Fragmenting of an Empire, Chapter 1: The Death of a God

[Cerrus Talbeit]

Laodecia, The Mercenary Lord's War Tent

It was a fine day in Laodecia. The gray skies looked down upon the mournful slaves and warriors.
However, the most impending figure, The Mercenary Lord, looked down smiled. This picture was the
plight of his society. His evil eyes, wandered about as he stood outside of his war tent. Something
distasteful caught his eye now. A weak looking fellow came running up the steps to his war tent. The
young man held up a hand signaling the Mercenary lord.

“What’s the meaning of this?! Who let you up here,” The Mercenary Lord barked.

“Word from the Pontetate, Lord!” He answered back with a dry breath.

Soon the lad finally made it up the steps and was completely out of breath. The Mercenary Lord rolled
his eyes at his weakness. The young man stood for a moment with his hands resting on his knees trying
to catch his breath. Laodeci grew impatient and ripped the scroll from his hand.

He read over the scroll, “April, 210 A.B….Kastus…test of faith….ceremony.”

In shock, Laodeci began to think. He had almost forgot about the young man still standing there.

“Where do you come from? I do not know your face?” The Mercenary Lord questioned.

“I’ve travelled from the empire.” He answered.

“With no protection in a Kingdom like this?!” Laodeci questioned back.

“Well, no, but…”

The mercenary lord snapped his fingers and soon two other soldiers grabbed the man.

“Take him to the army camp, and have him enlisted.” The Mercenary Lord ordered.

The young man’s face sunk in with fear.

“No! No you can’t do that! I belong in the empire! No!” His voice trailed off as the two soldiers dragged
him down the steps.

The Mercenary Lord turned back to one of his other officers.

“Have some transportation ready for me. I need to visit the Pontetate.”

Laodeci knew that there will be war between the Pontetate and the Nords , and when there was were
there are men that are needed, and when men are needed, Laodecia is there.

[Deja Vu]

Somewhere in Dovurak
Borkstvo

Kazahk Janbrook was knee deep in a filthy swamp. To think he had ran, thieved, and stole his way all the way from Frankmark to be halted by a ocean of mud. He would rather drown in this grimy slop then be returned to that damned Inquisitor though. He took another step, almost losing his boot in the process. It was slow going through the sea of reeds he found himself in, but at least he hadn't heard the dogs since noon yesterday. Admittedly, going headlong into the bog wasn't the smartest idea but it had been dull enough to loose the minions of god. Maybe they didn't think him as that stupid? Kazahk had already thwacked a good number of beasts on the snout for trying to have him for brunch, so maybe they wern't half wrong.

The sun was breaking through the clouds of morning dew and mist. It gave the eerie haze a warm golden glow, that did absolutely nothing to brighten Kazahk's mood. He'd have to steal himself another set of boots if he didn't want to loose his feet to any wetrot. He'd stolen a few rounds or drinks from a bar near Ballengvo, so he knew he had crossed into the border of Borkstvo days ago. The mud that clung to his stride suggested he was in Dovugrad now. If he went any further he'd need to procure himself a vessel, unless he felt like wading out to sea. It didn't like that bad of an idea now that he thought of it. Then again he was delirious from hunger and lack of sleep, and the fumes from the marsh were getting to his head. He swore he heard the nipping of horses up ahead. Could he be mistaking that trot of horseshoes for something else? But was that not the shadows of a horse walking on the mist ahead?

Kazahk frantically hopped and splashed toward the mirage. It must be a mirage, but what else did he have going for him? A promptly fell flat on his face as he reached a plateau of dry land in the middle of the swamp. Spitting out a mouthful of grass, he clawed up the hill, finding himself on a path of some sort. It meandered through the swamp as far as the eye could see, which wasn't very far at all to Kazahks eye. It must be a road for the locals, unless they all invested in stilts to get anywhere. He couldn't really argue about the small graces he was given though, and ran after the rider up ahead. Looking like a wildman from the hills of the north didn't really help him as he jogged and stumbled up to the beast, it's rider lost above in the thick fog. The steed bucked and tossed its rider off as Kazahk inadvertently startled the beast. The rider, in a full suit of armor fell with a groan, rolling over onto his side to ease is new injury.

Kazahk, now almost as confused as the horse, looked down at the fallen knight and then to his steed. He quickly made a decision, running up to the knight and pulling the dagger from his hip. He had to knock the helm off before he could silence the man forever, but it was a fairly quick death none the less.

By noon Kazahk had followed the path up to the gates of a castle that suddenly appeared out of the mist. He'd almost turned his beast around to flee the other way before the guards called out at him.

"You're attendance has been expected Sir Roland!"

Underneath the helm another stupid idea formed in the desperate mind of Kazahk. Before he knew it, he was strolling down the halls of Castle Dovugrad, ready to to clean himself up and take his place at the court of Dovurak.



Castle Dovugrad, Dovurak
Borkstvo

The council chamber was a small domed building with a high roof, once formerly a place of worship until they had built a better and more grand steeple to the west Kingsland. Now large oak tables and chairs circled around the perimeter of the mosaic tile, forming a rather spacious meeting place for the unusually large congregation of Castle Dovugrad. The circular chamber was filling up quickly, as hungover nobles and boyars, flustered squires and servants, and curious maids and messengers scurried in and out of the multiple entrances. The deep fog was beginning to lift as noon arrived, and so did the Herzogina as she strode in with every bit of annoyance nipping at her heels. The court was never punctual. She took her seat along side her Aunt Astrid and her brother the Magnar Jasta before clearing her throat and signalling the servants to ring the bell that hung above them, a bell that formerly signaled the start of worship a century ago. It brought the clamor to silence quickly, as everyone found their seats and brought their attention toward their reigning Herzogina.

"Revered Kastus is no longer with us. His mortal vessel has passed in slumber. The Grand Cardinal shall take his place until one of the Empire can be chosen to follow the path of the divine! God is dead, and he has left the sinners and saints to squabble!"

A riot exploded in the once holy chamber, as shouts of protests and blasphemy rang off the dome with reckless abandon. Some denounced Tyne's words as heresy, others begged to explain the reasoning behind the emperor's passing. A few bouts flared up as the boyars traded words with fists, no one really agreeing with each other. The former Herzog's court was no stranger to such audacious actions and there were plenty of incidents when the very royal chamber was stained with the blood of enraged nobility. Tyne Viporra, Herzogina of Dovurak would not let such days of old repeat themselves, not today.

"SILENCE!" spat Tyne with unrivaled venom, once more pacifying her herd of sheep. Her icy glare fell on the council like that of a enraged giant who was very much tempted to behead all who stood against her. He turned to Jasta and gave him the floor. He stood up slowly, a grave expression shrouding his craggy features as he strode toward the center of the chamber as he began to speak.

"We must stay strong through these uncertain times. The Empire may very well find itself in upheaval with these recent events. Dovurak knows this well, for not a dozen years ago Atrox lead us on the coattails of Gregor, almost all the way to the grave. We must not let the past repeat itself, or there will be no Dovurak left to defend. County Ballengvo stands strong on her borders, and I suggest Dovugrad do the same. We cannot be sure what our fellow Borkstovians may do out of rashness. We cannot be sure what the Kingdoms of Pontetate intend either."

Jasta let his words hang in the air before returning to his seat, his sorrowful look no better than it had been before he rose. The Herzogina's voice chimed across the expanse underneath the dome, meeting the ear of all present.

"May fate and fortune smile upon us, for they have not done so in the past. Should dire times find themselves at Dovurak's door, you will heed my call, your fellow man's call, and defend it. Council dismissed."

And with that, the once hectic congregation walked out in a somber procession. Those of the castle court remained, including Tyne and her Magnar Jasta. Still seated, they were deep in conversation about the future possibilities of the Kingdom and the Empire when a cry interrupted them.

"My Duchess, I am Sir Roland of Celland. May I offer you my services in these restless turn of events."

Herzogina Tyne Viporra shot around with a most agitated and bemused glare. Duchess was a term fit for the kingdoms of the north, not a Borkish lord. She could also not recall the last time a knight pledged his services to the court of Dovurak, not since Old Atrox and his glory seeking days had formed a Order of questionable intent. Fortunately he and his followers lay in unnamed graves across the countryside when Gregor's Folly came to an abrupt end. Still, a follower had his uses...

"I am Herzogina Viporra, Sir Roland, and my reign is over the lands of Dovurak."

Astrid tugged at the sleeve of her robe, causing Tyne to lend her her to the hushed whisper of her aunt. "Sir Roland hails from the Crownlands, my lady."

Tyne's eyebrow rose a hair in suspicion. 'Sir Roland' spoke once more before Tyne could protest.

"Forgive me Herzogina. My mind is muddled with sorrow over the great one's passing."

"You speak much like a Frank for someone from Celland, Sir Roland."

"Ah, huh, yes! I have done most of my service to the assortment of Dukes of glorious Frankland. I seek to offer such services to you my lady, from my heart."

"Of course! 'Sir Roland'. Do all Cellish, or is it Frankish? Knights were such ill-fitting armor into battle?"

"Much apologies your majesty, I wear this suit of plate in honor of my fallen brother, who was unfortunatly a much larger man than eye. It does not see the light of day outside such honorable occasions."

"I would hope so! That must explain the unpleasant smell, for this dank weather punishes those who wear such armor."

"Yes, yes, a thousand pardons my lady. But my skill in battle is much more honorable than my odor, should you honor me with a position your majesty."

"Is that so? Perhaps I should have Jasta test that here..."

"I must decline such defilement to such an exquisite chamber my lady. It would shame my title and name."

"A true gnetleman, would you look at that! Well, my rank and silver-tongued boyar, how much do you know about sailing?"

Kazahk Janbrook gulped at the question. What had he gotten himself into?

[KnaveLord]

As always, he walked through darkness. Infinity sprawled out in every direction but he did nothing other than continue walking forward. He would arrive in the same destination, regardless of the direction he chose. Time passed, and the Nothingness found him as he knew it would. It wrapped itself around him and restricted his path to little more than a sliver. He continued down the tunnel of Absence as if it were an everyday occurrence. In a way, it was. This dream had come every night for many years now.

At last the Nothingness gave away in front of him and he stood at the edge of the Abyss. The Eternal Void hung before him, pensive and silent. He waited for a time that might have been aeons but the Void remained inscrutable. This was the way the dream always went. However something began to change. For the first time in years he felt a terrible anger well up. He shouted at the Void and demanded to know why it taunted him. It was reflex that sent out his Stav, and he hardly had time to stop the feeling of liquid fire that rolled down his right arm and hurled into the Void. Such a pitiful attack could never harm the Void; much less draw its attention. But the Void answered back.

It started low, like wind through a valley. But the noise grew and with it came a sudden heat and the stench of death. The wind roared like a hurricane and it was then that he realized it was not wind but human screams. The Void was tinted with the color red, for the sensation of sight, smell and hearing had finally returned to him. In the center of the Void a stained glass image of Kastus appeared. He wore the full regalia of Emperor with a cup in one hand and a sword in the other. The glass shattered and behind it an eye-shaped tear in the void was revealed. The screams were now in languages that were no longer human.

He stared into the Void and it stared into him. It knew him for what he was.

The Hills of Ravenkrak, 10 Stones South of Nas-

Knut awoke in a cold sweat. He sat on the end of his cot with his head in his hands for several minuets as he let the terrible omen of the dream sink in. With some effort he regained control of himself.

“So Kastus is dead.”

It was now the calculating chieftain who spoke, not the man who had seen horrors from beyond this world stirring. Without thinking he washed his face in the basin, dressed himself, used his Stav to quickly remove the insects from his furs, and exited his tent. The Hrokr were already breaking camp in preparation for the last leg of the journey to Nas. However Knut’s mind was occupied by what would be needed for the coming war. He would need to reach out to all those that had pledged to fight for him. Dagna would need to purchase alchemical supplies in bulk once they reached the town. The Hrokr would need new recruits. All of this would be needed quickly. He had a head start, but time would still be short.

The Town of Nas, Central Ravenkrak-

Nas was one of the larger towns along the River Daud and the biggest trade center for the inland of Ravenkrak. All the larger clans competed for ground here, and disputes were fairly frequent. One such conflict had drawn Knut and his Hrokr retinue here, although it would likely have been handled by a captain if Knut hadn’t already been intending to purchase supplies. Their arrival wasn’t heralded by messengers or horns, but the effect on the crowd was still immense. Twenty riders entered the town at the proscribed hour and rode through the town center where most of the inhabitants had gathered. One side of the crowd held supporters of the accused’s clan, and the other contained the opposing side. Knut rode his men through the gap between these people, a gap that widened as soon as he entered. Throughout the crowd people whispered in awe that the One-Eye himself had come and warriors of both sides felt the cold dread that accompanies great danger. The two speakers of the opposing clans were shocked dumb by the unexpected personal appearance of Knut. They both recovered around the same time and tried to shower him with pleasantries. Knut ignored then both and took a seat on a raised wooden platform built for these occasions.

The case itself was incredibly simple. Karl Vladson Kalskev, a warrior of no particular renown but a dishonest gleam in his eye and the belly of a drunkard, had murdered his wife who was a member of the Bjornsten clan. The woman’s brother, Eskil Leifson, was a burly young warrior who still believed he was invincible and had tried to challenge Karl to a duel. When Karl refused, out of cowardice or a desire on his clan’s part to limit the violence, Eskil had with the help of some friends burned down a Kalskev warehouse. According to Knut’s Law the full value of the warehouse must be repaid, because such an action was an unacceptable form of revenge. However, none had tried to refute the claims against Karl and he was then subject to the justice of the Hrokr. But both Karl and Eskil both claimed that honor demanded a duel between the two of them. Karl’s motive was clearly to escape certain death at the hands of the Hrokr, but Eskil could not be dissuaded from thoughts of revenge. Once their decision had been made, Knut personally drew a circle ten paces in diameter with a law spear. This would be the boundary for the duel. Both men were given sword and shield and prepared to fight.

Eskil went on the offensive at once and tried to use his strength to crush Karl under heavy blows. Karl fought defensively, avoiding the attacks and feigning exhaustion. It was only a matter of time before Eskil left an opening and Karl’s blade tore his throat out. A wail rose up from his side of the crowd and he staggered back, trying to mouth words as blood spurted from his neck. Before his body had even hit the ground three Hrokr began walking toward the victor. Karl’s triumphant grin was cut short as two of the men forced him to the ground and the other carried a battle axe. He cried out that he was absolved by trial of combat and that he had clan rights. But the justice of the Hrokr is inescapable.

Knut had long since stopped feeling emotion at these executions. Eskil had made his choice and scum like Karl could not be permitted to live. But the chief in him lamented the loss of two warriors for the war to come. This would be nothing compared to the storm he had foreseen.