Chapter Three, Eye of the Storm

Vintersfal 19th, 1329 CE, Eastern edge of Elderath valley

Heavy boots sloshed their way through the Vizzari camp. A young tribal vassal of twenty & five cycles, a warrior under the sign of the Serpent, newly made a ward-captain in their martial ranks walked alone in the falling rain through the battalion’s camp. The thick blonde mane hooked to his shoulders was drenched by downpour and matted enough to warrant comments from his comrades in passing. Remarks of how he ‘looks the part of a bloody hound’. But Mordaunt paid them no great mind as he went along to his commander’s tent. For in that thickening gloom a determined gleam grew beneath and onward he followed this drive. That icy sleet befell their camp instead of true snows proved the sky had a mind for mercy, at least for him. The saying that it never snowed in deepest Elderath – ‘for sake of Her wane-less beauty & Spring ‘neath her breast’ - proved accurate this campaign. At least as far as blizzards went. Though at times this slush felt close enough.

The stout-faced soldier peered across valley, this the womb of the world and the soil which would soon be fed on blood shed for the fate of all tribes. Through a small spyglass he looked long out to glean the surrounding mountains. There, far beyond their hulking bounds enemy campfires were outlined in glow of their logs atop the hills & crests. Candles of the forces they would soon face waxed in Mordaunt’s head with answerless questions.

He wondered just how genuine was this abrupt avalanche claim that had spread far enough to reach his ears when still in the east front. These tales of a ‘living god’ uniting all tribes under the ether. Near all his life Mordaunt had been a thrall to the Vizzar. Taken as a conscript in their hosts since the magistrate’s men visited his childhood village. Throughout those grueling years of service, the young man hardened, ever alienated from the culture of his people, remaining detached as the bodies piled up around his path. He couldn’t even recall the name of his birthplace, being so bred for battle.

This burgeoning curiosity about the deific foe on the horizon ensnared the young thrall-captain. For the rumors rippling back East whispered of a greater cause, beyond the iron & steel of indentured warfare. He never denied the pure, primal bliss wedded with the rush of victory and adrenaline that flows as worthy foe’s blood spills by your hand. And yet Mordaunt had grown disillusioned with his status. Slaving always under Serpent banner, for another’s triumph. Now that another had arisen, perhaps a truly formidable adversary at that, a stream of guilt slit his gut where there churned newfound remorse over all those of his own kin; bled the ghostly waters of those he’d slain for the glory of his masters. Cousins and tribesmen, he knew not for the sake of serpentine shackles which he’d strangled them with.

Mordaunt’s icy blue spheres froze most of those loathsome bubbles of self-stirred hate. What sad droplets fell of his weakness were lost to the rain and washed away. Sheathing his soul, he reached his commander’s post. Finest tapestries & rugs decorate the tent with a hint of Vizzari vanity. An elegantly garbed serf approached the warrior with a feigned, half-formal tone of familiarity. “Might I assist you, ward-captain? The sight of you warms me, but I do not believe our Lord Magister was expecting you-”

“I come with word for our Lord Magister & High Consul, Ba’al,” he pressed upon seeing a brow of suspicion flung at him, “I bear sensitive information for our Lord’s refined ears.”

The servant began to protest but before any refined rebuke could come a Vizzari voice bellowed from the tent’s belly. “Is that Mordaunt? -Daunty! Oi! Come partake in our drink, O butcher of Bar’Gheiss!”

A bout of laughter followed the call, likely originating from the bloat of his fellow captain, Belagog. The herald meekly shuffled aside as Mordaunt presented himself to their table. Beside the rotund and grossly gleeful Belagog a couple of other vassals, both of tribal and foreign origin, gathered upon wooden stools and shared in drink, story & cards attended to by their charge at the head of the table.

“The hag-slayer & wytch-finder is here!”

Malvayn Ba’aal, commander of the ‘Serpent’s Head’ division and Lord Magister of Fury, welcomed his man with raised glass. This major fulcrum of the Magistrate and pivotal player in the schemes of their Crimson Court forever towered over him. Looming over every act since he’d been taken and fashioned into a soldier, yet the man’s frame was far less imposing than his power. Malvayn was a thin, lanky man with wispy white hair to match his frail, skeletal figure. His face was also far less noble than his bloodline. His nose protruded too far and curved around at the tip, hanging over meek jaw that swung ajar, chattering. His own host, in fact, jokingly remarked at the number of falsely flattering portraits of himself adorning his command posts, stating that “no amount of talent in any painter’s hand could make that man look less of a ghoul”.

The Magister chuckled, a laugh as thin as he, and bid another servant deliver their guest some ale. “Come join us, humble hero. Tis an order! You deserve a little respite after your ‘heroic charge’ at Bar’Gheiss Gully! Personally, I think you were reckless and endangered our flank with your impulse but nonetheless they say a thousand night-spouses line the brothels waiting to take all your glory in. Ha! Hels know the chieftains’ daughters are aplenty in their readiness too! Pity you are always so grim, else you would’ve joined us in time for an amicable gamble.”

Ba’al indicated the cards & die scattered among their hands. “We were just discussing these rumors about our enemy, this man running rampant with mantle of divine mockery. Have you any thoughts?”

“-I heard he slew thirty men by his own blade and shrugged off a volley of arrows like ‘twas but a light rain!” one of the merry drunks interjected before Mordaunt could answer. Another of them joined in telling tall tales. “I ‘ere his horse can fly like thunder ‘cross the sky! That flames spark from his hands! I ‘erd he brings the dead back to life! Hate to see that bastard in a tight fight if tis true!”

“There won’t be a ‘tight fight’. Only a culling of the ‘erd! As Serpent’s Head, we’ll gnash ‘em!”

As the rabble ceased Mordaunt prepared his answer. “Well, my Lord, I come with concerns of their movements...” He sipped of the chalice offered to him, knowing he could use a fair amount to douse his liver and nerves –even if he did give a soft, subtle sniff of the elixir’s surface, scanning for any whiff of poison.

Listening to the stories his peers shared of this Drakkon lit that glint of wonder in the warrior-ward, even though he knew those tales surely stretched past reality. Having heard fabricated retellings of his own efforts before, it was hard not be cynical. Yet the fact that this upstart commanded such respect & fear was magnetic. “I have heard disturbing reports of a change in their numbers & movements that denotes consideration.” Mordaunt let his countenance affect worry, to help his bluff.

The Lord Magister Malvayn merely met this with a dismissive scoff and threw more cards upon the table. “The scouts were clear for many an hour that these backwater savages are perched upon the hill overlooking the western pass. Their spirits & fires may burn bright, but they are cornered, thinking the high ground will grant them advantage or wage attrition. Fools! Ah well,” The Magister enjoyed his vintage with pregnant pause, “We hold Elderath. Even should they recruit more louts into their band I fear no change. We broke the Beruvians at Bar’Gheiss. Repelled the Varani counterattack when we took their castle and smashed them against their own walls. We are the Serpent’s Head. We remain so. You worry too much, my boy. Why I have known you since you were but a lad struggling to fit into a man’s armor. And in that time, you have grown into one of my most fearsome commanders. You could earn a place in the Dread Knights. Yet you badger yourself and neglect celebration over a few rebels with hunting bows?”

The others echoed this sentiment with sardonic laughter. Before the conscript-captain could offer any rebuttal his superior gestured silence to all but himself. In drunkenness the man’s tone thawed with the glee of imminent victory and yearning for the spoils after. “Mord- you simply must put down this ill begotten seriousness for an evening and take us up a little game, a fun gambit of risk & wits. Tell me, in what way does triumph’s song call to you? What do you dream of once we return as conquerors, and you stand as a hero despite your peasant’s birth?”

Mordaunt hid his discontent and picked up the hand dealt to him. He pulled the wet strands of his fair net from his face as he glanced at the cards, all the while readjusting his ruse. Staring into his lifelong commander’s eyes he saw the scintillating flare of every fire he’d set for this man’s whim, in his scorching vanity. But though inferno blazed inward, his ever-icy outward gaze veiled this.

There is no glory in serving as a hound to rein in my own herd for foreign masters. There is no reward on any of the earth’s eight corners that could make me forget my sins against my kin. While you fat fools and hollow heads jeer & jest! Thinking nothing of what ruin you wreak of others’ homes; only of climbing higher on the plague pedestal of politics. Alas my bliss, my consolation for this service to sin shall come soon.

The half-handsome, quasi-disagreeable looking captain shrugged. “Haven’t given it much thought, truly. I find my passion at the end of the sword when my blade meets an enemy. ‘Been fighting so long I almost forget the sweets of life. Ah, but I suppose a slight change of pace would be nice: a place to call my own and a sweet lass to make the cold nights that bit warmer? Maybe a daughter to protect & feed till she and my sons grow fat on my labour and till the stead themselves? Help me forget my former bloodthirst through dormer of family perhaps?”

He chortled shortly. Then slung out a strange, decorative, translucent flask of green elixir he poured happily into the chalice set before him. Feigning a strong gulp, Mordaunt made sure not

to bring the contents of the cup to his lips, acting as though the libation caused intoxicated stagger.

“What’s that ye got there, friend?” Leaned in one his comrades, compelled by the seeming strength of the drink. On cue the others ‘round followed suit, throwing their rounds in, and leering as Mordaunt played his cards. Gifting then the bauble to curious eyes to feast on.

“Infernus Diabolus, the draught of bedeviling spirits,” Mordaunt whispered mystery, while filling his fellows’ glasses in genial display of comradery. “Tis a rare drink but damn near worshiped for its potency in some circles. A recipe brewed by the ancients that all our ancestors are tied to before the tribes’ scattering – and they knew their shit! ‘Tis an invocation that invites the mind’s eye see faeries dance in the air. But can also welcome the mischief of imps should one be in the wont.”

The bottle twinkled in Mordaunt’s eye, winked reflection of his past. By same emerald glow of the witch’s crystal...

...The woods about the hut moaned tune of soul-sundering gales. A somber, alto tone. The young warrior, garbed in a thick dark cloak with no emblem of allegiance drew near to this heathen hearth. A ramshackle abode perched upon stone legs in shape of avian-reptilian hybrid (perhaps a wyvern or a manticore). Thatch, cobble & wood of the hut groaned hum of its own as the door swung to greet the pilgrim. This visitor’s blue eyes fixated on a crystal orb floating in the center, seducing him in with its dubious splendor winking in its sapphire. Green sheen of smog melding with incense smoke drifted promise, allure of secrets unveiled. His left hand dangled about his sheathe, ready to release the blade into the hag who inhabited this dim abode, should she prove as despicable as the legends made out. Indeed, her home had been as those witless knaves told.

Though no face formed of the mist which prodded the door, a weathered voice croaked greeting. “You are not like the others who brood on Baba’Yun’s doorstep. You do not come asking for sweet little charms & blessed talismans, no! Murder lines your iris, child! But murder for whom? Perhaps not me but a true enemy? You hath not drawn steel against Baba’Yun yet despite it being the will of your masters,” The ailing aria of alto airs aided this ancient woman’s approach, carried her throaty croon outside, “those serpents.”

Before he could speak, even think a counter curse or doubt, the low gusts brushed Mordaunt into the witch’s dome. The crone glid ethereally toward him, defying her advanced age, slipping through shadow. She leaned in; her wan & shabby & yet obscenely obese features obscured by a cauldron’s mist. “Alas, it appears you are not even fully aware of what brought you here.”

“How-? Wherefore do you speak of my ‘masters’, witch?! How claim you to know whom I serve?” Mordaunt’s voice, though loud & impassioned, wavered with underlying ripple of fear.

The hag cackled madly as though she’d been asked the most childish question in all her long years. “My boy, you smell of Vizzari snakes & walk in the shade of carrion birds! You need no sigil for Baba’Yun to know what you are! And yet I sense a spirit dwelling beyond those little orbs, longing for release. Hmm, perhaps that heart beating so steep in that chest holds righteousness in it? Perhaps there is more to this shell of you than an apostle of death?”

Her grotesque gut belches its breadth out in wytch-fog; torque spins out slender womanly shapes, splitting in twain, born of mist womb. Then her flabby folds regrow as scabs of skin, bursting from the opaque steam. Half vapor yet fleshy, with bulging gibbous eyes. “Bare thy face!”

Mordaunt felled the cowl about his neck. Ragged curtains of dirt yellow fell over his face, covering unease. He knew there was no purpose in pretending he was here for any other reason. He gave dreary admittance to the wise woman. “If you See, truly, then you’d know my true loyalty lies not with those vultures. But yes, I was sent by the Vizzar to slay & quell your superstition. They fear that practitioners of old faiths will only stir up trouble or cast curses on their ambitions for this land. The man who brings them your head shall be rewarded with riches & prominence.”

He confessed fully to the crone, who contorted between gaunt & corpulent. “I-I agreed to take up this task only to see for myself. So long in life I hath been torn from the traditions of my people. I worry for my soul every day my sword sheds blood of those defending their hearths. I wanted to see if there was any truth to magick. & to prophecy the heath-folk praise you for.”

A gangly nail slid across her wrinkled chin. “Hmm, again you are not as the others who hath come moons past. Few men would come to Baba’Yun’s domain knowing our power. Fewer still would come bereft of allies into our den, after admitting brazen hostility. What deeper cry calls you to us if you yet know it?”

“I am not afraid of you, witch. But I do not wish my sword to taste your blood nor my spirit to incite red curses. I merely want answers... a small hope?” Mordaunt rubbed his temples, at odds with the emotions diverting his thoughts with confounding tide. “I fear only aimlessness. No death but one draped in ignominy.

“Fear clouds your blue... you are not afraid of us but yourself. Or a fear of what you might become? Shall we read your future? No cost, as trade for life. Might we carve a pact?”

“Yes, show me... What must I do?” He’d asked. But not asked: Your life or mine to trade?

Cracks, tears & boils showed in the woods witch’s visage as her smile crept over him. “Lil’It! Hek’ate! Come, daughters & grant our guest the vinum sabbathi!”

The hag summoned her ‘daughters’. Two ‘twins’ of twenty or so cycles. Dual spheres, spinning in contrast. The first cast of Selenic beauty. The second, her equal though with aspect of an eclipse upon the Sol. One with moon-silver mane; beside her sister, whose locks were laden with midnight, lit by orange meteorite streaks; carmine & nocturne betwixt luscious lines. They chant, larking as smooth as their well-oiled skin, and pour watery essence into wood goblet.

“Drink of the spirits’ draught. Let them guide you to true Sight!”

The lone soldier drank his cup dry, finding the strange concoction queerly soothing despite the slight burn as it travelled his gullet. Weird shivers cascaded along his spine in a serpentine stream of sudden separation. It felt as though his veins froze over, the rivers of blood therein blockaded. His arms fell stiffly, seeming but feckless, flimsy things. Persona melting, his limbs chained to paralytic shakes.

The one daughter wove herself about him as a nymph of most blessed vision. Her silver-blonde locks fell lovingly over shoulders. Her pale gray eyes bewitched, pulled him into her, mouth to her water.

“What hex hast thou cast upon me?” The disoriented man managed to blurt after much struggle to retain knowledge of speech. His hands convulsed while he wrestled to regain his muscles. Yet he could not keep his mind from splintering apart; sovereign thought raptured of surreal hurricane, conjuring sprites & fae about his head and the shambling hut of stone & straw.

“We are showing you to yourself,” whispered the other, breath licking his ear, “won’t you dance with us? Can you hear the Muses calling you to?”

The elderly matriarch hovered over Mordaunt as his vision veered. Her hands held the crystal ball, beaming a surge to absorb his world. Shapely shadows danced in the sphere of light; a puppet play of dream silhouettes & flakes of memories yet to come. He gaped at realization that he was wrapped in an infinite number of spindly threads binding his limbs. And through enclosing webs gleaned abomination of cosmic scale. Pulling and spindling these webs was a colossal Chimera. An arachnid appendaged entity, with bust of bear fused with lupine lion, affixed with a beak; feathered wings flapping over protruding ribcage, a microcosm of verminous wyrms & silk-snakes that spat a webbed serpent tail that stretched to a scorpion’s at its end. Winding the stars in its clout and rolling the fabric of life into sealed cocoon.

On the brink of asphyxia, the web spun through eye & esophagus. Leaving only a malleable darkness, and within that void he heard spidery warble. “Now you are nothing,” the hag’s cry rang through his skull with the trumpets of pagan thunder, “now you are free. Free to become something! Gone is that thrall of Vizarri! The marrow of the Magistrate is bled from thee while fate’s waters pool elsewhere. Destiny calls you up to service of light. Can you see it within? Let it pierce your chest lest you sink in endless murk. Peer deeper, ask why you sacrificed dignity & freedom for nest of scavengers?”

Though his sight drowned in tears Mordaunt could see glittering effigy within that shifting orb. Pale emerald fog formed face of Ba’al. He watched a shade of his childhood be swallowed by the avatar of the man-snake and felt again that dusk descent of his heart, as the day he’d been taken from his family & beaten tribe to be made a fang of foreign state. “They – they took it... I was never given the chance to know myself – to know my folk... I am but a babe in the woods of war and am so utterly lost at times. I – I want to be my own man and not a slave to wickedness, but I worry I lack the strength... I want to believe I can live to restore & lead my people – find a reason to awake – but what way is there but death & despair?”

The witch placed withered hand on his shoulder. Her hazy eyes, so clouded, mirrored the orb she propped before him. “There is a way... Your heart knows it and basks in that hidden hope. Look more, plunge further... Do you see your light shining solidly as a hero? One now knowing ‘why’ he wields a sword? Can you hear those songs of your true folk praise your return? Will you cast aside your fetters and free others, as well as yourself? Do you not hear the Fates’ demand? Hear the Muse of liberating Thunder?”

“The Living Light of Drakkon hath returned, proud warrior. A new cause by ship of his Storm, his crowned crest! A gift of your heart’s hope blossoms in this dire night. The Vizzar do not march against scattered clans, but a united force Chosen to win. You are to be chosen too, a servant to this revolution! You shall be an acolyte of the Old Ways granting muscle to their form. To glory you shall ride and live in the magick of our gift! But you must atone for old sins with blood, fire, death & life; with seed and scepter...”

“Yes,” Mordaunt groaned, with resolve even in his stupor, “I embrace what must be done. Be it by flesh or spirit!”

“The spirits are pleased you accept their mantle as champion. Hek’ate! Bring us the stave posthaste.” And the silvery haired girl skipped off to the dense umbra of the hut’s other chamber, for only an instant to resurface with a metal prod. “The Light marks your flesh with fresh life! Let it burn into heart with freedom’s fire!” Baba’Yun brought scorching brand heated over cauldron onto exposed chest.

When his unwitting whimpers died the crone proceeded in prophecy. “Ye shall grow in new light to become a leader of men. To upraise banners of thy house & blood! Ye shall know love & beget a child of our brood. Io, womb of wytch & warrior-king! That seed shall bloom to inherit a kingdom! Ye shall know this and more firsthand if the lifeblood of thy current warden and holder of chains is spilt. We shall help in this task if you dare accept the Fates hands?”

“Yes... Yes. I-I give you this body. Open my heart this moment and extend my arm... Let my hand be that of destiny.” Agreed Mordaunt. The witch’s daughters caressed him, peeled away his waterlogged raiment. Penumbra canopied his vision, and his spirit watched outside his body as phantom to itself...

When he awoke daylight peeked between the hut’s apertures. He was bereft of clothes but covered in a thick wool blanket, lying in unfamiliar bed. Eyes blurry, he surveyed the room and let awareness seep back into him. An eerily recognizable aroma wafted into his drowsy nostrils, carrying wisps of magick & foreboding spirits in its scent. A cauldron bubbled a few meters from his low bed, and he noticed all the mysterious & uncanny concoctions which adorned the cabinet shelves.

The wooden door creaked open as the decrepit, yet spirited, Baba’Yun entered to the tune of flute music springing from her daughter’s lips, creeping through the opening. “Baba’Yun is pleased to see you return from peace-blessed rest. Was the journey to the astral realm a pleasant one, we wonder? Does your mind recall what oaths were uttered last eve?”

Adumbration of doldrum was his mind. Though slowly, like the glistening of her crystal ball, remembrance peaked through the malaise. Dancing gems of blood & fire & of witches’ carnal union & dream-song of a churning vengeance. He rubbed his temples and stood to stretch, unhindered by need of modesty in this thorny temple. “I do. I recall the prophecy your words wove, wise woman. My hands are ready to draw the string of our bow. If what you showed me truly was the tapestry of fate, then I shall ride on this tempest with courage & fire rekindled.” For a moment his gaze lost hers, drooped in sudden doubt. “But I would be lying were I to say I know how to achieve this ideal of which we spoke. Fate seems far.”

Once more the thin walls of her hut abounded with that shrill cackle she possessed. Devilish delight rode out from her throat but lacking tinge of mockery her laugh once invoked. “Baba’Yun is wise not only for our truest Sight but for our readiness to weave destiny of our own hands. For your ‘visit’ here could have ended many, many ways and yet you arise a welcomed guest & friend of Baba’Yun and our precious daughters, yes.”

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The hag shrieked her daughters through the door. Near immediately the flute music ceased and the spritely footsteps of the maidens scampered at the beckoning of their Matron. “Lil’It! The boy’s body craves its curtains!” And with this command the gorgeous pagan girl danced the rim, cradling his dried attire. With a blush Lil’It offered their guest his clothes, her watery tinge resplendent as the sun illumed her beauty. Platinum mane kissed her neck to lower back. Clearly from the shine in her eyes there was something memorable for her in last night’s events as well.

“Hek’ate! Will you fetch us the prize?” Her daughter disappeared in seconds.

Baba’Yun tilted down, the ligaments of her spine showing through her fibrous but plump skin scooping contents of the cauldron. She poured a more pleasant green liquid into translucent flask, held in her time-worn hand. “What we gave you before was the vinum sabbathi, a potion that indulgences in a moderate usage of the potentially lethal mandrake root. But you were only in danger of yourself. This here is Infernus Diabolus, the cursed drink which spells death for most mortals who imbibe of its poison nectar. When the stars align you must offer it to your current master... Once he hath perished you shall belong entirely to yourself. Your only master then shall be the Light burning within your heart which shall blossom through the guidance of the Living Lord. You will find Him, and He shall have you, or what of you is His.”

Mordaunt accepted the elixir, though his brow creased with morbid doubt. “I thank you, wise woman of ageless insight, for your aid. But how am I to convince my ‘comrades’ of my success - in that which I came here to do by their will? They will not accept failure. Should they learn of your life remaining unextinguished, a Serpent’s Head squadron will be here for you and your daughters by next sundown while I hang from boughs... My heart does not waver, believe me, yet I confess ignorance of how to serve this higher destiny.”

Baba’Yun’s gargantuan paunch befit her hut, this belly of fortune and spilling prophecy. Yet this protrusion tilted upon chicken legs, ambling despite all reason. As though stalking upon stilts, she lifted above her promised guest as she presents a parting gift. In a Deja vu inciting show, the younger daughter returned, bearing a grotesque charm. She held up a shrunken, ghoulish visage of contorted feature mummified in deathly gray. Something in those empty sockets bore black magick and impending strife from lifeless stillness.

“Give this token to those craven slavers who masquerade as conquerors. Oh, how their wee callow minds will believe it to be the head of a witch just slain. For they fear & accept in their pitiful brains that we, disciples of the Old and the True, are inhuman monsters that return to a form, more horrid than their actions, come the knell of death. Go now, as thy whim bids, and forget not what we hath promised each other.”

…Mordaunt shook the haze of recall, returning to the promised task. The near past fell from his shoulders like damp drops as he leaned over the table to assess this tomb to be.

“Looks like victory in this round belongs to me, my good men!” Shouted the gleeful Magister, his smile crooked with deluded boast of imminent triumph. Mordaunt’s hatred grew to encompass every curvature of the man’s face, loathing those wrinkles and laugh lines won from the misery of the tribes whose blood he bathed in as a pool of his glory.

“I believe this earns you the right for something stronger to satiate that victorious liver of yours, my lord!” Mordaunt offered the poisoned flask to his employer, a cordial countenance disguising the malice that boiled within the furnace of his belly.

Malvayn denied the offer, dryly waving it away. “Alas, I prefer not to mix my spirits, even those offered by my most valiant of servants. Indeed, I shall retire soon. For I taste much already & must save strength for the true game, come dawn. When we stand upon the hill of triumph and look down over our foes, shackled in defeat then we shall drink with well-earned revelry! Tomorrow ye shall all be blessed by the strength of our Serpent’s coil!”

To this, a few troops cheered with their mugs, drunken on jubilant dream of luxurious rewards. All of them so supremely unaware that death harbored in their stomachs, docking venom. Mordaunt was not deterred by this refusal, nodding in seeming agreement as the gears of his mind turned with the momentum of determination.

It is better this way. Better that I must seize the reins of fate with these blistered hands. Better that I get to look you in the eye and watch your wretched light fade to endless black, o Ba’al. “There is another matter – of a more personal nature – that I wish to discuss with you before you take your rest, my Lord of Fury.”

“Oh? What might that be, conscript?”

“Well, I must console your ears alone in this given the subject’s sensitive nature...” Mordaunt let the vague implication linger for a beat before whispering the lure of his words to his prey. “Something that Physician Alvus asked me to report to you in private regarding his last session with you. It regards a certain ‘damsel’, shall we say, who you became familiar with at Rosalie’s Tavern...”

A flushed embarrassment trounced Malvayn’s mien. He slurped the rest of his chalice with a weary sigh. Eye rolled back in misty film. “The harem girl...” The aged monger of Fury wiped away dank beads. “Yes, yes. Let us step out for a moment and hear what good Albrecht wants us to know. We do hope you are the bearer of good news this eve and not the harbinger of ill fortune.”

With a frail chuckle this Lord Magister gestured his ward out the folds of their tent, to the suspicion & confusion of his servants. “Men, when we return, we wish this place less full & frenzied. We pray thee find rest in thine quarters to prepare well for the dawn.”

The pair walked drearily through evil afterglow of the sky’s cascading drapery. The deluge drowned out the sounds of drumbeats and drunken cries from the sprawling camp as they made for the outskirts. The worried Magister turned to his confidant, propping a veiny hand on his shoulder. Prodding the man who warned him he would need open air in the wake of this private revelation. “What is it?”

“You are going to die, my Lord.” Mordaunt stated with frigid indifference of sleet.

The last of his hue fled from the Magister of Fury’s face and shivers, beyond cold, phased his spine. “Wha-? Can this be so? I knew myself cursed, but with fatal spell? What did physic Alvus say? Is it a heathen fever? A plague? Surely, he can concoct a cure! I’ll pay for it with what fortune we reap of this primitive place!”

“Do you remember the evening I joined your ranks? Do you recall that night the Vizzar stormed the village which was to be my home? Their charred corpses and littered limbs visit my nightmares nightly...” Realization of his situation dawned too late for his game, but the hunter roared his kill over storms. “This is for twenty years clasped to your scales, snake! No one wrenches my destiny from me, least of all an ineffectual cur like thee!”

With this abrupt declaration of murderous enmity Mordaunt plunged his dagger into the magister’s side. Holding a cupped hand over his stunned & disoriented prey, he spat blackened ire. “I make a victim of you as you made of ten thousand lives! This is for the families your vanity ravaged! All the lives you placed in chains! More than merely mine! Face their Furies!”

Another steep jab through the ribcage and Ba’al keeled over feebly. This proud Lord of Vizzari, one of the three Heads of the Serpent’s crowning Court, reduced to squirming vermin. Writhing in futile attempt to ward off the numerous blows that followed. “This is for the brothers you tore against one another! This is for those courageous souls who stood up for our gods when your serpent priests threatened us with fire or submission to that wretched cult you call a ‘faith’! This is for seeking to sup glory of my people’s culling!”

Malvayn made attempt to speak – or to scream – but could only splatter blood and regurgitated wine as he heaved from the stabbing pain. He capsized with loss of vitae. Mordaunt unleashed this beast inside him on another. “Look into the eyes of a man you thought so small, so below you. See this ‘servant’, this savage boy made slave soldier to your rank: made the master of your life through death. Fate is such a funny thing is it not?!”

Mordaunt’s dagger ripped into tender flesh, beneath fecklessly beautiful cloth, like lupine claws. Contents of Ba’al’s exposed gut and spilling innards pooled a morbid puddle about this sludge that was to be his burial layer. Desiccation came upon his throat. How could rain or frost ever sate such a thirst in the killer? Only glimpsing the Light of purpose could sustain him then.

Taking a couple contended breaths, he wiped the blood off the dagger which wasn’t yet swigged by murky drops. Cleansed the crimson prize rewarded for his slaying Malvayn. His betrayer clothed himself in the of the fateful writ of the forest hag, Baba’Yun. With blood & thunder I accept new light into my life! Embolden my fate for a greatness beyond the past!

An Unexpected Arrival

Meanwhile, across Elderath valley

The sleet ceased, leaving only a lugubrious miasma & anticipation’s sickness coating the dale. Azarra stood over the grime on high precipice trying to pierce the distant bonfires, that would soon be made into funeral pyres by her son’s hand. The drapery hid those crypts of enemy camps from sight, but she felt their far off smoke. It also kept her & elegantly clad companion, whose face kept further shadow by his dark-crimson cowl. Wisps of musky aroma emanating from his pipe form gloomy halo about his head. Here the two conversed, a secret covenant away from the prying eyes of the Drakoni encampment on the outskirts of the valley, abuzz with the rumble of blood’s storm.

Azarra’s dual-hued eyes beset upon the emissary, this alleged druid. The left emerald led her shine, at first, till waves of watery blue intrigue swept over her right. Though this man had been welcomed into their camp as one of the enigmatic, near fabled druids some hidden caution burrowed into her brain. Vermillion, feathers adorned his garment and regal poise made him seem far more like a lord than a hermit of the forest. She asked honesty of him, entrusting to not need her guards. “How strange that one such as you would seek so special an audience. I thought you druids were too stoic in your ways to be concerned with the affairs of we mortals. At least your humour isn’t ill. Will you tell why, stranger, you come?”

“It is strange, admittedly. Yet I intuit that you are well versed in strangeness too. And I sense that things shall continue to become ever more bizarre. But I am no ordinary man, restricted by the regular; least so among my kin in the druids.” The smoky figure unveiled his cowl to show a dark mane divided by alabaster strands, half-translucent follicles with fiber of wisdom of age beyond his years. His face was not far older than her own, lined by a set of sunken, colorless eyes that were not unkind. A gentle hand shook Azarra’s. “My answer is long with reasons I hope you shall grant time to hear. But know that I come to pledge myself to your aim, Lady.”

She eyed him with eager curiosity as he spoke. “The name which I gave to your sages & soldiers was but an alias. I am Aris of House Abraxas, third born son of the reigning Magister-”

“-Vizzari?” the sound left her lips, escaped as shock. Suddenly his hand’s phantom clasp was not comforting but menacing.

“But I am no servant of the Serpent, nor kin to that House any longer. I was cast out into exile by my father’s cruel ire. When the fear & jealousy that boiled beneath his noble façade lashed out against me, despite my innocence. The hope of the Abraxas line belonged solely to my elder brother, Mithran, who possessed all the outstanding glamour befitting a regent’s heir and whose words always aligned with the statutes of my father. I know you must see the Vizzar as agents of oppression with no hearts nor passions beyond plundering the land and tormenting your people but there is a vast web beneath the surface. Wherein one thread pulled will unravel the multitude of schemes & corruption that make up the tapestry of our society - so distant from the purity with which your tribes live out their ancestral ways.”

“Purity? May I trust your speech is pure, even as you hath yet confessed to a lie already?”

“No lie beyond reserving my true name for your understanding ears. I am indeed an ordained Druid, this amulet earned. No less, one knowing of Vizzari’s weakness.”

Azarra taunted him, half-playfully, his mystery engendering intrigue. “Did that ‘weakness’ force you to flee to play at druid migration for a time? Till, perhaps from lack of refinement, you found us?”

“Their weakness, not mine. Both my brothers in Druidry – who wilt before lifting a hand to the worldly – and of Vizzari: ’Tis weakness masked as malicious strength. A bluff, but a brutal one. See, the people of the Magistrate do not live within sphere of golden splendor as those our avarice afflicts might believe. The spoils of war reach only the linen pockets of the elite, while regular citizens are but scales of the serpent. Disposable and made to be shed when their service is no longer fruitful. All for those who prop themselves upon their backs. Pointing out such flaws from a high pedestal where I would be heard pleased my father little. He resented me for seeing beyond his grandstanding and the machinations of the courts.”

Aris bared brightly back into Azarra’s gaze. “Magistrate politics is a festering mud pit. The ‘scales of the Serpent’ state shifting soil to never be sturdy enough to build a lasting foundation. A skin constantly being shed. A precarious bed inside, in contrast to the beauty of our architecture and outward poise of Crestfall. Plots are hatched by night & day by those with gleam of greed in their eyes. Who envy the success of others and, like parasites, seek to drain them of their wealth & steal fleeting glory as theirs. Such was the fate of my eldest brother: ensnared by these frivolous hunters of tithe & titles... Mine: to exile. My father’s finger fell upon me as the lamb of sacrifice. But he could not suffer the public disgrace of having his own blood, however disdained, executed before the gaping masses. Forlorn and forsaken, I was forbidden to enter the cities of my people and ridden of any means in this dismal world.”

“Ah, so you could not serve the Vizzar even if you sought to? You were denied all but pagan life of Druidry and hope to find new kindling through me?” She performed a dainty cough, acting as if his pipe-smoke bothered her, when in truth it reminded her of Gaahl’s habit.

“If you wish to simplify it, my Lady. I sought out the fabled druids and in time proved worthy. Only they were willing to take me in. Maybe out of pity, for I arrived at Felhenge grove famished & with nowhere else to turn. Whether they knew of my heritage – or sin - they spoke not of it. Lucky, that my literacy impressed them enough to train. Good that my Magister father’s library served me more than he. They initiated me into their fraternity. Taught me the ways of the bard, the skald, and the Druid. I glimpsed insights unknown – unthinkable – to most. Delved into the buried histories, learning of customs long forgotten and hearing of lands lost to time.”

Aris’s pipe vanished into his sleeve with the last, lingering wisps. “The life of a scholar of spirit and steward of earth gave me newfound purpose for a time. The sanctity of the Druids’ seal protected me from any ill wilt hand. Even the Magistrate will not risk a Druid’s curse to strike a follower of the Hidden Path. Nor would your tribes see me anymore as an adversary to be hung or butchered on sight for my place of birth. And yet, under this mantle, my passion & true purpose remained absent. My brothers do not change the world with their wisdom, they only observe & record it. To be perched on apathy when my home corroded under misery did not suite me.”

His chest puffed with chivalrous poise of affirmed purpose and Azarra considered Aris strangely striking in that second. “When I heard of this Drakkon, this Living Light, you raised from the ether, I answered voice in my soul. A call to serve a meaningful order with the purity of vision and the ambition to act. Seeing you, beauteous Mother, confirms this purpose. The presence of your soul, power & potential which ripples through you into all those who believe in your cause. I ask you to accept me into your ranks, that I can provide the knowledge of the Vizzar & druids alike to aid in your war against the crimson courts. Will you have me, High Mother?”

Azarra reached out with dominant hand to brush aside the crimson robe to see the man’s chest, displaying hanging amulets of druid caste. Archaic symbols were etched in the runes of his ornaments but where they pressed onto his chest stood stranger markings still. For there, beneath his vestments: the branding of Exile, a snake of fire dissected from its coil. A mark she’d only glanced in the dusty tomes of the Temple she’d ‘borrowed’. Truly he was a man of his word there. Yet something so confounding hung in the silence between them still. “Why do you wish to serve me? What is it that truly draws you to me this eve? I see the passion within you, yes, but not the reasons for investing it in me.”

She sounded almost as embarrassed as she did skeptical, as though she could not fathom why a saint of legend would seek out so lonely a soul as hers. Aris held his hand over hers, laying new bond. “Decades back I saw your proclamation. I witnessed your miracles, see one in you now, even. So ethereal: watching your ascension out of the nether into divinity. I became then fascinated by you & your cause, although I admit the pressure my former kin of the Vizzar and that warlord Kassan,” Azarra winced at the mention of the name before her stare suddenly hardened. This did not go unobserved by Aris’ keen sight despite his speech staying smooth, “had me worried for a time that you would fail. But you transcended the odds of circumstance. You paint the canvas of causality, not simply fit to be the scenery. I wish to know miracles and find fate through you. That is, if you would have me?”

Aris bowed with grace. Charm written along his lips. He kissed the top of Azarra’s hand, and a rush of adrenaline coursed through her ring finger through every vein. Some part of lurched to recoil. But the rest felt suddenly so powerful a sorceress & lovely a woman that she could compel men of any order to worship at her heels. More than that this kindred spirit had observed her progress, which first caused shudder but brought blush of his reverence. Something about this man drew her into him, an invisible hook reeling her spirit to his through line of some unspoken trauma shared between them. Parallel passion & pitch of loss burning of their hearts.

Her eyes cuddled his chest again. Such sturdy build for a wandering wiseman. She suppressed a giggle, imagining Aris pulling himself up from branches of hermit groves and running as a wolf, bounding on all fours, over untampered stone for exercise. These chain-linked fires crackled together, roaring bright. “I will have you, fascinating friend. That you have taken so long a stride from your old order shows you are as ambitious as honest. And thus, I know you shall prove a worthy ally. ‘Miraculous’ as I may be to thee, I still stumble in the dark of the gathering storms at times. But to have another radiant mind to alight the way by my side should yield honor.”

Humble gratitude washed his ashen eyes. For a while no words needed exchange in intuitive connection shared. But Azarra wished to press the reliability of her new ally a bit further and let another question swim out her mouth. “Do you know of Baron? You’d experience with the order of skalds, either aspiring or pretentious troubadours. Did you know our bard prior?”

A warm laugh escaped Aris. “What soul still with ears has not heard of the legendary bard himself? Ah yes, I was vaguely familiar with the fellow. He struck me as largely immersed in his art and in its ability to project his reflection, rather than being one to get involved in such dangerous affairs. Perhaps he too has changed since we were both young. As I’d not seen him in countless cycles ‘twas surprise to know him among your camp. If you are asking what I feel of his purpose in joining I cannot honestly say, although I would wager it is largely a point of self-interest. I would never accuse a member of the order, however removed, of spying but perhaps he has hopes of raising his prestige through your beauteous curtails? Such as artists are.”

Their courting dance was abruptly shortened by the stampeding of iron boots up their high perch. They turned to see two sentinels bolting with cheeks red from haste. Aris drew his cowl back up about him. The quicker of the runners’ pair gasped to Azarra. “H-High Mother, praise thee!” managing to keep the formality of title stroking even in his exasperation and hurry. “I bring a message from the Lord of Liv-liv-in Light Himself who asks your immediate presence at the base camp!”

“Regarding what?” she asked cynically.

“Regarding a prisoner of the enemy who came to parley. He wishes to ask your approval in turning from the Vizzar to the Light of our cause, my most High Mother!” chimed in the newly arriving second sentinel. “A man rode to our outpost bearing a white linen fabric- “

“-an appeal for diplomacy!”

“-and for peace!”

The two messengers bounced report, allowing the other to take breaths while the other continued.

“He says he has a gift...”

“-one he refuses to reveal to any eyes but your own...”

“-most Eminent eyes!”

“Our Lord pressed for utter haste, my Lady of Light.”

“We apologize for taking so bloody l-long, we knew not where to find you along the sides of the valley. Please forgive us and accept our envoy from our Lord!”

Delphine was first to greet Azarra as she descended the dale camp. Confusion curled her brow and the others’. Heron led Drakkon onto the scene, disgruntled to be interrupted by this hassle of an intruder. In the center of their small circle several sentinels delivered the source of the trouble. Shoving a man with face tucked behind a prisoner’s hood. “What’s this all about?” asked Azarra & Drakkon in near unison.

Heron shifted a sagging & soaked satchel, showing it to his superiors. “This man rode in from the enemy encampment claiming he brought us a ‘gift’. He waved us the white flag of parley. He asks we hear out his plea.” While his tone was neutral, that of relaying information to his commander, Heron’s countenance displayed distrust for this all-too willful hostage.

Muffled sounds pushed from the black cowling over the man’s face. While indistinguishable these words were not the frenzied cries of a fearful soul, a fact which intrigued Drakkon. Lowering himself down to face the kneeling prisoner the Lord removed the grim hood. “I shall let the man speak for himself. Bring this ‘offering’ of his to me.”

Mordaunt’s blue spheres stabbed at Drakkon like shards of crystalline diamond. Amazement then came to gaze upon the Lord of Living Light. No apprehension nor enmity radiated from their mutual stare, simply a desire to understand the other.

“My Lord,” Heron cautioned, “be wary! This man could well be an agent of the Vizzar come to commit perfidy under ruse. The satchel may contain poison or some other treachery. Let us take the risk for you should this prove to be as wicked as my heart warns me.”

Drakkon did not turn his unblinking eyes from the prisoner as his voice smacked Heron’s ears. “Are you so lacking in faith in us, o brother of Light, that you fear some mortal instrument could harm us? I do not fear the hands of lesser men, nor flee from the serpent’s venom. Let him give voice to his conscience and we alone shall decide. We are yet to weigh his soul.”

Heron reluctantly handed drenched sack over to his Lord, bowing penitently. Drakkon ungagged the prisoner while bearing the heavy satchel. Calmly he asked, “Who are you & what is this you bring?”

Mordaunt inhaled, relieved to embrace fresh air that had been denied to his lungs by the rags tethered to his mouth. Mustering his purpose, the shackled blonde arrestee offered his truth to his inquisitor. “I am Mordaunt, formerly conscript of the Vizzar – a position I recanted earlier with the death of my ‘commander’. For years I toiled in blood & tears beneath the heel of the Vizzari legion. Maimed my cousins in the tribes and my soul for the spoils of craven wyrms. My soul is weighted by my sins, m’Lord. But I seek redemption and, if you would take me, a place among your sacred cause... I do not come empty handed, for redemption is ne’er easily won. In that bag is the head of your adversary, Magister of Fury, Malvayn. A token in tribute to your triumph.”

Drakkon stuck vigilant captivation to Mordaunt and allowed him to his feet. He withdrew the contents of satchel. A severed human head tangled up his fingers. A grotesque and pallid thing. Adorning the ghoul’s brow: an ornate circlet with the serpent’s crest. “This is the supposed face of the Serpent’s Head? It appears to me no greater a trophy than that of a common vulture... Tell me, Mordaunt, why should I trust a man who so proudly admits treachery against his former master? Why welcome into our ranks one who put many of ours to sword and stake?”

“I confess my sins in open air, Lord. One who holds deceit inside would ne’er unwind the truest threads of their soul which I so willingly show you. I ask to be freed of this husk of a man, I am. Of this shade of a soldier bitten by Vizzari fangs. To fly beneath your holy banner is all I ask. To raise sword & spear for you against those snakes I no longer serve. If there is any further way that I might prove my loyalty, my sincerity, to you I shall undertake any task you request of me-”

“How can we be certain this ghastly thing truly belongs to the Vizzari bastard? None of us know of our enemy’s visage, only of his reputation.” A voice from behind shouted suspicion.

“Hmm,” Drakkon stroked his broad chin with the hand un-stained by the blood of the dead Magister, “o Mother! What say you to this? Grant us your True Sight to measure his words.”

He presented the head to Azarra. Disgust and worry crossed her eye for a flash, like a star falling from the heavens under earth’s crest. She turned from the others, taking a moment to gather her thoughts having not been prepared for such a revelation nor such sudden pressure. Her druid companion whispered brief measure into her ear before stepping back. Delphine moved to join her friend’s side only to be dismissed with a wave.

Engaged in trance, her eyes dart to and fro. Communing with the soul belonging to the bloody stump. “Aye, ‘tis Ba’al. This man’s tongue is true, regarding who this head belonged to. Although I cannot yet glean the coat of his inner heart.” When Azarra’s hand hovered over the stump’s bearer, the sigil singed onto his chest shined at her. “He is marked by the sign ov Oldest Star. But by the Fates or the Hels, I know not yet.”

Her son nodded. “The High Mother confirms your tale. Yet still I am unconvinced of your place in the Drakoni. For you hath deprived me of a prize that was mine to win. The Vizzari legion you once served is soon to be destroyed by my hand. Our cause is ascendant. We cannot risk any ruse nor feral factor this night. Heron, have some of your men place further chains on our guest and escort him to a holding block. Come daybreak, Mordaunt, we shall decide your place.”

The paleness of Mordaunt’s eyes swelled. Hurt & disbelief clouded him as Ferali guards drag him away by anchored shackles about his wrist & ankles. How can this be? I served Him faithfully, offered a hand & head - only to be struck down in shame! Locked up from a battle that is mine to fight as much as theirs?! Baba’Yun, hast thou misguided my steps through diluted prophecy?

Nay! This is the price I must pay for now. Tis a test of faith. This Lord is something else entirely from my & mankind’s frailty. His mind is pure, clear, and wise to put me through a gauntlet to prod my heart’s contents. Those bright eyes of His peer into deeper wells than I can even glimpse. I pray my worth is seen that I may serve as sword.

With their visitor whisked away Drakkon announced firm declaration to his council. “My children, my warriors, my disciples, my friends. Let us ignite the flame of our purest name this night! Immolate the places where our foes sleep & stoop in drunken stupor. Let them no longer taint the soil with their cloven hoofs! Let us acclaim our triumph through history to be scribed in their blood! Azarra, Delphine: go forth through the camps and give the blessing of Divine Aegis. Scouts: go forth and spark the signals along the ridges of the valley. The volleys above cease but in nigh an hour this dale will be awash with red rains of the wicked!”