstep from death, and he did not even realize it. He did not fool himself into thinking he could win a match against the northern man…yet.
Tiberius relaxed, letting his arms drop to his sides. “I hear you are as good as most gladiators out there. In a month, that is quite a feat. If you can continue to learn at such a pace, you could be the best, Delios.”
“I thought Mjollnir is the best.”
“Mjollnir is good, but there are many gladiatorial companies besides my own. Mjollnir is one of many. Screal the quick is the fastest man I have ever seen. Jabungo is like water, moving and shifting effortlessly from harm’s way. There are many, but you could be the best.”
Delios shrugged, happy to have better living conditions.
“You don’t understand what it means to be the best?” asked Tiberius. When Delios did not reply he said, “If you fight long enough and good enough, you will win your freedom. I did it, just as Kasper did. Mjollnir plans to do it.”
Freedom—he had almost given up on it. It seemed such an elusive concept to him. Delios could not quite fathom why freedom was so important. He felt cold at the thought. He knew he had once sought it. He shrugged, unsure how to respond.
Tiberius continued, enraptured by the glory of earning your freedom. “You become the best by being the crowd’s favourite. Give them what they want…blood.”
Spill blood, it was all these Athecans thought of. Delios turned and walked back out to train.
#
The thunder of fifty thousand people pounded overhead. Delios stood in the ranks of the gladiators, squeezing his sword. Over the past weeks he had learned much, yet this would be his first time in the arena. Training only went so far, experience went the rest of the way.
Some men wore gladiatorial armour. Often it consisted of a single pauldron that covered a shoulder, with bracers to protect their forearms. The crowd wanted blood not steel. Delios only wore a helmet. With a T-shaped opening between flaps that extended down to protect cheeks and collarbones. A single steel fin running lengthwise decorated the top.
A gladiator, his head completely concealed in a helmet, marched up and down the ranks. “Death awaits us all. It is your choice whether you die as a man, with honour—” he shouted, extolling them to be brave.
Mjollnir moved alongside Delios. Staring ahead, his voice a growl he said, “When we walk out there, I want you on my right.”
Delios looked at him. He had learned enough of Athecan warfare to understand that the right position was a position of trust for soldiers. The man to the right would use his shield to help protect the man on his left. He tightened his grip on his short sword as his head lifted higher. He would honour the trust Mjollnir placed in him.
Then the gates clanged open. Delios trotted forward with the others. Each man carried a sword and small round shield. Delios wished for a spear. Even though he had trained with the blade, it was not his weapon. He had grown into a man with a spear in his hand.
Wind blew sand from the arena into his eyes before he stepped into the Coliseum. Bright banners snapped in the wind as the shapeless mass of Athecan citizens roared their approval of the upcoming match. It pounded down on Delios, deafening. The orator called for silence. It slowly came.
When his voice could be heard, it boomed across the arena. “Ladies and Gentleman, today we celebrate the great victory of Gastis. Outnumbered and exhausted, the Gastis legion fought Uler, dread of all Thyr’s to a standstill. With the time earned, we were able to crush the Thyrs, securing Gastis as part of Atheca.” He paused for a moment to collect a breath. “Let the match begin!”
The doors on the opposite side of the arena opened. The demons exploded into the coliseum. It was the first time Delios had ever gazed upon a Thyr. With thick brutish features, they resembled Mjollnir, only with sharp yellow teeth and black mottled skin. Ragged black fur covered their shoulders as black spiked armour covered their bodies, glistening from blood. The cage handlers had worked them into a blood frenzy, making their yellow eyes flame.
Mjollnir raised his sword to the crowd and roared. Delios glanced at him. It seemed an ethereal shape outlined him, a shape like that of a bear rearing on two legs. Delios could feel the raw power radiating from him as he ran to meet the Thyr demons. The other gladiators followed.
Mjollnir plunged into their ranks, screaming. His first attack swept a Thyr’s head clean from his shoulders.
A Thyr swung a club at Delios. He batted it aside and plunged his sword into the Thyr’s throat. The foul creature toppled as Delios caught another swing on his shield. Then they began pushing him back. Their blood lust made them uncontrollable as they clawed forward and hurled themselves at the gladiators. Death came fast for many, their blood soaking the ground.
Delios rolled under an attack. The Thyr’s weapons had been blunted, to help ensure a victory for the gladiators, and to keep the cost of losing gladiators low for Tiberius. He slashed a stomach open before shoulder checking a Thyr. Only Mjollnir and Delios had the size to push the sturdy creatures.
As the Thyr stumbled back, Delios glimpsed a Thyr jump on Mjollnir’s back. The big man reached over and ripped the beast from his back, but not before a blade plunged through his chest. Pink with blood, the blade pointed at the sky through the berserker’s shoulder blades.
A hush fell on the coliseum as one of the most well known gladiators fell. A scream burst from Delio’s throat as he slaughtered another Thyr. He had failed Mjollnir, who had placed his trust in him. He spotted the Thyr who had killed the giant man. That Thyr would die by his hand. Delios ducked a swing, before slashing forward. Tiberius had said it could be like hunting, depending how good a person was. Delios hunted.
The crowd forgot their fallen champion. Their shouts revived. They had found a new one.
#
The shakes still attacked Delios as he huddled in his cell. His guts churned in revulsion and guilt. The terror of the battle was second to the pain of failure. So many times he had failed. Each time was met with pain. He had failed in escaping and paid the price, and now he failed a man’s trust. Delios continued to shiver as the door opened.
A guard stood in the shadows of his torch. “He wants to see you.”
“Who?”
“Mjollnir”
“He lives,” breathed Delios, amazed.
“For now, come before he leaves this world.”
The guard led Delios down the hallway, his torch lighting the way. They entered a room, the guard holding the door open. Delios looked in. Inside, braziers burnt, warming and lighting the room. Mjollnir laid on a cot, swathed in soaked bandages.
“Has a surgeon not seen him?” he asked, well aware of the term the Athecan’s used to describe their medicine men.
“Yes, everything that can be done has been done. He wishes to speak to you.”
Delios nodded before ducking into the room. He approached slowly, more waves of guilt assaulting him as he listened to the gasping and bubbling each time Mjollnir took a breath. The Thyr’s sword had destroyed a lung, and Mjollnir was bleeding inside. He should be dead. Only his strength and sheer will kept him alive.
The massive warrior looked up at Delios, his eyes murky with pain. He rasped. “I must pass my gift on to you.”
“I failed you.”
Mjollnir ignored him. “Is the crocodile,” he coughed, blood leaking across his lower lip, “A great predator?”
Delios nodded, confused as Mjollnir drew forth a dagger and slashed his palm. He rasped. “Quickly now, before it is too late, match my cut.”
Blood spurted as Delios cut deeper than he intended to. It was well, he told himself, he deserved it. Mjollnir seized his hand. “By the blood of predator in me, I give you the spirit of power. The spirit of the crocodile.” Blood spurted from his nose as a fit of coughing erupted from him. His complexion paled. “Hunt well, Delios,” he said before slumping back down, exhausted.
Delios stared for several more moments, before departing. The guard escorted him back to his cell. When he was alone in the darkness once again, Delios resumed his huddled position and cupped his hands over his face. The blood felt warm as it streaked down his cheeks. He could not cry, but the blood would have to do.
A short while later, he felt something change within him, like he filled his lungs with air, only deeper, more profound. The crocodile spirit had come awake. Delios was a true predator, no longer a killer. At that moment, he hung his head in mourning. He knew Mjollnir had died.
#
Delios stood in the shade as the sun shone through the veranda opening onto a wide oak desk littered with scrolls. Rugs and furs covered the floor of the room. A platter of grapes, olives, and artichokes sat half ate on a little stand by the veranda opening. Tiberius paced, as he always did, too restless to stand still. Delios ignored him as he gazed out the veranda.
Dressed in a simple shift, a dark haired woman moved through the street. The white dress, sleeveless with a low neckline, clung to her form. Delios watched her impassively. The years had trickled by, with him fighting and training. For a long time he had gazed in longing at women, any woman. A caress would have meant so much. Yet his deformed crocodile skin revolted women, except those who pretended. He did not want an actress to play a role. He had wanted love, like he had known so long ago with his wife. Not just to rut, but to fill the void in his heart.
He had trained to absolute exhaustion, everyday to avoid thinking of it. After so many years of stepping on the flame of passion, he had finally quenched it. His desire was gone, with only dead silence where once heat and light had rose.
Tiberius spoke, “One more fight, Delios. Then you are a free man.”
The last ten years seemed but one moment after another, just a blink in a lifetime. It could be seen though. Tiberius had aged considerably. His once grey beard was now stark white. Delios’s body looked even more ravaged. Like a battered piece of tight fitting leather armour, his thick crocodile skin with a multitude of scars crisscrossing it sheathed his body and soul well. His wife and boys were a distant memory better left buried.
“What do you plan to do when you are a free man, Delios?”
He had trouble comprehending the thought. He remembered struggling for freedom, enduring pain beyond anything he had felt before or since because he had failed, but it seemed so long ago. It no longer mattered.
Tiberius continued, knowing what Delios thought. “I would like you to work for me. No longer fighting, but selecting new men and training them.”
“As you command,” replied Delios.
Tiberius stopped his pacing. He carefully placed his knuckles on his desk and said, “Life is hell Delios. But every now and then, a moment comes along that makes you feel so much more than just another man. A moment like when you vanquish your last foe in the arena and fifty thousand voices shout your name to the beat of your pulse. Live for those moments Delios, remember those moments, and forget everything else. Because those moments define life, and in the end that is all it really is…just moments.”
#
The last fight was upon him. The moment pulsed in his ears. He walked down the hallway leading to the entrance gates. A short sword hung at his hip. He carried a javelin in his right hand, and gripped a small peltast shield along with two more javelins in his left. Fellow gladiators lined the walls leading to the entrance. They held their heads up in pride. Their feet stamped together, one heart beating in honour of Delios. Overhead the muted crowd roared its approval. Delios had heard of brawls starting over entrance to his last fight.
The gates opened and Delios walked into the arena. The sun glinted off his silver helmet with its single fin across the top. The mob’s approval exploded. The noise beyond any Delios had ever heard. They mashed back and forth, simply too full to accommodate everyone. Those near the edge looked in danger of falling in.
Then a chant started. It swept through the Coliseum, until they all chanted one word, ‘Crocodile!’ Few knew Delios’s real name, but everyone knew the black, reptile skinned gladiator. He raised his javelin to the sky.
From a side door, twelve men dressed in simple tunics ran out and took up a chain. The pit door dropped down and Delios crouched, waiting for whatever would come out. A scream erupted from the pit, silencing the crowd’s noise. A huge winged reptile shot from the opening. The chain ran through two hooks allowing the men to keep the monster at bay. It snapped taut, causing the beast to plummet back to the ground as the men skidded forward.
The pit door closed as Delios readied his javelin. He had heard of wyverns, but never seen one let alone fought one. Although considerably smaller, they were a distant cousin to dragons. Its body was slightly longer than Delios’s, its hind legs half that length. Talons curled from its forelegs. It snapped its silky wings open, and screamed in rage. Then it spotted Delios.
The wyvern flicked its tail, a stinger at the end, before snapping its yellow stained teeth. Delios clutched his javelin tighter. This was no fledgling wyvern, but a mature adult.
He pivoted and cocked his arm. The wyvern sensed the attack and lunged forward. Like a whip, Delios uncoiled, flinging the javelin. Its three-foot needle like point blurred, before the wyvern swatted it from the air.
Astonishment nearly killed Delios as he hesitated before diving aside. Tucking the javelins across his chest, he came to his feet and threw another hard. It glanced off the wyvern’s green scales. Then the beast’s teeth snapped at him.
He rolled under its belly, stabbing up with his last javelin. It plunged into its belly, before the wyvern’s hind leg caught Delios on the chest.
With its claws curled inwards, the wyvern brutally kicked Delios from under its stomach and into the air.
The javelin left Delios’s grip as he hit the ground and rolled to his feet, dazed, yet knowing he had to keep moving as he drew his sword.
Blood and fluids ran from the wound in the wyvern’s stomach. Delios had killed it with that strike, yet it would take time to bleed out. It lunged forward, the gossamer wings carrying it into the air. It swept over Delios, whipping its tail at him, trying to take him with its deadly stinger.
Reflexes saved him as Delios raised his peltast shield, and felt it explode in his grip from contact with the wyvern’s tail. Yet it kept the stinger from him.
The wyvern hit the end of its chain, jerking the twelve men from their feet. The chain rattled as it slid through the loops. The wyvern desperately flapped its wings, seeking to escape. Then the chain caught at the end. Level with the upper tier, the wyvern lost momentum and crashed back to the ground. Dust swirled up as bones cracked on impact.
The wyvern weakly tried to force its broken body up. After several moments of thrashing, it calmed. Delios approached slowly as the beast laid still, giving up on its life. Delios had won his last battle. He looked down on the beast and felt…nothing. The wyvern had been unable to escape his iron shackles, its claws leaving lingering marks in the coliseum dirt. He looked up at the crowds, so finicky in their moods, so loyal in their emotion. Would he miss it?
#
Dusk settled across the city. The red glow faded, sinking into icy twilight then darkness. The gladiators returned to their comfortable apartments, albeit secure ones. Citizens locked doors and barred windows, extinguishing their candles before retiring to bed.
Delios walked under the veranda to his quarters, now separate from the gladiators. He was a free man working for Tiberius. It had been a long day starting with a routine check of security then ensuring the cooks received enough food for the meals. As the sun rose, Delios had inspected the newest shipment of slaves with Tiberius. Only one had a satisfying look. As the sun reached its pinnacle, he had, along with every other sane citizen, lounged in the shade like a lizard. Then when the sun lost its brutal heat, he ventured out to train the newest recruit. His new life suited him.
A hanging cauldron filled with coals burned. Delios was about to enter the compound when he heard several voices speaking quietly. Sliding into the shadows, he listened, his hunter instincts taking over.
The hushed voices spoke urgently before approaching. A man crept from the doorway, his shape backlit by the moon’s light that streamed under the veranda. He turned his face, casting it into view from the cauldron’s light. Delios recognized the man, a gladiator. Another man crept out, both straining to see in the darkness. They were warriors, not hunters that understood how to blend into the shadows so the light did not cast across their figures.
His heart began to drum. These men should be in their comfortable cells. Somehow, they had unlocked their doors and were trying to escape. Like a panther, Delios emerged from the darkness. The gladiators spun at the scrape of his blade.
Delios stepped into the torchlight as he hissed. “Return to your cells gladiators and I will forget your transgression.”
The front man paled at the sight of Delios. The other man cursed before saying, “Step aside, Delios. We will fight no longer.”
“Then you shall die,” Delios roared before he attacked. The first man crumpled under his blow. The second turned to run. Moonlight streaming on the pink blade, it pierced his back and exited the gladiator’s chest.
Footsteps thundered behind Delios. He whirled, his blade meeting another. They had gathered weapons. Gladiators surged in behind the first as Delios cut him down. More men pushed out the doorway, quickly surrounding Delios. He whirled and attacked in the darkness like a cat caught in a trap. Men fell around him but they were relentless in their attack.
A sword slashed his shoulder, cutting deep into his thick flesh, but not drawing blood. Delios ducked a swing and drove his sword through a man before diving through the circle. As he exited, a sword slashed deep, below his ribs. He grunted, feeling warm blood wash down his side. He parried several attacks, retreating.
The gladiators quickly surrounded him again. Blood sopped on the ground where he stepped. His vision blurred as he fought the blood loss. Then he saw a flash as a blade slashed his wrist. He dropped his sword as another blade entered his chest. Moonlight glistened on the droplets of blood that sprayed in the air as the gladiators chopped him down.
Delios choked on his own blood that filled his lungs, red bubbles running down his lips. He watched the figures run to the edge of the courtyard when the other guards caught them. He knew the gladiators were doomed. They had no chance against armoured guards with shields. The life continued to trickle from Delios and across the cobbled stones. He blinked, and a memory of his wife holding his youngest son flashed through his mind. As darkness took him, he realized these Athecans had shackles stronger than iron, binding their slaves forever to them.
With his last breath, Delios escaped his shackles and in the pale moonlight, invisible to most, the nearly intangible form of a panther loped away—Free.

Shackles Stronger than Iron

Delios stared across the flat salt plain to the rolling hills beyond. He blinked at the thought of freedom, at the thought of home. Behind him, dingy wooden shacks and canvas tents leaned against one another. The slave encampment’s reek mingled with the perpetual smell of salt. The tall black man shuffled forward in the line of slaves. The iron shackles around his ankles rattled as he shifted, nervous. A blacksmith sat at the head of the line with an anvil, knocking the pins from the shackles.
For two years, Delios had waited for the opportunity to escape. From his orderly behaviour and demeanour, the slave masters thought him broken, one of the many souls shredded, unable to imagine an existence of freedom. They removed those slaves’ shackles, allowing them to work harder without the encumbrance.
In the first weeks, he had strained against his shackles. Yet he could never break this iron of the Athecans. He had never seen such a strong metal in Nabesh. There, only the wealthy had bronze, the rest used flint and stone. He had subsided, displaying the patience of the panther on a stalk.
Then it was his turn. The blacksmith wiped a smear of ash across his forehead, sweating in the summer heat. The short, pale-skinned Athecans always sweated.
Ebony skin gleaming, muscles taut with strength, Delios placed his shackles on the anvil. Each whack of the blacksmith’s hammer seemed an eternity. A bead of sweat trickled down Delios’s temple and past his long black hair that hung in greasy dreadlocks. The first shackle popped off and the blacksmith started on the next.
A guard sauntered over with a spear slung across his shoulder and one hand resting on the cudgel at his belt. He said to the blacksmith, “Tots, can you take any longer?”
Tots spat at the guard’s feet. Delios thought his heart might explode. He gazed warily at the guard, an unrecognizable fear arising that he might read his thoughts and stop the blacksmith from removing the shackles.
The second shackle popped off and the blacksmith gestured him away. Delios shuffled past several other guards, his legs unused to moving freely. He glanced at the guards, each one dirty and bored with his duty. They directed him back to the salt mine.
His feet, heavy with calluses, crunched through the sand and salt. Hundreds of slaves from all over the world worked relentlessly in the massive crater. With spades and shovels, they dug the salt up and loaded it into carts pulled by shackled slaves. Several guards stood around the pit, Delios did not know how to count. Yet in a way he knew how many there were…not enough.
He picked up a spade before descending into the pit and joining the others at the far end. With his head down, shovelling, he watched the guards as best he could. The nearest one chewed noisily on a wad of tobacco leaf, constantly spitting the dark juice on the ground, and smacking his brown teeth.
In the distance, a whip cracked, followed by several shouts. The tobacco chewing guard looked up and took several steps towards the sound, straining to see what the disturbance was. Delios took the opportunity. A better one might not present itself.
The other slaves stopped, confused by his sudden movement. He kept a hold of his shovel as he scrambled up the slope. His long legs pumped, spraying salt and white sand behind him. It seemed at any moment the guard should look his way. Time slowed but the guard continued to look away, not noticing his ascent. Then he erupted from the pit. The other guards shouted and the guard before him turned; his eyes wide, his brown teeth bright in the sun as he gaped.
Delios’s savage war cry split the air before the shovel split the man’s skull.
The shovel clanged as he dropped it beside the fallen guard and began to run towards the hills. Several other guards broke into sprints behind him, yet his leonine figure streaked across the ground. His feet felt light from years of dragging shackles. His chest puffed out, sucking in air as he raced across the salt flat. Behind him, the guards trickled away, exhausted.
A horse whinnied. Mounted guards charged after him. He tried to maintain his speed, every ounce of will driving him forward. Yet his pace slowed. He growled defiantly and forced his legs to keep pumping. There was a time when he could run all day and night, and the next day. A time when he was known as the greatest Nabeshian hunter. With each stride, he began to remember the real Delios. The man named for the black cat, the predator with no fear.
He had to reach the hills. If he could reach the hills, he could disappear in the ravines and gorges. These men were not hunters. They would blunder around, while he would disappear like a shadow. Then he could make his way home, to his village.
Flashes of memory swept through him. Smoke spurting from campfires, writhing through the tall Gum Trees that cast their shade over the small huts nestled along the river. His wife’s round smiling face and his two boys, both young enough to still be helping the women with their work.
As he thought of his family, his pace strengthened. He could not fail them. With his disappearance, his family would strain the village as they provided for them. The spear that kept them safe was gone. Soon his wife would have to remarry to survive.
His knuckles clenched at the thought of someone else touching her. He had to return. Someone would teach his sons how to hunt and fight, but who would teach them to live. How to feel the thick foliage underfoot, breath the scent of those you love, and trust not only your spear, but also your heart.
Behind him, the guards leaned low, urging every bit of speed from their horses. Delios’s wind was gone. His lungs felt collapsed. He faltered, taking huge lunges to keep his balance.
Then the first guard reached him. He leaned out as he passed the faltering slave, and slammed his cudgel against Delios’s skull. Dust erupted into the air as Delios struck the ground.
He rolled over, raising his hands to the sun, gasping and trying to plead for freedom. The first guard dismounted and raised his cudgel high, blotting out the sun for a moment before slamming Delios in the ribs. Delios gagged and choked for breath, patting the ground as the guard mercilessly tied a rope around his ankles.
The others guards casually watched as the guard tied the rope onto his saddle and began to drag Delios. A couple gave whoops of encouragement as the guard sunk his heels into the horse.
Delios regained a brief breath before his body began to slam across the ground. The horse loped, dragging behind a living corpse. His mouth worked in pain as he rolled from side to side. His skin peeled and scraped off, while the salt from the plain worked into the wounds.
A shriek erupted from his throat, as the fire of salt consumed his body. Waves of pain, previously unimaginable, rolled over him. The guard slowed to stop, but Delios continued to writhe in agony, only silent screams escaping him as saliva strung between his gaping mouth. Salt and dirt glistened on exposed meat. Shredded skin hung loose. His body wept blood.
An officer leaned against a dingy wooden building. Watching the proceedings with a sardonic smile, he said, “Vesu is going to be disappointed. This one won’t need any lashings.”
The guard who had dragged Delios, looked up while untying the writhing slave and shrugged. “We could let him heal, Flavius. No point disappointing Vesu.”
With his sardonic grin still in place, the captain left his position against the building. “I have a better idea.”
#
The dirt wall pressed against his back. Delios rested, a film of sweat covering his scarred skin. He looked down on his body, and nearly gagged. The wounds had filled with sand and salt and had left massive scar tissue where once smooth ebony skin had covered rippling muscles. At first, he had thought himself some kind of demon, but the initial horror had passed—leaving only revulsion for his thick scaly skin.
From delirium, Delios remembered little of his trip from the Salt Mine. Only blurry visions remained of a jostling wagon roof, and occasional faces that peered down at him. When he had regained awareness, the man tending him, a fellow slave, had informed him that the Captain of the salt mine had been impressed with his speed and sold him as a prospect for a pit fighter, perhaps even a gladiator if he was good enough.
Delios scratched his temple, feeling his dreadlocks brush against his finger. Four days before, he had sat in his cell, when his new owner, Cellos, had informed him he would fight in four days. Otherwise nothing broke the monotony as Delios stared at the wooden door opposite, watching the sunlight from the square window far above his head move across it.
His teeth involuntarily gritted. What kind of men were these to force other men to kill one another for sport. Delios had never been a killer, only ever a hunter. A man could kill for many things, but this was evil.
Since Cellos had told him of the impending fight, he had begun stretching and working his muscles. If he could avoid killing the other man, he would. He would not enter the pit and die because his body still recuperated from his injury.
The lock rattled. Delios stood, his lean body stretching as the door squeaked open. A slave guard of Cellos gestured with his head for him to come. They passed through the short hallway and down a ramp with Delios in the lead. Roots hung from the dirt walls as sunlight flitted through openings in the timbers placed overhead. At the end of the hallway stood a guard, Delios glanced around, seeking a way to escape. Nothing presented itself as the guard at the end pushed the door open.
Sunlight streamed into the circular room beyond. Delios paused, to have the guard shove him forward. He stumbled into the pit. Cheers erupted as Delios blinked against the bright sunlight. He had been in the dark for so long. Slowly, his eyes focused, to see a mass of men kneeling around the edges of the pit, gesturing and hooting at him. Then the door opposite opened, allowing another man through.
His pale skin shone bright as he squinted, lifting the daggers in his hands up. He was another slave forced to fight, and by looking at his stance and nervousness, a slave who did not know how to fight. Delios straightened from his defensive crouch. He could not kill this man.
Sensing an opening, the smaller man darted forward, shrieking. The men above roared their approval as bets quickly changed hands. Delios pivoted as the man slashed at his face. He grabbed his wrist, and rotated, slamming his left palm into the man’s elbow. It cracked. Delios stepped back as the man slumped against the pit wall, whimpering in pain, his one dagger forgotten in the dirt.
The crowd of dirty savages above him roared, “Kill, Kill!”
Delios watched the man lean against the wall, tears streaming down his cheeks as he cradled his broken elbow, waiting for death. How could he kill a man no different then himself? He turned and walked away.
Behind him, he heard running footsteps. Delios spun left, letting the other slave’s lunge go past him, before grabbing the opponent’s wrist again. He twisted and rammed the knife between the slave’s ribs. Blood spurted from slave’s mouth, a lung destroyed.
Delios stepped away and the slave crumpled. His kicks left faint marks in the dirt as the crowd cheered overhead. It was the fallen slave’s legacy, marks in the dirt.
Delios began to tremble. He had just killed a man. Even though in self-defence, a sour taste lingered in his mouth. He spat, wishing the men overhead would enter the pit. Then he shook the thought away. He did not want to become a killer. The door opened, allowing him to leave. Before he did, he glanced once more at the dying man and wondered if every person’s legacy was nothing more than marks in the dirt.
#
Thick calluses covered the pads of his fingers. Delios turned his hands over, staring at the thick salt created scars. He stared at the weapons that had killed six men in the pit and shivered. He set them back at his side, in their usual position as he sat in the cell. Six men—and the last killing had come easy.
The man, a reputable pit fighter who did it for the money had attacked. Delios had swung, knowing the man would lean to dodge his fist. Carrying through he had pivoted around, backhanding the man with his left fist. As the man had staggered against the wall, he had lunged forward, driving his index finger into the man’s eye. It had all been so easy. It horrified Delios. What was he becoming?
He heard voices outside. His ears, once so used to catching the slightest variations of sounds, had dulled from lack of use. He strained to catch what was said, but missed it as the door was unlocked and pushed open. Cellos stepped in, his yellow, eastern skin looking sickly.
He smiled down at Delios. “Since I am such a gracious master, I have decided to reward you. Stand up now and meet your reward.” He gestured with his hand and stepped aside, allowing a well-built, handsome woman with olive skin to enter. Delios felt his heart race, before stopping dead at the horror writ across the woman’s fine features. Her face paled as she breathed through her mouth, as if a stench filled the cell.
Delios wished himself away, anywhere at that very moment. He was a monster in this woman’s eyes.
“Come now, don’t be shy,” Cellos said, “I’m sure you two will figure out what to do with your time together.” He departed with a grin on his sickly face.
Eyes studying the corner of the cell, not daring to look at the woman, Delios shrank from her as she approached. One part of him cried for the intimate contact, another fled in horror.
“The sooner we start this, the sooner it is done,” she stated, almost mastering the quiver in her voice.
Delios looked up at the woman. He could not do this. She reached out to touch his skin. He shivered. He longed for her touch, but the revulsion pulsed from her as she jerked her hand away. His wife would look at him the same way. His boys would know him as a monster.
Wiping her withdrawn hand, she hitched her skirt up and lay on her back, willing it done with. Delios looked at her and felt himself stir. At that moment, his resolve flagged. What would be the point of returning home? What did he know about life? The only thing he could teach his sons was how to kill. There was nothing left. He hated his himself, but knelt between her legs. His actions mechanical, he did what was required. Another wound scarred his soul, another piece of armour protecting his sanity disintegrated.
#
Dust clogged the air as one slave coughed. Sunlight battered through the thin strips of wood acting as bars in the cage of the wagon. Delios sat at the front, half asleep. It failed to matter whether he sat in his cell or a wagon. He slept when he could, and welcomed the oblivion. Occasionally thoughts of his family trickled past his mental defences, which only served to remind him how pointless escape was.
Other slaves trudged alongside, thick ropes joining their necks in one long train. The caravan threw up a plume of dust in the heavy Athecan sun. Delios studied those with him the wagon. At first, he had wondered why they did not walk alongside. Then it occurred to him that these men were also of breeding stock. The finest slaves; thus ensured they were kept healthy. The thought of selecting humans for breeding purposes did not bother him as much as it should. Delios wished he could weep for that reason.
He closed his eyes, hearing a collective gasp from the others. He really could care less but turned anyways as the walls of proud city of Atheca rose into view. Men in scarlet cloaks with burnished bronze armour and iron weapons glinting in the sun patrolled the walls, checking each wagon in the caravan as it passed under the great arch. A shadow passed over their wagon, as they rolled to a stop under the gate. Delios sighed at the relief from the sun.
The door at the end banged open as a guard looked in. He glanced the slaves over, pausing a moment on Delios, before slamming the door shut. Then they were rolling again.
The buildings truly stunned Delios. At home they had lived in tidy round huts. In the slave encampment they had lived in hollow shacks. At the town in Osack they had lived in brown mud-brick building with sod roofs. Here, two, occasionally three story white washed stone houses rose into the sky. Red baked tiles covered the rooves. The wagon wheels clattered noisily over the cobbled street. Dressed in white robes and togas, the people moved past the caravan, uninterested.
They turned into a market square. Tired of watching the people mill about like ants on a pile, Delios closed his eyes again. He smirked at the thought of comparing them to the pointless ants as they scurried back and forth, ever building their mound higher, only to have it destroyed by downpours, boars, and occasional anteaters.
“Come on,” ordered a guard, standing by the open door. Delios trailed the other slaves out, where the guard placed loops around their necks, holding them in a line. They marched to the shade, where a scarred man with a grey beard sat sipping from a goblet.
He stood as they approached. “This is your finest stock, Cellos?”
“Yes, of course Effete Tiberius…”
The solid man raised his hand, cutting Cellos off. He walked down the line, studying each of them. He stopped at Delios. “This one, what happened to his skin? It looks like a crocodiles’.”
“He was dragged through a salt pit. It is what happens when the wounds fill with sand and salt.”
“Can he fight?”
“Of course, he defeated six pit fighters.”
Tiberius flicked his hand. “Pit fighters are worthless. These men will be gladiators. I need the best.”
“He defeated them with his bare hands.”
Tiberius stopped. “Were they armed?” Cellos nodded as Tiberius faced Delios.
“Where did you learn to fight?”
This man searched for a killer. Delios hung his head because he had found him. “I hunt,” was the strongest protest he could summon.
Tiberius laughed. “Well that can be quite similar, depending on how good you are.” He turned back to Cellos and began bargaining.

End of Part 1

To Claim A King

“We rode across Coromoor for you to become chief and the best you came up with was to ride up and claim challenge?” Yr the Ugly demanded, each word whistling from his hair-lip.
Seated atop his palomino horse, Gnaar shrugged as he touched his sword, Screamer. “You haven’t thought of anything either.”
“Because you keep your plans a secret,” his friend hissed.
Gnaar faced his three companions. “Keep your weapons sheathed, but be ready for trouble.” He turned back, watching a band of warriors ride from the village below while Harold Swift-Mind asked for the hundredth time, “This chief killed your father?”
No one bothered answering him while the fourth rider, Amunson, roared in laughter, a hole showing in his gaping mouth where his tongue used to be. Gnaar pulled on his steel helmet, obscuring his features as the band of warriors rode up the hill with swords, spears, and axes drawn.
“Cormen live and die, chief’s change, but one thing always remains…the horses,” Gnaar said, studying the huge brown animals, their wavy manes and tails flying. “For size and strength, they have no equal.”
Next to him, his sword brother, Yr, fought to control his pawing and prancing horse.
“Calm down.” Gnaar told him. “He’s reacting to your anxiety.”
“Bloody would if they weren’t charging us. And our weapons weren’t sheathed!” Yr blew out a breath and sat back in his saddle. “What happens now?”
Gnaar gestured at the three riders sitting behind them. “They test us.”
“How in the devil?” Yr swung back to Gnaar. “Where did they come from?”
“They’re Cormen, Yr...” the rest of Gnaar’s response was drowned out by the thunder of hooves as the band charged up to them, circling them with weapons drawn.
One of the warriors halted in front of Gnaar. The horsehair crest on his helmet bristling, he pointed with his horse axe and shouted, “Who are you?” Gnaar forced his mare to hold her ground against the warrior’s stallion as the young man demanded again, “Who are you?”
Ears laid back, Gnaar’s mare lunged forward, snapping with her teeth at the stallion.
“I am Gnaar Horse-Breaker,” Gnaar said, his chainmail hauberk rustling. “Son of Jarn Hagardson and I come to challenge for what is mine.” He urged his mare into a walk and the stallion shied away as he added. “My business is with Kjartan Veliefson.” His three men rode in his wake as the warriors clustered around them, escorting them down the hill.
The leader spat as he rode alongside Gnaar. “We could kill you, stranger.”
“My father was chief, I am no stranger…and we would not die easily,” Gnaar said while staring ahead, his helmet masking his features.
The leader snarled at him before spurring ahead and leading them to the village. As they neared, Gnaar charged past and in a sliding stop, shouted, “Kjartan Veliefson! I, Gnaar Horse-Breaker, son of Jarn Hagardson, challenge you for my right as Chief!”
Horses pawed and snorted as warriors curbed them while villagers emerged from their homes and the walked from nearby fields. Soon a crowd gathered as Gnaar waited. Then Kjartan walked through the village, his greatsword unsheathed, his silvered mail flashing as a boar-crest ran lengthwise across his helmet. He was still a formidable opponent, but not near so much as when Gnaar had last met him in battle.
He had caught Kjartan alone by the river. Fresh from victory, the powerful man washed Jarn’s blood from him. It seemed only yesterday when Gnaar had stepped from the trees and said, “Pick up your sword.”
Kjartan had turned, the water running down his thick curly chest hair. “Don’t be foolish, Gnaar. Flee and never return.”
“I am not a coward,” Gnaar had hissed, using all his courage to stand fast as Kjartan picked up his sword.
“I give you one last chance.” Seeing no movement from Gnaar, he had attacked.
Gnaar only remembered the blades ringing a couple times before his own sword went flying and Kjartan stood over him. He had looked down, bare-chested, and said, “Run and never return, Gnaar.”
Run, still echoed in Gnaar’s ears; and he had. He had journeyed as far south he could, to the land of Theruze where he had fought as a mercenary. After twenty years of fighting, Gnaar was no longer a boy and Kjartan had made a mistake that day.
He shouted, “Draw the circle. I come to claim what is mine!” Nobody moved and he roared, “Are you a coward, unwilling to honour the right of my claim?”
Kjartan rolled his shoulders and sighed, before nodding at the man next to him. Gnaar smiled as he swung his leg over his mare’s withers and dismounted.
“You are still a fool,” Kjartan said. “And you are a dead man talking.”
The Chief shrugged. “We shall see,” he said while several men quickly marked out a circle. Kjartan entered it first, swinging the huge two-handed weapon, warming up.
Gnaar snugged his shield straps tight and drew Screamer. His three men waited outside the circle with their weapons loose as the other warriors crowded around. Yr’s dark eyes met Gnaars’ and he nodded.
Gnaar returned the nod, understanding that this moment would determine whether they had made the right choice in following him north. His sword cut the air, whistling from the three holes punched in the blade as he warmed up. With Screamer in his hand, his doubts vanished. After a couple swings, he asked, “Ready?”
Kjartan nodded and they circled. Gnaar watched his footwork, looking for a weakness. Then he grinned and swung his sword. Kjartan’s met it. With their swords still ringing, Kjartan reversed his stroke. Gnaar parried and stepped forward slamming his shield into Kjartan’s chest.
The chief back-pedalled, quickly bringing his sword to bear. He still knew how to fight. Gnaar chopped overhead with his blade. He disengaged quickly and swung sideways. Kjartan parried each, before stepping back and slashing, using his blade’s extra length. Gnaar let the sword glance off his shield as he ducked.
Their blades screeched and rang as they fought. Overhead the clouds rolled, darkening the sky. Kjartan’s warriors watched with sombre faces and Gnaar’s men waited expectantly.
Gnaar worked his blade back and forth, tiring Kjartan. As he had expected, the old chief’s age and lack of fighting had caught up to him. The swings of his huge sword became wilder with each stroke. Gnaar bared his teeth and caught the greatsword on his shield. The wood split as he swung his sword, catching Kjartan’s sword hand. The chief roared as his sword fell to the ground and blood squirted before he grabbed what remained of his fingers.
Gnaar used the tip of Screamer to push Kjartan’s sword closer. “You’ll need that.”
Kjartan picked up his sword with his left hand, his right pressed against his stomach, soaking his tunic in blood. He would die with his weapon and his honour.
Gnaar approached the defeated man. He raised his sword, feeling a surge of triumph. He had avenged his father’s death and held his promise to the men who followed him. The world was about to be righted.
A crossbow twanged.
Gnaar spun as a bolt punched into the young warrior who had first challenged him. The warrior’s sword hit the ground as he fell inside the circle, his charge at Gnaar stopped. Amunson dropped his crossbow as his scimitar scraped free. The mute warrior had protected Gnaar’s back.
Then chaos erupted. Kjartan’s warriors attacked Gnaar’s men. Harold ripped free his warhammer as Yr threw two daggers, sticking each into a warrior.
Gnaar roared, “No!” as Harold crushed an enemy’s shield, breaking the man’s shoulder. The big man used his large shield to absorb any blows while his hammer blasted swords out of the way and splintered shields.
Near him, Amunson caught a sword on his scimitar, directed it past him and cut the man’s throat. His scimitar worked from all angles, never meeting a blade, but allowing the curved edge to slide past the straight edged swords.
Yr fought the best of them all. He had a blade in each hand as he spun and slashed. He rammed his sword into a man’s chest, left it stick and threw a dagger before ripping his sword free. A man swung an axe. Yr jumped back, and before the man recovered, kicked the axe free and slashed the man’s throat open.
Gnaar turned, looking for a way to stop the battle. It was not to be this way. Then his sword was knocked from his hand. He jumped back, tripped, and fell to the ground. The young man who had taken the crossbow bolt looked down on him. The broad head protruded from his shoulder as blood streamed down his chest. Yet he held his sword strongly as he glared at Gnaar.
He raised his blade and a woman crashed into him, screaming, “No, Geir, that is your uncle!”
And Gnaar saw someone he hadn’t seen for twenty years. His sister pushed the young man back before turning and looking him in the eye. She had aged, lines crinkling the edges of her mouth and eyes, yet they were laugh lines.
The first raindrops pattered the ground. Gnaar wordlessly opened and closed his mouth. He was this young man’s uncle. Then Kjartan was yelling for his men to cease. The fighting stopped. Harald weaved on his feet as the warriors stepped away from him. Then the big man crashed to the ground, his armour ringing.
“Help him,” ordered Kjartan. Several of his warriors sheathed swords and knelt beside the fallen man. Amunson was down, a bloody mess. Only Yr stood, a ring of dead men around him. The others kept their distance from the dangerous man.
“That is enough, son,” Kjartan said, his eyes dull as the clouds opened up and it poured rain.
Gnaar looked from Geir to Kjartan to his sister. Kjartan had probably married her to cement his claim of kingship. Gnaar had come to do the same thing Kjartan had done those years ago. He would have killed him and sent Geir fleeing, only to await his return.
“I admit defeat,” Kjartan tiredly said.
Gnaar shook his head and struggled to his feet before picking up his sword. The rain washed the blood off the blade and Gnaar sensed an omen. It was time to break the circle. He knelt and said, “I, Gnaar Horse-breaker, pledge my sword and my life to the Chief of the Big River People.” He stood from the already muddy ground and said, “A gift for a King,” before whistling.
His mare walked slowly over. “She is from Maigen stock and the finest horse in a hundred leagues. Her name is Dawn. She is yours,” he said to his nephew.

Devil's Edge

“Ha,” laughed the old man, “Had you mercenaries courage, you’d ride the Devil’s Edge.”
“We should gut you old man and let a pack of hounds chew on your innards,” snarled a mercenary as he stood from his chair, drawing a curved dagger.
The old man laughed again. “Why not try that on a Judain Assaya?” He rose to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “As third requester of Theruze, this is my offer. Ride the Devil’s Edge and return. Do that and you will receive ten pounds of gold…from me, personally.”
He gazed at the hushed tavern for a moment before leaving, his cane tapping with every second step.
#
Not until the man was gone did people speak again. Yr the Ugly smiled at Gnaar, but it was more of a sneer with his hair lip and malformed face. “A lotta fools gonna die over that offer.”
Gnaar took a swig of his ale, pensive.
Yr studied him, finally cursing and saying, “You’re thinking about doing it aren’t you? You idiot, this is just another Theruze Magi scheme to start another war.”
“The trick,” Gnaar said, his gaze distant, “to riding the devil’s edge is you need to know how to ride.”
Yr slapped his own forehead. “So, you’re a Corman and the best damn horseman here, but you’ll still end up dead. Most horses can’t even swim the river, let alone make the raid and return to swim the river again.
“None of these fools know how to swim with a horse,” he said, gesturing at the mercenaries.
Yr shook his head. “I may be the ugliest man in here, but you’re the dumbest. The few Theruze horses strong enough are worth more than that sack of gold.”
Gnaar shook his head. “The Maigen horses,” he said, fixing his gaze on Yr, “You should see them run; they’re weightless…like a duck running on water.”
“Maigens don’t sell their horses.”
“I don’t plan on buying one.”
Yr the Ugly blew a sigh that whistled because of his hair lip. “So you’re going to steal a Maigen horse to raid Judai for a sack of gold.”
Gnaar nodded. “And you’re going to help me steal the horse.”
Yr blew another sigh that whistled. “Knew this was coming.” He muttered a curse and fixed Gnaar with his beady eyes. “After we do this, we use that gold and head north to Corman. You kill that Kjartan and become chief of your people and then we get old and fat with young girls to keep us warm each night.”
Gnaar grinned as he leaned forward. “Tomorrow we go north, find a boat and sneak into Ma’gudai, steal a horse and I head south while you make your way back to Theruze. And I’ll come across the river with a thousand mad Judains chasing me on a Maigen horse.” He laughed. “Because I’m Gnaar Horse-Breaker.”
#
“Now what?” asked Yr as they lay on their stomach, studying the remuda of palomino horses in the blue light before dawn.
One of the horses nipped another, circling the herd together, and Gnaar’s heartbeat quickened. “That’s the lead mare right there. When I catch her, I need you to hold off the Maigens until I get seated. Once I’m clear, you get back to the river and hopefully they’ll follow me.”
Yr glanced at Gnaar’s self-made saddle. Smaller and lighter, it had a single cinch with a leather loop at the front and a total absence of a seat. “That thing going to work?”
“Better than nothing,” Gnaar whispered as he studied the quiet village. “Now let’s do it.”
He had the saddle slung over his shoulder and a coil of rope on the other as he scrambled closer to the village with Yr in his wake.
He ducked down as a Maigen appeared behind a hut and relieved himself. They looked like young men with smooth skin, but had long ears and bright golden hair. The women were stunning creatures, but Gnaar focused. He was here to steal a horse not a woman.
The Maigen disappeared and he set off again. Finally, he was satisfied with his position as dawn approached. He gestured at Yr and his partner edged closer to the village, a short sword in each hand. Gnaar scuttled towards the horses. With a final glance at the village, he stood and walked slowly towards the herd. A horse snorted and he gently whistled, calming them.
They milled in a circle, clearly confused as he continued to whistle. Then he saw her. He had his loop shook out as she came around, herding the group. In one fluid motion he pivoted and tossed the loop over his head, his right foot leading as he held the coils in his left hand. His wrist twisted, allowing the rope to soar out and fall over the mare’s head. He pulled the rope tight and then chaos shattered the still morning.
The mare squealed, sending the others surging into a lope. Shouts came from the Maigen village as warriors appeared, swords in hand. Gnaar ran up the rope. The mare reared backwards, twisting and shaking her head as he leapt atop her neck, grabbing her around the throat and biting her ear.
The horse reared and squealed as he hung on, lifting his legs to avoid her striking hooves. They landed and Gnaar twisted, sending the mare collapsing. He grunted as her head landed atop him. Then he grabbed his loop around her neck and pulled it tight against her jaw. With a half hitch, he looped it around her nose, making a halter to keep her nose twisted up and her on the ground.
As he knelt on her neck and strapped the saddle on, he glanced at Yr. Several Maigens surrounded the fighter with even more lying on the ground, wounded. They fearlessly attacked the sensational warrior whose two swords were a blur as he melted from their attacks.
Gnaar snugged the saddle’s cinch tight and swung his leg over. With a final deep breath, he let the mare stand. For an instant, everything was still. Then she leapt straight up with Gnaar desperately clinging. As her hooves struck the ground, she took to squealing and bucking, trying to dislodge him.
He squeezed with his knees, letting the rest of his body relax, allowing himself to move with the flow of the horse as she jumped, twisted, and snorted.
Then he heard Yr shouting, “Ride, Gnaar! RIDE!”
He pulled the mare’s head around and jammed his heels into her. She took off faster than he thought possible.
One moment Yr was running past him, heading for the river and the next the land was flying underneath pounding hooves. Behind him, the Maigens whistled for their spooked horses. Gnaar smiled. Every extra moment it took them to catch their horses was another moment for him.
He crested a ridge and eased the horse into a canter, angling west towards the river. He hoped the Maigens came after their horse, although he doubted they wished to fight Yr again. Gnaar had never seen Yr’s equal in any fighter other than a Judain Assaya, and only the finest of them.
The mare travelled quickly and soon the river was in sight. Gnaar let her take a drink, which she used to try bucking him off again. The thick river mud quickly tired her out and he let her drink before forcing her into the current.
As she submerged and swam, he slid off and while hanging onto her mane, paddled alongside. He angled her down-stream and they quickly caught the fast current and surged down the river. Cold water sloshed around them and Gnaar swallowed several mouthfuls. When he thought he could take no more and the mare was gasping, struggling to keep her nose above water, he angled back towards the bank. The current refused to release them, and Gnaar thought maybe he waited too long, but then she broke through and they paddled through the gentler waters. As she touched ground, he slid on top her again and rode her clear of the river.
He wasn’t sure how far down stream he had come, but the Maigens would think he had crossed and ride back, ashamed at their lost horse. Gnaar rode a short ways from the river and dismounted before hobbling and tethering her. They were wet, cold, and exhausted. He rubbed her down, using his hands to stream the water off her. He worked across her neck, down her withers, her back and rump, and finally rubbed her legs dry as she cropped at the grass along the river.
He spoke to her as he worked. “Most humans don’t know how to take care of a horse. Just expect them to run and run. Cormen understand. My father taught me. Always tend to your horse first. They are your life blood. A horse can run without a rider, but a rider cannot run without a horse.”
Only when he finished rubbing her did he finally tend to himself. He drew his sword, Screamer, and dried the blade. Years ago, he’d had a blacksmith drill three holes in the blade, so it whistled when swung. Even though it was just a good blade narrowed from years of sharpening, Gnaar felt it important to have a good name. As he pulled apart his pack, which he had greased and sewed tight to keep its contents dry, he looked up at the mare and said, “What should we call you?” She glanced at him before continuing to crop grass. “I don’t know what your name was before, but you need a new name.”
He ate some of his hard tack and drank a little water before saying, “I once compared you to a duck running on the water before they took flight. But I think that is inadequate.” He finished eating and neatly put away his supplies. He had a little grain to feed the mare when she wouldn’t have time to graze, along with some food for himself, his sword and a couple daggers, a leather tunic, boiled and hammered so it would harden, and now his horse. “Watching you lope across the prairie was like watching them golden rays slice across ground when the sun first pokes above the horizon.” He smiled. “I think Dawn suits you.” The mare continued cropping grass, content as he chattered for a while longer.
Satisfied, Gnaar nodded and rolled into a ball to sleep. Dawn grazed for a while before groaning and lying down to sleep.
#
For nearly a day, he worked with Dawn, becoming familiar with her and letting her discover his signals for movement. Then he travelled south through the Anorem Desert, a blighted land of sand and sun. He knew he entered Judai when he spotted the North River Fort, a bastion to protect Judai from northern incursions.
It was not a large fort, but it forced Gnaar to travel inland before continuing south. He circled back to the river, where he found the Key. It was a bay that flooded even in drought years, irrigating the cropland, which the Judains had built a city around. A fort protected the people, but Gnaar had already planned his attack.
The wheat and flax was nearly ready to harvest, their golden and white heads waving ripe in the wind, ripe for a fire. He wrapped dry reeds to pieces of driftwood, creating firebrands. He then started a fire, and once he had coals, filled his fire starter, a small steel container that would hang from his neck, holding the smouldering embers, ready to light brands. Then he set off for the garrison.
Gnaar calmly rode towards them. He started to wonder if anyone stood sentry when someone called out, “Rider to the North!”
In the next instant, Dawn leapt forward in full lope as Gnaar opened his fire holder and grabbed a brand. Commotion erupted in the fort as horns blew. Gnaar poked the brand’s head into the burning embers and it fired. He leaned out of the saddle and rode along the wheat fields, lighting them.
It had been a long time since someone had rode the devil’s edge. Men and women started screaming as they ran to their houses. Gnaar rode past, lighting the crop on fire. Then he tossed the brand into the center and drew another, lighting it before starting the next field on fire.
He tossed that brand as Judain cavalry rode from the fort. Gnaar grinned as he lit another brand. Their horses were fine, but none of them could catch Dawn. Smoke curled into the air, the flames leaping higher as they consumed the crops. Men ran with water buckets, trying to stop the fire as a wagon emerged, loaded with casks of water.
Gnaar swung his horse around and threw another brand before drawing Screamer. He turned in a sharp circle, cutting across a Judain horsemen. Sword whistling, he slashed the man’s blade wide. With the speed of his horse, the back edge of the blade drew across his throat, opening it. Gnaar leaned forward as Dawn spurted forward like the sunlight streaming across the ground.
They gave chase and Gnaar laughed as he looked back at the billowing clouds of smoke. He rode the devil’s edge.
Hooves pounding, Dawn quickly out ran the Judain horses. Ahead, the Theruzian battlements rose. On it, he could see men cheering as he raced towards them.
The wind tossed Dawn’s white mane as she ran with her head low, her nose tipped out, drinking the wind. Gnaar waved his sword as the wind screamed through it, causing the men to cheer louder before he sheathed it and rode Dawn into the water.
It splashed around him as she submerged. He slid from her back and swam along. As expected the current quickly grabbed them and bore them downstream. Dawn’s powerful legs propelled her across as the Judain horsemen rode to the edge and shouted at his cowardice as they watched him swim to freedom. He waved once while swimming.
They floated past the battlement until they made land. Dawn shook and shivered from cold and exhaustion as she plodded up the riverbank. Gnaar dismounted and rubbed her down.
“We did it, girl. Right in front of the Judai,” he said before barking a laugh. Then he added soothingly, “You’re so strong,” as he rubbed her between the eyes. She nuzzled him and whickered softly. With a final pat, he mounted and continued towards the fortress.
Four riders met him. Yr halted, grinning. “You did it you crazy, Corman.” He gestured at the two men beside him. “I told Harold and Amunson your plan, they want in.”
Gnaar nodded, welcoming Harold Swift Mind, the slowest thinking man in Theruze and Amunson, a tongue-less Theruzian cast-out. “Let us collect our gold and then we ride out of here, the gods know, but the Judains are going to be scrapping for a fight.”
#
It was not long and Gnaar met with the old Magi who laughed aloud. “You did it, on a Maigen horse too! Where did you get the beast?”
“I stole it from the Maigens.”
“So you stole a horse to ride the devil’s edge?”
Gnaar nodded and the Magi laughed again. “Couldn’t have worked better, got rid of the riff raff mercenaries, but more importantly, stirred up the Judains for a fight.” He pulled out Gnaar’s sack of gold. “Here’s you gold.”
Gnaar checked the contents as the Magi continued. “Most people don’t understand. Think peace makes them rich, but me and you, we’re men of war. We profit from the chaos. Now be gone, and I expect to hear of your exploits in the coming months.”
Gnaar nodded and left the Magi’s presence. He wouldn’t be staying around for another pointless war. It was time to exact revenge on his father’s murderer. It was time for him to claim kingship.