> “The wanton cruelty and thirst for violence beholden by the Tyrant King was so great, so atrocious, not even the Trinity could ignore Lixcyus’ plight. Unwilling to unleash such an evil upon the rest of the known world, the populace and the Church banded together, enacting a rebellion so bloody the rivers of the northern continent were stained so thoroughly it would be months before one could see its crystal-clear waters.”
> —Castellan Froya, History of Wis, Vol. II
Chapter 3: Ginwind
A small hunting party leaves the village come morn. Rena stays behind to study under Ginwind’s resident apothecary, if only to learn more of the local plantlife. Supposedly, it was to learn how to make sedatives and healing salves should anything happen while on the road. It also gave them an excuse to tend to the injuries on his person. Although he felt no pain, that did not mean his injuries disappeared. The bits of flesh eaten by the rodents in the gaols are still missing from his body.
The hunting party consists of twelve able-bodied men, many of whom are between fourteen and sixteen years of age. The eldest among them is at least forty, looking slightly less skinny than the other villagers. Leather armor and a worn-out hunting bow adorn his body.
“We’re grateful for your assistance, milord,” the lead hunter says with a weary smile. “Hopefully we’ll score enough game to fill your belly.”
Roland nods. He’s still unhappy they are still in Ginwind, but he agreed with Rena to assist the villagers for at least one more day. He doesn’t disagree with the idea of helping them, but he can’t help but feel anxious. There was no telling when the inquisitors would stumble upon the village and discover him. The longer they stay in the village, the more danger they put these people in.
Still, at the very least, we can get some meat on these people’s bones, Roland thinks to himself, remembering the state of the older villagers. They’re purposefully starving themselves so their children get the most. The younger folks are hale and hearty, but the others are too frail. Even Bertran looks like he’d fall over if a gust of wind blew over him.
Idly, he wonders what it must be like to drive oneself to starvation for the sake of others.
The forest is unusually thick for being so close to the village. The roots of the trees are upended from the earth and bunched up in knots, nearly tripping Roland more than a few times. The branches and their leaves create a lush green ceiling that blots most of the sky, creating a seemingly unending patch of shade. Small plants and flowers grow at the base of the trees in rings.
“We’d best find that pack of myzims before the sky grows any darker,” one of the hunters says. “Strata herself must be angry.”
“Are you sure they were myzims?” Roland asks. “Did you check the runes on their coats?”
The leader hunter, Kyle, nods. “They were red, which means they’re female. Didn’t see any males.”
Among the many creatures and beasts that call the twin islands of Lixcyus their home, the myzims are among the favored form of meat. These six-legged herbivores can be found almost anywhere, easily recognized by their legs, the crown-like trio of antlers growing from their necks, and the runic markings decorating their pitch-black fur. The size of the myzim and the color of the runes identify their gender; females are smaller with red markings whereas their male counterparts are bigger with red markings. Roland encountered them once before his untimely arrest at Burke’s behest as the apparent bread winner of his family.
The hunt itself was easy, though skinning the animal and harvesting its meat proved a difficult affair.
Hopefully, the same held true here.
Kyle leads his hunting band plus Rolan through the thick rows of trees. Roland hears the sounds of the forest around them, from the chill breeze weaving through the branches and the chittering of small creatures making themselves at home within the towering pillars of wood and earth. He kept vigilant for even the faintest hint of inquisition soldiers, his hand never once leaving the pommel of his ill-gotten blade.
After a minute of traversal, the hunter raises his hand. The band comes to a halt and falls to their haunches. Roland peers above Kyle’s shoulder and follows his line of sight. Ahead, he finds their quary on its haunches. The myzim is a young adult, barely bigger than a caenis.
“Just one?” a hunter notes in confusion. “Where’s the rest of the herd?”
“Must’ve gotten separated,” Kyle surmises and draws his bow from his back, the other hand reaching for one of the arrows in his quiver. “Likely for the best. We’d risk scaring off the others. Isolated prey is easier to hunt.” He assumes an archery form and knocks the arrow back. The bowstring grows taught and strained until the arrow is aligned with his shoulder. A second later, the arrow sings in the air and hits its target. It sinks into the myzim’s flank, causing the creature to cry pitifully before falling to its side.
The hunting band quickly crowds the creature, the soldier readying his sword in case the myzim suddenly becomes violent. Its black dead eyes seemingly stare at him. Roland grimaces and focuses his gaze elsewhere.
“Quick and clean,” a young hunter praises Kyle. “’Rusty’ my bleeding arsehole. You’ve still got left in you, old man.”
“Kind of you to say, boy,” Kyle chuckles. “Be a lad and pull this thing onto your shoulders, would you? I can knock back arrows plenty fine, but not a beastie like this.”
“You’d probably break your back with a male, much less an alpha,” another hunter jokes, eliciting a few laughs among the hunting band.
“Come off it, joker. No one’s seen an alpha myzim in decades!”
The stocky hunter pulls the dead myzim female onto its shoulders and grabs its legs for leverage, ensuring it does not slide off. He stands back up with a grunt and begins making his way back to the village. The rest move on, Kyle still at the head and following the apparent trail left by their recent prize. Hoofprints disturbed the carpet of leaves, leading further into the forest.
As they walk, Kyle makes conversation with Roland. “It’s been years since I’ve last met an inquisitor, Sir Burke,” he says while keeping his eyes in front. “I was barely a boy when I first laid eyes on one. Never saw such a man clad in armor. Out of everything, it was his eyes that stuck out to me. Steely, cold even, as if he was a soldier fighting an impossible battle.”
“Is that so?” Inwardly, Roland tensed. The grip on his sword tightens, suddenly wary of the old hunter. The younger ones pay no heed to Kyle’s words, more interested in themselves and their surroundings. None of them have ever traveled this far into the woods before. “He must have might quite the impression.”
“Aye. I never caught his name. He left as quickly as he came, never once looked back. First and only time I ever met one up until now. Yer kind leave one hell of an impression, if I’m being blunt. The stories don’t help much.”
“Pray tell, what stories have you heard?”
“They say your kind are a cold and brutal bunch,” Kyle answers in a remarkably even tone. “They do what must be done in the Trinity’s name. Some call you savants, others call you monsters.”
“And you?”
Kyle looks at the soldier with a wry smile. “I see men. No more, no less. At the very least, you have a kind heart, sticking around to help us commonfolk.”
The hunter’s words are like a hot knife wound to the chest. What would he say, Roland bitterly wonders, if he knew how he wanted to leave them behind to save his own skin? Kyle makes assumptions, all incorrect. For a moment, Roland is tempted to undo the lie around him and speak plain, tell the old hunter the truth of who he is if only to see his reaction. What sort of face would Kyle make were he to learn the man before him is an undead monster, his companion a witch, and the inquisitors religious zealots who ruined his life and killed an innocent man?
Kyle turns away and returns his focus to the search. Roland, likewise, drops the matter. As they delve further into the woods, the rows of trees space out and become less cluttered, and the knots and clusters of upended roots grow scarce. Faint beams of sunlight start poking through the leafy canopy above their heads.
Suddenly, a horrid feeling assaults Roland’s very being. His muscles lock up tight, his nerves burning as though someone set them aflame. He feels someone’s gaze upon him, cold and judging as if trying to determine whether to spare his life or kill him for the insult of breathing.
As though sensing the unseen danger, Kyle abruptly stops. The grip on his bow tightens until his knuckles are white and the wood starts creaking from the pressure. The other hunters bring out their weapons and get into a defensive formation, as if expecting an enemy assault from all sides.
Kyle grimaces, the unpleasant feeling growing stronger by the second. He unsheathes his sword and feels the hidden glare intensify, scrutinizing his every action.
The hunters are no longer predators. They are prey.
“What’s going on?” a hunter asks as he swallows the dry lump in his throat. “I-I feel like somebody is standing over my grave.”
“Is it a ghaust?” another asks fearfully. “Are we being haunted right now?!”
The name is unfamiliar to Roland, yet the mere mention of it instills fear and apprehension among the hunting band. He searches for the source, but all he sees is green and brown.
Tension fills the air. No one dares to move. The oppressive feeling of judgment continues to bear down upon Roland to the point it wears on his nerves. Then, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Something steps out of the shadows of the forest, its footsteps both quiet as a mouse and loud as thunder in his ears. His attention focuses squarely on the beast, and it in turn pays no attention to the hunters.
Roland looks upon the creature in a marriage of fascination and uncertainty. Umbral eyes stare at him intensely, the color so dark he cannot tell where the pupils begin and where the iris ends. It’s leathery flesh is an unhealthy pallor, a shade lighter than even a deadwalker’s snow-white skin. Every patch of flesh clings tightly to its unnaturally skinny frame, yet there are no indications of malnutrition, starvation, or even emaciation, as if its natural form is skeletal. Its feet are a bizarre mix of talons and hooves, with two rear toes being thick stubs that sink into the mud and four long digits of leathery white skin and ebony nail, razor sharp and easily capable of slicing through flesh and bone. It resembles a horse in posture, but with a haunch, bent back and a narrow, angular head with a long mouth filled with sharp teeth. Upon the crest of its forehead are eight horns of varying length, the longest being as tall as a human middle finger.
Roland hears the startled cries of the hunters around him. One even falls on his rear and scrambles to get as far away from the creature as possible. They are something, but he can’t hear them. It’s all noise, drowned out and blurred in favor of focusing on the bizarre creature standing aways from him.
They share a tense stand-off, with Roland ready to charge and kill the beast while the other continues to observe and judge. What feels like an eternity passes before the creature narrows its eyes.
A sensation pierces Roland’s head, searing into his skull. He grimaces in discomfort as the feeling encroaches on the fringes of his mind. Something is probing him, scouring his being for answers. He continues to hold his glare against the creature, fighting off the sensation with all the mental fortitude he can muster.
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The sensation recedes, and the tension bleeds away. The overwhelming pressure on his shoulders disappears as the creature’s hostile gaze softens. For a moment, he thinks it’s looking at him with pity before it turns around and skulks back into the shadows.
Seconds pass. Almost all the hunters collapse into trembling heaps of sweat, all gasping for breath.
“Trinity preserve us,” Kyle mumbles near-incoherently under his breath. He looks as if he can hardly stand. “What in all things holy is a death omen doing here?”
“A what?”
“Drakeling,” he clarifies. “Rarely seen, and for good reason. When one shows up in front of you, it only ends one way.” The hunter’s face grows crestfallen, the life seemingly sapped from his very being. “Disaster comes, no matter if you come out of the meeting alive.”
Roland frowns. “I…don’t understand. What does that mean?”
Kyle says nothing more, his face ashen. Although Roland fails to understand what has him so upset, he at least understands why he’s so unsettled. The creature, the drakeling, approached them like a spectre promising death. The ugly feeling of judgment still lingers in his bones. The memory of the beast will likely haunt his mind for some time.
The hunt turns poorly. The eagerness of the youths and Kyle’s willful experience are all but gone. Only two more myzims are found and killed. Barely enough meat to feed a village Ginwind’s size.
It would have to be enough.
Roland finds Rena still with the village apothecary, standing over a boiling cauldron. The air is tinged with sweet smells bringing both comfort and relief. The unease in his body slowly lessens despite his better judgment.
“You’ve returned,” Rena says plainly without turning around. “How did the hunt go?”
Roland doesn’t ask how she knew it was him. “As good as to be expected,” he answers honestly. “We have three myzims. Not exactly enough for a feast, but good enough to last them a short while. We could have bagged more, I think, but the hunters were spooked after running into a drakeling.”
“A drakeling? Here?” Rena raises her voice in surprise as she turns to look at him. “For what reason?”
Roland frowns. It is one thing for the villagers to be frightened, but for Rena to react with such shock and wariness…
“What exactly is a drakeling?”
“You don’t—” She catches herself and sighs, remembering his predicament. “Drakelings are descendants of dragons; large, winged creatures who brought devastation wherever they went. Depending on who you ask, dragons are the very incarnations of nature and the elements. Although drakelings never inherited their progenitor’s capability for flight, they did inherit their power. They are normally hostile to any living creature they come across. The only reason they wouldn’t attack is because a horrible fate awaits those who encounter them.”
“So, what, they bring bad luck?”
Rena gravely shakes her head. “That would be a better alternative.”
Roland stares, searching, until realization starts to sink. The drakeling did not attack them because something was going to happen to the villagers, something that would leave them dead or worse. Black steel and chants of the Trinity echo like banshees in his mind.
“What will happen to them?” he almost demands. “What’s going to happen to them?”
“I don’t know, but it will be nothing good.” Despite the newfound severity of their situation, Rena looks more frustrated and confused than horrified. She mutters something under her breath, but Roland pays little attention to her.
If they leave Ginwind now, it will only invite suspicion upon them. The villagers would realize the ruse and point fingers in his direction, hoping to spare themselves from the inquisition’s wrath. If they stayed, the ruse will dispel anyway when the inquisition arrives and finds them. Perhaps he’s being too hasty in thinking it will be the inquisition who finds them, but it is the only possibility that makes sense to him. The surrounding woodlands are too thick and devoid of predators, so the odds of a carnivorous beast stomping its way toward the village is highly unlikely.
Regardless, Roland’s situation is now dire. No matter what, danger is on its way. The only options before him are to run or face it head-on. The question was whether he wanted to face whatever threatened the village. While he does not remember the sensation of dying, he is not keen on experiencing it a second time.
Rena’s voice stirs him from his thoughts. “We need to warn the villagers.”
“Will they even listen?” Roland asks skeptically. He remembers the defeated, harrowed looks on the hunters faces when they made their way back to the village. “They seem accepting of their fate. We don’t even know what will happen.”
“If there is a remote chance they will survive, I will take it.” That line of thinking again. What is with this woman? “If you wish to leave them behind, be my guest. Do remember, however, that I am the only one who knows where the coven is.”
The soldier grits his teeth. “Damn witch,” he snarls under his breath. “You are trying my patience and this partnership of ours.”
“As someone I knew once said, tough shit.”
Rena slips past him without another word and leaves the apothecary. Roland stands there fuming, but the scent from the cauldron smothers the broiling anger before it gains traction. He doesn’t understand why Rena is so intent on saving people she doesn’t know. He might never understand, he thinks.
With a grimace and a heavy sigh, he followed after her.
X x X x X x X x X
The northern island of Lix.
In the past, it was no different from Cyus; it was home to civilization, yes, but it was merely a fertile land people called their home. It had no significance beyond that. That all changed when Queen Meridian, with the help and boon of the Three Goddesses, freed Wis from the control of the Altus Duchy and began the famous rebellion that earned her the name “Queen of Liberation”. Her brave stand against the Duchy on Lix were forever remembered by future generations, its impact so great her successors decided to relocate their seat of power to Lix, where it henceforth became home of the Loegrin royal family.
The Ringed Palace, named as such for its design and architecture, still yet remains the height of Wis’ power and the crown jewel of Lixcyus. It is here that the governing lordsmen and Wis’ crowned sovereign gather to discuss the realm’s matters and future.
Currently, a council is held in the Ebony Room. As its name implies, it is colored mainly in black and scarce of furniture and decoration, holding only a single round table with twelve chairs circling it. At the head of the table is an ornate chair with gilded markings. This seat is reserved only for King Abram est Loegrin and his wife, the fair Queen Amarys, should he be unable to attend the council for whatever reason. Today, the queen sits upon the gilded seat with four lords in attendance.
The atmosphere is heavy and rife with tension. The looks on the lords faces already set the tone of the meeting.
“Is His Majesty still bedridden?” one of the lordsmen asks out of concern. It has been at least three months since the last time King Abram joined the council. His health had been poor then, but he still had enough wits to offer counsel and judgment. These days, Wis’ king is a rare sight.
Queen Amarys, a beautiful woman even in her forties, nods her head. “His health is improving, but whatever sickness ails him will not relinquish him so easily. The sages tell me he is at no risk of death, thankfully.”
“Praise the Trinity,” another lordsman sighs in relief. “It wouldn’t do well for Wis to lose its king, especially with the prince still so young. The boy hasn’t reached his fifth year.”
“As grateful as I am to hear His Majesty is safe from death’s grip, I suggest we start the meeting posthaste,” the third says urgently. “Cyus falls to ruin by the day. I take it you’ve all heard the recent news in Stormgrave by now?”
“You mean of the commonborn uprising there? I was under the impression Baron Merkul had already dealt with it.”
Queen Amarys’ face turns severe. “It is not the uprising that Lord Tarran speaks of. Tamara warned me that an abomination rose from the dead among the baron’s own soldiers.”
“A deadwalker?”
Lord Tarran scoffs. “Only if deadwalkers can no speak like men. No, that thing is no shambling corpse. It can think for itself.”
“A deadwalker with intelligence, then?” a lordsman questions, not realizing what Lord Tarran and Queen Amarys are getting at. “Hardly the worst the realm’s face. Surely they’ve dealt with it by now, haven’t they?”
“The abomination was captured by the Order of Theda’s Fangs and scheduled to be executed by the week’s end,” Queen Amarys replies. “However, it would appear said abomination is not without its sympathizers. Someone broke into the gaols and freed it and killed two of Tamara’s men during the escape.”
The council shifts in their seats. Lord Bragon leans forward with narrowed eyes. “How is that possible?” he demands. “My Queen, I find it very hard to believe that a Blessed One such as the reputable Knight-Commander of Theda’s Fangs is capable of such a blunder.”
“The abomination’s accomplice is a suspected malefic. The corpses are little more than charred lumps, yet the inquisitors found no scorch marks or burns anywhere near the bodies, much less anywhere in the gaols.”
“Why would a malefic risk themselves to save an undead creature?” Lord Carthwell questions in befuddlement. Among the council, he is considered the brightest mind among them. “To study it, perhaps? Moreover, what has been Baron Merkul’s response? Stormgrave is his territory, is it not? While he may not be as devout as most lordsmen, I find it difficult to believe he sits idly by while some monster runs amok.”
Lord Tarran’s face sours. “He’s being obstinate, nevermind foolish. The abomination was once a reputable soldier he intended to name knightsworn.”
“It is no secret the baron has been quite vocal in the union between the Church and the royal family,” Queen Amarys notes sorrowfully. “I do not believe he will change his mind. Still, I would like to believe he will see reason in time. For now, Tamara is requesting assistance from Lord Bragon’s knightsworn and his soldiers.”
“Sir Greagor will rise to the task. Have no doubt about that, my lady.”
“I do not question his loyalty to the crown or his years of service, Lord Tarran. I have the utmost faith in his abilities.” She stops to briefly take a quick drink of water from the glass next to her, then changes topics. “Aside from the matter of the abomination, how fairs the territory of Eldra and Gaspard?”
Lord Yuran grimaces. “The famine grows worse with each passing year, my queen, and the commonborn grow more restless. There’s talk that Goddess Theda has abandoned them. There’s been no signs of any uprisings or revolts, but food and desperation make a fool of any man. I fear the day when I must call upon my knightsworn and soldiers to draw steel on the very people I’ve been tasked with shepherding.”
“A possibility that grows more likely,” Lord Carthwell says. “Gaspard’s streets remain peaceful, but the fleet-footed remain an ever-growing thorn in our side. The other day, they broke into our storehouses and made off with several crates of foodstuff.”
“How much was stolen?”
“Enough to feed Gaspard for two weeks, assuming we ration carefully.”
Queen Amarys dips her head in thought and carefully considers the situation. The growing gulf between the lordsmen and commonborn is not a recent problem, but just as Lord Yuran said, hunger makes a man desperate and foolish. The fleet-footed are one such group driven to desperate lengths, but as much as she empathizes with them, she is a ruler first and a person second. She must consider the welfare and safety of her people, even at the expense of others in unfortunate straits.
“Strengthen the local garrison, and if need be, request assistance from the inquisition forces stationed at Fort Harthwight,” she says. “If a show of steel is not enough, you have my permission to use more…unorthodox methods.”
“Understood, my lady.”
The rest of the meeting flies by quickly. Decisions are made as are suggestions as to what to do with slowly rising influence of the foreign goddess’ coven. Queen Amarys is not concerned by them, not when their numbers are so few, but her husband does not feel the same. The king, then a prince, lost his sister to the coven and their vile practices at a young age. Ever since, he’s carried a burning hatred for them in his heart.
“The coven is of no concern,” the queen says to herself. “The abomination, on the other hand…”
The reports regarding the human once called “Roland” are concerning. Deadwalkers are incapable of intelligence, and while it is not rare to hear one speak, they are incapable of coherency. They speak nonsensical words or plain gibberish. No deadwalker is capable of such intelligence. The only plausible explanation is that Roland only barely survived, somehow escaping death, or…
Queen Amarys takes a slow breath. She thinks back to the moment when she condemned herself to this path, of the necessary sacrifice she made.
“Is this our reckoning then? Our sin come back to haunt us?”
The wind in the council chambers shifts. A presence encompasses the room, grand and powerful before abruptly receding. Queen Amarys looks over her shoulder and sees her Knight-Commander standing in the middle of the room.
“Your Majesty,” the inquisitor bows her head. “My apologies for the delay.”
“No need for that, old friend,” the queen replies. “What news do you bring?”
“Knightsworn Greagor has pledged himself to our cause. With any luck, he will gather a band of soldiers and begin the march. The abomination likely hides itself somewhere in the woodlands of Stormgrave. We’ll begin our search there.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Queen Amarys tells her to her friend’s surprise. “I would have you bring those you trust to Lord Wesley’s territory.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you believe the abomination will head to Casaan?”
Queen Amarys gazes out the window. Beyond the glass pane is Lix and the land stretching outward. In the distance, just shy of fading into the horizon, she sees the northern land’s sister Cyus.
“I do not believe the abomination travels alone. Only a malefic skilled in the art of necromancy could have the power to revive the dead with their faculties intact. The only malefic who would dare bury her nose in forbidden magick is a witch. A malefic is powerful, but against an army, much less a Blessed One, they are poor and pitiful. No doubt the abomination serves as a thrall and shield. If this witch intends to amass more power, where do you think she will go?”
Her friend catches on. “The coven is there? Hiding in Casaan, under Lord Wesley?” She nods. Tamara frowns in confusion as she lowers her voice. “Does the king know?”
“I did not think it prudent to inform him,” Queen Amarys says. “Even if they are heathens, the object of their worship has no power here. The Trinity saw to that.” She takes another deep breath. “I allowed them leniency because they are kin, because they are our loyal subjects. If they dare encroach into powers beyond their comprehension, however, there is but one recourse.”
Knight-Commander Tamara’s face grows steely. She nods in understanding, her fist banging against her breastplate. “It shall be done, my lady.” Her form dissipates, vanishing into golden motes of light. It was as if she was never here to begin with.
Queen Amarys turns away from the window and walks out the council room. She thinks of the life she’s built for herself in Lixcyus, of the duties and oaths she’s upheld from before her time as Wis’ queen. The people of the twin islands are her children, and to strike at them tears at her heart. She does not want to spill their blood, but she knows the necessities of sacrifice. She sacrificed much to bring Lixcyus and her people safety and security. She will not allow anyone to threaten them. Not even the heathen women who cling to their goddess of death.
One way or another, they will fall. They must fall.
For Lixcyus’ sake.