Tales of Erelith: The Exile (Chapter 1)

The sky was a sea of grey, the sun all but absent from its dais above a modest farm. A gentle breeze gave a sway to the crops, and a rustling to the surrounding forest. At the front of a small house overlooking the farm stood a father and son; looking over the scene in silence. The son shifted impatiently in place, like a riled up horse. It was natural for a man coming into adulthood to be so restless, in dire need of some task to keep his hands busy. The son’s apparent discontent only added to his stirring.

“Why don’t you want me to do this?” he asked, not looking his father in the eye. “Do you want us to live like this? Struggling with the earth to get just enough to put food on our table?”

“You know full well that your mother would prefer to eat scraps than to have a child at rest before she is.” The father remained still, his eyes fixated on the crops. “And even if you were to come out alive, you would not be her child anymore.”

The son scoffed. “I don’t want to live my life working myself ragged on this farm, and watch you and mother do more of the same. I could pull us up higher in status, and then--”

“Then your mother and I will strip you of your name.” The father glanced over at his son. “By all means, if this is the path you wish to lead, then go. We cannot stop you, by words or by force. But, we cannot take you back after you make such a commitment.”

“And why is that?” The son stared at his father in disbelief. “You served for over a decade, and for the same reason that I wish to. So, why must I be punished for trying to seek a better life for us all?”

“War changes people, Holden.” The father slumped against the wall, and lowered himself down to the ground with care. “The things you see, experience and do will leave you a husk of who you are now, no matter how hard you may try to hide or fight that.” The breeze subsides, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The father exhales softly, barely audible even in the lack of noise. “My son, you are a man now. You need not my blessing or your mother’s, if you can learn to live without that warmth. You can choose to serve, yourself. Just remember, nobody leaves the battlefield undamaged.”

“I-- I understand.” Holden turned around to take a good look at his father, and the stump where his leg should have been. If there was anyone who could understand the horror behind war, it was him. “We should head inside,” Holden said, before helping his father back up, and supporting him into the house.

“Have you talked to Saul about archery lessons?” Holden’s father asked. He gave a small grunt as Holden set him down at a worn table, sitting just outside the kitchen. The entire interior of the house was ravaged by time, and dust coated anywhere that the family of three did not frequently tend to, like the shelves and their contents.

“Archery?” Holden looked at his father, puzzled. “People think archers are cowards.”

“Because they do not charge into battle, nor look their foes in the eyes, to see death do its work so eagerly?” The father patted his stump. “I’d rather be labeled a coward if it means not seeing nor experiencing what I had. Now, if you wish to serve On’hino, that is your decision alone. I  merely ask the latter for your own sake, and mine.”

Holden sat down across from his father and clasped his hands together. “If this matter is so dire to you, then very well; I’ll talk to Saul about learning archery.” It was not like he could just contest his father’s wish. He looked over his shoulder as the kitchen door opened, and a tall, beautiful woman bearing a basket of fruits and bread came through. Even in her age, her grace and vibrant smile refused to whither.

“I’m sorry, but the demand for meat has left nothing in the markets that we can afford,” she said, setting the basket down on the table. “I trust that the two of you have the crops well looked after? We’ll need every Angit we can make if we’re going to live comfortably through the next Frost.”

“Don’t worry, mother. Father and I are doing our best.” Holden gave her a small, reassuring grin.

“Indeed we are. But, I believe that Holden has something to tell you.” The father glanced at Holden, gesturing for him to go ahead.

“Well,” Holden started, but could not continue. His father chose the moment strategically, to disarm him and sap the spirit behind his decision. His lips curled into a frown, bracing himself for his mother’s reaction. “I’m going to see if Saul will take me in for a while.”

“Oh, Holden. I told you to stay away from him!” His mother shook her head as she sat down. “He’s a gambler, what reason could you possibly have for going to him?”

“I need him to teach me how to be adept with the bow. I’m planning to go into service--”

“What’s this?” His mother scoffed at him. “Don’t you see what the military is? They chewed up your father, and spat him out a broken man--”

“Damaged,” the father interjected, “not broken. You’ll know a broken man when you see one.” A silence filled the room, as he pulled the basket towards himself, and plucked free an apple. “Our son is a child no more, dear. We cannot hold him against his will. It is his right to see the world as he sees fit.”

“I’ll be fine, mother,” said Holden. “Father wants me to be an archer, so that I will be nowhere near the actual combat.” As the usual vibrancy in his mother died, he could not ignore the pang guilt that struck his heart.

“You should have just lied,” his mother said in a choked voice. “Lied, and let me believe my child set out on a less foolish course.”

“Never.” Holden stood up from the table. “The moment I do lie to you, I hope the gods strike me down, and let me wander Om’s domain ‘till my spirit is no more.” He turned his back to his mother, as it was slowly killing him, having to see that crushed expression on her face. “When I come back, I’ll make sure we’ll never have to struggle again.”

“You ought to leave now,” his father said, leaning back in his seat. “This is the closest she’ll come to letting you be on your way.”

Holden nodded. “And you’re sure you can handle the farm on your own?”

“I’ve done much harder things, and while I was in worse shape, too. I’ll take care of things here.” His father gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’re wasting time, worrying about the unnecessary.”

“Promise me,” the mother pleaded softly. “Promise me that you will come here alive and well. “That’s all I ask.”

Turning around, Holden wrapped his arms around his mother, and pulled her into a hug. Squeezing her gently, he spoke in a soft voice. “I promise.”

***

There was a break in the clouds, as a few rays of sunlight streaked down from the heavens. It boded well for Holden, as it hinted that no storm would assail upon him before he reached Saul. He took one of the many trade routes throughout On’hino, one of those that were constantly patroled by the military. With more and more tales of bandits taking everything short of smallclothes, any chance to improve his safety would be taken with gratitude. With open fields to either side of the route, it made the fear of being ambushed by highwaymen less potent.

Then, the faint rumble of hooves trampling the earth garnered Holden’s attention. As it grew louder, a pair of horses came into view, mounted by a pair of riders, clearly soldiers. They wore the distinctive silver and blue colors, and their equipment shined in the daylight. They slowed down on their approach.

“Good afternoon, citizen,” one said. He was a tall blonde man, with a rugged yet handsome complexion. He spoke with a projected voice. “I am Sergeant Honler, and this,” he gestured to the other soldier, “is Lieutenant Yerryn. If it will not be of terrible burden, we request your aid.”

Holden blinked. What use could they have of him? “I’m not sure if I can be of much use, but I’ll try my best.”

“That is all we ask,” Yerryn said. She was of an average height, with coppery locks of hair swaying with the gentle breeze. Like pieces of the same puzzle, she mirrored Honler’s pride and official mannerism. “We’re looking for a farm, not too far from here. Does the name ‘Alnhart’ mean anything to you?”

Holden held his tongue when the woman spoke his family name. If the military was actively searching for them, it either meant something like being compensated for his father’s service, or something that would bode ill. Regardless, it was nothis place to disrupt their orders. “The Alnharts live a ways down there,” he said, gesturing down the road behind him.

“Many thanks, citizen. Come, Sergeant.” Yerryn took the reins of her horse and wasted little time, spurring it to a full gallop. The Sergeant studied Holden for a moment, before he rode off as well. Left by himself once more, Holden picked up his pace, and silently prayed that the latter possibility would not become a reality.

The rays of light piercing the clouds grew dim as the hours passed, introducing a more grim atmosphere. The vibrance of the grass faded, and the forest ahead harbored shadows as thick as mud. Holden pressed onward, even though every fiber of his being wanted to turn away. He was not far off from Saul’s, now. He just had to get through the woods, and then he could avert his attention to explaining why he had come all the way out here.

A sudden burst of rustling at his flank caused Holden to whirl around, only to find a stranger -- the face indiscernible by the darkness of night -- in his face, and something sharp at his belly.

“Move, and I’ll gut you like a fish,” the stranger threatened, though the dagger at Holden’s gut delivered the message much more clearly. “Who are you? Military? Why are you looking for veterans?”

“I’m not military,” explained Holden, “I’m just a farmer’s boy.”

“Then stay that way. Secrets and corruption plague this land, and one would do well to stay independent of the king’s will.”

“Get your hands off of him,” another voice in the darkness growled. However, this one sounded familiar. Almost instantly, the stranger and dagger withdrew, letting Holden give an exhale of relief, his heart throbbing in his chest. “Does he really look capable of fighting in a war?”

The stranger looked Holden over, before shaking his head. “I suppose not. But, caution is the lifeblood of survival.”

“And paranoia is the parent of insanity.” The other figure in the darkness came into view, and Holden felt a somewhat confusing sense of relief when he recognised the face.

“Saul?” Holden blinked, and rubbed his eyes, only to find that they did not fail him. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Saul gestured for him to stay silent.

“The roads are quite active this evening,” the stranger said. “I’ll try to deliver the message, but do not count on my success.”

“I’m afraid I must. Now, we’ve wasted more time than I’d have liked to. Go.” Giving the stranger a pat on the shoulder, Saul turned his attention to Holden. “You’ve grown so much,” he said in a cordial tone, in the exact opposite of the attitude he owned a moment ago.  “But, your face is a hard one to forget, Holden.” Even in the dark of night, Saul’s grin shone. “It has been a long time since you came to visit.  What brings you here?”

“I need to ask a favor of you,” Holden explained, “I need you to teach me how to use a bow.”

Saul nodded, and motioned for Holden to follow him. “Archery isn’t something mastered overnight. It could take years to reach a remarkable level of skill.” He grinned, glancing over his shoulder. “Well, years if you were under another mentor. I’ll have you at a respectable level before the First Frost.”

Holden smiled back. He was fortunate to have someone like Saul as a friend, who likely would not have given him such an opportunity if the circumstance was any different.

“How has your father been?” Saul asked. “He hasn’t sent for my assistance for a long while.”

“He’s doing well, he has been managing to get a lot of work done, all things considered.”

Saul chuckled with a nod. “That sounds like him. Always fighting adversity, never one to lean on somebody if he can help it.” He led Holden off of the road, down a well-worn path. “He was the same way when we were Sea Tigers. Broken bones, illness, significant injuries; none of that stopped him.”

“You’ve said as much before.” Looking past Saul, Holden could see a small cottage sitting at the base of a hill. A thought crossed his mind as they reached the door. “Who was that man?” He knew that Saul was tangled in business of a foul nature, but this was different. The stranger was ready to kill him on the mere presumption he was a soldier.

“Holden,” Sault started, the cheerfulness now absent, “there some people who believe that our homeland is not as it should be. And, they’re willing to argue that against the king himself.”

Holden gripped Saul’s shoulder whirling him around. “You’re working with rebels? Have you gone mad? They were the ones who burned down the nation’s storehouse! People starved throughout the last Frost because of them.”

“That is not what I am a part of, I promise.” Saul turned back around, and opened the door for Holden. “Some small band of anarchists set the storehouse ablaze. What I am involved in is a group not set on defying the king, but against the corruption sitting under his seat.”

“Under his seat?”

“I can say nothing more on the matter.” Closing the door, Saul motioned for Holden to sit at a small, wooden table. Sitting down across from him, Saul folded his arms over his chest. “You’re going to owe me a favor, after I teach you. What use will you have for archery, anyways? Planning to become a hunter?”

“Not quite. My father said that I should come to you for training so that I may join the military.” There was a brief pause, as Saul studied Holden with a stern gaze.

“I cannot just turn back on my word, I suppose. But, heed my words. Should you intend to go into service to On’hino, be wary of the vipers you lay beside.” Saul gave a small groan, and rubbed his eyes. “The guest room is just as you left it. Go on and get some rest, gods know I’ll need it.”

Tales of Erelith: The Exile (Prologue)

The sun’s intense glare beat down on the busy port, Perona. It was here that a merchant could find someone to buy his or her wares -- if anyone in Erelith would -- or that a mercenary could always find work. Though, most importantly, it offered immigrants a new chance at life. On a normal day, people would be milling about their own business, and Perona pertained a sort of natural chaos. However, that chaos paled in comparison to the riotous crowds that flooded the streets now. Soldiers held them back, to keep a lane free through the city streets.

At the docks, the commotion reached its peak as a hooded man -- the wind of the sea could not pull it back, try as it did -- stepped off a naval ship. His hands were bound behind his back, leaving him defenseless in the event that the rioters pushed through the soldiers. He kept his gaze down at his boots, avoiding the thousands of piercing glares. Walking right behind the man was one of the soldiers, a Sea Tiger. Usually, their legendary reputation would leave the citizens intimidated, but the fury that swept Perona made these marines little more than an obstacle.

“You’d be lucky if the crowd got to you first,” the Sea Tiger said, gripping the man’s shoulder. “We tore apart the realm looking for you. Wouldn’t be surprised if the General-Kings see it fit to let you rot in the Gaol of the Abyss. Perhaps the gallows are too good for you, eh?” Pushing the man into the narrow gap on the street, the Sea Tiger frowned when his words merited no response. “You are Holden d’Alnhart, are you not? The scout turned war hero?” When the man -- Holden -- nodded, the Sea Tiger lowered his voice. “Is it true, what they say about you? That you made an entire army surrender with a single arrow?”

“Use your head,” Holden replied, breaking his silence. He looked ahead to find a priest in robes -- blue and silver patterns gleaming in the light of day -- waiting for him. All he could feel past his sore wounds was gut-wrenching sorrow. Sorrow for dragging this on far too long. For getting so many people involved. For those who paid the price for it.

“Burn him!” Someone cried out. “Brand him a traitor and roast him alive!”

“He’ll roast in the Nine Hells,” the Sea Tiger retorted, with a grin. “It’s a shame that you would do something so stupid, after everything you went through, and accomplished. You served On’hino with undying loyalty, only to have ‘traitor and coward’ on your epitaph.”

“As long as they don’t add ‘liar.’” Holden stopped in front of the priest, his auburn eyes meeting a pair of vibrant green.

“Former Major Holden d’Alnhart, you arrive here as a fugitive of the law, thus you have been stripped of your rights, privileges and honors. You have been accused of the following crimes: conspiracy to overthrow, treachery, espionage, murder, evading the law, murder of your fellow soldiers, and regicide. May the gods have mercy on your soul. Do you acknowledge these accusations? If so, how will you plead, in front of all these people?” When Holden offered no immediate reply, the priest cleared his throat. “I said, how will you plead?”

“If they intend to cut my throat, then it’s best you listen closely.” Holden shook the Sea Tiger’s hand off of his shoulder. “I will tell you the truth, and part with you the knowledge I discovered in the time I hid as a fugitive.” The crowd went quiet as he continued. “I have one request, should you wish to hear my tale. I want the bodies of those selfless enough to partake in my endeavor to be laid to rest in their homeland here.”

“I will speak with officials to see if it can be arranged,” the priest said with a nod. “Now, cease the blockade you impose upon your own words. Let free your testimony to reach Hino, lest it be struck down as false. Lying to a god is deserving of a fate far worse than we have to offer.”

“The blunt truth of the matter is not something you can just will yourself to understand.” Holden raised his voice. “I have heard all of the tales spun by our own people, and our leaders. I am depicted as the traitor that you seek to bring to justice -- for the blood of the king’s only son -- or as an innocent man, brought so low by corruption that sought to use me as a scapegoat. If you desire true closure of these events, then I must start from the beginning.”

Ranger of the North, Book 2, Chapter 19

“Luck is in our hands tonight,” states Leina while cleaning her hands with water, scavenged from the dead slavers’ canteens. “They’re to the mines, just south of here.”

“Why bother capturing slaves here when the only region that supports the use of such labor is in the North?” Standing up from his place against a tree trunk, Rune brushes his backside before folding his arms over his chest.

“Just because a region does not support slavery does not mean that slavers will not do it anyways.” Leina beckons him to follow her back into the woods. “It’s not hard to break the law in a land where nobody will enforce it.”

Nodding at her last few words, he feels a smudge of hypocrisy; they stole a carriage filled with goods, what place had they to criticize slavers? “How are we going to rescue them?” he asks, following her on the uneven terrain.

“A Reaper is an individual deemed worthy of the responsibility of defending Erelith.” Leina pauses for a moment, perhaps to let the words sink in. “To be worthy, you’ll have to adopt some new skill sets, so today is your lucky day; you’ll learn the way of stealth from one of the best.”

“And where will I find them?” Rune asks with a brow raised.

“You’ll find them at your throat momentarily,” Leina retorts with a roll of her eyes and a shake of the head.

The further into the wilderness the two progress, the less moonlight that penetrates the tree canopy. The dialogue between them dies down as they focus on traversing the wild terrain. The journey of darkness, silence and difficulties only intensifies gradually - an eternity to Rune passing - before the faint glow of torchlight presents itself past the trees. As they approach a break in the trees to a clearing, the cracking of whips, tortured cries of the whipped, and the barking of orders flood the air.

“This has to be the place,” whispers Leina as she peeks past the trees, “or I’ll be damned.”

Looking through the trees, Rune’s eyes wander down a vast pit to find slaves labor away under the watchful eyes of overseers. Those who are not mining are moving carts full of ores, or constructing scaffolding to mine more. Those who are not able to endure the physical demand of their labor are writhing in agony from the menacing lash of the whip. Their agonized wails fill the night air.

“We must hurry,” implores Leina, “else our companions will share the same fate.” Leaving the cover of the trees, she disappears from view, silent as she merges with the shadows.

Only having the direction she left for some suggestion of what to do, Rune creeps into the shadows after her. Letting his eyes adjust, a different world emerges; the pitch darkness loses its grasp in some areas as the thin beams of light that penetrate the tree canopy strengthen themselves.

“By breathing in the air of the shadows,” whispers Leina, “they conceal you from those who do not, and reveal the others who do.” She points a slender finger at a sentry, leaning up against a large, steel gate - likely the one and only entrance into the mines. “It also gives us the strength to deal death upon the unsuspecting.” Picking up a stick from the ground, Leina takes a deep breath before snapping it.

Lifting his head, the sentry draws his blade, looking about for the source of the noise. “Glimatther, is that you?” he calls into the darkness. “Have you found the other two so quickly? What of our losses, have they been recorded?” Stopping just short of the shadows, he shakes his head. “Just another animal,” the sentry mutters, turning around to walk back to his post.

With a spontaneous burst of energy, Leina strikes. One arm coils around the sentry’s mouth as the other drags her dagger across the sentry’s throat. In rapid succession, she pulls the dagger back, and plunges into the spine of the sentry.

Without a struggle, the sentry collapses to the ground in a crumpled, bloody heap. A failed scream comes forth as a silent gurgle as he lays deathly still.

Wiping the blood off of her dagger on the sentry’s clothing, Leina also searches the body.

“What are you doing?” asks Rune. “Looting the dead is a bad omen.”

“Breaking honor-bound taboos gives me an advantage over my enemy.” Reaching into one of the pockets, she pulls out a single, plain key from the corpse. “Besides, sometimes a little frisking of the dead is a necessity to progress.”

“I see.” Rune watches the access to the pit, his off-hand clutching the hilt of Gwynt. If someone comes through those gates, it will not be alone. He would have to be ready for a brutal fight, should they be caught. The lamented cries of workers coerces him into a high strung state of mind; a fate worse than death is possible here. “And what of the body? Our chances are shot if they find it.”

“There will be no body for them to find,” says Leina, her hands wrapping around the wrists of the corpse. She looks up at Rune expectantly. “Well, you can either sit there and let a lady struggle, or you can make yourself useful.”

“Alright, alright,” responds Rune. Grabbing the sentry’s ankles, he helps lift the body. Following Leina’s lead, the body is moved to the edge of the forest.

“Drop it here,” orders Leina, her timbre faint, yet cold and calculative. “They won’t search this far for one body. They have little patience for the unordinary.”

Acquiescing, Rune sets the body down in the thicket bordering the trees. “Do you ever regret killing men and women like these?”

“I have just as much remorse as they have for the reason I do kill them,” offers Leina as a response. Wiping her hands after the disposal of the sentry’s corpse, she turns around, strutting back to the gate.

Following in tow, Rune examines the gate, searching for a mechanism to raise or lower the gate. Investigating where the sentry stood, he notices a small lever, carved out of wood. Impulse takes over as he pulls it down, and the gate noisily crashes down in rapid succession. The sudden spike in sound raises the hair on Rune’s neck, and makes him  recoil away from the lever, blade drawn.

A brief pause in the background sounds ensues before Leina steps into the open, hands on her hips. “Don’t forget; it’s curiosity that killed the cat.” Stopping at the gate, she looks at the ground, inspecting the grate the gate slipped down into.

“Leina?” Rune approaches her, placing a hand onto her shoulder. “What is it?”

“If there is any way to increase the odds in favor of our success, it would be us going in separate directions.” Turning back, Leina walks past him, towards the darkness. “I’ll find anohter way in. You’re going through here.”

“If you say so,” says Rune, watching her go as he sets Gwynt back into its sheath.

“Oh, one more thing,” Leina adds. “I… well, just don’t get caught.” Slipping away, she leaves Rune to press further on his own.

“Don’t get caught,” he mutters, “what great advice.” Maintaining a level of constant alertness, Rune progresses down a well-worn path that splits the abundant foliage of the forest. The cries of agony only increase in volume; is he getting closer, or are the cries just becoming louder from a distance? Rounding the corner, he is welcomed by the thin, bony carcass of a slave - or, rather the deformed remnants of a human - sprawled out onto the ground, likely worked to death. Stepping over the body with care, Rune finds himself sucked into a mob of slaves at work.

Unable to see past the unending horde of damned mortals, he can only each labor for their poor lives. Some mine, smashing the stone with poorly managed tools, others carrying off the smashed stone. However, it does not take long for them to realize the black sheep in their sick, weakened and miserable herd. Stopping their tasks at hand, they surround Rune, looking at him as something unreal in their realm.

One slave, emphatically decorated with more markings than the rest, parts the crowd as he looks Rune over himself. Before speaking, a series of coughs rattle his body. “You are not a thin-limb,” he states, “and you’re not a whipper. Introduce not yourself, but your reason for being here.”

“I--”

“You’re here for someone, are you not?” the slave asks, tilting his head.

Rune can only nod.

“I see.” The slave turns around, raising a hand to wave dismissively. “You shall not find them. Go away, thick-limb. They belong to this place now, as my people have. You’re still a free man. Your friends are no longer.”

“It’s my brother--”

“Go away! I am the chieftain, and you will not disobey my word!” Standing triumphantly as an enslaved man could, the chieftain glares at Rune as his voice grows louder. “Your brother is doomed to become a thin-limb, one of us. The fates have removed control of this from your hands; you can do nothing more.”

The tension rising between him and the chieftain adding onto his current troubles, Rune moves his main-hand onto Gwynt’s hilt. “My brother, along with my friends, will be leaving this place. With or against my efforts, that is your choice. But, know that standing against me will be standing against the edge of my blade.” His voice becomes louder as he states it more plainly. “Move aside, or I’ll cut a path through you.”

Silence plants itself into the bewildered mob with little warning before it infects all of them, spare Rune and the chieftain. “You come into our repurposed lives,” he begins, taking a step towards Rune, “and threaten us if we do not aid you in achieving our freedom from this misery.” Folding his arms over his chest, he exhales sharply through his nose. “Prove you’re worthy of our trust, that you can achieve that freedom, and you will have our answer.”

“Very well.” Letting go of Gwynt, Rune glances at the wretched slaves around him. “So, how am I to prove this to you?”

The chieftain offers a simple shrug. “There is no precise path through the fog of uncertainty; only a destination. Do what you will, find your way to rejuvenate our morale, thick-limb. My advice for you is to start by striking fear into the hearts of our overseers. Remind them that they, too, are mortal.”

“I can-” A heavy force crashing down on Rune from above knocks the assuring words out of his mouth, and the wind from his lungs. Falling to the ground, he lays still for an instant before rolling whatever had landed on him off his back. Lifting his head, his eyes meet the barren pair of a slaver, his throat a gory mess, the flesh divided by a single laceration.

The slaves erupt in a mixed chorus of cheers, murmurs, gasps, and even a few screams. “Silence!” the chieftain bellows, the slaves immediately complying to the curt order. “Thick-limb, get up. Who is this woman?”

“This woman,” says Leina as she helps Rune onto his feet, “is as capable of saving you the trouble of this Ar’taian swine reporting a possible rebellion as she is introducing herself.”

Regaining his breath, Rune looks up at her. “There’s plenty of ways you could have made an entrance without dropping a corpse on my head. But, this body could help disrupt the sense of security the overseers have.”

Nodding, the chieftain adds, “They will be discontent to find one of their own--”

“The ring!” one of the slaves cries out, “she has the ring, look!” Approaching Leina, he raises her right hand up to reveal a silver band wrapped loosely around her index finger. A single, golden stripe rungs through the center of the band.

“Hey!” Leina pulls her hand away, glaring at the slave. “It’s a nice ring, not like the bastard needed it in death.”

“...You killed the Dreadsman?” the chieftain inquires.  “There is no other way you could have obtained it from him.”

“Oh, no. Not me.” Leina places a hand on Rune’s shoulder. “It is this one who felled this ‘Dreadsman’ of yours. Watched him do it myself.”

Gasps and murmurs revive through the mob of captive-workers. Sinking down onto one knee, the chieftain bows his head. “This alone is extraordinarily difficult task. For defeating one who has claimed the lives of many of my people, I owe you my thanks, as do the rest of us. Please tell us your name, Dreadnought; you shall not be forgotten.”

“Well, I.. uh..” Rune looks at Leina, for some sort of guidance.

Shaking her head, Leina interjects. “Fame is poison for a Reaper.” She turns her focus to the chieftain. “I believe that, judging from this sudden gratitude, you’re willing to aid us in resolving our crisis?”

“I will offer what assistance my people and I are capable of,” the chieftain responds. “On one condition, of course.”

Leina folds her arms over her chest, raising a brow at the chieftain. “You have a lot of demands. What do you want now?”

“We want--”

“Freedom.” Rune turns his gaze to the chieftain, who nods in approval.

“My people used to dream,” says the chieftain. “Before our captivity, we had shamans. The people would tell these shamans of their dreams, for some form of guidance. When the slavers took us away from our home, they executed all of our shamans. It was to crush our spirit, leave us without guidance. My people lost their fighting spirit, and their ability to dream.”

“Then you shall dream once more,” Rune says, wielding Gwynt in his main hand. “You shall be free, either in life or in death.”

“Dream?” one of the slaves repeats.

“Yes.” The chieftain turns to face the majority of his slaves, raising his voice. “Dream! Rediscover your fighting spirit, and let us use it to shatter the shackles binding us to the oppression!”

Without warning, an inspired chorus of roars, cheers and chanting bursts through the air. The cries carry into the night air, surely halting the painful lashings of the overseers’ whips and the orders being barked at the slaves. Using their picks and stones, the slaves break the chains holding them to the site - setting themselves free - one by one.

“The newer slaves will be dumped deeper into this damnable mine, to carry resources the farthest,” the chieftain informs Rune and Leina. “We will work our way down. My people’s bodies may be weakened, but our spirits are indefatigable. Be it with our shoddy tools, or our bare hands, we will bring down every overseer who dared looked down upon us, and take our right to dream again by force!”

Standing in place - awestruck by the eruption of passion from the slaves, who seemed only moments ago eager only to die off - Rune watches the freed slaves flood further into the mines. “Will they stand a chance?” he asks the chieftain.

“I know many will perish before the moon’s passing.” The chieftain kneels down, wrapping his bony fingers around a large stone. “But, their deaths will give way to more dreamers. We will grow back. Like the trees here, our roots are dug deep into the earth, and it will take a more than a few swings with an axe to fell us. We will grow back, our wounds will close, our flesh and bone renewed.” With a brief grunt, he brings the stones over one of his various chains binding him. As fragments of stone scatter, so do broken chain links. “Go on, Dreadsman. My people would be honored to fight alongside you, as I will once I am free.”

“You don’t have to order us twice,” says Leina, “I’m itching to find our friends.” With one more firm tug on Rune’s shoulder, she walks down a wooden ramp leading into the conflict initiating below.

“May your blade bite deep,” the chieftain says to Rune, “into the flesh and bone of your foes.”

“It shall. Your people will be free souls by dawn.” Rune moves down the ramp after Leina. Already, the ground is painted with splotches of blood. The bodies of slaves are strewn about, the slavers a little harder to make out since their corpses are stripped. Wasting no further time, Rune steps over the bodies, his focus set on a large, wooden structure - and the battle engulfing it.

A shrill cry of pain rises above the rest of the noise, as one of the ex-slaves crumples to the ground. A saber’s thin, curved blade running through her back, the woman lets out one last agonized groan before she is silent and motionless altogether.

“I knew this day would come,” mutters a disdainful voice, “and it’s about time. I was growing tired of their screams, and the stench helped little.” Ripping the saber out of the body, a man - given away by his muscular physique and voice - turns his head towards Rune. Facial features concealed by sinister shadows harbored underneath a cowl, his eyes are the only things visible as their sapphire irises blares its own unnatural luminescence. “You should feel honored,” he says, stepping closer to Rune, “it’s not every day you get to look Death straight in the eyes.”

“You seem arrogant already,” retorts Rune. “If you drop your weapons now and plead for it, I’ll make your death quick and painless.”

The threat is only met with laughter. The man proclaiming himself as death lunges at Rune, his saber coming downward.

Raising Gwynt to parry the blow, an icy chill slithers along his lower torso, coming up and across his chest. When the chill is replaced with a searing pain, Rune grits his teeth, staggering backwards from the wound. Before he can recover, the man advances and slams his boot against Rune’s ribcage.

“You don’t stand a chance,” says the male. In his other hand is another saber, almost identical to the first, aside from Rune’s blood dressing its blade. “If you give up now, there will be no shame; you could never defeat the Wolf of the West.”

The laceration across his torso dulling down to a throbbing pain, Rune pushes himself back onto his feet. Something feels…. different. His heart is pounding harder and faster, cold sweat beading and gliding down his flesh. “The Wolf of the West has met his match this evening,” he declares, “you will not kill me off, after all that I have done.” Regaining his composure, Rune swings Gwynt at the Wolf. As one of the sabers moves to parry the oncoming blow, he pulls back, narrowly avoiding the same counter before attacking again. Thrusting Gwynt into the wolf’s abdomen, the sensation of the sabers piercing into his torso brings Rune mind-numbing pain, before darkness, silence and the cold of a void envelops his body once more.

The Southern Paw, Chapter 1, Part 1

Terzogue sits up, his eyes widen open, cold sweat dripping off his face. His heart pounds furiously, and it takes him several moments to realize that he has drawn his blade, and buried the talons of his gauntlet deep into the wood of . When he feels for the hand, he finds nothing there.

It was just a dream.

Setting his sword back in its sheath, he wipes the cold sweat off his face. He is not in the jungle, but in a small space in the back of a wagon. He makes his way past the the crates and sacks to the exit, pushing the flaps open to find an endless stretch of road in the wagon’s wake. The road splits dunes composed of golden sand, sharing the blistering heat beating down on the world from the heavens. Seeing as the wagon isn’t moving, Terzogue hops out. The sands shift and swirl, making a most unwelcome hissing noise. A mild wind tugs at the ends of ruby and sapphire ribbons wrapped around Terzogue’s head.

“So you’re awake.”

Terzogue turns his attention to a man sitting against a wagon wheel. After a few moments, he nods, approaching the man. “I take it we are close?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“As close as I can take you.” The man stands up, leaving the shade of his wagon to approach Terzogue. “It’s not just that I’m headed for the capital, but that, well, there’s a hundred places in the Realm of Darkness I’d rather visit than Staultista.”

“Only a hundred?” Terzogue grins at the man. “I understand, and thank you for taking me this far. Farewell, and safe travels.”

“Don’t worry about me,” the man says, “it’s you who I pray for.” Just as Terzogue turns around, the man snaps his fingers. “Here, take this.” He tosses a canteen to Terzogue, before grabbing the reins to the wagon’s horse.

Catching the canteen, Terzogue raises a brow. “I can’t pay for this.”

“It’s on me. In Siyerrod, water is life. I would hate to see your journey end in this forsaken corner of the world.”  Giving a dismissive wave, the man climbs back onto his wagon and turns the horses leading it around. He starts back down the way the wagon came, leaving Terzogue alone in the merciless desert.

Terzogue turns around, and gathers his bearings. His search quickly bears fruit, as his eyes set on towering masses further down the road. His stepping careful in the sand, he travels towards them. His eyes search his surroundings again and again. Any breath could be his last in these sands. The stories he heard of travelers being swallowed whole by predators burrowed under the surface come swiftly to mind. It was as if the desert itself longed for flesh, not just its inhabitants. The most dangerous threat, however, is other men and women.

Spotting something further down the road, Terzogue approaches it. A worn, wooden beam is planted into the sands. Chained to it is the rotting remains of someone unfortunate enough to experience the cruelty of Staultista’s criminals firsthand. Dried blood cakes the flesh around his throat, and grime coats his whole body. His killers did not even leave his clothes behind.

Shaking off the impression of the rotting effigy, Terzogue continues towards the city. Drawing closer, he can define the masses as buildings. Despite its size, the city seems to be a husk of its former glory. The details of every building are worn away by time and exposure to the bite of sandstorms notorious in Siyerrod. Once-tall remnants of a city wall leave now hinder no traveler.

Terzogue walks through where a portion of the wall has collapsed. Paying less attention to the city’s appearance, his focus now shifts towards those whom the city harbors. He continues onto the streets, finding a distinct lack of life. The cobblestone streets are uneven, in terrible need of repairs. The sound of glass smashing with a cry grabs his attention. Drawn towards the noise, Terzogue rests his main hand on the hilt of his sword. He would not risk being unprepared for a fight. He comes across the hunched form of a man, if one may call it that.

Countless burns reside on flesh that looks more like a thin cover for the skeleton inside. A few locksof blonde hair try in vain to cover the scarred flesh covering the skull. A pile of refuse sits before him, surrounded by shattered shards of glass.

Terzogue approaches the man slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but takes a step back and draws his blade as the man shrieks.

“Back!” Standing protectively over the pile of junk, he draws a crude shank. “This isn’t yours, no, no yours. This one told other one this, yes he did, and other one didn’t listen. He is a dead boy, yes he is!” He inches closer to Terzogue jabbing wildly. He stops when a sharp whistle comes from above. He looks up, his eyes wide. Before he can say a word, an arrow sinks into his thigh. He collapses, letting out a silent cry of pain as he stares at the shaft of an arrow, lodged between his ribs. With a few violent jerks, he eases onto the ground, unmoving.

Terzogue looks up to find the gleam of a metal arrowhead. His body tenses, as his eyes rest on the shooter, standing atop a balcony overlooking the streets.

“Relax,” the archer says, his aim unwavering. “That wretch had plenty of warnings, and I don’t need him being your first impression of our abode.”

“A little late to change that,” Terzogue says, remaining still. “I intend to cause no trouble here.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” The archer lowers his aim, though only slightly. “Why are you here? Travelers head to the capital, not this refuge.”

“I’m looking for a woman.”

“You came to the wrong city, if you’re looking for carnal pleasures.” The archer chuckles. “Who is this woman?”

“Avaliel.” Terzogue stays on his toes, unsure what reaction he would get.

“Why do you need to see her?” The archer’s casual tone is replaced with a much more stern one.

“I cannot--”

“You can tell me, and you will, else my arrow will burrow into your skull to find the answer.” The archer’s arrow points at Terzogue once more. Not a word is said for a moment, and the archer snarls. “Poor choices, poor results.” However, before his arrow can fly, the balcony gives way under the archer. He falls into the sand with a soft thud, groaning softly.

Standing over the archer, Terzogue pins the bow under his boot. He glares at the archer, resting the fang of his blade against the archer’s cheek. He glances around, finding the corpse of the knife-wielding man, and nobody else. “If there’s another surprise I should know of, now is the time to tell me.” Kneeling down, Terzogue shows his gauntlet to the archer. “If you don’t, my talons will burrow into your skull to find the answer. Should you mistake me for a man of gullibility, then you are gravely mistaken.”

“Then what does that make you?” the archer asks, glaring at Terzogue.

“A man that will pretend that you threatening me never happened. I’m also the man who demands retribution for the endangerment of my life.” Pushing a talon against the archer’s forehead, Terzogue simply drags it across, leaving a long, thin cut in its wake. “I’ll ask one more time. Where is Avaliel?”

“Like I’d tell you.” The archer cracks a grin. “If you’re going to catch the Phantom of Staultista, you need to find her yourself. She could be anywhere, by now.”

“Then where will she go?”

“I will not waste more of my breath on you,” the archer snarls. “I recognize the clothes, how you hesitate not to inflict pain for your own sake, how stupid you are to think that I will know where Avaliel is. You’re one of those Oasean savages, aren’t you?” One of his hands drifts upward, towards his own head.

Recognizing that the archer is going for an arrow, Terzogue pins the hand and plunges his talons into the archer’s back, a howl of pain echoing throughout the empty city. “You’re trying my patience.”

“Go the way I came!” the archer says, desperation cracking through his voice. “It will take you to her, I promise!”

“Very well. Run. Get out of here.” Terzogue stands up, letting the archer get back onto his feet.

“Thank you,” the archer says over and over, slowly getting up. Without warning, he whirls around, a dagger in hand. Before he can even take a stab at Terzogue, however, he impaled by Terzogue’s sword. In shock, he drops the dagger, staring down at the grievous wound, wide-eyed.

“Fool,” mutters Terzogue, before ripping the blade out from its flesh sheath. He watches the archer collapse, gazing into the sky with his final moments. Then, as the life drains from the archer’s eyes, Terzogue sheathes his sword, taking a moment to look at the scene before him. It would have troubled him, to have both of these men die for nothing. But, in such a place as this, death may have been the only mercy they have had.

Update, now gluten free!

Hello everyone! I have been working hard on my writing, and I'm going to be posting more content this afternoon. I have come up with a schedule where I will post content on Friday, every two weeks, starting today. This will help me keep a constant deadline, so it's not a guessing game on whether or not there is more content posted. Just wanted you all to know, so pardon me while I get to work on getting that content delivered!