By the seventieth year of war, every nation and city and village, every order and guild, every creature that walked and talked, and some that didn’t, across both the northern and southern continents of Emza, had been swept up in the bloodshed. Scant few even remembered how the war started – a river crossing disputed by the kingdoms of Infinzel and Orvesis, for those interested in trivia. A trifling, stupid thing, the bridge long since burned and the water poisoned. For most, life was a choice between fighting or fleeing, famine or pestilence. The entire world found itself entangled in rivalries and vendettas, petty crusades and endless sieges, unable to extract itself, suffocating on hatred without relief.
The gods suffered, too.
The ge’besa, gods of beasts, lamented the loss of their creations, animals driven to extinction for food to feed soldiers or weapons to arm them.
The ge’gala, gods of nature and close cousin to the ge’besa, dripped crimson wherever they traveled, so soaked was the soil with the blood of man. They mourned the forests burned and the mountains crumbled, and choked on the toxic clouds of magic that marred the skies.
The ge’oca, gods of the ocean, sat silent and stoic, swallowing up the bodies of the drowned, ever eager to rise and wipe away the offensive mortals.
The ge’chan, gods of magic, brokers of the bargain between mortals and the divine, felt how reality strained against the efforts of man. They warned the other gods that, without intervention, a reckoning would come and not even the gods would be safe.
The ge’ema, gods of those mortals who walked and talked and made endless war, had been slow to act. They found the dramas of their creations amusing. But, after seventy years, the complaints of their sibling gods had grown irksome. If the actions of unruly mortals threatened the pantheon, then an extermination of these pests was the only possible response. The ge’oca seemed all too happy to oblige. An apocalypse was thrilling, but lasted only moments in the lifespan of gods. After that would be millennia of rebuilding. Millennia of boredom for the ge’ema in particular. Without the mortals, they would have nothing to do. The ge’ema would have to wait for beasts to rise from the mud, discover fire, learn to write poetry, and so forth. Thus, the ge’ema were faced with a decision between interminable dullness and reining in their creations.
They arrived at a solution that would preserve the world without limiting the mortals’ capacity for entertainment.
The ge’ema asked the ge’gala and the ge’oca to raise an island at the center of the world. And they named that island Armistice.
To Armistice the gods gathered the rulers of every nation and city and order and guild, kings and queens, great warriors and scholar mages, and a handful of baffled village mayors. The gods saw no real difference between those who lorded over great armies and those who governed just a few wheat fields; all contained the potential to shake the world. Amongst the summoned, many were allies in the convoluted war that ravaged the continents. Many more were bitter enemies.
But in those first moments, hatreds were set aside as all cowered before the gods. At last, for a moment, there was peace. The rest of the pantheon sighed in relief while the ge’ema, always with a flair for the dramatic, prepared for their next act.
As the mortals watched, the ge’ema plucked a red feather from the tail of a phoenix. Then, the ge’ema plunged the smoldering tip of the quill into their own body, spilling out an Ink as black as the space between the stars.
“We mark each of you with your allegiance so your people will know you, and know each other, for we have marked them as well,” the ge’ema declared. “Your wars are over. Your killing is done. Except for here, in this place. For seven days, you will honor us with your brutal pursuits, away from the judgmental gaze of our siblings, the rest of the world preserved from your delightfully base inclinations. Instead of your hordes decimating the land, you will choose a party of four, and they will be your champions. They will wage war here, for us, and spare the rest of the world.”
The mortals watched as the Ink spread across their skin, staining them with symbols that they’d never seen yet somehow knew how to read.
“Those whose champions survive for seven days,” the ge’ema continued, “shall have a wish fit to change the world.”
--Record of the First Granting and Dawning of the Second Age
Lyus Crodd, Scribe of the Dead Kingdom of Orvesis
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--DRAMATIS PERSONAE—
Cortland Finiron, Hammer Master of the 12th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, in a vengeful mood
Laughing Monkey, Assassin of the 10th Renown, Brokerage of Blades, the subject of Cortland’s anger
Sleeping Kitty, Assassin of the 4th Renown, Brokerage of Blades, maimed
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The 7th day of the 61st Granting, 60 AW (After War)
Armistice Island, Center Sea
The blue moon was up. That meant they were supposed to stop killing each other.
“Well,” Cortland Finiron said to himself. “Let’s hope there’s still time.”
He trudged through the moonlit forest, war hammer gripped in his meaty left hand. The air smelled strangely like cinnamon. Cortland realized the brittle red leaves that crunched under his boots emitted the spicy aroma. How had he not noticed that until now? Over the last week, there hadn’t been much time to take in the finer points of this year’s version of the island. The trees that dropped the leaves were pale and twisted things that looked like towers of campfire ash. The trunks were soft and came apart like spun sugar when struck, affording little cover when dodging crossbow bolts. He’d found that out the hard way. This part of the forest had been roughly used. At points, Cortland had to kick his way through knee-high drifts of disintegrated trees.
The gods made strange choices when it came to the nature on Armistice. Rejected ideas from the real world, Cortland thought. This forest of fragile trees and their aromatic leaves was better, at least, than the year when the Granting took place in a catacombs, damp and populated with menace. That had been Cortland’s first Granting. He would’ve stepped off a ledge into a bottomless chasm had it not been for the steadying hand of Ben Tuarez. Cortland still dreamt about dangling his foot into that nothingness. He woke up covered in sweat and grateful to Ben.
Ten years since that first time, he realized. Cortland had now survived ten of these contests.
He felt fresh Ink pooling on his chest, beneath his chromium-mesh armor. He’d reached his 12th level of renown. He sensed an alluring warmth and power in the new, shapeless Ink that now flowed against his torso. It whispered to him through his skin.
Your power has grown, Cortland Finiron. Do you desire a consultation with the symbologist?
“Not now,” Cortland barked, increasing his pace.
A rune must be chosen, Cortland Finiron.
“Give me more time, damn you. Here, on the island.”
Time manipulation is not within the purview of the Hammer Master.
“Piss off, then,” he snarled.
As you will.
The anger clouding his mind cleared for a moment and Cortland remembered his last visit with the symbologist. He had runes in mind. The woman he was after now, she preferred a hand-bow. He’d need to close with her fast.
“Bull Rush,” Cortland blurted. “Give me Bull Rush.”
Done.
Cortland felt the Ink slither into a new rune across his left pectoral. He could read the marks by feel, even this new and unfamiliar one. He could sense their meaning and knew instinctively what they would allow him to do. The swirls and slashes, the language of the ge’ema, would have looked like a complex tattoo to anyone who hadn’t been similarly marked, but to Cortland they read as simply as common words.
Cortland Finiron
Infinzel
12th Renown
Anvil’s Ring
Crevasse
Greater Shield
Destroy
Forge
Hammer Toss
Hammer Master
Weapon Return
Assess
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Unmovable
Strength+
Bull Rush
Bolster
Will+
Recovery+
Cortland understood his new technique instinctively but would need to train with it more to understand all its possibilities. At least fresh Ink meant it was ready to use. He grimaced at how much of his other Ink had faded. A good night’s sleep would restore him and he’d do that in his own bed, within the safety of Infinzel, where no one would try to cut his throat while he slept. He could turn back now and be home within the hour, teleported across the world by the will of the gods.
No. The blue moon might be up, but Ben Tuarez was dead. So, Cortland wasn’t finished here.
“I know you’re still listening,” Cortland said. “Give me more time.”
A breeze rustled the crimson leaves. The moon shone a little brighter.
He covered one nostril and blew out a snot glob. His fingers were caked with dried blood. His or someone else’s? Didn’t matter, really. His scalp and cheeks itched. He’d shaved his head and beard before the Granting like always, didn’t want to give his enemies anything to grab if a fight got close. It’d been a week now and his thick, black hair was growing in on his cheeks, slower atop his head. Cortland had never been an attractive man, thickset and wide, and shorter than most men and many women. Vitt Secondson-Salvado said Cortland reminded him of a pit-dog whose owner had gotten drunk and shaved him as a joke. The comparison suited Cortland fine.
Cortland had invited Vitt along on this mission of vengeance. In fact, he had demanded Vitt come. He even gave a halting speech about what they owed to Ben Tuarez. But Vitt declined, saying there wasn’t enough time before the blue moon to reach the Brokerage camp. And, anyway, what’s done was done. They’d raise a drink for Ben back in Infinzel.
That smug royal-blood was just another burr on Cortland’s asshole. Ben had saved that boy’s life a time or two. Wasn’t that worth more than a toast at some noble-level spirit compartment?
The fourth member of their party, Henry Blacksalve, had at least made a show of coming with Cortland. But the healer was spent, his Ink completely faded, and he’d been crying in unpredictable and abrupt jags since he’d failed to stop the blood spurting from Ben’s neck. Cortland had patted the wispy healer on the shoulder hard enough to sit him down, then went off on his own.
Cortland’s knuckles popped loud enough that he half bent into a crouch, thinking it was a crossbow bolt. He’d been squeezing the handle of his hammer.
Would the gods teleport the other two back to Infinzel without him? Under Ben’s command, their party always left together. One of his rules was to never split up. Ben wouldn’t have wanted Cortland to do this. Not going to bring me back, the older man would’ve said. Your responsibility is to the king.
Cortland pressed on, regardless. He had made note of where the Brokerage were camped when the island’s map had been drafted, like he did with all the important players. He’d found it unusual that the Brokerage had chosen a location so close to Infinzel’s own. His gut told him that was trouble and, sure enough, the assassins attacked on the third day.
Their camp came into view now, a small clearing amidst the ghostly trees that the Brokerage had made no attempt to secure because they never intended to stay put. Cortland picked up speed like a boulder rolling downhill.
A man lay sprawled in the grass wearing a painted wooden mask that resembled a drowsy cat. He had his right arm tucked up against his chest. Cortland could tell by the mess of blood and the sloppy tourniquet that he’d lost a hand. Even so, Sleeping Kitty was alert enough to click his tongue at the woman leaning over him.
Laughing Monkey stood up and turned to face Cortland. He grunted. She was the one he wanted, the one who’d stuck an arrow in Ben Tuarez’s eye and then a second in his neck. The grinning simian face painted on the woman’s mask only made Cortland angrier. She was taller than him, slender and toned, wearing a high-necked suit of ward-weave silk in a light gray shade that matched the trees. He wondered how many outfits she’d brought with her to assure that kind of camouflage. She didn’t look any worse for the week on the island, her shoulder-length dark hair neatly arranged around the infuriating mask, not a strand out of place.
“I wondered why we’re still here,” Laughing Monkey said, her voice airy and sweet. “The gods must owe you a favor, Cortland Finiron.”
Cortland stopped thirty feet away. “You killed a good man,” he said.
She scratched the top of her head like a confused chimp. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“You know damn well…!” Cortland started at a shout, but knew he shouldn’t let his temper get away from him. That was just what this woman expected. So, he chose his words with more care. “I’m here to bash your head in, cunt.”
Laughing Monkey wiggled her fingers at the sky. “A little late for all these histrionics, isn’t it? And besides, do you mean to tell me you haven’t killed any good men on this island? After all these years?”
“I’d offer anyone who wants it the chance to settle scores.”
“I’d do you the same courtesy, little man. But you showed up late.”
Cortland eyed the Ink on the woman’s throat, the mark of her allegiance. A sideways dagger, curved like a smile, dripping coins instead of blood. On Cortland’s own neck, his Ink took the shape of a pyramid that resembled the city of Infinzel. His loyalty was to the pyramidal city; hers to murder for hire.
“How does a person like you get made?” Cortland asked. “A killer for coin. To have no higher calling than that.”
The behanded man in the Sleeping Kitty mask tittered. He and Laughing Monkey exchanged a glance. The leather grip on Cortland’s hammer squeaked as his grip tightened.
“Maybe one day you’ll be so lucky as to find out,” she replied.
Cortland activated [Assess], felt the tingling sensation on his chest as his Ink went to work. A glow that was visible only to Cortland radiated off Laughing Monkey, letting him read the Ink symbols hidden by her silk.
Laughing Monkey
Brokerage of Blades
10th Renown
Scattershot
Deadeye
Trajectory
Fear
Assassin
Shadow Step
Assess
Vision+
Agility+
Speed+
Immunity+
Body Control
Camouflage
The Ink that worried him most – the symbols that would let her make use of that hand-bow holstered at her hip – was faded. She would be fast and slippery, but Cortland sensed she was fatigued from the last week. Even her [Speed+] had faded, which meant she’d pushed too hard. The assassins were always busy on the island. Blue moon be damned, he might never get an opportunity like this again. Her style was hiding and striking from a distance. Next time, now that he’d made his intentions known, she would see him coming and disappear, or else make a pincushion of his back.
With a grunt, Cortland started forward.
“Ah,” Laughing Monkey said, “so you aren’t all talk. I suppose a little dancing couldn’t hurt. Either way it goes won’t be satisfying for you.”
Sleeping Kitty scooted backward in the dirt to give them space, moaning as he jostled his stump. Cortland pounded his hammer twice against the silver buckler he wore on his forearm, a combat superstition. He’d expected the assassin to take a shot at him before he closed the distance, but instead of the hand-bow she drew the delicately crafted rapier that swung from her other hip. She wasn’t even taking this seriously enough to use her primary weapon.
“I’ve been training swordplay,” she explained, as if reading his mind. “A girl must have a hobby.”
With a dancer’s grace, she hopped forward before Cortland could finish his approach. Her jab with the rapier was a lazy thing and Cortland swatted it aside with his buckler. He rumbled in closer, swinging his hammer down between the painted monkey’s googly eyes. She brought her rapier around for some fancy duelist’s parry, but Cortland’s hammer smashed through. He heard her breath catch at the vibrations that ran up her arm.
Laughing Monkey backpedaled. “Get it out, then,” she said. “You’ll feel better when the anger’s spent.”
Cortland growled and swung again, but this time Laughing Monkey spun aside. She flicked her rapier and scratched him across the cheek when she just as easily could’ve had his eye.
“You play games with me,” Cortland snapped, pounding his hammer against his buckler in frustration.
“Yes,” she replied, rolling her shoulders. “Isn’t that what we’re doing here?”
Cortland dropped his stance and reached for the new power etched across his chest. He activated [Bull Rush]. His compact body shot forward like he’d been loosed from a crossbow, his shoulder aimed right for Laughing Monkey’s sternum. Her rapier dragged across his side as they collided, the tip harmlessly gouging his armor. Cortland felt the wind leave her as they careened backward, into and through one of the powdery tree trunks, exploding to the ground on the other side in a cloud of dust and falling crimson leaves.
Laughing Monkey tried to twist out from under him, but Cortland had too much bulk. He straddled her midsection and brought his hammer down on her mask. Wood splintered and Cortland could see the woman’s wide green eye through the crack. Without hesitation, he plunged his hammer down again.
His arm felt like it was moving through quicksand. Instead of the satisfying crunch of a killing blow, the spiked head of Cortland’s hammer stalled inches from Laughing Monkey’s eye. No matter how much force he applied, Cortland couldn’t bring the weapon any closer. An invisible force rebuffed him.
The will of the gods. No killing was allowed between factions except during the Granting. And that had ended with the rising of the blue moon.
“Were you worried, sister?” Sleeping Kitty yelled, an edge of hysteria in his voice. Cortland barely heard the wounded man, the blood rushing through his ears was so loud.
“I won’t lie, I’m sweating a bit,” Laughing Monkey replied. She reached up and dabbed Cortland’s cut cheek, holding up her fingers so he could see the greenish-black substance that mixed with his blood. “My poison. Leaked right out from your wound. The gods protect us both, as ever.”
Cortland roared and buried the head of his hammer in the earth next to her head. Laughing Monkey didn’t flinch. In fact, she writhed under him in a way that made Cortland uncomfortable. She reached up again, this time grabbing the back of his head and pulling him close.
“I love an uncurious man,” she said. “So much pleasure to be had in setting their wheels to spinning.”
“Let go of me,” Cortland growled. Though he could have easily freed himself, he didn’t.
“Your ageless king of the grand city Infinzel has no doubt made many enemies across his unnaturally long years,” she continued. “Thus, you must assume that the contract was put out on him. That we were paid to weaken your liege’s wish by killing one of his champions. That’s what you think, yes?”
Cortland said nothing. It was Sleeping Kitty who spoke. “Sister, you say too much…”
“But perhaps, Cortland Finiron, our contract wasn’t for your king at all,” she continued. “Perhaps we were paid for your dear friend Ben Tuarez specifically. I wonder what you might do, were that the case.”
Cortland’s ridge of eyebrows buckled together. Ben was a hero of Infinzel. One of the kindest men he’d known.
“What are you saying?” Cortland asked quietly. “Who hired you?”
“Come to the Beach of Blades, pin me down just like this, and perhaps I will tell you.”
The air shifted, whooshing in to fill the space where Laughing Monkey had been. She was gone, teleported away from the island by the gods. Without her body beneath him, Cortland lost his balance and pitched forward onto his hands. His fingers sifted through the soft debris of the tree they’d smashed through. He glanced over his shoulder, knowing before he did that Sleeping Kitty was gone too.
“You bastards love a dramatic exit,” Cortland muttered.
Cortland stood up and brushed himself off. He took one last look around. Through the ghostly trees, the horizon appeared dark in a way that didn’t quite make sense, as if a tide of shadow was rising up to consume the island. Cortland had never lingered this long after a Granting. All of this would be gone soon, wiped away like a chalk drawing and replaced in a year’s time by some new wilderness of the bizarre.
“I hate this place,” Cortland said, knowing the gods were listening.
When they did not respond, he trudged back toward his own camp, ready to be teleported home. He had a friend to bury.