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THE BOOK OF SEVEN PILGRIMS

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CHAPTER I:

The Two Delinquents

13, Flamestar 1011,

The Age of Night

Nur-Surra, Sultanate of Nur

34 Days until the Night of the Moon

“Five hundred filthy Fenrarii!” Said Nedraj, slamming his foaming beverage on the table, as beautiful dancers with silk veils twirled around him in the riotous bar. "That's how much it cost to free you two filthy thieves! Well... would-be thieves, I should say... until you met me!"

Íbolín adjusted his cloak as he sipped quietly from his tankard. His cloak was tribal, adorned with leather, and was white with black patterns. It was exotic, and looked as if it were suited for a harsh environment. He was examining a Fenrarius, the gold currency of the Empire. As he examined the coin, he noticed it no longer bore the inscription that he remembered. It now displayed the so-called Venrex. A crowned Venganzi's hollow face took the place where the bearded and mighty Gormar III once did, one of the greatest Lyban kings of the North. It gave Íbolín a sinking feeling. He flicked the coin over to his benefactor, who was leaning back in recline, surrounded by mercenaries from all walks of life engaged in the same revel-making as the rest.

”That’s new.” Said Íbolín.

“I beg your pardon?” Nedraj replied, trying to speak over the noise.

“They minted new coins again… already.”

”Your empire has been quite busy, indeed, Hellflayer.”

Dathan’s cheeks were rosy as a beautiful Nur wolen sat in his lap, caressing his bearded face and examining his scar, giggling occasionally. His eyes were hazy, and he seemed to be in the midst of a dream.

“…That’s easily five or six years’ wages,” Íbolín, continued. “The so-called prince of Rajar’s reputation precedes him.”

“It does!” Said Dathan, dreamily and hazily, staring intensely into the veiled wolen’s eyes. “It surely does!

The music was loud, so Nedraj raised his voice.

“Is your friend always so taken to small-town wolen?” Said Nedraj. “I mean... For Yol’s sake, it’s just Nur-Surra...”

“Don’t blaspheme!” Said Dathan, who momentarily glared at Nedraj.

“Unfortunately. I’ve come to find all wolen, wherever you may find them are his weakness.” Said Íbolín, smirking.

Dathan looked over, blushing, too proud to admit it.

Nedraj slurped his drink.

“Mm. Well then, Íbolín. I hate to say it, but I grow bored. Care to join me outside for a smoke?”

Dathan was still mesmerized by the dark-haired wolen laying her head on his shoulder.

Íbolín nodded, and gave a look of reserved intrigue.

The two men rose to their feet and stepped outside the raucous tavern in the dingy crossing town.

Nedraj drew an ornate pipe from his robe and began to pack it with a blue flower.

“...Do we need a light?”

Nedraj chuckled, nearly spilling some of the pipes' contents.

He looked intently at Íbolín and pointed his finger toward the bowl.

A loud snap and a flash of orange light illuminated the dark cobbled street as a jet of flame erupted from his finger.

Íbolín’s countenance was lifted in surprise, though he kept his hands concealed into his cloak.

“Neat trick.”

“No, no, sir. No trick. Magic.” He said, his teeth clenching the stem, muffling his voice.

Nedraj puffed on the pipe and inhaled deeply; he then handed it to Íbolín, who did the same, causing the pipe bowl to glow red hot.

“Magic, huh?” Now Íbolín’s voice was muffled. His consciousness seemed to drift to a distant place.

“Yes,” Nedraj said, rubbing his stomach and staring half-eyed into the distance. “I couldn’t help but overhear you in the cell… it seems you are… unfriendly of the arcane.”

Íbolín sharply pierced Nedraj with his fierce eyes.

“All I’ve seen it do is be wielded by Venganzi to destroy scores of len whom had no answer for it,"

He scoffed, then paced around.

"Orphaning a generation of lennings... You’re damn right I’m unfriendly.” Íbolín continued.

Nedraj gave an incredulous look.

“Ah... that is strange. The Hellflayer has a heart? Welp. Time to rip that bandage off.” Said Nedraj, curtly. “It may not be something you’re fond of, for whatever reason… but where we are going... it's necessary. All of it. I assure you. Learn to cope, I highly suggest. Adjust your reality, the whole deal….” He said, droning off at the end.

Íbolín stared off into the distance, unperturbed.

“My… father… sent me… to the Madrasa… four years ago.” Said Nedraj, in between puffs.

“And, how’d that work out for you?” Said Íbolín, clearly uninterested, as he blew a blue cloud of smoke above him that seemed to sparkle in the dim torch, which was fastened to the wood beam of the tavern.

“Uh, it didn’t. I dropped out.” He said.

“Huh.” Remarked Íbolín.

“Let's say... I learned everything I need to know.” Said Nedraj, returning his vision to the len he had freed.

“I suppose…” he said. “That’s something we have in common, no?”

Íbolín’s eyes were now fixed on Nedraj, as he peered at him down the long ornate pipe. His face illuminated as he puffed, and smoke filled the air.

“How would you know?” He said.

“You think I spent five hundred Fenrarius without proper research?” Nedraj scoffed. “I’m insulted.”

Íbolín pretended not to notice.

“Your hands, they’re blistered from clutching swords.” He continued. “You’re significantly underweight to be a dog of the empire, but that’s precisely why you were recruited to the... Hell Pack, was it? ...what you lacked in strength, you made up in speed. That, paired with your rare and unique swordsmanship, supposedly tutored by the legend, Szartán, hero of the war with the Sea Peoples. Chosen to follow in his footsteps. Trained by him personally-”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Íbolín slowly withdrew the pipe from his mouth… and was now glaring at Nedraj, who was smirking.

Nedraj waved his hand, causing Íbolín’s cloak to loosen and reveal his exposed arm under his burgundy tunic. On his right Bicep, there was a tattoo of a snarling canine.

“And that little mark really betrays you.” Said Nedraj. “A mark you will certainly never take off. Heh-heh-heh.”

“You’re certainly… educated.” Said Íbolín, whose eyes dropped to a cold squint. “A little too educated….if you ask me. But… there are somethings you lack.”

“Hmm, what’s that,” Nedraj said.

“It’s not my speed. It’s my creativity that made me the chief Hell Fang.”

“I see. That makes perfect sense.” He replied. “How else could you evade the Venrex's eyes?”

Nedraj smirked.

“Only to land on death row with sand in your ass down here.” He chuckled, nonchalantly.

“Indeed. The wages of your trespasses are death, and sand, apparently. Perhaps for us both” said Nedraj. “You were only suspected… but I assure you that would have swiftly ended. You can thank your Imperial collaborator friends for the bureaucratic nightmare that came with them. But hey, it certainly gave me the lull in time that I needed for the chance to purchase your freedom.”

Nedraj emptied the bowl and tucked the pipe back into his chest pocket.

“I hope you enjoyed tonight, Íbolín.” He said, staring at the sandy ground. “The Empire will soon know you’re here. It’s hard to keep the word of a captured Hell Fang quiet. The common Nur len may be ignorant, but the Viziers are not so dull.”

Íbolín tried to retain his demeanor but couldn’t help but look around nervously.

“You’re also wrong about another thing, prince,” he said. “I was not trained by Szartán. I never even met him. I was trained at his academy… but… by another. Until... I was... well... let's just say... I went my own way.”

“Hmm.” Said Nedraj pensively. “I see. Well. Does it matter? You bear the marks of a Hell Fang, you carry yourself with… an arrogance like a Hell Fang… and speaking of which… hell, you even smell like a Hell Fang.”

Íbolín tilted his eyebrows unamused. Crickets buzzed loudly on the city streets.

“...Seeing as how I paid a small fortune for your freedom… you’ve partaken of my kindness and luxuries, I must then ask for something in return now, Sir Ithandacar,” said Nedraj. “How did you do it?”

“Don’t call me that. Just Íbolín. I’m bound to no one but myself.” He said coldly.

“Of course, of course.” Said Nedraj, dropping to a whisper. “But the Den of Glory and Excellence… how did you and your companion get inside the gates?”

Íbolín puffed more blue smoke.

“We… went around it.” Said Íbolín.

“You… went around it!?” Said Nedraj, perplexed. “Do you think I’m an imbecile? Those iron bars are enchanted, hewn, and sewn into the rock of the cave network itself. Not to mention the royal guards who stand in front of it at all times….”

Nedraj paced, trying to think deeply about what he had said.

“Well, perhaps it would be of interest to you to learn how I discovered you.”

Íbolín nodded, intrigued.

“A fortnight ago, while sitting here, having a few drinks, counting my coin, I overheard a drunken guard joking with his friends that there were reports of two foreigners seen well outside their permitted area. Of course, I thought it was a joke. Then, I heard something most disturbing; these two bucket-heads had seen these two foreigners behind the gates of the Den. They found them lying on the steps that descend into the cave itself, unconscious. The guard’s companions roared in laughter, and I thought the same thing, impossible! Until I heard that two foreigners were quickly apprehended in the Alnujum. I was already most curious… when I heard a name, Íbolín Ithandacar.”

Nedraj looked Íbolín over.

“So?” said Íbolín, grinning slightly. “I’m nobody… not… anymore.”

“That may be so… but don’t you want to know how I found out who you really are?” said Nedraj.

“During your little revolution, back in my beautiful city, Rajhi, I happened to be privy to a lot of sensitive information. On the top floors of our estate, my father spent many nights panicking as usual. Fearing the loss of money, fearing the loss of status, fearing the loss of power… the whole deal. But he most feared you, you big, strong, Fiorans. He always feared you would invade our republic and tax us into oblivion. He especially feared this after he heard that the Hell Fangs had established a foothold in the woods of the forest-oafs.”

Íbolín winced, as if he felt some sharp pain. Nedraj noticed and paused for a moment before he continued.

“You see… my father was preparing for war. Until we heard of what was happening. A swordsman was hewing chaos through the Drü. The same swordsman, said to wield wicked and cursed blade, who had felled the warriors of Arlia and made quick work of them... some skinny len with dark hair and a funny Rabani name. They called him the Hellflayer.”

Íbolín’s eyes slowly met Nedraj's who couldn’t help but flinch slightly.

“My father spent in a frenzy… He hired spies to prowl the woods… find out anything they could about the Hell Fangs and what the Fiorans were up to.”

Íbolín stared at the ground, slightly reaching for his side, where underneath his tunic were many scars.

“Yet it was difficult. Most difficult. Few returned. Most hewn to bits. A waste of money if you ask me. Indeed, no one knew who the Hellflayer really was… until we effectively bribed a high-ranking Fioran officer.”

Íbolín’s gaze still paralyzed Nedraj, but he continued.

“We were… astonished to learn this frenzied killer was a metallurgist’s son!? A pauper! A slave, even! A... nobody.….”

Nedraj glanced over to see if he had gone too far.

"Your words! Not mine!"

Nedraj grinned arrogantly as Íbolín looked upon him with slight resentment, not trying to let him get under his skin.

“And we learned a very precious secret… the Hellflayer was someone named… Íbolín Ithandacar.”

Íbolín’s countenance seemed to fall slightly.

“So, this... Hellflayer was a metallurgist’s son, but he wasn’t just a metallurgist’s son. He was said to have been trained by the legendary hero of the war against the Sea-Peoples. Szartán.”

Nedraj exhaled another cloud of blue smoke.

“We had to have him in our employ. My father was ready to spare no expense to bring the Hellflayer to our personal guard. We would have lavished him with all the richest the Merchant Republic of Rajar could offer.”

“I’m afraid he would have failed.” Said Íbolín.

Nedraj chuckled.

“But I haven’t.” He said. “When they write of my reign, they will remark of how it began here… in these forgotten sands. When I succeeded where my father failed… when I got the Hellflayer, Íbolín Ithandacar.”

“I’m afraid I’m still not interested. You have nothing I want.” Said the dark-cloaked len.

“Well, whatever it is, is undoubtedly in the Den of Glory and Excellence. Don't think yourself too clever, sir. Everyone has their price.” He said. “Everyone.”

“ I am prepared to pay you handsomely, Íbolín Ithandacar. You will want for nothing ever again. Buy an estate and lands anywhere, hell, even a Castle. Find yourself a wife, two, three, whatever your heart desires!”

Íbolín stared blankly at him, unimpressed.

“...Fine, I understand, husbands then?” Said Nedraj.

“I told you three times now. Not interested. None of it.” Said Íbolín, looking out upon the star-kissed sand dunes.

“...There’s only one wolen in this world that I love.”

“Everyone has their price, Íbolín.”

“I find that prospect disgusting. Síbela’s not like that.”

“Whatever her name is, I’m telling you Íbolín – Wolen love the alpha, or at least a competitor. Riches would set you apart.”

Nedraj extracted his pipe from his robe once more flipped it, dumping the ash.

“...And I assure you… I do have things you desire… many curious things in my possession… So… you’ll just have to trust me! I’ll give you half of whatever we find in the Den of Glory and Excellence, and then I’ll pay you another half when we return to Rajar; you have my word!”

Íbolín looked somberly toward the sea of stars, which hung overhead.

“About that.” Said Íbolín. “I… appreciate your assistance, I really do. But about the Den. It can’t be done. Trust me.”

“Hmm, and why do you say that?” Said Nedraj. “If your tale is true... You and your companion are the first ones in centuries to actually get past its enchanted gates….”

“That may be true… but once inside…” He said, pensively.

“You saw a blackness that took all the light out of the world? A darkness that you felt could ensure that the Flamestar would never rise again?” Said Nedraj, finishing his sentence.

“...Yeah.” Said Íbolín.

“Trust me, my new friend. With my knowledge and your skill, we will absolutely get whatever those geezers hid in there. I promise you that darkness will be as bright as a morning on an Ihitan beach!” He said, raising his arms in the air, excitedly.

"And I told you... besides my knowledge and great power... I possess most curious things..."

Íbolín squinted, considering what the prince had said.

“Come, let’s gather your… frisky friend and my caravan. We have to move at first light. They will soon send their dogs here to finish you themselves when they learn that you’ve been freed by my greed. Hehe! And… I’m sure they will match my description as the generous benefactor who ransomed you. It was an… all-or-nothing play, shall I say? But the one I was prepared to make. I assure you!”

“...Do you ever shut up?” Asked Íbolín.

Nedraj did a little jig of a dance in defiance.

“...the Empire’s holdings are miles from here, far across the desert.” Said Íbolín.

“Oh, you’ve missed much on your travels to the Alnujum, Hellflayer. Your Empire again occupies the entire northern coast through the Crossing and even the peninsula. They met little to no resistance, and no one has the stones to do anything about it. But, as I mentioned, the Viziers, collaborators, serpents, the lot of them – they’re everywhere. Thirsting for imperial gold. Biding their time, exploiting bureaucracy, coiling around what remains of the Sultan’s rule.” Replied the Prince.

“They know the day is coming… they can almost taste it... and so can I.”