A l t i m
“What?” came a voice. “Wh-what? Who is there?” came a fairly gruff, aggressive voice, framed with a slight hint of worry. “Who is that?” it seemed to ask another person.
“I don’t know,” came a muffled female voice. “Go and check! What if it is him?”
“Gods I hope so,” exclaimed the male voice.
After the sound of heavy approaching footsteps, the door flung open in front of Altim, Daither at his side, hiding somewhat behind the legend, tightly gripping his tunic.
The man who opened the door stood blankly for a second, his mind taking a moment to process exactly what he was seeing. His dark eyes seemed to tick like a clockwork machine driving cogs, and his thick, voluptuous lips quivered as he began to realise what was happening.
“Daither!” he shouted! “Gods, you’re okay! We have been worried sick!”
Before the boy or Altim could even begin to respond, the man was already ecstatic.
“Martha! Martha, it’s Daither!” he called back into the small house, and the female voice responded almost immediately.
“Oh Gods!” she cried, her voice somewhat muffled by her distance. This was immediately followed by the sound of running footsteps and sure enough she was at the door before long, practically in tears. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “We have been so worried!”
Daither looked at the man he had come to know as Mitlamai, finding an unexpected and newfound strength in the short time they had shared together –a strength that was surely the work of somebody imbued with the very wisdom of the Gods themselves. The boy stepped in front of Altim, finding the courage to let loose his tunic. He breathed in deep, puffing his chest as a sign of strength, and without hesitation made his feelings very clear.
“Ma,” he said. “Pa, I don’t wanna’ be a soldier.”
“Daither… look-“ said the father in response. “All the boys in the village are going to become soldiers. I was a soldier. My father was a soldier. That is just how it works around here. You would be making your mother and I very proud,”
Daither looked to Altim for strength, finding it in his deep, mystical eyes.
“But Pa!” he pleaded. “If you were worried sick from me runnin’ away into the forest, why would you want me to be sent off ta’ fight?”
The boy’s father had no response. He just looked at his wife with an expression of defeat and understanding. He had a point. Both parents knew it.
“Remember this,” said the boy, mimicking perfectly the words he had heard before. “Altim's wisdom wasn’t realised through sub-subservience. He pursued ‘is dream without putting enmity between ‘imself and ‘is elders. I wanna’ tell stories, and I wanna’ sing!”
He looked up to Altim and smiled. “Ma, Pa, this is Mitlamai,” he continued, gesturing to Altim. “He saved me in the forest!”
The father looked Altim up and down and nodded.
“Go inside, Daither. Him and I need to have a chat,”
Daither looked to Altim once more, and hurried inside. His eyes told of all the thanks he could give for his help.
The father stepped from the confines of his home and shut the door softly behind him. He came close to Altim, close enough that he would have almost been able to feel the breath upon his neck.
“Mitlamai, is it?” he asked softly. “You seem like… well, an interesting type. A travelling bard?” The father continued to look Altim up and down. “You seem like the trustworthy type. I don’t know why, but I like you. You must be blessed by the Gods or somethin’.”
The father finally stepped away, giving Altim some breathing room.
“Ya’ know, i’ve heard rumours that the Great Fire up in the Bastion has gone out. Put out by a great wind, I heard. The God Guard legion is going crazy trying to figure out how it could have been put out like that after sixty thousand years,” he shook his head.
“Look, point is, the guards are all goin’ loopy trying to figure out a way to fix it. For the first time in forever they’re distracted. And you know, i’ve heard some serious stories about the kind of things in there. You could live like a King for the rest of your life off of some of the artifacts in there.
Anyway, to the point. Me and a few of the boys where thinkin’ that maybe we could get in there, take a few of the treasures for ourselves. We could finally get out of this village. We could get into the city and we’d never have to work again. I’m thinkin’ maybe you want in on it, eh? A cut of the profits? Because we need somebody to distract the guards and, for some reason, I trust you. I think they will too.”
P r i c i a
The monastery was not as Pricia would have remembered it. What was once verdant and alive was now little more than crumbled, dilapidated ruins of its former glory. As with a lot of things from her lifetime, time had taken its toll. But that was to be expected; far more disturbing things lay within the puzzled disrepair of stone and vine. Within was little more than an unnatural umbra, a darkness so completely encompassing that not even the brightest of lights would have been able to illuminate the path against the inky, sticky blackness. Footsteps would fall, and even their echo would be consumed by shadow in a way that should not have been possible. This was not shadow of the corporeal world, but something else entirely.
Deep within the ruins, once where a great fire used to burn in honour of Goethia was now a carbonised stain upon the uneven rock floor. Above was the gently swaying body of the Priest who tended the flame. Once proud and dedicated to his goddess, but now hung from the creaking monastery ceiling by a wiry thin rope that had frayed and crusted from years of decay. Whether he inflicted such a fate upon himself was unclear. Perhaps he was driven to madness? Or perhaps he simply needed to flee from a foe that could not be outrun.
The central chamber of the monastery, whilst remaining relatively unchanged from how Pricia would have remembered it, was illuminated solely by a single shaft of thin light trickling through a minuscule crack in the natural rock formation that supported the old carved structure. At the far end of the room was a chest embroiled with silver, with beautiful carvings upon its wooden surface of heroic acts and depictions of the unyielding force of nature. Beyond that were two pathways, both winding and seemingly impossibly thin. Too small for any human to fit through… But not too small for a follower of Goethia bearing the Mark of the Wild…
But such thoughts would have to wait. A sound could be heard deep from one of the pathways. It was like the sound of bones grinding on bones, and a ghostly murmuring accompanied it. From the darkness emerged two creatures, tall and spindly. In the shadow they would be hard to make out, but as they raised themselves to full height after squeezing through the tiny crawlspaces, it became apparent what made itself known. Two skeletal creatures, with skulls deformed to look like they were grinning with evil delight, began to prowl, circling the room. Empty eyes locked upon a creature of the flesh that had entered the monastery after so many years of silence.
Bearing armaments of jagged bone, they snarled and squealed. Somehow.
It was time for them to bloody their weapons once more.
K i ’ i r a
Nothing.
There was nothing beyond the small hill. Save for the cold remains of a camp that had been abandoned days ago and more hills rolling into the horizon, and a thick line of trees sprawling into the distance in every other direction. Ki’ira had followed the map perfectly; to the letter, in fact. But there was nothing: A few torn down tents and a few empty barrels exempt. But there certainly was nothing to drink. The rain had truly begun to settle in, and the thick must of petrichor had filled the air for some time. The heavy pitter patter of droplets upon the ground had become almost deafening, undoubtedly so for one whose hearing was as honed as Ki’ira’s. Her newfound clothes were to become sodden and waterlogged in no time at all, though it would hardly matter for one who could conjure flames at will. It was a grim, depressing situation, and would be for anybody stricken by such.
In the distance, thunder had begun to crack, and distant bolts of lighting illuminated the horizon in scintillating waves through the thick far-fog that had washed in from the ocean, like streams of fireflies weaving through smoke.
For a moment, through a brief interlude in the thunderous roaring, Ki’ira would have been able to discern a sound in the distance; one that sounded distinctly… human.
From the treeline emerged a host of robed figures, hooded and acting with purpose. They seemed to be more capable than the bandits Ki’ira had relieved of their clothes some days prior; as they wielded not knives but masterfully crafted bows with savage arrows knocked. Beneath their dulled green cloaks was the timeless crest of the royal family upon chainmail and padded leather. They were men of the King.
“Halt!” one shouted at her, struggling to make his voice heard above the storm.
There would have been ten rangers at a glance, all armed, and all with their weapons ready to fire upon their target should any sudden moves be made.
“By order of the King, you are to relinquish whatever arms you may be carrying and submit. You have been charged with theft and intimidation!”
V o l k i m i r
The morning suns would rise in a few hours. Despite the heavy storms that were wracking the heartlands, it was still summer and the days were still long. However, the morning would only bring unrest for the hamlet which had been visited by the Mortifier that night; for one of the village’s own was found upon the outskirts, entirely eviscerated, and being feasted upon by a pack of hungering wolves. The body was near unrecognisable, and the amount of blood staining the ground was remarkable for the handiwork of even a wolf pack.
The man’s family shed their tears for the loss, but thought nothing of it beyond a freak accident of the night. They suspected nothing…
The city of Ghora was still a night’s trek away for Volkimir, who would have been able to see the settlement in the basin of the valley he would be travelling down. The city lights were an astonishing sight from afar for anybody with the luck to venture into the wilderness beyond it to catch such a legendary glimpse. The city was contained within a large palisade to keep out the wolves and the bandits, but otherwise did not have many other defences with the exception of lightly manned guard towers at regular intervals across the palisade so that a watch could be kept through the night. The city itself, however, was a wonder of taverns and brothels and dirt roads that criss-crossed one another. It was the perfect city for one to blend and get their bearings…
But the road toward the city was still long, and while Volkimir undoubtedly did not fear the hunger of wildlife, extra patrols of guards had come back and forth between Ghora and the hamlet the past night in response to the aggressive nature of the wolf attack the night before.
E l l a r i a n
Who was the captain to argue? It was actually rather ingenious. Using the unshattered hellstones against their enemy? It was becoming more and more obvious to the captain why Ellarian was revered so, even if he detected that the legendary soldier perhaps was not pleased with his newfound role of hero. It took mere minutes for him to inspire the men, something that the captain was not capable of doing after just the first day of the siege; the men were just too weary; too broken. But Ellarian inspired something deep within them, and their newfound energy was almost palpable in the air.
It didn’t take the captain long to instruct the work detail to gather all the hellstones that had been laying upon the walls for days on end like ticking time bombs. The captain did not know what Ellarian was planning, but he had a fairly good idea.
The afternoon sunlight soon began to fade as the two suns began to fall into the horizon. The light from the Rings of the World instead took prominence, changing the sands from a blazing yellow to a mystical blueish white; like magical snow littering the dunes. It was almost an entirely different world. The sand cats had gone silent, and were replaced by the beckoning war-howls of the sub-men below who were preparing themselves for another night’s slaughter. Campfires sprung into being all along the war host, and the clamour of crude iron blades could be faintly heard amongst the barbaric screams and bloodthirsty taunts.
The seven hundred men that Ellarian had rallied were already assembled by the main gate. Some of the men were visibly shaken, but others were enthused by the presence of Ellarian, whom the captain met beside the battle group. Behind the captain trotted up three fortress workers, each carrying a full sack of the hellish white stones.
“Good evening, my l- sir,” he bowed ever so slightly, before remembering that Ellarian expressed a slight discontentedness at such behaviour. “We managed to recover about seventy hellstones from the walls. Gods I hope your plan works,” he exclaimed, as the distinct sound of charging feet could be heard through the thick stone walls, matched with a battle cry that was decidedly different from the one that had been wailed for the last hour.
“The assault has begun…”
