Year 212. Lydoros - Khirn
“However, when the scapegoat's blood has been shed, we will see that broken path return. And I will always choose the path that leads foul hearts.” - Acominatus, The Aureate Code Pg. 118, Par. 2.
ERIK APA
The storm was loudest in the moments after the politician’s demise. Its clouds had finally burst into a downpour of rain that clung to armor and flesh like slime, running down the lengths in glimmering trails. Lightning split in dazzling arcs while thunder boomed in deafening roars. Deafening. Deafening.
Runemaster—once more relegated away from the stage, only allowed to be present to avoid issues at camp—growled as his hearing was reduced to a whistling hum that slowly became increasingly muffled in his head. His eyes, momentarily blurred by the bright flashes of light crackling between the weeping clouds even through his helmet’s lenses, focused on the twitching vile corpse of the old man. Those around it were slowly regaining their ability to move and speak. He wondered what they would say. He wondered what they had said, for he had paid only a modicum of attention to the proceedings, only noting its abridged length before the inevitable occurred. Those vestiges of pained life fleeting the corpse was that inevitable occurrence.
“Murder!” he thought he heard someone in the vicinity cry out to the rising choral agreement of others.
“Kill them! Betrayers! Charlatans!” someone else roared. He believed it was the Dioúksis or maybe the Vasileú.
The Runemaster turned his blurred gaze to the rising crowd of rebels and Belanorians, weapons drawn. He rose with them, ushering his kin to do the same. They did, their voices a cacophony of rage in his ringing ears. Each one drew their blades spears and spun on the benches and landings of the theater floor to adopt defensive positions. Their Aslofidorian allies also filled the gaps where applicable or rushed to defend their Vasileú.
“Stop!” Perhaps it was someone on his side or theirs. He did not know.
In his right hand, he held the Spear of E’grn, whose blade shone like a pointed sun in the darkness of that storm. His left was bare.
“Don’t!” another shouted.
Runemaster looked left, across the scape from theater seats to stage, and met his mother’s eyes. Her expression was unreadable. Disapproving? Approving? Fearful? Wrathful? He could not tell her feelings or what she wanted him to do. Yet, when he looked back and faced those across the gap of the river, he heard her voice. You are Maprapeyni. What is there that you cannot do?
His fingers curled, bent, and twirled with his wrist. His body seized. His eyes clenched shut. A great geyser of earth erupted from the river and created a bridge between the theater seats, parts of it entwining within the marble and stone, entrapping the feet of those too close to the edges. All of his kin gasped.
“Raoka Taia Man.”
The Belanorians hissed as the rebels backed away at the dreadful sight. Even those on the Vasileús’ side fell into a shocked hush at the display of power sparked from just his fingertips. He felt a twinge of pride at the eyes placed upon him.
“Sin!” the Belanorians seethed in unison.
“Devilry!” the rebels screamed out.
“Erik!” he heard his mother shout over the hailstorm of rain, thunder, and choler. He only looked to see her face illuminated by the electric torrent of the sky. Scowling—no, enraged. “Taye tsom. Tura tsom yan!”
The Runemaster ordered the charge with a flourish of his spear. The ground shook with the footfalls of those willing to follow him despite his disregard for the laws of his mother. A titan of impossibility, he bounded across the stretch of uprooted earth slick with stolen water, roaring with infernal hatred, finally breaking loose the pent-up bloodlust held within him for months. His first kill, accompanied by the battle cries of his people, was a young man dressed in mail and thick fabrics. He let loose a gurgle of surprise when the Spear of E’grn’s shining edge was shunted through his mouth and up through his head until it breached the crown of his skull. The Runemaster ripped the weapon free, spinning on his feet with a skill that should have been unthinkable in his armor, carving its tip through the neck of another rebel Aslofidorian who tumbled down the stairs. His kin joined the fray seconds later, the theater exploding into a roar of sound emphasized by the storm whose fervor increased tenfold with each pint of blood that was now spilled on the once immaculate architecture.
A Belanorian came at him, blitzing through the horde with sword and shield faster than any Aslofidorian could. The Runemaster took the attempted strike straight onto his vambrace, grinning beneath his helmet as the blade shattered into a dozen pieces with a glint of blue light from the impact. Quickly, he thrust his spear through the Belanorian’s stomach and gripped the haft with both hands, flipping the woman over his head and into a crowd of rebels, knocking them down with the surprise descent. He turned last second to sweep the legs of another foe. Twirling his blade in circular patterns, the Runemaster chortled foul words to the man on his back and sent the spear through his nose. Wrenching it free, he engaged the horde in full. Dozens upon dozens fell to him, just as dozens of his kin fell to them. Decapitation, bisection, skewering, and overall butchering were the diplomatic methods of this fated meeting.
Then, just as he seemed to find himself growing bored of the lack of challenge, he faced a woman of silver, bloodied to the roots of her strange armor and robes. Next to her was a boy in his teens, a squire perhaps, equally bloodied and far more harrowed, listlessly gripping a sword intended for a man twice his size. Wordlessly, he engaged the woman, unleashing a series of jabs and swings aimed at her head and neck. She deflected each one frantically, voiding those she could not push away. Her follow-up attacks forced him onto his backfoot, for even with the protection of his armor, the woman’s precision was unmatched by those he had faced before. Curiously, her blade did not shatter with the impact against his armor, nor did it seem to dent. He grunted as the usual seconds of an encounter turned into a full minute and then minutes. Back and forth, he went across the theater with her, both taking moments in their duel to combat others that came upon them until they were both so coated in viscera that descending the theater steps presented the risk of slipping.
The woman performed an effortless parry of another stab for her face and sent her own into his belly. Only by the protection of his armor’s enchantments was this not a killing blow—a fact that grew so hot in his mind so quickly that the man nearly tumbled in surprise. He dropped into a defensive stance, breathing heavily for the first time in months. The woman, noting this, finally allowed herself to breathe and began to back away toward her apparent squire. With a quick swipe of her hand, she ripped the bloodied robe away from her legs and armor, revealing the full plate of her lower body.
“What are you?” he rumbled as an arrow bounced off his backplate.
“Hu teprutsata,” the woman responded in his language with a voice as spiteful as a serpent’s.
A noise burbled from the back of his throat at this disrespect, launching himself at her with a leaping thrust for her chest. Once more, far more panicked, she deflected it only to suffer an immediate series of rage-induced punches and butts of the haft. She nearly fell down the stairs in a daze. She was spared this fate by her squire’s dropping of his sword to rush and pull her back up.
“Stay away from her!” the young boy wailed, picking up the woman’s sword and pointing it at the Runemaster.
Lightning flashed behind him and struck the top of several buildings, splintering the stone into jagged shapes. “She is an admirable warrior for a Belanorian,” the Runemaster admitted, though the words were foreign to his tongue. “What is her name?”
“Go away!” the young boy demanded, standing up to swing at the Runemaster with all his might. He took the strike to his belly, watching as the blade cracked and broke from the hilt, and a glint of blue light shone from the hit. The boy fell onto his rear next to the woman, who stirred with barely retained consciousness.
The Runemaster approached the boy and dropped to a knee. “You are not Aslofidorian, boy. What are you? Tahririan? Violent for one, if so.”
The boy shuddered in fear, all avenues of standing up to the Runemaster eradicated in a single attack. “Go away...”
“What is your name, boy?” the Runemaster pressured as the world around them continued to drown in blood.
“Go away!” the young boy screamed, reaching for the distant hilt of the sword he had dropped to save his master. It was the last scream he made that day before Erik Apa silenced him.
“Tohyi! We must go!” one of his warriors cried out as the Runemaster rose, dissatisfied with the encounter. “The Runearch is sounding the retreat to the army!”
“What?” he cried back, turning away from the woman and her squire toward the one who dared voice such words. His eyes beheld Goka Tur, his warpaint ruined, and a quarter of his face opened with a gash from a sword.
“We need to go!” the injured warrior bellowed, pleading for the Runemaster to come with him as the Druyans and loyalists began to turn and flee.
The Runemaster roared in agony at this development and cast one last look to the Dioúksis of Amphe, a fat man hidden behind a wall of elite guards, unbloodied and undamaged. Fumes of smoke rose in his lungs at the sight before he finally rushed to depart.
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Year 215. Amphe - Khirn
JIRA ne'JIRAL
The man was unusual for the work she had him do, given what should not have functioned from his stature and overall appearance. Even more unusual was her fondness for him when they were not discussing the war.
Still, he was a comforting and professional company and had proven quite the welcome distraction from the violence in the field, enough so that she regarded him nearly as fondly as one would a childhood friend. Not to discount his skilled abilities at information gathering. By his voice, she had learned many important things regarding the Vasileús’ movements these past three years, and by her subsequent hand, disaster had been avoided. The man—Svend Ia of Aqella—knew his worth in this and was quick to remind her of it. Sometimes in jest and sometimes in worry to ensure she recognized his loyalty to the cause of rebellion. She was always quick to accept his information and remind him of that worth.
Today, it was different.
“I have word from Megoeze,” he announced as he entered the room with hasty steps. By that time, she had been setting a bath to soothe her muscles, turning the faucets to free the waters of the heated aqueducts running through all various levels of the Amphe. Steam filled the air around the basin as she tossed in multiple salts and scented oils. All she wanted was a rest.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
“Do you wish to hear about Megoeze?” he asked.
“No,” she answered bluntly. “I don’t.”
He made a noise, drawing a quick glance from the woman. He had barely changed since that first day she saw him in the streets of this city. A massive specimen, black-haired and golden-eyed, pale as a Belanorian. His face was sharp, diamond-shaped, and bearded with black stubble. His lips were thin and straight, and his nose was slightly concave. When he smiled, his teeth were perfect and clean. His usual garb was comfortable, loose, and dark cloths and occasionally silks. The only thing different about him now was that she knew why he was the way he was, being of Aqella. She was uncertain, however, of what exactly he was. “What of Tylissezus? Or Commander Dion?”
“I don’t care for either of them,” Jira grunted, testing the heat of the water with her hand. It was hot, almost burning her flesh red, and she slowly turned the faucet off when it was half full. She twisted the second for cold water, filling it until it was a warm, comfortable temperature. She dropped her towel and lowered into the basin, sinking into the waters until only her head remained above the surface.
Svend sighed as he walked to her. “Perhaps Timonax?”
“No.”
“You’ve heard everything about everyone from me these three years, no exception, and suddenly you want nothing? Are you well, Jira?” He stood next to the basin with crossed arms and a tapping foot.
She glanced at him. “I am troubled, Svend.” Her voice was cold.
“About what?”
“Three years, you have given me information that has kept our rebellion alive. For that, I am grateful beyond words,” she explained, closing her eyes as the hot water soothed. “But the war has only gotten worse, and we need something that can turn the tide forever in our favor.”
“Much of what I can give is useful in that regard, Jira,” he responded. “Timonax leads an assault by the sea to Belanore alongside Yold Kem. Commander Dion reported having news on Vasileú Hippon’s current march in the north.”
“Yes, much of that is useful; give such information to the Dioúksis’s generals. But none of it is groundbreaking,” Jira lamented. “None of that can change the tide, Svend. If you don’t have anything of the sort, I do not wish to hear it. I cannot waste more energy hearing reports of Timonax or Commander Dione.”
Svend was silent for a long time, though she could feel his concerned stare bearing down on her. He shifted uncomfortably to kneel beside her after the silence ended. “Well, there is one unsubstantiated rumor from a vulture of mine. The village of Gortinda, I hear, has begun soliciting loyalist behavior. Nothing major yet, but...yet.”
Jira’s eyes shot open. “Gortinda? Are you sure?”
Svend’s face spread into a smile, pleased that he had found something worthwhile. “Unsubstantiated, but yes. Do you want me to keep investigating?”
Jira nodded, her face holding back a sudden mask of concern. “Yes. Keep investigating that. Get back to me as soon as you can.”
Months passed before Svend reappeared at the gate to her manse, standing between the two trees that had bloomed with an unearthly color since he began arriving at her home. He wore grey mail with the chains so closely knit that it appeared as fabric. He bore a traveling cloak of sunlight yellow and his arm was hooked around a fully enclosed helm of smooth black iron with a two eyeholes and four rows of ventilation breaths. “I have something, though you’re not going to be happy,” he said with a bitter tone. Jira noted the sweat and dirt covering his body and new scars and bruises. It was as if a wolf had accosted him.
“Tell me,” Jira said with a resolute bracing of her heart.
Svend breathed hard. “Gortinda has turned on the Dioúksis. They will allow the Vasileús' forces to move through their defenses. They’re going to allow the Vasileús’s soldiers to flank the Dioúksis’s territory.”
“Highest Above,” Jira hissed, fear of the realization piercing her. “We’ve held them in the middle this whole time, and if they suddenly get that much of an advantage...”
“We’ll have to focus on too many ends. We’ll be doomed.”
Jira’s lips curled sourly. “The fucking traitors.” She paused her rage to laugh, drawing a short chuckle from the man. “The irony of that statement. At least there is some humor in this catastrophe.”
“Indeed. But Jira, it gets worse-”
“Save it for the Dioúksis. Come, we need to inform him.”
“Are we allowed to just walk to him?” Svend asked, stuttering as Jira pushed past him to enter the crowd-filled street.
She snorted as Svend struggled to keep pace with her, forced to shove his way through the crowds she trotted without hindrance. “I am Jira ne’Jiral, one of his most esteemed. If anyone is allowed to ‘just walk to him,’ I am one of them.”
“What of me?” he asked with a slight grunt as he eventually matched her pace. “Have you informed the Dioúksis of my-”
“No,” she said. “As far as they are all concerned, you are Belanorian like me with a mutation in your blood. Unsavory, but allowed.”
“I am thankful for that. I feel that many within your hierarchy would find our arrangement to be distasteful, to say the least.”
She nodded, gruffly acknowledging the truth of the matter. Svend Ia was fairly known by now in the Dioúksis’s council though rarely seen. Providing information on par with his Curators without the regulations of such an organization. Some subtly respected him for his loyalty to the Dioúksis and his city. Others despised him for his...wrongness, his unnatural state that put everyone on edge. All eyed Jira cautiously for her closeness to the man and that most of the information he gathered was filtered through her, and the truth of him coming to light would be a scandal of a scorching degree.
Jira kept the sting of this from her expression as the pair reached the gate of the Dioúksis’s manor. Words with the guards were exchanged, and the knight was allowed to enter along with the haggard informant behind her. They walked through the lobby and up the stairs, down the hall, and into the council room.
Dioúksis Audax looked up from the myriad of papers his councilors had piled in front of him; his eyes were heavy with bags. The rest of the room, councilors and elite guards, all shot glares and welcomed Jira and Svend—the latter many were now seeing in person for the first time. Jira felt the immediate sense of judgment and stiffened her back in defense.
“Jira, may I ask why you have barged into my council chambers, and with this...vagrant you call informant?” the Dioúksis asked, his voice laden with exhaustion.
“Dioúksis Audax, my lord, I have critical news of Gortinda,” Jira rushed. “Gortinda has turned against us. They are going to let the Vasileús’s army pass through it and march through the field. We are going to lose the defenses of our flank.”
The councilors all murmured at the audaciousness of this claim. Even the elite guards, stoic and resolute in the face of all threats, exchanged looks with each other. The Dioúksis set down his paper and stared hard at his knight. “How did you come by this information?”
Jira pointed to her friend. “Svend here has been investigating the place for several months now. He has only just returned to me with the news, though he can give you the specifics now.”
Svend nodded as Jira ushered him forward. He bowed in proper greeting. “My lord, the village’s eodīs, Atë Orthia, has agreed to several bribes from the Vasileús, chief among them a jump in power from eodīs to varónos. She has critical information on how your territories work: borders, trade routes, and the like. If we do not suture this wound now, we will lose—you will lose—this war within the year at best. We must ensure Gortinda remains in your control.”
The Dioúksis considered these words for a long while before he spoke again. “I wish to say that you are little more than a charlatan, young man. That you have fooled my best knight into thinking your words are truths rather than falsehoods and tall tales. Yet, wisdom and foresight have been the result each time you have spoken through her. I am then pressured to accept that this discovery of yours might well be true. That Eodīs Orthia has turned against Amphe and me. I am then pressured to say that I must send a contingent of my forces to teach her the error of her ways and keep Gortinda secure.”
“I wish the problems ended there, my lord,” Svend continued. “I discovered something most troubling while away on my quest. I found...at a distance...a family of inhumans, exploring something that further troubled my mind as I had difficulty understanding what I saw.”
The room nearly fell into an uproarious riot. “Inhumans on Khirn? In Aslofidor? Impossible!”
“Silence!” the Dioúksis bellowed, quieting the room with but a word. “What did you see, Svend?”
Svend turned to Jira, who gave him a slight nod and a smile. “I saw what looked to be...Nujant Chhank... bear folk, giants of muscle and fur, speaking in languages that would hurt your ears even to hear. As I followed them, I saw them stand before the great mountain range west of Gortinda, the only one greater than that which built Amphe.”
“The Crest,” Jira murmured.
“The Crest, a pilgrimage site. What of it?” the Dioúksis questioned, irate.
Svend took a nasal breath. “I saw the oldest of them, white-furred with eyes as black as coal, wave his hands and utter some incantation. I saw The Crest shimmer before my eyes and produce a fortress gleaming with what could only be sult...erh, sorry, mystharin .”
“Highest preserve us,” Pallos of the councilors whispered.
The Dioúksis rose to his feet in anger. “Are you telling me, Svend, that there are inhumans in our land—my land—using the Devil’s magic to alter The Crest into some base for themselves?”
“Or reveal something already there,” Jira offered before her mind could tell her to stop. All eyes fell on her, prompting her to scramble. “I only mean that if what Svend said is true, then perhaps they know something we don’t. Consider the archaeological digs of Tahrir. I spoke of this once with Nara-ward. They discover tombs with skeletons of inhuman nature. Perhaps this is something of the same.”
“She could be right,” Otonia of the council said. “We have seen mystharin do terrible and, admittedly, awe-inspiring things in this war. It was once heavily present in this land of Khirn. This could be a glamoured fortress.”
“Would we not have found it before? Bumped into it on the path?” Haidee of the council asked.
Ariston of the council shook her head. “Not exactly. Much of what we know on mystharin is word of mouth, and many of the written records are, conveniently, all held within the Vasileús’s territory. As vile as it is, we would benefit from knowing more, as I have long said since the Druyans started openly using it.”
“Your suggestions on the matter are well noted, Ariston,” the Dioúksis groused, lowering himself to his seat. “Highest Above. A traitorous eodīs and inhumans wandering around my land. What else must I contend with?”
“Unfortunately, there are many things, my lord,” Jira admitted. “But one thing at a time. And I say we must deal with the issue of Gortinda first before worrying ourselves about these inhumans.”
“Agreed,” many in the council voiced.
“No, I will not let these inhumans subvert my land while I am ensuring the survival of my people against the Vasileús,” the Dioúksis asserted. “Svend, you know where they were last seen. You have provided information on an unparalleled scale. I am hereby temporarily conscripting you into my Curators until such time that your skills are no longer needed. You will work alongside Lords Coronos and Polyphetes to keep track of these monsters. Understood?”
Svend stammered, looking between the Dioúksis and Jira in shocked confusion. Jira herself was stunned by the declaration, though she had the wherewithal to inform Svend to say nothing but ‘yes’ with just a look in her eye. “Y-yes, my lord,” he said with a bow. “It is my honor to serve, Lord Audax.”
The Dioúksis nodded with some returned respect. “Good. Jira, I am commissioning you as co-commander of an Aedo in my force that has been itching for deployment. Officially, they are known as the Akaios Opos, but the zealous bastards prefer to call themselves ‘The Eye.’ Take care with their actual leader, Menoitios, and his second, Alexias. They are difficult and may try to hinder you from leading alongside them. But I trust that you will get it done.”
“Are you sure it is wise to send such an egregiously violent force to as complex a situation as Gortinda, my lord?” Otonia asked.
The Dioúksis chuckled grimly. “Their reputation precedes them. Once the eodīs learns of their arrival alongside Jira ne’Jiral, she’ll think twice about betraying me to the Vasileús. Yes, we will send them while Svend and the Curators deal with these inhumans. Now, get to work. We have a war to win.”