The Old Road, Poertia

Through the knifing rocks that clung the mountainside, behind juniper trees with trunks twisted and stretched as if they had had been shaped by giants, Omid could see the far off flickering light of ancient Sarnath. That was their destination. He had his brother had begun their journey a week ago, when they left their valley home at Tikikra to reach the heart of the kingdom in time for Sacrificial Games. The thought of competing against the best men in the kingdom made Omid feel completely alive. He was a not a wealthy man, this was true. Neither he nor his brother could afford the equipment, or the training, that the wealthier competitors would have, but he felt that they could make up for what they lacked with simple manliness. What would heavy armor, or a new sword, or the teachings of a southern master compare to the balls that Omid's family were blessed with?

Omid rode on top of a surefooted mountain pony. He wore a tawdry copper breastplate. Instead of a helmet, he had woolen scarf wrapped around his head. From a holster on his saddle hung a simple wooden spear, which he would wield in place of a proper lance. His brother Kuleb walked beside him, wearing leather armor and an iron cone helm. He had an iron axe strapped to his back, with a head that looked as black as pitch in the dark.

"The city looks like a fire in the heavens." Kuleb rumbled. His voice was a deep, monotone growl filtered through a wiry black beard, but Omid could hear the awe in his brother's words.

"Sarnath is no great city." Omid said. An angry wind blew cold around the mountain peaks and whistled through the rocks. It joined a chorus of locusts and the distant chirp of a night swallow. "It is the entrance to a great fortress of the Jinn." he said. "The town around it is very small." Kuleb had always been slow, and correcting him made Omid feel like a wise teacher.

"It does not look like a small place." Kuleb said. He was breathing heavy now. The road - little more than a wide dirt path zigzagging across the side of the mountains - would flatten for a distance before finding a place where it could climb. Where the road grew steep, Kuleb would slow down. He was a strong man, this was true. But he was a strong man with short legs.

"People are arriving for the Games." Omid said. "They will be camping in every corner they can find now. For this week, the town will be a city."

They passed a place where another group had camped. The ashes of a campfire sat cold and damp in a crevice in the mountain side. Wild onions grew in a patch of pale-green mountain grass, and it looked like a few had been plucked.

"Lucky for us." Omid said, pointing at the plants. "Brother, fetch us some onions so we can eat under the stars."

"I would ask you to fetch the onions." Kuleb groaned.

"Then you would steal my mount." Omid joked. "If we face your demons on this road, I would not face them on an empty stomach."

"I do not think that onions will help you against a Kizzeh." Kuleb retorted. He had ambled dutifully to the onions and picked a few.

"They will flee from the farts that the onions will give you, brother." Omid chuckled and shifted in his saddle. He was quite pleased with himself. "Deliver me an onion so I can fart as well."

When they had joined the Old Road as it began to climb into the mountains, Kuleb had began to obsess about the Kizzeh. It was a story that old women told, Omid knew. It was said that the Gul kings who called themselves "Vampires" once turned a child into a Gul. The infant remained an infant forever, but it was a hungry beast and hunted on the roads near Sarnath. A person would be traveling alone on the road at night, and then they would hear a baby cry in the bushes. If they went to investigate, it would leap out and eat them.

It was a silly story. And what was the lesson? Do not help babies? This was the foolish thoughts of an old lady scared of the world. Omid took a small onion and popped it into his mouth. It tasted like good soil, with a hint of tangy sweetness.

"Do not put the onions in the sack with the pomegranates, good brother." Omid said.

Kuleb looked at him confused. "Why?" he asked.

"Those are for the sacrifice. How would it look of our sacrifice was soiled with onion?"

"What do I do with them?" Kuleb asked.

Omid shrugged. "Toss them to the side of the road. We are men. We can find more food when we need it."

They traveled in silence for a time. Omid watched a crescent moon peaking behind the distant shadows of stony mountains, and dreamed about the days to come. There would be wrestling, and boxing, and feats of strength. Omid had traveled to a Sacrificial Game once when he was fourteen, and he remembered seeing a burly mountain dweller lift a pony over his head. There would also be racing, and the pony polo of the desert tribes. And there would be mounted archery. Omid had forgotten his bow at home, but he hoped to buy a new one in Sarnath. It would not take long to get comfortable with it, and he couldn't help but relish the glory that would come from winning a game with an unfamiliar bow. There would also be the lighter competitions, for those who did not fair well in martial challenges. There would be beef eating contests, and contests for dancing. And their would be contests where old men dress up their daughters and have them judged on who is the most beautiful.

And after all of that, there would be celebrations. Many mule-trains had climbed this road laden with food from all over the known world. If that was not enough, there would be just as much drink, khat, and opium poppy to dull the pains of the day's competition. And there would be an endless sea of glory-drunk maidens and copper-to-come whores looking to make a fortune one tent at a time. It would be all of this for an entire week. This was all the reason he needed to accept the rule of the dark Gul-Shapur, and their unnatural hunger that made this celebration possible.

The Sacrificial Games had been named as such for a reason. Warriors who had taken captives in battle kept them imprisoned until the next solstice, when the Games were declared and the captives were all brought to the Gul castle at Sarnath. Those human sacrifices would be slaughtered in a ceremony on the steps of the castle and brought inside to be butchered and prepared like animals. That was the cost the people of Poertia payed for the favor of their dark Gods.

There were still those that spoke ill of the Gul Shapur and their dynasty of Vampire Kings. In the early days, battles were fought between those that supported the Gul Shapur and those who opposed them, and they had always ended with the enemies of Vampires being brought to the castle as sacrifices. Those who supported the Gul Shapur were given land, and power, and their descendents learned how to become rich off of the spoils earned from raiding neighboring kingdoms. The Gul Shapur required no tribute but captives, after all. Everything else could be kept by the raiders.

Omid had never went on a raid before, but he had always wanted to. His father had required his boys to stay home, however. The clans of Tikikra had a way of always feuding with one another, and both Omid and his brother had learned how to fight by dueling their neighbors. Omid had once taken a child captive from a neighboring clan, but his father had insisted he accept a ransom instead of taking her to sacrifice. "Bring her to the vampires and there will be more blood." his father had complained. "If they take your sister as a hostage instead, and feed her to the Gul Shapur, what would you do then?"

"It could not happen." Omid mouthed to himself. His father's cowardice had kept him from the glory of delivering a real sacrifice to the Gul Shapur. It was a shameful blot on their families honor.

"It is cold tonight." Kuleb whined. "We should have stopped for the night."

"The later we arrive, the more we miss." Omid replied. "When we get there, we can sleep. And maybe find women to warm us."

There was a brief silence. "That would be good." he agreed. "How far do we have to go yet?"

"A few more hours." Omid replied. It would likely be more than that, he knew, but Kuleb did not need specifics. He decided to change the subject. "It is near midnight. They will be finishing their sacrifices just now and moving on to the grand ball."

"That is fine." Kuleb grunted. "But we cannot go to the grand ball, and we have no sacrifices but pomegranates."

"Pomegranates bleed red like men, and there will be another sort of ball in the tents."

"Is it true that the Gul turn into vultures in the night and steal dead from the cemeteries?" Kuleb asked. "It seems like it would be easy to kill a vulture, even if it is also a Gul.

"I doubt it. That sounds like a foolish tale..."

"...for old women." Kuleb answered. "You cannot just believe in nothing but what you see, brother. If that was true, we would have to doubt the sea."

"And why is that?" Omid asked, annoyed. He did not like it when his brother played as if he knew something Omid did not.

"Because we have not seen it." Kuleb replied. "So we could not believe it."

"I have seen the sea. In my dreams." Omid's voice grew wistful as he looked out across the land. From here, they could see across a small river valley. Low mountains danced around the edges, and in the distant fog of night taller mountains will snow-capped peaks loomed over everything. The greatest of them was Shagrat, the home of the fire god, were the dull red glow of the mountain hung like a dying torch among the stars.

Kuleb said nothing, and the world went silent again. Omid marveled at the silence now. The sound of insects had died to a distant hum hundreds of feet below them, and the whisper of night-swallows had completely disappeared. All there was now was the sound Omid's pony, the subtle footfalls of Kuleb, and a mean wind blowing across the tumbled rocks and through struggling trees.

They came across an opening where the disembodied head of an old statue rested in a field of gravel. Where the body had went nobody could answer, but the head was accounted for. Its sharper features had been worn down, nose and ears rounded to nubs, the details of its beard flattened so that it looks like it had a bulbous second chin. Its crown looked like a puffy dumpling sitting on top of its head, all decorations gone with the wind. Its eyes were blank and hollow.

"Shapur's Head" Omid exclaimed. "That is the old king. Be sure to rub his head for luck." Kuleb did just that, petting the statue's nose as if it were a dog.

Shapur had been a foreigner from a land so far away that it had long been forgotten. His Empire had stretched across most the globe, and its western-most reaches had been the mountains of Poertia. Before him, Omid's people had ruled this land. Now it was the decedents of Shapur - the Gul Shapur dynasty - that ruled this place.

"We do not have long now." Omid promised. "This was the place where Shapur camped when he laid siege to the Jinn at Sarnath."

"This is good news, brother." Kuleb accepted.

They could see the light of Sarnath peaking over a rise in the road like the arrival of the morning sun. Omid held his breath. It was here that the parapets of the ancient stronghold would start to become apparent. Though a town had grown around it, Sarnath had originally been smaller patch-, and an entryway into the underground empire that had ruled so much of the world in those days. Its people were said to have been demons, with powers much worse that what the Gul Shapur wielded.

When they came to the top of the rise and saw Sarnath in the distance, Omid couldn't help but smile. It was still far away, but he could see towers etched into the mountainside so that they looked impossibly tall. It was as if they had turned the entire mountain into a fully functional castle, or at least the front of it. Behind the parapets of Sarnath, Omid knew, lay solid rock.

"It still looks far away, brother." Kuleb complained.

Omid frowned. "Do not fret like an old woman, my brother. We walk."

Songs played through Omid's head so that he hardly noticed the stillness of the night. He remembered tales of Shapur fielding a line of pikemen so long that the horses of his enemy's outriders collapsed and died under them from exhaustion when they tried to find his flank. There were stories of how he began his wars as an infant, a seer interpreting his babbles and burps into battle commands so that he could conquer the clans that opposed him. It was hard to imagine the Empire that he had built, especially since so much of it was lost to them now.

There were other songs playing in Omid's head as well. Stories about the times before Shapur's conquest. They were about great warriors outsmarting wily Jinn who tried to trick travelers to their deaths. There were stories of men fighting Weregoats, or men fighting birds so large their wingspans blocked out the light. And of course, there were those old stories of men fighting Guls.

"Brother" Omid heard Kuleb speak up. He sounded nervous. "Brother, there are eyes up there."

"Eyes?" Omid said. "Probably a lion." Omid wanted to sit back in his saddle and dream of glory. This was not the first time his brother's superstition had interrupted him.

"Look." Kuleb's voice shook. "It is up there."

Omid squinted and inspected the hillside, but all he saw was rocks and blackness. But he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Was there something amiss here? He kept looking, and looking, until all at once he saw it. Two glowing pink orbs. He would have mistaken them for stars if they had not blinked.

He heard Kuleb whisper. "Kizzeh." That annoyed him. Was his brother so easily unmanned that he felt threatened by a wild animal? Omid reached down and unbuckled his spear from its holster. "Kuleb, you old woman. It is a lion I am sure. Prepare your axe."

Something in the immediacy of Omid's voice seemed to startle his pony, and it began to kick and whine so that he could hardly keep it in his control. He pulled on the reigns and tried to steady his animal, but a bloody shout made him look up at his brother. That is when he saw it, and horror washed over him until he felt numb.

The eyes had been hundreds of feet away before, perched on a nearby hill. That had been half a moment ago. Now they were in the treeline less then ten feet from them.

Kuleb had his axe in his hand. "Beast! Kizzeh!" he roared, and Omid knew that he was trying to bring his blood to boil for the fight ahead. A gurgling hiss replied from the trees, as sick and pained as the last rasp of a man who's throat had just been slit. Before Kuleb could respond with another bellow, the creature was on him. Omid's horse backed away from the battle, and its rider had no desire to disagree.

The fight between Kuleb and the creature was over almost as soon as it began. Omid saw it as a white blur, with cloudy pink eyes glowing in the dark so bright that they cast a dull ruddy light on Kuleb's face. Kuleb swung, and missed. The creature hopped on top of him and brought him down. The last Omid heard of his brother was his desperate dying screams, and the wet sound of his gut being ripped open by evil claws. The screams grew wetter, and more unnatural as the beast continued to destroy him, but it was when the screaming ended that Omid felt the sickest. That was when he heard the monster swallow.

"He is eating my brother!"

Omid yelped and kicked his horse, The creature took off in the direction of the castle. Tears streamed down his face as he through of his brother's horrific end, and of how these stories ended. A great hero was needed, and Omid was just a farmer's boy.

His pony rode at its top speed, but the wet hiss of the monster continued to follow. Omid looked back to see if it was coming after him, and when he saw it his mind began to slip. It was not running, but rather hopping like a possessed toad. Every time it hopped, it seemed to clear ten feet.

"Help." Omid mouthed to no one. He could do nothing else. His survival depended on his pony now. For miles, the chase seemed to continue at the same pace it had started. It was only when the creature seemed to fall behind that Omid realized he had dropped his spear.

Lanark
Uwan Isles Republic

Lanark Harbor was one of the busiest ports in the world. Situated on the island of Uwan, the Big Island as everyone called it, the wide expanse of water was a perfect natural harbor that had good sailing winds blowing through it year round. Hundreds of ships of all kind came and went through its waters every day. Even now, as a fishing schooner set sail for the shallower waters around the Uwan Isles, a massive trade galley with a crew of five hundred men were departing for Svargiya. The docks served as almost a strange melting pot of global languages, religions, and cultures that all intermingled together by the ships. A man of Vös could be involved in a high-stakes dice game with a Bandara and a Satyr. While most crews came from the same nation, plety were comprised of hodgepodge crews from every race, region, or walk of life. The waters were the great connector, regardless of where you were from.

Jock Munrue watched the bustling docks from afar. He sat on the balcony outside his office at midday and watched the comings and goings of the port while he ate a plain meal of fruit, cheese, and some cured pork his wife had given him that morning. This was his usual routine. He would eat and pine to be down there among the men of the sea. There was nowhere else he would rather be, save maybe out in open waters with his hand on the rudder of his own ship.

This job was only temporary, Jock's wife had reminded him. He had but a year until the Quorum would meet again and pick the three new Sealords. There was talk among his friends and allies that he should stand for a second two-year term. It was well within his constitutional right, but it nearly twenty years since any man had served as First Sealord for two terms. Reelection would be a tall task, and he wasn't sure he even wanted it. Jock found the job a chore. Things always seemed to get bogged down intp arguments about semantics. Both Cinead and Wallis were adept in arguing semantics because they were men who had never truly been at sea. They had never commanded their own boat in the middle of a raging storm. Semantics mattered very little when a thirty foot breaker was racing towards your starboard bow.

Jock finished off his apple and tossed the core off the balcony towards the water. He brushed his clothes free of any crumbs and headed back into his office to continue the tasks of the day.

---

"It doesn't have any precedent."

"But, in a time of emergency we can do it?"

Iomhar Cinead looked at the old man with an arched eyebrow. Chief Steaphan Raibeart leaned back in his seat and thought hard over what was being asked. As Chief any questions of constitutionality fell to him. This was why Iomhar wanted to pick the man's brain before seriously committing to his plan. Plus, the Chief was known for his stoic disposition. There was no way word of his plan would get out if he talked to the old man first.

"The constitution stipulates that the Sealords have the power to call together the Quorum. Sealords of the past have interpreted it as the yearly meeting, never an emergency session. If you wanted to do it, it would constitute an executive action and you would need both Sealords to vote with you on it."

Iomhar nodded and let the angels play inside his head. Jock Munrue was an adequate First Sealord. He didn't do anything wrong, but he never really tried to do anything but business as usual. Times were changing though. In the north, Angoria continued its saber-rattling. Iomhar spent the better part of three weeks engaged in back channel talks with Rana Shivret, Angoria's ambassador to the Isles. The problem was that old man who whispered in the young king's ear about glory, treasure, and conquest.

Munrue was committed to diplomacy and goodwill ending the conflicts and controversies with Angoria. It was idealistic and foolish of him to think that. The young king wanted to make his name, and the only way to do that was to finally get rid of the Republican menace to the south. Iomhar would continue diplomacy, but the Republic needed to be ready for war. And while Jock Munrue was a capable First Sealord, he was not a wartime leader.

Iomhar was a wartime leader. He planned to take the reigns of his country and lead them to victory by any means necessary.

Manyaa-Samya

The sound of hooves ground down the road. A twisting and bending river of gravel and sand that wound among the hills and the rocks. Distant fields spanned into the distance, rushing to meet up against groves of trees. Golden shoots of wheat and sunset-colored fields of rye spanned out into the country, in the distance in the middle of the fields minuscule houses sat perched atop raised hills. Villages that stood sentinel to crops. The beige, reddened, and yellowing plaster walls of farm houses and the aged dark brown of thatched roofs visible if only barely beyond their rounded shapes and high-roof forms. Colorful banners streaked down from the tallest peaks, only just barely visible as swatches of paint against the clear blue canvas of the afternoon sky, suspended on invisible chords.

Country women gathered along the edge of a creek as the road wound to meet its side, washing clothes and bathing young children in the sparkling glassy waters as it rushed lazily along, washing over stones and rocks that dotted the river bed. Among the reeds elders sat in meditation, acknowledging the passerbys with only cursory glances.

Rising above the old men and the women by the river trotted a chocolate colored horse. Atop its back a man of heavy built, a long mail robe dropped from his shoulders and down to his ankles. The shifting of his mount as they clipped along over men, women, and old old satyr drew eyes to the soft song of the chains as they washed against each other, like a rhythmic pulse of rain in a metal basin. He looked down at them with curious an in-compassionate stare. Not hateful, but not warm. Merely looking the way an old soldier would see other around them, in a state of awareness and a cold duty to measure up others.

His helmet shone brightly, and shielded his blue eyes from the warm summer sun. A jet, almost a fountain of red-dyed horse hair plumed out and down from a brass spike in the center of his helmet, creating a royal plume of splitting and worn hairs.

“They look because they think you're royal.” the man's partner said alongside him. A short and lean built satyr, who drove alongside in a chariot trimmed with age blackened brass and wood deeply impregnated with laminate. The black horse that motored it nickered in contempt as the man's chocolate horse banked too close.

He was dressed by modest means. A leather hauberk strapped a muddied white robe to him that flowed down to his hoofed feet. A starch-white turban crowned his head, hiding his deep wiry black hair. The man did not seem to respond, but to the satyr's humor the suggestion spurred him with pride undue to him as he sat up straight in his saddle. Almost assuming – if perhaps subconsciously – the rule of royalty himself.

The satyr laughed dryly as they kept on, clearing passed where the villagers cleaned and washed their clothes. Entering on again into empty roads he spoke up: “If they were any better known people they may have taken offense to or arrested you for assuming a false rank.” he smiled coyly.

“And you would?” the man on the horse asked, turning his head to him, “You are a prince after all, so take my head here now if I insulted you.” he chided.

The satyr prince shook his head, chuckling to himself, “I don't think so.” he smiled, scratching the thin mustache that grew atop his lip. He was not an old man, but he wasn't young neither.

No response was returned as the slipped down the road, passing a bridge over the creek before moving deeper into the countryside. Great fields opened up, thick with wild grass and trees spread over long rising hills. Neither of them spoke as they traveled along until over the distance rose a towering statue, tilted and covered in vines, beards flocked around the face of the ancient Visha lord as its great mountainous base sunk into the earth at its feet.

Its long stone beard was pocked with stains of time, slowly eroding and smoothing from rain water and the wind. In places, even small plants had taken roots in the cracks where mortar and concrete had given way, from here long vines dropped down. The eyes of the statue were dropped closed, and the signature third eye hidden by a pointed helmet. In one hand it held a long scimitar, minuscule bird nests clumped together forming globs of dark stringy matter where the fingers grasped the sword's hilt. The other was raised, palm open, showing the still vibrant cross of the four points of reincarnation in his hand; affirming that where ever one would go after death, he'd be there to hunt them.

And dressing his body and building it like a column were his robes, clad over in plates of armor and winding mail chain.

The human traveler looked up at it, his face full of a deep curiosity in the centuries old monument to a bygone era. His companion saw it. “Over where that statue stands there was uncovered nearly a thousand bodies, hacked and torn to pieces before being thrown into a pit at its base.”

He looked down at him. Stricken with surprise. “There was a village of men here once,” the princely satyr began calmly, “they tried to rebel against their masters. Assuming they may liberate their homes from their watchful gaze. We don't know who they were or where they came from, for when the Underground Masters came forth to put it down they not only struck them from existence, they also struck out their homes and smothered out their flames.

“They rounded up everyone in the province, man and woman, young and old. Human and non-human and sent them to this location. They gave them hammers and chisels with great piles of bricks the size of houses. And under whip and sword they were ordered to carve the image of the Vishput officer that repressed the revolt. They worked through rain and sun, night and day carving into the rocks and Visha artisans directed them with the enforcement of the soldiers.

“Those that died from exhaustion or by the guard's hands were gathered at its base in a pit. All those who perished who erected this statue were thrown into the grave.

“When they were done, they had erected a statue to remind anyone else who were eager to revolt just who would return to kill them all again. Those that survived the project and their brutality were removed to the underground and entered their stories into our people.” he finished.

“So it stands still.” the man nodded, “Though not for long.”

“Oh obviously.” the prince laughed dismissively, “The statue may have been built forever, but hardly the ground at its feet.”

“I've seen things similar around home, though I had never had them explained.”

“I've heard of them standing all over.” the prince nodded, “Some in better states than others. Some places having less than some, others more. I don't know if any have had the interest to exhume their bases as we have and to issue the remains we find their last rights as we believe they deserve. But they're certainly a phenomenon where ever we find them.”

“So how do you know so much?” inquired the rider.

“The Bhikkus at home in the palace taught us.” he nodded, “The priests had taken an interests in their mass grave markers. They've written down as many stories as they can about them. Extracted them from the oral stories. Some prolific ones even adventured between the furthest reaches of the kingdom or beyond to track down what they can in some spiritual journey in this world.”

“Why so?”

“To give the dead proper burials.” the prince sighed.

“So how do you know about this particular one?” his human companion pried.

“Simply because it's the smallest one.” laughed the prince, “Nakha Agkarah. One thousand twenty seven skulls extracted at its base. Whoever it is we don't know.

“Now, the largest is Nakha Samanaa, which hovers just outside of my home. Day or night you can see it throw its shadow down across the city. As tall as some mountains.

“Fifteen thousand skulls exhumed from its own base.” he boasted grimly.

“Why take an interest though?” asked the companion as he watched the grim grave marker march behind them, “They are dead, why dwell on their past so much?”

“Simple good karma.” he said with a sigh, “I don't stray into that as often as some said I should care. But it's an important thing to note for when life continues. And the Visha put them there for us to remember. If at the time to be afraid. But now there is no need to be afraid or feel fear. They are gone, but their legacy remains. They carved it in the mountains, stood it in the fields. They scorched and made barren entire lands. We can not help but remember, and we can't help but to try and do our service.

“To crush and burn the remains to release what's left of them and return them to the ground properly. It is what I hired you in for, but on a more dangerous level than digging at the feet of statues. A mortuary quest fitting of warriors and noblemen.”

“To dive into the underground.” the man nodded.

“First, we go home and meet the family, gather our own blood. Then seek out or guide before we dive into Samana.”

Bahutar Heavenly Palace, Kehlo, Angorian Kingdom

As the sun peeked over the horizon, the city of Kehlo had already awoken. The docks had been awake since the dying hours of the moon and the fishing boats were already long gone into the bay. They would not return for days. The Kehl river, which had been the life source to this town for last 300 years, was a bustle of activity as entire families crammed onto tiny boats floated lazily with the current, selling their wares or washing themselves in the rivers filthy water.

The buildings which composed of much of Kehlo were a simple affair, made up of mud bricks and the blood of slaves. Some of the more affluent sectors of the city had real mortar and concrete or reached two stories into the sky. But none was as tall as the Heavenly Palace. Built smack-dab in the middle of Kehlo, towering above the red tiles that covered the homes of the poor, was the residence of the Bahutar family and most importantly, the Narayang.

Despite it still being relatively early in the morning, the Narayang had been up and wide awake for over 3 hours. Being Narayang could be fun but it also had responsibilities that often seemed silly or pointless to the young leader. He had barely been out of his 20th year when the title and throne were dumped on him by his father, who had died of a stomach related illness just a year before. The stress was already taking its toll.

Shen Bahutar had once been a healthy young man with a full head of hair and bright future. When his father had died and was reincarnated into Shens body, the young Narayang was thrust into the world of palace politics, rules and religious ceremonies. His abdomen had been shaved and heavily tattooed with prayers and religious poems declaring his successful reincarnation. His head, once covered in a crown of curls, had been shaved to the scalp and tattooed with four dots at the highest point of his scalp. Even his face and groin had to be painfully waxed so no hair would grow. To the clergymen, hair on a Narayang was worse than murder.

The Narayang sat on his knees atop a comfortable cushion in his throne room. It was called the throne room but there was no throne. In fact, it was a relatively bare room, save for the lit braziers and candles that littered the floor. A raised dais that was in the centre of the room served as the stage which only the Narayang was allowed to sit on. Cushions lay in piles around his but he was only allowed to use one. Yet another silly rule.

Before him, his entourage sat on the steps or leaned against the pillars. In front of him stood a young Suktra man who spouted stories of creatures rising from the ancient city of Angor and pillaging villages deep within the Fengdai jungle. "Your Holiness, these creatures are dangerous! They are stealing children, massacring livestock and demolishing entire villages! Please, we need your assistance. We can't defend ourselves alone" begged the Suktra.

Before the Narayang could even open his mouth, Puya Bikram stepped out from the shadows of a pillar and spoke. "And why should we send troops away from the front line to stop things going bump in the night? These creatures you speak of are just rumour. There are many great beasts wandering the forests. It's probably just an elephant that went a bit mad and is killing your villagers. We've got bleedin' pirates and Republicans at our southern borders. They're what you should be scared of, not some fucking peasant-killing elephant" sneered Puya, scratching at a scar on his cheek. He bowed apologetically at the Narayang before stepping back into the shadow of the pillar.

Puya was fast approaching his 70th year yet he was as limbre as he'd ever been. The scars of war and old age hadn't stopped him from taking an active role in the Narayangs life. He seemed to fear the Republican Islanders to the south more than anything and according to him, every issue could be fixed if they launched an invasion on the islands. He was influential and despite his rather mad old personality, clever. Like every soldier in the land, he wore the thigh-low maroon tunic, beige trousers and boots. But unlike every other soldier in the land, he did not wear a turban. His head was instead covered in thinning, grey hair and his face was covered in stubble.

Shen glanced to his mother, who was perched on a stool below him. She was still wrapped in the robes of mourning and the bottom half of her wrinkled face was covered. She shook her head at the Puya

"Puya, our troops are not all required on the southern borders. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost think you were looking for a war with the Republic" said Shen dryly, shifting in his cushion. Muffled laughter echoed across the court as Puya stepped out from the pillar once again and bowed apologetically. "I mean nothing by it, your Holiness. I just think we should not be so rash to believe the ghost stories of our subjects" he said, his eyes fixed on the mosaic-tiled floor.

The Narayang seemed to consider this for a moment before making a decision. "Move a few units from the eastern border into the interior of Fengdai. Set up a fort near the problem. Get it done in conjunction with this man, Puya Bikram" announced Shen. "Very good, Your Holiness" said Puya, bowing. The Suktra who had brought the problem to court dropped to his knees and thanked the Narayang with a prayer.

Shen glanced impatiently at Wu Ganesh, the clergyman wrapped in white to his left. "Is that all problems today, Wu?" he asked. "Yes, Your Holiness" murmured the priest, bowing and wringing his hands. Wu had always been a nervous and jumpy man but he was likable - for a clergyman. The Clergy demanded all its members dress simply - bare foot and wrapped in a simple woolen robe. As Wu was the court representative, he was given some leniency. He allowed his dark hair to grow to an acceptable length and occasionally wore sandals. Even the peach fuzz on his top lip was supposedly forbidden.

"Shen Bahutar, 12th Narayang of the Angorian Kingdom, God Reincarnate of Sriv Pak and the 11 men before him" exclaimed Wu, his voice cracking slightly. Every person in the room dropped to their knees and placed their foreheads to the ground. Shen stood and strode through a back door while murmured prayers bounced across the room. When the door shut behind him, it became a muffled chant. The Narayang of the Angorian Kingdom ran a hand through the stubble that he called hair and sighed.

Now he could get to the fun stuff.

Fort Ranit, Bashwar Peninsular, Southern Angorian Kingdom

"Well, Wanli, I told him to go fuck himself" smirked Injit. "No, you didn't, Injit. I bet you just said 'sorry, sir' and bowed" sneered Wanli, spitting on the ground as he said it. The pair of soldiers walked casually down the hill, following a beaten track through the jungle. Behind them, the place they had called home, the workplace and the dinner table for the last few seasons loomed - Fort Ranit. Ahead lay the tiny fishing village for which the fort was named and the vast, twinkling ocean that stood as a buffer zone between the Angorians and the Republicans.

The soldiers were uncomfortably warm in their itchy uniforms and looked to their time off with relish. Their heads were tightly wrapped in maroon turbans which matched the colour of the uniforms. A maroon red jacket that hung down to their thighs and split into tails on either side. At least the trousers were a light beige colour and their boots the colour of muck.

"Wanli, I think becoming a soldier was the best thing my master ever commanded me to do" grinned Injit, twirling his moustache. Injit had been of the slave class, the lowest of the low. Social mobility was discouraged in Angorian society but there were ways to achieve it. Fourteen years in the Narayang's Blood Army allowed you to retire with a full pension, a patch of land in Fengdai and, if you showed bravery in battle, a title. It proved highly popular with members of the slave and peasant classes for these very reasons.

"It's all right" shrugged Wanli, unconciously checking his belt for his weapon. All members of the Blood Army were trained to fight with the Angorian Camwar, a heavy iron sword with a curved end. Wanli had become rather attached to his and feared the punishment of losing it. "The ban from meeting with women is an annoyance, though" continued Wanli, confident his Camwar was still attached to his body. "Eh, I've had enough of women. They drive me mad. Ordering me to do this and that, you know?" replied Injit, hopping over a pile of mule dung.

"Yeah but a good woman can give you a bit more pleasure than your hand" grumbled Wanli, kicking at a stone. The jungle thicket had cleared by now, replaced with the dying stumps of the trees that had once stood there. The great jungles of Bashwar and Fengdai were becoming smaller yet more civilised by the year as more people moved out of the rich central regions and into these frontiers. The village of Ranit was barely a century old, having been founded by a group of freed slaves who wanted to get as far away from their masters as possible. They kept moving until they found the sea and from there, they stopped.

The villagers here lived simple lives, getting all their sustenance from the sea. There were perhaps one hundred people at most squatting in the small stone hovels they called home or in the small fleet of six fishing boats that pulled up maybe five fish a day. They had been relatively isolated until Fort Ranit was built on one of the hills overlooking the jungle and the village. Since then, soldiers were regularly sent to the village to patrol for pirates or collect taxes.

The soldiers more often than not spent the time flirting with local women or starting fights among themselves. Pirates rarely bother Ranit and that suited the villagers just fine. Injit yawned and stretched his arms as they walked into the tiny village. The homes were made of stone with some of the luckier families having a thatched roof. Most just placed logs over their heads and hoped for the best. "When I was a slave, I lived in better conditions than these" snorted Injit, stamping through the mud of the village centre.

Wanli hated Ranit - animals and children ran wild around the village, only occasionally checked by the adults who were lazy and demanding. The fleet of boats barely pulled in enough haul for everyone and some people went to sleep starving. At least the fort had food, alcohol and roofs. Injit stopped in the village green and looked did a full circle, lazily looking at every building and their inhabitants. "You know, I think, just like yesterday, there's fucking nothing here" groaned Injit. "We've got to guard here all day. Might as well get comfortable" replied Wanli, growing bored of Injits constant moaning.

With that, he perched himself on the edge of the well and took a long drink of water from the rotten bucket that hung loosely in the middle of it. "You know how I said becoming a soldier was the best thing I was ever commanded to do?" said Injit, taking a seat beside his friend.

"Yeah?"

"Well, I lied. This is one of the most boring thins I've ever done."

Kozhapur, Svargiya

It was midday in Kozhapur, the capital of the Great Kingdom of Svargiya, and the sunlight was beating down on the great city. It was nestled within a vale along the Vandali River where Svargiya's first ruler had finally found the promised lands of the bandara's legends. All throughout the city people were busy with this or that, whether it was haggling with merchants underneath their bright awnings or bathing and washing clothes in the waters of the Vadali or simply scurrying along the wide streets and narrow alleys between buildings. Even high above in the palace of the Maharana, built upon a hill near the centre of the city, the murmur of the city could be heard. Though the Maharana himself was too busy to pay it any mind.

The midday sun flowed into the Maharana's throne room through several tall windows along each of the walls, illuminating the luxurious carpets and pillars and arches decorated with intricate engravings and gilding. There were servants standing around the edges of the room, dressed in fine silks befitting the Maharana's servants while members of the court, likewise dressed in even finer clothes and jewelry, stood around, chatting with one another or partaking in food or drinks from the various servants. And at the head of the room the young Maharana Manoratha II sat, dressed in a sleeveless open jacket of the finest pink silk embroidered with golden designs and loose silken pants alongside a turban of light green trimmed with gold, and with one end of the wrap falling down to rest on his shoulder; in addition he was bedecked with jewelry of gold and silver that was engraved and fitted with precious stones. Though the 'throne' he sat on was hardly a throne at all; in truth it was a raised dais covered in pillows and cushions, the largest of which the Maharana rested on as he reclined sideways, propped up on one elbow with an ivory and gold cup of wine in the other hand.

Manoratha took a sip from his cup as he continued to pay rapt attention to the two men before him, who had come to him to resolve a dispute between the Sapheda Rana and Pila Rana. Though in truth he was simply feigned attention, as his thoughts were actually more focused on whether or not he had left the doors to his balcony open again and how he hoped that a bird wouldn't get in again before a servant saw and closed them if he had. And none could truly blame him; the two men that the Ranas had chosen to argue their cases to Manoratha had been arguing their case to him for over an hour. At least it had started that way; by this point the two men were simply arguing among each other as the Maharana and some of those present pretended to actually pay attention. Most didn't even give them that courtesy and were talking amongst themselves, and in one case leaning against a pillar and taking a nap.

And it wasn't as though Manoratha needed to pay attention by this point, the two men had been arguing the same points since they'd first began to speak. In all honesty, Manoratha was surprised that two men could argue for so long and say so little. Apparently a man from the Pila Ran had been exploring the countryside when he stumbled upon a cave which contained several veins of gold. When he brought this to the attention of the Pila Rana, he was more than happy to charter a new settlement and name the lucky individual as Thakura. Unfortunately, not long after officials from the Sapheda Ran arrived in the settlement and demanded to know what they were doing on the Sapheda Rana's land. The Pila Rana and Sapheda Rana were unable to come to an agreement themselves, the Pila Rana believing he had rights to the settlement and mine as it was his people who discovered the gold and founded the village. Meanwhile the Sapheda Rana claimed that the land was rightfully his, and thus the village and mine belonged to him. And to make the situation more complicated, the village itself was built nearby a ruined Vishput statue. A statue that had been used as a marker for the borders between the Sapheda and Pila Rans; the mine was indisputably on the Sapheda Rana's territory, but the village was actually half in the Sapheda Ran and half in the Pila Ran.

Manoratha may have been impressed by the men's ability to talk for so long and say so little, but he had grown bored. He had planned to allow the men to say what they wanted to say, and then render judgement. But he wouldn't be surprised if he retired for the day and came back tomorrow to find them still arguing the same exact points. So he waited several minutes for a lull in the argument, without avail. Manoratha sighed, shaking his head in irritation before taking another sip of his wine, only to find it gone. A servant holding a jug of it started to come forward, but he held up a hand to stop her and she bowed her head respectfully and returned to her place.

"I believe I have heard enough," Manoratha finally said, interrupting the arguing men who quickly stopped speaking before bowing respectfully, "And I will make my decision."

And then he said nothing. Instead, he called the servant with the wine over, deadpan as he stared at the men before him while the girl poured more wine into his cup. "Thank you," he said, looking up at the girl for a quick moment before looking back to the men. Then he very slowly drank the wine from his cup, deliberately staring at the men as he did so. Once he was finished, he set the cup on the ground and the men looked expectantly at him until he called over another servant. This one was carrying a handkerchief, which he offered to Manoratha. He took it from the servant, then blew his nose into it. And he blew his nose very thoroughly, taking the time to make sure his nose was a clear as it could be before handing it back to the servant with a thanks, who then took it to a small basin of water to clean it. And still Manoratha said nothing, and instead looked at the men before him with a deadpan expression.

"Your Highness-," one of them began, before Manoratha raised his hand to silence him.

"You wasted my time with your inane bickering, so I feel it is fair if I waste some of yours," Manoratha replied simply.

"Inane?!" the other nearly sputtered, "This is a serious matter your Highness."

"I agree, territorial disputes can lead to war if left to fester," Manoratha agreed, nodding his head, "But both of you argued with one another, saying the same things over and over again. I could have ended this over an hour ago, as that was the last time either of you actually said anything new. But I wanted to be polite. I wish you had thought to do the same."

Both of the men remained silent at that, though some of the others present snickered. Manoratha paid them no mind, though he did look to the two men directly in front of him. "So you have nothing to say now?" he asked, and when the men still were silent he smiled, "Good. Now, since I have other matters that need attending I will be brief."

"The village is in both the Sapheda and Pila Rans, so it would not be fair to give it solely to one or the other. Instead the village will be divided in two, one under the jurisdiction of the Pila Rana, the other the Sapheda Rana. Those in the village may choose which side they wish to live on, and should the Thakura decide to settle on the Sapheda Rana's side he will keep his title," Manoratha said, "And as for the mine, it is indisputably on the Sapheda Rana's land, so he may give ownership and allow whoever he desires to mine it."

"But there is no way he will allow my Rana's people to use the mine," the Pila Rana's representative protested, "And without the mine, there will be no village."

"Well I believe there is a village that is part of the Sapheda Ran right next door; they could always move there," Manoratha said with a shrug, "The mine is on the Sapheda Rana's land. I am even giving the Pila Rana the benefit of the doubt and assuming his chartering a village so close to a border marker was simple ignorance. I believe this is a fair resolution."

"Of course, your Highness," the Pila Rana's representative said, bowing to the Maharana. The other representative followed suit, though he couldn't hide the smile on his face. The pair left the throne room, one jubilant and the other angry, though the Maharana was just glad to be done with them.

But that, unfortunately, wasn't the end of the day. There were other petitions and the like he had to deal with, and despite it being his least favourite part of being Maharana it was still part of it nonetheless. "Who's next?"

Sarnath, Kingdom of Poertia

The horror of the entire thing had faded to a dull ache in his heart, drowned by sleeplessness and pain. He could hear the crackling flicker of torches, the sobs of those he was chained with, the throaty undertones of hundreds of evil chanters, and drums. Drums, drums, drums. They sounded like elephants stamping on his ear drums. Long, deep notes coming from drums as large as men, so that every sound they made struck at something deep and fearful in the root of him. It should have terrified him, but he was too far gone to be terrified now.

He regretted what he had done to get here. Two weeks had passed since news of the Poertian raid on a nearby village reached him and his neighbors, and he had been one of the fools coaxed into joining a militia to hunt them down. It was known that the Poertians would sacrifice their captives to the monsters that ruled their land, and the thought had chilled them. It was not for their own sakes they had set out to hunt their enemy, but for the sakes of the helpless women and children that would become feed for the beasts.

Perhaps it was noble that he sacrificed so much for his countrymen, but being shuffled along to his death made it so he hardly cared about what was noble. He wouldn't see his wife again, or live to see his sister be married and his parents grow old. The life he had been meant for was snuffed out. Now he was meat.

Behind him was an old man, who he had heard nothing from since they set out. In some ways, he was jealous of that old man, allowed to live out his life before suffering this sort of fate. In front of him was a girl. His sister's age, maybe fourteen or fifteen. For most of the journey, he could see nothing more of her than a disheveled mess of loose brown hair and the unwashed olive skin of her thin arms. For a time, he had hated her. She had sobbed through most of the journey. She may have been one of those he was captured trying to save, and that made him hate her more. What did she know of life, a thing she hadn't tasted yet? What was her life to his? When these thoughts flared into rage, he sometimes thought about killing her. He could bash her head in with a rock and end her miserable life right there on the cold mountain stones. When his mind went to that place, he felt guilty. He felt like he was becoming one of them.

Who was worse, the Guls in their monster's den, or the entire kingdom that chose to serve their will? He knew who he detested the most. He had never met the Guls before, but their servants...

The leader of the men that had roped them together was a rider dressed head to toe in armor. He wore a rounded steel helmet on his head with diamond-shape holes cut for the eyes. A curtain of chain mail hung from its fringes, covering the lower half of his face and coming to a rest on his shoulders. A coat of steel fishscale covered most of his body. Even his horse was armored, defended to the hooves by its own coat of mail. He was a wealthy Cataphracti, the captive knew. The rider could pay for his own armor and horse, and he rode into battle so fully armed and armored that few could stand against him. There was a lance holstered to his saddle, a sword sheathed on one side of his belt and a dagger on the other, and he had a short bow strapped across his back. Under the bow on his back was a round shield, a spiral of red blood drops painted across the polished steel.

The Gul's lapdog had his own servants, soldiers armed and armored well enough on their own. Some carried axes, and others swords. He knew on man carried a mace with a head designed to look like the head of a cobra. Some of them had cone helms, others simple skull caps, while others wore helmets that came to a bulbous peak, slumping forward like flaccid flesh. They held round shields, or shields in the shape of teardrops, and on them were painted colorful devices. Most were red balls, or drops, or spirals to symbolize blood. Some had more intricate images. One man had painted a kestrel on his shield, while another man's showed a pale woman with a swirling red strip of cloth concealing her nudity.

There had been some things that surprised the captive about his treatment on the road. They had not been beaten, or struck, or even underfed. When they had camped at night, the soldiers had left the women alone. It was only the rigors of the march itself, and the endpoint they knew they would arrive at, that gave them grief. The captive's shoes had fallen apart early on, and his bare feet were torn bloody by the rocky ground of Poertia's terrain. He was hardly alone in this. They had left a trail of blood-stained soil behind them to mark the way. There was no stopping to shit or piss either. They had been forced to do that in their trousers, and whole line smelled exactly like an overripe privy in the summer. The frightened girl in front of him had suffered her bowels turning to water, and thick crusty lines of liquid shit painted her dust-coated legs. That had made him hate her that much more at first, but it had became so much the norm that he soon stopped caring.

It was when they entered Sarnath that they became part of its ritual. That is when the chanting and the drums began, to play the funeral dirge for hundreds of sacrifices. They were shuffled through the camp, surrounded be a horrifying crowd that seemed to leer at them from the gloom. There were warriors dressed like the Cataphracti rider and his men, and there were some suited with poorer arms that reminded him of the people of his homeland. They wore leather, and copper, and had simpler weapons. Though they might have looked like his people, they were not. This ritual did not seem to offend them, and they watched the procession with the same solemn religiosity that seemed to fill the hearts of the Cataphracti and his men. That dark, evil religiosity that came from worshiping the Guls.

There were more than soldiers in the camp. He saw old men, and men who did not look like warriors. And there were even women, and children in their numbers. They filled a sea of tents and bedrolls that stretched across a barren, rocky countryside below the city of Sarnath.

He knew when they entered the city. That was when they passed beneath the crumbling stone remains of an old outer wall, who's broken towers held raging bonfires tended by more soldiers. Once inside, he saw the true city of Sarnath.

This was an ugly place of buildings made from piled stone or mud brick. Though so many worshiped these Gul kings, few wanted to live by them, and the simplicity of the town spoke of that. Still, it was something of a shock to see it so much in ruins. This was supposed to be their seat of power, he knew. Sure, it was common to see places like this in the mountains. Living so high above the fertile valleys that sat at the heart of the mountain realms meant a hard life. The only purpose to living here at all was that it was defensible. An army laying siege to a mountain stronghold would be taxed to maintain long supply lines while the people inside lived off their stores. Furthermore, Sarnath was an ancient stronghold of the Visha-jinn who ruled this land before the Gul's. It took somebody like Shapur to conquer it, and there were few people like that around anymore. But life was still hard. Crops did not grow well in the rough soil, limiting growth to small gardens fed by animal dung. The weather could be rough as well. The ground froze earlier and warmed up later in the high places of the world, and icy precipices could make even the simple act of gathering dung for a fire into a perilous task. And then there was that wind, whistling across the hills with not but a few patches of old junipers to stop it.

He had known since arriving that he was going to die here, but inside the walls he could think of nothing else. He was going to die. He was going to die. That was all that was left. He looked up at the fortress of Sarnath looming in front of him and sickening desperation filled his soul.

The ancient Visha-jinn fortress was carved into a massive jut of rock that served as the peak of the mountain that they had spent most of the last few days climbing. The way up the Old Road had been harsh. It had been a steep path, and every step had reminded them that they would not be coming back down. The worst part was when they passed a couple of old warriors making an onion soup over a campfire. The smell had brought back every memory of life that he had started to forget. He had cried then. Until now, that had been the only time that he had cried.

He felt tears well in his eyes again as he looked up at the fortress. Its tallest tower was nearly three hundred feet tall, carved into the living rock so that it ended where the mountain peaked. These were thick, rounded towers with smooth stone surfaces showing no sign of mason's work. In some places, the castle was little more than an impression sunken into the rock, while other places saw towers surrounded on three sides by open air. Thousands of small bas-relief depictions of the Visha who had lived here before. These carvings covered the towers and flattened walls of the castle, but the howling mountain wind had eaten away their details so that most were nothing more than round, featureless human shapes. The stood guard like old ghosts lost to time. There were places where the rock was still rough and unshaped except for arrow slits or small windows. Faint torch-light leaked out from these places so that they seemed to glow a fiery red, and the sight of the entire thing filled him with an immediate sense of dread. It was under these towers that he would die.

The drums grew louder as they approached the entrance to the great castle. They curved around a square well in the center of tower. The iron statue of a demonic looking baby stood cold and twisted in an indention in the stone. When they came to the dreaded steps of the Gul's castle, the captive gazed at a pair of statues even more grotesque then the monster-infant. These were vultures, wings outspread, with human faces on their breasts. They guarded the flanks of the steps, while a central gutter cut the stairs into two sections. The captive looked on in horror as he realized that the gutter was still flowing with blood so dark it was nearly black.

Mountain horns sounded just then, deep and low. He heard the girl in front of him yelp, and she began to sob.

Amongst the prisoners, the doomed wailed and screamed and begged. Their sounds were nearly drowned out by the drums, the horns, and the constant drone of the throaty song that the people of Sarnath sung. The captive watched as their Cataphracti captor dismounted and climbed to the top of the steps to join the Gul's.

In groups of three, they were unchained and brought up to the top of the stairs. From where the rest of them waited, the sacrifices were a distant blur. He could see the bright white armor of a Gul lord, and the glint of cold steel as he slaughtered each person one at a time. A river of blood flooded down the gutter.

When it was his turn, he was brought up the stairs with the young girl who had been chained in front of him and an older woman who had been in front of her. The climb was slow, and he felt his heart pounding with each step. He tried to think of a way to escape, but there was no way that he could see. The Gul's had their own guards bring them up the steps, men with golden armor and helms with emotionless faces for visors and golden vultures perched on top of them. If he tried to run, his death would be much worse.

Near the top of the steps, the blood did not stay confined to the gutter. Here, rivulets of trickled down the steps themselves, joining into larger streams at the top until eventually everything was covered in red. He saw them dragging a headless body to a stone outbuilding on the side of the great mountain castle. To be butchered like a pig, he knew. They would quarter the meat and prepare it to eat. He wondered if the Gul's themselves performed that grisly task, or if they had human servants for that as well. It was no matter. In a few minutes, he would suffer the same fate. He felt his knees go soft, and he began to fall, but a guardsman grabbed him by his arm and propped him up.

It was at that moment when he first saw a Gul. There was only one, he noticed, where the rest of them were lurking was hard to tell. This one was young, its hair still dark, though it had already went from black to a dark shade of grey. It had a short-cropped beard that lined its face, its cheeks and upper lip shaved clean. He could see the beginning of a dull-red coloring to its eyes, like a red glow beneath the dark cracks of cooling lava. And it was pale. So pale that its cheeks looked almost blue in the darkness, like a fresh corpse standing.

The Gul wore a white breastplate over a light coat of polished steel chain mail. A vulture featured proudly on the plate, wings outstretched so that the tips reached the openings for the Gul's arms. The armor was spattered with blood, as was the creatures pale-white face. A thick indigo cloak hung from his shoulders and dragged to the ground.

He saw the Cataphracti as well, who was now holding his helmet under his arm. He had the tan skin and wiry black hair that revealed him to be of the people who had lived in these lands since the days before Shapur. He had a beard that was neatly cut and oiled, and his eyes were a deep grey.

They took the old lady first. She did not cry, or beg, or moan, but he could see that her breathing had become shaky. He felt a strange sort of pride for her then, and he wanted so much to make sure that his death was a dignified one that his head rung with the thought. When the Gul grabbed her by the hair, she closed her eyes and began to mouth a prayer. He forced her to her knees and held a long, thin sickle in the air above his head. Blood dripped from its surface, and he could see that there were glyphs carved into the blade.

He did not watch as the Gul killed the old woman. He only knew it happened when he heard the sound of a blade cutting through flesh, and he knew it was done when the young girl in front of him broke down into hysterics. He did not want to watch that. Instead, he stared coldly at the Cataphracti.

The Gul was a monster acting out its curse, but the Cataphracti was different. He had captured them, and brought them here to be fed to the demons. He was a man, a man who's people were not very far removed from the captives, but he served the monsters anyway. And he didn't seem to feel even partly guilty about what he was doing.

The young girl had fallen on her knees in a fit. She was trying to plea for her life, but her voice broke down into a shrill, screaming stutter. The captive felt his heart wrench for her, and he hated himself for all the times he had dreamed of killing her. She was at an age when girls dreamt of their futures as fairy tales, where they would get married and have perfect little children in some perfect little hovel in the countryside. She did not deserve any of this. He could say, at least, that he had went to battle and earned his captivity by failing in the field. She was, in all the ways he could tell, innocent. A child.

For a moment, he saw a glimmer of hope for them all when the Gul lifted her gently by the hand instead of yanking her from the ground by her hair. He held his sickle above his head in a clinched fist, fresh blood from the old woman before still covering the blade. And then he dropped it.

"Mercy stays my hand!" The Gul shouted in a deep, booming voice. He spoke loud enough that the captive had no doubt the people below could here them. Everything went silent, save for the confused weeping of the frightened young girl. "I do not pronounce death where death is not supposed to go. I have seen this ones fate and I know that she will live."

That glimmer of hope shattered when he realized what was happening. They always saved one out of every group of sacrifices. He had always known that. He had spent many days after his captivity praying that he would be the one who was saved, but he had lost that one last hope when he heard the soldiers talking about it during the march. "They always take one, aye." one had told another. "And it is always a pretty one."

A guard led the uncertain young girl into the castle. She would get to live. But he watched the Gul pick up his sickle, and he knew his time had come

He felt his heart slow as he was led up to the trough that served as a sacrificial alter. The Gul grabbed him by the head and forced him down. His body went numb. The metallic smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils, and he looked down at the bottom of the trough to see coagulating heaps of blood pooling in the porous volcanic stone of the alter. There was something cold about this alter, a chill that he could feel on his face. This was the last thing he would see. The thought of death had made him nauseous. He considered vomiting, out of spite.

He felt the force of the sickle come down, but there was no pain. He saw his blood pouring into the trough below. That seemed strange. That was his?

A quick wave of malaise shot through his body, as if he had all become sick at once. His limbs went cold, and he became rapidly tired. The vision of his own blood faded, and in its place came nothingness.

deleted

Outskirts of Manyaa

The sky grew overcast as the travelers crested over the hills, bearing down across a landscape of farm-choked deltas. Large wooded orchards and acres of golden crops exploded outwards from a dabbling of small settlements, orbiting in a circuit around vast city-scape that lapsed and bellowed over the hills and across the river and stream channels that coursed towards the sea. The city of Manyaa, brooded over by a crimson palace and keep and grimly observed by a towering statue that reached for the sky.

“Welcome to my home.” the satyr prince smiled as his chariot rattled to a stop alongside where his companion stood, reigns of his horse wrapped firmly in his hands as he stood looking down at the metropolis nestled in the river's bosom. Stone walls of a deep crimson ran across the river delta. Guard towers stood sentry, red and white banners fluttering in the sea-born winds beyond the city and the hills and the country.

Five great hills stood at the city's edge, lorded over by separate citadels. The central palace, perched on an island, slept like a turtle in the cool river mud that washed its edges. Behind the battlements pillaring minarets and the spires of temples rose to the sky like a quiver of arrows. The forest of spires swam among an ocean of green gardens and courtyards between the rings and rows of houses and the narrow gridded streets below.

“It's an impressive city.” the man complimented, “I haven't seen a realm as magnificent.”

“My grandfather, Raja Hestanelada Radapana, was rather forward in the investment of the realm, so I've been told. He donated plenty of coin to any would-be guild, merchant, or craftsmen who came to court. On the conditions they remained in the area for the better part of two generations and when they adventures bore fruit they repay the coin.

“When Balanmala – my father – was crowned he stepped in quite a mud puddle that dirtied his impression of grandfather's initiatives. Only one in five of the guilds repaid their investment in kind, the others – just as successful – had withheld without oversight.”

“And they've paid still?” the man asked.

“Of course not.” the Radapanid prince sneered, “Still, seven of ten were corralled in paying back with interest. But the others haven't. He doesn't want to upset what his father has accomplished and destroy the city he managed to build over thirty years. So he's played along with them.”

“I take it your a numbers sort.” his human companion nodded.

“Of course.” the satyr smiled proudly, “I was sent to hire you for a reason.”

“What else do you know about the city?” the human adventurer quizzed as they passed down the low bank of a hill. Passing by groves of succulent, sweet oranges. The ripened fruits hung off the emerald boughs of the fruit trees like tiny suns. The smell of the road as they walked was sweet. The air tasted like fruit. And the path was awash with color.

“Not a whole lot.” the prince feebly admitted, “I haven't memorized everything about the city. Nor do I care too. I don't administrate Manyaa in the same way I'm being groomed to council any of my older brothers to rule it.

“I can tell you it's perhaps about half a day's walk from the coast if you travel casually.” he nodded confidently. He bowed low out of the way of a wayward orange branch as they continued the shallow climb down the dusty road. Moss and vine-covered stone walls flanking the way, guarding the rich orchards from the wayward traveler, at least in theory; in realities the holes in the wall were far too great to render the wall anything more than a suggestion.

“It's close enough that for sea-ward ships that it's a port merchants come to. The river is deep enough to permit many large vessels, and the water calm enough to shelter many.” he nodded in the distance, pointing out to the wide waterway that wrapped around the turtle-shell of a palace. The faint triangles of white sails were hazily visible on the horizon, “As you can tell.”

“I imagine I will not get the time to see the city.”

“Hardly not. We should have set up for our voyage by the time we arrive. We'll have the night to rest before we leave for Samana.”

“Why not meet there?”

“Because my brother set off about the same time I did to get another recruit, our guide. The presumption being he would be back with him by the time we arrive there, even if he left by boat.”

“Seems like a long discrepancy of time.” the mercenary admitted.

“It is when you're venturing into the mountains.”

Sarnath, Kingdom of Poertia

"That was bloody work." Sadaf said, helping Javid out of his armor.

Wrought iron lamps in the shapes of fruits and flowers hung from the pavilion poles, inside oil and incense burned to create a fragrant smoke and a dull yellow glow. The pavilion's cloth was a soft red velvet embellished with images of lions chasing gazelle across fields of lotus and papyrus.

"The Gods decide these things." Javid replied. Once the heavy fish-scale mail was pulled away, he was dressed to the neck in padded wool. During a summer on in the valleys, so much armor could get sweaty and uncomfortable, but it was a blessing in the mountains. Cold winds blew in from the north, and they raced across the higher places were there were fewer trees or cliffs to break them.

Sadaf was Javid's squire, and his bastard nephew. His father's spiritual quest kept him away from his natural son, so it had fell to Javid to teach his nephew the skills he would need to be a man of noble birth. Sadaf was fifteen, a young man with a wispy ghost of a mustache on his upper lift and a thick tangle of hair growing to his shoulders. He wore a pale blue tunic, and a leather jerkin that he seemed to think made him a warrior.

"I know." Sadaf replied. "I don't know how it could be any different, but its... its not like battle."

"Its a holy honor." Javid said. "But not a dignified one." Every warrior who brought sacrifices to the Gul Shapur harbored some doubts. His own he had dismissed long ago as the effect of his grandmothers blasphemies. She had held true to the Gods of old, and she tried to turn her kin against the Gul's. Demons. That is what she called them. As much as she tried, it never worked.

The Hurut of those days had been fickled nomads, more likely to bicker with each other over old grievances than to act in common cause. Even the Visha, the Jinn of the mountain caves, had failed to bring unity to these lands. It was Shapur and his Gulish children who gave them direction. They raided, conquered, and grew rich in the name of these new lords. Was it better to spill the blood of your brothers than to feed the blood of your enemies to the Gods? These were weak thoughts.

Still, part of him feared the Guls now. He was in their presence, and they had invited him to their ball. An honor bestowed because he had brought human sacrifices rather than the fruit, animal-meat, and coin that less successful men delivered.

He had secured his invitation in a raid that had been more fruitful than could be anticipated. The neighboring Tupavu people were not subject to the Gul Shapur, and their villages were always poorly defended, but they had grown used to raids. Javid had expected to catch maybe a few elderly or sick prisoners, but instead he had found them unprepared. A religious festival of their own had blunted their wits. When Javid and his men arrived, they found that entire families had been left behind by the few who received the news to flee.

That had not been all of it. A few neighboring villages had gotten it into their minds that heroics could save their fellows. They organized a ramshackle militia only to allow themselves to be caught in a night attack that Javid still felt proud of. It had been a pincer movement, sweeping in from two directions so that the Tupavu farmer-militia simple surrendered right there without a fight. Not one of his men had been lost, and they had been able to bring twenty prisoners to sacrifice to the Gul Shapur.

That had been how he bought his invitation. He put on a deep blue, patterned kaftan robe with roaring lions embroidered into the fringes. A polished wooden circlet sat on top of his head, and kept a curved steel dagger sheathed in his belt. "Can I join the festival tonight?" Sadaf asked respectfully.

Javid smiled. "Do not start any fights unless you can win them." he said. "I do not want to bring a dead boy home."

He left his Pavilion as the camps began their own version of the Grand Ball. Singing filled the air, joined by the sharp plucking sounds of setars as they played songs about war, and drinking, and heroes, and sex. As he walked, he passed by different smells. There were the succulent, juicy scents of goats and birds roasting over cookfires, and the ugly, acrid smell of men and women smoking hemp. Incense burned in some places, smelling like burning flowers. In other places the smell was the fires themselves, where men tossed damp green leaves into raging bonfires so that thick, black smoke filled the air.

He passed through the laughter, and the drunken storytelling as leisurely as a walk in the garden. He knew he was more comfortable here than he would be in the palace of the Gul's, and he drank in every moment. When he ran across two boys fighting with sticks, he jeered at them to land harder blows until one started to push the other back and they disappeared into the chaos of tents. At another place, he passed an old man passionately kissing a young woman on the neck. Her dress had been pulled down so that her breasts spilled out. The old man's face was buried in her skin, so that when Javid winked at her, he did not notice. She smiled slyly and watched him as he passed by.

Sooner than he would like, he was standing at the foot of the long stone stair case that led to the doors of Sarnath's great Vishput castle. There was still wet blood in the gutters, where it had ran down during the sacrifices. That had been a bloody business, he had to admit, but the glory that came from delivering so much to the Gul Shapur made up for the ugliness of the affair.

Torchfires burned brightly in the upper windows and slits of the great castle, and golden light poured from them into the night. Otherwise, the castle was strangely quiet. He knew that the Sacrificial Ball was already in full swing, and that once inside the sounds of the revelry would fill the room, but the mountain walls of the castle were so thick that it kept any sound from leaving its outer doors.

How effective that must be for the Guls. Their castle stood tall and ominous over the land surrounding it, and anything that happened inside its walls stayed inside. Two twisted Vultures guarded the stairs, hideous gorgon faces on their breasts. In the dark, with nothing but torchlight to reveal them, they looked evil. Where these doubts the product of pious old goats like his grandmother, and their bleatings about what went on in this castle?

He passed by the guards. Golden wings sprung upward from their golden helmets. Their visors were masks with tight lipped visages, cold and uncaring. They stood as still as statues, and wielded long golden halberds with blades shaped like a feathered wing. These men were impressively armed and armored, looking as beautiful as they were powerful, but Javid knew their weapons were impractical. It was the swords they wore at their hips that would truly decide a fight.

The stones of the halls were carved in ancient reliefs from the time of the Vishput. Three eyed men stood commanding and regal in otherworldly scenes of forgotten machines and towering landscapes. Visha art always seemed to convey a sense of enormity that the work of modern peoples of the world never reached. They had been gone for hundreds of years, but no King nor Raj had ever reached their immensity.

The thick-walled halls wormed through stone as if this were the entrance to a labyrinth. Javid wondered how many of the carved reliefs in the walls hid arrow slits or murder holes to harry an invader. This had been a fortress outpost in the days of the Jinn, to defend against the nomads of the northern deserts. War explained many of its designs.

When the labyrinth gate finally spilled him into the main hall, he was awestruck at what he saw. It was one open space, so immense that it could have swallowed a smaller mountain. The scanty village that clung to the rocky fields outside of the castle could have fit inside multiple times. The Sacrificial Ball was focused in the center, around a shallow pool of crystal-blue water. There were not near enough people to even start filling the halls however, so the crowd grew sparse further from the center. Only guards stood in the cold, dark edges.

The ceiling rose like a bell, for stories and stories until it reached into unseen blackness. Balconies and doorways opened as far up as Javid could see, telling of more rooms and halls than the Gul Shapur could possibly make use of. The walls were decorated with cold grey reliefs, who's details could only be made out at the lower levels. At the higher levels, the reliefs gave the walls a look of fractal intricacy.

At the far end of the hall, a the statue of a mighty Jinn rose tall and proud. It held a Falchion in one hand, and its other was raised in a meditative salute. Though a long stone beard still fell across its chest, most of the head had been removed. From down here it was hard to see, but he knew that the Gul Shapur kept one of their thrones in the ruined neck of the statue.

He began to descend down the expanding staircase, music and the long echo of one hundred conversations growing louder as he approached.

Along the Northern Border of Svargiya

The sun was a deep red and hung low in the sky when they finally came. It was on a rocky outcrop overlooking the twisted mountain path below. In truth, over time the path had become more of a road, at least over this stretch; four men on horseback abreast of it, though this was not recommended. Though the road was wide, on one side it still lead to a steep drop; if the tumble down didn't kill you, it was still almost certain one would end up with at least several broken bones.

But on this outcrop, hidden from any traveling the road below, were a group of Svargiyani, watching the road and waiting for their quarry. They numbered fifteen in all, mostly bandara but with several humans as well. Truthfully, most of them were simply hunters who had volunteered to travel on this mission; only a handful of them were truly warriors or soldiers. But that wouldn't matter when they ambushed their quarry along the road. They had the element of surprise, as they had greater knowledge of the lay of the land than those they were hunting and knew of shortcuts and tiny paths to quicken their journey and allow them to arrive in front of their prey despite it's head start. And they had the greater position; while possible to climb up to their position from the road, it would be an uphill battle to do so, and the rocks and boulders provided some measure of cover from any of their prey who might be carrying bows.

And because of all this their leader, Baladira, smiled. He was a bandara and one of the actual warriors among them, and a well off one at that. He was dressed in a coat of chainmail over top of layer of leather, though all this was hidden by a covering of thick silk with steel plates sewn over the shoulders, knees, and stomach. Added to this was a rounded steel helmet, with a long plume of horsehair dyed bright red and a veil of chainmail covering his face. And in all honesty, the armour was hot and Baladira's hair was matted to his skin with sweat. After all, the men had been sitting there for hours and his only solace from the heat was the occasional cool breeze, though the falling of the sun made it easier on him. His only comfort was the hunters he'd sent out to scout had confirmed that their prey was still traveling along this road, though they were traveling more slowly than he'd like. He didn't want them to end up deciding to camp for the night and ruin the ambush he and his men had planned.

Though those fears were allayed when the men heard noises from up the road. And not the typical calling of birds or rustling of leaves; it was the noise of conversation in a foreign tongue, the trotting of hooves, and the clanking of chains. The last noise in particular left a sour taste in his mouth. For as much as he'd been looking forward to the coming battle, if it could b called that, he'd been trying not to think about why it was even happening in the first place. A Svargiyani village had been raided by those savages from Poertia, and everyone in it had been either enslaved or killed while putting up a fight. Men and women and children and elders all taken to be brought to their city of hell to be sacrificed to the monsters they worshiped. And the village had been a new one, recently established, which was obvious from the fact that it had lacked a wall. Most settlements along the northern border had a wall of some kind, because those that didn't didn't last very long. But Baladira and his warriors and the hunters who volunteered were here to kill the savages and bring the captives back to safety. As the men drew closer Baladira drew his longbow, an exquisite weapon made of the finest wood, and nocked an arrow. After all, he didn't want the sound of his armour, muffled as it may be, to alert to men along the road. And as he did so, he could hear the rest of the men following suit. There was no need for him to shout orders, as they all knew the plan already. Follow Baladira's lead, and don't fire until he lets loose his first arrow.

And so they waited, not for very long however, as it was only a few minutes until their quarry came into view. And only a few minutes more until they were down below the Svargiyani ambush. The light was only just beginning to fade, so there was enough light for Baladira to get a good look at the men below. There were quite a few, definitely more men than Baladira had, but he had expected that. Most of them were armed with swords and axes and clubs, and carried shields painted in different designs that related to blood more often than not. But their leader wasn't difficult to pick out, since he was dressed head to toe in steel scale or chainmail and wore a helm not unlike Baladira's own; even the man's horse was dressed in a coat of steel links. While he was certain that eventually an arrow from one of the Svargiyani longbows would put a hole through him, he'd very much prefer to simply take him out first.

And so Baladira silently took aim before taking a deep breath, drawing the bow, and letting the arrow loose. And fortunately for Baladira, the arrow flew straight and true, embedding itself deep into the eye of the cataphract's horse. Even as the beast reared in pain and slipped on the rocky edge to send both horse and rider tumbling down below, the rest of the Svargiyani drew and let loose their own arrows. Most of them found their mark, the archers' aim honed by a lifetime of hunting and training, and the sheer suddenness of the attack combined with the immediate loss of their leader sent the savages into disarray. A great many were cut down before they even realized what was happening, and even once they realized it there was little they could. Those who had bows drew them and fired at Baladira's archers above, but only a handful found their mark. The rest began to try and charge up the hill, but it was rough going and they were quickly brought down by Baladira's men.

And before long, it was done. Most of Poertia's savages lie dead or dying, though a few had thrown down their weapons and surrendered. And Baladira was more than happy to take them prisoner; after all, once Baladira returned to the nearest settlement they'd all be executed anyway. Unfortunately they had no rope to bind the prisoners with, but Baladira simply had them bound with the chains they had used on their captives once they were free. And once they were free, the captives thanked him profusely. There were even a few thanking him in a tongue he didn't recognize, which Baladira quickly realized meant that that Svargiya hadn't been the raiders' first stop. But the captives were in a sorry state; it didn't appear as though they had been beaten, but those who weren't Svargiyani had no shoes and their feet were worn bloody and raw. But even the Svargiyani captives, who had been taken rather recently, reeked of urine and excrement.

Eventually Baladira excused himself from the grateful crowd, though the other men set about giving them food and drink, and a few did their best to bind the feet of those with torn and bloody soles. It wasn't long before Baladira heard a voice behind him, "Well, I have to say that went well. I bet you enjoyed yourself."

Baladira turned to find one of his own warriors standing there; though he was still wearing his helmet, he could tell from the voice that it was a human youth by the name of Jita. "It went well enough, but I didn't really enjoy myself," Baladira said with a shrug.

"Really? I thought you loved fighting," Jita replied, moving to stand beside Baladira, "Has something changed?"

Baladira laughed at that, putting his arm around Jita's shoulder, "Oh no, nothing's changed. I still love a good fight almost as much as I love a good fuck."

"But this," Baladira continued, his voice changing to a more somber tone as he gestured around him where the corpses of the savages lay and his men went about picking up any reusable arrows, "This was just a hunt and a slaughter."

Jita thought for a moment before replying. "Fair enough. You didn't even get to use your axe."

"True, true," Baladira said with a smile, "There's quite a difference between shooting a man with a bow and being there while you split his skull open. I find the axe far more satisfying, I must admit."

"Really? Even with the way you shoot?"

"Just because I shoot well doesn't mean I can't prefer to do my killing another way, you know."

"Baladira, there's shooting well and then there's shooting out a horse's eye like that."

Baladira chuckled at that, then bent over to whisper in Jita's ear, "Just between you and me, I didn't think that'd actually work."

"Then why even try it in the first place?"

"Well I figured that if it did work, it would be mighty impressive, no?"

Jita thought for a moment yet again, before shrugging. "I suppo-" he began, before he was interrupted by a shout and a cry for help from down below.

The two warriors looked at each other for a short moment, before making their way to the edge of the road. "Well what do you know," Jita said as the they looked down to see the cataphract, who was pinned to a tree by his horse, "I wonder why we didn't yell sooner."

"Maybe he was unconscious," Baladira said, as his men and the previous captives made their way over to the edge as well. Then Baladira watched as a rock sailed through the air, only to hit the tree a mere foot from the cataphract's head. Then another rock flew, this time hitting the man in the head, "And perhaps he will be again soon."

"Maybe," Jita replied as yet more rocks flew at the man, thrown by his previous captives, "So, should we stop them? You know, take him prisoner?"

"Nah, his legs are probably mangled underneath that horse. Back's probably broken too," Baladira replied, "Unless you want to carry him all the way back."

"Yeah, no thanks. I'm good."

"That's what I thought," Baladira chuckled, "Anyway, get back to work, you lazy ass."

"Hey, you're the one who indulged me," Jita replied, then gave Baladira a mock bow, "But as you wish, you Highness."

"Oh, don't call me that," Baladira said, waving it off.

"But why, oh mighty Prince Baladira putra Girisa," Jita said, the tone in his voice joking.

"You know why, Jita," Baladira said, rolling his eyes, "And wipe that grin off your face. I can't see it, but I know it's there."

"Nothing gets by you, wise Prince," Jita replied, to which Baladira shot him an annoyed look, "But, fair enough. I'll go help with, I don't know, something."

Sarnath, Kingdom of Poertia

Cold steel death flung over their heads, so close that Javid could hear the pan-pipe whistle of the blade's instrumental tubes as it passed near his ear. Its song played quietly compared to the sound of the echoing crowd under the endlessly tall ceiling of the old Vishaput castle and the beheaded statue that towered into the darkness.

The Nalayak was a weapon from ancient myth, one that the bravest and most skilled warriors of those days wielded against the demons and Jinn that they were known to fight. The Nalayak is a scythe-like blade, likened to a curve tooth with a sharpened edge on both the inner and the outer angle. The blade is attached to a chain long enough to equal the height of a petite woman, connecting it to the handle of the weapon. In this was it is similar to a morning star, though the chain on the Nalayak is much longer. The length of the handle allows a second hand to hold it steady as it swings, but the rigidity of a two handed grip is such a detriment to the movements needed to keep it swinging that the men who choose to wield the weapon have to learn how to swap between styles as required.

It was a ridiculous weapon. On the battlefield, it required so much space to use that a man had to leave the support of his countrymen and their formations in order to wield it in a fight. That meant danger to him, as his enemies could easily envelope him. The Nalayak also made it near impossible to effectively parry or defend against an attacker. The attention of the wielder was reserved for what he chose to wield, and he was limited in the ways he could react in a fight. It was frightening to observe, this was to be sure, but it gave its possessor no advantages to trade for its many faults.

It had another use though, one that had endured it in the estates and market places of Poertia. However useless it might be in battle, a practiced user could make the weapon look beautiful in its usage. It was favored by entertainers, who could use it so long as they had no enemy to fight. All they had to focus on was the arc of the blade and the continuing power of its geometric path as it swung through the air. These men were called the Nalayaka, and they were rarer than jugglers and fire-eaters. Brave men enjoyed standing near the Nalayaka as the performed their dangerous feats, showing that they feared death as little during peace as they did on the battlefield. This was why the Gul Shapur had hired five Nalayaka for their Sacrificial Ball, their mustaches oiled and pointed and their faces covered with ash so that they looked pale-gray. They stood on silent, swinging decoratively etched blades from their perches on top of stubby stone plinths. Many of the warriors chose to gather beneath the swinging Nalayaks to trade stories and brag about their own exploits.

"I do not mean to describe a legend." Javid's partner in conversation spoke. He was a Peacock Kshatra, one of the men who learned to fight at a Temple of the Peacocks. There were no temples like this in Poertia, and members of his sect rarely visited lands so far to the north, but this man had endeavored to make the journey.

"Neither fame nor praise is what I seek to find, as my Sect of the noble Peacock serve the humble importance of war so that peace can be found. Still, this is a story that is enjoyable to hear."

"And my ears want to hear them." Javid said.

The Peacock Kshatra nodded and smiled. He was an average looking man with thick mustachios crowning his lip. He wore robes covered in Peacock feathers, and a tightly-wrapped turban wound around his head. A single peacock feather rested in the folds of the turban. His arms were covered in bracelets, some were iron or steel or copper, while others looked silver and gold.

"And I am here to tell." the Peacock Kshatra smiled, not flinching as the Nalayak blade whistled over his head.

"In the southern lands, where the plains and the fields turn to fierce jungles full of wild and hateful things, There are strange and unnatural races that do not bend to the will of the good and godly world! You know this. All the world knows this! These are the places where a man can see stubby men with faces in their chests, and races of hideous women with feminine parts so wide and monstrous that a man can climb inside of one and rest in her womb. And there are lizards too, some as large as an elephant, with teeth so sharp that they make the blade of that whistling Nalayak look as rounded as a river pebble." He held a finger up for emphasis in spire of the blade. For a moment, Javid wondered if the foreigner would be foolish enough to raise his arm too far and lose it. The Nalayaka was skilled, but he was not perfect.

"And this is not touching the half of it all!" the Peacock Kshatra continued. "They say in the deep places, there are communities of plant and moss that think and do and act as if they were people! The jungles swallow places were small people with skin as orange as the fruit of the tree that bears that color as a name, and there are men who wed small horses and live with them as if they are like man and wife because they are so far from the civilized world that they have forgotten the excellence that is a soft and virtuous civilized woman!"

"These things are all true, or so I have been told before." Javid replied. "But this is not a story of you. Are you a historian that went accounting of these things?"

"I do not say as such!" The Peacock Kshatra bristled "And if we were not enjoying ourselves I would have taken offense and challenged you so I could test my honor against your armor! But we are happy here so we do not need to fight. It is true, I did not only see things but I also did things when I was in the deep jungles and marshes of the south. And I will tell you these things as I promised to do."

"On the coast there is a small fortress town called Vinrash, and it is ruled by a young and adventurous Rajput who is called Jali-Ali. Though it is barely but a village, the walls of Vinrash are a wonder and a glory to its people. Those walls are ten times the height of a man, and so thick that if three ox carts passed through the gatehouse at noon, the shadow of the wall above them would cover them all. That is not the end of the wonders that this wall presents. The outside of the wall is polished so fine and so smooth that, from a distance, it looks like the marbled floor of a great Raja's palace. When weather brings age to the thing, their workmen work diligently to smooth it over. This is how it is, and how I found it when I followed a call to the city for warriors willing to fight along side its brave Rajput, the youthful Jali-Ali."

"I marveled at the thing, and at how humble a town it protected, for half of the buildings inside of that impregnable shell were made from the bamboo and jungle teak that grow in the southern places, and the others were made out of mud brick and poor quality stone. It seemed like half of the people of the town were children, not old enough to fight or guard the walls that surrounded them. When I saw this, I feared what kind of enemy would make a people who were so poor spend so much on the powerful walls that they had built. But I am a warrior, and fear is my favorite wine, so I strutted to the palace and presented myself to the Rajput Jali-Ali."

The blade of the Nalayak disturbed them just then, crying through the air between them and cutting off the last few syllables that the Peacock Kshatra spoke. Javid understood what those lost syllables were, because he knew that there was only one Rajput in this story and that man was Jali-Ali. He let the Kshatra continue.

"Jali-Ali was a beautiful man I will say, because he was a young man who had just came of age, and being a man of noble blood and a man who practiced the warrior's art enough to have gained a warriors body, he was comely enough to look like the avatar of one of the many Gods of this world. Warriors from all far across the land arrived at his court and payed him tribute, and we all praised his nobility and handsomeness as he hosted us for a feast. When the food was cleared, he apologized that his palace did not have enough rooms for all the men who came to attend him, but just enough for the mercenaries of noble blood, so he offered us the comforts of his courtyard and by way of apology allowed us to sample the beautiful women that he had as servants for his household. We were impressed by how young the girls and women who attended us were, as only a few of them looked as if they had received the blood of womanhood, and they reminded us of the children that filled the streets of the village outside of the Rajput's manse. We slept well that night under the cosmos stary blanket, and we all woke the next morning, well fed and well bed, so he invited us to breakfast and explained why we had been brought to his presence."

"'I know that you have wondered at the walls, though you are all courteous enough not to ask about them, but I will tell you why they are there because they are important to the story.' This is when the noble Jali-Ali told us what we all wanted to hear. 'You see, when my grandfather ruled in this place, he decided that the old wood that grew in the dark jungles near our lands should be ours, because there was no true Prince on this earth who claimed that place. He knew that the old teak trees in that forest would have a beautiful wood and that he could sell it for a significant profit, so he encouraged the young men in the villages nearby, those who were second sons or third sons so they had no need to worry about the estates of their families and had the need to find a place in this world that was their own, to converge on the jungles and make their place as woodsmen. And so they did so, and it was as my grandfather had said, so he amassed a small amount of wealth and was contented'"

"'However'" the Peacock Kshatra pointed up into the air again, and Javid watched his arm nervously while the Nalayak still circled overhead. "'In those jungles there was a Raja who was neither a man nor a civilized being, for this was a Raja of all the apes of the deep jungles and woods, and though their language is vexing there are a few who can translate it and their translations have told us that the Raja of the Apefolk was Aha-Ah-Mah-Ah-Ah-Uh. He lived in the trunk of a great Baobob tree. His attendants were the small monkeys of the canopy and his Kshatra were the powerful red apes that were his own kin, and he wore a crown of fruits in place of the metal and gems that civilized people wear. When this Raja of the Great Apes was informed of the woodsmen and their labors, he saw it as an assault on his kingdom. But this Raja Aha-Ah-Mah-Ah-Ah-Uh was a wise old ape, and he said that his subjects should simply warn the woodsmen of their encroachment, and so that is what they did. When the woodsmen went out to fell the trees as was their labor, the apes and the monkeys threw volleys of fresh dung at them so they would have to flee or perform a function more suiting for the bottom of a latrine.'"

"'And so the Ape Raja decided that the matter was concluded. But my grandfather heard of this, and he thought of an plan. He ordered that his woodsmen wear robes that flowed down from their heads and covered their entire bodies, with nothing but two holes carved for eyes, so that no part of their bodies would be touched by the dung and they could continue their work with less fear. The woodsmen did this, and when the Apes saw that this was effective and their poop warnings meant nothing, they lamented.'"

"'But the Apish Raja was not a coward, as the Red Apes of the forest are known to defend their own and never cow, he decided that a more drastic path would be taken. He declared revenge for the attack on his land, and he ordered that the Ape Kshatra who serve him enter the villages and homes of people at night and steal away their children. So this is what they did. In the night, the Apes would sneak into the villages and focus all their wiles on taking away a single child, so that no matter what the people did they could not vex the apes. When they build walls, the apes showed that they could climb. When they posted sentries, the apes drew them away. Because of this the people saw no victory in sight, and my grandfather died vexed and uncertain.'"

"'My father was next in line, and it was he who answered with the great wall you all have seen. You see, my grandfather had amassed much wealth from the teak that had been gathered from the forest, and my father decided that this wealth would best be served in the defense of his lands, so he spent it to pay the wages of the masons and to ship strong red stone from the north. When it was finished, he requested his people bring their children to his new fortified capital here in Vinrash, and the people who feared for their children obliged him. When an ape was caught trying to climb the wall, my father ordered the outside of the walls smoothed, which is the condition you see it in now. Now it is the only place of all my lands that the apes do not touch. When my father died, he left this family burden to my work.'"

"It was then that we asked the noble young Jali-Ali 'Excellent Rajput, is the problem not fixed? Have the apes not been thwarted?' and he replied. 'A healer does not cure a fever by putting ice on a man's head, neither is a a struggle concluded when one effect of it is thwarted. The people who tended the land in my fathers time sent their children to live with me, and like my father they have grown old and began to pass to the next world. It would fall to their children to take up their plows and shepherd's staffs, but these children have grown up in the town, and they no nothing of the work that their families professed. Because they do not know to do their jobs, the crops fail. Woodaxes are wasted on the wrong trees, and the shepherds run when they see wolfs. I think that time will teach them, but if they follow the example of their parents and send the new generation of children they spawn to live in these walls, then all the knowledge they gain will be lost again. How can the works and arts of civilized man ever continue if the young cannot learn from their elders? We know this is a curse, and it is a curse that the apes still apply to us, for when a farmer in the countryside fails to send their children to me, the apes make off with them and the farmer is left to grieve.'"

"'But Rajput, you who are excellent, why do their parents not come to town to teach them these crafts, like letters are taught to scholars? What of the classroom?' and the Rajput said, "'Would I have them raise grain in the market place? Would I flood the houses with sheep? Would the blessed cheesemakers make their blessed cheese in the privies? You cannot have all of life in one place. In the same way that a civilized man does not make love in the same place he eats his dinner, so to must the farmer avoid farming on the roof of the inn. Men learn their professions through practice. I know that there are no wandering Kshatra's who learn their craft from reading books, and so too no farmer can learn theirs through lecture.' At that point we were quieted because we agreed with him on this matter."

"'This is what vexes me now, and I have resolved that there is no other choice. I cannot command the forests to grow, and no man can reason with a monkey, so I have decided that I will go to battle against the apes and I will conquer. I did not have the armies I needed before, but I have them now. Who will go with me to battle against the apes of the woods?' We all answered yes, because we wondered at his story and we all felt like we had became part of a legend of old."

"It sounds like a legend." Javid agreed. Was this man a soldier or a bard? The Nalayak rushed over his head, and he bent down so that it did not shave the top of his hair.

"I admit it does. But I swear it is true. And i will tell the rest. You see, when breakfast was done we assembled and left out the town and went through its mighty gates with all of the equipment we would need to bring war to the jungles and the Raja of the Great Apes, who we knew must be different from the one named Aha-Ah-Mah-Ah-Ah-Uh since so many years had passed..."

"You are Irjanu?" a woman's voice interrupted. "The Peacock-Kshatra?"

Javid watched the Kshatra turn around, raising his hand to slap the woman who had interrupted his story. His hand fell to his side when he saw who it was that was speaking. "My... my lady." he said. "My worship. What may I do for you."

The woman was one of the Gul Shapur. When Javid saw her, his heart jumped into his throat. He had faced hundreds of men on the field, and every one of them had been willing to see him dead, but they had never made him feel as uncertain as the Gul's did. These were creatures that ebbed power, and their women were no exception.

"My majestic uncle wishes to meet our distinguished foreigner guests at his throne."

"Yes." the Kshatra bowed. "Yes, of course. Were do I go?"

The female Gul grinned and pointed to the top of the behemoth Vishput statue. It was the crater where the head had been, Javid knew. That is where the throne could be found.

When the Kshatra left, Javid was surprised to see the Gul stay. She was a pale beauty, with skin of polished alabaster and eyes that were grey, though they seemed pink in a certain light. Her hair was a blonde-pink as well. Javid had been told that pink hair and pink eyes meant that she was older, but she looked as if she had not yet reached twenty five.

"You were the last man to bring sacrifices tonight." the she said. "I saw from the window. You delivered that droll little thing my cousin freed."

"The girl." Javid said. He bowed. "I am Javid of Chultec" he said courteously.

"So you are." she grinned. She wore a dress as pale as she was. It bared her shoulders, where silver clasps in the shape of vultures held her dress in place. A silver circlet inlaid with pearls rested in her blonde-pink hair. There was a quality in her voice that was unusual in the women of Poertia. She spoke as if everything around her was a mildly entertaining show put on for her personnel entertainment. "The peasant girl he saved is in this room now. Over there, with him." she pointed with one hand, and held a crystal flute filled with red liquid in the other. He tried not to stare at her drink, and allowed his eyes to follow to where she was pointing.

He saw it immediately. It was the same Gul who led the sacrifices at the steps of the castle. That Gul had changed out of his breastplate and into a white and gold kaftan robe synched at he waste with a jeweled belt. The girl he had saved at the steps followed behind him. She had been bathed, though Javid knew a simple bath could not fix everything that had afflicted her on the road. He wondered how the Gul hid the blistering that the young girl's feet had suffered, but there was no way to tell through the crowds. She had been given the simple, short sort of tunic dress that a wealthy peasant might own. He watched them for a moment, the girl following scared behind him. As he watched, he realized something that made him uncomfortable. The girl was not following him, but rather he was leading her by a thin chain-leash connected to a silver collar around her neck. There was no honor in the way she was being treated. Mercy would have been slitting her throat with the rest and letting her die in the glory of ceremony.

"He will keep her with the rest of his pets, until he grows bored." she smiled. "I know that this offends you."

"It is not my place to be offended, your magnificence." he bowed stiffly.

She cocked her head, pink hair brushing softly against her shoulders. "I know enough to know that is a lie. It bothers your kind, and that was always fascinated me. Can you tell me why it seems more natural to die covered in shit, having your throat slit by a stranger? That seems as ignoble an end as there can be. She... she won't live a happy life, I will admit that. A concubine, different sort of meat I suppose. But she will be alive, and that is the most precious thing."

"It is not holy." he said. The fact that he had spoke stunned him. "I... I am sorry, your magnificence. I should not talk."

She eyed him. "You should." she said. "But you won't. Not right now. And that is tragic, for me at least." The Nalayak flew between them, cold steel death and its haunting whistle.

Palace of Manyaa

The gates closed behind them. Clasping shut with the sound of thunder. Heavy mechanisms sealed the port way with a rattling bang as great chains lowered across the door's span a plank of wood that could be described only as the trunk of a tree in itself. The deep heavy wood sealing the portculis behind them.

Towering over them rose the great vaulted roof. Illuminated by great fires, the blood-red stone gave an eerie glow in the warm fire light and the silver bands of sunlight that race against the fire orange of the braziers below, jabbing the last remnants of shadows into shallow trenches and cracks in the ceiling. The entire hall felt like a voyage through the throat of a massive dragon. Where the teeth were there were great columns topped in sculptures of foliage and flowers, massive vines rolling down the trunks of stone where they were collected by dancing human women. Between the teeth stood at vigil the guards men of the house, their long spears held above them. The three points collected the fire light of the hall in the steel, turning the tips to that of captured fire.

And the guards men felt as distant and unliving as the statues of the women between them, though the women twisted and danced motionless across their meaty pillars. The high-pointed, feathered helmets of the satyr guards hid from view their faces. Though the mercenary could feel their eyes follow him.

Stepping out of the sun and into the cavernous nest of the Raja's power was a world away from the mercenary. Who had known only desert and sands. At most the opulent villas of nobility had opened their doors to him as he attended to fluctuating court service. But in the intense halls of this palace's very entrance they now felt like a peasant's cottage or a desert dweller's thatch hut.

Here was a place of awe. A projection of power and of pride.

“Welcome to the Palace of Marthsidapraj.” the prince said. “Or as some have called it: the Palace of Eastern Wonder, or the Palace of Inner Beauty.” Since entering he had assumed an almost liquid comfort. He had been pride filled when he met with the mercenary so many weeks ago. Carried himself with a higher poise. But it had not gone so far beyond mild aristocracy. The mild knowledgeable way he spoke was in sense atypical from the staunch and stuffy princes. But he had never stood so casually in the back of his chariot as they trotted around. He had never lifted his back and relaxed his shoulders, as if he was waiting to dodge a strike against him; disciplinary or out of personal fear. It had for the mercenary been assumed as normal. Not that he had a hunched back, but was a shorter creature.

But now he had risen more on his legs. Riding atop his horse behind him he could see from under the hem of his robes the fetlocks of his hooves, the wild untrimmed tangle of fur twisted and tied into decorative beads. The bare traces of chalk bedded into his fur. Even the tip of a braided tail loomed in the dancing shadows of his rope. He was a taller figure in his home.

He wasn't simply a prince. He was one of high rank. There were little above him who commanded him.

“Amin captured this palace from the nobles of the House of Marthsidapraj four centuries ago.” he continued proudly, carrying his head high. “This entrance here is the great hall. Or the Cavern of Many Envoys. The original structure – like this room – was built a century before our forefathers took the land in righteous conquest. The humans had an alliance with the Visha. If tentative and tenuous for the common man, but we have since believed the nobility and aristocrats were fed well by the Underground Masters. Provided artisans and resources for levee forces and food crops, such things were important the Vishput; it was like gold.

“For the work of hard surfs the self-titled Maharaj of the Marthsidapraj had constructed this glamorous house to project his power. Fashioning himself as almost Vishasthani.

“There was for he and his ilk no mission greater than defining their physical world to their own fetish and desire.” he lectured learnedily. He swept a hand to the great columns and vaulted ceiling, “See: the sharp finned spines that run across the ribs from pillar to peak. The floral carving on the columns themselves. The Visha may have shunned the sunlight, but they still pined and craved to still true natural beauty.

“There may have been gold,” he continued as they rode into a sunlit courtyard. Flowering bushes and short garden trees grew in organized plots around pools of water. Over head a ceiling of glass and iron let in soft sunlight. The air here was warm, and humid. “But the Visha it would seem coveted gold as being too sacred for the surface. So there are real flowers as much as stone ones.”

“It is impressive.” the Mercenary murmured in awe. His voice wavering on the edge of non-existence.

“I've been told there is others more so.” the prince replied dismissively, “I am made aware by my brothers that the underground cities contain palaces coated thick in gold. Ceilings so adorned with sheets of gold and gold carvings that all one has to do is light a torch, and the light of a single fire lights the room like morning. That there are halls of silver mirrors, so that everything in either direction is known to you. And more pillars of more intricate design that they might be thought of as being depictions of scenes frozen in any time of space.

“I have read of gardens in the underground, filled with glowing luminescent mushrooms. Gardens which still glow and make the world seem as if you are in an ethereal world. Cold light. But the light of ghosts and terrors all the same, as with everything underneath the sunlit world.” He stepped off of his chariot and walked around to its harness. With careful fingers he unlatched his horse. It trotted off into the garden on its own business.

“It will find its way to the stables.” he smiled, “But I'm afraid yours is unfamiliar.” he added, hailing to a retainer standing guard in the shade of a nearby columned cloister. Without hesitation he was trotting over, helping the mercenary off of his horse before the two trotted off after the prince's.

His feet felt weak as he hit the warm ground. For riding so long he needed to get bearings. Rubbing his legs he scanned the sunlit room, still in awe. “When I was being recruited by nobility, I had presumed a simple castle.” or another Villa.

“Well, we preside in an Emperor's palace.” the prince laughed, “But it does not make us Maharaj.” he noted.

“Then it must be expensive to maintain.” commented the mercenary as they walked side-by-side through the garden. There was a tranquility to it, one that was in far contrast to the streets across the bridge from the palace's gates. In here, there was only the sound of a few birds, presumably here pets. Where is on the streets men and women clamored together shoulder-to-shoulder alongside satyr and a few other expats from the world over. There was the constant sound of civilization, of talking, shouts, and market bartering. Of sitar and drums.

But in the city's defense, the prince had pointed out they were cutting through one of the market streets.

“It would be extravagant and beyond our abilities, even since the reign of Sithsravat.” the prince answered, “But even back then he did not reside in the palace alone with only his family. As then as we do today our retainers live as one with us and share the burden of the palace as we do. Manyaa may be a grand city, but it is not the islands of the Uwanid where we might have such a large sum of gold pass through our ports to utilize. Likewise, Boone Bhikkus reside in the palace's center, turning it into their own small sanctuary and monastery.

“The palace is nearly as large as a village, with as many living in it. We are all equally responsible for it and to allocate our resources. For the Bhikkus they use donations to maintain their sanctuary. For the retainers they agree to take a lower salary on the pretense their homes will be maintained and they are treated as equal nobles, they enjoy a high status and respect as legal nobility. They all have a family legacy here to as far back as our fore-father Sithsravat Amin.”

The two walked among the gardens, winding through the paths with a purpose towards a far corridor. “The palace really is much like a city within a city.” he aptly compared.

“I am still bewildered one such as yourself would know so much.” the mercenary complimented, “Every prince, or man who claims to be a prince in some way desires adventure. Or to woo women with their power.”

“And I am sure for every princely lord looking to take up the sword for something there is another who looks into the more subtle matters.” the satyr replied with a wide smile, “Make no mistake, I am not the first nor the last of my school and I do no feel I am an exception.”

“But how many know their homes so well?”

“Probably not many. You are born to a place and I take if that it is such a norm its history is relegated to boring normality. Perhaps even the relative in comparison between one's self and another. But they never think deep.

“Growing up as the fourth son of my father to his youngest concubine I was made aware early on I was not in any likely way possible of assuming any sort of lordship. I was a think sickly foal – child – growing up so it was never deemed I would survive on the field.

“Where I had time to read stories, my brother's had theirs in fighting.” he smiled as he talked. Warmly, recounting his own story as they stepped into the colonnade, “I was relegated to the priests and the advisers to learn. Weak and low in succession I would not be a warrior. But I would learn to manage where my brothers could now.”

They turned from the walkway hugging the edge of the garden and trudged down a long torch-lit hallway. The prince's hooves clicked softly against the marbled tile of the floor under him. As likewise the mercenary's boots thudded gently against its polished surface. The fire light shone from the floor, adding to the light and giving soft glows to the walls and the two figures as they passed doors and columns and windows into more gardens.

The hall itself was like a temple. High and pillared. A gallery a floor up forced the walls to widen, and again a floor higher, turning the hall into a succession of rising tiers draped with banners, guarded by statues, and lit by torches. Guards and palatial staff bustled about, keeping soft and quiet like moths. The mercenary watched as the bald servants glanced waywardly down at the new quest before they shuffled off, catching his gaze with a start.

“There is a fascinating place in this palace though,” he continued, “There's a room in an old chapel where the floor is stained a peculiar darker color. A deeper sort of red. As stories pertaining to that goes, during the reign of Rapala Amin there was a wedding in that room that was viciously attacked, nearly all the guests cut down and slaughtered. The blood was so thick by the time the day was over, the stone soaked it in like a sponge. And now you can see where the bodies feel. It's really rather somber.”

“It sounds like it.”

“The room is still used for weddings from time-to-time. Just more knowing than before, and with a certain reverence to death.”

“It certainly would.” the mercenary added, making small talk.

“Anyways, we usually gather here.” the prince said, making a corner in the hall, heading down a narrower passage, “We have our own lounge for planning these sorts of things, and it would be best to check there.”

Portree Cove
Uwan Isles Republic

Just past midnight and the waters surrounding Portree Cove were calm with a gentle chop lashing against the shore. The two-man sloop glided through the water with a red lantern dangled off the port side of the ship, a green one on the starboard side. While his manservant Fearghas steadied the sails, Iomhar Cinead sat aft and guided the rudder of the small craft.

The waxing moon in the sky provided ample light for navigation to the rendezvous. They picked Portree Cove because it was over ten leagues north of the capital and far enough away from Lanark to avoid prying eyes. While not as filled with intrigue as the royal courts of the world, the Republic had more than its share of gossips. The ship passed the cove and Iomhar guided it farther up to a group of shoals near the coast. There he and Fearghas made anchor and waited as the sloop rocked against the waves.

Iomhar had doubts about conducting these covert talks without the other two Sealords, but the past conventions held that the Sealords were granted independence to act in their realms of constitutional authority. If these talks proved to be as fruitful as he hoped, then he would report to Munrue and Wallis and tell them every detail of what had transpired.

He had been waiting.

Rana Shivret's small boat was already docked, waves lapping against the sides. He had come with a young slave with powerful shoulders who was capable of rowing across the cove. Their boat was little more than a life-boat rescued from a ferry but the Angorians never were known for their ship-building or naval skills. The ambassador unsteadily stepped onto the shore, grabbing his slaves shoulders for support. The moonlight painted an unflattering picture of Rana, making him older beyond his years. A crown of greying-black hair circled the backs and sides of his head while a few wayward wisps of hair sprouted onto his scalp. He had ditched the Angorian Suktra dress for Uwan Isle breeches and a thin tunic yet he looked uncomfortably foreign with his dark skin and almond shaped eyes.

"Thank you, Jani" said the ambassador to his slave. Jani lowered his head in respect and sat down unsteadily in the boat, clutching his oar between his legs. Rana was much more comfortable on land than in the ocean and it showed in his posture. Across the dock stood his opposite, Iomhar. "Good evening, Iomhar" greeted Rana, bowing his head in respect. "I'm afraid boats dislike me for standing on them for too long and make me horribly ill, so forgive me for asking we have a meeting so close to land". His Uwanese was accented yet his pronunciation was understandable.

"We have much to discuss".

"Indeed we do," Iomhar said as he stepped forward.

The two diplomats greeted each other courteously. They were by themselves but they still obeyed the protocols of diplomacy. Rana Shivret's handshake was firm, but not a firm as Iomhar. The Second Sealord was nearly twenty years younger than his counterpart. At just thirty-one he was among the youngest elected Sealords in the Republic's history. He had a head of full, black hair and his body showed no flab. Maybe that was why Jock Munrue and the others were so resistant to his plans and ideas. He represented the future and men like Munrue represented the present that was rapidly becoming the past.

"We both hear the drumbeats of war, my friend. They are distant, but each day they grow louder and louder. I was just a child the last time our nations went to war, and I have every intention to never see another one in my lifetime."

"Agreed. I had a cousin who served in the Angorian Navy and well, we all know what happened to them" replied Rana. The total destruction of the Angorian Navy essentially ended the Second Uwanese-Angorian War over 30 years ago, leaving the Uwanese victorious and the Angorians bitter. Despite his reservations, the ambassador had been receiving pressure from Kehlo to push for greater crackdowns on pirates in Uwanese waters and control over an archipelago of disputed islands close to the Angorian coast.

"However, I have a job to do and that job is listening to the demands of the Narayang and making sure they're understood" started Rana, sighing. "In the latest letter I received from the court, the Narayang demands the Uwanese Republic hand over sovereignty of the Chanpur Islands to the Angorian Kingdom, hand over all pirates who have acted against the Angorian Kingdom and are currently hiding within the Republic and finally, allow Angorian ships to sail within Uwanese waters".

He gauged his counter-parts reaction before continuing. "I realise these may not be the most acceptable terms for the Republic, so I'm willing to negotiate the Narayangs demands" he said finally.

"Some of what you ask I am unable to provide," Iomhar said with his hands spread open, palms facing outward. In the matter of the Chanpur Islands, our constitution states that the powers to formally annex and cede territory falls to the Captain's Quorum. They will not meet again until next spring. The Sealord Council could, in theory, enact a de facto concession until the Quorum meet to make it official. But I warn you that any territorial cession will be met with harsh resistance from the Sealords and the Quorum. They want peace, but they will not exchange land for it."

There was no way in the world Jock Munrue, a veteran of the last war, would give up an inch of land to the Angorians. The same went for the old captains who were part of the Grand Fleet. They had fought and saw friends die for that land. Iomahr would float the idea, but to seriously press it would end with his tarring and feathering.

"On the other points I can allow some wiggle room. The Republic fights piracy as well. There are plenty of rumors that pirates hole up in your coast ports and use it to raid out shipping lanes alongside yours. Perhaps we could work out a joint agreement. It would create harmony on both sides if we brought these villains to justice in a joint operation. That would dovetail perfectly into your request for Angorian shipping to travel through Uwanese waters. I would add a caveat that merchant ships should be allowed, but naval and military vessels cannot venture south of the Chanpur Islands."

"Fighting piracy is one of the main concerns of the Narayang," answere Rana. "The Chandpur Islands have become something of a haven for pirates or at least, the Narayang believes it has. A joint force combating piracy and the ease on Angorian shipping would be a step forward but the Chandpur Islands are still believed to be Angorian in Kehlo. As soon as we are finished here, I'll send the Narayang your proposals and try to work out a proper deal from there. Unless there is anything else you'd like to discuss, I believe we are finished here?"

"I would appreciate it in another, perhaps more discrete, message was delivered to the Narayang. Let him know that Jock Munrue will never listen to peace overtures. He lost many friends in the last war and holds a powerful grudge against the Narayang and his people. As First Sealord he has command of the Republican Navy and Marines. I am responsible for only peace. War is his domain. If Angoria wants peace with the Republic, then there must be a change in government. I am trying to convene an emergency session of the Captain's Quorum, but the old fools are mired in tradition and precedent. The Quorum never meets more than once a year, always have always will. But if the Narayang himself were to make overtures about war, then I could make a very strong case to call an emergency Quorum. In the Quorum I have more than votes on my side. If we convene and I talk to my people and..."

Iomhar spread his hands out and shrugged, showing Rana a grin.

"You and the Kingdom would find that I make a much better First Sealord than a Second Sealord."

"I'm sure we will, assuming the next First Sealord is more co-operative than the current one" replied Rana, a small smile forming on his lips. "Before there can be peace, there will be tensions. I'm sure the Narayang can understand how things work. All in the name of peace, of course! Now, Iomhar, it has been a pleasure. But I must bid you goodnight, for I have letters to write and money to count". He held a hand out for a 'handshake', which was a very Uwanese custom that Rana had grown rather fond of.

Iomhar nodded and exchanged a handshake with Rana. The Angorian's hand was loose and not particularly firm. Iomhar nearly smiled at the thought of some of the bone-crushing shakes the men of the isles liked to use on one another. It was a symbol of dominance to have the stronger handshake, something that Rana would learn in time if he did it long enough.

"Good luck, my friend. Only you and I are what stands between our two nations going to war. I pray it will not come to pass."

Saying their goodbyes, they departed Portree Cove, Rana heading south back to Lanark while Iomhar sailed north for several leagues before doubling back and following the Angorian ambassador's route back to the capital.

(The above was a Chapa/Byrd Joint)

--

Beechden
Chanpur Isles
Uwan Isles Republic

"Are we ready?" Hamish Sturgeon asked his first mate.

"Aye aye, captain."

"Then anchors away, Mister Sunil. We're shoving off."

Sturgeon was exactly what everyone pictured when they thought of an Uwanese ship captain. He was tall and rail thin with a very strong jawline that was currently obscured by his thick gray beard. He wore a peaked cap on his head, hiding his wiry gray hair. A fish hook shaped scar under his left eye was his prominent feature, a souvenir from a bar fight in Koraha some years ago when a goddamn Iwi mongrel almost blinded him with a shard of glass.

Sturgeon's ship,Dromon, was a three sail galley with forty oars they used in shallow waters like the ones in the harbor she currently inhabited. This year marked Sturgeon's fifteenth year walking her decks as captain. She wasn't much to look at back then. She was covered in barnacles and rotting on a dry dock in Orney Flow. She'd once been the RVN Riptide, a fast little corvette that made it through the Second Uwan-Angorian War. Little more than a hull, Sturgeon bought her for next to nothing and spent nearly the cost of a new boat restoring her. It was well worth the cost. Sturgeon made a good living and the Dromon was known as one of the fastest boats in the Chanpur Islands. He liked having an old navy boat at his command. He almost joined the URN like his older brother had, but he went a different way. He was suddenly reminded of the old story of the sailor who took the right stream when the river came to a fork. He could not help but wonder what would have happened if he went left.

The port of Beechden began to fade and Sturgeon felt sad at seeing it go. The city had a reputation for being wild even here in the islands where almost anything went. There was nothing you could not procure in Beechden for the right amount of coin. It's reputation made it an ideal spot for shady types of all walks of live. There would be scammers trying to hawk "authentic Visha artifacts" alongside bookmakers taking bets on the Bandara cage fights the town hosted nightly, spies from foreign lands trying to find out information about the Republic and any other things they could sell for money, people without countries, pirates, scallywags, and all around bastards... and then there were the doctors who would offer cheap surgery to those in need and lead them down a dark back alley... and nobody would ever see those people again. Beechden was dangerous to those who were naive. But for people like Sturgeon, it was the best goddamn place in the world.

"We're running deep enough to set sail, captain," Mr. Sunil announced from the helm.

Sunil was one of the goat men that lived across the mainland. He and Sturgeon had worked together on fishing boats for years before finally striking out to get their own boat. He'd helped him restore the Dromon and had been by his side since. He was a damn good first mate that knew how to keep the crew in line. For his skill and loyalty he got the second biggest share right behind the captain.

Sturgeon blew the whistle around his neck, a signal to the rest of the crew below. They all rushed topside and began to hoist the sails. While they did that, Sturgeon ran down the flag off the mast. The bright green flag that announced the Dromon as a simple merchant vessel was replaced by the a navy blue flag with a large, gold anchor on it and the words "Uwanese Republican Navy" written in large gold script below the anchor. It was one someone in Beechden managed to steal off a ship many years ago. As they said, there was nothing you could not get in Beechden for a price.

---

Executive Chamber
Lanark
Uwan Isles Republic

"I hereby call this meeting of the Executive Council to order."

Jock Munrue banged the wooden gavel on the surface of the dais to start the meeting. He sat at the middle of the dais in his role as First Sealord. He and the other two Sealords were the only ones present in the Executive Chamber. The usual gaggle of political spectators and people with nothing better to do with their day were left outside as the council went into executive session to discuss matters of defense. On Jock's right sat Second Sealord Iomarh Cinead in is usual crisp silk suit, a cocky smile on his face. To the left was Third Sealord Eachann Wallis with his reading spectacles perched on the end of his hawkish nose.

"That matter I wish to discuss today involves further expansion of the Republican Navy," Jock said, rifling through the papers before him. "You both were given a report two days ago from Admiral Sturgeon on the current status of the navy. His report recommends an expansion of ten warships, twenty transport crafts, and a further recruitment and training of two hundred marines. Third Sealord, is that within our budget?"

"No, sir," Wallace said flatly. "Based on the current numbers that would run our budget at a rather large deficit, larger than any budget before. We would have to levy a slight increase in taxes, probably in the area of tariffs."

Jock looked to his right. The discussion going into the issue of tariffs was sure to rouse the Second Sealord into action, what with the many ships working for him to import and export goods across the world.

"I am opposed to an increase in tariffs," Cinead said with that playful smile still on his face. "That only hurts international trade and strains relations with our friends abroad. What about a tax increase to fishing licenses?"

"Your attempt at humor?" Jock asked with a hint of contempt in his voice. Jock himself owned three fishing vessels that combed the Scapa Strait for tuna and flounder.

"It's politics," the young Second Sealord said with a wink. "Give and take, First Sealord."

"You give, I take," said Jock. "Mr. Wallis, what amount of new ships and men can we add to the navy and still maintain a balanced budget and no new taxes or increases?"

Wallis went to work on a scratch sheet of paper with a stub of a pencil. He may be a poor sailor who got seasick at the drop of a hat, but the man was a natural cipherer. After a half minute, he looked up from his paper at Jock.

"Two warships, ten transport vessels, and one hundred marines. That's the most balanced distribution of the cash available to us."

"What do you think about that, Second Sealord?" Jock asked Cinead with raised eyebrows.

"Fair enough," he said with a nod. "Does the admiral have a timetable on it?"

"Next year for implementation of all of them at the earliest," said Jock. "They won't help us if things with Angoria go to shit tomorrow, but they will be very valuable if it comes to war. That reminds me, Second Sealord have you had any further contact with Ambassador Shivret."

"No," Cinead anwwered quickly. "He is still awaiting orders from that boy they call king."

Jock grunted and let the humor of Cinead of all people making a joke about someone being too young pass by without comment.He was afraid war between the two nations would again arrive. Jock did not want it to come to that, but if war did come he would make damn sure his country was ready.

"Very well. We have a motion to amend Admiral Sturgeon's recommendations. As ordered by the Executive Council, two warships, ten transport craft, and one hundred new marines will be commissioned into the Uwan Republican Navy. Do I hear a second?"

"Second," said Wallis.

"All in favor?"

Three hands were raised and Jock picked up the gavel, banging it down.

"So ordered. On to the economic report..."

---

The Chanpur Sea

The Dromon took the steady winds coming from the south and rode them hard and fast as she cut through the waters towards her destination. Sturgeon stood on the quarterdeck with Mr. Sunil at his side, his hairy hands steady on the wheel. The rest of the crew bustled about the deck and below deck fulfilling their tasks. It was hard work and cost a damn near arm and a leg to get all of them uniforms, but Sturgeon was sure it was a worthy investment. He himself was dressed in the dark blue breeches and top coat of the URN complete with the dark blue peaked cap and gold braid on the bill that announced him as an officer. On the shoulders and cuffs of the jacket were three gold bars and a silver anchor, clarifying his rank as Captain. On his hip was a saber, a thin cutlass that all naval officers carried into battle. The rest of the men wore similar uniforms with matching ranks. If their uniforms were inspected closely, they would see them as the knock offs that they actually were, but from a distance it would appear that they were indeed members of the Uwanese Republican Navy.

"Land ho!" the lookout in the crow's nest called.

The crew burst out into cheers and applause. Sturgeon quieted them with a long blow on his whistle.

"Now hear this," he said in a booming voice. "You all know what we are here to do today, this is not going to be an easy task, but I have faith in you men. Some of you have been with me a long time and I know you can get the job done. May our task be successful and may our pillage be mighty. Aye?"

"Aye, captain!" They shouted in unison.

"Now get back to work!"

While the rest of the crew went about placing final and preparing for the attack, Sturgeon pulled his spyglass from his coat and surveyed the horizon. There it was, a bit hazy but coming into focus more and more each passing second. Fort Ranit sitting on the edge of the Bashwar Peninsula all exposed and nothing around it but jungle and the sleepy little town down below. Undermanned and filled with Angorian weapons, equipment, and riches, a pirate could make a fortune off of if he knew the right people. And Hamish Sturgeon, a pirate for twenty years now, knew all the right people.

"Full speed ahead," he announced to Mr. Sunil. "I want that godsdamn fort captured by nightfall!"

Śukaraguzāra

The light breeze gently blew through the fields, crops and trees swaying ever so slightly as the moving air passed by. The sun beating down onto the ground, delayed and blocked only by the occasional cloud. The sounds of people working hear able even from a distance.
By all accounts, it was a picturesque day for Hōrēsa, who looked out upon the waters of the great sea. Ships carrying the symbols of the Dari they orginate glide across the water, most heading south to continue the long standing trade routes Dari had set up many a year ago.

Hōrēsa himself stood atop one of the hills overlooking the port capital, Śukaraguzāra, as well as the many fields of crops around the city. This city, despite many of the great families denying this, if the lifeblood of the Commonwealth. The only place where unity between the Dari is real and true. Not simply an idea and saying. Here, this is Dari'a and not a Dari.

To Hōrēsa however, he did not care much about the ideals of the Commonwealth. Only that it made Śukaraguzāra the most prosperous city of the east. Wealth from the entire Commonwealth, and even over cities of places far off, pour into the harbor upon ships so radically different one would think they were alien.

Yet, all this just makes him a very happy man. He brings up a wrinkled hand to his pure white mustache and rubs a finger against it as if it was a comb. Being a member of the Ghaṭa prīśada had turned him into a very wealthy man. He owned seventeen different trading ships alone. That isn't counting his many subordinates who may own a ship of their own.

"Today... is a good day." He said, as he began to slowly make his way down the hill. The path being nothing but dirt and rocks made the toll on his frail old body more then usual. His voice sounding out one of the few things the Dari have in common; Accent.
To outsiders, it made the Dari all sound like upper class businessman who tend to be very uptight. Though, that is most likely because outsiders only ever deal with businessmen. Very few are allowed to leave the ports they enter. Xenophobic attitude is something that is hard to kill, after all.

"Hōrēsa! Father, please, over here!" Shouted a young woman at the end of the path, it seemed she was trying to get up the kill judging by the dirt on the bottom of her Salwar kameez.

"Oh, it is you Phalāvara. I thought it was about to deal with a Kutā tē hamalē*. What is the problem, my daughter? More people trying to make you sign deals for me?" Hōrēsa said as he finished his way down the path. His daughter taking up the space next to him as they made their way into the outskirts of town.

"No, there is an emergency meeting of the Ghaṭa prīśada with the Cōnakāra." She said as she easily kept pace with him. It wasn't hard trying to follow an old man after all.

"So they sent you to get me? Must be a really important emergency. Go on, tell them I'll be there shortly." He waved her off, and with a nod, she picked up her pace down the road and disappeared into the thickening crowd.

((* - derogatory term for non-working peasants looking for handouts.))

No Man's Land, some 75 kilometers from the western border of Verigarde

The sun illuminated the unending grassy field. Its brilliant rays created a warm glow that reflected off of the dew drops left from yesterday's rain shower. The gentle breeze intangibly drifted across the tips of the grass, generating synchronized waves across the field. Atop a shallow hill overlooking this field stood five horse-mounted men, all shrouded in loose wool clothing, protecting their bodies from the gelid northern winds that possess the ability to transform a seemingly temperate region into a frozen wasteland in as little as an hour. Facing these five Verigarde warriors was a single elephant, which had been monitoring the soldiers since their arrival from afar. The elephant stood almost four meters tall, patiently waiting for them to make their move. Their leader turned to face them. He looked to his initiates, a burning fire in his eyes. This was their rite of passage, and he was nothing short of proud.

“Remember your training. Make it fast, and don't disappoint me.” he spoke in an ever familiar monotonous gravely voice.

The two horsemen to the back started away from the group, slowly approaching the elephant, which was close to 100 meters away from them. The right horseman unhooked the coil of rope he had bound to his waistline. He slowly ran the rope through his hands until he reached one end, which he threw towards the other rider. The elephant, which had previously been calmly observing the Verigarde horsemen, began to stamp its front feet into the ground as a way of scaring the feeble-minded horses back. Undaunted, the horses continued to move forward, connected by a single rope shared by both of the riders on each end. Without warning, the elephant began to charge them. With tusks that extend outward like spears and a skull as strong as steel, the elephant is, and always has been, a formidable opponent, and has become an excellent challenge for Verigards to prove themselves as horsemen.

The other three watched as the elephant focused down the left horseman, who instinctively separated from his partner and lured the elephant away, still holding onto the rope. Just as they had been trained, the right horseman began to advance forward, trying to get around the elephant, which was closing in on the other horseman. As the elephant was within 20 meters, the riders began to circle the elephant, which slowly turned its lumbering body to face the riders. Initially, the plan was to encircle the elephant and have it trip over the rope, a tactic that was developed by the zealous horsemen a generation ago, our leader being one of them. As the riders encompassed the elephant, the rope in a circle around its legs, they moved to complete their trap.

The elephant, clearly disoriented, unexpectedly threw its mass towards the riders. The rider that originally distracted the elephant instinctively pulled away, but the other rider found himself facing the elephant, which was barreling towards him uncontrollably. The rider had no time to react, and the elephant collided with the horse. The rider and the horse were tossed to the elephant's side, throwing the rider from the saddle and crushing the horse's rib cage. The trap had failed, and the elephant triumphantly galloped away from the disorganized mess that called themselves Verigards.

The three warriors rode towards the initiates, their leader riding before the other two. The other initiate dismounted his horse and approached the downed rider, who trembled as he slowly rose to his feet. He looked up just in time for the other initiate's fist to connect with his cheek. He fell to the ground again, now with strands of blood leaking from his mouth. We stood over them, watching as the fallen horseman was senselessly beaten by his partner, who repeatedly struck at his face and upper torso. At the same time, the initiate spat profanities at his partner on the ground, blaming him for their failure. The fire in the leader's eyes had faded, and was replaced with a cold, disapproving gaze. He finally dismounted, approaching the two initiates. He grabbed the initiate who stood over his partner and brought him to his feet before driving his own fist into the initiate's mouth. The initiate fell backwards, and landed in the grass next to his partner.

“Verigard horsemen are required to work together. The second one man fails is the second the horsemen fail.” he lectured, standing above them. Their eyes were fixed to his, blood dripping from various parts of their faces. “I have never seen such foolishness from any of my horsemen. I expected much more from both of you. What would your parents say? What would your ancestors say?”

He then looked directly at one of his warriors, who was still sitting on his horse, watching the events unfold with a solemn silence. He guided the warrior's eyes towards the dying horse, pointing at the originally beautiful animal, that now laid in the field, struggling to breathe. “Kill her. She did not deserve such an untimely death at such a young age, but there is nothing more we can do.”

Obediently, the warrior nodded, swinging his leg over his horse and landing on the ground. He reached for his crossbow, which rested on his back, much like the bolts beside it. After walking a short distance, he stood above the horse, beads of sweat falling from his hairline. The horse looked back at him, and he could see the confusion and the pain in her eyes. Gazing upon the ghastly sight of the horse's broken body made the warrior pity the animal. He loaded the crossbow, and without hesitation, pulled the trigger, releasing the bolt into the horse's skull. Her breathing stopped, and her mangled body's squirming slowly ceased, with her head dropping the ground, motionless. He slung the crossbow onto his shoulder again and turned back to the group, who stopped to watch him execute the horse.

“Tutei.” the warrior's leader called him by his honorary name. Tutei's eyes immediately snapped to him. “That horse was kin to your own, was it not?”

“Indeed it was. They were siblings. I raised both of them.” Tutei answered, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“And what punishment will you administer to those that destroyed your animal?”

Tutei tensed, hesitating. The expression on their blood-stained faces was one of forgiveness. He sighed, slightly rubbing his strained eyes. “There is no alternative. They will walk back to Verigarde on foot, or not at all.”

The Verigarde leader's eyes met Tutei's in an uneasy gaze, and somewhere in the corners of his dark grey eyes, that fire reignited. “So be it. Let us ride.” he returned to his horse, climbing up onto its back.

Tutei followed, situating himself atop his own horse. As the leader slowly turned back to the east, Tutei followed closely behind him. The other warrior fastened the reins of the surviving horse to his own and followed the other two. The initiates were left alone in the grassy field.

Tutei never saw those boys again. His group assumed they died of exhaustion, as the trip back is challenging without water. Tutei regretted nothing. If they were unable to accomplish what all of the other horsemen had accomplished, then they did not belong in the ranks of the horsemen. In his own mind, this justified their deaths.

The Palace of Manyaa

The room was filled with the sweet smell of fruits. Between the two a small table lay on the ground. A great silver bowl laden with oranges, apples, and apricots. On the side, a smaller bowl sat, containing fistfuls of sliced, dried, and candied yellow-green bananas.

Reclining on large pillows that lay across the ground the mercenary and prince waited in silence for the prince's brothers to arrive. Within the plush confines of a royal home, and now no longer on the road the mercenary had shed aside his armor. It lay on the ground before him, hugged up against the wooden table that sat at the chamber's core.

Without the armor, the padded tunic he wore underneath could be opened to his relief. The neck of the under armor broke open so he may breath. The scars and ill-healed bruises visible underneath. Without his helmet his long curled hair fell past his shoulder in untamed wild knots. Rolled sleeves bore the signs of scars and foreign tattoos.

“When will they arrive?” the human asked, looking up at the reclining prince.

“Soon.” he said, twirling a banana chip between his fingers. He looked up at him momentarily as he popped the slice into his mouth before lowering his eyes to resume his distant meditation.

Stretched across the cushions the prince had thrown his robe across his legs much like a blanket. His horse legs stretched across the satin and cotton pillows. Gritty purple chalk had been rubbed deep into the fur of his legs, affording a flat, matte sheen in the oil light that held the room in an eerie green glow. Shimmer beads of alabaster gypsum and mother of pearl tied together long, loose ends of hair that grew along his fetlocks. A long black braided tail lay curled across his legs.

The turban had been removed as well. The prince's hair was short. Shaved nearly bald against his head.

With a groan a noise disturbed the peace in the room. Looking up to behind the prince the mercenary rose off the pillows as a second figure walked into the room, through a door that had otherwise been hidden by curtains. Arms outstretched he strode towards his brother laying on the cushions. “Agnimatra!” he cheered, approaching the reclining prince.

He was a tall satyr. His shoulders were wide. He was in his entirety sculpted from stone, heavy in his muscular physic and regal and handsome in his maturity. A thick waxed mustache swept across his upper lip and a mane of wild curled hair framed his thick face.

“Gopda.” smiled Agnimatra as he rose from his pillows. He moved with reverence for his brother, taking him in his arms like any other, “I'm back.” he smiled, holding him by the shoulders.

“And you brought the man.” nodded Gopda, brushing aside his brother's arms as he turned to the mercenary, “Welcome, my friend. Radapan Gopda. Yourself?” he inquired.

“Balel.” the mercenary bowed, “Ashidab Balel, your highness.”

“It's a pleasure.” Gopda replied, smiling as he took his place at the fruit table, “The rest of my brothers are sure to come. But let's see about each other.”

“Certainly.” Balel agreed, “If I may ask though, you look as capable a warrior as I. Why is I am needed?”

“Because I'm only one satyr.” Gopda smiled, laying on the cushions. Brown elephantine legs stretched out as he reclined, “And we had a regular guard who joined us on our excursions into the underground. But he has been getting old as of late and slow at that. Several months ago when we were planning this he actually had his arm smashed by a tiger while hunting.

“The Devi bless him, but he can hardly carry a spear anymore. The surgeons found it necessary to amputate. So we had to locate a suitable replacement. And your name came up.” he complimented as he took an apricot in his hand. Gold rings and jewels speckled from his ringers as he danced the sun-orange fruit between his fingers.

“That's unfortunate.” Balel admitted, “Though I am sure he knew it was coming time. No one in our professions last long.”

“That is the unfortunate reality of us warriors.” Gopda admitted humbly, “Agnimatra may as well last longer than anyone who will come to this room today. But he was fated to not adopt the sword when he was born.” he nodded, kicking the ankles of his brother as he teased him.

“A long life is just as good as one that burns like a fire to extinguish itself in a monsoon rain.” Agnimatra coyly bit back. Returning the kicks with the light toss of a apricot pit at Gopda.

“So, what you want me for then, it's a regular thing?” Balel asked, choosing to ignore the squabbling of the two siblings.

“Very!” Gopda cheered, “Gold, treasures, artifacts, remains of our ancestors! The underground is a treasure trove. We'll go over all of it when the rest of us are gathered.

“But tell me Balel, where is it you're from and what do you bring to our table?”

“If you found me then you both no doubt know I'm from the Vös.” he said, “Namely, the dry interior. Though your Agnimatra met me in the eastern villages.

“I've been hunting and dealing with Shishkarat for nearly four years now.” he nodded proudly

“Which is just who we were looking for.” Gopda smiled, “Figured Agnimatra would do something right for once.” he played on.

“It wasn't all me, I'd thank Kuruntatki for chasing the gossip down.”

“Whatever.” the older prince laughed, “So lord Balel, what leads a Vösputri to come as well traveled as you that you become more renown than a Peacock Warrior? And those tattoos on your arm, where did you get those?” he asked, pointing out the winding patterns inked into the muscles of Balel's arm.

“I traveled far abroad.” he said, “What else is a poor son of a noble to do at home? We hardly had any land of our own to farm, just rocks. So like so many others, I became a sword for hire, waiting for my inheritance to come to me.”

“Admirable, so where did you go to get that ink?”

“I went far off into the north once, beyond the dry cold steppe and to the west. I was pursuing rumors of gold. That had to be...” he paused, craning his neck up as he thought, “Over twenty-three years ago, to the month. I was still fairly young, and adventurous enough to pass through the realm of the khans and beyond.

“There I found a land of evergreens and snow like no man here in the south had ever seen. I had battered my skills for coats of deer and goat skin to simply stay warm until I came upon the house of the nobles that was promising wealth for my work.

“I went to them, far beyond the distance any man reasonable would travel. But I was young, and then not without property to anchor me. Determined to come back with gold and prestige to my name.

“I stayed in their courts for five years. Fighting, drinking, and fucking alongside foreign men with skin pallor than paper. Many of these men chose to darken their skin with tattoos. Often painting into their face and skin the design of their armor.

“The master I served in his tenure even went and had the needle paint into his skin the very pattern of his helmet across his cheeks, nose, and the rest of his skin, so when you looked up at him on his throne of furs he looked to always be wearing his helmet!” he continued, laughing at the memory.

“And there was his brother, his trusted marshal who had lost an eye in combat.” he waxed nostalgically, “he had an arrowhead tattooed in his cheek pointing into the empty socket where his left eye had been. He never said what had claimed it, but I suspect someone had shot him with an arrow there.”

“But as I stayed in their court and won respect in their eyes I would resign myself to their traditions as any other warrior there.” he brushed his fingers along the tightly woven designs on his flesh. Much of it was scripture in a language he couldn't read, but knew to be some manner of poetic blessing as the man who applied it recited the poem for him. But time had long eroded the words. Below it was a sword that curved around his arm like a armlet of steel.

“Sounds to be a splendid adventure.” Gopda complimented, “So then, what did you do so far north?”

“I helped in training one of the master's son's to fight with the fluidity of water as I was taught. And I went out to slay monsters in his name. But more importantly he tasked me to his retinue where we rode out together through the snow and the cold of winter against his rivals to forge a kingdom of his own, so he might have land to pass on to his sons. I rode out on a number of small campaigns until he promised me that I will forever have a home and land in the north. But by that point I had become tired and uncomfortable in the harsh winters and I bid my respects and honorably left his service.

“So then my lord, what can you add?” Balel adventured to ask as he took a banana chip.

“Nothing nearly as far-reaching.” the prince smiled, “Though I have many tales of the underground. But they are best told when all are here to represent their sides of the story.” he laughed.

“I can toast to that.” Balel smiled, “Speaking of which, is there anything to drink?”

“In the cabinet.” the prince nodded to the corner where stood a tall and monolithic piece of furniture, carved from fiery blood-red mahogany, trimmed in brass and bamboo strips, “We keep wine there. Feel free to bring a bottle and cups over.”

Chultec, Poertia

She broke her fast on spinach that had been boiled into a goo. It was the traditional breakfast of new widows, flavorless and bitter to remind them what mourning should taste like. The morning was neither bland nor tasteless, however. She could smell the mildew in the air, hanging in the cloud of mist that hovered over the reflecting pool at the center of the estate. Birds sung soft and shrill in the bushy branches of the yew trees that grew between the inner walls of the estate and the lumpy artificial ridge that circle the perimeter and served as an acceptable rampart. Of the trees, only their tops poked above the stucco over mud brick walls and the colonnade with its pointed arches. This place reminded her of the childhood she had spent here. She had played hide and seek in the exposed tendril roots of the yews trees. She remembered tapping at the flaking paint of the murals on the walls and watching as colorful flecks of dust fell on the ground. That hadn't been that long ago. She was only fifteen, a young girl in most people's eyes, but she was already a widow.

"Zahra!" her maidservant called out gently. Minu was an older woman who had joined the household as a handmaid to her mother when she was alive. Zahra's parents had died of a fever several winters earlier, before the ill fated marriage that left Zahra a widow.

"I am finishing my breakfast, Minu". Zahra said politely. In truth, she wanted nothing more than to abandon the tasteless meal, but that would be seen as a cavalier disregard of her late husband. She spooned the food into her mouth quietly as if Minu had already left.

"A woman arrived here with a man just now! She is seeking justice!"

"Justice." Zahra said. "Get my brother." her second brother had left to present captives to the Gul Shappur at Sarnath. Her eldest brother was the heir to her parents estate in truth, but he rarely lived up to his station. Religion had taken him early on in life, and he spent most of his time exploring his spirituality.

"He went into the hills to seek a waterfall." the handmaiden said.

"Oh Minu. Why can't you see to them. Just this time? I rather not ruin my breakfast like this."

"Mistress." Minu swallowed a gasp indignantly. "Don't be wretched. I'm a servant!"

"I am sorry Minu." Zahra turned to apologize. "Oh, I don't know why I am so wretched." she said dramatically. "I have felt so hateful these last few days. I've been absolutely.... wretched!"

"It is no matter." the maidservant said, "You miss your husband, that is all. It is to be expected. Come now..."

"What do I do with this?" she eyed her breakfast with contempt. It looked like swamp slime, so much that it would have been fitting for a toad to crawl out of the goo and croak.

"You were the mistress of your family's estate before you knew your husband, and no amount of boiled greens will bring him back to life. Come now, before they get too restless.

The Chultec estate was not a sprawling palace like those that could be found in the far away south. This was a homely place, with a few dozen rooms just large enough to surrounded the central courtyard like a fortress wall. In many ways, that was the purpose. Bandits and raiders could be held at bay outside its walls, and the constant use of clay and stone would keep them safe from fire.

But it was homely all the same, and it was humble. There were no wealthy decorations or extended architectural wonderments to leave visitors in awe. The windows held no glass, but heavy shudders allowed air to be directed in the way that made the building the most comfortable. East and west could be closed in summer to keep the sun out, opened only to let a breeze in when it was present. The floor was tiled in some places and cobbled in others, with colorful rugs thrown over the places where people most often walked. The smell of baking flat-bread and hanging herbs sometimes filled these halls with the warm scents of life, but this was not true today. Today, it was the acrid smell of an incense that smelled like the burning of pomegranates and pine chips.

Zahra entered the main hall and saw the two peasant folk waiting in the room. It was a thin, hair man being held by an iron-gripped shepherdess with an ugly snaggle tooth. Seeing them made Zahra feel suddenly aware of her own appearance, a long black dress with a reaper-like hood that left only a shadowed face and bare hands and feet open to the air. She pulled back the hood.

"This man took stole my maidenhood!" the woman screamed.

Zahra swallowed emptily. "Did you?" She asked the man. He looked dangerous all of a sudden, in a strange way. He wasn't a dangerous looking man... he almost looked weak, but the news that he was a rapist cast him in a sinister light.

"No..." he choked. "No. She invited me..."

"He forced me!" she shouted. "I want to be compensated! I want justice!"

"Justice." Zahra breathed deep. She felt deeply and sincerely uncomfortable. "Your maidenhood cannot be returned. What do you want..."

"I want justice! He should pay for what he took. His gold!"

"Gold!" Zahra nodded. "This is acceptable." she turned to the man. "Do you have your purse on you?"

The man looked as if he had been struck in the stomach. "But... that is not justice. She should prove..."

"If she isn't a maiden." Zahra answered. She felt like she was getting a handle on this situation. "And you say she isn't..."

"Well..." the man stuttered. "No, but I didn't..."

"We can't prove it then. What would happen if we denied all assaults that couldn't be proved? There would be no justice there. Give her your purse."

He cowed quickly and pulled a meager sack out of his trousers. He placed it gingerly in the shepherdess's hands. The shepherdess pressed it close to her breast and bowed to Zahra. "Thank you. Bless you, lady of justice!" she strutted out the door and left the dejected man alone.

"Now." Zahra spoke. "Go take your purse back."

He looked at her as if she was a huntress baiting the trap. "What?" he asked.

"Take it back and bring it here. Quickly, before I change my mind."

She wanted him sheepishly scamper out the door, and she felt the strange look her housemaid was giving her over her shoulder. She felt clever now all the same.

It was hardly a few minutes later that the Shepherdess barged. She was pulling her attacker with his elbow tucked securely under her armpit.

"He attacked me again!" she shouted. She seemed more alarmed this time. "He needs to be jailed! He tried to take back the money that your justice awarded to me!"

"And it is his." Zahra corrected. "I had to see this first. If he cannot rob you, he could not rape you."

"What?" the woman repeated.

"This is not a strong man, and he cannot overcome you. Drop the purse and get out of here before I have you whipped."

"What?" the woman repeated her repetition.

"Don't say what. Do what I have told you. If you say what one more time, I will have you whipped for every time you have said it." she paused politely for a second.

"W..."

"Say what one more time." Zahra lifted an eyebrow. The shepherdess fled and dropped her booty.

"You can pick it up." Zahra said to the man, motioning to the purse on the ground with her eyes. "Though next time, you should be more virtuous and maybe that will not happen."

"Thank you." the man bowed deeply. "Thank you!"

When he was gone, Zahra's maidservant looked strangely at her. "Zahra" she said. "That was brilliant. Where did you learn to do such a thing."

"I don't know." Zahra said. "It came to me. Oh Minu, I feel so alive now!"

The Palace of Manyaa

It wasn't long after the arrival of Gopda that the rest of he and Agnimatra that the rest of their bretheren would arrive. One by one, they too came forth and partook in the energies of introductions. Drinking from their own goblets of ceramic or silver the wine that Balel had been invited to fetch. It wasn't long until the room filled with the fluid freedom of wine and free discussion was partook. Perhaps ignoring – if for the moment – why they were there.

Many of the other princes saw a considerable interested in Balel's tattoos and the Vosputhi mercenary found himself recounting the adventures to the for north-west very considerably. Again and again he told them about the hardy north men and their tattoos. Their thrones of furs and castle halls of wood. Of the land which they lived, where there were regular times of the year the sun hung low so that at its extremes, a afternoon behind castle walls was like walking the streets in late evening. And that further north at the same time of year, the sun disappeared from the sky. It's only mingling sign of existence being from an orange burning halo that perhaps shown beyond the cold horizons and the tree tops when the sky was clearest.

As he beguiled his stories, so too did the new princes in kind exchange their own.

There was Sathsvitra, a tall brooding half-stallion. He was much akin to a wide tree. His face and hands scarred by fighting. He was younger than Agnimatra, and no doubt born from a different mother given the differences in some of his features. He was hardly handsome, but nor was he as ruddy or unpleasant as a beggar. His hair was almost straight and lighter in shade than the straight tar-oil black of his brother. But he was a brother, as tall and wide; bearing the same complexion and smiling face.

He clapped his hoofed feat against the ground as he talked of tournaments and games. The emphasis it added like a thunder crack. The bright-red chalk blended into the fur there rained off from the long hairs at each gaveling hammer of a hoof, but he didn't seem to care.

“Do you remember that poor Dariad man that thought he could fight me?” Sathsvitra laughed as he looked at Agnimatra.

“I do.” his older brother smiled.

“He was a ruse bastard, I'll tell you.” Sathsvitra proclaimed, bringing a hoof down, “Some pompous merchant bastard. We were at the bar there, looking up the whores and this sailor-shit walks in with his long flowing robes and acting high and mighty and shit. I tell you, when I put his head against the ground he was hardly that.” he clapped his hands excitedly together. His tongue brushed the mustache on his upper lip.

“What did he do?” Balel asked, turning his glass of wine in his hands. An expectant smile was dawning on his face.

“He was a fucker, I'll say that.” Sathsvitra crooned, “Came up to me, thinking like I was some rope hauler who came in to help for a few extra coin. Demanded I get him a drink!

“I looked down at him and wondered, is he joking? I told him who I am and he looks up at me with this smarmy look and says, 'I don't give a rats ass if you're a Vishput Maharaj, I'm thirsty.'

“Oh that was a damn rude way to start a relationship. Stung me right in the heart.” he continued, placing his fingers over his heart for emphasis, “So I do the only thing I know to do when the need arises: I challenge him to a fight.

“Prudish cunt takes it right there and stands back with this prick of a blade, all curvy and gilded and shit. Strokes his cuntish beard and says it's on!

“He barely touched the skin before I had my hands on him and I threw him down. There's still a crater in the floor in that bar where he landed!” the prince boasted.

“It sounds like he had it coming.” Balel commented.

“You know that's not part true. His 'prick of a blade' did cut your shoulder before it was through. So you can't say he wasn't a total waste.” Agnimatra commented.

“Whichever.” his brother responded dismissively, rolling his eyes. Whatever happened he got penned up at a surgeon's place for a few weeks before he no doubt climbed back aboard his ship, wasn't able to speak! So it was forever the harbor master's problem.

“And I don't care how it comes around to bite me in the ass, it felt damn good then.” he added, looking at Gopda with a look that merely spoke, 'don't say it'.

As well in the room came two who Balel was sure were twins. Identical in their spry appearance, lean and attractive in their appearance. Their hair lay down across the sides of their heads in frames of nearly identical coifs of night-sky. The hemmed and jeered between each other in some inherent rivalry and competition to keep up the games. They had boundless energy that shone from their dark-green eyes. The element that kept them from appearing as a reflection in of the other in a mirror, or the work of a doppelganger spirit was their facial hair.

The one with a the thin wiry mustache was Ralama. A thin veneer of oil polished the thin spin of hair on his lip to a wasp's needle. It clearly was not as flush or decorated as his brother's Palea's, whose full brushed mustache contained itself in beads of pearl. As Balel was told, it was on command of the Raj, their father, in an edict to do so; as to not cause undue confusion.

“Tell me my lord,” Ralama approached Balel when the two had finally finished exchanging snide remarks to one another, “do you dabble in poetry?”

“I am afraid I haven't.” responded the warrior, giving the pretense a dismissive wave of his hand as he sipped his wind. The fruity cocktail buzzed about his head, lifting it and giving it air. The sensation was as bitter as it was sweet, and as empty.

“I have heard of great warrior poets from across the southern sea, beyond the island of Emerald Palms to the south of the land.” Ralama began excitedly, “As I hear from merchants who have sailed that far north the men of that realm partake in a tradition of poetry for their death. I haven't yet read or heard a stanza of their work, but I have had it mentioned that these poems dictate the very nature of how these men wish to die, or how they prefer to be remembered.

“I heard it said from a Uwanid merchant.” the prince chimed, “You are well traveled, what do you think of the world beyond the mountains and the sea?”

“Depends my lord.” responded Balel, scratching his head. He turned to lay on his back, the chatter of the room danced in his head, “What do you think?”

“I and my brother both agree that the wider world seems magnificent.” Ralama beamed, “It's full of adventures and epics to hear, and ourselves write. If we do not go out to snatch it and act it, what value is anything for would-be-bards such as us?” he laughed.

“Besides, the many women to bead on wide adventure must be a fine prize.” Palea commented enthusiastically, “Lip-titted barman's daughters and shaggy ape-women aside.

“I bet you've seduced many, with your tattoos.” Palea smiled.

“Oh, plenty have.” Balel lustfully smiled. The memories of sex in the dry hot sands of the interior to the warmth of a naked partner in the cold of the north flashed bright before him. And for a moment he felt a groan of longing from his groin.

“Aye, and men?” Palea teased. 'You fool!' Balel thought he heard Ralama mutter in agitation alongside him.

“Many have tried to kill me. I would not say look to bed me.”

The conversation webbed and wove between the men in the room. Closing abruptly when at a sudden drop of a hat the princes shut their mouths as a door on the far-side of the room opened. Heavy mahogany paneling pushed aside the velvet curtains as a new figure stepped in. Washed in wine, Balel rose his glass and welcomed the stranger. “Welcome.” he said, ignorant to the satyr standing in the door. Thrown over his shoulders lay a heavy woolen gray shawl, a orange robe emblazoned with golden flowers ran across his shoulders, tying itself in a thick knot at his hip where it wrapped about his yellow legs.

“Good afternoon.” the new comer replied, giving a courteous bow as he stepped into the room. He looked up at Gopda, smiled, and nodded.

“Sivishthra.” Gopda greeted, “You're alone. Is there something we should know?” the prince asked.

Sivisthra was thin, much like his brother Agnimatra. His head was shaved clean bald and shone in the crimson and golden torchlight of the room. His bright blue eyes though burned through the light, giving a light of their own off. A cold light. Like that of the moon. Not terrifying or cruel. He walked carefully over the pillows. Bowing his shoulders as he went.

“There is a complication to bringing Sahnkour with us.” he merely and simply stated, “I visited him in his monastery. The abbot passed away the day before I arrived.”

“For God's sake.” Palea groaned.

“We all have our time of passing.” Sivisthra reminded the prince, “But whatever the case, our guide-man is shut away for mourning and electing a new abbot. He can't leave his monastery out of grace and respect. I could hardly get in, my own vows keeping me outside.”

“It's a damnable shame.” Agnimatra passingly commented, “My respects to Shuptura all the same.”

“Indeed, I passed along my blessings while I was there.” Sivisthra said, sitting down at the central fruit table. But much unlike his brothers he did not lounge. Taking on instead the meditative poise of any monk, opening and crossing his legs. Balel could not help but wonder how uncomfortable it was for the satyrs.

“We can wait for him, if we so choose.” Sivisthra continued, “But it'll be nearly a month.”

“Damn waiting, I would rather we move.” Sathsvitra boomed boisterously.

“I have to agree with Sathsvitra.” Gopda said with a nod, “The sooner we go in the better. Mid-summers rains should be on the way soon I imagine. And I wouldn't want to wait the month before sending for him. We may find ourselves caught waiting for a monsoon and a doubly sunken city.”

“Sunken city?” Balel asked.

“Samana – where you're going – is situated near the Manyaa river's edge.” Agnimatra spoke, “During hard rains when the river over flows its banks the over flow rushes into the city's open crater, filling its void like a cup. One that may never fill up again.”

“Oh... I see...” nodded Balel.

“We shouldn't be underground for too long, we can beat the Monsoon rains.” Gopda pointed out, “But we are on a schedule.”

“Mostly mine and my supply line's.” Agnimatra pointed out in a nonchalant tone.

“Those too. But if our monk won't come to us. We'll go to them. How long until the cremation ceremony?”

“A week and a half.” Sivisthra assured, “After which elections begin. But if you can talk him into it, he can leave the monastery. Cast an early vote and not partake in the usual deliberations and theological debate.”

“Then we'll sail north tomorrow.”

He lowered his spear, directing it towards a wooden target, which was one in a straight line of targets. Facing these wooden dummies was an equal line of heavily armored cataphracts, all in similar positions. Among these cataphracts was Arasen, a famed warrior that led several successful attacks on the nomadic tribes that harassed the northern Verigarde cities. Now a seasoned cataphract, Arasen's days were now spent training new members of the heavy guardsmen, transforming young boys into Verigarde's iron fist.

Arasen's horse slowly moved forward. “Watch, and you will learn.” he shouted coldly as the horse gained speed, charging towards the wooden man that stood some 50 meters away from him. The spear connected with the wooden soldier, dismembering it immediately with a loud wooden crack. He triumphantly drew his lance upward, holding it in the air as the horse rotated to face the new recruits. “Now, repeat the process. Destroy the enemy for Verigarde!”

The cataphracts all lowered their lances in a similar manner before charging their own wooden targets. Arasen watched as his students mimicked his form perfectly, hitting their targets directly in the upper torso before trampling over what was left.

After they completed their exercise, the warriors formed three rows of eight, all waiting for their leader to inform them of their performance. Riding up to the front of the ranks, Arasen congratulated his trainees before looking back towards a hill in the distance, where the furious galloping of a horse rapidly droned closer and closer. In the distance was a child, no older than fourteen, riding the dark brown horse. Arasen turned to face the boy's horse, which stopped nearly ten meters away from the cataphract.

“The Tabudai are attacking!” the boy shouted, clearly exasperated. “There are dozens of them!”

Arasen exhaled furiously before turning back to his cataphracts. A part of the unification process was the destruction of the northern nomadic tribes that preyed on unprotected villages that were under the influence of the Verigarde. While the mission was mostly successful, handfuls of these nomadic people still dwell within the northern regions, occasionally raiding unprotected border villages.

“Remember your training. Prove yourselves as true Verigarde cataphracts.” he held his spear up towards the air before starting his charge back to the village, which was a little over a kilometer away. The cataphracts followed closely in formation, spears extended and ready for combat.

The village remained intact, with no visible fires, which led Arasen to believe the defenders were doing their job of protecting the infrastructure. However, the messenger was right. The raid was much larger, and the nomadic forces vastly outnumbered the Verigarde cataphracts. With that in mind, the cataphracts charged fearlessly towards the village. The raiders on the outside began calling out in their primitive language, warning the others about the incoming soldiers, but their cries were almost pointless, as the armored horsemen broke rank and began forcefully dismounting their opponents. Arasen wasted no time, entering the village almost immediately. As he rode, his spear impaled a raider that had left his horse, presumably to continue the assault on foot. The man's body broke under the force, tearing open the left side of his torso, killing him almost instantly. The cataphracts continued unopposed, striking down their enemies in a similar gruesome manner.

Arasen threw himself off of his horse after most of the raiders were presumably dead or captured. Before him stood half a dozen raiders, all of which were using villagers as meat shields to protect them from the vastly superior cataphracts. He drew his sword before holding out his other hand, as if he were telling the invaders to stop. Particularly, he was looking straight at the one in front of him, for his hostage was none other than his younger sister.

“End this. Now.” Arasen ordered flatly. Of course, the underdeveloped savages wouldn't understand his sophisticated and sensible language, but his priority was the safety of the villagers, especially his sibling.

The barbarian literally spat at him, holding a sharpened piece of metal to his captive's throat. All of the raiders slowly stepped back defensively.

“Let them go!” he ordered again, a fierce tone in his voice. He slowly stepped forward, lowering his hand and raising his blade in a threatening manner.

The barbarian shouted something in his own language, which was incomprehensible to anyone other than his fellow animals that stood beside him.

It was that moment that Arasen realized that the hostages were all dead, their throats just had not been slit yet. He wished his sister could see the apologetic gaze in his eyes, but they were masked by his cold steel helmet. After taking in a deep breath, he advanced towards the leading raider.

The raider, without hesitation, drove his knife into the young woman's throat. Almost immediately as he did, Arasen intercepted him, driving his sword into the barbarian's lower torso. The raider staggered backwards before falling over, tossing his hostage to his side. As the other cataphracts engaged the surviving barbarians, Arasen turned his attention to his dying sibling, who was bleeding profusely from the wound in the side of her neck. He removed his helmet and placed his hands around her neck, slowly suffocating her. Small tears ran from the corners of her eyes, but after an uncountable amount of bitter seconds, her breathing stopped, and her lifeless body rested on the ground.

Arasen rose to his feet, and it was then that he noticed the carnage that was left behind by this futile attempt to strike back at Verigarde. Deceased villagers lay strewn across the streets, many of which were women and children. Arasen bent over and picked up his sword upon noticing the barely breathing barbarian that he had struck down. He stood over the figure, with the blood on his palms slowly clustering and falling down to the ground. The raider began babbling in his own language, but was cut off by Arasen's blade, which was driven through his upper torso. Reluctantly, he turned back to the other caraphracts, who observed his actions silently.

“What are our casualties?” Arasen asked one of the riders.

“None of our cataphracts have fallen. Some fifty villagers dead, probably more.” the cataphract reported flatly, his hands resting on the back of his horse.

“Prepare our column.” he ordered, referring to the 500 cataphracts that were under his command, most of which were situated in a neighboring village. “We ride at dusk, and we will not return until we have properly cleansed our land of these impurities.”

Dari, Svarygiya
The air of the inn was thick with the pungent smoke of the numerous patrons who had taken to smoking their pipes as the sun set and the day began to end. But though the light was fading, the inn was still buzzing with activity; men and women sitting on pillows as they smoked and drank and gambled to unwind after another long day. Prince Baladira himself was there, though strangely for him he was just sitting along the edge of the inn watching the activity as he sipped on a mug of beer. It wasn't particularly good beer, since Dari wasn't a major town and the inn was far from opulent, but at least it wasn't watered down. And it was free, as Dari's Thakura had offered to pay for anything he and his warriors bought while they were in town. It was as a thanks for rescuing those captured by the savages from Poertia, who were currently rotting in a cell until tomorrow. Then they would be taken to the center of Dari, and one by one they would be executed as punishment for their crimes. And after that, Baladira and his men would finally move on. It had only been a few days since they'd returned, but the Prince had wanted to live almost immediately; but his men didn't want to pass up free rooms and alcohol, and some desired to see justice carried out on the Poertians. And so Baladira agreed to stay at least until the execution, and then they would head out. As to where they'd head next, he hadn't been certain at the time. But after several days of thinking, he knew exactly where they needed to go.

But Baladira's lone thoughts were broken by the sudden appearance of Jita, now sans armour. The human man was young with dark, tanned skin and close-cropped black hair; he would probably have been described as handsome if it wasn't for a series of jagged scars covering the lower half of his face. "So, what are you doing over here all alone?" Jita asked with a smile, "Usually you have a beer in one hand and a woman in the other."

"I have been thinking," Baladira said, taking a sip from his mug and not even bothering to look up.

Jita scowled at the Prince, watching him carefully for a few seconds before setting himself down on a pillow next to Baladira, "So, what's the matter?"

"What do you mean?" Baladira asked, then sighed, "Was it that obvious?"

"We can always tell when something's the matter," Jita said, laughing as a grin spread across his face, "Well, I can at least. You're like an open book. So?"

Baladira turned to look directly at Jita, his eyes stern, "I've been thinking about them. The Poertians."

Jita just stared at Baladira, his confusion plain to see, "Uh, what about them? We got them all, and I don't think anymore are coming."

"Not soon. Not in revenge for those savages at least. But more will come; more always come."

"And we'll kill them too, just like we do bandits," Jita said with a smile, "No problem."

"Yes, it is a problem Jita," Baladira said, "These savages aren't like bandits. A bandit will slit your throat for a handful of coins, maybe kidnap and hold you for ransom if they think they can get an extra handful that way."

"Go on, because I'm not following."

Baladira sighed in frustration, "These people aren't motivated by money or anything simple like that. All they want to is to drag people screaming from their homes and take them to their demon city so they can be murdered, only for the sake of the demons they worship as gods. And they'll never stop; if anything they've been getting worse."

Jita thought for a moment before shrugging, "I suppose a zeal's a better motivation than greed. Still not seeing the big deal here; the answer's simple: we just kill all of them that come here. Done."

"If you have a wasp's nest next to your home, do you just kill any wasps that fly into your home?"

"What? Hell no; you get rid of the nest," Jita said, then his eyes lit up in understanding and he grinned, "You want to hit them back, don't you?"

Baladira nodded solemnly, "Yes, I do. We need to show them that Svargiya isn't to be trifled with."

"So, we headed to Poertia after tomorrow then?" Jita asked.

Baladira shook his head, "We're not exactly a force to be reckoned with. We need more men."

"So we get a bunch of men from here to head out with us."

"Okay, let me rephrase that. We need more warriors."

"So, where do we get more warriors?"

"Nowhere. We're not savages, and I don't think my brother would be happy about us just going and raiding into Poertia," Baladira said, "We're going to need to convince my brother."

"Your brother? You mean the Maharana?" Jita asked incredulously.

"Why do you sound surprise? I'm royalty, my brother just has a fancier title," Baladira said, his mood starting to lighten, "What's the difference."

"You don't run Svargiya or live in a giant palace," Jita pointed out.

"Only because I didn't want to," Baladira replied, "And besides, Manoratha's nice."

"But you think he'll agree to your plan?"

"Hopefully. He'll probably need some convincing though, and he'll probably call on his Councillors to advise him," Baladira said, "But I'm his brother, and my word should carry weight."

"Hopefully," Jita said, grinning, "It's been too long since I've been in anything bigger than a skirmish. Way too long."