Kellan looks at the stars. Tonight is a very rare night. Kibberi and Kasarb both hand in the sky. Two dead gods coat the encampment with moonlight — and make the steam from wet-wood fires glow an ethereal white.
What horrors have the dead gods seen, in their forms? What marvels… what triumphs?
Will he ever see… as the moons do?
A shiver runs down his spine. He’s surrounded by his own men, and two other separate armies besides… but he’s not safe. Not with the something that lingers in the air.
The encampment stretches out like a patchwork quilt, professional mercenaries and levied peasantry separated only by experience.
His face scrunches, and it feels as though his heart beats just a little too fast. So he does what he always does to soothe himself, he opens the Command screen—
Divisions: Lieutenants: Status: 1st Division A. Titanos
’Tit’ 234 soldiers at ready, 16 sick. Rearguard D. Eridanio
’Pissy John’ 124 soldiers at ready, 26 sick Right Division I. Iocha
’Iocha’ 187 soldiers at ready, 13 sick. Left Division K. Aster
’Shitface’ 164 soldiers at ready, 36 sick. 1st Crossbow Division L. Metis
’Bokker’ 250 soldiers at ready. 2nd Crossbow Division P. Dioneles
’Little Lion’ 132 soldiers at ready, 118 sick 3rd Crossbow Division O. Atlasi — Reassign?
’O’ Division merged.
—then smiles. Nothing makes him feel better than seeing this. His company. His mercenaries. He takes a quick note to see little lion and see how his division are doing.
Then a flutter of wings cuts into his sight, and he automatically holds his hand out before he notices that the bird is white-feathered. Not one of his, then.
All of the shikes his company use are black-feathered. A white one is a summer bird.
Upon its leg is attached a letter, with no seal. It is addressed to no-one, or seems so until he opens the letter and reads the first line and quickly closes it.
A letter addressed to his employer… the weak spineless little boy at the head of this horde of conscripted soldiers. His eyes had glimpsed the text for but a second.
It’s something about a troll attack. Nasty stuff, that. Nasty things, trolls. The Emperor did right eradicating those.
Well… trying, it would seem.
He stands from the watchtower chair, ensuring the thick cloak drapes over his entirety before he ventures out in the cold wind air.
Moving through the camp is a skill of its own. Fraying rope desperately clings to barely-dug stakes — accidentally creating a thousand individual traps that any game hunter would be proud to replicate once in their lifetime.
Barely-armoured and woefully underclothed conscripts huddle around cold fires. If you don’t have dry wood, all the heat will go into the steam.
Pitchforks, scythes and hoes are abandoned to the sopping-wet mud in favour of fleetingly warm armpits for their hands to rest in.
It’s Kellan’s first time in the Strips… or Splits, depending on who you ask. Weather doesn’t work right, nor does the natural laws of geography. He’s seen a lot of places… but nothing quite so strange.
These lot are from the west, around Evergarden. A land of eternal spring, farms upon farms, and weakness. Now, further southeast, they suffer.
They face cold for the first time… and they are not prepared. Not in body, nor mind — and especially not equipment. They should blame their incompetent lord for that, but instead they seek to steal clothing and food from Kellan’s men.
Despicable.
A jungle lies to the south, across the encampment’s river-defence — but cold as ice. The north is summer, but with unmelting unending snow. West becomes savannah, then desert, hotter for each step.
Canvas tents sprawl, with no rhyme or reason given to their placement. He puts his entire fist through a hole. Every step makes him see something new, something inefficient. Wasteful.
At this rate, the Lord-Supreme won’t even have an army to fight his bickering war with.
He longs to be rid of this camp; of this falsely sold lord. He, and his men, do not deserve this treatment.
A shiver runs down through him — as though a girl, cold as ice, plays his spine as easily as the strum of a lyre.
The worst part is not the freezing wind nor the off-cuts of torrential rain from the jungle… but the presence. The uneasy, sickly feeling that rests atop the camp. It makes it feel ever the colder.
If he thinks of leaving… it comes. To remind him that he is trapped. As it had just done.
It’s like the moons. Omnipotent. A secret never to be found, let alone understood. But it’s there… watching. If he speaks of it, it catches the words in his throat.
They have seen it too. He can see it in their eyes. That much cannot be obscured. If they’ve felt it… they’ve thought of leaving too.
This employment will be the death of him. His men will desert… or die in service of a boy who knows no better than failure.
His mind does, mercifully, relax when he comes round on his side of the encampment. Fires cook, men rotate in shifts to allow all the warmth of the fire. Spears of good make, gambesons and fur-cloaks.
Kellan considers himself a man of kept promises. Many of his men hail from the City of Moons… and all of them wished to escape. They have seen the darkest of life… he could not ask for a more disciplined company.
This, he is proud of.
His hand lingers on the Command screen again… but it brings no relief now. The War Tent stands at the very heart of the encampment, in the centre of the three separate armies.
It is not the grand, visually visceral tent-fortress that is the mark of the Imperial Viceroyalties — and their need to impress with their very existence.
In fact, it is almost a refreshment from that. It is clean, with no holes unpatched, and relatively small. Tents surround it, made of various materials or colouring. Three for the generals, one for the lord.
This is where he’d signed the contract. Before he’d understood the truth. The slug inside, Roland, spoke of Malachai’s status as a son of divinity. That was the story.
It is not truth.
Kellan does not fight for son of the emperor… he fights for a boy barely out of his mother’s womb. A banner flaps in the wind. Young heraldry is woven into it.
A sword takes up the entire length, inscribed with red runes of old Imperial, a background in fading crimson.
The time has come. To enter. He places his hand on the flaps… listening to the shouting inside… then enters. Warmth is the first thing that hits him, a large central fire-pit spewing it in droves.
Around this, a meter back, there’s a square table, with chairs placed equidistant. Equidistant… his mother taught him that word.
The second thing is the sudden silence. The generals stare at him, as though he is a deer they are ready to pierce with an arrow. The boy-lord does not wear luxury.
A mark in his favour, for once.
Instead, his attire is little different to Kellan’s own men. Thick cloth, a cloak — of wool, not fur — and a pair of gloves.
That, and a bored, sour look.
Kellan’s eyes look at the boy’s left hand. Even at ease — surrounded by three armies and at least two expert warriors — the boy holds the hilt of his sword tight. Too tight, as if it were ready to jump from the sheathe at any moment.
Fearful. Paranoid.
Pathetic.
The three generals range in appearance. Two are human, the other — and the one who contacted him — is a Tyrnn. A snail made humanoid by the gods.
Roland ’Ironheart’.
A given second name, the mark of an a naturalised citizen, rather than one born into the empire. His build is thick, his face calm, his eyes watching. Two months ago, he’s served the story.
The story of the fledgling divinity.
Of Malachai.
Parts of Roland’s attire are missing, revealing his skin whereupon metallic scales rest. Grey, like iron, or copper-coloured or something else entirely. It depends on where you look. A scar runs across his face.
Lysandra is opposite him. There have been a few scant words between himself and her, and all of them have been nasty. She’s black, with angry scars and angry features locked tight in her face.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Her head bleeds braided hair down the back of her skull.
Lysandra Thorne. A noble’s name.
The last is a small man, coated in gaudy red and purple robes that seem to kick off as much heat as the fire. He smiles easily, smooth fair skin and dark expressive eyes looking over Kellan.
“My my, the mercenary-lord blesses us with his presence?” he speaks, in a smooth, almost song-like voice. “Why?”
Kellan walks to the table, and produces the letter. “A letter, with no seal.” He speaks, concise and clear.
Caspian leans back in the chair. “Oh. That’s more of Lysandra’s… thing. O’ Spymaster!”
Lysandra snaps her attention away from Roland, and her eyes lock onto the letter a moment later. She puts her hand out, expecting him to come to her like some dog.
When he doesn’t, she lowers it. “Read it out, mercenary. We do not have time for games.”
He bristles at her tone; at her putting the blame on him… but there’s nothing he can do.
He unfurls the parchment. “Today, in the midday of Noodleknob Village—“ he pauses as Caspian snickers. He stops when Roland narrows his eyes.
“—we were attacked. A troll, previously unreported in the area, walked into the village—“
Lysandra scoffs. “A troll? Here? What, some fifteen miles from the capital?” She turns to the boy lord. “Doubtful. This—“
“Quiet.” Comes Roland’s voice, slicing through the rant like a blade. Just as the spymaster opens her mouth again, he twists the knife. “Let the Lord-Supreme listen in silence.”
She complies.
Kellan clears his throat. “Walked into the village, wherein it ransacked the barn, then took to the church. It whacked the statue of my Lord-Supreme no less than two times, stole the statue’s sword, then sent it rolling down the hill to crash into a house.”
The young lord’s face grows tighter.
“It then defecated in the middle of the church, stole the pews inside, then attempted to leave. All of this was accompanied by strange rumbles and grumbles…”
He stops. There’s more… but he stops. Caspian caress’ his face with a hand. “Well, that’s—“
Lysandra slams her fist on the table, rattling metallic plates and her own decoupled helmet. “Do not speak.” She demands, and he does not.
“Is that it, Captain?” Roland asks with a knowing tone. There is no threat, no accusation… simply a request.
“No.” Kellan speaks after a moment. He suddenly feels very small… as though a giant holds a foot of indescribable size above his head.
“As soon as we knew of it, we rallied the militia, lighting torches. The wisdom holds true — fire frightened it. It… however, panicked, smashed through the wall of the church, found the Lord-Supreme’s portrait and threw it into a load-bearding beam.
Soon after… the church collapsed and the troll fled… carrying as many pews as it could.”
The enthroned boy moves not an inch… expect to blink slowly… then once more.
His eyes, however, are dark — as though he’d just been served a shovel-full of fresh, steamy raw shit onto his pristine golden plate.
Caspian sighs deeply. “Well, how foreboding. To have such a creature appear now.” He speaks, flicking his eyes to the young lord. “What a strange world, this.”
“This does not happen by chance.” Roland argues. “No troll should exist. The Emperor eradicated them.”
“Not all of them.” A cold, slow voice — but undoubtedly young — pierces the air. The boy speaks for the first time. “Evidently.”
Roland turns to the lord. “This reeks of your brother’s trickery. We could spend our limited resources—“ A sharp retort from Lysandra cuts him off.
“Do not speak information in front of an outsider!” she snaps, and her eyes look through Kellan. “We do not know his motivations.”
Caspian laughs. “Oh, my darling Lysandra, his ’motivations’ are money, money — then more money! He’s, actually, one of the more trustworthy ones here!”
Lysandra rounds on the small man, and her mouth opens to shout — but Roland clears his throat very loudly. “I know the make of Kellan. He served alongside a good many viceroys when more… lucrative contracts were available.”
The snail-man looks directly at him. “He’s imperial made, if not born. Like I am.”
He puts his hands up. “Alistair is one of our most dangerous foes. This could easily be a ploy for us to waste resources following a white stag.”
White?
Why does that stay in his head?
Why white?
Lysandra balls her fist. “I… agree.” She speaks, seeming pained to do it. “The chances of a troll appearing now…”
Caspian rolls a coin between his fingers. “It is low… so we discount it?” he sneers. “This is why you lose at Dominion, Lysandra.”
He points to Kellan, but doesn’t turn. “You received the letter via shike? Seal unbroken? The right seal?”
Something else nags at him.
Shike? Why does that…?
Kellan plants the letter on the table. There is no seal; as he had said. “What village would have a seal, Lord-General?”
Roland chuckles as Caspian grabs the letter. “Then the signature! Is it of the leader of the village?”
“Unknown. The Lord-Supreme took the head of the previous elder for his protest at placing the statue.”
The boy puts his right arm on the arm of the small wooden throne, then places his head upon it. He seems… bored.
A terrible excuse of a leader. He takes no part in debate whilst his generals squabble like children.
This… is no army. It is a death-call for the conscripted men… and his own. It is Kellan’s second time inside the war-tent.
He only has one chance. If he can show the boy his worth as a confidant — as an adviser — then he can set the campaign on the right track.
Nothing comes to mind…
Then it clicks.
“The shike was white!” he speaks without thinking, nearly cutting Roland off. The generals do not speak… but Malachai’s eyes land on him. The attention threatens to suffocate him as the silence reigns.
If one of these people decided to kill him… would they suffer any consequence?
“Your point, mercenary?” mocks Lysandra. “Or… did you simply wish to inform us of the bird’s plumage?”
“No!” he says quickly, then matches Malachai’s gaze. A quiet, unsettling gaze. If there is even a hint of outrage or annoyance at his speaking… he can’t detect it.
“Shikes are complex birds — they can be found wherever you look, and in many different forms.”
He looks around. Cynical faces watch him closely.
“They always have one thing in common. Their plumage changes based on the season. Black in winter, green in spring, yellow in autumn… and white in summer.”
Lysandra’s eyes widen with comprehension. She moves her mouth; to claim the last word — to claim the credit. A typically sycophant.
“The strips is warped. North is warmer, west is warmer. If it’s white, chances are it came from the west or the north. East would be too cold. It can’t have come from your brother.”
Lysandra stares at him. An enemy made. Roland nods. “Good information.” He speaks, then turns his attention to Malachai. “Yet easy to verify. I will send for—“
Caspian stands up. “No need, my good snail!” He yips, flourishing his hand and then stabbing it out into the air in front of him. Lysandra flinches for a second — and a large white portal opens to consume Caspian’s entire arm.
When it collapses, a book lingers in his grasp. “The Thanal’dol libraries are practically endless — including many books on ornithology.”
He turns, winks, then flicks the book open, checking the table before stabbing a finger expertly into the exact page in the stack. A few moments later, the book is in Malachai’s hands.
An ally found.
Caspian bows. “It’s true, down to the feather. As the Captain said.”
Malachai looks upon the page, seeming only to glance at it before snapping it shut. Caspian tilts his head, but steps back.
The boy-lord stares at Kellan, narrowing his eyes before lifting his head from his hand.
“Are you so simple, Kellan, that Caspian took the make of you?” he asks.
Kellan’s brow furls. “I don’t understand, Lord-Supreme?” he speaks… and the title inserts itself into his mouth as though wrenched from his throat.
“Is it wealth you seek? Money, money — and then more money?” He asks, quoting Caspian. “Or, do Roland’s words comprise you? You are imperial made — not born?”
It is as if nobody else exists in the room. The bickering is gone; laid to rest by Malachai’s presence. Like dolls… put aside by their master.
Kellan can’t respond. The young lord raises an eyebrow, then takes slow, methodical steps down the inch-high stairs that lead up to his wooden throne. “Or is Lysandra right? We cannot know you — and we should treat you as such?”
He reaches the bottom, and begins to walk slowly around the table, his eyes never leaving Kellan’s. The boy has a strong jawline, framed by pallid skin almost as if he’d just finished bloodletting.
No hair adorns his face — no shield hides his youth. Pitch-black is his hair, sleek yet tousled. Cut in a way to keep the hair from his eyes… and the grasp of an enemy.
Grey eyes, like steel just quenched. Yet they do not gleam with the fire of youth, instead they sit in a skull with taught skin burdened by weight that speaks of a lifetime compressed into mere moments.
Kellan has seen more life in the vacant gaze of corpses than the Lord-Supreme’s. The boy reaches into the air, then grabs something non-existent and shoves it out towards him.
[ Grug has attempted to contest your land:
Territory: Noodleknob Village ]
[ Attempt unsuccessful ]
“You see it, yes?” He asks, soft as fresh snow. “I already knew of this. My generals, I would like to think, are quite intelligent. Yet, if I had not known firsthand of this…” he flourishes his right hand, the word eluding him. “…attack… what would I have done with their council?”
He sweeps his right hand over them. “I would have either ignored a potential threat — or wasted resources dealing with it. A lack of information is the culprit. They only had opinions. Useful. Valuable, even… but not priceless.”
He looks into the fire. “I know their motivation, Captain. I know why they put their strength behind me. Roland is loyal.
Lysandra seeks to dismantle my twin brothers. Caspian is one of four brothers that represent his house’s stake in the ashes — and he abhors losing to his brothers.”
Malachai puts his right hand on Kellan’s shoulder. When had he turned around?
“Everyone here wants influence, because they believe they know how to win. I’m not so naive to think it comes from their bottomless spirit of giving. Nor do I think the same of you. You’ve given me a gift; an absolute piece of information. One that is both veritable and actionable.”
He looks at the roof of the tent. “What do you want? What do you truly want?”
The words come like vomit from his throat — a war-hammer to a beaver dam — a fire upon dry, oily wood.
“I want my men to live. I want to grow powerful enough to rip my home from the clutches of the pathetic, wasteful, ignorant… plain fucking stupid fools that rule it now. They waste its potential with every second they hold it. I want it to be mine — and only fucking mine!”
He freezes. Why had he said that?
He has never put those feelings to words; never even put them to though for longer than a fleeting second.
A fantasy he could never have, never see. Something to throw into the wind after enjoying it.
Malachai nods, then smiles. “I see. You are afraid that I will fuck up your progress. That I will waste your men. You abhor waste. You despise this camp, and the state of our army.”
His smile is — almost — nice. “So do I.” He says. Immediately, a bolt of tension tightens in the room. His voice rises.
“I despise what I am. A weak creature barely clutching a title I have yet to earn. Contender for a throne that is mine by right — weak enough that I cannot claim it outright, yet strong enough that my brothers cannot do the same. Son of divinity… but denied that power.”
He shrugs. “I am ’Lord-Supreme’ in nothing but words.”
Kellan takes a step back. His hand goes to his sword. Malachai knows too much, far too much. He’s inside his mind. He’ll sell him back to the Lunar Cult, and he’ll make treaty.
Another wave of tyranny.
Another century of torment.
It’s smart, to do so.
“You have been nothing. Truly nothing. I collect people that are not what I am. I have been royalty, pampered, education, fed, watered…”
Kellan’s shoulders droop. The layers on the steel-grey eyes strip away.
They have never looked upon family. Upon love unconditional.
Neither have Kellan’s.
“What—“ He stammers, “—What should I do?”
Why does he ask? He’s always had a path ahead of him. A simple one. Loyalty, a decent life — a good son.
How… empty. Hollow, pointless.
He could have… so much more!
“Join me,” Malachai puts out his right hand. “Help me restore the empire, be loyal to me, and I will give you what you seek. I will drive the Lunar Cult before you — I will proclaim you the Viceroy of the City of Moons. To do with it as you wish.”
He chuckles. “Grind it to dust. Harness its potential. I care not wheter you be Tyrant or Benevolent, arch-sinner, virtuous saint — or if you just sit upon it with pride.”
Kellan takes the hand. He falls to a knee.
He is transparent; his thoughts glass to Malachai’s eyes. Every desire is laid out, carved up by a butcher of dreams and presented as choice cuts for the Lord-Supreme’s taking.
The presence upon him stops. The weight is gone.
What a brilliant feeling.
Instead, it settles upon him. A cloak that shields.
When Kellan stands, Malachai is back upon his throne, and a wooden seat — like that of the other generals — beckons to him.
“I hereby declare you to be Kellan ’Cultslayer’. A title for what you shall be.”
He sits upon the table — looking upon his equals. He smiles. He had misjudged Malachai. This is no boy playing at king. He is not just himself — he is the trust of those around him.
He is their confidence. Now, Kellan is part of that.
Family?
Lysandra speaks as if nothing happened. “I could contact an alchemy society. They oft have contracts with monster-hunters or partake in the profession themselves. No doubt they would also enjoy the opportunity to obtain such rare ingredients.”
“Do it. Trolls cannot be given a second of hesitation — or they will breed like the vermin they are.”
Malachai looks up at the top of the tent… and his eye twitches.