Those Who Came Before
Chapter 1
'Mercenary work? Yeah, you can easily get into mercenary bands, son. Especially with a war on. But I'll warn you, and you better listen: Don't lose sight of yourself!!! I almost did....'
Loerik Gabriev talking to his 15-year old son Gourry
Swearing, rustling of swords, the icy, stringenly grating sound of sharpening, the many loud voices of men together mixed with the soft or coarse odors of cooking and made so that a traveller would know a large camp was there from five miles off. Not that any traveller would have gone towards the sounds, once they had heard them. Instead, most would have run the other way, thinking of death and pillage and bandits.
But it wasn't a bandit gang which loudly celebrated a rich steal, but a very large band of mercenaries rejoicing at joining a large-scale offensive in the days to come.
"I've told ye, I've told ye boys and I'll keep tellin', but that damn Lumeria and that damn Elmekia fighting each other sure is good fer business!" Said the leader of that gang. He was a tall, built man who had scars just about everywhere he could have one, short hair heavily mingled with the grey of age, and a set, granite face. Only the stern face was relaxed into a grin tonight as he took stock of their situation as it had been for the last three years, and what it would be again in the days to come. Seated around him, sharing a meal of roasted pig and vegetable stew in the tent which served as a sort of mess for the main warriors of the large group, the people cheered at that, giving their wholehearted agreement to the concept.
All except once, that was.
The mercenary leader frowned. "Hey, Gabriev! Cat got yer tongue? Stop eating that leg and talk with us a bit."
Stacked between two other mercenaries, the man called Gabriev so unceremoniously didn't twitch, but rather continued shovelling meat and vegetable stew into his mouth. Already bones from two pig legs lay in front of him, and the older mercenary knew that he was at his third large helping of stew. Having watched the disconcerting display of ingurgitation, he also knew that it wouldn't stop for a while yet, and that if he didn't make himself clearer, the eating festival would go on with him forgotten.
"GABRIEV!"
The head of the subordinate snapped up in surprise and confusion, in the middle of a mouthful of roast. Dark-haired, his face untouched by the three years of conflict he had taken part, Loerik Gabriev chewed and talked all the while. "Whut? Whasha wan', shkip?" he askedm his words distorted.
More than one mercenary bristled at the surname Gabriev gave his leader. The older mercenary was very known in Elmekia, a veteran of many border skirmishes and two full-blown wars against Zefilia itself. That was the kind of track record which earned respect amongst all who wielded a sword. That Gabriev would call him so disrespectfully was outrageous to the mercenary mind set.
However, no one said a word about it, not even the leader. For although he was young, younger than anyone else in the room, there was one thing in which Gabriev outshone them all: swordsmanship. In three years, he had gone to good to the skill level worth of the best sword masters. So no one wanted to pick a fight with the young, sad-eyed, hungry swordsman. Not even the respected mercenary leader.
So all the man did was repeat his question, and there was true curiosity in his tone. After all, even after nearly three years with him, the young virtuoso of the sword was private, quiet and solemn, rarely giving his opinion about anything.
This time was no different, as Loerik swallowed his mouthful of food and contemplated the remains of his little feast with a non-equivocal expression. "Its well-paid work." he said at length "But even though its what permits me to live my life, sometimes I still wonder..."
"Wonder whut, chap?" another mercenary, a small but brawny man named Gulthas asked when moments of silence had passed.
"Oh! Sorry, I was thinking about...nevermind. The thing about the attack on Lumeria? Well, it seems to me that we're going to take part in an overkill battle, to scare the Lumerians."
The mercenary leader guffawed. "You think too much or too little, Gabriev - I dunno which yet! Who cares if we scare the Lumerians or not? I'm asking you how long you think these cowards'll stand against true mercs like us, boy!"
"They don't stand a chance. They never did." was the quiet, somber reply. One almost had to wonder which side the black-haired master swordsman stood in.
Still, even to an old mercenary after his pleasures and money, he could tell that Loerik talked about the Lumerians never having a chance in general in the entire war. That was as true as crystal water, Ceipheed be the witness to it! If the Empire had decided to make war against Sailune, it would have been a huge, prolonged conflict, as the Kingdom of Sailune had a large army, a booming and loyal population and a lot of gold to spend. It was easily a match for Elmekia. Lumeria, however, wasn't. Its armies lacked manpower and quality, and although they fought fanatically, they had never scored one decisive victory against their attackers. After three years, already half of the Kingdom's territory was captured, and within a month, maybe two, they would capture the capital and force a complete surrender - and certainly annexation to the Empire. It was sad, if one thought of the suffering of the lumerian people.
But the old leader didn't think that way. What he knew was that, during a war, mercenaries could do pretty much what they wanted with enemy spoils - whether riches or women. And he had had his share of both during the three years, and so had all the others around him.
Again, except Loerik. The man refused most of his share of the spoils and had never slept with the slaves he had been offered. Maybe it was a sort of quaint gentleman honor? He certainly seemed the type to entertain something like this. However, it didn't matter, as long as the youth did his job as efficiently as he always did. If he started to go lax, then, well...
"Shabranigdu take you, Gabriev, I jus' can't understand ya." Kalarus, the best swordsman in the camp - that, officially, many thought Loerik to actually be even better, his youth notwithstanding - told in a scornful voice. Like most at the table, he sometimes found the young mercenary's way galling. And he was the only one, with the leader himself, to tell of it. From time to time. "Ya know we're goin' to get a big bonus with this battle - heck, the Emperor has promised us all two hundred gold more than usual. Think of the things ya can do with two hundred gold."
"Man, I could name a few things..." said another man, and people laughed at the suggesting tone. Even Loerik's mouth smiled, if his eyes didn't. Kalarus laughed harder than most, fingering the scar which ran from his cheek across his mouth. No one knew who had managed to do this to him. The scar was old, and he always fingered it whenever someone talked of women.
"That especially, aye!" his grin turned malicious "Although its nothin' compared to what ya can do with one of our lil morsels here, I swear. Got that swordswoman yesterday, yé no, the mouthy curly one? Well, I tell ya, she won't be too mouthy tonight. Took care of her, I tell ya!"
He laughed hard again, and was followed only by hesitant laughs and chuckles. The nastiness the scarred swordsman visited upon their female 'slaves' was infamous, and it put many ill at ease. The leader him self felt a little queasy. Not about the violence and the defilement - they were slaves, after all - but the sheer glee that was taken at it.
The laughter continued for a long while, and he saw faces start to change. Some were starting to share the humor, some were turning pale from badly-hidden fright, and a few were irritated at all the noise interrupting the dinner. Loerik Gabriev said nothing, only looked at the laughing man with dark eyes, his mouth curled in a for of disgusted bewilderment, and words came out muttering of his mouth.
"La-hailk, she ujar flagaras bahle..." was what the leader caught. It was told in a language which certainly wasn't mercenary speech, or human common. The intonation was richer, more... melodious. He didn't have time to consider much of it, for the tall young man rose stiffly. "Excuse me. Not hungry anymore."
Kalarus was still chuckling to himself, his eyes lighted by images and memories the old veteran wasn't sure he wanted to see. He shook his head, then called to Gabriev once more. "Boy, you still haven't answered me! What about the battle soon?"
The dark-haired man paused by the tent flap. "We will massacre them. That's all I've left to say on it, and that's already too much. At least to me. Good sup." he said stonily.
And then he was gone. 'He's good, damned good.' the leader mused 'But for some reason, he's never fitted here, and I think he never will.'
* * * * * * * * * *
"Where is that nonchalant, cocky flaming KID?!? I asked him over three HOURS ago, for Gods' sake!" Bellowed a middle-aged man in the reds, blacks and blues of a high-level sorcerer, with a gold-trimmed black cape thrown around his shoulders for good measure. He was named Lemaran Gladelight, and he wasn't used to waiting for one not even half his age to show himself in his office!
Berrel, his assistant, quailed slightly from the tone, knowing his master well enough when he was in his black moods. His voice, however, remained business-like "Marcus Jaderam has told our messengers that he was in the middle of a very straining and costly experiment, and that he couldn't..."
"I don't want to know whether the irresponsible fool is making a new spell, flirting with the High Priestess of Atlas City, or finding a better place to pee!" the older magi bellowed, banging his fist on the elaborate and fine maple wood of his desk. "You go there, and tell Marcus that if he's not here by the next five minutes-"
"Don't have an aneurysm, old man. I'm here." came a young, confident - and amused - male voice through the door. Berrel, Lemaran noted, nearly fainted from relief. He, however, had no patience left to apologize or try to make himself look less angry. He slammed his hand on his desk again.
"Berrel, out. Marcus in. Close the door, sit, and EXPLAIN YOURSELF!" he growled, his tone rising.
Marcus entered as his assistant fled while trying to maintain his dignity. The young sorceror, barely nineteen, wasn't very tall, but was impressive his posture and bearing. Red hair and eyes glittered on a slightly tanned face whose mouth always seemed upturned in mischief. He was dressed only in a blue tunic and breeches, with an expensive-looking belt and the usual black sorceror's cloak the only indications that he was a full-fledged spellcaster instead of an apprentice. His face looked happy about something, and Lemaran had to remind himself that the man was no child.
Taken in by the Sorceror's Guild of Atlas City on the insistance of a respected - if rumored to be whacked - archmage called Jillen Neverbreak, the boy had been at fifteen deemed too old to learn to be a sorcerer. However, the youth had progressed at a rate never before seen in the annals of the Guild. In two years, he had become a sorceror, something which should have taken more than a decade to anyone else. He was growing in power quickly still, and today his magic was rumored to be nearly as great as Lemaran's. This only rankled the elder mage more.
But he took a more conciliatory tone, however, as Marcus lazily slumped on the chair in front of the desk, looking at the magical tomes and artifacts around the room. "I'll go straight to the point, Marcus..." he began.
"Good. Then we won't waste time on this foolishness." the red-haired sorcerer mused idly, still not looking at him.
Damn the boy's impudence. It had been there from the first, but the young man had grown into the trait until it became a part of him, emboldened by the undeniable fact that he had, in a few short years, reached and far outranked the rest of the students his age, and become one of the youngest to become a full sorcerer. It was supposed to be an honor, but the young brat had let that go to his head! It took Lemaran a good moment of mental repose to continue without showing his disgust over the younger man's unruly attitude.
"Well, I suppose a man as bright as you has heard of the Lumerian-Elmekian conflict?" he said. Damn. It still sounded contemptuous. Worse, it was a redundant, stupid sentence, and Marcus caught to it immediately, laughing softly, his tone that of badly-disguised mockery.
"Who HASN'T heard about the damn thing, you old man?" he said with a calm face which had a mouth still quivering with mirth "Its been in and out of conversations around the guilds, the nobility, politica and anything that can walk and talk for the last three years. So, yes, Lemaran, I admit to have heard it."
"Good. I never doubted it." the older sorcerer slipped smoothly to cover his little verbal bruise. The young one nodded and smiled almost indulgently. Impudence. Vanity and impudence. "We want you to go to Lumeria."
Marcus' smile thinned. "I assume its not to join the sorcerers there. I may have said that I didn't like what was happening to Lumeria, but I know better than to join the side which is sure to lose in times no longer much-removed."
"Of course not." 'Although I might like the idea of you getting your arrogance set down a few notches.' he mused silently "A mage of great importance has told Guildmistress Hizerna that the Lumerians are getting desperate, and a band of Lumerian-born sorcerer are dabbling with things beyond their knowledge. That mage is uncertain of it, but he felt it might be related to the Forbidden Lore."
He watched as the young man's eyes narrowed a bit in surprise and consternation, and tried to enjoy the lapse in the facade. However he couldn't, for the Forbidden Lore made him queasy.
Little was known about the Forbidden Lore, and the secrets contained with it. Fragments of records deciphered told that the powers of Ceipheed and the Dragon Kings had been used to create powerful artifacts, and that the Mazoku had reciprocated in kind. The artifacts had been used during the War of Resurrection, and it was said, had torn apart the lands, forcing the erection of the Mazoku Barrier to protect this side of the world from most of the damage of the war. Only a few elements had cropped up during the centuries...the Cazzalin Bracelet wielded by the Queens of Zephilia, granting enormous magical powers; the White Crown of Sailune, which was rumored to keep the wearer from Mazoku harm and strengthened white magic in the city; The Soul Mirror of Abram, the Sword of Light, and a few more. All had been examples. All had great powers. But the Forbidden Lores were said to have had even more powerful artifacts, things as powerful - and darker - than even the Philosopher Stone itself!
The frightening implications obviously occurred to the younger man, as his reaction was swift and furious. "Then why send one man? Lets gather our forces and strike before they do something foolish."
Lemaran shook his head. "We cannot. We have no certainty. Even the one who told us of this peril couldn't tell if it was real or not."
"Who is that person, anyway?" was the calm demand.
The older mage smirked. "One whom even you would not dare to call an 'old man': Rezo the Red Priest." He watched the young man blink stupidly for a moment, and was rewarded with the speechless look following the declaration. Gods, so young, so powerful, but so damn arrogant! This mission was exactly what was needed for the impertinent youth.
"Rezo the Red Priest asked us to investigate this? I suppose I'm honored to undertake a task for that particular old man," a grin lit his face again, and the arrogance returned fully to his face "however, I'd like to know what I'll get for it. You know, what reward."
Ah, he had almost forgotten the second point in which Jaderam won full honors - greed. If there was something gleaming at the end of the tunnel - gold, gems, precious artifacts - the youth could and had pulled off some of the most dangerous adventures and missions. However, if nothing was there in the end, the man was bound to do nothing at all! Lemaran grunted unhappily, then coughed.
"The Guild has decided to give you four thousand in gold if you -"
"Six. Not one gold piece less. That's my price." Marcus said with a greedy smile. The old mage exploded.
"You pup! Six thousand gold pieces! How dare you set your prices!"
A quick of red eyebrows and a widening smile answered him. And Lemaran knew that Marcus had gone to the same conclusion as the Guild Elders had: they needed someone young and strong, and he was the only one of that category with the power and wits to investigate something like the Forbidden Lores. A growl rose in the old mage's throat, then he glared at the bookshelves lining the walls.
"Six thousand, Marcus." he spat at last "But you'd better come back with the goods with THAT price!" he warned, shaking his finger. The younger mage stood up and leaned towards him with a self-confident smile, eyes twinkling.
"When have I ever disappointed you, old man?" he said in a falsetto voice.
"Agh...just get out of my sight!" he growled, suddenly thinking that a few flare arrows might help the youth get in line. "And just make sure you don't do something foolish out there in Lumeria!"
Cold swaggering was present as Marcus strode away from him and out of the room. "Now, old man, when have I ever done something like that?" he said prettily.
As the door closed, Lemaran sighed, put his face in his hands and stated an ardent wish.
"Ceipheed, I beg of you! Don't let him have children! One's enough for the world!"
* * * * * * * * * *
"Come on, lads! They're breaking!"
"Show them your skills, you gutless dogs!
"Attack! No mercy!"
Attack. Attack. That was all he had heard since the beginning of the battle, a battle he took no joy in participating in. But he was Loerik Gabriev, he knew that his greatest talent amongst all others he had or ever might have was to fight with a blade. He had been taught by the best, a man whose father was the hero of his day, the great Swordsman of Light. So he did what he did best. He wielded his sword.
And killed.
His mercenary band, along with three large others, had been ordered to attack the flank of the beleaguered Lumerian Army, something they did to ruthless and quite depressing effect. Already overwhelmed by the better-armed and greater-numbered ranks of the Elmekians, the enemy never had the time to mount any kind of good defense for the fierce onslaught which befell them. Loerik and others had broken through the first few ranks like hot iron against ice. Valiant men had faced him, attempting to defend the army, but none had had the skill necessary to stand up to him. He tried to wound instead of killing, but sometimes, the former was impossible, the latter inevitable.
Consequently, the ache which had been steadily growing, was reaching its crescendo. A mound of self-disgust over his actions was threatening to engulf his mind. Was that the life he had chosen? The life of a killer? A soulless being who only cared about money? His disturbed spirit found, paradoxically, release in violence, and he blocked, sidestepped and killed another soldier with a ragged cry.
"This is the only way I can live now...the only way!" he growled in anguish, staring murder at the next soldier, cutting him down. "The only way!"
Another lunged at him - a grizzled veteran of many years. He thrust with skill, Loerik parried with much more. They went on a dance for a few moments, thrust and counter-thrust, jabs and slices, strong blades spewing sparks. Then the older warrior was slow in bringing his sword up. Just moment of slowness. An eternity. The Sword of Light crushed his enemy's heart before he could do more than gape. Blood spurted, and another man fell.
Another death. The anguish grew. He fought against it as he had fought it for months upon months, trying to accept his life, the fact that if he could just get used to all of this, he would quickly become renowned and rich. He could have anything he wanted.
"But I...HATE THIS!!!!!!!" he bellowed, in a voice so terrible two soldiers who were about to attack him hesitated and finally chose to engage another. "I'm a SWORDSMAN, not a THUG! Its not the same thing!"
Wasn't it? What was the difference between swordsmen and thugs except for some ethereal code of honor one sometimes ignored and the other rarely even knew about?
'Talk about a to get philosophical, Gabriev!' his mind told him fiercely. 'Survive the battle first, then go and do all the soul-searching you want.' The troubled side of his mind was silenced abruptly, and he returned to the fighting with a vengeance. Yes, he hated it. Yes, he felt like there must have been better ways to live one's life. But for him, the sword was everything, and battles were the region of the world were the sword truly meant something.
Centuries of Gabriev innovations added to the graceful physical arts of the elves of Mipross, compounded by Loerik's sheer instincts made him an untouchable man. He moved through the battlefield like a dancer, hampered by far less armor then most, fleet of foot, deadly with his blade, a hurricane of precise death in the midst of the chaos of man. He charged men, blocked axes and swords, severed limbs, and snuffed out lives. No matter what kind of move his enemies pulled, he seemed to find a way to counteract it. Swiftly, he felt himself falling into the state of automatic aggressivity that had made him choose humanity over elvenkind, and welcomed it. There was nothing now - no doubts, no anguish. Just himself and his sword.
He didn't know, then, how he could have been hit. Normally, when he achieved that state of oneness with violence, he could know when danger threatened, knew when an enemy was prepared to strike. It hadn't always saved him completely, and many faint scars, healed a little too late, were to be seen beneath the cloth - and - armor garment he had on him. But this was a direct attack, one which hit squarely. He saw the blade protruding from his stomach, felt the iciness of it being wrenched back, to be filled by the warm life fluid which kept him alive. He felt the same warmth, salty and reeking, fill his mouth, and he slumped to his knees, then on his back.
Death.
'Not a doubt. Belly wound. Large one. Senses failing. Blood spilling. Can't...think...can't...'
'F...father...'
That was when, his concsiousness barely holding on from the pain, his vision fuzzy and uncaring, he saw eyes looking into his. Large, expressive blue eyes looked at him in pity, eyes so beautiful he felt, for a moment, the remains of his elven blood stir and call to the nature he had been forced to leave behind years before.
'Are you...death?' he wanted to ask, but his body refused to obey to him. His vision blurred. There was a flash of intense white light, and he closed his eyes, certain he never would open them again, and let the peaceful darkness claim him...
...and then he awoke, his eyes snapping shut and his body lurching to a sitting position by force of habit, and he found that he was still standing in the same field he had been stabbed in. Corpses were strewn around him, as well as cloven shields, broken blades and arrows, and the remnants of banners. Looking around, he spotted several men looking around, some pilfering the bodies, others looking for wounded. They all wore Elmekian colors, scarlet and yellow.
'Looks like we won.' Loerik thought, and that thought that followed immediately after was 'Why ain't I dead?'
That question took full possession of him, and he looked down at his shirt. beneath the armor plating which all Gabrievs traditionally wore, the deep grey fabric had been torn open, as if something - like a sword - had ripped it. The fabric was permeated with dry blood, but as he felt for wounds, he encountered nothing but soft flesh and his strong, hardened muscles underneath. Wondering about it, he was suddenly reminded of the last things he had seen, the last thing he had felt: beautiful female eyes, and a white light.
A priestess had healed him. "Thank you, Beautiful Eyes." he whispered "Ashala ibe enei kalalan-itui." My Life is Yours, by Blood, the elven motto of Mipross in such cases. With a last, swift prayer of gratitude for Ceipheed, he rose, sheathing the Sword of Light which he still held in his hand - thank the Gods no one had come to take it!
As he started to walk from the battlefield, feeling no pains and no fatigue, a new question gripped his mind: how did I manage to let someone get past my defenses?
Then he remembered the fact that the sword had penetrated in one of the most deadly place possible, severing his spine and making a gory mess of his stomach. Thew shot had been delivered swiftly, expertly. This was a thrust which couldn't be done that well by just anyone. It had to be someone skilled with a blade to go through such a tensed mass of muscles from one side to the other. He, himself, could do it, but he wondered who else...
That was when a certain idea struck him, foul, slithering, taking root.
He had felt absolutely no one come up behind him, and he trusted his instincts when it came to enemies. But what if the one who had struck him hadn't been felt as being an enemy, thus confusing his instincts? It was all too possible, and it both alarmed and infuriated him. The look must have been scripted on his face, for the soldier he approached looked positively spooked when he asked for directions to the Black Horns Band encampment. He started trudging towards his destination with a stalking step, and then deliberately calmed down. He didn't have proof. He couldn't come in the camp and blast everyone with his sword's powers - it rankled against his rapidly reawakening ethics.
But he would watch. He would watch carefully. And when he found the one who did this to him...
He smiled grimly. That person, whoever she was, would feel very sorry for herself!
* * * * * * * * * *
'So this is war...' Hallia Servales, Cleric of the Faith of Ceipheed, reflected bitterly. 'Blood, violence and ultimately death. A waste of lives and the use of pathetic emotions.'
Ever since she had first joined one of the Lumerian armies, she had been disgusted by what she had seen, and that feeling had only strengthened through the two years she had travelled, from battle to battle, bringing with others like her healing, solace and a small bit of hope in a hopeless situation. As she looked around her, she knew that tonight, many wouldn't believe in the last, no matter who told them of it.
Four thousand men and women, armed with bows, swords, some riding horses, and a few casting spells, had joined the fray on the Loredin Plains, trying to keep the northern road from falling squarely under the yoke of the Elmekian forces. They had fought bravely, all of them, using the terrain to their advantage, reaching into the rage which came from the fact that this was home which was threatened, the lands of your fathers and grandfathers. They had given it their all, each and everyone of them.
And, as it usually had been ever since the snows thawed and the fighting resumed, it simply hadn't been enough.
The Elmekian had come at them with at least two dozen magic users, raining destructive spells on them, forcing the few spellcasters the Lumerians had to use their energies to defend the army as best they could. Behind these sorcerors had come hundreds of Imperial Knights, arrayed in polished plate mail, their shields proudly displaying the crest of the Empire of Elmekia, the Gold Unicorn. And behind them had surged thousands of men on foot, many more than the had.
The mercenaries, which had attacked the flanks while she had been there with others to try and help in whatever capacity she had, had been specially merciless. She had attempted to help - a few Burst Rondos and Fireballs had been cast - but there had been nothing she could do to stem the tide as the veteran warriors fell the good Lumerian soldiers, many of which were young and inexperienced. One, in particular, had stuck to her mind.
Dark-haired, tall, wielding a sword of a design she didn't recognize, he had been a scythe reaping lives. No one had been able to touch him. Lumerians fell one by one under his blade as he seemed to incarnate death itself. She might well have despised him had she not seen the anguish, the undefinable sorrow which had gripped the deadly sword dancer as he slew. She had realized she didn't have to despise him, for he despised himself. Instead, she pitied him.
Then he had been struck from behind, by a man she had barely glimpsed, but could see as having the colors of the mercenaries engaged on the Elmekian side. It appeared that, for some reason, the tall, sad warrior had made enemies in his own rank.
It hadn't been her concern. And yet she went and healed the man, despite the fact that he was an enemy. And while she had looked at him, at this anguished, dying face, she had felt something, as if...
"I really shouldn't remind you of this, my dear, but remember that we aren't quite walking through a park in the capital. Attention should be a premium." a chiding voice came to her, breaking her out of her thoughts. She blinked, flushing guiltily, and made apologies to the man who was riding next to her. But Father Verrilin simply brushed off her apologies. "No need for that. You were thinking, and I can't blame you after all that everyone has been through. But remember, this place isn't safe."
"IS there a safe place left at all?" another voice piped up, a clear, bright voice which didn't quite seem to have the gloom needed for the question she had just asked. Verrilin turned behind him and grinned sadly.
"I suppose not, Narie. Most of our lands have been overrun, and they say that the Emperor is gathering his forces to take our capital itself."
"Pig. Rotten pig!" Hallia spat viciously "He's planning to annex the whole of Lumeria to his empire like our history, our culture, what made Lumeria what it was..." she choked "...the Kingdom isn't just a bunch of lines on a map!"
Verrilin, his greying hair falling down below his shoulders, gave her an understanding look and reached out, giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I know, Hallia. I know. If only the Emperor knew it as well..."
Narie rode to the other side, her face alight with a deep optimism which made her plain face seem grand. "Something will come up! They say the court mages are trying to do something to get the elmekians if they come anywhere near the capital. Besides, we still live! And as long as I'm alive, I won't give up!"
The high-pitch tone she used was awkward, the words zealous and unrealistic, but Hallia found herself nodding at her, and she saw many of the soldiers in their small group grin or give approval of some kind. No doubt about it, plain Narie's spirit was a buoy to everyone around her.
The older priest chuckle. "Even though I'm more cynical than you, I must say..."
But he never said what he wanted to tell them. In fact, Father Verrilin never had a chance to say anything ever again, as with a humming sound, an arrow pieced his throat. nearly chopping his head off. He was dead instantly, his body slumping on the horse. Blood started to trickle down the sides of the steed as the green-haired magic-user looked at the sudden death of a good friend in horror. For a split second, she saw nothing, felt nothing. She was a cold void.
And then she screamed, her cry of horror echoed beside her as Narie also took in the event. Soldiers turned to them in alarm. And then other arrows flew through the woods around them, coming out from the shadows, a rain of death, fast, unseen. Many of the soldiers never had a chance to react, so well-timed was it. A groan of agony mingled with cries of terror resounded, and half of the people with them died.
By this time, however, Hallia had broken through her shock. Years ago, she might never have found the nerve to face up to this situation, but these days were different. These days, wantom deaths, the deaths of friends, only brought up rage in her disillusioned soul. For a time forgetting her Shrine Maiden teachings, she began to mutter words of arcane power, gathering heat and energy into her hand, willing it to form an almost tangible beam of incandescence.
"Flare Arrow!!!" she cried out loud, launching the magical projectile into the darkness of the woods, straight where the arrows which had killed Verrilin had been launched from. Her guess was certainly partly accurate, for yells resounded when the arrow exploded a small distance away. 'I hope you hurt, you bastards!' she thought viciously, and didn't feel guilty of it even when she realized her thoughts were anathema to all she had ever been taught.
The soldiers started to respond in their own way, men and women nocking arrows and readying blades. Then new arrows started to speed their way.
"Balus Wall!" she heard Narie cry out before she could even react, and the arrows were stopped before most of them could hit. Still, she saw, only Narie and she had any spellcasting abilities, and only twelve soldiers were still standing. A cold knot started to form in the pit of her stomach, a terror she couldn't chase away. Still, she held firm, calling upon the magic she had to try and defeat this enemy.
"Hehehehe! Very amusin', people! You've resisted longer than I though you would, I tell ya" came a hoarse voice from the left. "But I'm pretty sorry and all, but the game's got to end now. At ya all!"
As they turned towards the sound of the voice, a man dashed from under the cover of the trees, sword drawn. He had a set, fervent look about him, and what struck her was the horrible scar which disfigured his face, rendering it even more insane looking. And still, something else struck her about him, but she couldn't tell what.
With a cry, four of the soldiers engaged him, and he moved, slashed and counter-thrust, dodged and hit, until in a few moments all four were down, at least wounded, probably dead. As Narie cried out in dismay, the power of her magical wall dispelled by the lack of concentration, the green-haired maiden, cleric of the Faith Ceipheed, who only wanted to see her brother and father again but had never managed to do so, raised her arms for the most powerful incantation she could muster in her state.
"Source of all power-" she began.
"Oh no you don't missy!" a voice said, and she felt weight behind her. She began to turn, but never had a chance to as a great weight was rammed the side of her head. She barely had time to hear Narie cry out her name, and the roar of voices coming from the wounds, before the darkness swallowed her.
* * * * * * * * * *
Two people soon had looked from afar as the battle raged. They saw the end, saw the men being slaughtered and pilfered, and two priestesses being bound up and carried away. The taller of the two turned to the other.
"Come on! We can't just go and waltz into a mercenary camp like that!"
"And why not?" said the second testily "I think we've seen two good reasons to try. These are slave-takers, the worst kind of people, worse than the worst bandits."
The other snorted. "Don't make me laugh! Okay, you might want to help those clerics out, but that's not the real reason. You just want to show these brutes that you, Fezra Inverse, can take them on! A snip at their nose, just to show you're the best!!!"
At the accusation, Fezra Inverse only smiled. "I guess you're right! Lets go and show them a thing or two!"
"You're hopeless!"
"Berwen, you nag, I've always been hopeless. And I LOVE IT!!! ONWARD!!!"
* * * * * * * * * *
People went to greet Loerik in relief as he came back to camp. He wasn't very surprised at this. In the mercenary world, nothing mattered but the skill with which you kill. The better you were, the more friends you started having. As he was perhaps the most skilled in the mercenary camp, next to the leader and - supposedly - Kalarus, he had a lot of friends. They came enthusiastically to congratulate him on killing so many and surviving no doubt.
However, this time they didn't get far. In fact most skidded to an abrupt halt as they beheld his face. He didn't know what his expression was, but if it was anything in representing the rage and outrage he felt, no wonder some of them blanched.
"Ah...Gabriev...its nice to...well..." one of them fumbled. A growl stopped the man before he could manage anything more.
"Save the damn speech." Loerik muttered angrily, his eyes flashing dangerously "I'm in a damn bad mood. Where's the big boss? I need to talk to him now!"
"Err...Gabriev...its just that..."
"TELL ME, DAMN YOU!!" he bellowed, and instantly all those who still were close to him weren't. He found himself taking hold of the fearful mercenary, using his greater bulk and strength to shake him like a leaf. He was acting barbarously, and he didn't care. "TELL ME! WHERE IS HE!?!"
"I-in his private tent! He's-"
But the black-haired swordsman had already shoved him aside, making his furious way to the tent. He should have known the old mercenary would be there. But he had wanted to make sure. No, that was a lie. He had asked the question only to vent his very own frustration at something or someone. Horrendous. Barbaric. And the worst was, he still didn't mind it, even as a side of him tried to calm him down.
One of his own comrades had tried to kill him, he was certain. And that put his anger beyond control.
He stalked into the tent unannounced, glaring his way past the guards at the tent flap, his vision clouded. It was only when he had taken three good steps into the carpeted, gloomy space that he stopped. In the private part of the tent, he was hearing someone weep. A female voice.
A hurt, agonized one. It cut through his anger, restoring reason instantly, and he gasped despite himself as the implications of the sounds came to his mind.
The gasp had the effect he had wanted to have a mere moment before. The sheet separating the private parts of the tent with the more public ones was torn open, and a bedraggled, panting leader emerged, greying hair haphazard, absolutely naked. Blood was oozing down scratches on his side, and Loerik saw with mounting horror the deep red which colored the muscled man's knuckles. For a single moment, the sight ignited him, and thoughts of drawing the Sword of Light and cut this...aberration...to pieces was overwhelming.
He couldn't understand himself, couldn't pinpoint what had caused him to open his eyes so suddenly. It certainly hadn't been the close encounter he had had with death - that is something he had long made his peace with. The attempt on his life in such a treacherous manner infuriated him, but it hadn't been enough to change his view so drastically.
No...no...if anything had stirred his soul, plunging a knife right through the places he had hidden years ago out of anger and despair, it had been those large blue eyes. The eyes of his savior. Sad, angry, but still burning with something he had long been missing. Something which had been part of him and of every Gabriev from Rowdy to the first of the family.
Honor. Decency. These things made him hear the woman's cry, and it was all he could do not to kill the man who had been his leader for years.
The mercenary, fortunately, didn't notice the spasm of murder which trembled in his eyes, or the clenching of his hands. Instead he asked, in a somewhat irritated tone. "Gabriev. What's the problem boy? Can't it wait a bitsy. I'm kind of busy right now."
"I can see that, sir." Loerik declared in a cold tone where disgust was warring to surface. He resisted the temptation - antagonizing him meant doing the same with dozens of trained war veterans. And he wasn't foolish enough to think he could take all those people on. "I didn't think you'd be so close after the battle-"
"Gods man!" the leader gasped, cutting him off. "You're covered with blood."
What a brilliant observation considering that his tunic was soaked with it and he never wore colors like rust and red. He didn't say anything out loud, however, just stood there looking at the older man stoically. He didn't really want to be here anymore. The decadence which reeked from the man now that his damned sense of honor and desire to help others - damn his parents for instilling those useless emotions in him! - was overwhelming, and he wanted to sit or lie down to think about all that had happened, what had changed in him, what he couldn't bare any longer. And, most importantly, how he was going to deal with it.
The woman moaned again. That was it. He could either do something he might regret, or flee this place. At once.
"I'm sorry. I didn't notice." he mumbled "I'll leave you to your pleasures..." he choke ever so slightly as he said the word "And tell you about the situation later on. With that, he left, no listening to the irritated, commanding protests. Not knowing if he could ever bear to enter it.
His soul condemned him a vile fool. He couldn't help but admit it was right. For the first time in three years, Loerik Gabrieve, son of Rowdy Gabriev and grandson of the legendary Swordsman of Light, looked at his surroundings without veiling them to the truth. What he found there was petrifying in its complex horror, its terrifying mix of vices and hopelessness.
Men were there, but although he saw traces of past honor and ideals on many of them, they had been smudged, stained or silenced by necessity. Ideals had been put aside in the need for money, honor replaced by the yearning for food. These men had lived by the sword, but had long lost sight of the codes which had been drawn by the First Knights a thousand years before.
Had he become like them? A shadow, a fallen man who had forgotten his views in his need to survive. He searched for an answer within himself, and the answer he saw nearly toppled him. Not knowing and not caring if others thought him crazed, he moaned softly and fell to his knees, tears blurring his eyes.
"Foul...violent...my brother was right." he wailed gently "I'm not worthy of my mother's elven blood. I'm not worthy of wielding the Sword of Light."
'Make yourself worthy, you crybaby!' a voice cried out, angry, and he found that it sounded like his father's when he was scolding him long 'You think Rowdy would have given you that sword if he didn't BELIEVE you could do it. Now stop whining and make things right!'
The voice shook inside of him, hitting a chord which had never broken. The decent man behind the killer was still there. He HADN'T died, like he knew it had in so many others. He wouldn't let it!
"I will...make things right." he said, opening his eyes "Someway, somehow."
With that, he rose to his feet. He obviously had made a mild scene, for many eyes eyed him with varying expressions, but he didn't pay them the slightest heed. The self-doubts were put to rest for now, and he could go forward with the thoughts he had squashed when the elves thrust him out of Mipross. He had been raised by good people, and he would live as a good man. He would make amends for three years of uncaring, three years of putting his head in the sand as despicable acts were committed. And he knew, in a flash, just how to begin to do so.
It would take time. It would be dangerous. It may well cost him his life.
But it would be the right thing to do. And that was the most important fact of all.
FACTS:
The Hidden Lores: An amalgam of spells and artifacts left behind as the War of Resurrection ended. Amongst them are many precious items, like the Sword of Light, the Crystal Staff, the Claire Bible and the Philosopher Stone.
The First Knights: A group of powerful human warriors who maintained hope and honor during and following the end of the War of Resurrection. Gabriev, the first Swordsman of Light and patriarch of the Gabriev Family, was part of that noble order. The Codes of Honor which inspire modern knighthood were written by they.
Chapter 1
'Mercenary work? Yeah, you can easily get into mercenary bands, son. Especially with a war on. But I'll warn you, and you better listen: Don't lose sight of yourself!!! I almost did....'
Loerik Gabriev talking to his 15-year old son Gourry
Swearing, rustling of swords, the icy, stringenly grating sound of sharpening, the many loud voices of men together mixed with the soft or coarse odors of cooking and made so that a traveller would know a large camp was there from five miles off. Not that any traveller would have gone towards the sounds, once they had heard them. Instead, most would have run the other way, thinking of death and pillage and bandits.
But it wasn't a bandit gang which loudly celebrated a rich steal, but a very large band of mercenaries rejoicing at joining a large-scale offensive in the days to come.
"I've told ye, I've told ye boys and I'll keep tellin', but that damn Lumeria and that damn Elmekia fighting each other sure is good fer business!" Said the leader of that gang. He was a tall, built man who had scars just about everywhere he could have one, short hair heavily mingled with the grey of age, and a set, granite face. Only the stern face was relaxed into a grin tonight as he took stock of their situation as it had been for the last three years, and what it would be again in the days to come. Seated around him, sharing a meal of roasted pig and vegetable stew in the tent which served as a sort of mess for the main warriors of the large group, the people cheered at that, giving their wholehearted agreement to the concept.
All except once, that was.
The mercenary leader frowned. "Hey, Gabriev! Cat got yer tongue? Stop eating that leg and talk with us a bit."
Stacked between two other mercenaries, the man called Gabriev so unceremoniously didn't twitch, but rather continued shovelling meat and vegetable stew into his mouth. Already bones from two pig legs lay in front of him, and the older mercenary knew that he was at his third large helping of stew. Having watched the disconcerting display of ingurgitation, he also knew that it wouldn't stop for a while yet, and that if he didn't make himself clearer, the eating festival would go on with him forgotten.
"GABRIEV!"
The head of the subordinate snapped up in surprise and confusion, in the middle of a mouthful of roast. Dark-haired, his face untouched by the three years of conflict he had taken part, Loerik Gabriev chewed and talked all the while. "Whut? Whasha wan', shkip?" he askedm his words distorted.
More than one mercenary bristled at the surname Gabriev gave his leader. The older mercenary was very known in Elmekia, a veteran of many border skirmishes and two full-blown wars against Zefilia itself. That was the kind of track record which earned respect amongst all who wielded a sword. That Gabriev would call him so disrespectfully was outrageous to the mercenary mind set.
However, no one said a word about it, not even the leader. For although he was young, younger than anyone else in the room, there was one thing in which Gabriev outshone them all: swordsmanship. In three years, he had gone to good to the skill level worth of the best sword masters. So no one wanted to pick a fight with the young, sad-eyed, hungry swordsman. Not even the respected mercenary leader.
So all the man did was repeat his question, and there was true curiosity in his tone. After all, even after nearly three years with him, the young virtuoso of the sword was private, quiet and solemn, rarely giving his opinion about anything.
This time was no different, as Loerik swallowed his mouthful of food and contemplated the remains of his little feast with a non-equivocal expression. "Its well-paid work." he said at length "But even though its what permits me to live my life, sometimes I still wonder..."
"Wonder whut, chap?" another mercenary, a small but brawny man named Gulthas asked when moments of silence had passed.
"Oh! Sorry, I was thinking about...nevermind. The thing about the attack on Lumeria? Well, it seems to me that we're going to take part in an overkill battle, to scare the Lumerians."
The mercenary leader guffawed. "You think too much or too little, Gabriev - I dunno which yet! Who cares if we scare the Lumerians or not? I'm asking you how long you think these cowards'll stand against true mercs like us, boy!"
"They don't stand a chance. They never did." was the quiet, somber reply. One almost had to wonder which side the black-haired master swordsman stood in.
Still, even to an old mercenary after his pleasures and money, he could tell that Loerik talked about the Lumerians never having a chance in general in the entire war. That was as true as crystal water, Ceipheed be the witness to it! If the Empire had decided to make war against Sailune, it would have been a huge, prolonged conflict, as the Kingdom of Sailune had a large army, a booming and loyal population and a lot of gold to spend. It was easily a match for Elmekia. Lumeria, however, wasn't. Its armies lacked manpower and quality, and although they fought fanatically, they had never scored one decisive victory against their attackers. After three years, already half of the Kingdom's territory was captured, and within a month, maybe two, they would capture the capital and force a complete surrender - and certainly annexation to the Empire. It was sad, if one thought of the suffering of the lumerian people.
But the old leader didn't think that way. What he knew was that, during a war, mercenaries could do pretty much what they wanted with enemy spoils - whether riches or women. And he had had his share of both during the three years, and so had all the others around him.
Again, except Loerik. The man refused most of his share of the spoils and had never slept with the slaves he had been offered. Maybe it was a sort of quaint gentleman honor? He certainly seemed the type to entertain something like this. However, it didn't matter, as long as the youth did his job as efficiently as he always did. If he started to go lax, then, well...
"Shabranigdu take you, Gabriev, I jus' can't understand ya." Kalarus, the best swordsman in the camp - that, officially, many thought Loerik to actually be even better, his youth notwithstanding - told in a scornful voice. Like most at the table, he sometimes found the young mercenary's way galling. And he was the only one, with the leader himself, to tell of it. From time to time. "Ya know we're goin' to get a big bonus with this battle - heck, the Emperor has promised us all two hundred gold more than usual. Think of the things ya can do with two hundred gold."
"Man, I could name a few things..." said another man, and people laughed at the suggesting tone. Even Loerik's mouth smiled, if his eyes didn't. Kalarus laughed harder than most, fingering the scar which ran from his cheek across his mouth. No one knew who had managed to do this to him. The scar was old, and he always fingered it whenever someone talked of women.
"That especially, aye!" his grin turned malicious "Although its nothin' compared to what ya can do with one of our lil morsels here, I swear. Got that swordswoman yesterday, yé no, the mouthy curly one? Well, I tell ya, she won't be too mouthy tonight. Took care of her, I tell ya!"
He laughed hard again, and was followed only by hesitant laughs and chuckles. The nastiness the scarred swordsman visited upon their female 'slaves' was infamous, and it put many ill at ease. The leader him self felt a little queasy. Not about the violence and the defilement - they were slaves, after all - but the sheer glee that was taken at it.
The laughter continued for a long while, and he saw faces start to change. Some were starting to share the humor, some were turning pale from badly-hidden fright, and a few were irritated at all the noise interrupting the dinner. Loerik Gabriev said nothing, only looked at the laughing man with dark eyes, his mouth curled in a for of disgusted bewilderment, and words came out muttering of his mouth.
"La-hailk, she ujar flagaras bahle..." was what the leader caught. It was told in a language which certainly wasn't mercenary speech, or human common. The intonation was richer, more... melodious. He didn't have time to consider much of it, for the tall young man rose stiffly. "Excuse me. Not hungry anymore."
Kalarus was still chuckling to himself, his eyes lighted by images and memories the old veteran wasn't sure he wanted to see. He shook his head, then called to Gabriev once more. "Boy, you still haven't answered me! What about the battle soon?"
The dark-haired man paused by the tent flap. "We will massacre them. That's all I've left to say on it, and that's already too much. At least to me. Good sup." he said stonily.
And then he was gone. 'He's good, damned good.' the leader mused 'But for some reason, he's never fitted here, and I think he never will.'
* * * * * * * * * *
"Where is that nonchalant, cocky flaming KID?!? I asked him over three HOURS ago, for Gods' sake!" Bellowed a middle-aged man in the reds, blacks and blues of a high-level sorcerer, with a gold-trimmed black cape thrown around his shoulders for good measure. He was named Lemaran Gladelight, and he wasn't used to waiting for one not even half his age to show himself in his office!
Berrel, his assistant, quailed slightly from the tone, knowing his master well enough when he was in his black moods. His voice, however, remained business-like "Marcus Jaderam has told our messengers that he was in the middle of a very straining and costly experiment, and that he couldn't..."
"I don't want to know whether the irresponsible fool is making a new spell, flirting with the High Priestess of Atlas City, or finding a better place to pee!" the older magi bellowed, banging his fist on the elaborate and fine maple wood of his desk. "You go there, and tell Marcus that if he's not here by the next five minutes-"
"Don't have an aneurysm, old man. I'm here." came a young, confident - and amused - male voice through the door. Berrel, Lemaran noted, nearly fainted from relief. He, however, had no patience left to apologize or try to make himself look less angry. He slammed his hand on his desk again.
"Berrel, out. Marcus in. Close the door, sit, and EXPLAIN YOURSELF!" he growled, his tone rising.
Marcus entered as his assistant fled while trying to maintain his dignity. The young sorceror, barely nineteen, wasn't very tall, but was impressive his posture and bearing. Red hair and eyes glittered on a slightly tanned face whose mouth always seemed upturned in mischief. He was dressed only in a blue tunic and breeches, with an expensive-looking belt and the usual black sorceror's cloak the only indications that he was a full-fledged spellcaster instead of an apprentice. His face looked happy about something, and Lemaran had to remind himself that the man was no child.
Taken in by the Sorceror's Guild of Atlas City on the insistance of a respected - if rumored to be whacked - archmage called Jillen Neverbreak, the boy had been at fifteen deemed too old to learn to be a sorcerer. However, the youth had progressed at a rate never before seen in the annals of the Guild. In two years, he had become a sorceror, something which should have taken more than a decade to anyone else. He was growing in power quickly still, and today his magic was rumored to be nearly as great as Lemaran's. This only rankled the elder mage more.
But he took a more conciliatory tone, however, as Marcus lazily slumped on the chair in front of the desk, looking at the magical tomes and artifacts around the room. "I'll go straight to the point, Marcus..." he began.
"Good. Then we won't waste time on this foolishness." the red-haired sorcerer mused idly, still not looking at him.
Damn the boy's impudence. It had been there from the first, but the young man had grown into the trait until it became a part of him, emboldened by the undeniable fact that he had, in a few short years, reached and far outranked the rest of the students his age, and become one of the youngest to become a full sorcerer. It was supposed to be an honor, but the young brat had let that go to his head! It took Lemaran a good moment of mental repose to continue without showing his disgust over the younger man's unruly attitude.
"Well, I suppose a man as bright as you has heard of the Lumerian-Elmekian conflict?" he said. Damn. It still sounded contemptuous. Worse, it was a redundant, stupid sentence, and Marcus caught to it immediately, laughing softly, his tone that of badly-disguised mockery.
"Who HASN'T heard about the damn thing, you old man?" he said with a calm face which had a mouth still quivering with mirth "Its been in and out of conversations around the guilds, the nobility, politica and anything that can walk and talk for the last three years. So, yes, Lemaran, I admit to have heard it."
"Good. I never doubted it." the older sorcerer slipped smoothly to cover his little verbal bruise. The young one nodded and smiled almost indulgently. Impudence. Vanity and impudence. "We want you to go to Lumeria."
Marcus' smile thinned. "I assume its not to join the sorcerers there. I may have said that I didn't like what was happening to Lumeria, but I know better than to join the side which is sure to lose in times no longer much-removed."
"Of course not." 'Although I might like the idea of you getting your arrogance set down a few notches.' he mused silently "A mage of great importance has told Guildmistress Hizerna that the Lumerians are getting desperate, and a band of Lumerian-born sorcerer are dabbling with things beyond their knowledge. That mage is uncertain of it, but he felt it might be related to the Forbidden Lore."
He watched as the young man's eyes narrowed a bit in surprise and consternation, and tried to enjoy the lapse in the facade. However he couldn't, for the Forbidden Lore made him queasy.
Little was known about the Forbidden Lore, and the secrets contained with it. Fragments of records deciphered told that the powers of Ceipheed and the Dragon Kings had been used to create powerful artifacts, and that the Mazoku had reciprocated in kind. The artifacts had been used during the War of Resurrection, and it was said, had torn apart the lands, forcing the erection of the Mazoku Barrier to protect this side of the world from most of the damage of the war. Only a few elements had cropped up during the centuries...the Cazzalin Bracelet wielded by the Queens of Zephilia, granting enormous magical powers; the White Crown of Sailune, which was rumored to keep the wearer from Mazoku harm and strengthened white magic in the city; The Soul Mirror of Abram, the Sword of Light, and a few more. All had been examples. All had great powers. But the Forbidden Lores were said to have had even more powerful artifacts, things as powerful - and darker - than even the Philosopher Stone itself!
The frightening implications obviously occurred to the younger man, as his reaction was swift and furious. "Then why send one man? Lets gather our forces and strike before they do something foolish."
Lemaran shook his head. "We cannot. We have no certainty. Even the one who told us of this peril couldn't tell if it was real or not."
"Who is that person, anyway?" was the calm demand.
The older mage smirked. "One whom even you would not dare to call an 'old man': Rezo the Red Priest." He watched the young man blink stupidly for a moment, and was rewarded with the speechless look following the declaration. Gods, so young, so powerful, but so damn arrogant! This mission was exactly what was needed for the impertinent youth.
"Rezo the Red Priest asked us to investigate this? I suppose I'm honored to undertake a task for that particular old man," a grin lit his face again, and the arrogance returned fully to his face "however, I'd like to know what I'll get for it. You know, what reward."
Ah, he had almost forgotten the second point in which Jaderam won full honors - greed. If there was something gleaming at the end of the tunnel - gold, gems, precious artifacts - the youth could and had pulled off some of the most dangerous adventures and missions. However, if nothing was there in the end, the man was bound to do nothing at all! Lemaran grunted unhappily, then coughed.
"The Guild has decided to give you four thousand in gold if you -"
"Six. Not one gold piece less. That's my price." Marcus said with a greedy smile. The old mage exploded.
"You pup! Six thousand gold pieces! How dare you set your prices!"
A quick of red eyebrows and a widening smile answered him. And Lemaran knew that Marcus had gone to the same conclusion as the Guild Elders had: they needed someone young and strong, and he was the only one of that category with the power and wits to investigate something like the Forbidden Lores. A growl rose in the old mage's throat, then he glared at the bookshelves lining the walls.
"Six thousand, Marcus." he spat at last "But you'd better come back with the goods with THAT price!" he warned, shaking his finger. The younger mage stood up and leaned towards him with a self-confident smile, eyes twinkling.
"When have I ever disappointed you, old man?" he said in a falsetto voice.
"Agh...just get out of my sight!" he growled, suddenly thinking that a few flare arrows might help the youth get in line. "And just make sure you don't do something foolish out there in Lumeria!"
Cold swaggering was present as Marcus strode away from him and out of the room. "Now, old man, when have I ever done something like that?" he said prettily.
As the door closed, Lemaran sighed, put his face in his hands and stated an ardent wish.
"Ceipheed, I beg of you! Don't let him have children! One's enough for the world!"
* * * * * * * * * *
"Come on, lads! They're breaking!"
"Show them your skills, you gutless dogs!
"Attack! No mercy!"
Attack. Attack. That was all he had heard since the beginning of the battle, a battle he took no joy in participating in. But he was Loerik Gabriev, he knew that his greatest talent amongst all others he had or ever might have was to fight with a blade. He had been taught by the best, a man whose father was the hero of his day, the great Swordsman of Light. So he did what he did best. He wielded his sword.
And killed.
His mercenary band, along with three large others, had been ordered to attack the flank of the beleaguered Lumerian Army, something they did to ruthless and quite depressing effect. Already overwhelmed by the better-armed and greater-numbered ranks of the Elmekians, the enemy never had the time to mount any kind of good defense for the fierce onslaught which befell them. Loerik and others had broken through the first few ranks like hot iron against ice. Valiant men had faced him, attempting to defend the army, but none had had the skill necessary to stand up to him. He tried to wound instead of killing, but sometimes, the former was impossible, the latter inevitable.
Consequently, the ache which had been steadily growing, was reaching its crescendo. A mound of self-disgust over his actions was threatening to engulf his mind. Was that the life he had chosen? The life of a killer? A soulless being who only cared about money? His disturbed spirit found, paradoxically, release in violence, and he blocked, sidestepped and killed another soldier with a ragged cry.
"This is the only way I can live now...the only way!" he growled in anguish, staring murder at the next soldier, cutting him down. "The only way!"
Another lunged at him - a grizzled veteran of many years. He thrust with skill, Loerik parried with much more. They went on a dance for a few moments, thrust and counter-thrust, jabs and slices, strong blades spewing sparks. Then the older warrior was slow in bringing his sword up. Just moment of slowness. An eternity. The Sword of Light crushed his enemy's heart before he could do more than gape. Blood spurted, and another man fell.
Another death. The anguish grew. He fought against it as he had fought it for months upon months, trying to accept his life, the fact that if he could just get used to all of this, he would quickly become renowned and rich. He could have anything he wanted.
"But I...HATE THIS!!!!!!!" he bellowed, in a voice so terrible two soldiers who were about to attack him hesitated and finally chose to engage another. "I'm a SWORDSMAN, not a THUG! Its not the same thing!"
Wasn't it? What was the difference between swordsmen and thugs except for some ethereal code of honor one sometimes ignored and the other rarely even knew about?
'Talk about a to get philosophical, Gabriev!' his mind told him fiercely. 'Survive the battle first, then go and do all the soul-searching you want.' The troubled side of his mind was silenced abruptly, and he returned to the fighting with a vengeance. Yes, he hated it. Yes, he felt like there must have been better ways to live one's life. But for him, the sword was everything, and battles were the region of the world were the sword truly meant something.
Centuries of Gabriev innovations added to the graceful physical arts of the elves of Mipross, compounded by Loerik's sheer instincts made him an untouchable man. He moved through the battlefield like a dancer, hampered by far less armor then most, fleet of foot, deadly with his blade, a hurricane of precise death in the midst of the chaos of man. He charged men, blocked axes and swords, severed limbs, and snuffed out lives. No matter what kind of move his enemies pulled, he seemed to find a way to counteract it. Swiftly, he felt himself falling into the state of automatic aggressivity that had made him choose humanity over elvenkind, and welcomed it. There was nothing now - no doubts, no anguish. Just himself and his sword.
He didn't know, then, how he could have been hit. Normally, when he achieved that state of oneness with violence, he could know when danger threatened, knew when an enemy was prepared to strike. It hadn't always saved him completely, and many faint scars, healed a little too late, were to be seen beneath the cloth - and - armor garment he had on him. But this was a direct attack, one which hit squarely. He saw the blade protruding from his stomach, felt the iciness of it being wrenched back, to be filled by the warm life fluid which kept him alive. He felt the same warmth, salty and reeking, fill his mouth, and he slumped to his knees, then on his back.
Death.
'Not a doubt. Belly wound. Large one. Senses failing. Blood spilling. Can't...think...can't...'
'F...father...'
That was when, his concsiousness barely holding on from the pain, his vision fuzzy and uncaring, he saw eyes looking into his. Large, expressive blue eyes looked at him in pity, eyes so beautiful he felt, for a moment, the remains of his elven blood stir and call to the nature he had been forced to leave behind years before.
'Are you...death?' he wanted to ask, but his body refused to obey to him. His vision blurred. There was a flash of intense white light, and he closed his eyes, certain he never would open them again, and let the peaceful darkness claim him...
...and then he awoke, his eyes snapping shut and his body lurching to a sitting position by force of habit, and he found that he was still standing in the same field he had been stabbed in. Corpses were strewn around him, as well as cloven shields, broken blades and arrows, and the remnants of banners. Looking around, he spotted several men looking around, some pilfering the bodies, others looking for wounded. They all wore Elmekian colors, scarlet and yellow.
'Looks like we won.' Loerik thought, and that thought that followed immediately after was 'Why ain't I dead?'
That question took full possession of him, and he looked down at his shirt. beneath the armor plating which all Gabrievs traditionally wore, the deep grey fabric had been torn open, as if something - like a sword - had ripped it. The fabric was permeated with dry blood, but as he felt for wounds, he encountered nothing but soft flesh and his strong, hardened muscles underneath. Wondering about it, he was suddenly reminded of the last things he had seen, the last thing he had felt: beautiful female eyes, and a white light.
A priestess had healed him. "Thank you, Beautiful Eyes." he whispered "Ashala ibe enei kalalan-itui." My Life is Yours, by Blood, the elven motto of Mipross in such cases. With a last, swift prayer of gratitude for Ceipheed, he rose, sheathing the Sword of Light which he still held in his hand - thank the Gods no one had come to take it!
As he started to walk from the battlefield, feeling no pains and no fatigue, a new question gripped his mind: how did I manage to let someone get past my defenses?
Then he remembered the fact that the sword had penetrated in one of the most deadly place possible, severing his spine and making a gory mess of his stomach. Thew shot had been delivered swiftly, expertly. This was a thrust which couldn't be done that well by just anyone. It had to be someone skilled with a blade to go through such a tensed mass of muscles from one side to the other. He, himself, could do it, but he wondered who else...
That was when a certain idea struck him, foul, slithering, taking root.
He had felt absolutely no one come up behind him, and he trusted his instincts when it came to enemies. But what if the one who had struck him hadn't been felt as being an enemy, thus confusing his instincts? It was all too possible, and it both alarmed and infuriated him. The look must have been scripted on his face, for the soldier he approached looked positively spooked when he asked for directions to the Black Horns Band encampment. He started trudging towards his destination with a stalking step, and then deliberately calmed down. He didn't have proof. He couldn't come in the camp and blast everyone with his sword's powers - it rankled against his rapidly reawakening ethics.
But he would watch. He would watch carefully. And when he found the one who did this to him...
He smiled grimly. That person, whoever she was, would feel very sorry for herself!
* * * * * * * * * *
'So this is war...' Hallia Servales, Cleric of the Faith of Ceipheed, reflected bitterly. 'Blood, violence and ultimately death. A waste of lives and the use of pathetic emotions.'
Ever since she had first joined one of the Lumerian armies, she had been disgusted by what she had seen, and that feeling had only strengthened through the two years she had travelled, from battle to battle, bringing with others like her healing, solace and a small bit of hope in a hopeless situation. As she looked around her, she knew that tonight, many wouldn't believe in the last, no matter who told them of it.
Four thousand men and women, armed with bows, swords, some riding horses, and a few casting spells, had joined the fray on the Loredin Plains, trying to keep the northern road from falling squarely under the yoke of the Elmekian forces. They had fought bravely, all of them, using the terrain to their advantage, reaching into the rage which came from the fact that this was home which was threatened, the lands of your fathers and grandfathers. They had given it their all, each and everyone of them.
And, as it usually had been ever since the snows thawed and the fighting resumed, it simply hadn't been enough.
The Elmekian had come at them with at least two dozen magic users, raining destructive spells on them, forcing the few spellcasters the Lumerians had to use their energies to defend the army as best they could. Behind these sorcerors had come hundreds of Imperial Knights, arrayed in polished plate mail, their shields proudly displaying the crest of the Empire of Elmekia, the Gold Unicorn. And behind them had surged thousands of men on foot, many more than the had.
The mercenaries, which had attacked the flanks while she had been there with others to try and help in whatever capacity she had, had been specially merciless. She had attempted to help - a few Burst Rondos and Fireballs had been cast - but there had been nothing she could do to stem the tide as the veteran warriors fell the good Lumerian soldiers, many of which were young and inexperienced. One, in particular, had stuck to her mind.
Dark-haired, tall, wielding a sword of a design she didn't recognize, he had been a scythe reaping lives. No one had been able to touch him. Lumerians fell one by one under his blade as he seemed to incarnate death itself. She might well have despised him had she not seen the anguish, the undefinable sorrow which had gripped the deadly sword dancer as he slew. She had realized she didn't have to despise him, for he despised himself. Instead, she pitied him.
Then he had been struck from behind, by a man she had barely glimpsed, but could see as having the colors of the mercenaries engaged on the Elmekian side. It appeared that, for some reason, the tall, sad warrior had made enemies in his own rank.
It hadn't been her concern. And yet she went and healed the man, despite the fact that he was an enemy. And while she had looked at him, at this anguished, dying face, she had felt something, as if...
"I really shouldn't remind you of this, my dear, but remember that we aren't quite walking through a park in the capital. Attention should be a premium." a chiding voice came to her, breaking her out of her thoughts. She blinked, flushing guiltily, and made apologies to the man who was riding next to her. But Father Verrilin simply brushed off her apologies. "No need for that. You were thinking, and I can't blame you after all that everyone has been through. But remember, this place isn't safe."
"IS there a safe place left at all?" another voice piped up, a clear, bright voice which didn't quite seem to have the gloom needed for the question she had just asked. Verrilin turned behind him and grinned sadly.
"I suppose not, Narie. Most of our lands have been overrun, and they say that the Emperor is gathering his forces to take our capital itself."
"Pig. Rotten pig!" Hallia spat viciously "He's planning to annex the whole of Lumeria to his empire like our history, our culture, what made Lumeria what it was..." she choked "...the Kingdom isn't just a bunch of lines on a map!"
Verrilin, his greying hair falling down below his shoulders, gave her an understanding look and reached out, giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I know, Hallia. I know. If only the Emperor knew it as well..."
Narie rode to the other side, her face alight with a deep optimism which made her plain face seem grand. "Something will come up! They say the court mages are trying to do something to get the elmekians if they come anywhere near the capital. Besides, we still live! And as long as I'm alive, I won't give up!"
The high-pitch tone she used was awkward, the words zealous and unrealistic, but Hallia found herself nodding at her, and she saw many of the soldiers in their small group grin or give approval of some kind. No doubt about it, plain Narie's spirit was a buoy to everyone around her.
The older priest chuckle. "Even though I'm more cynical than you, I must say..."
But he never said what he wanted to tell them. In fact, Father Verrilin never had a chance to say anything ever again, as with a humming sound, an arrow pieced his throat. nearly chopping his head off. He was dead instantly, his body slumping on the horse. Blood started to trickle down the sides of the steed as the green-haired magic-user looked at the sudden death of a good friend in horror. For a split second, she saw nothing, felt nothing. She was a cold void.
And then she screamed, her cry of horror echoed beside her as Narie also took in the event. Soldiers turned to them in alarm. And then other arrows flew through the woods around them, coming out from the shadows, a rain of death, fast, unseen. Many of the soldiers never had a chance to react, so well-timed was it. A groan of agony mingled with cries of terror resounded, and half of the people with them died.
By this time, however, Hallia had broken through her shock. Years ago, she might never have found the nerve to face up to this situation, but these days were different. These days, wantom deaths, the deaths of friends, only brought up rage in her disillusioned soul. For a time forgetting her Shrine Maiden teachings, she began to mutter words of arcane power, gathering heat and energy into her hand, willing it to form an almost tangible beam of incandescence.
"Flare Arrow!!!" she cried out loud, launching the magical projectile into the darkness of the woods, straight where the arrows which had killed Verrilin had been launched from. Her guess was certainly partly accurate, for yells resounded when the arrow exploded a small distance away. 'I hope you hurt, you bastards!' she thought viciously, and didn't feel guilty of it even when she realized her thoughts were anathema to all she had ever been taught.
The soldiers started to respond in their own way, men and women nocking arrows and readying blades. Then new arrows started to speed their way.
"Balus Wall!" she heard Narie cry out before she could even react, and the arrows were stopped before most of them could hit. Still, she saw, only Narie and she had any spellcasting abilities, and only twelve soldiers were still standing. A cold knot started to form in the pit of her stomach, a terror she couldn't chase away. Still, she held firm, calling upon the magic she had to try and defeat this enemy.
"Hehehehe! Very amusin', people! You've resisted longer than I though you would, I tell ya" came a hoarse voice from the left. "But I'm pretty sorry and all, but the game's got to end now. At ya all!"
As they turned towards the sound of the voice, a man dashed from under the cover of the trees, sword drawn. He had a set, fervent look about him, and what struck her was the horrible scar which disfigured his face, rendering it even more insane looking. And still, something else struck her about him, but she couldn't tell what.
With a cry, four of the soldiers engaged him, and he moved, slashed and counter-thrust, dodged and hit, until in a few moments all four were down, at least wounded, probably dead. As Narie cried out in dismay, the power of her magical wall dispelled by the lack of concentration, the green-haired maiden, cleric of the Faith Ceipheed, who only wanted to see her brother and father again but had never managed to do so, raised her arms for the most powerful incantation she could muster in her state.
"Source of all power-" she began.
"Oh no you don't missy!" a voice said, and she felt weight behind her. She began to turn, but never had a chance to as a great weight was rammed the side of her head. She barely had time to hear Narie cry out her name, and the roar of voices coming from the wounds, before the darkness swallowed her.
* * * * * * * * * *
Two people soon had looked from afar as the battle raged. They saw the end, saw the men being slaughtered and pilfered, and two priestesses being bound up and carried away. The taller of the two turned to the other.
"Come on! We can't just go and waltz into a mercenary camp like that!"
"And why not?" said the second testily "I think we've seen two good reasons to try. These are slave-takers, the worst kind of people, worse than the worst bandits."
The other snorted. "Don't make me laugh! Okay, you might want to help those clerics out, but that's not the real reason. You just want to show these brutes that you, Fezra Inverse, can take them on! A snip at their nose, just to show you're the best!!!"
At the accusation, Fezra Inverse only smiled. "I guess you're right! Lets go and show them a thing or two!"
"You're hopeless!"
"Berwen, you nag, I've always been hopeless. And I LOVE IT!!! ONWARD!!!"
* * * * * * * * * *
People went to greet Loerik in relief as he came back to camp. He wasn't very surprised at this. In the mercenary world, nothing mattered but the skill with which you kill. The better you were, the more friends you started having. As he was perhaps the most skilled in the mercenary camp, next to the leader and - supposedly - Kalarus, he had a lot of friends. They came enthusiastically to congratulate him on killing so many and surviving no doubt.
However, this time they didn't get far. In fact most skidded to an abrupt halt as they beheld his face. He didn't know what his expression was, but if it was anything in representing the rage and outrage he felt, no wonder some of them blanched.
"Ah...Gabriev...its nice to...well..." one of them fumbled. A growl stopped the man before he could manage anything more.
"Save the damn speech." Loerik muttered angrily, his eyes flashing dangerously "I'm in a damn bad mood. Where's the big boss? I need to talk to him now!"
"Err...Gabriev...its just that..."
"TELL ME, DAMN YOU!!" he bellowed, and instantly all those who still were close to him weren't. He found himself taking hold of the fearful mercenary, using his greater bulk and strength to shake him like a leaf. He was acting barbarously, and he didn't care. "TELL ME! WHERE IS HE!?!"
"I-in his private tent! He's-"
But the black-haired swordsman had already shoved him aside, making his furious way to the tent. He should have known the old mercenary would be there. But he had wanted to make sure. No, that was a lie. He had asked the question only to vent his very own frustration at something or someone. Horrendous. Barbaric. And the worst was, he still didn't mind it, even as a side of him tried to calm him down.
One of his own comrades had tried to kill him, he was certain. And that put his anger beyond control.
He stalked into the tent unannounced, glaring his way past the guards at the tent flap, his vision clouded. It was only when he had taken three good steps into the carpeted, gloomy space that he stopped. In the private part of the tent, he was hearing someone weep. A female voice.
A hurt, agonized one. It cut through his anger, restoring reason instantly, and he gasped despite himself as the implications of the sounds came to his mind.
The gasp had the effect he had wanted to have a mere moment before. The sheet separating the private parts of the tent with the more public ones was torn open, and a bedraggled, panting leader emerged, greying hair haphazard, absolutely naked. Blood was oozing down scratches on his side, and Loerik saw with mounting horror the deep red which colored the muscled man's knuckles. For a single moment, the sight ignited him, and thoughts of drawing the Sword of Light and cut this...aberration...to pieces was overwhelming.
He couldn't understand himself, couldn't pinpoint what had caused him to open his eyes so suddenly. It certainly hadn't been the close encounter he had had with death - that is something he had long made his peace with. The attempt on his life in such a treacherous manner infuriated him, but it hadn't been enough to change his view so drastically.
No...no...if anything had stirred his soul, plunging a knife right through the places he had hidden years ago out of anger and despair, it had been those large blue eyes. The eyes of his savior. Sad, angry, but still burning with something he had long been missing. Something which had been part of him and of every Gabriev from Rowdy to the first of the family.
Honor. Decency. These things made him hear the woman's cry, and it was all he could do not to kill the man who had been his leader for years.
The mercenary, fortunately, didn't notice the spasm of murder which trembled in his eyes, or the clenching of his hands. Instead he asked, in a somewhat irritated tone. "Gabriev. What's the problem boy? Can't it wait a bitsy. I'm kind of busy right now."
"I can see that, sir." Loerik declared in a cold tone where disgust was warring to surface. He resisted the temptation - antagonizing him meant doing the same with dozens of trained war veterans. And he wasn't foolish enough to think he could take all those people on. "I didn't think you'd be so close after the battle-"
"Gods man!" the leader gasped, cutting him off. "You're covered with blood."
What a brilliant observation considering that his tunic was soaked with it and he never wore colors like rust and red. He didn't say anything out loud, however, just stood there looking at the older man stoically. He didn't really want to be here anymore. The decadence which reeked from the man now that his damned sense of honor and desire to help others - damn his parents for instilling those useless emotions in him! - was overwhelming, and he wanted to sit or lie down to think about all that had happened, what had changed in him, what he couldn't bare any longer. And, most importantly, how he was going to deal with it.
The woman moaned again. That was it. He could either do something he might regret, or flee this place. At once.
"I'm sorry. I didn't notice." he mumbled "I'll leave you to your pleasures..." he choke ever so slightly as he said the word "And tell you about the situation later on. With that, he left, no listening to the irritated, commanding protests. Not knowing if he could ever bear to enter it.
His soul condemned him a vile fool. He couldn't help but admit it was right. For the first time in three years, Loerik Gabrieve, son of Rowdy Gabriev and grandson of the legendary Swordsman of Light, looked at his surroundings without veiling them to the truth. What he found there was petrifying in its complex horror, its terrifying mix of vices and hopelessness.
Men were there, but although he saw traces of past honor and ideals on many of them, they had been smudged, stained or silenced by necessity. Ideals had been put aside in the need for money, honor replaced by the yearning for food. These men had lived by the sword, but had long lost sight of the codes which had been drawn by the First Knights a thousand years before.
Had he become like them? A shadow, a fallen man who had forgotten his views in his need to survive. He searched for an answer within himself, and the answer he saw nearly toppled him. Not knowing and not caring if others thought him crazed, he moaned softly and fell to his knees, tears blurring his eyes.
"Foul...violent...my brother was right." he wailed gently "I'm not worthy of my mother's elven blood. I'm not worthy of wielding the Sword of Light."
'Make yourself worthy, you crybaby!' a voice cried out, angry, and he found that it sounded like his father's when he was scolding him long 'You think Rowdy would have given you that sword if he didn't BELIEVE you could do it. Now stop whining and make things right!'
The voice shook inside of him, hitting a chord which had never broken. The decent man behind the killer was still there. He HADN'T died, like he knew it had in so many others. He wouldn't let it!
"I will...make things right." he said, opening his eyes "Someway, somehow."
With that, he rose to his feet. He obviously had made a mild scene, for many eyes eyed him with varying expressions, but he didn't pay them the slightest heed. The self-doubts were put to rest for now, and he could go forward with the thoughts he had squashed when the elves thrust him out of Mipross. He had been raised by good people, and he would live as a good man. He would make amends for three years of uncaring, three years of putting his head in the sand as despicable acts were committed. And he knew, in a flash, just how to begin to do so.
It would take time. It would be dangerous. It may well cost him his life.
But it would be the right thing to do. And that was the most important fact of all.
FACTS:
The Hidden Lores: An amalgam of spells and artifacts left behind as the War of Resurrection ended. Amongst them are many precious items, like the Sword of Light, the Crystal Staff, the Claire Bible and the Philosopher Stone.
The First Knights: A group of powerful human warriors who maintained hope and honor during and following the end of the War of Resurrection. Gabriev, the first Swordsman of Light and patriarch of the Gabriev Family, was part of that noble order. The Codes of Honor which inspire modern knighthood were written by they.