Torrential rains and violent, gusting winds frothed up a mighty storm along the coastline of the large island kingdom of Chival. Maneuvering a ship close to shore in these conditions, with no moon to see by, was quite treacherous. And yet, after centuries of raids, Morg raiders were intimately familiar with every reef and cove.
Built stout and strong, Morg longships were designed to withstand storms like this without capsizing. A tent-like tarpaulin of oiled hide was hung between the mast and the high posts at the bow and the stern stretched over strong bows arched between the gunwales. This roof was invaluable to keep the deck warm and dry for the rowers. In addition to this, swinging booms holding heavy ballast were extended over the sides for extra stability.
Their leader, Briax, sought to put into a spot roughly halfway between the cities of Estremadura and Hacilar, far from populated areas. He stood at the stern, warily watching his warriors work the oars with a stoic, determined expression. Briax's bright blue-green eyes, resembling those of his human mother, were the only thing that softened the edge of his Morg persona.
As halfbreeds of Org and men, Morg possessed greater size and strength than most men, along with thicker skin with a mottled patterned texture wherever it was stretched tight. A Morg's spine and shoulders were armored with overlapping bony plates that grew harder and thicker with age.
Morg complexion was dusky, varying in shades of tans and grays. Their features were strong and primal, with bearing and attitude to match. It was in temperament, rather than appearance, that Morg more closely resembled men.
The mythical and ancient Org race to the contrary, were known for great wisdom and powerful magic. Their great bulk and powerful forms, almost monstrous to behold, very rarely acted in anger. Thus the reputation of Morg as 'mad in the blood' kept them outcast them from any lands other than their own island.
Skals bore a brand upon their thick, hairless skulls marking their rank as a raid leader. This brand carried great authority in Morg society, along with great responsibility. Those Morg lords responsible for burning in the brand would not tolerate failure.
Briax felt his stomach cramp with stress, and not just for the fact this was his first voyage as a Skal. Skals were usually veterans of many raids, and yet on this first voyage Briax misled everyone with no intent to do any raiding. Something that would not sit well with his warriors who volunteered under pretenses of spoils, slaves, and plunder.
Had Briax made this plan known from the start of course, there would be no voyage at all. Morg law clearly stated that no Morg, even a Skal with his own ship, was free to sail where he pleased unless it was part of a raid. Briax was acting against tradition now, a dangerous thing indeed in Morg society. That stress was wearing plainly on his nerves.
Around his neck Briax wore a heavy silver chain bearing the talisman of his father's house. He clutched it now and rubbed his thumb against an inset gemstone called a bloodstone. The habit, like the chain itself, was inherited from his father Tarax who wore this chain with pride as a wealthy O'Skal.
Morg warriors abroad typically dressed in plain garb of rough-spun wool, leathers and furs which better withstood the damp fog and chilly spray of the sea. Briax was no different, only embellishing his garb with this talisman, bequeathed to Briax along with this ship after Tarax's recent death.
Morg law would not permit Briax to inherit his status or title however, not that he wanted them. Tarax was a very cruel and underhanded O'Skal with partners of low repute. Briax had no desire to be anything like his father.
"Skal, look there!" The ship's kapten shouted beside him, one hand lashed to the till, the other pointing through a porthole in the tent towards something through the downpour. Briax narrowed his gaze. At this distance he could barely make out a looming blur beyond the curtains of rain. A blur he knew to be rocky cliffs. He swallowed, but his mind was made up.
"We go in!" Briax grunted gesturing quickly, not bothering to look at the kapten in case any evidence of uncertainty was visible on his face.
"ROW! ROW YOU CURS!" The kapten bellowed at the oarsmen. Six of them were slaves who belonged to him, the other dozen were warriors under Briax's command. Normally none of the warriors would tolerate being barked at like a slave but in present circumstances avoiding the reefs was more important.
Cheers erupted as they narrowly passed a foreboding rocky promontory and slipped into a tiny cove between the cliffs before surging waves beached their long ship on the sands.
"Lower the tent, haul out the ropes and anchor-spikes! Prepare to disembark!"
The kapten hollered as they pulled in oars followed by eager shouts of excitement by many warriors eager to step on enemy land foraying for fortune and glory. As was his privilege, Briax was the first to leap off the prow after the tent was stowed, boots sinking deeply into the wet sand of the tiny Chivalan beach.
A female voice with a sharp and challenging tone suddenly called for him behind his shoulder. Briax knew at once it was Belisheri. Mysterious and reserved, the sorceress barely spoke during the long voyage, eager to assert herself now as someone to be reckoned with. Members of her cult were the only women permitted to accompany men on raids, yet it wasn't often they did so, leaving Briax wondering about her purpose here? Briax waited a beat before he answered, half-turning towards her and saying, "Yes?"
"Shall I scout ahead for a suitable target to raid?"
"That won't be necessary."
"Why's that?" She asked irritably. Briax knew rebuffing her would get on her nerves, but he was testing her. Sorceresses answered to no one except their own cult. Not even a Skal outranked them in truth, but custom was they should defer to them as a volunteer on a raid.
"We won't be doing any raiding tonight, but it would be helpful if you scouted a suitable campsite close to the nearby trade road." He answered.
"So you wish to target a caravan?" She ascertained quickly.
"That's right." Briax stated plainly, though it was half a lie.
Belisheri leaped off the gunwale landing gracefully beside him. She was taller than he was, dressed in supple sealskin leathers laced around a fit and well-proportioned body. Long black hair draped down her back in intricate knots while her skin was heavily tattooed around her eyes and hands.
Briax felt a tingling sensation near to her from her magical power, though in truth it was the mysteries and rumors surrounding the blood magic practiced by her cult that gave him chills.
Sorceresses were the most feared and respected Morg next to the ruling Morgons. While her purpose here remained obscure, crossing her could be dangerous. In theory of course, a female Morg should be especially appreciative of what he was trying to do, but it did not make sense to reveal his plans to her just yet. Not until he understood the scope and reach of her powers better, and what her motives might be.
As if sensing his thoughts Belisheri turned to stare at him with bewitching green eyes. Something in the way she looked at him made him doubt he could keep secrets from her for very long. Eventually he would have to gamble on trusting her, or attempt to eliminate her if she proved a threat.
"Very well." She said stretching out her arm. Moments later, a terrible shriek pierced the darkness as a Torok swooped down for her offered perch. Briax couldn't help but grimace at the sight of the creature, deeply loathed by all except her ilk. It was something drawn out of a nightmare with large leathery wings and grotesquely long talons. This one was her familiar.
Its body was more humanoid then bird, tiny as a newborn infants, covered in a mix of feathers and short hair over sickly pale skin. The creature had an unnaturally long disjointed neck with ugly rodent-like features including big veiny ears, large eyes and sharp teeth.
Belisheri was not at all repulsed by the creature as she smiled and stroked its feathers, much like a mother might caress her offspring. Suddenly the Torok articulated its neck to sink fangs painfully into her fingers. Belisheri didn't flinch and continued to adore it while it drank its fill.
Toroks plagued Morg Island at the top of the scavengers' food chain. Nocturnal cave-dwellers, Toroks preyed on lambs, pigs, even children. Their bite was known to cause dizziness and even paralysis. But worst of all, their wicked cleverness was revered in many dark tales that spawned many childrens nightmares.
Briax felt sick to his stomach watching, yet chose not to look away. There may be something useful he could glean from this moment, unpleasant though it was. For one thing, he noted the Torok's toxins apparently had no effect on Belisheri. After a minute of feeding, the Torok seemed soothed, almost drunk.
"Hold out your arm." Belisheri spoke to Briax when it finished. Briax resisted the impulse to scoff at her and refuse. He imagined it was unwise to display any weakness towards her so he permited her to hand the Torok off to him. It hopped over without hesitation, though it hissed and pinched its talons tightly into his bracers, craning its neck to sniff at him.
"When I find us a suitable campsite my familiar will lead you to me." She stated.
Briax nodded and watched Belisheri walk up the beach through the rain. The Torok made no effort to feed on him or fly away as she moved off.
"I don't trust her..." A tortured voice remarked from close behind, so guttural and hoarse it always reminded him of a walking corpse. The voice was was that of Kurg, his sworn-brother and bodyguard, the only other Morg who knew his real plans.
"We'll see. I know I can count on you..." Briax answered, not adding what he really meant by that, which was that Kurg wouldn't hesitate to kill her if he asked him too. "Are the warriors assembled?"
"Yes." Kurg answered.
Briax turned and approached their formation beside the longship numbering two dozen strong. Behind them the sea churned as the wind roared and the rain poured, yet none of them seemed bothered by the weather in the slightest. Morg island was fraught with such storms most of the year.
Though they were exhausted from rowing through the waves for so many days, their strength renewed quickly and most of them were already hefting weapons and strapping on extra bits of armor, eager to get on with what they came here to do.
Briax eyed them with no small bit of apprehension, for this was his moment to announce his change in plans. Kurg stood beside him to his left and shouted for the warriors to listen. Briax spoke up loudly then to be sure he made himself clear.
"Warriors! We are here on Chival for a special purpose! We will NOT be partaking in the usual raiding practices of our ancestors."
Stares and exclamations of surprise immediately broke out in the ranks. Many of them were clearly aghast to hear this, but a few seemed intrigued and Briax took care to remember those faces. He continued.
"There is no shame adopting new tactics. Too long have we lived across the sea like common scavengers! It's time we conquered our ancient enemies and made a new colony here for ourselves!" Whoever spoke against him now would have to be made example of. A disgruntled veteran by the name of Morul was the first to raise his voice in challenge.
"This was not the arrangement we made when we joined this raid! We are not here to throw our lives away on some foolhardy quest!"
Briax locked his gaze with Morul standing in the front ranks only paces away.
"I have heard your words Morul. Yes you are a veteran of many raids, more than I in fact. But if all those other raids were really so good for you, you would be a Skal yourself standing in my place!" Laughter immediately broke out among his peers and Morul glared about angrily. Briax continued without pause. "Real opportunity belongs to the brave who attempt the unknown! Let us show our brethren back home that we are willing to take greater risks for greater riches that will be the envy of the whole island!"
"And what is this plan of yours exactly?" Morul asked a little too disrespectfully for Kurgs liking who stepped before Briax to remind Morul of his place. Kurgs brutish strength and talent for killing were legendary. None of the warriors here would dare cross him. Briax continued, unabashed.
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"My plan requires us to do more than raid. We have to make allies who will help us strike against Chivalan nobles with greater numbers."
"Ridiculous! We are Morg, I will never ally myself with a human, especially a Chivalan!"
"If that is your choice, feel free to remain here on the beach with the slaves. Or you could always start your swim back... my ship of course has no room for cowards."
Predictably, Morul reached for his ax in the motions to affront an insurrection to Briax. Kurg's throwing axe buried itself in his forehead before he managed a single step towards him. Morul fell back, dead on his feet. The other warriors stared at him, and each other, with worried expressions.
"Anyone else have a problem with my plan?" Briax asked, answered only by silence. "Good! Prepare the supplies; we will have to take much of them with us. Our target may not appear upon the road for several days."
The warriors scattered to obey his command as Kurg lurched towards them to retrieve his weapon. Soon after the supplies were offloaded and distributed the Torok leaped from Briax's forearm, screeching and circling above before darting off down the beach, signaling him to follow.
Briax permitted himself a small sigh of relief. His first challenge facing the men had gone as well as he could have hoped. With Kurg by his side he had a chance to hold command. Dark stories and rumors from his past trailed Kurg like a long shadow. Only the horror of his ruined visage matched his reputation, though the latter was rarely witnessed beneath the heavy iron helm he wore. Briax was one of the few who saw the terrible scars around his throat and the sizable dent in his skull.
Tales about the source of these injuries varied because Kurg never spoke of them, but most believed they occurred during an attack by the vicious flesh-eating AnGhouls. A monstrous race, AnGhouls slaughtered whole villages leaving half-eaten corpses in their wake. The fact that AnGhouls dared to attack Morg Island at all was a testament to their ferocity.
Yet regardless of their source, Kurg's injuries left their mark on him. Yes he could still think, and speak, and reason in large measure, but there was no doubt he was less than whole. He was no longer body and spirit. Empathy was absent from his eyes giving a reptilian quality to his stare that chilled the blood.
As they marched off the beach Briax let his thoughts wander on his surroundings. Chival was sixty leagues due east of Morg Isle across the Sea of Tears. Named thus for all the wailing and sorrow that followed a Morg raid after human women of child-bearing age were captured and brought back as breeding-wives.
Current weather non-withstanding, Chival had a warmer temperate climate than Morg Isle except for the northern region capped by glaciers. Morg rarely ventured far into the interior, where it was known there were forests, mountain ranges, rivers and lakes. Chival was certainly a paradise compared to the barren, rocky, low-lying island Morg hailed from.
Chivalan culture was also altogether different from the Morg, even if their respective societies were nearly the same age. Chival was made from the ruins of an evil demesne called Khimera, destroyed in a great uprising and subsequent crusade against the demon-blooded king and his legions of followers.
Chivalans fought a terrible war to gain their independence and religious freedom. Their prowess on the battlefield was well known. Perhaps more important than that was their aptitude for trade and technology, rivaled only by the much larger island-continent of Gallia to the south, with whom they shared a common religion if little else. Chival was a world-leader in all things respectable and civilized.
Briax knew a great deal more about Chival than most Morg, thanks to the private education provided by his mother before she passed. Her name was Lilia, and she taught him most of what he knew about Sion and Chival in particular. It was because of her that he had a plan, and more importantly, the desire to change his people.
After several miles the Torok led them to a hidden clearing overlooking a pavestone trade road. Briax ordered the warriors to set about making camp, starting with his tent. He could sense they were restless now, unsure of their purpose. There was grumbling and whispers with very little laughter. He would have to rally them to a purpose soon, for not even Kurg could withstand the whole group if they turned against him.
Belisheri watched him critically as he organized the campsite. It irked him to think he had anything to prove to her, or worse yet imagining how she could potentially undo him before he even got started. However for the moment, he knew she was not yet privy to his speech on the beach. There was no way to know what her reaction to that would be. If it turned into a confrontation, the real worry might be how his warriors would react. Would they remain loyal to him?
After his tent was setup and put in order Briax quickly ducked inside, if only to avoid her stares for a few minutes peace. By the light of an oil lamp He poured water into a hand basin and stood over it, gazing at his own distorted reflection in the ripples. In moments like this he imagined a different face for himself, a face with features more like his mothers.
Lilia was Chivalan by birth, born to a common family hereabouts in the Mordhel region of Chivals western coast. Its capital city, Estremadura was one of the busiest ports on this island and folk of this region were usually thriving.
For a brief moment Briax fantasized about what life might have been like for him here if his mother hadn't been captured in a raid. He imagined he would have still been an adventurer, if not so much of a reformer. Perhaps he would have been an explorer, free to sail wherever he wished writing of encounters sure to awe and amaze.
Briax's daydream ended as soon as his features coalesced back into focus and he recognized his resemblance to his Morg father Tarax, a man he'd loathed all his life. The fact Tarax was dead, poisoned by his own hand over a month ago did not lessen that bitterness like he hoped. It was not shame of the deed that bothered him. Tarax was responsible for Lilia's death so he had good cause. His only regret was how he killed him and how long he had waited.
Lilia had actually anticipated her own death at his hands, and forbid Briax to avenge her until he was old enough to inherit a share of his wealth, particularly his ships. Sturdy, seaworthy vessels were hard to come by on Morg Isle. Their trees were gnarled and twisted, very poor for making planks. Without good timber, shipbuilding was twice as arduous, time consuming and costly, yet sorely needed all the same. Few Morg were rich enough to afford the expense on their own so villagers took to collaboration on shipbuilding projects.
Contributors owned a stake in the ship thereafter with a right to a share of the commerce facilitated by its use. That commerce was typically transport of goods around the island, but raiding other lands across the sea was easily the most lucrative venture.
Raids were led by veteran warriors called Skals, chosen for leadership ability and experience. Some were elected; others simply took the mantle from other Skals by right of challenge. Technically any Morg could call himself a Skal if they were willing to swear an oath and be officially ordained by a Morgon. Finding Morg eager to volunteer to go raiding was easy. The trouble was securing a ship with which to do so.
A Skals first battle was often a negotiation trying a charter a ship under favorable terms. Not an easy thing when the vessel itself was likely more valuable than the spoils it hauled back. Failed raids were financially taxing to all involved but ruinous to Skals. Indebted slavery or death was often their fate.
Skals fortunate enough to lead successful raids might grow rich and earn the honor and title of O'Skal, or lord. An O'Skal was responsible for all the raids from a particular area of the island. Unlike Skals, O'Skals were chosen by the regions Overseer, ostensibly by reputation and merit. An O'Skal might serve for life but their title would not transfer to their children. Tarax was a wealthy and successful O'Skal but Briax would not have wanted his title even if he was entitled to it.
Tarax was dishonest and corrupt with many friends in low places. Had Briax tried to fill his shoes without maintaining the same underhanded deals he would have met a similar end. Briax already had enough enemies who wished him dead merely for the sake of jealousy or a grudge.
In his heart Briax was a prophet, not a Skal. Keeping silent all these years about his real goals was not easy. There were moments when it took all his willpower to hold his tongue and avoid ridiculing or lashing out at other Morg. And worse, there were moments when he had to act as depraved and barbaric as they do to fit in and be respected.
Growing up, the very idea of participating in raids troubled him. Lilia understood this and prepared him for it. She said before he had a chance to change the Morg he must first learn to be one of them. She said she would forgive him for all the sins he had to do before he had a chance to do good.
But now his time had finally come. He knew humans everywhere hated Morg, for good reason. Nothing he did could make up for, or lessen the crimes of his race. Morg and man would never be brothers, but perhaps he could achieve a measure of understanding and equality between them.
His musings were interrupted by a slight draft as the flap of his tent was pulled open. He tensed and twisted in a rage, intent on cursing out whoever disturbed him, but held his tongue when he saw it was her.
"We have much to discuss." Belisheri stated plainly. Briax frowned, wishing Kurg was by his side, but he also realized intimating any weakness to her was probably a bad idea. It was some small comfort at least that her disgusting pet was not with her.
"Very well." Briax answered gesturing to his small table, offering her a chair before clearing off a pile of maps and parchments including accounts of raids by other Skals. Belisheri took notice.
"You seem well prepared for a Skal who doesn't wish to actually do any raiding."
Briax kept his expression neutral as he placed the oil map between them and grabbed a jug of Kvasa and two cups. "Didn't take you long to find out about that." He remarked as he poured.
"I heard your speech."
Briax took care not to spill as she spoke and raised a brow. "Did you now?"
Belisheri smirked as she quoted him. "...It's time we conquered our ancient enemies and made a new colony here for ourselves."
"Impressive. I see rumors of your kind aren't exaggerated."
"Rumors hardly do us justice." She answered with no small amount of arrogance.
Briax handed her a cup and sat opposite her. "Shall we make a toast in the custom of the Chivalans?" He asked raising his cup. Belisheri frowned.
"They are the enemy."
"Yes, but a worthy enemy deserves some admiration."
"Do you want to live like them? Is that why you came here?" She asked pointedly.
Briax gave up on the toast and took a heavy swallow. "Not exactly. But I believe there is much we can learn from them."
"I already know a great deal about them. None of it changes the fact they would destroy us all if they could."
"I'm not suggesting we make peace, just that we adopt different tactics."
"There are warriors outside who feel otherwise. One word from me and it's all over for you."
"I think you'll reconsider once you hear my plan."
Belisheri finally sipped her kvasa eyeing him like a coiled viper waiting to strike. "Speak then."
Briax drained his cup for a moment's pause considering the best angle to engage her into this discussion. He decided to lead out with a simple question.
"Answer me this. Why are we feared?"
"We are feared because we take what we want, when we want."
"That's what we like to think, but in fact it's quite the opposite. We take what we can get, when we can get it."
Belisheri sneered. "What kind of Skal mocks his own people?!"
"I'm just speaking the truth. Chivalans believe we are like demons lurking in the shadows, seemingly striking at random. This perception suites us well enough, but only because we choose to flee just as quickly as we strike."
"We must be gone before they organize a force of their knights, or their warships against us."
Briax smiled coyly. "Suppose we didn't have to flee because our allies hid and sheltered us?"
Belisheri laughed. "Allies?! Why would we ever trust one of them to be an ally?"
"Because we give them no choice!" Briax answered plainly. "We force their cooperation, it's the only way."
Belisheri eyed him suspiciously. "How?"
Briax knew he had his hook in her now, yet there was some wisdom in keeping her on the line and not revealing everything too soon.
"First we must acquire leverage over the local lords. We do this by targeting a specific caravan upon the road with something very valuable in their keeping. Once we possess this, we can negotiate terms for whatever we need."
"What is this valuable thing?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters if you expect these warriors to exile themselves for it."
"I expect they will accept exile easily enough once they enjoy their spoils and realize none of it has to be taxed by the Morgons."
Belisheri stopped smirking then, her eyes taking on a different look. In that instant Briax recognized something in her that surprised him; genuine fear of the Morgons. If she were just another morg this wouldn't surprise him in the least, but sorceresses enjoyed a privileged, powerful position in morg society. Of course that in itself might make her fear them all the more? Perhaps he made a mistake underestimating how their rage towards her betrayal might be worse than his?
"This is madness!" She muttered. "Anyone who goes along with this plan will be flayed alive for treason!"
"How will they punish us from across the sea?" Briax asked refilling his cup.
"If you're foolish enough to underestimate them, you and anyone that follows you will die! Also, you do realize anyone associated with you back home will be questioned and similarly punished if they had any part supporting this raid. Are you prepared for that?"
"Perhaps that's just what we need."
"Hah!"
"I'm not joking. Why should Morg accept rule by the Morgons? We outnumber them a hundred to one at least."
Belisheri's breath seemed to catch in her throat. Briax enjoyed catching her off guard; it seemed she truly never truly considered that idea, which also revealed another important point. She wasn't expecting him to suggest it either. Whatever her reasons were for being here, they hadn't sent her suspecting him for treason in quite this way. That small realization was a small comfort.
"Is that your plan? You won't get away with it. They'll see what you're up too. You're not the first to attempt an uprising."
"Perhaps, but for now time is on my side. They won't expect us back from this raid for a few weeks."
"They'll know a lot sooner than that. My kind will find out. There is very little they cannot see I assure you."
"So they'll see us in the same way you somehow observed my speech on the beach?" Briax questioned hoping to glean a little more information about her spells.
"Not exactly, but there are many ways and means to use magic you wouldn't understand."
"Well than it is good you came along. I will rely on you to convince them not to report on our activities."
Belisheri snorted. "As if I could?!"
"It shouldn't be hard, once you explain what they have to gain from supporting us."
Belisheri scoffed and suddenly stood, hands clenched in anger. Her eyes burned into him with terrible power. So intense was her stare that Briax failed to notice her fingers twitching in the workings of a spell. Suddenly his vision and sense of balance was compromised by blood leaking from every orifice in his head. He felt his own hands grasping for his axe and his dagger, panic swelling deeply into his heart.
He tried to call out for Kurg but there was so much blood dripping into his throat he could only manage a loud gurgle, indistinguishable against the storming winds outside. Choking on his own essence he suddenly understood the horrors of blood magic. Sanguinarcana they called it.
He would only end her spell breaking her concentration somehow, either by wounding her or grappling with her. Weapons brandished, Briax lunged forward knocking aside the small table between them with the last bit of strength he could muster which also toppled away the oil lamp.
Of course, when the light of the lamp was extinguished he could not distinguish the outline of her body against the walls of his tent with his vision so impaired. In a panic he started swinging blindly with his weapons. Belisheri had no choice but to lurch back through the flaps of the tent to avoid his wild swings stepping directly into the reach of Briax's bodyguard who easily knocked her unconscious.
Briax stumbled after her, tripping over her body as his faculties finally failed him completely. All around him there was shouting before everything faded to black.