The Lords of Ambros

by LordofAmbros

In the wake of the Collapse came the Dark Age: a time when our civilization descended into feudalism once more. Those chosen by the Traveler's Ghosts now rule over Earth's territories as brutal Warlords. This tale focuses on the struggle between the Iron Lords and the Lords of Ambros as each order aims to expand its influence over the future of the Risen, humanity, and their home.

1. Two Storms and One

Preface: Amateur writer, never written fanfiction before, did this on a whim. My apologies if it is utter garbage.

Tips, criticism, questions, etcetera are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading my work.

Chapter 1, Part 1

Four figures could be seen in the grand throne-room of the ancient Neoclassical mansion that now served as the capitol of the Kingdoms of Ambros. Two of these figures, members of the Royal Guard, were clad in worn armor of black leather with contrasting pads of white upon their joints. Each was armed with an arsenal of various knifes, all sharpened expertly, which were sheathed all about their person. A hooded cloak of plain white dragged along the marble floor behind each, but their hoods were down, and neither wore a helmet. Both were men of considerable stature, slim and spry. They dragged a third between them.

This third individual, their prisoner, was a smaller man clothed in filthy garments of dark blue. His pale face was smeared with dirt, his once-bright eyes now a dull blue, and he was thinner than one might consider to be healthy. His hands were bound behind him with thick ropes, and each guard grasped a forearm. The man winced in pain as his captors dropped him on the cold stone.

Before them was the fourth and final occupant of the chamber. He was of respectable height, lean, and had skin that was, perhaps, whiter even than the marble from which his home was built. His eyes glowed a bright golden hue, and his silvery pupils were nigh imperceptible. He was clothed in robes of shimmering gold, and he sat upon a throne of flowing marble, which seemed to rise up from the very same stone as the ground around it, without the slightest gap whatsoever. A thin Spanish saber laid across his lap; a relic from before the Golden Age.

"This here is Anderson, Lord Ikoris", informed one of the guards.

"Anderson, you say?" the Awoken inquired.

"Yes, sir. Rich Anderson."

"I see."

He looked down to address the prisoner. "And are you, Mr. Anderson-may I call you Richard?"

The man sat in sullen silence, staring blankly at the ground. One of the guards struck him cruelly in the side with his elbow. The man grunted, feeling a rib give way, and fell to the side. The other guard caught him before pulling him back into a kneeling position.

"Name's Rich, sir, whole thing. Just Rich", he responded finally. He never looked up from the cold stone of the ground.

"Splendid. So, Richard, are you the man that I am looking for, or is this just some unfortunate misunderstanding?"

Anderson made as if to remain silent again, but-feeling the guard to his left tense up once more in preparation to deal a fresh blow-he eventually gave in and replied. "That would depend, sir."

"Is that so? And what exactly, Richard my fellow, would that depend on?"

"Well, who's the guy that you're searchin' for, and what'd he do?"

"Oh, he's nobody important, really. Just some miserable wretch who decided to start a rebellion within my domain, burned an archive, and conspired with those damned Wolves before he was captured and brought back as my prisoner."

"Mm", Anderson grunted in acknowledgement.

"Sounds familiar, does he?"

"I reckon so."

"And, Richard, might you possibly have any idea of his whereabouts?"

"No, sir. Haven't seen 'em."

"Oh", the man on the throne frowned, looking a little disappointed. "That's too bad."

He motioned to one of the chamber's side doors, and it swung inward slowly. Behind it stood another Royal Guard member, and before him were three bound figures: a woman, no older than her early thirties, and two young boys-one no more than ten, and the second several years his brother's elder. All three were thin, sickly, and clothed in rags.

"We wouldn't want to escalate things further, now would we, Richard?"

Anderson stared toward his family, his mouth agape, before turning to the throne once more.

"You son of a bitch! Let them go! Take me, but let them go. Please, by the Light, let them go..." he finished sobbingly.

"So, correct me if I'm wrong, Richard, but are you saying that you do know of my target's whereabouts?"

"He's right here, damn you. I'm right here", Anderson responded, still sobbing.

"I suspected as much", Ikoris said gravely, smiling slightly. Anger and hatred filled his eyes. "It's very fortunate that you did not continue your little charade of pride. Things might have gotten a bit...messy."

The younger boy burst into tears. The other sat silently, his face expressionless as he stared at the old columns of the room, never looking at either his father or the Awoken man on the throne. There had been rebellions before. He knew what would happen. He was thirteen.

"You rotten bastard!" Anderson screamed at Ikoris. "They didn't do nothin'! Let 'em go!" He struggled against his bonds. The guard to his left struck him again. He coughed and slouched to the side before being hoisted upright once more.

"That's quite alright, Richard. I will let them go, in time, just as I am releasing you now."

"What?" Hope began to return to his eyes. The others were silent.

"You heard me. I am a Chosen, my friend. We are not all selected for our dashing looks. We can be benevolent, when circumstances permit. I will release you...if you provide me with the names and whereabouts of your fellow traitors."

"Why, you...no! Never! You're no "Chosen", you're a butcher! A tyrant! I'd be ten times the Chosen that you'll ever be, if I got the chance!"

"Is that so?" Ikoris asked, grinning darkly.

"Yeah. That's so."

"Well then. Prove it."

"Wha...why...how?", Anderson stammered.

Ikoris grasped the saber lightly and stood, never allowing his eyes to leave his captive. Anderson's son continued to weep, and was now joined by his mother as well. The elder brother did not seem to know where he was.

The Awoken slowly advanced toward Anderson, dragging his blade across the stone behind him. It made a light metallic scream against the marble.

"Long ago", he began slowly, continuing his advance. "The Traveler created the Ghosts." He held out his empty palm, and a small spherical drone in an ornate shell materialized above it in a flash of blue light. "Each seeks one of the Traveler's Chosen to resurrect. In the years since the Fall, many have accomplished this goal. Yet some haven't." He stood directly in front of Anderson now, saber in hand. "Go out and find one", he said coldly. Then he drew the blade across the man's throat in one lightning-fast motion.

Ikoris watched grimly as the blood gathered upon the cold stone in a pool of crimson. The guards let go of the corpse, and it slumped to the floor. The younger boy and the widow wailed. The elder stared at the blood.

"Sir, what should we do about the other rebels, and this body?" asked one of the guards.

"Gather the others, and their families. Kill all of the men, and every boy over twelve. Burn the corpses, and scatter their ashes to the wind. The Lords of Iron gather on our borders. We shall meet them at dawn."

Chapter 1, Part 2

"Are we there yet?" Roak questioned wearily. It was the fourth time that he had asked this in less than half an hour. Neither of his companions glanced backward to see him wading clumsily through the brush behind them. His movement was perfectly audible.

"You know, for Gheleon's apprentice, you are really quite loud", Lord Felwinter commented, ignoring the question. While it was unusual for a scholar such as him to volunteer for a scouting mission, Felwinter had practically demanded that he be sent along with them. For him, the conquest of this sector in particular was of the utmost importance.

"I'm just saying", Roak began, "We left the others hours ago, we've held a steady, grueling pace, we haven't turned from our course once, and we still haven't gotten there yet? Are you sure this is the right way?"

"Yes", Gheleon said flatly. "We've come here before. I know the way."

With that, Roak dropped the subject. Gheleon was strange, but he was an expert frontiersman, and his judgement on the matter was not to be questioned.

"Fine, we aren't there yet. Got it. But can you at least tell me why this Icarus guy is so important? Why would Lord Radegast want to send a whole host of us out here in the middle of nowhere for one Warlord? We've never come this far west before", Roak rambled in frustration, not really expecting a response.

"He isn't important", Gheleon stated. "He's crazy."

"And as for Radegast, he didn't want to send any of us after Ikoris. I insisted. Our order is not a dictatorship, you know", Felwinter added.

"Wait, you wanted to come out here? Why? This place stinks!" Roak complained.

"I did not want to come here, but it was necessary."

"And why is that? Gheleon said himself that this Icibus guy isn't important!"

"That's Lord Gheleon to you, Young Wolf. And-while I do not wish to undermine the authority of my fellow Iron Lords-on that matter, Lord Gheleon is mistaken. While Ikoris is indeed crazy, he is still a serious threat to us. His influence has been spreading at an alarming rate. Our informant tells us that he has absorbed the domains of three more Warlords in the past year. He is a plague upon this land, and he must be stopped before it is too late."

"Ooh! We have an informant? Like a spy? That sounds nice. Must be a heck of a lot more exciting than trudging through empty wastes all day..." Roark said excitedly.

"Yes...well, we did have an informant. Now, however, we do not", Felwinter answered solemnly.

"Oh...what happened?"

"His name was Anderson, a common man in the lands under Ikoris's rule. He was brave, determined, and a man of high values. That was likely his downfall. Do you remember that old outpost a few miles back, Roak?" Roak nodded an affirmative. "Well, there was an Iron Lord stationed there. A frontiersman, much like Lord Gheleon here." Gheleon grunted. "His name was Velith. We found his corpse rotting in the weeds outside. He was killed by a sniper. Anderson had been sheltering with him, but he was nowhere to be found when we got there. We pulled what we could from Lord Velith's ghost. Anderson was taken by Ikoris's men. He is dead", Felwinter said this last statement as if it were indisputable fact.

"How can you be so sure? What if he's still out there? How could you abandon your allies like that?" Roak questioned pointedly.

"I've had dealings with Ikoris before. Anderson is dead." There was a note of finality in Felwinter's tone, and Roak did not push any further on the subject.

They plodded on across the gray tundra, walking in silence for nearly an hour longer before reaching a small, ancient station that marked the start of the Kingdoms of Ambros. They stood atop a small ridge, staring down upon the structure, which rested amidst a grassy plane. The gray hulks of mountains rose in the distance.

The structure itself was an old transmission station-perhaps for radio, cell phones, or any other of the numerous forms of remote communication that were so prominent before the Collapse. A crumpled metal spire stood atop the two-storied outpost, but only the base remained in-place and intact. The rest had long since toppled to the Earth and been overgrown with weeds.

The door of the building was closed, and between their party and the structure stood a wall of rusted iron paneling. This barrier-still several hundred meters out-denied entrance to all, except those who went by way of an old makeshift gate, which was offset to the west of the outpost by some distance. A dirt path wound through the gate and toward the station's door, while another branched off and went north.

Two weathered banners were draped from the wall, facing outward. Each was of a yellowish hue, which may once have been gold. Upon this background rose a four-pillared facade, resembling the Greek temples that were erected millennia before the Traveler's arrival. Each banner read "I gi ton Theón". "The Land of the Gods".

Chapter 1, Part 3

Their host had marched for countless hours, and now-just as dusk was setting in, and Sol began to descend past the horizon-it was finally time for them to rest. They had not stopped the night before, nor the one prior to that. They had simply carried on in the darkness as they had in the light.

It wasn't that they needed to rest-Risen never needed to rest-but they certainly wanted to. It was refreshing. It cleared the mind, gave them time to think things through. Until now, there had been little strategizing; there had been only blind advance.

As the Iron Lords erected their campsite, and the last moments of dusk faded to the gloom of night, they saw the fires. The Warlord who ruled over this sector, a vain old fellow by the name of Garamont, had promised them men to bolster their numbers. He had given his men because he was afraid; afraid of the wrath of the Iron Wolves, yes, but moreso afraid of his neighbors: the Lords of Ambros. He knew that, unless they were stopped, his land would be absorbed into their domain. And, of course, he would be forced to bend to their will-or be broken by their fury. These fires, Silimar knew, likely belonged to Garamont's men.

"The damned fools!" Silimar yelled to nobody in particular. Their assault was meant to be a surprise. Several Lords resting nearby stared at him questioningly, waiting for him to elaborate. He did not. He simply stared at the distant pillars of smoke, and they followed his gaze. As they too noticed the fires, they sighed in irritation. The night was ruined.

"Halt!" Silimar boomed out across the camp. The others, while entirely astonished at the sudden command, stilled without hesitation. "Change of plans! Tomorrow, we fight! Tomorrow, we die! But tonight, we build!"

A collective groan sounded across the campsite, and they all hurried to gather stones. "Again?" one of them asked in a high-pitched, annoyed tone.

"Yes, Wilhelm, again. Scoff now, but you will be glad to have a defensible position at your back when the fighting starts. Now build, I tell you! We've no time to waste! I want a wall there, of the biggest stones you can find. And there must be a tower here, and another to the east. Spare no labor! We cannot allow the enemy to pass this line!"

Silimar issued orders through the night, and the other Lords reluctantly followed them. A fortress slowly rose around them, and their Ghosts flashed on and off through the hours of darkness like so many fireflies in the moonlight.

Tips, criticism, questions, etcetera are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading my work.

Chapter 1, Part 4

Perseus hurried about the small house where he and his family lived, gathering his supplies. He had never fought against any Chosen before. He had never needed to. But he had heard the stories-new and old-, and he knew that he would need to be fully prepared if he were to have any chance of surviving the coming days.

Though he appeared outwardly calm and determined, his concern was evident in the things that he carried with him. Four blades were sheathed at his belt: A shock dagger, initially belonging to a long-dead Fallen dreg; an ancient yet highly useful Bowie knife, which he inherited from his father; and two other blades of ancient Grecian design. The first, known as a Xiphos, was little more than a glorified dagger. The second, known as a Kopis, was a single-edged cavalry sword, which he wore at his left hip. He had never so much as swung either of these; they had been mounted upon his wall for years, untouched. Why he needed a cavalry sword, Perseus had no clue. These last two blades were mass-produced by Lemnos, the weapons foundry of the Kingdoms of Ambros, and were given to every man in the unified territories upon his turning sixteen. This was considered a great honor, meant to show the favor of their benevolent overlord Ikoris. In reality, Perseus knew, it was simply because their gracious leader was a sucker for thematic unity. His theme of choice was Ancient Greece, for some reason.

Aside from these close-quarters weapons, Perseus owned two rifles. The first was his hunting-rifle, a weapon that was likely nigh upon a century in age. The guns antiquity was made all the more evident by the fact that its design mimicked those rifles that had been used half a millennium ago. His second rifle, however, was entirely opposite to the first. It was sleek, modern, and had never been fired. It was a Fated Odyssey 49-model scout-rifle, forged in the fires of Lemnos: the self-proclaimed "Forge of the Gods". Inscribed upon its shimmering side was a short phrase: "When your ship sets sail upon Ill-fortune, may yours be the patron amidst the Gods". It was only gibberish to Perseus, of course, but it brought him comfort nonetheless.

Seeing that everything was in order-and that he had only enough room on his person for a single gun-he returned his hunting rifle to its case, donned his cloak, and threw the door wide. His first thought was that it looked like it might rain. His second thought was interrupted when he ran directly into his wife, who stood before the open door. Their son, a boy of twelve who shared the same name as his father, stood behind her. Both of their faces were streaked with tears.

Perseus' wife scurried inside, forcing him back into the house. "Run along to your room, Percy.", she said, her voice a soft whisper. The boy did as he was told. She shut the door quickly behind her.

"What's going on", she demanded, her face-while still showing great sorrow-became stern and commanding.

"I'm leaving", Perseus stated flatly.

"Why? Why must you go now? Something is happening, Percy. They're rounding people up. Taking them somewhere. Killing them. Burning them. I can smell it in the air."

"I know", he replied.

"Well, what is it? What are they doing?" she asked frantically, knowing the answer but not wanting it to be true.

"I don't need to tell you that. You already know. It has happened before, and we knew that it would come soon."

"No, Percy. No. Not here. Not again. It can't be. Rich, he said last week that it wouldn't happen this time, that they didn't know who it was."

"Yes, Catherine. Here. Again. Rich was wrong. They found out...somehow. Rich is dead", he said coldly. He was not saddened by this fact-he had expected it. Anderson was a traitor, and he would die as a traitor should.

"How can you be so sure? And what of the others, and their families?" Catherine asked.

"He is dead, or he will die soon. They all will. Their widows and their children will have their rations cut, and they will starve. This is as it has always been. You know these things."

"No. We can't let them starve, Percy. We've got to help them. We've got to! His boy is friends with our Percy, you know", she said with tears in her eyes.

"His boy was Percy's age?"

"Yes. A little older", she confirmed.

"Then he is dead."

"No!" she cried.

"Yes", he said in the same matter-of-fact tone as before.

"Oh, we can't tell Percy!" she sobbed.

"He knows. The boy is no fool."

"Don't call him that", Catherine said, growing angry.

"Call him what?" Percy questioned in confusion.

"You called him 'the boy', as if he isn't your son. He is, and he needs you right now, Percy. He needs you."

"Yes, he is. I'm sorry. I've got to go, Catherine", Percy replied, showing no emotion.

"Where are you going? And why do you have all of these weapons? You can't fight them, Percy. You can't! Not on your own. Not like this!" she yelled nervously.

"I'm not going to fight them. I'm going to fight for them. An invasion is coming."

"What? No. No, don't. Is it the Fallen? Don't leave us, Percy. We can't survive against them by ourselves", she said quietly.

"It isn't the Fallen. It's some other Warlords. They want to conquer us, to subjugate us. I won't let them", Percy replied.

"Other Warlords! Percy, that's much worse. Please, you can't fight their kind. They're too powerful. They'll kill you..."

"I can fight them, and I will. Many of the Lords are going with us. It will please them, Catherine. They will reward us for our loyalty. That's what they need from us right now; loyalty", Percy explained.

"Oh, for the Traveler's sake! Is that all you can think of? Pleasing them? That's all you do, Percy, please them", she spouted.

It was true, of course. In-fact, his very name was an attempt to please them. When Lord Ikoris had conquered their sector nearly a century ago, Percy's grandfather had been the first child born under their new king. Wanting to remain in good favor with Ikoris, his parents had asked him to name the child. He had chosen the name Perseus, and so the child had been named. Seeing as there had not yet been any change of leadership, and their master had not declined in mental awareness thus-far, each successive generation had elected to pass the name to their children rather than risk insulting him.

Noting the validity of his wife's observation, he dropped the loyalty argument. "They'll double our glimmer ration, maybe even triple it. We could use that kind of help. We could feed Mrs. Anderson and her other kid, and we'd still have plenty left over.", he reasoned.

"No, Percy", Catherine said. There was a note of uncertainty in her voice.

"Yes. I'm leaving. Goodbye", Perseus said, ending the discussion. Then he kissed her lightly, turned, and walked out into the rain.

Time to get a horse, he thought at first. And then: I'm going to die.

Chapter 1, Part 5

He was, Garamont might have said-had he ever mustered the courage to utter such things-, as a ship tossed between the fury of two vast tempests. At this very moment, he noted, these storms were closing in: one from the east, and one from the west. He wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath a stone and allow them to clash while he rested in peace. But he could not.

He did not side with either force in the coming struggle, and neither of these forces truly sided with him. One called themselves gods, and the other thought themselves saviors. They were all tyrants.

To the west, there was Ikoris and his stately order of butchers. Always killing, conquering, spreading. The walls of their territory shifted constantly, but never in retreat. Always in advance.

To the east, there were the Wolves. What was the old saying? "Beware of wolves in sheep's clothing"? Yes. Beware; for they were wolves indeed. They came here from their distant citadel, bearing offerings of peace unto his land. But they did not want peace. Their creed was this: Join...or die. And so they did, one by one. Now, it was his turn. Join, or die. And so he would die.

He had sent five scores of his men to the border, to appease the wolves. They had wished to infiltrate Ambros quietly, to reach deep into the heart of the territory before being discovered. To appease his men, he had gone with them. He had seen to it that they set many fires-to draw the attention of Ikoris' sentries. He had orchestrated events in an attempt to gather both armies in the same place; as close to his reach as possible, should something go astray. Once this was done, his men were to remain out of the fray, only contributing as much to the battle as was necessary to preserve the charade of their alliance. The Wolves expected them to fight. When the fighting had slowed, and only a handful from either group remained standing, they would begin the real work.

Once the Risen posed a minimal threat to himself and his men, Garamont would order the survivors to be extinguished. With their numbers diminished, and their advances crushed, he might just get a brief respite from the constant threat of conquest. It was not a noble approach to the situation, of course, but his plight was a desperate one. He had sat idly by for too long. Now he must fight back.

A clap of thunder stirred him from his musings, and lightning flashed across the sky. As dawn neared, the first drops of rain descended upon them. A third storm was gathering.

End of Chapter 1

Please do not hesitate to offer questions, criticism, or comments of any kind. As stated, I am new to fanfiction, and I would love to hear your thoughts on my work.