Tides of Fate

by Sean J Leith

  Miggen crept over. “What did you find?”

  She showed him while attempting to keep her composure. Her hands shook, not from nerves, but fear of what this could mean. She clenched her fists trying to stay calm. I’ll find him. I have to.

  Miggen’s eyes broadened and he breathed loudly through his large nostrils. “This is concerning. Great work, all of you. Now, let’s get out of here before something bad happens. This changes everything.” Miggen grabbed the papers and shoved them into a satchel at his right hip. The others followed.

  Kayden led them back to the door, and out along the hedges.

  As Lira glanced up at the sky, the crimson light from the moon seemed to wane, and the color of the trees, hedges, and grass dulled to a pale grey. The sound around them muffled slightly, as if Lira was drifting off to sleep. The guards were still knocked out; Lira was glad. Both for us, and for them. They climbed back over the wall in the shadow of a tower, slinked over and dropped down once more successfully.

  Slowly, the grey of the grass and trees seemed to fade as well, and it became hard for Lira to see. She glanced around as they waited for Magnus and Vesper to descend, and the sounds of the forest and manor grew eerily silent. There was no hooting of owls, rustling of trees, or even a breeze of wind.

  As the forest wall froze, a throng of soldiers emerged from the shadows of the canopy, including a knight in deep black plated armor, with a helmet that looked like it was topped with a crown.

  “Soldiers!” Lira whispered and pointed at them. They seemed almost translucent in appearance.

  Kayden turned around and stared, as did the rest. “What are you talking about? I don’t see anything.”

  “I don’t either. Are you sure you aren’t just seeing things?” Domika inquired.

  “No, they’re there! Don’t you see them?” Lira said in a panic. Tension rose like a tidal wave.

  Magnus drew one of the blades at his hip. “They come.”

  “I don’t—” Kayden walked forward, and her eyes widened as the soldiers became fully opaque. “What?” She drew two blades and lowered her stance. “What is this, a setup?”

  “Interesting—usually no one sees us coming.” Asheron let out with a deep, hollowed cackle. He was surrounded by twelve other soldiers, each armed to the teeth. The knight drew his darksteel long blade, encrusted with black diamonds, and pointed it at them. “Did you find what you were looking for? Surrender, and come with us.”

  “Go to hell,” Kayden growled.

  Miggen pulled out his mace with a tight grip. “Highwind.”

  Asheron Highwind. One of the high captains of the Loughran Military, known for his lack of kindness. He wasn’t as evil as his brother, Malakai, but still vile all the same. “Ah, Miggen. What was it you said to me last, boy? You’d kill me if you ever saw me again?”

  Miggen tightened the grip on his mace. “You killed my sister for housing young ones.”

  Asheron looked toward his other soldiers, and shook his head slowly. “Housing children who aided the Scions.” He took a calm, calculated step toward them. “I cut her throat because she was a traitor.” Looking back toward the wall, he said. “Now what does that make you, boy?”

  “She was innocent. They were all innocent,” Miggen snarled. A tear led down his left cheek. “I meant what I said.”

  “Speaking of matters you do not understand—just like that traitorous leader of yours.” With a chuckle, he shook his head once more. “Let’s see if you can follow through. I never turn down a challenge.” Swinging the dark sword, he changed his stance into a side, proper form. “Do you have any last words?” He waited for a response.

  A dread silence hung in the air. Lira shrank back. She didn’t want to fight. She had the power of divine magic—to heal—but could barely fix a scratch. She could use a bow, but only against animals. She carefully took her bow out with a slight shake to her hand.

  “I see. In that case, my name is Captain Asheron Highwind, and you are all under arrest—take them alive. Leave the boy to me.” Asheron disappeared in a cloud of black mist, while the other twelve soldiers converged on the group.

  Lira drew arrows and fired them at a few soldiers, hitting one in the leg causing him to topple. She backed off then and let the others take the forefront. Kayden spun, rolled, and sliced her blades across the necks of three, while Magnus rushed two and knocked them aside easily with his shield. Vesper froze against the wall, and Domika whirled and slashed at their legs with her scythe, and swirls of flame followed her deadly blade. Lira tried to fire at two others, hitting one in the sword arm, and missed the other.

  Asheron appeared behind Miggen and sliced the dark steel blade across his neck. Blood splattered out from the visceral wound all over Lira’s arms as Miggen hit the ground like a stone. Asheron disappeared and reappeared behind Kayden and cracked her across her face with his gauntlet, smashing her to the ground. He disappeared time and time again, only appearing to strike from the shadows.

  Two soldiers broke through them and rushed at Lira. She backed away and attempted to shoot one with an arrow, only to have her bow knocked aside and a club strike her temple with a mighty blow. She toppled to the ground, barely seeing the others fighting for their lives as she slipped out of consciousness. As her vision faded to black, the scent of Miggen’s blood filled her nostrils, and her headache disappeared into nothing.

  Chapter Three

  Blaze of Treason

  Saul Bromaggus

  It was days from Saul’s graduation from the Chromata military training program, yet he still felt more uneasy than ever before. His father planned to challenge their ruler’s laws, and treason was a burnable offense. He shook his head and ruffled his thick, short black hair, trying to remember his father’s fate, to calm himself.

  Saul was at the top of his class. No comrade could beat him. He was his father’s son—strong, stubborn and respectful—though Saul was not quite as quick of wit. Wit doesn’t matter when blades clash, he thought.

  It was on a night soon to come that he would travel before the Oracles in Hero’s Fall. They bestowed a fate from the gods unto the Broken and their kin. They appeared as markings upon the dominant arm of the initiate and determined their path. The markings came with the color of his warrior form, a race he would act upon, and a symbol resembling his fate within it—victory or death, Saul thought. Most importantly, the markings came with the mark of their god. The Oracles’ predictions were determined by powers handed down from the gods themselves.

  The symbols were imprinted onto the initiate’s fighting arm in a specific color, one of three. Red, blue, or yellow—the slayer, the protector, or the mediator. Saul looked to his left arm, wondering what kind of markings he would soon receive. Every Broken had a burning desire for their fate. It showed them the path. Without it, they wandered aimlessly through life—broken, as their name implied. Saul wished to find his purpose. In his fate he would have it.

  The highest mark on the shoulder was of their god. Saul knew his would be the one he prayed to: Gadora, the goddess of storms. Her mark was that of three encircling, clashing winds.

  Just below the shoulder was the subject, the one he would protect, slay, or mediate with. The symbol of the gods represented any race—Human, Broken, even Dragon. The Dragon’s mark hadn’t been seen much in a millennium. Many who bore the Dragonslayer mark died mysteriously in the blanket of night, Saul recalled. The Dragon Obelreyon ruled over them with a mighty claw.

  The final marking was the outcome, the fate. It resembled the blade or the drop of blood—victory and death. One either succeeded and lived through his path or died for it.

  Saul rose from his hard bed and readied his gear for the trip to Hero’s Fall. But first, he was to see his father address Obelreyon. Many unusual laws had been put into place as of late. The Dragon claimed that the god that he followed was the most powerful, and that his laws would be enforced. Some were still able to worship their own gods, as long as they followed the
laws in place.

  Saul was concerned about what his father would say. He would not challenge him, as were the ways of the clans. He could only watch as his father made his own fate. It was treason to reject your superior’s orders—especially the dragon’s. They were publicly executed to make an example. My father is no traitor. He felt for his father but did not waver. He was a proud Broken, strong and unyielding. His path was with the military in service of a god who favored battle, glory, and victory. The Broken and their kin worshipped the Glories, four gods associated with the elements, each with their own clan and city surrounding Chromata.

  After strapping on his battered, scorched armor, Saul picked up his blade and shield from the table and walked out of his room. It was a small space, granted to him by the military, but it was all he needed.

  He sauntered to the keep under the cover of the forests of the northern Vale. It was filled with a vast forest of blackwood maples, broad oaks, and strong, russet-brown pines, with roots as thick as a man’s torso, and seas of leaves that changed color with the season. When the season of earth came, the leaves would turn from green to red, orange to yellow, before they fell for the season of air that came after. In the southern Vale, there were plentiful forests of elm and Sirilius trees, the forest floor filled with brush varying from thick, sharp brambles to poisonous frockwoods.

  Saul looked to the canopies far overhead, and the sky could be seen well enough. Saul passed between various barracks and training yards. He heard the clash of steel and yelling of Captains for their men to keep up or gain more scars. I have earned many in my training, Saul thought cheekily.

  Obelreyon’s keep was a massive temple over a hundred feet high. It was rectangular beast, coming to a point at the top with a sculpture of an eye, called the God’s Point. The temple was big enough to house the Dragon himself on the upper floor, where he sat on his observing perch in the council room.

  The keep was surrounded by guard towers hung with banners of a lidless eye on a field of violet. Archers and magicians stood at the tips. Smaller Broken were fit to be archers and magicians; Saul resented them. The small were weak, resorting to magic for power. They aren’t brave enough to fight us with weapons.

  The front of the keep was covered with intricate carvings depicting various victories of gods and Dragons. One even showed Obelreyon’s ancestors defeating the old lords of Kathynta. The damned Dragon was young for his race, yet ruled over them as if he knew all.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” one of the keep guards said. He wore the bronze armor of the Vale guard, scaled in some places and chained in others. Grikoth, one of Obelreyon’s grunts, bore the color blue, in the form of a Broken and a blade. His hatred for Saul’s father trickled down. Saul had no time for blundering or arguing.

  “To my father’s audience. Get out of the way before I break your skull. I know the law.”

  Grikoth coughed up a laugh. “If you come anywhere near my command, I’m putting you in hell, whelp,” Grikoth shot back. The guard stood aside, seeing the other guard’s sharp expression. They both believed in Urikar, another god thriving through battle on the seas.

  Saul walked by and bumped into them. He didn’t apologize, as they didn’t deserve it. The halls were lined with paintings and carvings of gods, each in valiant poses or slaying enemies. Statues of ancient weapons, pieces of armor, and other relics on pedestals stood in the center of the halls. Saul felt bolstered in their presence.

  Saul saw a powerful figure standing at the base of the center stairwell that led to the council chambers above. His stance was proper and wide, as always. His chin was broad with a slight grimace, skin a deep smoke grey as many of the Broken, with eyes dark and almond shaped. Blood ran strong. “Good day, Father.”

  “I appreciate that you have come to attend,” his father said.

  “Father, I would advise against what you’re about to do.”

  “Straight to the point.” His father chuckled but gave a stern gaze. “I will not sit idle while he abolishes our freedom.”

  “You’ll be killed!” Saul gripped his father’s right arm. It was less brawny in his age, and he spent less time in training and more at the council over the previous years. His arm bore yellow markings with three clashing winds, the mark of the Broken—a cross through a horizontal line—and the upturned blade. He will live, Saul thought. He couldn’t bear the death of a second parent, but Saul took solace in his father’s markings.

  “I do my duty. I refuse to betray my beliefs. Neither should you.” His father placed a hand on Saul’s shoulder. “You will be granted your marking soon. Remember, you must follow your own path no matter the mark.” His father smiled, and he never smiled. “Your mother always saw greatness in you. A strength many never receive. You follow your own beliefs—not his, not theirs—yours. Do you understand?”

  Of course I do, Saul thought. “I will, Father.” Since his mother passed in the wars ten years prior, his father became obsessed with the failings of fate, and whether they truly existed or not.

  His father nodded, stood up straight, and walked up the council stairs. Before they arrived at the top, his father turned to say one thing. “It takes great strength to stand stoically while one watches their father address a Dragon. It takes more to run. Don’t forget that.”

  As Saul ascended the stairs after him, he heard Obelreyon’s guttural voice speaking in the Dragon’s native tongue. All Broken knew it, as orders were given in it.

  “Why have you come before me, Bromaggus? What is it you want?” the Dragon said. The light from the outside seemed to dim by Obelreyon’s dark scales. Saul heard the Dragon could drain the strength of any enemy at will with just the touch of a claw. His eyes were darker than the deepest night; Saul felt that the souls he burned were trapped inside them. The number of traitors he killed gained him the name ‘The Shatterer of Souls.’ Even his scales could cut flesh, each as hard as the blade Saul carried. There was once a small uprising against the dastardly dragon; each blade and spear thrown and swung shattered against the might of the steely scales, and each Broken was burned by the dragon’s breath or eviscerated by a single swing of a claw.

  Saul’s father stood tall, shoulders back, with his hands open to show confidence and respect for the one he spoke to. He saluted Obelreyon with a fist to his center and bowed. He returned to his open stance shortly after.

  “Lord Obelreyon, I ask your reasons for changing our ways.”

  “You need not know my reasons for these laws, Bromaggus. It is not your place to question orders.”

  Whispers echoed from the other observers in the hall. There was unrest in the clans, and Saul’s father wished to relieve it. It was his purpose.

  The Council of Fangs stood around the outer rim of the room. Each were the head-of-clan, each worshipping a different god. The ceiling came to a large oval dome at the top, extending to a longer edge—the open air of Obelreyon’s perch. There were venomstone stands on either side of the long room. The entire council was present: The leaders of the Kannakash, Urikar, and Yggranda clans, and the final attendee being his father, Greln Bromaggus, of the Gadora clan. Saul walked to the east side and sat atop the stone seats.

  “My Lord, we all worship gods which proclaim glory in battle. We have not seen war in ten years, since our defeat. Why must we follow the words of a new god we have not yet seen?” Saul’s father spoke in the guttural language of the Dragons, with rough sounds of the throat and deep, orotund turns of the tongue.

  The Dragon’s eyes narrowed, his lengthy neck pulling back slightly. “The new god is more powerful than we have ever known. He brings glory and victory though the defeat of the Renalian kingdoms. We work with them to achieve our goal. Do not question me.”

  The Dragon turned away, but Saul’s father did not back down. “You wish for us to work with beings of chaos? They will not bring us victory. Their tactics will bring us defeat! We should take our forces to Renalia on our own wood and steel! Or to the Serpent’s Plat
eau, or the Torch of Lathyria! I refuse to let us align with beings we cannot trust, let alone violate our ways and betray us!”

  Saul steeled himself for what was to come. To show emotion during a moment of disgrace brought execution. No, Father you will have victory, your fate was determined, Saul reassured himself.

  Obelreyon turned swiftly. His tail crashed into the side of the room and shook the walls, along with every resident of the hall. “Do not disobey me, wretch! I will burn you alive if you question me again. The god Lornak has promised us Renalia and more, if we bring our armies to him. We must make sacrifices of those who are unwilling, so that we may survive! That is what the war was for, and that is what you will do!”

  “The war ten years past was a wasteful massacre. The tactics were foolish, and we must plan differently! This god, Lornak, demands that we challenge the Isles again? The west of Renalia may writhe in rebellion, but that does not make this any more foolish. We must focus on the Glories, not some other God who claims to ally with us now! I must protest!”

  “Would you die for it and disgrace your name? Your family’s name?” Obelreyon roared. “Soon will be our time to strike! When his harbinger breaks into this plane, we will take the war to the and strike against them from both sides without warning! Would you rather seek failure, or victory? What do you say, Councilor? Does that satisfy your concerns?”

  Without a beat of a heart, Saul’s father retorted. “Not in the slightest! We have been ruled for centuries by the Dragons, and we respect the laws. This new war—joining with a god we do not know—I cannot support it. Lornak has been known as a Lord of Chaos, the opposite of what we represent as a people!” Though Urikar and Kannakash dabbled in chaotic actions in combat, and that was respected—the other two clans did not share this action.

  Obelreyon smashed his claw onto the keep’s floor, cracking the stones beneath. “Stay your words, ingrate!” The Dragon let out a mighty roar which caused the hall itself to shudder. “You will follow my orders, and that of Lornak, else you commit treason. Do you understand?” Obelreyon yelled.