Edon half stood in anger, rubbing at his beard as his face turned beet red.
“No one thinks you’re funny,” Edon declared, cutting directly at Derek’s ego.
Sabin raised an eyebrow to Proctus. It appeared there might be another fight. Young men, hungry, tired, and bored, often led to trouble.
“I have an idea,” Jon spoke out, “How about we talk about something other than being a lily tonight.”
Proctus caught Sabin’s eye, as they both nodded in agreement. Jon had a way of diffusing the tension through humor and misdirection.
Derek looked upset for only a moment, before his laughter split the air. It was sharp as a razor leaf.
“How about you suck my cock,” Derek bellowed. “I’ve got another one,” he continued.
Sabin leaned close to Proctus and whispered, “How about not.”
Proctus chuckled, as he listened to another one of Derek’s preposterous, yet strangely entertaining hypothetical scenarios.
“Imagine,” Derek said, looking about to make sure he had everyone’s attention, “that you’re sleeping in your tent and you feel something warm on your face. Now, would you rather it be the tits of Archduchess Cynesige, or the naked body of Lady Elle?”
“Now this is a conversation I can get into,” Jon said thoughtfully.
Edon looked away, still clearly annoyed.
“Hold up,” Nell jumped in, “Is the archduchess naked too?”
Derek leaned in, “Yes, and she’s got your tiny cock in her hands.”
“There it is again,” Sabin mused, “that’s the third time he’s mentioned cock in the last two minutes.”
Proctus laughed out loud. Sabin had a habit of narrating the obvious.
“Well, if she’s naked, I’d have to say the archduchess,” Nell responded.
Jon, not one to be left out, jumped in.
“I disagree.”
“Really,” Nell said.
“Let’s look at it,” Jon stated matter-of-factly, “on the one hand you have the archduchess, who, don’t get me wrong, was a beautiful woman. But on the other hand, you have one of the most seductively, beautiful women who’s ever lived. Elle split Mende and Winter’s Bind, because of her beauty. Supposedly, she was one of the most desirable women in all of history.”
Derek dove in, uncomfortable not having led the conversation for a short spell, “Jon has a point there,” he said, laughing again, “Elle’s a legend…” Derek suddenly fell quiet and looked up. As did many others.
A momentary lull passed over the campfire. It carried the weight of a hundred nights of Vintas.
Sabin jabbed Proctus in the ribs, who in turn looked around so quickly he kinked his neck.
“What’re we discussing,” a man said, stepping into the outer edge of the dancing firelight.
His voice was smooth yet carried the underlying strength of high royalty.
The men about the campfire grew silent as the frost upon the trees. Jon slunk back, and Derek crossed his legs. Nell looked about uncomfortably. Edon scratched at his beard and stared into the fire.
“Something about Derek being a lily,” one of the soldier’s uttered just loud enough to be heard.
“Riveting,” the man said, stepping closer to the circle of light.
It was the annalist.
Proctus felt his heart skip in his chest, as excitement welled up inside of him. Sabin elbowed him again, but Proctus barely felt it.
“Perhaps,” the annalist said smoothly, “we could deviate for a moment and speak on another topic entirely.”
Several nodded their heads, and many said, “yes sir,” into the cold night air.
“Good,” the annalist responded. “First, how many here can read?”
Three hands shot up from the dozen men seated. Proctus’ hand was held the highest.
“We’re not monks or scholars, my lord,” Derek said aloud, hoping for a laugh.
A couple smiled half-heartedly.
“No?” the annalist said playfully, “I certainly hope not, for monks or scholars wouldn’t do for this task.”
“What task it that?” Jon blurted out.
The annalist turned to look the soldier in the eye. Once again, silence befell them. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the slow creaking of cold branches groaning in the wind.
“I’m curious,” the annalist resumed, “What do you know of your current mission?”
He looked about the campfire, until his eyes fell upon Proctus, “You.”
Proctus froze for a moment. He fumbled for his words, but all he could manage were consonants. It was as though his vocabulary had fled under the glare of the sun.
“To find the Scourge of Bodig, sir,” Proctus knew not to mention the Kan Savasci by name, only fools called to the devil in the night.
The annalist nodded, but did not look away, “Is that all?”
Proctus shook his head as he racked his brain. Sabin had some theories. He’d heard some stories. Captain Jakob was convinced they were nothing more than a glorified protective detail. But why would the emperor send his own son to command the troops if it were not an important mission?
“To find those who know of the Scourge of Bodig,” Proctus said, stumbling slightly on his words.
The annalist regarded him oddly for a moment, before casting his gaze across the gathered group.
“Who here, has heard of the Witches of Agathon?”
“That’s a myth sir,” Derek said confidently, as he spread his feet wide again.
The annalist merely smiled. A couple of soldiers looked from Derek to the annalist.
“Where do you think myth comes from?”
Sabin leaned close to Proctus, “Here it begins, Derek’s going to try to prove he’s better than the annalist.”
Proctus shook his head. Was there no limit to the blindness of insecurity and the desperation for admiration?
“It comes from books, sir,” Derek proclaimed loudly, followed by a cackling laugh.
“Do books amuse you?” the annalist asked.
“It’s not books sir,” Derek continued, another short bark of a laugh was released into the cold, “It’s the idea of magic and witches.”
The annalist nodded to himself, as he looked about the group. Fewer soldiers were looking up at him.
“Well,” the annalist continued, as he held his hands near the fire, “Let me tell you a story then,” he paused and took in a slow breath, gathering the attention of all those about.
A few soldiers nodded. Proctus smiled.
“This story isn’t for the faint of heart. If any fear witches or magic, now’s a good time to hide in your tent.”
The annalist smiled broadly, his gaze lingered for a moment on Derek.
“Let’s hear it sir,” Derek said, widening his legs and tucking his hands behind his head.
“Good…” the annalist responded.
Chapter 4
“Not seeing, is a flower.” Emperor Karaka - Savikko
Throughout Verold’s history there have been numerous groups that stand out. There have been the obvious peoples who have conquered their way into the history books, the Calenites, the Templas Empire, the Amevi, even the Cavii. Then there have been smaller groups that have garnered a sense of mystery and spurred stories, like the Troglodytes of Dimutia, the Shadow Soldiers of Q’Bala, the Inquisition, and the Thane Sagan. Yet, even these societies have left behind a large body of evidence.
The group I wish to discuss is but a shadow of these groups. It’s an enigma that’s been locked in a box below a frozen lake, a box that many have forgotten ever existed. It is but a whispered threat to children, or an idiomatic expression stated casually.
The group is akin to the fading knowledge of the Scapan. But upon further consideration is more similar to the reclusive Syrinx. They are the Witches of Agathon.
Let me begin…
In the Valley of Azure, near Adumbrate Peak, lived a unique people. Despite belonging to the greater Empire of
Templas and falling under the reign of the Archon of Adumbrate, they stood apart in three ways.
First, most were marked as different by their snowy, white hair. It was once said, if a child was born with hair of any other color, they were cast away as impure. Purity was as important to this group as was education.
Their steadfast devotion to learning, was the second way they marked themselves as different. One of the greatest libraries in Verold’s history, was the Great Library of Agathon. It was said its walls reached from the shores of the Black Sea, to the outer fortifications of Agathonia. Everything that was known was encapsulated in their texts, books, and scrolls.
The final way in which the Agathonian stood apart, was in their inherent ability to touch the arkein. Prince Mazin once wrote that what he feared most, was not the armies of the Templas Empire, but what would happen if the Agathonian turned a blind eye to morality and unleashed their powers in malice.
The Agathonian were a tight-knit society. Although, they fell under the umbrella of leadership that reached to their northern foothold, from the capital city of Savikko, they remained apart. They had their own form of governance. It was an egalitarian society, in which men and women shared equal roles in governance, the household, and science.
For any familiar with Templas history, I don’t need to mention how odd it is for such a system to have existed, let alone thrived for hundreds of years.
Their strict adherence to their own culture, food, and customs, was a source of ridicule, and confusion for much of Templas. Even the Archon of Adumbrate only tolerated them, for they were an irreplaceable source of knowledge.
If you wanted to know how to cure the wasting disease, they had the answer. If you wanted to know how to stop the chimera, they knew the secret. If you were curious on what tactics would best undermine the southern kingdom of Louko, they had the answer.
Yet, as with all things, when the crops are bountiful and the empire rich, people are happy to let differences be a unifying strength. But, when fear takes hold, people are hungry, and anger needs direction, someone has to be blamed. It is in these times that old hatred, long buried, flares anew, for ignorance knows no master but fear. People are tribal and outsiders are the first to be feared and blamed.
Nearly a thousand years ago, it was the Agathonian who were to blame. Two particularly bad storms had devastated the Templas crops. Louko was in open rebellion and people were scared. They were scared their way of life would change. They feared that their families would go hungry. And in this time of great fear, many spread the rumor that the Agathonian had caused the great storms and had used the arkein to decimate their crops.
It was a lie, of course, but the Agathonian had greater stockpiles of grain. They had been more isolated from the strife to the south. They appeared, from the outside, largely unaffected by events within the Templas Empire. So much so, that many assumed they were the root cause.
The word of the Agathonian ‘mischief’ reached the ears of Savikko, and more importantly the new emperor.
The emperor knew the people were hungry and that people were angry. It did not matter if Agathon was the cause. What mattered was staying in power, feeding those who hadn’t prepared for such storms, and keeping the kingdom intact.
So, with careful preparation, the Templas army marched north.
They surrounded the walled city of Agathon and lay siege to an entire group of people. Not unlike the Siege of Sawol.
This is where the story turns. It’s where history and legend have intermingled, to such a point, that parsing truth is like shedding bramble off freshly shorn wool.
Accounts from General Tessier, state:
“In the dead of night, when all air stills, and dew has yet to cast its weight upon the ground, the very night shimmers and wrinkles. Men disappear in clouds of dust, and morale wavers to the point of breaking…”
Others have similar accounts with minor variations, depicting men slipping away to the beyond, being called into the embrace of the Black Sea, or torn from earth, into the heavens.
It was at the cusp of fear, and risking defeat at the pacifist hands of the Agathonian, that General Tessier struck.
The massive armies lobed tar-covered stone, alight in flame, until the night was lit in fire. Agathon burned. Their men took to arms, as the gates were broken. Women and children fled aboard the longboats they used for coastal trade and fishing, and they made the long and treacherous trip to the Imperium.
Upon landing on our continent, they quickly realized they were not welcome. Along the coast of the Gwhelt were the peoples of Roewold. So, the Agathonian marched, heading west to the great cloud covered mountains.
The Shroud Mountains, known as the Shrouded Mountains to those in the west.
It’s here, where they discovered a new home, untouched by the reaching hands of Templas, away from the wild Northmen of Roewold, and away from the warrior tribes, south of the Barre Mountains.
It was here, in these very woods, where they interbred. It was here, where they vowed to never be attacked again. It was here where they cultivated a twisted form of the arkein, bending it into something dark, something dangerous, feeding off the dying whispers of men….
Chapter 5
“Every fiction holds an element of truth.” General Tessier – Templas Empire
Thea sat back in her chair. She eyed Peter carefully. Elements of his story swirled in memory. They were gray thoughts shadowed by inquiry.
In the flickering candlelight, sat Peter. He remained still. Peter had fallen silent at Thea’s unspoken request. His mind was still on his story. His thoughts were with the annalist.
Where was the annalist now?
The silence stretched gossamer thin before them, uncoiling like the sinewy mass of a basilisk.
Two candles quivered along the back wall. Their light danced upon the wooden beams of the rear cabin of the Wounded Soul. The sea rolled about them in a gentle manner, befitting a mother. The smell of salt air permeated the cabin, intermingling with the smells of dank and dust.
Peter broke Thea’s steadfast gaze and looked out one of the windows. The sky had reached a deep purple, as the last rays of sunlight filtered through distant clouds. The light blended with the thick, blue curtains that framed the windows, lending an air of Gemynd presence to the scene.
Silence continued to coalesce about them in a sticky mass that congealed at their feet and lent weight to the air. It introduced another dimension to the setting, different than the purpling of the evening sky, or the décor of the cabin.
Peter ignored all of this. Instead, his eyes wandered, and so did his mind. He glanced toward the rear wall and took in the map that had been carefully painted upon its surface. It was a map of Verold.
The continents of Templas, Heorte, Dimutia, and Artica were plain as day. The Isle of Fire resided north of Heorte and the Isle of Galdor to the south. The candles, resting in sconces on either side of the map, flickered with the slow, rolling movement of the ship.
It wasn’t the light that caught his attention. It was the way the light played with the map of Verold. Shadows broke upon the drawing in uneven textures. They were like the creeping fingers of fate, etching their way into the fractured state of the future.
Verold was in chaos.
The old gods had returned. And gods, like men, began fighting for control of the very world. Their battles echoed across valleys and mountains, casting fire upon the earth, burning cities and carving holes into the very fabric that strung humanity together.
Thea broke the silence.
“Something has been bothering me about your tale,” she said carefully.
Peter’s eyes slipped from the map. His thoughts were pulled from the shadows of death to the present.
“You were born a bastard,” she said flatly, as though stating her thoughts aloud.
Peter merely nodded. His eyes returned to the map. His mind, imagining the horrors that were reported from Old Trenton, as flames poured from th
e sky.
“I remember Rulph of Tines,” Thea continued, “A commoner had impregnated his wife, who then bore him a baby boy. A child Rulph didn’t care for. The commoner was imprisoned and tortured only to be saved by the new Deacon of Somerset, who convinced Rulph to send the child away,” she said, watching Peter carefully, “I remember that story well. My father told it to me as a warning on the night my city burned. He had shouted many things, but the story of a rejected kid, sold into the service of a verder, stuck with me.
“He had told me how the child, a boy, had cried at being torn from his home. How difficult life in the woods had been. And he reminded me of his own generosity, by informing me of his donations. A small stack of books. One of which had been my childhood favorite, The Lost Scroll of Dimutia.”
Thea paused, looking away for a moment. Anguish colored her face in lines of remembered pain, as night descended about them.
Peter sat quietly. His own fear and pain, played a subtle game. Yet, a deeper, underlying emotion bubbled to the surface. It was the memory of reading by the firelight, as his father snored loudly nearby. It was the feel of the pages of his new, favorite book under his fingertips as he was transported to another world.
“How old were you,” she asked, “When your father sold you?”
The memories slipped away, yielding to the movement of the sea.
“Seven,” Peter whispered.
Peter’s eyes paused on the continent of Dimutia.
“Ten years ago,” Thea responded, the temporary sadness slipping from her features.
Peter only nodded.
“And when you were tired of guarding the king’s forest and read everything a meager verder could get his hands on, you took the King’s Coin.”
Peter didn’t respond, he didn’t need to.
“Your stubbornness, your forest training, endeared you with your military officers, and got you a spot in the coveted Ranged Guard.”
Peter looked up, as his face paled.
“No more lies Peter,” she said quietly, yet her voice filled the cabin.
Peter remained quiet. The annalist had taught him the importance of truth. He had trained Peter about the sharp edge of veracity. He had said, ‘truth could cut down the strongest of men.’ Now it was being used against him.
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