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Lord Zee
Double Capybara
Cyclone
ChronoBovino
VecGreed Behind Ambition
With the city streets of Yala now filled to overflowing with it's determined troops, it wasn't long before the caravan carrying the municipalities precious crown prince disappeared from prying eyes, lost amongst the powerful bodies of Yala's elite contingent. Unfortunately, the caravan's departure was being observed by another set of eyes, a pair much less concerned about the well-being of Yalan royalty.
A heavy set man, with shoulders like a bear and arms like tree stumps, slowly smiled in satisfaction as he watched a miniature image of the caravan set inside a vast mirror of perfectly ground crystal, the wagons moving through a throng of soldiers.
"Excellent!" He softly growled before running ham-like hand over a balding head and an unshaven jaw. Though now softening in the middle, it was clear that he had been a powerful man at one time, as had his father been before him, and his father. Up the line of descent to the first of their long and storied House, the giant known in the annals of the Amestris and Xerxes as Urud the Mighty.
The man known as the Usurper, the last of his line to sit on the throne of Ngarlak, then took a step back from the crystal mirror sitting in its beautifully hand carved frame of precious black oak, close to the chamber's center. It, like many of the objects that lay thickly clustered about it, were the last signs of the Usurper's waning power. Waning, but still enough to reach across the long leagues that separated his Reach from that of Xerxes' Cipher.
Rich they were, the objects that filled the room to the point of opulence. But Urud had long grown used to, and even tired of, most of them. Majestic tapestries woven from the satin of the Djilyaro, hung from oak beam ceiling to flagstone floor. Beneath them were dozens of hand-spun carpets in the rich colors and fabrics of Koa covering that floor, along with thick furs of rare animals from the far north, trapped in the depths of the vast Ironhearts. All of these things, worth a king's ransom each, had become common to the big man in the heart of his exile.
Ignored also were candelabras of solid gold holding long tapers dipped from the finest of animal fats, a table of polished black oak that cradled a set of gem encrusted goblets of beaten gold and a golden flagon of fine wine. It sat chilling in a tub of fresh snow brought that day from the peaks of a small mountain range which reached into southern Ngarlak. A small sorcerous spell worth the life of a single turtle dove kept the tub cold, preventing the snow from melting and keeping the wine nicely chilled.
In subtle contrast to the frost lining the tub's outer surface, a merry fire of donner's wood burned in the small hearth set into the room's northern wall. The scented and spicy fuel was brought with great expense from the city of Jarrah. Burning it produced a smoke both intoxicating and relaxing, making the wood highly prized across Amestris.
Partaking of that intoxication were three men, each clothed in the military uniform of the Uric Rebellion, as was the Usurper, the rank of warmaster on their shoulders and sleeves. As the soft gray smoke slowly wrapped itself around their lean bodies, slight smiles played on their tanned faces. The vacant smiles, however, didn't reach their hard eyes, steely orbs of chiseled determination as they gazed upon the thickset rebel leader, his face florid from the chilled wine. No amount of intoxication could wipe away the darkness they embraced when they turned their backs on the people they called their brothers and sisters to help fuel the rebellion against them. That darkness now glittered from the windows to their souls.
"Excellent," the Usurper repeated, the chill in his voice in mocking counterpoint to the flush of alcohol in his face. "The fools; they've no idea what kind of pain they will suffer!" Then his eyes were lifted from the mirror to take in his generals wrapped in their cloud of smoke as he leaned against the crystal's great wooden frame.
"Are the troops in place, warmasters?" he growled and, as one, the three officers bowed their affirmatives. Nodding in satisfaction the big man stood erect and grabbed one of the goblets off the table. Lifting it with a jerk to his mouth, he drained it in one swallow. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he casually tossed the goblet over his shoulder and grimaced after a long, windy belch erupted from his mouth.
"Well, it seems your plan is working, sorcerer," he rumbled to an almost invisible form that sat unmoving in a far corner. "For a while I had my doubts, allying with those bumbling idiots to the east and west, the use of this accursed magic and it's need for blood, that phantom army, all of it." The big man scooped up another goblet and raised it to his frowning mouth.
There it paused while the big man's dark eyes stabbed into the shadows.
"Well? No reaction, magic maker? Nothing to say?" Then the goblet was tipped up and dark wine rushed into the big mouth, filling it to overflowing. A trickle slid down the side of the round, unshaven face to disappear into the folds of flesh at the neck, which was unrestrained by the loosened collar of his undecorated uniform.
The form in the corner stirred before a low, husky voice issued from it.
"What is there left to say, Usurper?"
The emptied goblet quickly joined the first and the Usurper reached for a third as he replied to the rasped question.
"How about: fantastic, or excellent. Or even 'I am very pleased'. This sitting in a corner does nothing to bolster my confidence in your plan, Jericho. Did you not see the last of the wagons pull out of the city?"
"Aye," the figure that was Jericho husked. Thick lips pursed.
"Doesn't that excite you?"
"No," came the harsh reply, blunt and cold, the lean figure not moving.
"Why not?" the big man demanded, the third goblet of wine forgotten in his massive fist as he stared at the shadowy form of the sorcerer. "After all, it was the spell of one of your acolytes that brought the message of Sin's return. And your own spells that extended it over the entirety of Amestris, driving Vicer first to madness then to distraction so my armies could set themselves up at his doorstep so he would send his bastard son to defend. You should feel at least something for the fact it actually worked."
"My spells always work, Urud," the chill voice bluntly stated.
"So you keep saying," the Usurper muttered, suddenly remembering the goblet in his hand. Intent on taking a drink, he raised it to his mouth. But he lifted the heavy gold cup too quickly and the goblet's contents were sloshed all over the front of the man's uniform tunic. But Urud ignored the spill and drained the goblet anyway before adding it to its comrades already behind him. Wiping his mouth with his hand once more, he went on.
"You didn't seem so confident a fortnight ago when you appeared at my gates, eager to take over my cadre of acolytes and help me in my quest to unite Amestris." Grunting, Urud broke wind then followed it with another deep and windy belch.
Jericho's cold mind flinched at the blatant slobbery. Ever since he had entered the so-called Usurper's employ, the man's habits had appalled him. One would think that age would've made him more tolerant of his lessers. But, sadly, it wasn't the case. Even from where he sat in the corner at the furthest point away from Urud, he could still smell the man's unwashed body. No scented oil could hide that stench; it nearly made him gag.
Yet the man was a step, one of many the old sorcerer needed to take to return to the pinnacle of power he enjoyed during the glorious cycles of the long dead Amestrain Empire. A dry smile suddenly creased his narrow face, hidden in shadow and he allowed a brief, dry laugh inside his mind before he pushed the weakness of mirth back out of his mind.
Yes, to have that power again! But, only once could one attain power as easily as being born with it, he silently mused. This time he would need to work for it. This time he needed to use, ... tools.
"Bickering is useless, Urud," he softly said in his dry, cold voice. "There's much to do before we declare victory. Vicar won't be easily pushed from Yala's throne."
"Yes, yes," Urud grunted as he absently scratched at the two or three days' growth of whiskers on his chin. "That's what you said when you first suggested this great, unstoppable plan of yours. But now, according to our spies, most of the people of Yala have left the city, the prince rides against us, and surly, soon will the royal family depart, as predicted. The trap now can be sprung." A broad grin sprouted on Urud's unwholesome face as he reached out to pat the crystal's warm roundness.
"And, thanks to your toy here, and those cards, we even know where they are, and with a certainty, know how it will all play out."
"Indeed," Jericho husked, looking the other way.
Seeing the slender, bent form of the sorcerer turn away in apparent disinterest, Urud frowned. Only days before the wiry old man had come to him, selling his grand idea on laying Amestris low with great enthusiasm. Yet Jericho now acted as if it concerned him as much as a rash did. Was there something else going on inside the old sorcerer's head that he wasn't aware of?
"You're not planning to let the prince escape, are you?" he cautiously asked.
"Nonsense. Then it'd be a waste of time and effort," the thin sorcerer flatly replied.
"Then shouldn't we be doing something at this point?" Urud asked dryly, his frown growing as his patience began to wear thin.
"And what do you suggest we do, Urud?" Jericho asked in turn, his voice still soft. But as he brought his gaze around to bear on the thickset rebel leader, his black irised eyes were hard as stone.
The look, equal parts aloof anger and hot disdain, was enough to push the former king the rest of the way to frustration, his patience at last, lost.
"How about springing the thrice-damned trap, for Amestris' sake!" the big man snarled, stepping heavily around the crystal and its stand to come to a halt in front of Jericho, clenched fists on hips.
With Urud that close, the thin man found it almost impossible to breath as a nauseating mixture of body odor, stale food and bad breath now swirled thickly about him. With a grimace, he stood and pushed past the big man to stride quickly to the other side of the room where he found the air a spring breeze compared to the space around Urud.
"Very well," he said, glad to be away from the miasma that clung to Urud like a mantle of foulness. "If you can't contain your impatience and lust for Yala's destruction, I'll spring the 'trap', as you so quaintly call it." 'Just stay away from me!' he silently finished as he watched an ugly smile of satisfaction split Urud's thick features with his reluctant capitulation.
Pushing the unwelcome sight to the back of his mind, Jericho turned slightly as he began to mentally form the images he would need for the first part of his spell. As a curious Urud watched, he reached into his belt pouch, hanging beneath the bulky black robe he wore, and pulled out a small stone amulet. It was a shape-less lump of gray rock, as non-descript as any found at the side of a road, attached to a simple leather cord by a heavy steel staple punched into it's rounded edge.
Other than the cord, the only thing that distinguished this piece of stone from any other was the hole that had been laboriously bored through its center axis. It was around this strange little hole Jericho's claw-like index finger slowly began to circle as the cadaverous sorcerer murmured a chant in an alien tongue beneath his breath.
Frowning, Urud leaned even closer, trying to catch the words spilling in a non-stop stream from Jericho's thin lips. Before he could make out even one, however, the old sorcerer abruptly flung the hand clutching the amulet high into the air. At the same time he barked a single, guttural word. With a blink of discharge, the thick air of the small study began to churn with gathering energies in response to the alien command.
"What the, . . .?" Urud began, casting about with eyes wide in amazement. Then, with a sharp 'clap' of sound, a portal opened in the space directly before the bent old sorcerer.
Before Urud or any of his generals could catch more than a glimpse of what seethed beyond the portal's head-sized threshold, a giant hand of force curled about them. Moving so swiftly they were unable to react, the hand picked them up and slung them all into the nearby tapestry-covered wall. The four men impacted with enough force to drive the generals into unconsciousness, all of them sliding to the floor to lie in untidy heaps.
For his part, Urud managed to keep his consciousness with him. But he dropped onto the ground like an obscene, overly ripe fruit, emptying his stomach in one vast heave before he rolled onto his side where he lay groaning, stars dancing before his eyes. His mind reeled in shock as he tried to shake off the effects of the impact with the wall. But a greater shock awaited him when his eyes finally cleared.
There, floating above the scrying crystal was a creature pulled straight out of the imagination of the sickest of gods. A sickening twist of color and motion, it was a pair of hotly glowing red eyes and misty chaos.
"By Amestris' hairy crotch!" Urud breathed as he struggled up onto his elbows, vomit clinging to his tunic in putrid decoration.
Even worse, the thing seemed to be in conversation with that blasted sorcerer, it's eyes flaring in time to the rough words it croaked from somewhere in its wraith-like body. Urud blinked his eyes in rapid disbelief. Only to catch sight of it upon the last opening of his lids as it bobbed in midair and disappeared with a thunderous clap of displaced air, the room suddenly thick with sulphurous fumes. In an instant the heavyset rebel king was on his feet.
"What, in the name of Fate's ass, was that?!" he hotly demanded.
"You know the answer to that, Urud," answered a satisfied Jericho as he dropped the now dead amulet back into his pouch, unperturbed by Urud's explosive exclamation. "I'm sure you've heard the occult's powers."
"Aye, but to actually see one of those things. And in my own damn study, to boot!"
"My demonic allies are necessary for the next part of this plan," Jericho flatly stated, turning hard eyes onto the bulky rebel leader. "You do want Amestris, do you not?"
"Aye. But I can't say I'm keen on the idea of heavy supernatural involvement," the big man began.
"Then you've come to the wrong sorcerer," Jericho interrupted sharply to say, deliberately ignoring the fact that it was he that had knocked on Urud's door, not the other way around. "Either we use my plan in its entirety. Or you find other assistance!"
Urud's eyes narrowed at the flat, blunt ultimatum as he reassessed this almost frail looking old man. There was strength there now, coiling out from deep within, and its power suddenly made him wary. He could almost feel the black eyes boring into him as Jericho stared defiantly back at him.
"Very well." He finally rasped, his desire to take the throne of Amestris winning over his fear of the supernatural. And Jericho, . . .
"When do these demons attack?"
*
Several days' travel north of Yala found the short caravan of wagons that streamed out of the capital at the king's command. Flanking them on either side were a company of the Cobra's Legion, joining them after a brief pause at Lunaris, a fortified loyalist holding two days' north of Yala. To say the soldiers, drawn from the finest of the kings command, were a welcome sight to the handful of Prince's Own guarding the caravan would've been a vast understatement.
Unfortunately the soldiers, with their bright breastplates and blades always at ready, were nearly lost this day in a thick fog bank that rose from damp ground sometime in the early Watches of the morning to completely surround them in a thick, damp blanket of gray. Only the steady drum of shod hooves on cobblestone marked them keeping pace with the caravan as it pushed on through the fog to the north.
Hidden the men were, but their eyes were sharp in keeping watch on the wagon in the caravan's midst, a beautiful coach pulled by four powerful horses, each one from the finest of Yalan stock. The carriage they pulled was carved by hand from the dark woods of Jarrah, rolling silently on greased hubs in elegant contrast to the plodding wagons around them, which were pulled by thick-shouldered oxen.
With carved windows covered with curtains of silk overlooking both sides of the carriage, the coach was piloted by two soldiers of the Prince's Own, the prince's personal bodyguard. Their characteristic silver and purple scaled livery was pulled over thick tunics, marking them clearly in the mist-filled air despite thick cloaks draped around muscular shoulders as proof against the damp chill. Two more rode where the footmen usually sat, grim women with bow and arrow close at hand as they stared hard around them into the gloom, the heavyset men surrounding them notwithstanding.
In all, both the impromptu escort of heavy horse and the silver and purple of the Prince's Own bespoke to the importance of this carriage's passengers.
"Hallas," Sirax began. "What does our good Commander Adar have to say about conditions beyond the border?"
Hallas slipped a tightly rolled parchment from within his tunic and, after unfurling it, glanced down at the neat, compact script marching across its creamy face.
"He comments on the movements of a massive military force pouring out of the north." He handed the parchment to a frowning Sirax. "By his estimations, they'll reach Yala in about three days."
The square prince threw his officer a quick look.
"Does he have an identification for us? One of Urud's, perhaps?"
Hallas shook his head.
"From what I gathered, the army wasn't human at all."
"Not human?" Sirimax frowned, his mind working hard behind his eyes.
"Actually, the major indicated his rangers saw not one recognizable member of any race within it's ranks." He handed the prince a number of smaller scraps of parchment upon which a number of sketches had been made with charcoal.
Sirax frown only deepened as he let his gaze travel from sketch to sketch. The drawings included pictures of a wiry individual, with strange, pointed ears and dark skin, squat reptilian giants and tall, powerful beasts covered in matted hair.
"And Adar didn't have a name for these creatures, did he?"
Hallas shook his head.
That's all they needed: another player on an already crowded board.
The bluff prince's face tightened as yet another thought occurred to him: if this dark force was truly on the move against the,, then there was a good chance there was some connection to Urud and his insurrection. Burn him, did Ur and these new soldiers plan on taking Yala together? If that happened, Sirimax's beleaguered force could find itself in the soup.
He paused to rub a hand of a suddenly tired face. As if they weren't in the soup already, and a particularly messy one at that.
He glanced up at Hallas, the leftnant still waiting patiently for his commander to speak. Patient, yes, but there was no mistaking the question on his face. Hallas was wondering what they were going to do now. 'A damn good question.' Sirimax darkly mused to himself. 'And I don't have the first idea on how to answer it.'
"Tell Adar to have his rangers track this new force, leftnant. I don't want them moving without us knowing about it. And have them gather as much intelligence about them as they can. When we end up facing them in battle, I want to know every weakness we can exploit."
"Yes, sir," Hallas replied, saluting.
Before the lean colonel could step out of the wagon completely, however, Sirax quickly spoke.
"And Hallas, prepare our best scouts. I want them to carry messages to he King and Queen."
"What should the....
Without warning the slender officer's voice trailed off as his eyes went wide with agonized surprise, his mouth continuing to silently work. Then with a pain-filled groan, he toppled out of the wagon, his entire body twitching once before going limp.
"Hallas!" Sirax bellowed, leaping from his chair to find his fallen comrade in the dirt. "By Fate's Grace, what, ...?"
It then was his voice that trailed off into shocked silence as his sharp eyes discovered the arrow jutting out of the side of his unloving friend's neck.
"Hallas!" he husked, shock, anger and sorrow rushing through him like a storm.
Another arrow silently flying out of the fog to sink into the wooden frame beside him with a heavy 'thunk' of impact was enough to pull the big prince from his shock. Instantly the rage, pure and bestial, pushed everything else aside.
"Sound the horn!"
Trelan, the pilot of the royal carriage, tore free the brass horn hanging from his belt with a surge of powerful muscles, and raised it to his lips and blew hard, the sound lifting pure and unrestrained over the rain's hiss and into the thick air. The sound jerked around the heads of the Cobra's Legion escort to face the captain as the other Prince's Own riding in back boiled to their feet.
But any answers to the unspoken questions on their faces weren't forthcoming, the blast itself short lived. Streaking out of the fog, another arrow appeared to bury itself in Trelan's throat, the impact snapping his head back. Finding himself suddenly without voice, fiery pain blossoming in his neck, Trelan threw the horn onto the ground with a burbled curse as blood filled his mouth. He turned in time to watch several of the Cobra's Legion get torn to shreds by a hail of arrows.
Frantically the big captain reached for his sword as he heard the two behind him let loose with their arrows at unseen shapes in the fog, determined to fight to the death to protect the prince. Only to find his fingers stopped short of the hilt by three more arrows slamming into his broad chest, his mail shirt doing little to slow them. The missiles, insistently burrowing into his body, instantly stole his strength. Spitting blood as his legs suddenly lost their power, Trelan fell back against on the Prince's Own, his vision darkening. In doing so, his gauntleted hand fell onto the reins and convulsively they took hold of them, his falling body pulling back on the broad leather straps. With a jerk the carriage's team brought it to a halt in response.
Momentum slumping him over the end of the bench seat, the sharp motion was enough to jolt the failing Trelan back to his senses. He pushed the fluids welling up in his mouth and throat out with a convulsive cough as he willed his muscles into motion. He had to warn the Prince! With the overflow a warm rivulet that trickled over his chin and onto his snowy white surcoat to wreath the silver and purple oak tree in red, he leaned down to take hold of the curtain, the motion pushing the arrows even deeper into his body. Ignoring the pain, he gathered his flagging strength.
"Your Majesty!" he gasped roughly, bloody spittle flying from his lips to stream down the silken curtain.
"We've been ambushed!"
Then the fog exploded with shouts and screams, the blowing of horns a shrill counterpoint as Urud and his rebel forces attacked from their hiding places.
*
The commander of the guard detachment manning the western gates felt his guts tighten in cold fear as he watched the horizon darken from side to side with an army of the like he had never seen. Thousands of foot soldiers, hundreds of mounted warriors, siege engines, ... it was a force with an obvious purpose. This army was here to crush Yala.
"Commander?" Vicar hissed as he leapt the last handful of stairs and stepped onto the platform high on one of the guard towers that stood on either side of the massive western gates to the city. Behind him came his brother, Prince Lor, his Generals and his aide, Vodun.
The view of the vast army stretching across the western plain, however, was answer enough.
"Shards and bloody stones," Lor breathed beside his brother, Vicar having fallen silent in stunned shock.
"There's no conceivable way the rebels could've reached us so fast," a general hissed with open disbelief. "Just a tenday ago they where amassing at our borders to the north."
"Yet there this army stands," another rumbled, his gauntleted hands flexing. "And from the west I might add they marched."
"I, for one, will not, can not yield to such devotees of evil. I must return to my command, and direct them march on this army and give them battle!" Vicar, flatly growled. "General Kith, sound the general alarm. All troops to full alert, garrison and guard stations to their battle positions. Prepare to defend the walls!"
As commands to prepare sent ripples through the soldiers close about the knot of lords, generals and nobles, Vicar grabbed his brother's arm.
"You need to get Naomi and the children out of the city, my brother. Now! And send our best scouts to find Sirax and his detachment. Somehow Urud deceived us." he tautly whispered into his darker brother's ear.
"Consider it done, my king," Lor quickly assured his brother. Then he was gone, pushing through rushing soldiers to disappear near the doorway leading downward.
"My lord," a respectful voice spoke from the walkway behind him and, Vicar twisted in place to find a scout standing some five paces away, a tightly furled scroll in a gauntleted hand.
"I have word from Master Sirax's convoy that must be conveyed to you immediately!"
Not bothering to wonder what was going on, took two quick strides and he was accepting the scroll from the scout's hand and twisting it open. Only to crumple it into a tight ball a heartbeat after scanning it's contents.
"Bones and bloody shards!" he snarled, hurling the parchment ball into the darkness as fiery anger raged through him. "It was a bloody illusion! The army at the borders!?"
"I want Vethie and Kith up here now. If they're not here in five turns of the small glass, I'll have their heads decorating pikes at my gate. Got me?"
"Yes, sire!" Then the scout was off at a dead run.
Vicar watched her go for a long moment before turning his eyes back to the distant blur that was the rebel army gathering against him. An ambush at on the road to the northern boarder encampment, the parchment had said, his only child had gone missing and hundreds where left dead. And news that the army looming to the north at his border was nothing but a phantom.
"It's over, Urud," he hissed, voice filled with cold venom as the air began to ring with the proud song of Yalan war horns.
"You, Ur, . . . you're all dead!"
