Those Who Came Before
Chapter 2
'Its rather simple: I don't believe in losing. You may think that's egostical of me, and you might be right, hehe. But thats not it. I said that I don't believe in losing, period. If I did believe in that concept, I'd never have survived the tests which made me a great sorceror, I wouldn't have met your mom, and then that means...you wouldn't be here. Wouldn't that be sad?'
-Marcus Inverse to his oldest daughter Luna
'Justice is the soul of the righteous, Loyalty is his heart.'
-Motto of the Sailunean Knights
Few cities were as beautiful as the city of Sailune. Founded scant years after the War of resurrection had torn the world asunder, it had grown from a simple temple, a small keep and a few farmhouses into a great metropolis of wealth and stone. Soaring white walls, erected higher than any other had ever been in human history, encircled the premises. There, hundreds of houses, shops, and markets dotted the wide, clean streets. People bustled left and right, watched with intent eyes by the city garrison. The soldiers were chosen for their loyalty and dedication, and had been for many decades. This made a police force of rare potency. Consequently, fighting was rare in the city, and crimes, surprisingly given the sheer size of the city, were even rarer. Sailune was a safe city, and a wealthy one.
Wealthy, because it stood at the center of the civilized world, and thus had deals of great magnitude. Lizeillan blades and armors were present on the markets, as well as prized Kalmaartian jewelry, Zefielian wine, even wooden beams and wooden carvings from Dilsean caravans. And much more. Coins were exchanged daily, and flowed into the coffers of the city and its kingdom at a rate unseen even in the other wealthy countries such as Lizeille and Zefielia.
Before there came great wealth and a large army, the city was renowned for the strength of its white magic users. Usually powerful by themselves, the layout of the city actually gave them arcane added help in the form of its inner walls. Carefully built following precise plans engineered by the nest white magic minds, the walls made the entire city a seal of magic, a rune of power designed to gather the positive energies of the surrounding world and create a resistance to negative energy. Because of this, the white mages of Sailune were highly respected, and their presence, added to that of the well-supplied, well-armed conventional army within its walls, explained the fact that the city had never fallen to any attackers - human or otherwise in centuries.
The White Bastion, the castle of the royal family, reflected all of this wealth and sentiment of invulnerability. Built next to the impressive St-Harus Cathedral, it stood squarely in the middle of the city, and enjoyed increased magical protection. Large courtyards and gardens surrounded the main body of the castle, which rose in a symphony of slender towers, sturdy walls and scores of balconies, parapets and tall windows of crystal-clear glass. The interior was even more luxurious, with rich carpets imported from the finest places in Ralteague, hight collums of alabaster, and soaring ceilings. The place was magnificience and pride given form, and was the envy of many a foreign noble visitor.
But there were those who did not care one wit about the splendor surrounding them, the wealth which was there, and the pride of nearly nine centuries of prosperity. These rare persons were either members of the royal family - who had been born in wealth - or people blinded by strong emotions. Crown Prince Philionel Di Sailune happened to be both as he charged through the halls, tailed by three advisors desperately trying to calm his ire.
"Father! I demand to talk to you at once!" he bellowed, stalking.
"My Prince! Your Highness! Please calm yourself, I beg of you!"
"I am certain the King will have a worthy explanation to give to your anger, my Prince."
"You must calm yourself. If the court saw you in such a fury, people might talk."
"Majesty, you must-"
"SILENCE!" he roared, not breaking stride. This sent them all in a flutter. Philionel understood why perfectly - he usually was far more polite, and slow to anger. But today wasn't usual. Today was the day he wanted explanations from his father as to why Sailune would stna by and see a neighbouring nation be exterminated by another.
At seventeen, the prince was fully grown, his height far above the norm, with a girth which was quickly matching it. He was clean shaven, which had been necessary where he'd been, and this only accentuated the fact that he wasn't handsome by any measure under the sky. Indeed, he knew most women made snide remarks about him, calling him 'beast', 'tall bear' or even 'furry thing' as if they thought he wouldn't hear them, too caught up in his 'Justice Dellusions.' He did believe - fanatically, he could admit it to himself - that living by the old codes of justice was the core of a good life, but that didn't make him dumb, blind, or close-minded. However, he usually maintained the charade, to hear what people really thought, and center those he'd have to watch especially. So far, the mask of 'justice-driven' psychosis had been perfect.
Only now it had slipped, leaving only a frowning young man with a desire for confrontation. This desire prompted him to open the door to his father's chambers unannounced, nearly tearing the finely-carved doors from their hinges, slamming them behind him unacaring if it might smash into the faces of the whining advisors who were tailing him. He gave a cursory glance at the large bed, the many paintings, the relics which the late queen had collected before a ravaging fever had taken her away, and found his father idly toying with the one both rulers had preferred - a dragon statuette, all in silver with emeralds for its eyes. The older man turned swiftly as he made his dramatic entrance, his eyes narrowed and surprised. However the face relaxed at once, taking in an air of relative boredom.
Fedoniel Parrel Di Sailune looked little like his son. Shorter, slighter, he had a gentler, nobler face which seemed to shine with intelligence. Philionel always seemed to see his youngest brother, Christopher, in that face. However, it was a Christopher who lacked the warmth and understanding which made him so endearing to the prince.
"I should have known you woulf barge in." the king said "You never could get a hold of your emotions."
"This isn't about me, and you know it, father." Phil returned - long gone were the days when the king had impressed him "This is about an entire nation about to be crushed."
The middle-aged hands stopped toying with the dragon statuette, and with a sight the king put it back were it belonged. "I gather you mean Lumeria by that." It wasn't a question.
Phil nodded. "Lumeria and the fact that three thousand of our troops are gathered at its border, preventing any refugees from passing into our lands."
"Who told you that?!?" was the harsh reply.
"I don't look much like a nobleman, do I, father? I just threw on some old clothes, shaved myself and went to snoop." Philionel gave a smile of grim amusement "You'd be surprised how much more truth I hear from the people when they don't think I have any power over them."
The king's eyes narrowed angrily. "Fool. Your antics and your need to go look for trouble against all reason is enough to put the entire nation in turmoil. If you had any concern about Sailune-"
"I DO have concerns about Sailune!" Philionel cut off, using his stronger voice to silence his father in an act of anger which surpirsed them both in their intensity. "I'm concerned about it losing the thing which made it so great amongst other nations - its need to see justice done. So tell me! Tell me why the Sailunean army is just sitting on its hands while people are dying."
There were long moments of silence. Then the king walked a few steps and stood, his eyes intent and interested, right before Phil. The tension was palpable, and cold began to seep through the young man's back at his father's expression.
"Do you truly want to know the answer, my son?" the king asked mildly.
"I do." And he managed to make himself believe it, too.
"Its simple: politics. I wanted something, and the emperor of Elmekia wanted something. I managed to secure what I wished for, in exchange for neutrality in the Lumeria-Elmekia War. You're asking yourself 'What could be worth an entire nation?' Good question. My answer? OUR nation." A dry smile crossed the king's bearded face. "I arranged for your marriage with lady Valmatia Della Sar Elmekun, the niece of..."
"...of Emperor Ferlin Gredon Sar Elmekun, and one of the most beautiful women in Elmekia." Phil finished in a whisper. Then he shook his head. "I can't believe it. Cancel it! I won't have any part of this."
So far the king had been talking as a disgruntled father to a rebellious son, but Philionel's denial changed that. The eyes instantly became colder, and the stature seemed to grow on the older man as he used of his magnetism and force of command. He was the king, Philionel the prince. The discussion was closing.
"That is quite enough. Sailune won't get involved in a fight which doesn't concern us, and you will be married and will produce an heir. This way, you will be serving the kingdom like I am serving it by not making any military moves."
"At what expense, father?" Philionel tried to plead one last time. But the king didn't answer. Instead he turned around, walked back to the silver statuette, and toyed with it thoughtfully. A command and warning at the same time. In short, the king had decided, and he had to live with it.
He wouldn't. Philionel might be an ugly man, he might be far too devoted to the cause of justice, but in the end, he was an honest man. And he vowed, then and there, no matter what happened, no matter the fact he knew his brothers might envy him, might hate him, he would never change. He would stay an honest man, he would stand up against injustice.
And most of all, he wouldn't become a man who'd sacrifice an entire nation just to see his son married.
* * * * * * * * * *
She floated inside a sea of quiet darkness. It was a soothing journey for her. Her thoughts seemed unconfined, free to swirl through the unending expanse. There, an image flared to life, only to disappear back into the void. Voices from the past beckoned to her at moments, voices she longed for, some she knew she would never hear again. All that mattered little. The darkness was bliss.
"Hallia..." a voice whispered.
The sounds seared through the black expanses for a moment, and her scattered thoughts congregated for a brief time, wondering. Together they searched for the voice, the flaring of outside light, but encountered only a wall of pain. She recoiled, and her mind started to scatter once more.
"Hallia, please, wake up!" the voice hissed, a note of sheer concern present.
That tone was too brilliant, far too foreign and alive for her mind not to coalesce once more. Again they searched for an exit, and again the pain was felt. However her mind wanted out, forced against the pain, until it envellopped her in stark red sensations. The red lightened, became whiter, and then...
And then Hallia opened her eyes, and wished she could close them forever as her head throbbed like she had imps knocking on it with hammers. She could actually feel her blood pulse painfully, and she winced as it awakened other sensations in her body - a dry throat, stiffness everywhere she knew of and places she didn't, a nearly overwhelming tiredness - and lifted her head in a groggy motion.
She was in a rather shadowy place, filled with the scent of dirt, excrements and putrefaction, an amalgam of things which almost caused her to swoon on the spot. She didn't, however. Years scouring the battlefields for people to heal had toughened her to the many dire scnets which could assail a nose. Coughs and soft moans were the main sounds she heard, with little in the way of whispered conversations. Her eyes told her the rest. That, however, shook her up badly.
Around her were women, all rather young, all dressed in clothes torn and sullied, with their hands manacled together and chained to short wooden poles. Many had marks on there body - welts, fading or fresh bruises, and cuts here and there, with a few having larger wounds. What truly scared her, what truly put her wits in momentarily jeopardy, wasn't so much the wounds as the lack of life and light she saw in many eyes. Far too many women looked straight ahead, uncaring. Hallia noticed that her own arms were chained in the same manner
"Thank Ceipheed you're alright!" the voice exclaimed, and she looked beside her to see Narie looking back in unadulterated relief. The plain-looking young priestess had a large purplish welt on the side of her head, and was chained like all were in this place, but seemed to be otherwise unharmed.
"Narie...Narie...where...where are we? What happened?" she asked, but then her memory flashed, catching up to her. She remembered the ambush, the dead eyes of a priest who had been a friend, the soldiers dying, up to the scar-faced man hacking and slashing gleefully, and then the darkness. She shivered. "Where are we?" she repeated.
Her friend shook her head, but then a voice came up, rough and tired, yet retaining pride and strength. "In Hell, Priestess. Or at least, as close to Hell a woman can find in this damn sorry world."
It belonged to the woman in front of them both. Tall, somewhat muscular, she had a sort of proud bearing which reminded Hallia of the few swordsman she had met, virtuosos of the sword who lived for duels and conflict. Her matted brown hair hung like dirt, and a bruise had one of her eyes puffed shot. And yet despite this and many other wounds, there was dignity and defiance still present.
Glad to have someone around her who could still speak, the green-haired priestess voiced her concerns again. "What do you mean this is Hell? Where are we?!"
"In the slave tent of the Black Horns, one of the most dangerous mercenary groups in Elmekia." she bitterly replied "Toys for the depraved amongst them."
"T-toys?"
"Sex toys, priestess girl."
Narie gasped in horror, shivering, while Hallia could only look on and fight a wave of nausea as the concept. The sheer humiliations and pain profiling themselves on the horizon, pictured through the many blank stares around, was alomost too much, and she moaned softly. "It can't be...no..."
A mix between bitter laughter and a cough was heard, and she saw the older woman tense, her arms struggling against the chains which retained them prisoner, and relax just as suddenly, her shoulders slumping down. "You'd better believe it. Even accept it. You're gonna survive longer if you do. Most of the others...they broke quickly, because they couldn't accept it."
"What are they going to do to us?" Narie asked fearfully.
"Haven't you been listening, you dumb cleric?" the woman spat "We're a bunch of studs to them, sex toys! They'll hurt us, play with us, until we die! That's what they'll do!"
Narie whimpered, her usual cheerful personality gone, and Hallia countered hotly. "Stop it, damn you! She's scared, no damn need to blow up like that!"
The good eye on the other woman flashed, and she probably would have responded if a shadow hadn't covered them right at that moment. A look on who it was sent the bound woman shivering, glaring in terror and hatred. Disconcerted by the reaction, feeling ice knot her stomach, Hallia looked and saw the tall, scarred frame of the fellow who had gone and killed the remaining soldiers caught in the ambush. His sneering leer took in the chained woman.
"Zashtla, Zashtla, Zashtla..." the man mock-scolded "Can't ya jus' shuddap sometimes? Didn't I teach ya to shut up? Didn't I just?"
There was no answer, only a look of hate and terror. With a smile - a perverted smile which terrorized Hallia more than anything else she'd seen or heard yet - he delivered a kick to his silent charge, who gasped in pain yet managed to maintain teary eye contact. Apparently satisfied, the man crouched and examined Hallia thouroughly, taking in her curves slowly, with a sadistic pleasure. The unholy glee she saw was nearly enought to make her scream, but she wouldn't she swallowed the terror she felt with an effort, fought to calm the shivers pervading her body.
"Yer pretty. Very pretty thing." he mused "I really dig the hair, 'specially. Yup, yup, you'd do nicely..."
Hallia recoiled, her heart beating wildly, her breath fast and whimpering. But the scarred man didn't touch her. Instead he turned his attention to the plainer Narie.
"But I'm in a destructive mood today, I tell ya. And that jus' wouldn't do to mess up yar pretty face. Sooooo..." he grinned at the wide-eyed Narie "I guess yar the lucky one t'night."
Narie started as he reached and unlocked the chain holding her to the pole, as if what had been said was truly registering. Flooded with relief, shamed because of it, Hallia could only look on helplessly as horror dawned on her friend as she was thrust to her feet. She tried to call up her magic, but something was preventing her from feeling the powers. Narie must have tried as well, for she started to struggle fiercely.
"NO! NO! LET ME GO!! HALLIA! HELP ME! HELP!!!!" she screamed, drawing no reaction from the other women other than some raised heads, quickly bent again. "HALLIA-" she was silenced by a surrounding slap from a the gleeful mercenary, and she disolved into fearful sobs as he led her away roughly, beaming. Before he departed from her sight, he gave her a mock bow.
"To a later night, I tell ya, pretty!" he said with a chuckle, and departed with his helpless victim.
"Narie...I'm so sorry..." Hallia whispered, settling back, her heart aching painfully as she remembered the sheer terror in her friend's voice. Then she looked at the other woman, and saw her, wincing from the pain and yet growling angrily, her good eye looking in hate towards the spot the man had vanished.
"You were right..."
"What?"
"I said you were right....this...is Hell." and then she closed her eyes, whishing for a calm which might never come again.
* * * * * * * * * *
Night had fallen around the Black Horns' camp, bringing with it fires, and the usual clomps of men gathered together to have a serving of late stew, or to play cards. Guards were posted at regular intervals, but their vigilance was lax. Over two hundred of the most ruthless mercenaries chatted or slept in the camp. Who, many of the sentries though, would be crazy enough to attack them? Any sane person would give their camp a wide berth and go look elsewhere for prey.
This, Fezra Inverse said to herself, just served to prove that she was a crazy woman. And who cared? Slipping forward, the sorceress slinked at the edge of the light, and stealthily came upon a drowsy sentry. He didn't react to her presence, and she brought her fingers forward, focusing on her magic, finding it alive and plentiful, filling her soul, and dashed forward, tapping the man on the forehead.
The man gasped at her, but before he could even open his mouth, the spell started taking effect, and he fell to the floor in a soft clatter. Fezra looked at her handiwork in swelling pride. No one had noticed, nothing in the camp changed. A perfect infiltration move.
She heard a sigh, and turned to grin to her friend Berwen, who was coming forward with an expresssion of exasperated disgust. Slight and of average height for women the both of them, they differed greatly in looks - Fezra brown-haired with hawk-like features, while Berwen was blond and rounder-faced - and temperaments. They were, on many things, complete opposites. And that only made their friendship more interesting.
"I had an actual plan to get into this deathtrap, but did you listen? Noooooo! You just went and took risks, as damn usual!" the blonde sorceress griped in a whisper.
"Aw, get over it, everything's cool here. Besides, its not like a little sentry'd be any challenge for Fezra Inverse!"
"One day that arrogance is gonna get us both in a pickle."
"We'll see what to do about that when it happens, okay?" she grinned, flicked her thumb towards the camp "Now lets go and get some girls out of there!" Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels and stauntered nearer the lights.
She heard, as expected, a huff and a shift, and then heard soft steps behind her, and knew Berwen had decided to follow. She felt good about that. Ever since the two had begun to train in one of the Rogue Guilds - places hunted by the recognized places of magical learninh - the two had been friends, Berwen's practicality balancing Fezra's impulsivness. The two had been excellent, fast-learning students, and even though it had soon become clear that Fezra was the better sorceress, their bond had deepened until they were well-nigh inseperable. It had been a taken, then, to find adventures - and wealth - together. With, sometimes, a little fiasco to enter and mangle a bit, like they were doing now. What a marvelous life!
Berwen lay an hand on her shoulder, and she looked back to the shadowy form behind her. "Better let me lead the way, Fezzie."
"Why?" she couldn't help but ask, even though she could easily tell the answer to that. She just liked to lead, not follow.
"You didn't memorize the layout of the camp, did you Inverse dear?" Berwen said in a light tone. When a 'hmph' was all that was said, she continued. "Thought not, airhead. But I did. Now follow me. It'll go faster if I show the way to the slave den, no?"
Fezra pouted a second, but could find no couter-argument to what was, after all was said and done, the simple truth. Giving an exaggerated shrug, she let her friend pass and followed closely, alert to any noise.
It was when they neared the large, low tent where the female slaves were being kept that a shadow suddenly loomed over them, deeper than the night. With a cry, Berwen stumbled back, while Fezra gathered her wits and threw a Light spell at the shadow. Night was briefly illuminated, revealing a tall man, built in hard muscles, stepping backward with an hand over his face. Not missing a beat, she began to mumble the world for a Flare Arrow, while Berwen was calling up the first words of an Elmekia Lance. Before the spells could go off, however, the tall man brough up an hand, blinking.
"Wait! I'm on your side, dammit! I want to free the slaves too."
That stopped her for a moment, but she wasn't woman to be taken in so lightly. "You're a mercenary from theis camp, handsome," she said dryly "Odds are, you were just coming to have a little fun."
"No! Never!" he said feircely, with such palpable disgust that she suddenly started gauging him more carefully. "Look, you're right - I'm a Black Horn, or at least I was. I had - forgotten who I was, and...and I want to make it up somehow. If you're here to help the women escape, I'll gladly help you."
"I believe him. He doesn't have the tone of a liar." Berwen told her a moment later. Fezra growled softly, but at last extinguished the magical light. She knew that the situation called for leaps of faith, and her friend had always been good at finding out who was lying and who wasn't. If Berwen said someone was trustworthy, then she had no choice but to think that the person was, no matter her own uncertainties on the matter.
"Fine. If you want to help, then help." she held up a finger, useless in the darkness "But I'm warning you, one false move and I'll shove a Fireball up your ass!"
"I know." he answered simply, and turned away. The party - now grown to three - resumed its journey, and found themselves facing wide awake guards at the doorflap of the slave tent. Both groups froze. Then the guards reached for their weapons, yelling.
Cursing, Fezra didn't waste time, and conjured energy as fast as the wind. "Flare Arrow!' she called, and a beam of incandescence when from her hands and struck one of the guards squarely. The second one had gotten his weapon out, but before the sorceresses could react, their newfound companion flashed a blade, struck, and flashed in back in its sheath in one swift motion. The second guard immediately toppled over.
"Not bad!" she said.
"Thanks!" he answered "Now lets get them out before all hell breaks loose!"
They entered precipituously, and neither she nor Berwen had the time to do much more than gape at the scenery exposed to their light spells - women in rags, chained, bruised, faces emotionless and blank. It was a terrible sight, but one she willed herself not to dwell on. Time was short, and she decided to go and help those who seemed to still remember they were alive. She used her magical powers to burst chains, and helped many a bruised girl on her feet, unheeding of their stammering or effusive thanks, of their questions.
One, however, wouldn't be calmed, and in fact became even more agitated when she was freed. "Narie. We gotta help Narie!" she said frantically, her words tumbling over each other. Fezra blinked, but shook her head.
"Sorry, we gotta split if she's not here..."
"But I CAN'T leave her with that man...that...that...what did you call him, Zastha?" she asked an athletic woman who was massaging her wrists.
"Kalarus...he's the worst kind of pig. A top swordsman, too."
"Sounds like major bad news." Fezra mused, than gave a sympathetic look to the girl "I can't go chasing off after your friend. We have to escape and - hey, HEY!"
She could have torn her hair out in sheer frustration as the woman - a moderate magic-user by the feel - ran out of the tent, tearing off the magical dampener around her neck. It was a foolish run, doomed to fail without help.
The warrior looked at the retreating back, gasped, and ran after her.
"Agh!!! Is everyone turning suicidal?!?" she shouted. Berwen turned to her with a smirk.
"Look who's talking!"
"Why you-!"
Noise was suddenly heard from outside. Feet, shouts, and the jingle of armor. Fast approaching. Many of the women moaned fearfully, knowing that when the soldiers caugh them, they wouldn't be able to defend themselves.
But Fezra only grinned at Berwen, who nodded lightly and took up postion beside her near the entrance. Both raised their hands as the dounds became an imminent danger.
"Source of all power, light which burns..."
"...beyond crimson, let thy power gather in my hand!"
The mercenaries alerted by the noise burst into the tent, and stared at the sight of the duo holding orbs of flames between their hands.
Fezra giggled. "See ya!"
Berwen winked. "Hope you enjoyed the trip!" And with that both put their hands forwards as the mercenaries scrambled backward.
"FIREBALL!" And with that word, the front of the tent and many besides blew up. Fezra Inverse had started having a little fun.
* * * * * * * * * *
In the distance, Loerik heard the first of the explosions, and knew that the two sorceresses had begun to fight against the warriors alerted by the noise and disturbances in the area of the slave tent. He knew he could have been of great help had he stayed, and not only because of the inherent skill of his swordsmanship. However, he had seen confidence and power in them, and guessed that they could probably manage to escape - hopefully with the persona they had aimed to save. He, however, was stuck with another problem, which was to chase down a woman.
Not that it was a practice he usually endured or cared for, but in this case, he didn't feel like he had much choice in the matter. She was, after all, going to confront one of the most skilled and dangerous men Loerik had ever met in the three years of warfare he had participated in. H he couldn't let that happen.
Inside himself, he told himself, kept telling himself stubbornly indeed, that the danger the woman was rushing headlong into was the only reason he was going to help her. His sense of honor, newly reawakened and redefined, wouldn't let a death happen that he could prevent. There was nothing else to it, he told himself, he was just doing the decent thing, that was all there was.
Man, was he kidding himself or what?
It wasn't the only reason he was chading down this girl. The real reason, the one he wanted to hide from himself, was the fact that he was certain she was the one, the one who had pulled him from the brink of death and thus had made him reconsider what he was beoming. The eyes he had seen, the delicate traits... he was certain he was right. And that belief made him remember he had sword a life-debt to his savior. And although no one had been there to hear his vow, Loerik Gabriev was a man who lived by them.
Thus, he was starting to feel quite annoyed when she managed to disappear from view ahead of him. He didn't know whether it was fear or anger or even madness which fueled her now, but the fact remained that there was an astounding amount of speed in these slight legs, speed his larger, longer ones couldn't keep up with. At this rate, she'll burn herself up. he thought And that means she'll be helpeless when she gets to Kalarus. heck, I'll be surprised if she finds enough breath to pull of a little light of magic, much less a spell which could hurt the guy! Damn the woman. And damn my silly vows anyway!
He poured on the speed, zooming through the camp. He wasn't drain, for one. He wasn't even breathing hard yet, a testament to his stern regimen of physical, concentration and swordsmanship training. He was at the peak of his health, and was glad for it - he was going to need it. He passed several mercenaries and clumps still haunched over fires, ignored the calls and looks tossed his way, and finally arrived to the older swordsman's tent. A small fire was starting to die, untended, near it, and he skidded to a halt near it, listening intently.
He picked up noise all to easily. First a man's cry of anger, followed by a thus and a woman's shout. The scuffle was undelined by whimpers which came from another female throat. Knowing that he couldn't dally, that everything hinged at his acting at once, Loerik stepped forward and started to draw his sword. Before he could take more than two firm steps, however, he heard the sounds nearing the tent flap.
"Ya lil bitch! Ya think I'm gonna let ya go easy now?! Jus' prepare yourself, wench! This is gonna hurt, I tell ya!"
There was another thud, of flesh hitting flesh, and suddenly the green-haired woman he'd been chasing stumbled backward, swaying, clutching a side of her face which was quickly getting darker by the light of the fire. Behind her came Kalarus himself, his eyes wide and gleeful, his sword in his hand. He raised it over his hand, and started to bring it down swiftly for the killing blow.
That was his cue to act, and Loerik didn't waste the chance. His sword was out completely when the twoi people had burst near him, and the fact that the swordsman never heeded anything else but the girl allowed him to move in, bringing his own blade up to soundly parry the blow. Metal clanged on metal and Kalraus, not having expected the parry, had to step back has his arm shook from vibrations he hadn't been prepared to deal with.
"I really think you shoudl just lay it to rest now, Kalarus." He said, taking the chance to put himself in front of the groggy cleric, his sword poised. The older man blinked, then snarled in outrage.
"What's da damn meanin' of this, Gabrieb?! That lil bitch jus' came in and ruined all mah fun, I tell ya! Now step aside an' lemme get her for it!"
Loerik didn't respond at once, silently assessing the older man. He was wearing only his breeches, and was covered in a sweaty, greasy film. A slight heaving could be detected from him, and hir hair was matted. However, he also spotted marks on the angry, scarred face, mark he knew had been made by human nails and fists.Yes the man had been having fun, but not the kind of fun he could just walk away from! Yet how often had he done exactly so? How many times had he seen similar events and walked passed them? The very thought shamed him, but only fueled his drive.
"Sorry, man. But I'm through with the crap I've been living. I've been lying to myself and I hate it. Now you better step aside and hand over that girl you've been hiding, or you'll have to face me right here and now!"
A moment passed as the two men studied each other. Kalarus began by reacting with shock, then a growing rage, whcih finally transformed into a sort of grim amusement. He smiled in an unhealthy, gleeful way as he brough his sword into a fighting stance, his lusty anticipation nearly buckling Loerik's concentration.
"I always wanted tah see," he muttered with a chuckle "If ya were worth of the family name yer usin'!"
"Come and find out, then. I'm all yours!"
No time was wasted on words anymore, as Kalarus attacked. Loerik pushed the still-dazed cleric out of harm's way, and managed to block and repell the attack, counter-attacking swiftly with his own thrust, only to finf it deflected away. A leering grin answered his tight-mouthed mien as the blades crashed on each other again, Kalarus' Valserrim vying for dominance against the Sword of Light.
A dance started, a deadly waltz of steel. It was faster, more precise and more complicated that any he had yet done ever since the last time he had sparredwith his father, just before the Elder Elves of Mipross had decided to banish him for choosing Humanity instead of Elvenkind. The thought of this banishment, of the cruelty of it, cruelty endorsed by his older brother, only added to the cold fire which made him fight. He had chosen humanity, and paid for it, but he hadn't chosen the path he had to end up skewered at the end of a lusty, sick twisted swordsman's blade! He pushed himself harder into the fight.
He had always known Kalarus was the one person who might defeat him in a swordfight - their fighting skills had always seemed equal. However, it was clear the older fighter had exerted himself a great deal in the process of the unsavory sport he he done. That, added to the fact he was less mentally ready to combat another of his skill level, allowed the younger swordsman to eventually take the upper hand.His blows always seemed closer and closer, and the other's defence was getting more and more frantic, until, at long last, a shot went through, badly skewering Kalarus' shoulder blade. The man repelled him with a n angry cry of pain, then stepped backward.
"Damn ya!" he growled. "I shoulda made sure ya were dead the other day!"
To Loerik, it didn't come as much of a surprise to hear those words, really. The shot which had almost killed him - which would've - had been done from behind, with great skill in stealth and precision. There were only two men he knew who could do it - the leader of the Black Horns, or Kalarus. And his former leader never had any personal problems with him, unlike Kalarus, with whom he had often disagreed vehemently. As such, he only gritted his teeth in reponse.
"I'm not surprised you'd stoop that low," he spat through his teeth "you sick excuse for a warrior." with that, he bent his sword down, and pinched a certain spot on its hilt, hearing a satisfying click as the blade slid out. With a grim smile, he raised the empty hilt. "Now let me show you why my family is renowned."
Kalarus gathered himself for an attack despite his injured shoulder, but Loerik merely griiped the empty hilt and uttered the words Gabrievs had used for a millenia.
"LIGHT COME FORTH!!!!" he shouted, and at once, drawing from his spirit, a brilliant beam of light surged from the hilt, taking the form of a blade. Before any other action could be undertaken by his opponent, he slashed the ground in front of him, producing a shockwave of power which struck Kalarus and sent him flying forty feet away, landing hard. After the resounding thud, he lay still.
Loerik sighed, glad this battle was over, but knowing he had only beaten the other man uncounscious. He willed the blade to cease and it did at once, its great mystical energies dissolving. It was only as he reached for his real blade that he remembered the priestess, frogotten in the thrill of swordplay. He turned in her direction, and found her crouching, staring at him with wide eyes, her gaze switching from his hilt to his face.
"Sword...Sword of Light..." he heard her mumble. With another sigh, he clicked the blade back into place.
"Well how about you getting that friend of yours!" he looked around. Undoubtedly people had heard the short but furious fight, and would come to investigate. "Hurry, we gotta split." In the distance, more explosions from the sorceresses punctuated his words.
The priestess shook her head as if to clear it, and then nodded, dashing into the tent. Soon a fearful voice called, and a soothing one began to talk. While this happened, he took his position before the tent flap, daring any mercenary to come his way. He felt good, really good. He had killed no one yet, and he had helped to save others. He felt the darkness around him recede a little.
There was no doubt to his mind, he had regained his real purpose in life.
* * * * * * * * * *
The villagers all were people he had known since he before he could remember. Marly the baker, the man who always seemed to have a little treat for the grubby runts who dashed and played around his shop. Farlow the hunter, who'd first taught him how to dress and cut up a bird. The mayor of the village, who always seemed positive about everything. He knew everyone and everyone knew him - unsurprising in as little a village as their was. Everyone knew the Jaderam family well.
And know one raised even a single protest as Farlow and Marly dragged a gagged and bound Herala Jaderam and tied her struggling form to the pyre which would be her grave.If anything, glee and some kind of satisfaction rang through the eyes of the people there. There was no mercy in there.
Why would there be? She had used magic, thereby showing herself to be a danger to nature. No matter that many in Dils let the magic user freaks alone. In Thornwood, they knew they had to be stern and obey the natural order of things.
Only one didn't believe in this. Only one voice was againt it. Marcus Jaderam turned to his father Felge and cried. "Daddy, don't let them hurt mommy, please! She didn't do wrong! Don't let them!"
His father remained silent, his face - which didn't ressemble Marcus's own - still as stone. Marcus heard the village elder intone a prayer to Ceipheed and the Five Dragon Kings to take Herala's soul once it was cleansed of Shabranigdu's influence. Bound to the pyre, Marcus' mother struggled against her bounds, but to not avail. The prayer ended, and torches were tossed to the oil-soaked wood stack. It caught fire and blazed at once.
Marcus saw this, saw the horror on his mother's face, and screamed in denial, rushing forward in a frantic attempt to help. He didn't go far, however, before he was grabbed from behind. Through his tears, he saw his father holding him, looking down at him in what seemed to be - insane as it was - disappointment. Marcus struggled, but his seven-year old body was no match for the adult's strength.
"Daddy, please, HELP HER!" he screamed as the fire reached Herala's clothes.
"Silence boy!" his father cut him off angrily "Look! That demon witch got what she deserved! Bewitching demon!" he spat at the woman he had loved until days ago, when she had ahds no choice but to show her gift.
Marcus's tears blurred his vision, and the spire faded, as did the villagers. Only sounds and smells remained. Cackles of laughter, shouts and curses for the witch, and the smell of burning wood.
Then his mother, the fire burning away the gag, began to scream in undescribable agony-
- And Marcus awoke with a start, whimpering, the bed sheet damp from sweat, his wet red hair clinging to his scalp. He lay there, reorienting himself, until he remembered where and when he was. He was ninteeen, staying at a country inn next to the Sailune - Alliance of Coastal States border, on his way to investigate the desperate plans of lumerian archmages and their relationship with the Hidden Lores. He was a sorcerer, a powerful one. He was safe, he was sound, and no one around him was burning.
And yet, the smell of burning wood still seemed to hang around his nose, and the ear-splitting scream his mother had uttered rebounded through his soul. Unsurprising, that.
He put an hand on his face. "Gods, gods, gods, gods..." he whispered. "Twelve years, and it still feels like yesterday."
He remembered the grueling years with his father, the hate which had grown, his running away from home, and the many things which happened to him until he was first enlisted into the Atlas City Sorceror Guild. Years of stryfe, years of hatred. He had never been able to forget it, try as he might.
He shook himself, pushing the pain and rage away as he'd always done, setting his mind clear for the day. Daylight was shinning behind the curtains of his window, announcing that he had slept sufficiently - this time around, at least. Feeling refreshed, he threw in his clothes - freshly washed as he'd paid good coins for that, and got down to eat something.
The common room was relatively empty, so that he had the choice of tables. He picked one which had a nice view of the watermill and the surrounding pastoral lands, and carefully selected something from the short menu set on it. While waiting for his breakfast to arrive, he gazed around at the people sitting there. Two teenagers dressed for travel, with the frightened and triumphant look of lovers who'd eloped. Quaint but without importance to him. An old man sipping a clear brew from a bowl. Boring. Three middle-aged men in farmers clothes talking about the new baby of a neighbour's wife. Yeesh, little village people had such an active, entertaining life!
It was then that he noticed a man sitting at a table near his, dressed in impeccable attire, priest-like garnments fringed with gold, toying with a staff. He had purple hair and, Marcus noted in mild irritation, a really fake, cheesy smile. He almost brushed off the man, but something held him back. He felt something from this one. Something very different. The man waved as he saw him looking and, uninvited, walked cheerfully to Marcus' table, sitting down on the other side.
"Well, hello there!" the man exclaimed "I wasn't expecting to run into you here!"
Marcus contained himself from making a rude comment at that. "Escuse me, but have we met?" he asked.
"Never."
The young sorceror went still at this and carefully considered whether it would be for the best in the grand scheme of things if he throttle this unnerving whacko. He decided against it at length, even though his face went still and fuming for a few moments. Ever cheerful, the man didn't seem to notice his fate had just been deliberated.
"If we haven't met, then how can you expect to run into me? Are you a Guild member?"
"Ah lets see. Hem...no...although I used to make frequent visits in a nice one in the Alliance."
Marcus sighed in disgust. "Then why are we having this discussion at all?"
The man's smile faded for a moment, and his closed eyelids snapped open to reveal piercing purple eyes. The change from mocking cheer to utter seriousness was astonishing, and Marcus couldn't check a slight flinch. "The reason is that Rezo is quite right. There is something going on in Lumeria."
Suddenly Marcus was very interested. "Is it related to forbidden magic? Dark spells? Summoning? Hidden Lores artifiacts?" he pressed.
The priestly man shook his head slowly. "My...employer...has been unable to see more than that. Lets just say this: its dangerous for you and it might be dangerous for us..."
He blinked. "Us?" he asked, but the other man continued without heeding the question.
"...so we don't want them to succeed. Just so you know, I'll be at hand to help you from time to time."
"Help me? But why?"
"The cheer returned, and the priest lay back lazyly, shaking a finger. "That is a secret!" He rose and bowed with a grin. "Remember: Lumeria, big things happening." a chuckle "And by the way, my name is Xellos! Ta-ta and see you later." And with that, he vanished.
Not walked out, not flew out, just plain vanished. It was a power reputed to be held amongst the Hidden Lores, but the fact this power had been used so carelessly...it indicated that this Xellos had a good deal of magical powers. Marcus' mind raced. Lumerian Sorcerors were going to do something catastrophic it seemed. But what? And who were those people Xellos worked for?
Such was his concentration that he never noticed when his breakfast arrived. Munching on it absently, eating eggs without tasting them, he couldn't help but feel that he had been thrust into a situation he had no control of. This mission might be a good deal more dangerous than he had thought it would be.
He smiled at that. Fine by him. To Lumeria he was going still, to get his answers to this new riddle. He just hoped the answers wouldn't raised more questions.
Chapter 2
'Its rather simple: I don't believe in losing. You may think that's egostical of me, and you might be right, hehe. But thats not it. I said that I don't believe in losing, period. If I did believe in that concept, I'd never have survived the tests which made me a great sorceror, I wouldn't have met your mom, and then that means...you wouldn't be here. Wouldn't that be sad?'
-Marcus Inverse to his oldest daughter Luna
'Justice is the soul of the righteous, Loyalty is his heart.'
-Motto of the Sailunean Knights
Few cities were as beautiful as the city of Sailune. Founded scant years after the War of resurrection had torn the world asunder, it had grown from a simple temple, a small keep and a few farmhouses into a great metropolis of wealth and stone. Soaring white walls, erected higher than any other had ever been in human history, encircled the premises. There, hundreds of houses, shops, and markets dotted the wide, clean streets. People bustled left and right, watched with intent eyes by the city garrison. The soldiers were chosen for their loyalty and dedication, and had been for many decades. This made a police force of rare potency. Consequently, fighting was rare in the city, and crimes, surprisingly given the sheer size of the city, were even rarer. Sailune was a safe city, and a wealthy one.
Wealthy, because it stood at the center of the civilized world, and thus had deals of great magnitude. Lizeillan blades and armors were present on the markets, as well as prized Kalmaartian jewelry, Zefielian wine, even wooden beams and wooden carvings from Dilsean caravans. And much more. Coins were exchanged daily, and flowed into the coffers of the city and its kingdom at a rate unseen even in the other wealthy countries such as Lizeille and Zefielia.
Before there came great wealth and a large army, the city was renowned for the strength of its white magic users. Usually powerful by themselves, the layout of the city actually gave them arcane added help in the form of its inner walls. Carefully built following precise plans engineered by the nest white magic minds, the walls made the entire city a seal of magic, a rune of power designed to gather the positive energies of the surrounding world and create a resistance to negative energy. Because of this, the white mages of Sailune were highly respected, and their presence, added to that of the well-supplied, well-armed conventional army within its walls, explained the fact that the city had never fallen to any attackers - human or otherwise in centuries.
The White Bastion, the castle of the royal family, reflected all of this wealth and sentiment of invulnerability. Built next to the impressive St-Harus Cathedral, it stood squarely in the middle of the city, and enjoyed increased magical protection. Large courtyards and gardens surrounded the main body of the castle, which rose in a symphony of slender towers, sturdy walls and scores of balconies, parapets and tall windows of crystal-clear glass. The interior was even more luxurious, with rich carpets imported from the finest places in Ralteague, hight collums of alabaster, and soaring ceilings. The place was magnificience and pride given form, and was the envy of many a foreign noble visitor.
But there were those who did not care one wit about the splendor surrounding them, the wealth which was there, and the pride of nearly nine centuries of prosperity. These rare persons were either members of the royal family - who had been born in wealth - or people blinded by strong emotions. Crown Prince Philionel Di Sailune happened to be both as he charged through the halls, tailed by three advisors desperately trying to calm his ire.
"Father! I demand to talk to you at once!" he bellowed, stalking.
"My Prince! Your Highness! Please calm yourself, I beg of you!"
"I am certain the King will have a worthy explanation to give to your anger, my Prince."
"You must calm yourself. If the court saw you in such a fury, people might talk."
"Majesty, you must-"
"SILENCE!" he roared, not breaking stride. This sent them all in a flutter. Philionel understood why perfectly - he usually was far more polite, and slow to anger. But today wasn't usual. Today was the day he wanted explanations from his father as to why Sailune would stna by and see a neighbouring nation be exterminated by another.
At seventeen, the prince was fully grown, his height far above the norm, with a girth which was quickly matching it. He was clean shaven, which had been necessary where he'd been, and this only accentuated the fact that he wasn't handsome by any measure under the sky. Indeed, he knew most women made snide remarks about him, calling him 'beast', 'tall bear' or even 'furry thing' as if they thought he wouldn't hear them, too caught up in his 'Justice Dellusions.' He did believe - fanatically, he could admit it to himself - that living by the old codes of justice was the core of a good life, but that didn't make him dumb, blind, or close-minded. However, he usually maintained the charade, to hear what people really thought, and center those he'd have to watch especially. So far, the mask of 'justice-driven' psychosis had been perfect.
Only now it had slipped, leaving only a frowning young man with a desire for confrontation. This desire prompted him to open the door to his father's chambers unannounced, nearly tearing the finely-carved doors from their hinges, slamming them behind him unacaring if it might smash into the faces of the whining advisors who were tailing him. He gave a cursory glance at the large bed, the many paintings, the relics which the late queen had collected before a ravaging fever had taken her away, and found his father idly toying with the one both rulers had preferred - a dragon statuette, all in silver with emeralds for its eyes. The older man turned swiftly as he made his dramatic entrance, his eyes narrowed and surprised. However the face relaxed at once, taking in an air of relative boredom.
Fedoniel Parrel Di Sailune looked little like his son. Shorter, slighter, he had a gentler, nobler face which seemed to shine with intelligence. Philionel always seemed to see his youngest brother, Christopher, in that face. However, it was a Christopher who lacked the warmth and understanding which made him so endearing to the prince.
"I should have known you woulf barge in." the king said "You never could get a hold of your emotions."
"This isn't about me, and you know it, father." Phil returned - long gone were the days when the king had impressed him "This is about an entire nation about to be crushed."
The middle-aged hands stopped toying with the dragon statuette, and with a sight the king put it back were it belonged. "I gather you mean Lumeria by that." It wasn't a question.
Phil nodded. "Lumeria and the fact that three thousand of our troops are gathered at its border, preventing any refugees from passing into our lands."
"Who told you that?!?" was the harsh reply.
"I don't look much like a nobleman, do I, father? I just threw on some old clothes, shaved myself and went to snoop." Philionel gave a smile of grim amusement "You'd be surprised how much more truth I hear from the people when they don't think I have any power over them."
The king's eyes narrowed angrily. "Fool. Your antics and your need to go look for trouble against all reason is enough to put the entire nation in turmoil. If you had any concern about Sailune-"
"I DO have concerns about Sailune!" Philionel cut off, using his stronger voice to silence his father in an act of anger which surpirsed them both in their intensity. "I'm concerned about it losing the thing which made it so great amongst other nations - its need to see justice done. So tell me! Tell me why the Sailunean army is just sitting on its hands while people are dying."
There were long moments of silence. Then the king walked a few steps and stood, his eyes intent and interested, right before Phil. The tension was palpable, and cold began to seep through the young man's back at his father's expression.
"Do you truly want to know the answer, my son?" the king asked mildly.
"I do." And he managed to make himself believe it, too.
"Its simple: politics. I wanted something, and the emperor of Elmekia wanted something. I managed to secure what I wished for, in exchange for neutrality in the Lumeria-Elmekia War. You're asking yourself 'What could be worth an entire nation?' Good question. My answer? OUR nation." A dry smile crossed the king's bearded face. "I arranged for your marriage with lady Valmatia Della Sar Elmekun, the niece of..."
"...of Emperor Ferlin Gredon Sar Elmekun, and one of the most beautiful women in Elmekia." Phil finished in a whisper. Then he shook his head. "I can't believe it. Cancel it! I won't have any part of this."
So far the king had been talking as a disgruntled father to a rebellious son, but Philionel's denial changed that. The eyes instantly became colder, and the stature seemed to grow on the older man as he used of his magnetism and force of command. He was the king, Philionel the prince. The discussion was closing.
"That is quite enough. Sailune won't get involved in a fight which doesn't concern us, and you will be married and will produce an heir. This way, you will be serving the kingdom like I am serving it by not making any military moves."
"At what expense, father?" Philionel tried to plead one last time. But the king didn't answer. Instead he turned around, walked back to the silver statuette, and toyed with it thoughtfully. A command and warning at the same time. In short, the king had decided, and he had to live with it.
He wouldn't. Philionel might be an ugly man, he might be far too devoted to the cause of justice, but in the end, he was an honest man. And he vowed, then and there, no matter what happened, no matter the fact he knew his brothers might envy him, might hate him, he would never change. He would stay an honest man, he would stand up against injustice.
And most of all, he wouldn't become a man who'd sacrifice an entire nation just to see his son married.
* * * * * * * * * *
She floated inside a sea of quiet darkness. It was a soothing journey for her. Her thoughts seemed unconfined, free to swirl through the unending expanse. There, an image flared to life, only to disappear back into the void. Voices from the past beckoned to her at moments, voices she longed for, some she knew she would never hear again. All that mattered little. The darkness was bliss.
"Hallia..." a voice whispered.
The sounds seared through the black expanses for a moment, and her scattered thoughts congregated for a brief time, wondering. Together they searched for the voice, the flaring of outside light, but encountered only a wall of pain. She recoiled, and her mind started to scatter once more.
"Hallia, please, wake up!" the voice hissed, a note of sheer concern present.
That tone was too brilliant, far too foreign and alive for her mind not to coalesce once more. Again they searched for an exit, and again the pain was felt. However her mind wanted out, forced against the pain, until it envellopped her in stark red sensations. The red lightened, became whiter, and then...
And then Hallia opened her eyes, and wished she could close them forever as her head throbbed like she had imps knocking on it with hammers. She could actually feel her blood pulse painfully, and she winced as it awakened other sensations in her body - a dry throat, stiffness everywhere she knew of and places she didn't, a nearly overwhelming tiredness - and lifted her head in a groggy motion.
She was in a rather shadowy place, filled with the scent of dirt, excrements and putrefaction, an amalgam of things which almost caused her to swoon on the spot. She didn't, however. Years scouring the battlefields for people to heal had toughened her to the many dire scnets which could assail a nose. Coughs and soft moans were the main sounds she heard, with little in the way of whispered conversations. Her eyes told her the rest. That, however, shook her up badly.
Around her were women, all rather young, all dressed in clothes torn and sullied, with their hands manacled together and chained to short wooden poles. Many had marks on there body - welts, fading or fresh bruises, and cuts here and there, with a few having larger wounds. What truly scared her, what truly put her wits in momentarily jeopardy, wasn't so much the wounds as the lack of life and light she saw in many eyes. Far too many women looked straight ahead, uncaring. Hallia noticed that her own arms were chained in the same manner
"Thank Ceipheed you're alright!" the voice exclaimed, and she looked beside her to see Narie looking back in unadulterated relief. The plain-looking young priestess had a large purplish welt on the side of her head, and was chained like all were in this place, but seemed to be otherwise unharmed.
"Narie...Narie...where...where are we? What happened?" she asked, but then her memory flashed, catching up to her. She remembered the ambush, the dead eyes of a priest who had been a friend, the soldiers dying, up to the scar-faced man hacking and slashing gleefully, and then the darkness. She shivered. "Where are we?" she repeated.
Her friend shook her head, but then a voice came up, rough and tired, yet retaining pride and strength. "In Hell, Priestess. Or at least, as close to Hell a woman can find in this damn sorry world."
It belonged to the woman in front of them both. Tall, somewhat muscular, she had a sort of proud bearing which reminded Hallia of the few swordsman she had met, virtuosos of the sword who lived for duels and conflict. Her matted brown hair hung like dirt, and a bruise had one of her eyes puffed shot. And yet despite this and many other wounds, there was dignity and defiance still present.
Glad to have someone around her who could still speak, the green-haired priestess voiced her concerns again. "What do you mean this is Hell? Where are we?!"
"In the slave tent of the Black Horns, one of the most dangerous mercenary groups in Elmekia." she bitterly replied "Toys for the depraved amongst them."
"T-toys?"
"Sex toys, priestess girl."
Narie gasped in horror, shivering, while Hallia could only look on and fight a wave of nausea as the concept. The sheer humiliations and pain profiling themselves on the horizon, pictured through the many blank stares around, was alomost too much, and she moaned softly. "It can't be...no..."
A mix between bitter laughter and a cough was heard, and she saw the older woman tense, her arms struggling against the chains which retained them prisoner, and relax just as suddenly, her shoulders slumping down. "You'd better believe it. Even accept it. You're gonna survive longer if you do. Most of the others...they broke quickly, because they couldn't accept it."
"What are they going to do to us?" Narie asked fearfully.
"Haven't you been listening, you dumb cleric?" the woman spat "We're a bunch of studs to them, sex toys! They'll hurt us, play with us, until we die! That's what they'll do!"
Narie whimpered, her usual cheerful personality gone, and Hallia countered hotly. "Stop it, damn you! She's scared, no damn need to blow up like that!"
The good eye on the other woman flashed, and she probably would have responded if a shadow hadn't covered them right at that moment. A look on who it was sent the bound woman shivering, glaring in terror and hatred. Disconcerted by the reaction, feeling ice knot her stomach, Hallia looked and saw the tall, scarred frame of the fellow who had gone and killed the remaining soldiers caught in the ambush. His sneering leer took in the chained woman.
"Zashtla, Zashtla, Zashtla..." the man mock-scolded "Can't ya jus' shuddap sometimes? Didn't I teach ya to shut up? Didn't I just?"
There was no answer, only a look of hate and terror. With a smile - a perverted smile which terrorized Hallia more than anything else she'd seen or heard yet - he delivered a kick to his silent charge, who gasped in pain yet managed to maintain teary eye contact. Apparently satisfied, the man crouched and examined Hallia thouroughly, taking in her curves slowly, with a sadistic pleasure. The unholy glee she saw was nearly enought to make her scream, but she wouldn't she swallowed the terror she felt with an effort, fought to calm the shivers pervading her body.
"Yer pretty. Very pretty thing." he mused "I really dig the hair, 'specially. Yup, yup, you'd do nicely..."
Hallia recoiled, her heart beating wildly, her breath fast and whimpering. But the scarred man didn't touch her. Instead he turned his attention to the plainer Narie.
"But I'm in a destructive mood today, I tell ya. And that jus' wouldn't do to mess up yar pretty face. Sooooo..." he grinned at the wide-eyed Narie "I guess yar the lucky one t'night."
Narie started as he reached and unlocked the chain holding her to the pole, as if what had been said was truly registering. Flooded with relief, shamed because of it, Hallia could only look on helplessly as horror dawned on her friend as she was thrust to her feet. She tried to call up her magic, but something was preventing her from feeling the powers. Narie must have tried as well, for she started to struggle fiercely.
"NO! NO! LET ME GO!! HALLIA! HELP ME! HELP!!!!" she screamed, drawing no reaction from the other women other than some raised heads, quickly bent again. "HALLIA-" she was silenced by a surrounding slap from a the gleeful mercenary, and she disolved into fearful sobs as he led her away roughly, beaming. Before he departed from her sight, he gave her a mock bow.
"To a later night, I tell ya, pretty!" he said with a chuckle, and departed with his helpless victim.
"Narie...I'm so sorry..." Hallia whispered, settling back, her heart aching painfully as she remembered the sheer terror in her friend's voice. Then she looked at the other woman, and saw her, wincing from the pain and yet growling angrily, her good eye looking in hate towards the spot the man had vanished.
"You were right..."
"What?"
"I said you were right....this...is Hell." and then she closed her eyes, whishing for a calm which might never come again.
* * * * * * * * * *
Night had fallen around the Black Horns' camp, bringing with it fires, and the usual clomps of men gathered together to have a serving of late stew, or to play cards. Guards were posted at regular intervals, but their vigilance was lax. Over two hundred of the most ruthless mercenaries chatted or slept in the camp. Who, many of the sentries though, would be crazy enough to attack them? Any sane person would give their camp a wide berth and go look elsewhere for prey.
This, Fezra Inverse said to herself, just served to prove that she was a crazy woman. And who cared? Slipping forward, the sorceress slinked at the edge of the light, and stealthily came upon a drowsy sentry. He didn't react to her presence, and she brought her fingers forward, focusing on her magic, finding it alive and plentiful, filling her soul, and dashed forward, tapping the man on the forehead.
The man gasped at her, but before he could even open his mouth, the spell started taking effect, and he fell to the floor in a soft clatter. Fezra looked at her handiwork in swelling pride. No one had noticed, nothing in the camp changed. A perfect infiltration move.
She heard a sigh, and turned to grin to her friend Berwen, who was coming forward with an expresssion of exasperated disgust. Slight and of average height for women the both of them, they differed greatly in looks - Fezra brown-haired with hawk-like features, while Berwen was blond and rounder-faced - and temperaments. They were, on many things, complete opposites. And that only made their friendship more interesting.
"I had an actual plan to get into this deathtrap, but did you listen? Noooooo! You just went and took risks, as damn usual!" the blonde sorceress griped in a whisper.
"Aw, get over it, everything's cool here. Besides, its not like a little sentry'd be any challenge for Fezra Inverse!"
"One day that arrogance is gonna get us both in a pickle."
"We'll see what to do about that when it happens, okay?" she grinned, flicked her thumb towards the camp "Now lets go and get some girls out of there!" Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels and stauntered nearer the lights.
She heard, as expected, a huff and a shift, and then heard soft steps behind her, and knew Berwen had decided to follow. She felt good about that. Ever since the two had begun to train in one of the Rogue Guilds - places hunted by the recognized places of magical learninh - the two had been friends, Berwen's practicality balancing Fezra's impulsivness. The two had been excellent, fast-learning students, and even though it had soon become clear that Fezra was the better sorceress, their bond had deepened until they were well-nigh inseperable. It had been a taken, then, to find adventures - and wealth - together. With, sometimes, a little fiasco to enter and mangle a bit, like they were doing now. What a marvelous life!
Berwen lay an hand on her shoulder, and she looked back to the shadowy form behind her. "Better let me lead the way, Fezzie."
"Why?" she couldn't help but ask, even though she could easily tell the answer to that. She just liked to lead, not follow.
"You didn't memorize the layout of the camp, did you Inverse dear?" Berwen said in a light tone. When a 'hmph' was all that was said, she continued. "Thought not, airhead. But I did. Now follow me. It'll go faster if I show the way to the slave den, no?"
Fezra pouted a second, but could find no couter-argument to what was, after all was said and done, the simple truth. Giving an exaggerated shrug, she let her friend pass and followed closely, alert to any noise.
It was when they neared the large, low tent where the female slaves were being kept that a shadow suddenly loomed over them, deeper than the night. With a cry, Berwen stumbled back, while Fezra gathered her wits and threw a Light spell at the shadow. Night was briefly illuminated, revealing a tall man, built in hard muscles, stepping backward with an hand over his face. Not missing a beat, she began to mumble the world for a Flare Arrow, while Berwen was calling up the first words of an Elmekia Lance. Before the spells could go off, however, the tall man brough up an hand, blinking.
"Wait! I'm on your side, dammit! I want to free the slaves too."
That stopped her for a moment, but she wasn't woman to be taken in so lightly. "You're a mercenary from theis camp, handsome," she said dryly "Odds are, you were just coming to have a little fun."
"No! Never!" he said feircely, with such palpable disgust that she suddenly started gauging him more carefully. "Look, you're right - I'm a Black Horn, or at least I was. I had - forgotten who I was, and...and I want to make it up somehow. If you're here to help the women escape, I'll gladly help you."
"I believe him. He doesn't have the tone of a liar." Berwen told her a moment later. Fezra growled softly, but at last extinguished the magical light. She knew that the situation called for leaps of faith, and her friend had always been good at finding out who was lying and who wasn't. If Berwen said someone was trustworthy, then she had no choice but to think that the person was, no matter her own uncertainties on the matter.
"Fine. If you want to help, then help." she held up a finger, useless in the darkness "But I'm warning you, one false move and I'll shove a Fireball up your ass!"
"I know." he answered simply, and turned away. The party - now grown to three - resumed its journey, and found themselves facing wide awake guards at the doorflap of the slave tent. Both groups froze. Then the guards reached for their weapons, yelling.
Cursing, Fezra didn't waste time, and conjured energy as fast as the wind. "Flare Arrow!' she called, and a beam of incandescence when from her hands and struck one of the guards squarely. The second one had gotten his weapon out, but before the sorceresses could react, their newfound companion flashed a blade, struck, and flashed in back in its sheath in one swift motion. The second guard immediately toppled over.
"Not bad!" she said.
"Thanks!" he answered "Now lets get them out before all hell breaks loose!"
They entered precipituously, and neither she nor Berwen had the time to do much more than gape at the scenery exposed to their light spells - women in rags, chained, bruised, faces emotionless and blank. It was a terrible sight, but one she willed herself not to dwell on. Time was short, and she decided to go and help those who seemed to still remember they were alive. She used her magical powers to burst chains, and helped many a bruised girl on her feet, unheeding of their stammering or effusive thanks, of their questions.
One, however, wouldn't be calmed, and in fact became even more agitated when she was freed. "Narie. We gotta help Narie!" she said frantically, her words tumbling over each other. Fezra blinked, but shook her head.
"Sorry, we gotta split if she's not here..."
"But I CAN'T leave her with that man...that...that...what did you call him, Zastha?" she asked an athletic woman who was massaging her wrists.
"Kalarus...he's the worst kind of pig. A top swordsman, too."
"Sounds like major bad news." Fezra mused, than gave a sympathetic look to the girl "I can't go chasing off after your friend. We have to escape and - hey, HEY!"
She could have torn her hair out in sheer frustration as the woman - a moderate magic-user by the feel - ran out of the tent, tearing off the magical dampener around her neck. It was a foolish run, doomed to fail without help.
The warrior looked at the retreating back, gasped, and ran after her.
"Agh!!! Is everyone turning suicidal?!?" she shouted. Berwen turned to her with a smirk.
"Look who's talking!"
"Why you-!"
Noise was suddenly heard from outside. Feet, shouts, and the jingle of armor. Fast approaching. Many of the women moaned fearfully, knowing that when the soldiers caugh them, they wouldn't be able to defend themselves.
But Fezra only grinned at Berwen, who nodded lightly and took up postion beside her near the entrance. Both raised their hands as the dounds became an imminent danger.
"Source of all power, light which burns..."
"...beyond crimson, let thy power gather in my hand!"
The mercenaries alerted by the noise burst into the tent, and stared at the sight of the duo holding orbs of flames between their hands.
Fezra giggled. "See ya!"
Berwen winked. "Hope you enjoyed the trip!" And with that both put their hands forwards as the mercenaries scrambled backward.
"FIREBALL!" And with that word, the front of the tent and many besides blew up. Fezra Inverse had started having a little fun.
* * * * * * * * * *
In the distance, Loerik heard the first of the explosions, and knew that the two sorceresses had begun to fight against the warriors alerted by the noise and disturbances in the area of the slave tent. He knew he could have been of great help had he stayed, and not only because of the inherent skill of his swordsmanship. However, he had seen confidence and power in them, and guessed that they could probably manage to escape - hopefully with the persona they had aimed to save. He, however, was stuck with another problem, which was to chase down a woman.
Not that it was a practice he usually endured or cared for, but in this case, he didn't feel like he had much choice in the matter. She was, after all, going to confront one of the most skilled and dangerous men Loerik had ever met in the three years of warfare he had participated in. H he couldn't let that happen.
Inside himself, he told himself, kept telling himself stubbornly indeed, that the danger the woman was rushing headlong into was the only reason he was going to help her. His sense of honor, newly reawakened and redefined, wouldn't let a death happen that he could prevent. There was nothing else to it, he told himself, he was just doing the decent thing, that was all there was.
Man, was he kidding himself or what?
It wasn't the only reason he was chading down this girl. The real reason, the one he wanted to hide from himself, was the fact that he was certain she was the one, the one who had pulled him from the brink of death and thus had made him reconsider what he was beoming. The eyes he had seen, the delicate traits... he was certain he was right. And that belief made him remember he had sword a life-debt to his savior. And although no one had been there to hear his vow, Loerik Gabriev was a man who lived by them.
Thus, he was starting to feel quite annoyed when she managed to disappear from view ahead of him. He didn't know whether it was fear or anger or even madness which fueled her now, but the fact remained that there was an astounding amount of speed in these slight legs, speed his larger, longer ones couldn't keep up with. At this rate, she'll burn herself up. he thought And that means she'll be helpeless when she gets to Kalarus. heck, I'll be surprised if she finds enough breath to pull of a little light of magic, much less a spell which could hurt the guy! Damn the woman. And damn my silly vows anyway!
He poured on the speed, zooming through the camp. He wasn't drain, for one. He wasn't even breathing hard yet, a testament to his stern regimen of physical, concentration and swordsmanship training. He was at the peak of his health, and was glad for it - he was going to need it. He passed several mercenaries and clumps still haunched over fires, ignored the calls and looks tossed his way, and finally arrived to the older swordsman's tent. A small fire was starting to die, untended, near it, and he skidded to a halt near it, listening intently.
He picked up noise all to easily. First a man's cry of anger, followed by a thus and a woman's shout. The scuffle was undelined by whimpers which came from another female throat. Knowing that he couldn't dally, that everything hinged at his acting at once, Loerik stepped forward and started to draw his sword. Before he could take more than two firm steps, however, he heard the sounds nearing the tent flap.
"Ya lil bitch! Ya think I'm gonna let ya go easy now?! Jus' prepare yourself, wench! This is gonna hurt, I tell ya!"
There was another thud, of flesh hitting flesh, and suddenly the green-haired woman he'd been chasing stumbled backward, swaying, clutching a side of her face which was quickly getting darker by the light of the fire. Behind her came Kalarus himself, his eyes wide and gleeful, his sword in his hand. He raised it over his hand, and started to bring it down swiftly for the killing blow.
That was his cue to act, and Loerik didn't waste the chance. His sword was out completely when the twoi people had burst near him, and the fact that the swordsman never heeded anything else but the girl allowed him to move in, bringing his own blade up to soundly parry the blow. Metal clanged on metal and Kalraus, not having expected the parry, had to step back has his arm shook from vibrations he hadn't been prepared to deal with.
"I really think you shoudl just lay it to rest now, Kalarus." He said, taking the chance to put himself in front of the groggy cleric, his sword poised. The older man blinked, then snarled in outrage.
"What's da damn meanin' of this, Gabrieb?! That lil bitch jus' came in and ruined all mah fun, I tell ya! Now step aside an' lemme get her for it!"
Loerik didn't respond at once, silently assessing the older man. He was wearing only his breeches, and was covered in a sweaty, greasy film. A slight heaving could be detected from him, and hir hair was matted. However, he also spotted marks on the angry, scarred face, mark he knew had been made by human nails and fists.Yes the man had been having fun, but not the kind of fun he could just walk away from! Yet how often had he done exactly so? How many times had he seen similar events and walked passed them? The very thought shamed him, but only fueled his drive.
"Sorry, man. But I'm through with the crap I've been living. I've been lying to myself and I hate it. Now you better step aside and hand over that girl you've been hiding, or you'll have to face me right here and now!"
A moment passed as the two men studied each other. Kalarus began by reacting with shock, then a growing rage, whcih finally transformed into a sort of grim amusement. He smiled in an unhealthy, gleeful way as he brough his sword into a fighting stance, his lusty anticipation nearly buckling Loerik's concentration.
"I always wanted tah see," he muttered with a chuckle "If ya were worth of the family name yer usin'!"
"Come and find out, then. I'm all yours!"
No time was wasted on words anymore, as Kalarus attacked. Loerik pushed the still-dazed cleric out of harm's way, and managed to block and repell the attack, counter-attacking swiftly with his own thrust, only to finf it deflected away. A leering grin answered his tight-mouthed mien as the blades crashed on each other again, Kalarus' Valserrim vying for dominance against the Sword of Light.
A dance started, a deadly waltz of steel. It was faster, more precise and more complicated that any he had yet done ever since the last time he had sparredwith his father, just before the Elder Elves of Mipross had decided to banish him for choosing Humanity instead of Elvenkind. The thought of this banishment, of the cruelty of it, cruelty endorsed by his older brother, only added to the cold fire which made him fight. He had chosen humanity, and paid for it, but he hadn't chosen the path he had to end up skewered at the end of a lusty, sick twisted swordsman's blade! He pushed himself harder into the fight.
He had always known Kalarus was the one person who might defeat him in a swordfight - their fighting skills had always seemed equal. However, it was clear the older fighter had exerted himself a great deal in the process of the unsavory sport he he done. That, added to the fact he was less mentally ready to combat another of his skill level, allowed the younger swordsman to eventually take the upper hand.His blows always seemed closer and closer, and the other's defence was getting more and more frantic, until, at long last, a shot went through, badly skewering Kalarus' shoulder blade. The man repelled him with a n angry cry of pain, then stepped backward.
"Damn ya!" he growled. "I shoulda made sure ya were dead the other day!"
To Loerik, it didn't come as much of a surprise to hear those words, really. The shot which had almost killed him - which would've - had been done from behind, with great skill in stealth and precision. There were only two men he knew who could do it - the leader of the Black Horns, or Kalarus. And his former leader never had any personal problems with him, unlike Kalarus, with whom he had often disagreed vehemently. As such, he only gritted his teeth in reponse.
"I'm not surprised you'd stoop that low," he spat through his teeth "you sick excuse for a warrior." with that, he bent his sword down, and pinched a certain spot on its hilt, hearing a satisfying click as the blade slid out. With a grim smile, he raised the empty hilt. "Now let me show you why my family is renowned."
Kalarus gathered himself for an attack despite his injured shoulder, but Loerik merely griiped the empty hilt and uttered the words Gabrievs had used for a millenia.
"LIGHT COME FORTH!!!!" he shouted, and at once, drawing from his spirit, a brilliant beam of light surged from the hilt, taking the form of a blade. Before any other action could be undertaken by his opponent, he slashed the ground in front of him, producing a shockwave of power which struck Kalarus and sent him flying forty feet away, landing hard. After the resounding thud, he lay still.
Loerik sighed, glad this battle was over, but knowing he had only beaten the other man uncounscious. He willed the blade to cease and it did at once, its great mystical energies dissolving. It was only as he reached for his real blade that he remembered the priestess, frogotten in the thrill of swordplay. He turned in her direction, and found her crouching, staring at him with wide eyes, her gaze switching from his hilt to his face.
"Sword...Sword of Light..." he heard her mumble. With another sigh, he clicked the blade back into place.
"Well how about you getting that friend of yours!" he looked around. Undoubtedly people had heard the short but furious fight, and would come to investigate. "Hurry, we gotta split." In the distance, more explosions from the sorceresses punctuated his words.
The priestess shook her head as if to clear it, and then nodded, dashing into the tent. Soon a fearful voice called, and a soothing one began to talk. While this happened, he took his position before the tent flap, daring any mercenary to come his way. He felt good, really good. He had killed no one yet, and he had helped to save others. He felt the darkness around him recede a little.
There was no doubt to his mind, he had regained his real purpose in life.
* * * * * * * * * *
The villagers all were people he had known since he before he could remember. Marly the baker, the man who always seemed to have a little treat for the grubby runts who dashed and played around his shop. Farlow the hunter, who'd first taught him how to dress and cut up a bird. The mayor of the village, who always seemed positive about everything. He knew everyone and everyone knew him - unsurprising in as little a village as their was. Everyone knew the Jaderam family well.
And know one raised even a single protest as Farlow and Marly dragged a gagged and bound Herala Jaderam and tied her struggling form to the pyre which would be her grave.If anything, glee and some kind of satisfaction rang through the eyes of the people there. There was no mercy in there.
Why would there be? She had used magic, thereby showing herself to be a danger to nature. No matter that many in Dils let the magic user freaks alone. In Thornwood, they knew they had to be stern and obey the natural order of things.
Only one didn't believe in this. Only one voice was againt it. Marcus Jaderam turned to his father Felge and cried. "Daddy, don't let them hurt mommy, please! She didn't do wrong! Don't let them!"
His father remained silent, his face - which didn't ressemble Marcus's own - still as stone. Marcus heard the village elder intone a prayer to Ceipheed and the Five Dragon Kings to take Herala's soul once it was cleansed of Shabranigdu's influence. Bound to the pyre, Marcus' mother struggled against her bounds, but to not avail. The prayer ended, and torches were tossed to the oil-soaked wood stack. It caught fire and blazed at once.
Marcus saw this, saw the horror on his mother's face, and screamed in denial, rushing forward in a frantic attempt to help. He didn't go far, however, before he was grabbed from behind. Through his tears, he saw his father holding him, looking down at him in what seemed to be - insane as it was - disappointment. Marcus struggled, but his seven-year old body was no match for the adult's strength.
"Daddy, please, HELP HER!" he screamed as the fire reached Herala's clothes.
"Silence boy!" his father cut him off angrily "Look! That demon witch got what she deserved! Bewitching demon!" he spat at the woman he had loved until days ago, when she had ahds no choice but to show her gift.
Marcus's tears blurred his vision, and the spire faded, as did the villagers. Only sounds and smells remained. Cackles of laughter, shouts and curses for the witch, and the smell of burning wood.
Then his mother, the fire burning away the gag, began to scream in undescribable agony-
- And Marcus awoke with a start, whimpering, the bed sheet damp from sweat, his wet red hair clinging to his scalp. He lay there, reorienting himself, until he remembered where and when he was. He was ninteeen, staying at a country inn next to the Sailune - Alliance of Coastal States border, on his way to investigate the desperate plans of lumerian archmages and their relationship with the Hidden Lores. He was a sorcerer, a powerful one. He was safe, he was sound, and no one around him was burning.
And yet, the smell of burning wood still seemed to hang around his nose, and the ear-splitting scream his mother had uttered rebounded through his soul. Unsurprising, that.
He put an hand on his face. "Gods, gods, gods, gods..." he whispered. "Twelve years, and it still feels like yesterday."
He remembered the grueling years with his father, the hate which had grown, his running away from home, and the many things which happened to him until he was first enlisted into the Atlas City Sorceror Guild. Years of stryfe, years of hatred. He had never been able to forget it, try as he might.
He shook himself, pushing the pain and rage away as he'd always done, setting his mind clear for the day. Daylight was shinning behind the curtains of his window, announcing that he had slept sufficiently - this time around, at least. Feeling refreshed, he threw in his clothes - freshly washed as he'd paid good coins for that, and got down to eat something.
The common room was relatively empty, so that he had the choice of tables. He picked one which had a nice view of the watermill and the surrounding pastoral lands, and carefully selected something from the short menu set on it. While waiting for his breakfast to arrive, he gazed around at the people sitting there. Two teenagers dressed for travel, with the frightened and triumphant look of lovers who'd eloped. Quaint but without importance to him. An old man sipping a clear brew from a bowl. Boring. Three middle-aged men in farmers clothes talking about the new baby of a neighbour's wife. Yeesh, little village people had such an active, entertaining life!
It was then that he noticed a man sitting at a table near his, dressed in impeccable attire, priest-like garnments fringed with gold, toying with a staff. He had purple hair and, Marcus noted in mild irritation, a really fake, cheesy smile. He almost brushed off the man, but something held him back. He felt something from this one. Something very different. The man waved as he saw him looking and, uninvited, walked cheerfully to Marcus' table, sitting down on the other side.
"Well, hello there!" the man exclaimed "I wasn't expecting to run into you here!"
Marcus contained himself from making a rude comment at that. "Escuse me, but have we met?" he asked.
"Never."
The young sorceror went still at this and carefully considered whether it would be for the best in the grand scheme of things if he throttle this unnerving whacko. He decided against it at length, even though his face went still and fuming for a few moments. Ever cheerful, the man didn't seem to notice his fate had just been deliberated.
"If we haven't met, then how can you expect to run into me? Are you a Guild member?"
"Ah lets see. Hem...no...although I used to make frequent visits in a nice one in the Alliance."
Marcus sighed in disgust. "Then why are we having this discussion at all?"
The man's smile faded for a moment, and his closed eyelids snapped open to reveal piercing purple eyes. The change from mocking cheer to utter seriousness was astonishing, and Marcus couldn't check a slight flinch. "The reason is that Rezo is quite right. There is something going on in Lumeria."
Suddenly Marcus was very interested. "Is it related to forbidden magic? Dark spells? Summoning? Hidden Lores artifiacts?" he pressed.
The priestly man shook his head slowly. "My...employer...has been unable to see more than that. Lets just say this: its dangerous for you and it might be dangerous for us..."
He blinked. "Us?" he asked, but the other man continued without heeding the question.
"...so we don't want them to succeed. Just so you know, I'll be at hand to help you from time to time."
"Help me? But why?"
"The cheer returned, and the priest lay back lazyly, shaking a finger. "That is a secret!" He rose and bowed with a grin. "Remember: Lumeria, big things happening." a chuckle "And by the way, my name is Xellos! Ta-ta and see you later." And with that, he vanished.
Not walked out, not flew out, just plain vanished. It was a power reputed to be held amongst the Hidden Lores, but the fact this power had been used so carelessly...it indicated that this Xellos had a good deal of magical powers. Marcus' mind raced. Lumerian Sorcerors were going to do something catastrophic it seemed. But what? And who were those people Xellos worked for?
Such was his concentration that he never noticed when his breakfast arrived. Munching on it absently, eating eggs without tasting them, he couldn't help but feel that he had been thrust into a situation he had no control of. This mission might be a good deal more dangerous than he had thought it would be.
He smiled at that. Fine by him. To Lumeria he was going still, to get his answers to this new riddle. He just hoped the answers wouldn't raised more questions.