The burning sun scorched down onto the countryside of Arcadia. With little to no civilization nearby, animals and plants gravitated towards the shade of the surrounding forests. Dense, thick, and cool was a much better life to live than the empty, desolate heat of the outside, where meals were not guaranteed, and life was determined by a single coin toss. Despite the sweltering heat, however, the countryside itself looked more beautiful than ever. Green, fertile lands for farming, grazing, living. It truly was the frontier of society.
One hundred leagues away from this countryside, the first signs of civilization on the frontier. A relatively large village compared to the nothingness of the outside, removed from the world. In said village, dozens of men, women, and children all coexisting with one another. Their roles seemed obvious enough; the butcher in his shop, the farmers tending to their crops, the blacksmith and armorer in their own workshops. Everybody had a predefined role in this village, all given to them by their leader – their ruler. As he took his usual stroll through the village, his two advisors by his side, all wearing clothes much nicer and more regal than anybody else, he smiled proudly at the people he rules over.
Such is the life that Kaevar of Khorvane lives. His people smiling at him, adoring him, praising him. ‘They think I’m some kind of god’, he thinks to himself, every night before he closes his eyes, ‘they think I’m the god’. Despite these beliefs of his people, Kaevar did not look to be a godly man. His face was deformed in all ways of the word – scars, bruises, even an eye that had been closed permanently to the world. He walked with a limp, requiring a stick to keep him upright from falling. He did not look old, not by any means, but he carried himself as if he were. Perhaps it was the burdens of the past he once lived weighing him down, or the stress of being a godly ruler, or perhaps he was simply too weak to live. Whatever it was, these constraints placed upon Kaevar were not viewed as such. Despite his weakened physical state, his spirit had not been broken.
At his side were two men of differing backgrounds. At his right, Jeremis Uldin, a handsome man with golden locks draping down both sides of his head, the look of a right prince, some would say. Muscular, strapping, and determined, he looked as if he could make the ladies swoon, and men glare in jealousy. Underneath the pretty boy face, however, were bleak, tired eyes from the decades of war. His brown eyes appeared blacker, dilated, and darker than anyone like him, as if he had tens of thousands of bodies piling on top of him. At Kaevar’s left, Cecek, a young man, barely so, still green behind the ear. Not nearly as good looking as Jeremis, but where he lacks in appearance he makes up for with ambition. Green, hopeful, and eager eyes survey the village as he cannot contain his smile, grinning from ear to ear. Not muscular in any way like Uldin, instead of a slender build, but filled from head to toe with a beaming sincerity to appease his ruler and his people.
The three’s walk through the village eventually took them to the town hall, where they were greeted by an empty and silent room, save for the planning table in front of them, detailing a map of the known world, all with important locations including their village marked, and three plates of finely cooked food. Once looking around to ensure there are no uninvited guests, the three sat down at the table.
“How is progress on the village?” Kaevar asked Cecek, his gravelly voice echoing throughout the small hall, not grandiose as one would expect from a ruler, but loud enough to get his point across and direct.
“We’re expected to finish construction on the church within a fortnight, my lord-“his own higher-pitched, softer voice being interrupted by the man sat across from him.
“Not, ‘my lord’”, Jeremis said in a mocking tone, difficult to discern from his otherwise monotonous voice, a displeased look on his face as he grimaced at the young man. “There are no lords here, we all serve the same god equally. There’s only a prophet.”
Cecek’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, voice catching in his throat as he tried to correct himself, “O-of course. Apologies, my- apologies, Kaevar, Jeremis.” He nodded his head to the two, regaining his composure. Kaevar, on the other hand, could not help but crack a smile.
“You’ve done me no offense, Cecek,” he said calmly, “there is nothing to forgive.”
The two exchanged a brief smile with one another before turning their attention to Jeremis, clearing his throat to refocus the attention of the conversation.
“What of food and gold supply? Are we prepared in case of another drought?” he questioned Cecek inquisitively, a test to see if the boy is up to it.
Cecek nodded in confirmation, slightly deepening his voice to sound more formal. “Aye, we’ve enough bushels and wheat to last us eight months as of current. As for coin, the treasury of Mertipi has accrued two thousand golden coins, eight hundred and fifty-three silver coins, and nine copper coins within the last three months.”
Jeremis and Kaevar leaned back in their seats, impressed by their rapidly growing progress. After a brief moment of reprieve, Kaevar nodded in approval to Cecek and looked to Jeremis.
“What news of our missionaries?”
Jeremis sat back up in his seat, retrieving a parchment from his back pocket. As he unrolled the parchment, he began to read, “Scatterwood would be delighted to receive a church of worship to Pelor, the one true God. Salto of Northwind refuses to even open its doors to our envoys, but that is to be expected from the northerners. The capital, Stormwynter, chooses to retain its neutrality as it worships the Thirteen equally, and due to the ongoing war, we were unable to send envoys to Northern Rise. A shame, really, as tragedy is often a powerful tool to turn people to faith.”
Cecek narrowed his eyes at Jeremis’ last words but chose to hold his tongue. Kaevar nodded with Jeremis, taking a bite of his meal in front of him. He allowed some air to clear as he swallowed his food, patting at his mouth with his handkerchief in case of any crumbs.
“And what of our progress on our alliance forging?”
A silence befell the room. Cecek and Jeremis gave each other a look, unsure of who to speak first, a hesistant glint in the former’s eyes. Resigning himself to his fate, Cecek cleared his throat before speaking, “As far as allies go, we…” a brief pause as he prepared himself, “we have no allies.”
Kaevar, stunned for a moment, collected himself before confirming, “No allies at all?” When Jeremis confirms what Cecek said is true with a nod, Kaevar continued, “What of the Givers of Life? Have they abandoned our cause?” he asked, voice raised in sheer shock alone.
Jeremis looked Kaevar in the eye, grief filling him, “The Givers of Life were slain at the hands of the Servants of Darkness.”
The room fell silent once again, the three mourning the loss of their comrades. Once their allies have been honored, Kaevar looked to Jeremis and Cecek, “Why was I not informed of this? Why wait until now to tell me?”
Cecek began to speak before being cut off by Jeremis, voice returning to his monotonous, uninteresting tone, “Word arrived this morning, Kaevar. I thought it best the villagers didn’t know yet.”
Kaevar, visibly upset, closed his eyes in acknowledgment. ‘Jeremis has a point,’ he thought to himself. He looked down, hand covering his mouth, as he pondered on what to do next. Cecek and Jeremis followed suit, neither refusing to say a word until their leader did first. The thought session was quickly interrupted, however, by an abrupt knocking at the door.
“Kaevar?” came the voice from the other side. Holly Mill, the butcher’s daughter, served as Kaevar’s steward for the last five months. Although inexperienced, she had become quite proficient in the work of stewardship for a girl of seventeen. When Kaevar is busy, Holly keeps the company of any individual seeking an audience with him until he arrives. ‘Seems she couldn’t stall for any longer,’ Kaevar noted. The three men stood out of their chairs and answered the door.
Kaevar greeted his steward with a warm smile. “Holly,” he started, his gravelly voice making it difficult for him to sound sincere, “what can I do for you?”
The girl looked Kaevar in the eye, forcing a soft smile of her own, but looked much more uneasy than usual. Jeremis noted that this posture was not normal of the sweet, kind girl, but elected to remain silent for the time being. Her soft voice was no more than a squeak as she spoke to Kaevar, “We have a visitor, he wouldn’t say where he was from. He looked and sounded scary.”
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Jeremis let out a sigh of relief. It was just a creepy man, nothing more severe. Cecek, though, was not convinced as he retained his quizzical look whilst the two talked. Kaevar cocked a brow, lowering his voice as he sensed the nerves of the girl, “Bring him in, then,” he gave a nod to the girl before looking to his councilors, “Clear the table for our guest.”
As quickly as the two walked back towards the table the girl piped up, voice still quivering and quiet, “He wishes to meet you at the gate, Kaevar.”
The two turned back to Kaevar and Holly, giving their ruler a confused and concerned look. Kaevar looked back to the two with a matched look before turning back to the girl and nodding. “Stay here. We’ll be back soon.” He patted her on the shoulder, giving one last assuring smile as he grabbed his walking stick, beginning their escort to the gates of Mertipi.
What was once a sunny day quickly became a cloudy one as the skies darkened. Whether it be a storm or just clouds rolling in, most of the villagers had returned to their homes, save for the armorer who remained working at his station. Kaevar never knew such a drastic change in weather to mean anything good. ‘Bad omens’, he thought to himself as he cautiously walked to the gate. When the three arrived at the giant wooden gate, recently constructed by the village’s builders, at least thirty feet in height and twenty feet in length, dwarfed only by the size of the village’s walls which stood at fifty feet tall, it opened with a thundering roar.
Past the gates was a single man – a rider, it seemed. His black cloak attempted to cover his rigid, fine silk clothes, ones that were worn by no commoner. This man was highborn, it would seem, and his fashion almost rivaled that of Jeremis’. Almost. His brown frock coat fitted the man just perfect, his red vest accenting the colors finely as his brown stove-pipe pants completed the outfit. On his feet, however, were not the shoes of a wealthy man, but instead the boots of a fighter of the times. Black, worn boots that fit around his feet tightly were what remained, covered by the bottoms of his pants. At his side, a single longsword that had been sheathed away. The man kept his cloak up, covering most of his face aside from the golden eyes that peered outwards towards the three.
Kaevar was the first to walk up to the rider, remaining at least fifteen feet from him. He cleared his throat, first, then with a raised yet deeper than normal voice, he exclaimed to the man, “Welcome to Mertipi. I am Kaevar,” he looked back and motioned towards Jeremis and Cecek to come up as well. “This here’s Jeremis, to my right is Cecek. I’m told you had business with me.”
The rider moved not a single muscle as Kaevar spoke. His golden eyes only moved for blinking, retaining eyesight with Kaevar. Once he had finished speaking, the rider began to speak with a croaky, unpleasant voice, one that sent chills down Cecek’s spine.
“The arcane of aero is dead. The emperor requires tribute.”
The three leaders of Mertipi looked at each other, eyes widened in confusion, then disbelief, then more confusion. Kaevar, resolving himself, retorted back to the man, “The arcane, how did he die?”
The unpleasant voice spoke up once again, like nails on a chalkboard to the three, “Slain during the liberation.”
Jeremis scoffed at his words, sounding more offended than he looked confused, “Impossible. Nobody can kill an Arcane. Besides, if he was slain, we’d have heard about it before some random servant.”
The rider’s eyes moved for the first time since meeting him as he glared at Jeremis. The glare was unsightly, the look of pure hatred as he burned through Jeremis’ eyes and soul. The rider took a single step forward whilst keeping this glare, prompting Jeremis to place a hand on his own longsword at his side. The two remained like that for a moment as the rider spoke, “You are hearing about it at this very moment.” He recomposed himself, closing his eyes briefly before looking back towards Kaevar, “The arcane of aero is dead. The emperor requires tribute.”
The same voice with the same words spoken that sounded like a command rather than news spoke once more, this time much louder than the last. Cecek cringed at his words but chose to remain silent for the sake of not wanting to escalate the tension. Kaevar, remaining steadfast, matched the rider’s volume and tone, “We recognize no ruler over us except God himself and King Derrick. There is no emperor here. There is no emperor anywhere. We thank you for the news, but now we must bid you farewell.” Kaevar looked the messenger in the eye as he continued, “About twenty miles east from here you’ll find old elven ruins, there’s shelter there. I suggest you hurry, storms this time of year are harsh and unforgiving.” Kaevar began to turn away back towards Mertipi with his companions, but before they could get five steps from the man he yelled once more.
“I will not reside in the ruins of a forgotten people while Pelor’s so-called ‘prophet’ won’t even heed his call. If this is how the ‘servants of the sun’ operate, denying all reality while they waste away on the edge of the world, then you’re nothing more than a waste of your god’s power.”
The sky had begun to darken further, a wind picking up. The three turned back towards the rider, but Jeremis and Cecek could not keep their eyes off of Kaevar, their gazes focused on his stance. Still hunched over, shifting weight to his stick, he slowly began to walk towards the rider until he stood face to face with the man, his once tired eye now casting daggers into his own golden ones. Kaevar brought his voice down to a gravelly hiss, just slightly louder than a whisper, malice trickling off his every word, “What do you know of God?”
The rider, not taking his eyes off Kaevar, reached onto the saddlebag of his courser, withdrawing a parchment of still-sealed paper. As he pressed the parchment into Kaevar’s chest, he hissed back at the prophet, “Look to your fires and see the truth. The arcane of aero is dead. The emperor requires tribute.”
Kaevar broke the gaze only to look at the letter bestowed to him. He broke the red wax seal, engraved in it a symbol he did not recognize – a broken sword with cracks all throughout. As he read it, the rider’s eyes remained transfixed on him whilst Kaevar’s expression went from a stern and powerful pose to a more serious and shocked look. As he folded the paper into his coat pocket, his hands had a slight shake to them, his eye fixated on the ground before him whilst he spoke in a hushed whisper, “The emperor requires tribute.” Kaevar, void of any stride or purpose in his step, began walking towards the gate.
“Come, Jeremis. Cecek, remain here.”
Cecek looked to Jeremis with confusion, but the look was not reciprocated as Jeremis began walking with his prophet. The last thing Cecek saw as the two walked through the gate was Jeremis whispering to Kaevar. Once the two had returned within the walls of Mertipi, Cecek looked around themselves at the countryside. Although not quite as beautiful as it would be on a sunny day, rather than the near-stormy one it was now, the lush landscape and open fields allowed Cecek to confirm there was no other allies to the rider for some time. If it came to it, he thought, he could eliminate this threat before anybody else was hurt.
Cecek yelled to the man, his voice defaulting to his more natural tone, “What did you tell him?”
The rider was petting his courser, feeding it an apple when he was asked. As he turned his focus back towards Cecek, he spoke aloud, “The arcane of aero is dead. The emperor requires tribute.”
Cecek rolled his eyes. ‘As if you say anything else’, he thought to himself. He knew he would not get any more information on Kaevar, but in his mind he thought it worthwhile to extract as much information as possible from the man. “And what of the liberation?”
“The liberation ended as of last week.”
Cecek paused a moment. Ended? Truly? He meant to press more, to ask about how it ended, but before he could get a word out, he heard the most gut-wrenching scream come from within the walls of Mertipi. Cecek looked to the rider, wearing a look of disdain. In the seven months the village had been established, he had never heard anything like this. With malice in his throat, he shouted to the rider, “What did you do?” before running towards the gate.
Once he reached the gate, however, he saw the truth behind the scream.
In front of him was Holly, passed out, being dragged by chains through the village street towards the gate. Carrying her chains were Jeremis and Kaevar, both with closed eyes and a defeated expression as they walked. Cecek could do nothing but watch as his friends dragged the girl, forming visible scarring and bruising, through the street and towards the rider’s courser. Cecek tried to say something, anything, in protest, but his mouth refused to speak. All he could do was look in horror as Holly Mills was passed off like a slave to her new owner.
The rider chained Holly to the back of his horse, ensuring she could not escape. Once her unconscious body stayed, he retrieved a bag of gold from his saddlebag and handed it to Jeremis. All Cecek could feel as he watched was pure anger and hatred. And as the rider climbed atop his courser and prepared to leave, Cecek did the only thing he could think of. Without warning, Cecek drew his sword and ran towards his enemy.
It only took mere seconds to close the gap between himself and the rider, but that was all the time Jeremis needed to react. Dropping the bag of gold, Jeremis drew his own sword, rising to the defense of the rider. Blinded by fury, Cecek swung at Jeremis, only to be met with a block. He swung once more – blocked. Overhead – blocked. Right swing – blocked. Left swing – blocked. Jeremis was better than him, the sound of their swords clashing ringing through the air. Cecek took a breath, sweat dripping from his forehead. Jeremis looked down at him, and as Cecek raised his sword to continue their clash, he found himself empty-handed. With one slash, Jeremis had knocked Cecek’s sword to the ground, ending their fight.
As Cecek scrambled to pick up his sword, he was kicked over by his companion. He was sore, he was in pain, but he could not let Holly be sold off. In the distance, he could see the rider, still visible but becoming a small speck in the countryside. As he strained himself to stand once more, Cecek felt a hand on his shoulder and an all-too-familiar gravelly voice say, “You’ve done all you can, rest now, boy.”
Before he could process what was said, he felt a sharp pain in his leg as he was kicked to the ground once more. He rolled over onto his back, breathing sharply and excessively as he looked at his betrayers. Jeremis and Kaevar looked down at Cecek, dirtied and bruised. Tears formed in his eyes, words caught in his throat, and all Cecek could muster was a meek, “Why?” before he broke down.
Kaevar took a seat next to Cecek, closing his eyes as he whispered to the man.
“The arcane of aero is dead. The emperor requires tribute.”