"Now I'm not in the habit of bragging... heheh, what am I saying?!? I LOVE bragging! You're no match for me, turtle brain! COME AND GET IT!!!!"
- Fezra to a monster
"I've no doubt that what I did was right. Leaving my bride-to-be was harder than many thought, probably because there was something in her that I found very similar to what I was. But there was no choice, no option, which I could exercise. I knew that my friends would be facing dangerous opponents, and I had to be there to face them with they. Sailune's pride would have to bid its time, and so would my father.
That was the way I thought. Now, something in me is not sure I would do it again if I had the choice. Not because of ill feelings or disloyalty, but rather because of the unexpected opponent we saw."
Crown Prince Philionel di Sailune, Memoirs, 1007 AR
Chapter Thirteen
Phil had had many problems when he had grown up amongst the royalty. Always larger than the norm, always massive for his age, with a face which, he could easily admit it now, didn't have much in the way of pleasing features. It had hardly fit the stiff tastes of the royal court. He had found it hard, to have people snickering at his back, no matter the attention his late mother gave him or the love his youngest brother had for him. No matter his education, he had never fit well with the image the people had of a prince.
But with the common folk, the merchants and peasants who produced all the fine things nobles bought, he had found something. Far from making him an object of ridicule, people had found his looks to be 'less arrogant' than other nobles, more 'earthy' and had given him heartfelt approval. It had spurred him towards travelling the lands, no matter what his father thought. His people had given him trust where the noble families laughed at his back.
He had never forgotten that.
Which explained why, at that very moment, Phil felt rather contrite as he used the natural height and muscular stature he showed to cut a clear path through the throng. No one wanted to mess with a man his size, and everyone - even those who looked rebellious or hostile - gave way when he walked through. All around them, people were streaming, looking over the food stalls. Late summer brought many varieties of fresh fruit and vegetables. Tomatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, wheat, corn, all sorts of grains and foods were at the farm stalls they were passing through. People cried their produce, townsfolk came to look and argue.
"This is life." he muttered. Children running to and fro, people talking freely without the restraint, which made the noble courts so stifling. The smell of freshly-baked bread and pies wafting...
"What did you say, Phil?" a voice interrupted his reverie, and he flushed as he realized he had talked out loud. He cast about for something to cover up, and decided to play the disgruntled man.
"I was saying 'This if my life', being put up front just so I can scare people." he winced - that was a lame recovery. His friends, fortunately, didn't say anything to that.
"Can't really blame us for that." Lionel intoned, "I mean it's faster."
"Even though we can't see anything but Phil's back." Narie giggled. The prince smiled to himself. It had taken time, but Narie had finally taken to seeing him as a friend more than a prince. Lionel...well...Lionel was too proper to care about anything but protocols, it seemed.
He stopped near a stall selling raspberries. He looked around carefully, but didn't see anything resembling an inn. "Where is it?" he grumbled, "Why couldn't we decide to meet at a easier point?"
He felt rather than saw Narie shrug. "I guess Fezra wanted to take advantage of the beds and the food at the inn before we went in. Not unreasonable, you know."
"Perhaps, but now we need directions, or we are going to lose a lot of our time - this town is rather large." he looked at the vendor. "Good sir, I was wondering if you knew where I can find the Inn called 'The Silly Bear'?"
The man, indeed, knew where to find it, but it would cost Phil a small basket of raspberries. Fair enough for the prince, who had paid despite Lionel's sighs and looks. As it was, they continued their way, distributing raspberries amongst themselves. They followed the way the merchant had given, but as they passed a small temple, Narie seized his arm strongly. He turned to her, as did Lionel a second later.
"Phil," she breathed "Ain't that who I think that is?" he followed her look. The temple was simple enough - a whitewashed, two-stories structure with columns supporting parts of the walls, a small flight of wide stairs leading to an entryway showing the Ceipheed icon. An ordinary temple, nearly a copy of many others he'd seen in towns. Then he saw the two people leaving the temple, and he blinked his eyes quickly.
No, this was no trick of the light. This was Loerik, athletic, dark-haired Loerik, dressed in his usual mercenary mesh. And that, beside him, with the priestess garb and the lime-green hair, was definitely Hallia. They walked side by side, holding to each other and giving each other looks which Philionel found himself envying them. There was a flush to their faces, and they would have passed right by them if Narie hadn't shaken her surprise and stepped in front of them both.
Confusion, surprise and finally relief and joy. Narie and Hallia held on to each other and squealed, laughing, while Loerik and Phil shook hands heartily. Lionel politely saluted them both, ill at ease, not having the same rapport. Phil, for himself, was glad to be with a man with whom he could talk. He clapped the tall man - who went to his shoulder - on the shoulder with a roaring laugh which made more than a few heads turn.
"Loerik! By Ceipheed, its good to see you, my friend!"
"Nice to see you too, Phil! We were wonderin' when you'd show up." the mercenary replied. "Fezra was starting to get all worked up over you being late and all."
"And eating enough for three grown men in the process, I'm sure."
"With a little help from me and Zashtla." the swordsman grinned "But that's usual. What about you? Did you get any magic thingies to help us out?"
The prince was about to answer, when a greater squeal from Narie distracted him. The priestess had grabbed Hallia's forearm, looking at it wildly, nearly jumping up and down. "Oh Gods! Godsgodsgods! You two...so that's why...now that's...whoa!"
Hallia blushed, but still tried to calm her friend. "Easy, breathe. I know its sudden, but after all-"
"Sudden! You two are married, that's no little thing, Hallia!"
Philionel looked at Narie, exchanged a stunned look with Lionel, before staring at Loerik's forearm. Sure enough, there was a bronze bracelet, engraved with iconic images of Ceipheed and the Earth Dragon King, signifying a matrimonial bond. The prince then scared many passers-by - not to mention his friends - by hauling the tall, armoured man off his feet, and letting go of a roaring, happy laugh.
"WAHAHAHAHAHAH! Why you little schemers!" he crowed as he shook the swordsman bodily "Why didn't you tell us right off! This is something to celebrate!" he put the black-haired man down and gave him such a slap that his friend staggered and Lionel winced in sympathy.
The swordsman winced and huffed a moment before regaining his composure. "Well, I'm...glad you...like it, Phil. It was Hallia's idea to do it now."
"That true, Hallie?" Narie inquired. "Why the sudden pace?"
As an answer the priestess simply nodded towards the castle-like mound of towers overlooking the city from a small hill. Phil had been so taken with the lively feel of the town that he'd forgotten just how close he was to danger. There lived the sorcerers who have broken all magical laws by using the Forbidden Lores sealed away long ago. With a pang, he understood why the two had done this even before the priestess explained her reasons.
"We decided...that we wanted to end our lives as husband and wife." she explained, her voice strained for reasons Phil could guess. "And there's no guarantee that...when we go in..." she trailed off, but the sentence ended all the same in the prince's mind. 'When we go in...we might not come out.' an uncomfortable silence fell between them. They didn't even hear the throng around them.
And then Phil turned to them, taking a deep breath, hands on hips. "FEAR NOT! Our cause is a just one. We are on a quest to stop these fiends from undoing the good works and the sacrifices of those who fell a nigh a thousand years ago and on a quest to save a friend in need! JUSTICE and GOOD are on our side! We shall prevail!" he made a fist "And I truly believe that. Between all of us, we can make it. We can stop these monsters, and save our friend."
The others looked unconvinced, but nodded. They hadn't bought his speech all that much - he hadn't expected them to - but he'd stopped the wave of sadness and despair before it came. He would never ask for anything more.
Smiling, his own morale restored, he presented the half-finished raspberry basket and asked, deadpan. "Want some?"
* * * * * * * * * *
Salemir Der Elmekun, Duke of the Westlands and the most powerful man in the Elmekian Empire next to the Emperor himself, wanted to see himself as a patient man. He wasn't one to throw fits or to lose his temper. But he had his set of limits. And the slight he perceived towards his daughter was something, which made his blood boil and his vision narrow.
"Your son has committed an irresponsible slight towards my daughter, Your Majesty. I will not hide that I do not appreciate it!"
King Fedoniel, seated near a window overlooking one of the castle's many gardens, looked grave but composed. "I agree, lord Salemir. And I assure you that my son will face punishment when he returns. I can only give my apologies and the apologies of all of Sailune for this unfortunate event."
It was genuinely said, but the duke wasn't about to let it pass so easily. He wanted something more tangible than excuses, even if said excuses came from one as exalted as the King of Sailune. "I still do not understand why this event occurred at all! Your son should have been here and have known his duty!"
"My son has a strange viewpoint when it comes from duty." a shrug "I am afraid it comes from his mother. She fed him some silly ideas when he was a youth. Fortunately, she died before she could poison my younger sons." he did not seem to mind belittling his late wife this way, leading the duke to assume the King's marriage had been arranged. With a pang, he wondered if this would be his daughter's fate: to be tolerated and given her due, but never receiving any affection from her mate?
He would cross that bridge if and when it came. For now, getting the youths married at all appeared a problem, and it didn't sit well with him. "You son should have been put under surveillance, if you knew his quirks."
"The Crown Prince will certainly not be put under 'surveillance', as you say. He is the heir to this throne and I will not treat him as a commoner, no matter his problems."
"Even when he exhibits such irresponsibility?!?"
"Lord Salemir..."
"This is a political breach of conduct, Your Majesty! It could well be taken as an insult by the Emperor of Elmekia."
Salemir knew that he'd said too much at once, and cursed himself for his anger-loosened tongue. He saw it in the slight tightening of Fedoniel's jaw, in the way the monarch gripped the wine cup he was holding.
"I hope the Emperor would not do such a thing. I would take any hostile words as sufficient reasons to implement...restraints...towards Elmekia's military actions."
It was a threat in response to a threat. Few nations would have dared to incur Elmekia's wrath, even when its military stood weakened by years of warfare. But Sailune wasn't a small nation, which could easily be silenced, like Dalfera or Fameel. Sailune dominated trade and politics, and fielded the most well equipped army in all the lands. It was a powerful juggernaught that had dominated the continent for two centuries. It could face down any of the nations, from the smallest independent city-state to the most powerful grand nation.
Salemir, however, had this one thing no one ever seemed to count on- the pride of House Elmekun. His eyes flashed, his anger blazing anew, and he barely contained himself from making a remark, which might have started an incident then and there.
"Gentlemen, please. Let us think this through calmly before giving any rash speeches." the third occupant of the room intoned gently, his voice unobtrusive and yet holding immeasurable wisdom and power. Salemir turned his blazing eyes towards the unseeing ones of the other man.
"With all due respect, Lord Rezo, the fact remains that this action was taken without taking my daughter into consideration."
"Are you so certain of that?"
"Of course!"
"And yet, and with all due respect to you, Lord Salemir, I think that you are wrong when you say prince Philionel left without taking his leave of you daughter."
"And, Lord Rezo, how did you come by this conclusion?" he knew he was making another mistake - angering the most powerful mage in the land could only have disastrous results - but he didn't care. His anger would not allow him to be talked down by anyone, not even the Red Priest. Rezo's answer, however, caught him off-guard.
"I learned the truth by the simplest way - I asked your daughter about it directly. Did you not?"
With a start, Salemir considered this and saw that he hadn't. He had simply assumed that Valmatia would come to him if there was anything important he needed to know. He felt mildly guilty about not seeking her out and talking to her. His hearing the news had erased all other thoughts from his mind, it seemed. Shameful.
Still, he couldn't simply believe that someone as fickle as Philionel would have had the tact to take his leave of his daughter. He knew the rumours, and although he would believe they weren't all to be believed, he had heard that the Crown Prince was queer too often not to take this as the truth. Once more, he bitterly regretted having let his brother give his bright, beautiful daughter away to such a lout, no matter the Empire's situation at the time.
He realized that his heated arguments had taken him right out of his chair, and that he was standing up. Feeling self-conscious, he sat at once. "You're saying he took care of her feelings."
"Indeed, and from what she told me, he did so quite tastefully." he frowned ever so slightly. "Let me say this, and to you as well, Highness: the prince is about to enter a dangerous situation to stop sorcerers from doing a thing none should do. It is dangerous, and they might be killed. But it is worth the risk."
This made the King sit up straight in his seat. "What do you mean, Lord Rezo?"
The powerful mage's tone was set and solemn "The prince is involved with something in Lumeria you are familiar with, Lord Salemir. We are talking about the Forbidden Lores, of course."
Salemir felt himself freeze. He had permitted his daughter to be married off to a madman. "You can't mean he went to Dallomir's fortress?!?"
"He did. He and a few others. All of them are young, but I knew from my scrying that they are powerful - moreso than the group you sent. Alas, I cannot help them. I cannot allow the knowledge of the Forbidden Lores to become common knowledge, and my presence in this endeavour would only do exactly that. I have to trust on them to carry the task to fruition."
How did one argue with Rezo the Red Priest, known throughout the world as one of the Five Wiseman of the Age? Salemir had never trusted wizards, never completely tolerated the arrogance with which some broke laws and did reprehensible deeds. But Rezo was too powerful, and too well-liked, having so many friends and political connections that he could truly tell kings and queens what to do. One did not rant at Rezo, one did not argue with Rezo. One simply accepted that the Red Priest had decided on a course of action.
He didn't know if he should be relieved. If Philionel died, then his daughter would come back to him. But if he lived, odds are that his daughter would find him trustworthy, and possibly - he choked at the very idea - become truly bonded to the fool. He preferred that his own group handle the situation and maintain a status quo on the question. Yes, that would be better for all involved.
Instead of all these thoughts, instead of anger, Salemir simply asked, "Will they succeed?"
"I dearly hope so. Because we would find ourselves in quite a situation. For I have read about the spells and artefacts sealed by the First Knights. Let us just say I hope Dallomir will not succeed."
"And if he does?"
"Then you House's pride might well become the last of your concerns."
* * * * * * * * * *
It throbbed.
The wound throbbed. That damn wound. Always. It throbbed now; fiercer than ever, as Kalarus lived through the disastrous fight he'd had with his nemesis.
He had planned it all so well. The attacks had drawn off Gabriev's friends, except for that little wench he'd apparently taken a liking to. It had been no matter - he would have killed the girl quickly, and then concentrated on his main opponent. Matters had been simplified when Gabriev, probably sensing how dire the situation would shortly become, had convinced her to leave him. It had been perfect. Gabriev was there, alone, and this time he would find himself beaten in a truly fair fight.
Only it hadn't worked that way.
He had expected a stiff fight - he knew his nemesis was gifted. But he had never imagined it would be that much. He had thrown his strongest attacks, had feinted again and again, looking for a gap, and each time Loerik had found away to parry, had blocked and thrown his sword away. Soon enough, the surprise had fallen away from the awkwardness of his blows, and Kalarus himself had found that he needed to guard himself, stopping vicious blows, expecting feint. He had exerted himself to his fullest, calling upon all of his skills and all of the strength in his body, only to find himself barely breaking even with the younger swordsman.
And then it had happened. A blow had fallen in, had broken through the mighty defences, and inflicted a grievious wound.
But it hadn't been Loerik who'd screamed in pain as blackness forever stole half his vision away.
No.
It had been Kalarus himself.
The realization hadn't sunk in, even after he had left the village, still hearing the noise of battle and the screams of the dying. He never gave a thought for the men he was leaving behind - they'd been nothing more than tools. He had merely stumbled, in a haze of pain and stunned disbelief.
Defeated, once more. A Master Swordsman, nearly a Sword Master certainly, he yet defeated. And this time, he knew he couldn't blame not having been prepared. He had fallen upon an unsettled Gabriev and had been defeated, soundly, almost definitely. What had kept him alive he did not remember. All in knew was that right after the blood had covered his face and the pain filled his body, the other warrior had looked at him with death in his eyes.
Throb, throb, and throb. He put a hand over his face, not wanting to look at himself in any reflection, keeping his good eye closed. He had stumbled to a priest, who had healed the wound as best as his powers could. But although the blood had been stench by the healing, and the wound partially closed, the scar still gaped in an angry red, and his eyes was an unseeing, reddish orb.
His shame was complete...defeated, utterly humiliated by a damn boy!
He couldn't accept...he couldn't! Something had to have been wrong! Gabriev had to have cheated somehow. Only how? He hadn't known Kalarus was coming. How could he have made such a treacherous act so quickly?
Maybe...maybe the bastard had known. Aye, AYE! That was it! That was the only explanation. The man had learned of the attack beforehand, and had prepared a plan to humiliate him. Damn that Gabriev, he had known!!! That was why he'd been able to defeat him in the end. He'd bid his time, and then had struck out fiendishly, unfairly, and had won because of it!
He couldn't remember what the treacherous shot had been. It had been going so fast, and then it had changed...everything was possible. All he knew was that he had been beaten unfairly once more, and that demanded revenge!
"You darn...Gabriev, ye treacherous little scum, I'll get ya fer this, I tell ya..." he muttered darkly.
"You say somethin'?" A voice next to him asked "You been lookin' mighty weird for a few moments, buddy." Kalarus opened his sole working eye and stared around him. He was in an inn, in the village closest to the Lumerian-Coastal Alliance border. A watered, too-warm ale was before him. And another patron, another mercenary it seemed, was looking at him while the others simply went about ignoring him.
The scarred swordsman's mouth curled down. "Dun remember ever tellin' you were any buddy o' mine."
"Geez, was just askin'. Don't get all worked up 'ver it." the other man replied.
"Then don't say things that aren't true, I tell ya. It'd so do you good."
The other man was a mercenary alright - no one could get off insulted about a small threat then a full-time merc. The man's face darkened perceptively. "Now you look here, buddy-"
"I'm tellin' ya, I'm no buddy o' yours. Now be off, before I get angry at ya, little puppy."
That was it as far as the mercenary was concerned. With already more than a few ale on his breath and in his eyes, the man stood up on slightly wobbly legs and glared down at Kalarus. "You'll regret that, ol' cripple!" he said as he fumbled for his sword.
He never managed to reach it in time.
In a lightning move, Kalarus rabbit-punched the other man in the gut, and then took hold of his head as he doubled from the sudden pain. He growled as he slammed it upon the bar, shattering the mug the man had been drinking from, driving bits into both the head and the hand, which held it. He didn't feel any pain yet. The white-hot rage, the disconcerting emotions that had hold of him denied him anything else. He slammed the man's head again and again. Hands tried to stop him - he pushed them off and continued until the man went limp. He breathed hard, looked around him with one single wild eye, daring anyone to get close.
All saw the way he looked and what he did. None took him up on his silent challenge. He bent towards the man who'd been foolish enough to challenge him at such a time. Still alive, was he? Lucky him.
"An ol' cripple, am I? Not looking mighty fine yourself right now, I tell ya. Little piece o' nothing, go and live on yer crappy life. Don't bother me again." he slammed the head on the counter again, looking at the blood flowing - little of it his. With a grunt of disgust, he threw some money to the barkeep and made his way out. No one tried to stop him. Intelligent folk, all of them.
The wound started throbbing sharply as he left. It seemed to drive right into his brain! He gasped in pain, forgetting his surroundings. He was thus highly surprised when a voice sounded just in front of him.
"I'll say, that was entertaining! Gruesome, but highly worth the stop in such a nondescript little town." the voice said in a cheerful tone. Putting a hand on the hilt of his blade, Kalarus glared up with his good eye, to face a purple-haired man of average stature, eyes closed and smiling. A priest, from his garb.
"I'm not in the mood fer priest mumbo jumbo. Get out of my sight, I tell ya!" he drew his sword an inch to emphasize his point. To his surprised the threat didn't make the man waver. Instead, it actually seemed to make him happier.
"Oh, there's no need for that!" the man said jovially, shaking a finger "I'm not an enemy. Oh, but I forgot to introduce myself." he bowed with a flourish. "Xellos, Trickster Priest, at your service sir!"
"Well, Xellos, I don't have time for ya. Gotta get some payback from someone."
"From Loerik Gabriev, I suppose? That won't do! Not yet!"
Kalarus, who had begun walking away, stopped and turned in surprise. "How do ye know that? How CAN ye know?"
"So many questions! As for how I know, that is a secret. But there's much more I can tell. About the Gabriev family. About the Sword of Light. And mostly, about better means to get revenge in the long run." he gestured towards another establishment. "I'll have a drink there. Follow me if you want some answers." without further ado, still smiling in perfect happiness, the priest walked away.
And driven by questions, and by the tempting idea of getting information and revenge, Kalarus eventually followed.
* * * * * * * * * *
"You know, I still can't quite believe it."
Marcus looked up from his half-finished breakfast and cocked an eyebrow. "And what might it be?"
She gestured around at the people. "This. The people here. They're Lumerians, most of them-"
"They 'were' Lumerians." Philionel interjected. Fezra continued as if she hadn't heard him.
"-And look at them. They're just continuing as if nothing's wrong. Their capital's fallen, the Emperor's going to be their new ruler from now on and, unless something pretty drastic happens, he and his kids are going to be ruling here for a good long while. Don't they care at all about that?"
Her passionate tone could be heard easily, and Marcus saw many heads turn towards them, most of them showing varying tones of scowling and frowns. Evidently, the Lumerians in the inn didn't care much for the speech. And that meant trouble if it went further. Trouble they didn't need, at least until they had completely formulated their plans. He tapped the table gently. "Fez, you might want to stop talking right now. We're getting unwanted attention."
Fezra glared, but Philionel and Narie immediately added their assent and supported Marcus' advice. "Its no good to rile the people for what they do or fail to do. I don't think they don't care, but what's the alternative? To rise up against the occupying forces? With what? Their armies are crushed; the few loyal remnants to a possible heir to the throne have fled who knows where. They have little resources left to fight the Elmekians at all. The best thing for them to do is to live with it as best they can."
"Besides," Narie continued almost reluctantly "These people live far from the capital. Its normal that it wouldn't affect them as..." she hesitated. "...As it affects me or Hallia. We came from a city situated perhaps four days' ride from the capital. These people are much farther. So as long as the taxes aren't too high and the soldiers don't bully them, I don't see them really complaining."
Marcus nearly applauded, restraining himself only because he knew it would only make Fezra get worse, if only to spite him. Narie had showed herself to be an energetic woman who genuinely wanted to participate in the group's mission. She wanted to prove to them all she wasn't a liability anymore. He feared the priestess wasn't feeling as well as she let on, though. But who was he to stop her if she wanted to do the best she could.
As for Fezra, well, he wasn't so certain about her and what he felt. He knew he didn't dislike her. Her arrogance, her sense of fun and her optimism even now when Berwen might have been killed or worse, it all struck a cord in him, in a good way. But he still feared going through anymore step. It galled him, but he feared starting a true relationship with Fezra. He wasn't sure it would hold up to the test of time, and the mere thought of him and she being estranged horrified him. In a way, she seemed to look at him the same way, yet differently.
Complicated relationship! How he hated it! Not for the first time, he envied the way Loerik and Hallia had drifted to each other so simply. He hadn't read doubts in their eyes yet. What was different between them?
As if on cue, he saw the two entering through the doorway separating the common rooms from the inn's bedrooms. Both of them looked radiant, despite the fact they would soon be facing possibly lethal danger. They held on to each other as if each moment was bliss, which was unrealistic. He supposed that was the way young couples felt in the beginning of marital life. He couldn't say, he didn't know what it was to marry. He only wished them happiness.
He also wished he might one day find that bliss with Fezra. After he managed to stop doubting the future.
Fezra, for some reason, relaxed when she saw the couple - and a trailing Lionel - entering, much to everyone else's relief. "Hey, hey, looky here! The two lovebirds have arrived? Did Lionel wrench you two out of your little nest?" the teasing tone, so biting as it could be at times, was now warm and fond, probably due to the unlikely friendship the fiery-tempered sorceress and the kind priestess had developed.
Loerik looked mildly confused by the way she had turned her phrase, but Hallia and Lionel understood the undertones perfectly. The former only winked. After they had announced their impromptu wedding to Marcus and the others - who had seen this coming for a while, they had practically locked themselves in a room, only leaving from time to time, looking tired but impossibly happy.
Lionel, however, did not partake in the fun of the moment, in the easy camaraderie. He scowled at Fezra as if her tease had been a deliberate insult. Marcus shook his head. The man was bright, and being Rezo's most promising student probably put a lot of pressure on one's shoulders, but the man desperately needed to relax sometimes. He wondered how he had ever managed to get together with Rezo's daughter at all, given his stern, sometimes-inflexible personality.
They all took their place at the table, and Lorik proceeded to order breakfast, telling the serving maid that yes, he would have four portions of what he'd asked for and, no, it wasn't a joke or anything like that. The other two were more conventional in what they ordered.
"So!" Loerik exclaimed, "This is it! We're all here! We can get there and give some payback, eh?"
"As long as we get Berwen back," Fezra nodded "That'll be good enough for me. But kicking those jerks' heads around a bit would be a very nice bonus. Alright, Lionel. What did you find out?"
Lionel took his time before answering - another point Marcus hated. He knew he himself was arrogant, but the Red Priest's assistant had a flair for self-importance. After a long moment of silence, he spit out what he'd been thinking for a while.
"Oh, take leave of your air of superiority and tell us what you've seen. You're making us waste our time!" Fezra actually looked at him in surprise. What, was she the only one who had to have a temper here? Lionel actually sniffed at that, but stopped his preening and began.
"I've felt around the entire grounds." he said "It was exactly as we expected: glamour and wards everywhere."
"Quality?" Fezra asked grimly.
"The best. The only wards, which can top what I've felt, would be the Central Magic Guild in Zefielia, the Magic Guild in Atlas City and the Wards around master Rezo's mansion. This is excellent work. Impossible for anyone trailing magic to go there undetected, unless aided from inside in some way.
"And we don't have that kind of help." Hallia finished. Loerik frowned but said nothing.
They all looked to Marcus then. Even Fezra. A part of him felt deeply satisfied they relied on him when plans came around, but he also felt a bit annoyed - Fezra, Hallia and Lionel knew their way around plans, and Loerik had intensive tactical knowledge learned from years on the battlefield. Deep down, he knew why. Each had their roles. Fezra was their leader, the one they could trust to lead them inside and outside a situation. Loerik was the soldier, the one who, while not the brightest light in the band, was a fountain of useful tricks and skills. Hallia and Narie were priestesses, Lionel a mage, Phil a naturally powerful man. They each had their uses, their strengths. They expected him to be the group's tactician.
So be it. "We expected it would be this way." he mused "We'll switch to plan B then, a direct attack, we hit them hard and fast. However, I think we should wait until tonight before making any move. We'll enter together, and then separate into three groups to cover as much ground as possible. It's risky, I know, but to find Berwen before they can mount a significant counter-strike, we'll need to cover lots of grounds. Any objections?"
No one had any. Not even Lionel. Not Fezra, whose judgement he trusted above all. He nodded at his friends.
"Alright then. I suppose we have a lot to do then. Let's start by the three teams. This is what I propose..."
* * * * * * * * * *
Berwen couldn't take it any longer. Her mind was suffocating in this substance, replacing the fading torture her body had gone through. Her entire body felt numb - strangely so, and there was something wrong with the new flesh she had gingerly touched. The liquid around her kept her contained, she knew. But she was ready to break out or die trying.
Desperately she felt for the magic, the source of power that had sustained her in her fights and in her hours of loneliness, and found it lacking. She trashed against her invisible bounds, tried to grasp its edge, but it was all for naught. Whatever the field cursed monsters that had done this to her had erected; it wasn't something a temper tantrum could undo. She had to think, and it was difficult in this place.
She tried to think of a way to fight this. If Fezra were here, she would -
-NO! She wouldn't rely on Fezra. That traitor had been in one this, she was certain of it. She was probably gloating over it somewhere, knowing she had reduced her to silence. The betrayal, the break in their friendship once against sent her to the edge of her sanity. Damn Fezra for dealing her away! Better she'd killed her!
But maybe Fez didn't know, maybe she only wanted us away and...
How naive can you be? Fezra always knows what she'd get into. She knew what would happen. The only thing was that she didn't care about what happened to you.
B-but...
ENOUGH! Enough of your squirming! No one is going to come and rescue you. Fezra is in on it, and that probably means that bastard Marcus, that dumb fool Loerik, and that conniving priestess, Hallia. Even Philionel probably was in on it! You have no friends here! You never had any friends! All of it was only wishful thinking. They MADE you believe, and you fell for it!
...I-I...
The only thing left - the ONLY OPTION LEFT! - Is to seek them out now, and make certain they never break you again, that they never hurt you again! We must take action!
...action...out...
Yes, we must get out!
...get out....I want...to get out....I want it! I want it! I want it!
And pay Fezra back!
Yes!
And show her your anger! To get your revenge on the ones who did this to you! On Dallomir! On Jomekin! On Marcus! ON FEZRA!!!
YES!!!
Caught in the throes of the internal conflict she had been waging unendingly - or so it seemed to her fractured psyche - the feel of magic briefly returning didn't immediately register. When it did, however, Berwen felt as if she'd been slapped twice. Once, because of the sudden feel of magic returning to her, and then a second time as it was just as abruptly cut off. She scrambled to understand what she had done, what had caused the magic to burst through for that small moment. Had it been her anger at Fezra? No...no, it hadn't been that. She realized that the moment she had felt magic, was when all the voices inside of her, each and every fibre of her being had been focused upon a strong emotion. She remembered Fezra telling her about it once...
Fezra..Fezra, Fezra Fezra! Enough of her! She could think without that bitch, that traitor's help!! Floating in the magical liquid, she concentrated her thoughts, trying to find a single image, which could help her reach the blissful energies again. The attempt, however, fails. No magic seeps through no matter how strongly she thought, or how much she concentrated upon and idea or an emotion. Could it have been a fluke? She refused to believe it, but what else could it be?
She suddenly remembered one of her teachers in Zefielia. He had been talking about Black Magic. He had said that it drew upon negative emotions, and had a source, which was, derived from the dark half of magical energies.
But he had also said, "Black magic cannot simply be drawn like Shamanism and it can't be called like White Magic. It must be felt. The emotion must be there, and if it is there, the magic should come to you."
Yes. She had felt the need for revenge. On Fezra. It had burned into her soul, it had overwhelmed her senses and she supposed her mind had unconsciously managed to call the magic! In that case, she knew exactly what she needed to remember.
Fezra, kissing Marcus while he slept. Sneaking around like a thief. Berwen had seen this happen, although she hadn't told the others thinking them friends still in those days of blindness. She had seen it, and at that moment her hopes had shattered, her plans for the future, her possibilities had all been destroyed. She had felt many things, but she could remember the strongest emotion: despair. It had overwhelmed her, she remembered it easily, and she let it resurface.
Nothing...nothing left...nothing because of him...nothing because of her. Nothing because of them both! Nothing at all left! DAMN THEM!! DAMN THEM BOTH TO OBLIVION!
Her hollow anger, her heart-filled despair, fell through her, and nearly obliterated thought. She let it pass without inhibitions, and for a moment, a single moment, she attained a complete focus of emotion.
And the magic came at that moment.
This time, she was ready. Her mind was unsure of many things, but it knew it had to take advantage of this moment. She took hold of that thread both without and within, and concentrated the energy. In one moment it was gathered, and she put her hand in front of her, and garbled two words that, while garbled by the liquid, were perfectly understand to the power.
"ELMEKIA LANCE!"
A beam of pure greenish-white energy streams towards the edge of the containment, and tangled with it. The field buckled, fizzled, contending with the energy, which it had to deal with - magical energy, which shouldn't be there. For a few seconds, the field weakened, and she knew her sole window had perhaps opened. Her concentration waned, her head hurt, and she saw globs of blood drifting from her nose, but she managed to utter one other spell.
"RAYWING!"
The spell lasted an instant concentration, and then shattered. But it was enough. She no longer felt anything imprisoning her, but instead she crashed with a thus which she found loud and..strange. Then her body took over, forcing her to purge herself of the liquid she had been a prisoner with, until she was gasping in fresh air in great lungful. A strained laugh escaped her lips as she put and hand on her face.
"Didn't get me...Fezra...Dallomir...you two didn't..." and then she took knowledge of the feel of her hand. She should have been feeling moist flesh upon moist flesh. But it didn't feel that way. It felt...metallic. She looked at her arm, and recoiled in horror.
Her arm was no longer flesh. The liquid had hidden the truth that it seemed to be covered in some sort of reddish metallic skin. She suddenly remembered the words Dallomir had once uttered to her. A project to recreate Lei Magnus's experiments...his chimeric experiments.
"No...no..." she saw a mirror on the wall, farther on. It had been there she had seen herself, struggling and frightened, before they had put her in there. "No...you'll see...it'll show it's just some sort of armour...or a spell..."
Terror gripped her heart, but she forced herself to trudge, her limbs weak, in ruined clothes. She dreaded what she would see, but her mind would not let her rest. It had to know, even as it held everything on the hopes it had. In the end, she thrust her whole self in front of the mirror.
And beheld horror.
"NO." was the only sound uttered for long minutes.
And as she uttered that word, looking at what she had become, Berwen felt something within her change.
And twist irrevocably.
_____________________________________________________________
Master Swordsman: Swordsman who has achieved a very high level of proficiency. Has to undergo ritual testing and prove his worth through five battles, each with a handicap, against other Master Swordsmen. Master Swordsmen are rare, and very powerful; often possessing skills beyond what ordinary fighters can reach.
Sword Master: The Highest Level of proficiency a swordsman can hope to attain, Blade Masters are renowned swordsmen who have years and years of experience and have hone their skills with a blade to unsurpassed levels. Each aspirant Sword Master is tested at the Earth Dragon King Temple near Kalmaart's capital, where they must complete a quest and fight a Sword Master to a draw. A Sword Master usually wears a bracelet etched with rune of skill, which any fighter worth his salt can recognize. They are a very rare breed, able to stand up to dangers such as dragons and maddened black sorcerers and often come out the winner.
Grand Nations: The large nations that dominate all aspects of life on the continent. Have very large territories, dominated by one or more metropolis, a few large cities and a myriad of smaller towns and villages. The most powerful are Sailune, Elmekia, Zefielia and Lyzeille.
Minor Nations: Small nations usually encompassing one large city and a few towns and villages. Usually have a very small territory. Examples of these are Fameel, Dalfera and Xoana.
- Fezra to a monster
"I've no doubt that what I did was right. Leaving my bride-to-be was harder than many thought, probably because there was something in her that I found very similar to what I was. But there was no choice, no option, which I could exercise. I knew that my friends would be facing dangerous opponents, and I had to be there to face them with they. Sailune's pride would have to bid its time, and so would my father.
That was the way I thought. Now, something in me is not sure I would do it again if I had the choice. Not because of ill feelings or disloyalty, but rather because of the unexpected opponent we saw."
Crown Prince Philionel di Sailune, Memoirs, 1007 AR
Chapter Thirteen
Phil had had many problems when he had grown up amongst the royalty. Always larger than the norm, always massive for his age, with a face which, he could easily admit it now, didn't have much in the way of pleasing features. It had hardly fit the stiff tastes of the royal court. He had found it hard, to have people snickering at his back, no matter the attention his late mother gave him or the love his youngest brother had for him. No matter his education, he had never fit well with the image the people had of a prince.
But with the common folk, the merchants and peasants who produced all the fine things nobles bought, he had found something. Far from making him an object of ridicule, people had found his looks to be 'less arrogant' than other nobles, more 'earthy' and had given him heartfelt approval. It had spurred him towards travelling the lands, no matter what his father thought. His people had given him trust where the noble families laughed at his back.
He had never forgotten that.
Which explained why, at that very moment, Phil felt rather contrite as he used the natural height and muscular stature he showed to cut a clear path through the throng. No one wanted to mess with a man his size, and everyone - even those who looked rebellious or hostile - gave way when he walked through. All around them, people were streaming, looking over the food stalls. Late summer brought many varieties of fresh fruit and vegetables. Tomatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, wheat, corn, all sorts of grains and foods were at the farm stalls they were passing through. People cried their produce, townsfolk came to look and argue.
"This is life." he muttered. Children running to and fro, people talking freely without the restraint, which made the noble courts so stifling. The smell of freshly-baked bread and pies wafting...
"What did you say, Phil?" a voice interrupted his reverie, and he flushed as he realized he had talked out loud. He cast about for something to cover up, and decided to play the disgruntled man.
"I was saying 'This if my life', being put up front just so I can scare people." he winced - that was a lame recovery. His friends, fortunately, didn't say anything to that.
"Can't really blame us for that." Lionel intoned, "I mean it's faster."
"Even though we can't see anything but Phil's back." Narie giggled. The prince smiled to himself. It had taken time, but Narie had finally taken to seeing him as a friend more than a prince. Lionel...well...Lionel was too proper to care about anything but protocols, it seemed.
He stopped near a stall selling raspberries. He looked around carefully, but didn't see anything resembling an inn. "Where is it?" he grumbled, "Why couldn't we decide to meet at a easier point?"
He felt rather than saw Narie shrug. "I guess Fezra wanted to take advantage of the beds and the food at the inn before we went in. Not unreasonable, you know."
"Perhaps, but now we need directions, or we are going to lose a lot of our time - this town is rather large." he looked at the vendor. "Good sir, I was wondering if you knew where I can find the Inn called 'The Silly Bear'?"
The man, indeed, knew where to find it, but it would cost Phil a small basket of raspberries. Fair enough for the prince, who had paid despite Lionel's sighs and looks. As it was, they continued their way, distributing raspberries amongst themselves. They followed the way the merchant had given, but as they passed a small temple, Narie seized his arm strongly. He turned to her, as did Lionel a second later.
"Phil," she breathed "Ain't that who I think that is?" he followed her look. The temple was simple enough - a whitewashed, two-stories structure with columns supporting parts of the walls, a small flight of wide stairs leading to an entryway showing the Ceipheed icon. An ordinary temple, nearly a copy of many others he'd seen in towns. Then he saw the two people leaving the temple, and he blinked his eyes quickly.
No, this was no trick of the light. This was Loerik, athletic, dark-haired Loerik, dressed in his usual mercenary mesh. And that, beside him, with the priestess garb and the lime-green hair, was definitely Hallia. They walked side by side, holding to each other and giving each other looks which Philionel found himself envying them. There was a flush to their faces, and they would have passed right by them if Narie hadn't shaken her surprise and stepped in front of them both.
Confusion, surprise and finally relief and joy. Narie and Hallia held on to each other and squealed, laughing, while Loerik and Phil shook hands heartily. Lionel politely saluted them both, ill at ease, not having the same rapport. Phil, for himself, was glad to be with a man with whom he could talk. He clapped the tall man - who went to his shoulder - on the shoulder with a roaring laugh which made more than a few heads turn.
"Loerik! By Ceipheed, its good to see you, my friend!"
"Nice to see you too, Phil! We were wonderin' when you'd show up." the mercenary replied. "Fezra was starting to get all worked up over you being late and all."
"And eating enough for three grown men in the process, I'm sure."
"With a little help from me and Zashtla." the swordsman grinned "But that's usual. What about you? Did you get any magic thingies to help us out?"
The prince was about to answer, when a greater squeal from Narie distracted him. The priestess had grabbed Hallia's forearm, looking at it wildly, nearly jumping up and down. "Oh Gods! Godsgodsgods! You two...so that's why...now that's...whoa!"
Hallia blushed, but still tried to calm her friend. "Easy, breathe. I know its sudden, but after all-"
"Sudden! You two are married, that's no little thing, Hallia!"
Philionel looked at Narie, exchanged a stunned look with Lionel, before staring at Loerik's forearm. Sure enough, there was a bronze bracelet, engraved with iconic images of Ceipheed and the Earth Dragon King, signifying a matrimonial bond. The prince then scared many passers-by - not to mention his friends - by hauling the tall, armoured man off his feet, and letting go of a roaring, happy laugh.
"WAHAHAHAHAHAH! Why you little schemers!" he crowed as he shook the swordsman bodily "Why didn't you tell us right off! This is something to celebrate!" he put the black-haired man down and gave him such a slap that his friend staggered and Lionel winced in sympathy.
The swordsman winced and huffed a moment before regaining his composure. "Well, I'm...glad you...like it, Phil. It was Hallia's idea to do it now."
"That true, Hallie?" Narie inquired. "Why the sudden pace?"
As an answer the priestess simply nodded towards the castle-like mound of towers overlooking the city from a small hill. Phil had been so taken with the lively feel of the town that he'd forgotten just how close he was to danger. There lived the sorcerers who have broken all magical laws by using the Forbidden Lores sealed away long ago. With a pang, he understood why the two had done this even before the priestess explained her reasons.
"We decided...that we wanted to end our lives as husband and wife." she explained, her voice strained for reasons Phil could guess. "And there's no guarantee that...when we go in..." she trailed off, but the sentence ended all the same in the prince's mind. 'When we go in...we might not come out.' an uncomfortable silence fell between them. They didn't even hear the throng around them.
And then Phil turned to them, taking a deep breath, hands on hips. "FEAR NOT! Our cause is a just one. We are on a quest to stop these fiends from undoing the good works and the sacrifices of those who fell a nigh a thousand years ago and on a quest to save a friend in need! JUSTICE and GOOD are on our side! We shall prevail!" he made a fist "And I truly believe that. Between all of us, we can make it. We can stop these monsters, and save our friend."
The others looked unconvinced, but nodded. They hadn't bought his speech all that much - he hadn't expected them to - but he'd stopped the wave of sadness and despair before it came. He would never ask for anything more.
Smiling, his own morale restored, he presented the half-finished raspberry basket and asked, deadpan. "Want some?"
* * * * * * * * * *
Salemir Der Elmekun, Duke of the Westlands and the most powerful man in the Elmekian Empire next to the Emperor himself, wanted to see himself as a patient man. He wasn't one to throw fits or to lose his temper. But he had his set of limits. And the slight he perceived towards his daughter was something, which made his blood boil and his vision narrow.
"Your son has committed an irresponsible slight towards my daughter, Your Majesty. I will not hide that I do not appreciate it!"
King Fedoniel, seated near a window overlooking one of the castle's many gardens, looked grave but composed. "I agree, lord Salemir. And I assure you that my son will face punishment when he returns. I can only give my apologies and the apologies of all of Sailune for this unfortunate event."
It was genuinely said, but the duke wasn't about to let it pass so easily. He wanted something more tangible than excuses, even if said excuses came from one as exalted as the King of Sailune. "I still do not understand why this event occurred at all! Your son should have been here and have known his duty!"
"My son has a strange viewpoint when it comes from duty." a shrug "I am afraid it comes from his mother. She fed him some silly ideas when he was a youth. Fortunately, she died before she could poison my younger sons." he did not seem to mind belittling his late wife this way, leading the duke to assume the King's marriage had been arranged. With a pang, he wondered if this would be his daughter's fate: to be tolerated and given her due, but never receiving any affection from her mate?
He would cross that bridge if and when it came. For now, getting the youths married at all appeared a problem, and it didn't sit well with him. "You son should have been put under surveillance, if you knew his quirks."
"The Crown Prince will certainly not be put under 'surveillance', as you say. He is the heir to this throne and I will not treat him as a commoner, no matter his problems."
"Even when he exhibits such irresponsibility?!?"
"Lord Salemir..."
"This is a political breach of conduct, Your Majesty! It could well be taken as an insult by the Emperor of Elmekia."
Salemir knew that he'd said too much at once, and cursed himself for his anger-loosened tongue. He saw it in the slight tightening of Fedoniel's jaw, in the way the monarch gripped the wine cup he was holding.
"I hope the Emperor would not do such a thing. I would take any hostile words as sufficient reasons to implement...restraints...towards Elmekia's military actions."
It was a threat in response to a threat. Few nations would have dared to incur Elmekia's wrath, even when its military stood weakened by years of warfare. But Sailune wasn't a small nation, which could easily be silenced, like Dalfera or Fameel. Sailune dominated trade and politics, and fielded the most well equipped army in all the lands. It was a powerful juggernaught that had dominated the continent for two centuries. It could face down any of the nations, from the smallest independent city-state to the most powerful grand nation.
Salemir, however, had this one thing no one ever seemed to count on- the pride of House Elmekun. His eyes flashed, his anger blazing anew, and he barely contained himself from making a remark, which might have started an incident then and there.
"Gentlemen, please. Let us think this through calmly before giving any rash speeches." the third occupant of the room intoned gently, his voice unobtrusive and yet holding immeasurable wisdom and power. Salemir turned his blazing eyes towards the unseeing ones of the other man.
"With all due respect, Lord Rezo, the fact remains that this action was taken without taking my daughter into consideration."
"Are you so certain of that?"
"Of course!"
"And yet, and with all due respect to you, Lord Salemir, I think that you are wrong when you say prince Philionel left without taking his leave of you daughter."
"And, Lord Rezo, how did you come by this conclusion?" he knew he was making another mistake - angering the most powerful mage in the land could only have disastrous results - but he didn't care. His anger would not allow him to be talked down by anyone, not even the Red Priest. Rezo's answer, however, caught him off-guard.
"I learned the truth by the simplest way - I asked your daughter about it directly. Did you not?"
With a start, Salemir considered this and saw that he hadn't. He had simply assumed that Valmatia would come to him if there was anything important he needed to know. He felt mildly guilty about not seeking her out and talking to her. His hearing the news had erased all other thoughts from his mind, it seemed. Shameful.
Still, he couldn't simply believe that someone as fickle as Philionel would have had the tact to take his leave of his daughter. He knew the rumours, and although he would believe they weren't all to be believed, he had heard that the Crown Prince was queer too often not to take this as the truth. Once more, he bitterly regretted having let his brother give his bright, beautiful daughter away to such a lout, no matter the Empire's situation at the time.
He realized that his heated arguments had taken him right out of his chair, and that he was standing up. Feeling self-conscious, he sat at once. "You're saying he took care of her feelings."
"Indeed, and from what she told me, he did so quite tastefully." he frowned ever so slightly. "Let me say this, and to you as well, Highness: the prince is about to enter a dangerous situation to stop sorcerers from doing a thing none should do. It is dangerous, and they might be killed. But it is worth the risk."
This made the King sit up straight in his seat. "What do you mean, Lord Rezo?"
The powerful mage's tone was set and solemn "The prince is involved with something in Lumeria you are familiar with, Lord Salemir. We are talking about the Forbidden Lores, of course."
Salemir felt himself freeze. He had permitted his daughter to be married off to a madman. "You can't mean he went to Dallomir's fortress?!?"
"He did. He and a few others. All of them are young, but I knew from my scrying that they are powerful - moreso than the group you sent. Alas, I cannot help them. I cannot allow the knowledge of the Forbidden Lores to become common knowledge, and my presence in this endeavour would only do exactly that. I have to trust on them to carry the task to fruition."
How did one argue with Rezo the Red Priest, known throughout the world as one of the Five Wiseman of the Age? Salemir had never trusted wizards, never completely tolerated the arrogance with which some broke laws and did reprehensible deeds. But Rezo was too powerful, and too well-liked, having so many friends and political connections that he could truly tell kings and queens what to do. One did not rant at Rezo, one did not argue with Rezo. One simply accepted that the Red Priest had decided on a course of action.
He didn't know if he should be relieved. If Philionel died, then his daughter would come back to him. But if he lived, odds are that his daughter would find him trustworthy, and possibly - he choked at the very idea - become truly bonded to the fool. He preferred that his own group handle the situation and maintain a status quo on the question. Yes, that would be better for all involved.
Instead of all these thoughts, instead of anger, Salemir simply asked, "Will they succeed?"
"I dearly hope so. Because we would find ourselves in quite a situation. For I have read about the spells and artefacts sealed by the First Knights. Let us just say I hope Dallomir will not succeed."
"And if he does?"
"Then you House's pride might well become the last of your concerns."
* * * * * * * * * *
It throbbed.
The wound throbbed. That damn wound. Always. It throbbed now; fiercer than ever, as Kalarus lived through the disastrous fight he'd had with his nemesis.
He had planned it all so well. The attacks had drawn off Gabriev's friends, except for that little wench he'd apparently taken a liking to. It had been no matter - he would have killed the girl quickly, and then concentrated on his main opponent. Matters had been simplified when Gabriev, probably sensing how dire the situation would shortly become, had convinced her to leave him. It had been perfect. Gabriev was there, alone, and this time he would find himself beaten in a truly fair fight.
Only it hadn't worked that way.
He had expected a stiff fight - he knew his nemesis was gifted. But he had never imagined it would be that much. He had thrown his strongest attacks, had feinted again and again, looking for a gap, and each time Loerik had found away to parry, had blocked and thrown his sword away. Soon enough, the surprise had fallen away from the awkwardness of his blows, and Kalarus himself had found that he needed to guard himself, stopping vicious blows, expecting feint. He had exerted himself to his fullest, calling upon all of his skills and all of the strength in his body, only to find himself barely breaking even with the younger swordsman.
And then it had happened. A blow had fallen in, had broken through the mighty defences, and inflicted a grievious wound.
But it hadn't been Loerik who'd screamed in pain as blackness forever stole half his vision away.
No.
It had been Kalarus himself.
The realization hadn't sunk in, even after he had left the village, still hearing the noise of battle and the screams of the dying. He never gave a thought for the men he was leaving behind - they'd been nothing more than tools. He had merely stumbled, in a haze of pain and stunned disbelief.
Defeated, once more. A Master Swordsman, nearly a Sword Master certainly, he yet defeated. And this time, he knew he couldn't blame not having been prepared. He had fallen upon an unsettled Gabriev and had been defeated, soundly, almost definitely. What had kept him alive he did not remember. All in knew was that right after the blood had covered his face and the pain filled his body, the other warrior had looked at him with death in his eyes.
Throb, throb, and throb. He put a hand over his face, not wanting to look at himself in any reflection, keeping his good eye closed. He had stumbled to a priest, who had healed the wound as best as his powers could. But although the blood had been stench by the healing, and the wound partially closed, the scar still gaped in an angry red, and his eyes was an unseeing, reddish orb.
His shame was complete...defeated, utterly humiliated by a damn boy!
He couldn't accept...he couldn't! Something had to have been wrong! Gabriev had to have cheated somehow. Only how? He hadn't known Kalarus was coming. How could he have made such a treacherous act so quickly?
Maybe...maybe the bastard had known. Aye, AYE! That was it! That was the only explanation. The man had learned of the attack beforehand, and had prepared a plan to humiliate him. Damn that Gabriev, he had known!!! That was why he'd been able to defeat him in the end. He'd bid his time, and then had struck out fiendishly, unfairly, and had won because of it!
He couldn't remember what the treacherous shot had been. It had been going so fast, and then it had changed...everything was possible. All he knew was that he had been beaten unfairly once more, and that demanded revenge!
"You darn...Gabriev, ye treacherous little scum, I'll get ya fer this, I tell ya..." he muttered darkly.
"You say somethin'?" A voice next to him asked "You been lookin' mighty weird for a few moments, buddy." Kalarus opened his sole working eye and stared around him. He was in an inn, in the village closest to the Lumerian-Coastal Alliance border. A watered, too-warm ale was before him. And another patron, another mercenary it seemed, was looking at him while the others simply went about ignoring him.
The scarred swordsman's mouth curled down. "Dun remember ever tellin' you were any buddy o' mine."
"Geez, was just askin'. Don't get all worked up 'ver it." the other man replied.
"Then don't say things that aren't true, I tell ya. It'd so do you good."
The other man was a mercenary alright - no one could get off insulted about a small threat then a full-time merc. The man's face darkened perceptively. "Now you look here, buddy-"
"I'm tellin' ya, I'm no buddy o' yours. Now be off, before I get angry at ya, little puppy."
That was it as far as the mercenary was concerned. With already more than a few ale on his breath and in his eyes, the man stood up on slightly wobbly legs and glared down at Kalarus. "You'll regret that, ol' cripple!" he said as he fumbled for his sword.
He never managed to reach it in time.
In a lightning move, Kalarus rabbit-punched the other man in the gut, and then took hold of his head as he doubled from the sudden pain. He growled as he slammed it upon the bar, shattering the mug the man had been drinking from, driving bits into both the head and the hand, which held it. He didn't feel any pain yet. The white-hot rage, the disconcerting emotions that had hold of him denied him anything else. He slammed the man's head again and again. Hands tried to stop him - he pushed them off and continued until the man went limp. He breathed hard, looked around him with one single wild eye, daring anyone to get close.
All saw the way he looked and what he did. None took him up on his silent challenge. He bent towards the man who'd been foolish enough to challenge him at such a time. Still alive, was he? Lucky him.
"An ol' cripple, am I? Not looking mighty fine yourself right now, I tell ya. Little piece o' nothing, go and live on yer crappy life. Don't bother me again." he slammed the head on the counter again, looking at the blood flowing - little of it his. With a grunt of disgust, he threw some money to the barkeep and made his way out. No one tried to stop him. Intelligent folk, all of them.
The wound started throbbing sharply as he left. It seemed to drive right into his brain! He gasped in pain, forgetting his surroundings. He was thus highly surprised when a voice sounded just in front of him.
"I'll say, that was entertaining! Gruesome, but highly worth the stop in such a nondescript little town." the voice said in a cheerful tone. Putting a hand on the hilt of his blade, Kalarus glared up with his good eye, to face a purple-haired man of average stature, eyes closed and smiling. A priest, from his garb.
"I'm not in the mood fer priest mumbo jumbo. Get out of my sight, I tell ya!" he drew his sword an inch to emphasize his point. To his surprised the threat didn't make the man waver. Instead, it actually seemed to make him happier.
"Oh, there's no need for that!" the man said jovially, shaking a finger "I'm not an enemy. Oh, but I forgot to introduce myself." he bowed with a flourish. "Xellos, Trickster Priest, at your service sir!"
"Well, Xellos, I don't have time for ya. Gotta get some payback from someone."
"From Loerik Gabriev, I suppose? That won't do! Not yet!"
Kalarus, who had begun walking away, stopped and turned in surprise. "How do ye know that? How CAN ye know?"
"So many questions! As for how I know, that is a secret. But there's much more I can tell. About the Gabriev family. About the Sword of Light. And mostly, about better means to get revenge in the long run." he gestured towards another establishment. "I'll have a drink there. Follow me if you want some answers." without further ado, still smiling in perfect happiness, the priest walked away.
And driven by questions, and by the tempting idea of getting information and revenge, Kalarus eventually followed.
* * * * * * * * * *
"You know, I still can't quite believe it."
Marcus looked up from his half-finished breakfast and cocked an eyebrow. "And what might it be?"
She gestured around at the people. "This. The people here. They're Lumerians, most of them-"
"They 'were' Lumerians." Philionel interjected. Fezra continued as if she hadn't heard him.
"-And look at them. They're just continuing as if nothing's wrong. Their capital's fallen, the Emperor's going to be their new ruler from now on and, unless something pretty drastic happens, he and his kids are going to be ruling here for a good long while. Don't they care at all about that?"
Her passionate tone could be heard easily, and Marcus saw many heads turn towards them, most of them showing varying tones of scowling and frowns. Evidently, the Lumerians in the inn didn't care much for the speech. And that meant trouble if it went further. Trouble they didn't need, at least until they had completely formulated their plans. He tapped the table gently. "Fez, you might want to stop talking right now. We're getting unwanted attention."
Fezra glared, but Philionel and Narie immediately added their assent and supported Marcus' advice. "Its no good to rile the people for what they do or fail to do. I don't think they don't care, but what's the alternative? To rise up against the occupying forces? With what? Their armies are crushed; the few loyal remnants to a possible heir to the throne have fled who knows where. They have little resources left to fight the Elmekians at all. The best thing for them to do is to live with it as best they can."
"Besides," Narie continued almost reluctantly "These people live far from the capital. Its normal that it wouldn't affect them as..." she hesitated. "...As it affects me or Hallia. We came from a city situated perhaps four days' ride from the capital. These people are much farther. So as long as the taxes aren't too high and the soldiers don't bully them, I don't see them really complaining."
Marcus nearly applauded, restraining himself only because he knew it would only make Fezra get worse, if only to spite him. Narie had showed herself to be an energetic woman who genuinely wanted to participate in the group's mission. She wanted to prove to them all she wasn't a liability anymore. He feared the priestess wasn't feeling as well as she let on, though. But who was he to stop her if she wanted to do the best she could.
As for Fezra, well, he wasn't so certain about her and what he felt. He knew he didn't dislike her. Her arrogance, her sense of fun and her optimism even now when Berwen might have been killed or worse, it all struck a cord in him, in a good way. But he still feared going through anymore step. It galled him, but he feared starting a true relationship with Fezra. He wasn't sure it would hold up to the test of time, and the mere thought of him and she being estranged horrified him. In a way, she seemed to look at him the same way, yet differently.
Complicated relationship! How he hated it! Not for the first time, he envied the way Loerik and Hallia had drifted to each other so simply. He hadn't read doubts in their eyes yet. What was different between them?
As if on cue, he saw the two entering through the doorway separating the common rooms from the inn's bedrooms. Both of them looked radiant, despite the fact they would soon be facing possibly lethal danger. They held on to each other as if each moment was bliss, which was unrealistic. He supposed that was the way young couples felt in the beginning of marital life. He couldn't say, he didn't know what it was to marry. He only wished them happiness.
He also wished he might one day find that bliss with Fezra. After he managed to stop doubting the future.
Fezra, for some reason, relaxed when she saw the couple - and a trailing Lionel - entering, much to everyone else's relief. "Hey, hey, looky here! The two lovebirds have arrived? Did Lionel wrench you two out of your little nest?" the teasing tone, so biting as it could be at times, was now warm and fond, probably due to the unlikely friendship the fiery-tempered sorceress and the kind priestess had developed.
Loerik looked mildly confused by the way she had turned her phrase, but Hallia and Lionel understood the undertones perfectly. The former only winked. After they had announced their impromptu wedding to Marcus and the others - who had seen this coming for a while, they had practically locked themselves in a room, only leaving from time to time, looking tired but impossibly happy.
Lionel, however, did not partake in the fun of the moment, in the easy camaraderie. He scowled at Fezra as if her tease had been a deliberate insult. Marcus shook his head. The man was bright, and being Rezo's most promising student probably put a lot of pressure on one's shoulders, but the man desperately needed to relax sometimes. He wondered how he had ever managed to get together with Rezo's daughter at all, given his stern, sometimes-inflexible personality.
They all took their place at the table, and Lorik proceeded to order breakfast, telling the serving maid that yes, he would have four portions of what he'd asked for and, no, it wasn't a joke or anything like that. The other two were more conventional in what they ordered.
"So!" Loerik exclaimed, "This is it! We're all here! We can get there and give some payback, eh?"
"As long as we get Berwen back," Fezra nodded "That'll be good enough for me. But kicking those jerks' heads around a bit would be a very nice bonus. Alright, Lionel. What did you find out?"
Lionel took his time before answering - another point Marcus hated. He knew he himself was arrogant, but the Red Priest's assistant had a flair for self-importance. After a long moment of silence, he spit out what he'd been thinking for a while.
"Oh, take leave of your air of superiority and tell us what you've seen. You're making us waste our time!" Fezra actually looked at him in surprise. What, was she the only one who had to have a temper here? Lionel actually sniffed at that, but stopped his preening and began.
"I've felt around the entire grounds." he said "It was exactly as we expected: glamour and wards everywhere."
"Quality?" Fezra asked grimly.
"The best. The only wards, which can top what I've felt, would be the Central Magic Guild in Zefielia, the Magic Guild in Atlas City and the Wards around master Rezo's mansion. This is excellent work. Impossible for anyone trailing magic to go there undetected, unless aided from inside in some way.
"And we don't have that kind of help." Hallia finished. Loerik frowned but said nothing.
They all looked to Marcus then. Even Fezra. A part of him felt deeply satisfied they relied on him when plans came around, but he also felt a bit annoyed - Fezra, Hallia and Lionel knew their way around plans, and Loerik had intensive tactical knowledge learned from years on the battlefield. Deep down, he knew why. Each had their roles. Fezra was their leader, the one they could trust to lead them inside and outside a situation. Loerik was the soldier, the one who, while not the brightest light in the band, was a fountain of useful tricks and skills. Hallia and Narie were priestesses, Lionel a mage, Phil a naturally powerful man. They each had their uses, their strengths. They expected him to be the group's tactician.
So be it. "We expected it would be this way." he mused "We'll switch to plan B then, a direct attack, we hit them hard and fast. However, I think we should wait until tonight before making any move. We'll enter together, and then separate into three groups to cover as much ground as possible. It's risky, I know, but to find Berwen before they can mount a significant counter-strike, we'll need to cover lots of grounds. Any objections?"
No one had any. Not even Lionel. Not Fezra, whose judgement he trusted above all. He nodded at his friends.
"Alright then. I suppose we have a lot to do then. Let's start by the three teams. This is what I propose..."
* * * * * * * * * *
Berwen couldn't take it any longer. Her mind was suffocating in this substance, replacing the fading torture her body had gone through. Her entire body felt numb - strangely so, and there was something wrong with the new flesh she had gingerly touched. The liquid around her kept her contained, she knew. But she was ready to break out or die trying.
Desperately she felt for the magic, the source of power that had sustained her in her fights and in her hours of loneliness, and found it lacking. She trashed against her invisible bounds, tried to grasp its edge, but it was all for naught. Whatever the field cursed monsters that had done this to her had erected; it wasn't something a temper tantrum could undo. She had to think, and it was difficult in this place.
She tried to think of a way to fight this. If Fezra were here, she would -
-NO! She wouldn't rely on Fezra. That traitor had been in one this, she was certain of it. She was probably gloating over it somewhere, knowing she had reduced her to silence. The betrayal, the break in their friendship once against sent her to the edge of her sanity. Damn Fezra for dealing her away! Better she'd killed her!
But maybe Fez didn't know, maybe she only wanted us away and...
How naive can you be? Fezra always knows what she'd get into. She knew what would happen. The only thing was that she didn't care about what happened to you.
B-but...
ENOUGH! Enough of your squirming! No one is going to come and rescue you. Fezra is in on it, and that probably means that bastard Marcus, that dumb fool Loerik, and that conniving priestess, Hallia. Even Philionel probably was in on it! You have no friends here! You never had any friends! All of it was only wishful thinking. They MADE you believe, and you fell for it!
...I-I...
The only thing left - the ONLY OPTION LEFT! - Is to seek them out now, and make certain they never break you again, that they never hurt you again! We must take action!
...action...out...
Yes, we must get out!
...get out....I want...to get out....I want it! I want it! I want it!
And pay Fezra back!
Yes!
And show her your anger! To get your revenge on the ones who did this to you! On Dallomir! On Jomekin! On Marcus! ON FEZRA!!!
YES!!!
Caught in the throes of the internal conflict she had been waging unendingly - or so it seemed to her fractured psyche - the feel of magic briefly returning didn't immediately register. When it did, however, Berwen felt as if she'd been slapped twice. Once, because of the sudden feel of magic returning to her, and then a second time as it was just as abruptly cut off. She scrambled to understand what she had done, what had caused the magic to burst through for that small moment. Had it been her anger at Fezra? No...no, it hadn't been that. She realized that the moment she had felt magic, was when all the voices inside of her, each and every fibre of her being had been focused upon a strong emotion. She remembered Fezra telling her about it once...
Fezra..Fezra, Fezra Fezra! Enough of her! She could think without that bitch, that traitor's help!! Floating in the magical liquid, she concentrated her thoughts, trying to find a single image, which could help her reach the blissful energies again. The attempt, however, fails. No magic seeps through no matter how strongly she thought, or how much she concentrated upon and idea or an emotion. Could it have been a fluke? She refused to believe it, but what else could it be?
She suddenly remembered one of her teachers in Zefielia. He had been talking about Black Magic. He had said that it drew upon negative emotions, and had a source, which was, derived from the dark half of magical energies.
But he had also said, "Black magic cannot simply be drawn like Shamanism and it can't be called like White Magic. It must be felt. The emotion must be there, and if it is there, the magic should come to you."
Yes. She had felt the need for revenge. On Fezra. It had burned into her soul, it had overwhelmed her senses and she supposed her mind had unconsciously managed to call the magic! In that case, she knew exactly what she needed to remember.
Fezra, kissing Marcus while he slept. Sneaking around like a thief. Berwen had seen this happen, although she hadn't told the others thinking them friends still in those days of blindness. She had seen it, and at that moment her hopes had shattered, her plans for the future, her possibilities had all been destroyed. She had felt many things, but she could remember the strongest emotion: despair. It had overwhelmed her, she remembered it easily, and she let it resurface.
Nothing...nothing left...nothing because of him...nothing because of her. Nothing because of them both! Nothing at all left! DAMN THEM!! DAMN THEM BOTH TO OBLIVION!
Her hollow anger, her heart-filled despair, fell through her, and nearly obliterated thought. She let it pass without inhibitions, and for a moment, a single moment, she attained a complete focus of emotion.
And the magic came at that moment.
This time, she was ready. Her mind was unsure of many things, but it knew it had to take advantage of this moment. She took hold of that thread both without and within, and concentrated the energy. In one moment it was gathered, and she put her hand in front of her, and garbled two words that, while garbled by the liquid, were perfectly understand to the power.
"ELMEKIA LANCE!"
A beam of pure greenish-white energy streams towards the edge of the containment, and tangled with it. The field buckled, fizzled, contending with the energy, which it had to deal with - magical energy, which shouldn't be there. For a few seconds, the field weakened, and she knew her sole window had perhaps opened. Her concentration waned, her head hurt, and she saw globs of blood drifting from her nose, but she managed to utter one other spell.
"RAYWING!"
The spell lasted an instant concentration, and then shattered. But it was enough. She no longer felt anything imprisoning her, but instead she crashed with a thus which she found loud and..strange. Then her body took over, forcing her to purge herself of the liquid she had been a prisoner with, until she was gasping in fresh air in great lungful. A strained laugh escaped her lips as she put and hand on her face.
"Didn't get me...Fezra...Dallomir...you two didn't..." and then she took knowledge of the feel of her hand. She should have been feeling moist flesh upon moist flesh. But it didn't feel that way. It felt...metallic. She looked at her arm, and recoiled in horror.
Her arm was no longer flesh. The liquid had hidden the truth that it seemed to be covered in some sort of reddish metallic skin. She suddenly remembered the words Dallomir had once uttered to her. A project to recreate Lei Magnus's experiments...his chimeric experiments.
"No...no..." she saw a mirror on the wall, farther on. It had been there she had seen herself, struggling and frightened, before they had put her in there. "No...you'll see...it'll show it's just some sort of armour...or a spell..."
Terror gripped her heart, but she forced herself to trudge, her limbs weak, in ruined clothes. She dreaded what she would see, but her mind would not let her rest. It had to know, even as it held everything on the hopes it had. In the end, she thrust her whole self in front of the mirror.
And beheld horror.
"NO." was the only sound uttered for long minutes.
And as she uttered that word, looking at what she had become, Berwen felt something within her change.
And twist irrevocably.
_____________________________________________________________
Master Swordsman: Swordsman who has achieved a very high level of proficiency. Has to undergo ritual testing and prove his worth through five battles, each with a handicap, against other Master Swordsmen. Master Swordsmen are rare, and very powerful; often possessing skills beyond what ordinary fighters can reach.
Sword Master: The Highest Level of proficiency a swordsman can hope to attain, Blade Masters are renowned swordsmen who have years and years of experience and have hone their skills with a blade to unsurpassed levels. Each aspirant Sword Master is tested at the Earth Dragon King Temple near Kalmaart's capital, where they must complete a quest and fight a Sword Master to a draw. A Sword Master usually wears a bracelet etched with rune of skill, which any fighter worth his salt can recognize. They are a very rare breed, able to stand up to dangers such as dragons and maddened black sorcerers and often come out the winner.
Grand Nations: The large nations that dominate all aspects of life on the continent. Have very large territories, dominated by one or more metropolis, a few large cities and a myriad of smaller towns and villages. The most powerful are Sailune, Elmekia, Zefielia and Lyzeille.
Minor Nations: Small nations usually encompassing one large city and a few towns and villages. Usually have a very small territory. Examples of these are Fameel, Dalfera and Xoana.