“A warm energy filled me, sweetling. It filled my great nerring to capacity and beyond, which stretched to accommodate this strange power. I felt more alive than ever in my life. Stronger. More certain. And, strangely, peaceful.
“I pushed myself to my feet and knocked aside Ultner’s attacks. I could sense his surprise across the length of the magical battleground. With this great force pulsing within me, I approached him and bombarded him with a magical storm beyond anything I could have imagined. My power took the form of flames and lightning, beams of power and magical animals. Ultner responded in kind, and our magical storm filled every inch of my vision. It was terrifyingly beautiful to behold.
“But, I had experience beyond that of Ultner. Years of practice and training, and some thoughts on how to use this sudden, limitless power that infused me.
“Barriers, sweetling, are typically used for defense. However, I focused all of my power on creating a barrier around Ultner, a half mile in circumference. Something that I could never have done without this strange power. I enclosed his attacks, trapping his magical onslaughts. I forced the sphere closer and closer to Ultner; he fought, but I managed to restrain him. When I was near his body, I could close the sphere no more.
“The new power, I could feel, was running out. But, so was Ultner’s. I could not defeat him, but he could not escape my prison of energy. So, I did the only thing I could think to do. I used my reserves to tear the ground open, revealing a great chasm. I sealed Ultner’s barrier so that it would persist, and hurled it into the gap, closing it afterward.
“I had not noticed that the sky had turned as red as blood, that the clouds appeared charred and black. Burnt, it seemed.
“My powers were near exhausted, and I simply sat amidst the ash and crumbling ruin that had once been a verdant, green landscape.
“After a day, the sky was still burned. Survivors began to pick at the battlefield, maybe looking for loot or maybe for survivors, but instead they found me. My army, Ultner’s army… they all began to gather around my exhausted shell. They were quiet, at first. Frightened, but still they assembled about me in a great circle. After a time, they began to murmur my name. I heard it repeated again and again. Yetra. Yetra. Yetra.
“With great effort, I stood. A hush cut through the crowd, much like a knife ripping into each of their throats. I looked to the crimson sky, so unnatural, and raised my arms.
“I do not know why I did it. But, I released the remaining power that had filled me the day before. I released it to the world, freeing it from my nerring. It felt like the right thing to do, and it had been so long since I had done the right thing.
“Beams of light rose from my hands; they cut through the sky. The sky was rejuvenated, the clouds cleaned of blackness. The people were in awe. They released their weapons and began to speak to one other.
“The Taneos say that it was my ascension to godhood. And, indeed, from that day, I never aged. In fact, I seemed to lose ten years, and I became as you see me now. The people, those who remained… they worshipped me, and were united in that fact. They stopped warring; they stopped fighting. They began rebuilding.
“The Taneos say that it was Harmony that filled me that day. That Harmony—some primordial power from the times of creation—was the great power that allowed me to win the battle, to cleanse the sky.
“I know not whether that is true. I know not whether those powers exist. I did feel a great peace. A great certainty. Perhaps, sweetling, I was briefly infused with Harmony. And, perhaps Ultner was bathed in Pandemonium. Perhaps, the reality of these warring powers was as Amorum had preached.
“After my so-called Ascension, I made the decision to withdraw from the world. Not based in sloth, as before, but for the good of humanity. So much had been destroyed, and I had been the vehicle of that destruction. The people needed to rebuild… to recover. And, I needed to allow this to happen without my interference.
“Perhaps that power led me to relinquish my grip on the people. Perhaps the events of the previous twenty years…. Well, I am uncertain.
“Over the years, I have simply observed the world. I have walked among the people of the world, unknown to them. For years, things were as they should be. The people worked together as they should. They rebuilt. They rediscovered some of the wisdom lost from my time. They forged alliances and created lasting concords. Certainly, there were petty wars here and there, but nothing on the scale of the thousand warring countries I’d witnessed in my youth. Or my domination of the land and subsequent fall.
“I have quietly taken donors over the years, it is true—typically, those who were condemned, so as not to cause undue suffering and to mask my presence. I needed to replace my maen, sweetling. I told you—my nerring has been slowly draining over the years. And it has gotten worse. Now, I realize my mistake. Feeding on the maenen of criminals and the condemned changed me. Having a good man, such as you, has reminded me of who I am. Or, rather, who I wish I were. It has reminded me of Amorum.
“I regret that my followers—my Erudites and Lanei—lost control and destroyed your town and your life. I regret that I approved it. Telling my people and my generals to bring me strong men to turn Feral, to bring me donors from far away, out-of-the-way villages, was such an easy, impersonal request. I did not realize that I would find you, and that you would have such a profound effect on me.
“I realize now that I need good men. Unfortunately, sweetling—and it hurts me to admit this—it is more important for me to draw pure, good maenen than for you to continue your own life. Though you are good in your own small way, though you have made small positive changes in the menial lives of those around you, the fate of everything rests on my shoulders.
“Over the past hundred years, I have felt something. A stirring, if you will, beneath the surface of the world. A familiar feeling from long ago. A feeling that frightens me.
“I have begun to gather my school of pasnes alna and warriors. My Erudites—warriors and practitioners of magic. Never again will Wantran and the Martyrs’ fates be shared by my people; they know how to protect themselves, using both weaponry and magic. They will never be left completely defenseless. My Lanei are the greatest conventional warriors in the world. My Fane. Healers beyond compare.
“I have begun to build my army, and I can only hope that it is enough.
“The feeling I have… It reminds me of Ultner, from that day that the world was nearly destroyed. From the day that I was nearly destroyed. Pandemonium is rising, sweetling.
“Pandemonium is rising, and only if I can unite the world under my banner will the people stand a chance of survival.”
Epilogue
The man with one hand reeked. He always did, and he didn’t care.
The only problem was that the smell alerted the short guard a moment before the curved sword sliced into his unarmored neck. The short man had half-turned, and the blade didn’t have the bite for an instant kill. Instead, the guard was able to gurgle a scream before the second blow ended his life. Yet more blood caked boots that had long been stained brownish-red. The sword slashed down, severing the dead guard’s left hand from his wrist.
The man with one hand stepped over the body and met the next guard, who must have been alerted by the scream. This one was good—he was a weasel-faced bastard who wielded two wicked daggers with deft intelligence. It didn’t matter, though, because he wasn’t good enough. He had too much care in his steps, too much of a focus on self-preservation. The man with one hand had lost that feeling long ago; living and dying was much the same. He cut through the man’s left hand so that blood spurted from the limb. Now that they were on even footing—with one weapon each—the weasel-faced man didn’t last five seconds. He was blinded by a slash across the eyes, and then disemboweled.
The man with one hand paused, listening. Several long moments passed; only echoes resonated through the comfortable building. It was warm in the space, and pretty cheery with its brightly painted walls and art d
epicting unnaturally beauteous scenes from nature, all of them likely painted by someone who had never spent a day in the wilds. Even though his senses were dulled, even he could smell cinnamon, pumpkin, and various spices; it was the season for it; Rostanians loved their false scents, especially in the winter.
The apparent solace of the place made the man uncomfortable. He was now a creature of the sewers, a resident of the ruins, more comfortable knee-deep in shit than among real people. He was the king of shit.
When he wasn’t out hunting, he spent his time listening from the dark places, from below. Husbands cheating on their wives, wives cheating on their husbands. Children bullying one another. Neglected elders speaking to themselves for some sense of companionship. Criminals plotting their heists and murders, and Taneos committing sins that they’d later condemn. From below, he saw exactly how corrupt Rostane had become.
He listened now, his ears sensitive to any change around him, and determined that his last altercation had gone unnoticed. These people were in disarray, given all that was happening. His hunts had become increasingly dangerous, and he knew this day had been long in the making. He knew that the Feral—as he had heard them called—would be unleashed one day, soon, and today was that day. There was only so much one man could do to dam the flow of a river.
At the very least, attempting to dam this river was enjoyable.
The man with one hand continued to stalk through the building, growing nearer to his destination. He came across a wandering idiot—a man staggering about wearing the face of a twisted, sickly bird. The masked figure staggered back in surprise at the sight of a filthy, blood-covered warrior. He didn’t live to respond, though, upon looking down to stare dully at his missing hand, before taking a sword across the throat.
The man with one hand killed two more guards before reaching his destination, which was a much less hospitable wing of the building. He tossed his sword to the stones without much grace. It was easiest to let go of the thing suddenly; otherwise, his hand just seemed to grip it tighter with the need to kill. He fumbled with the keys he’d taken from the belt of the dead guard. He pinned them against the stump of his hand, struggling to find the right key and failing twice before finally hearing the lock click.
He pulled open the heavy door, letting the light filter into the cell. He glanced around, not immediately seeing anyone. Had he been mistaken? Had he heard wrong in his eavesdropping? Stepping into the cell, he was immediately accosted by a small, but fierce figure. His own body was hard, though, and his assailant lacked real strength. Without much effort, he batted down the figure so that she rolled away heavily. Rather than admit defeat, though, she immediately regained her feet and launched herself forward.
The man with one hand appreciated the effort, but he had been dealing with fierce, mindless attacks for months now; he easily subdued her, though this time his goal wasn’t to kill. It was counterintuitive, of course, to not kill.
His attacker, the prisoner, pushed herself to her feet again and took two steps back. She was a young girl, her short hair disheveled, eyes staring at him intensely—as if analyzing him for a weakness. Her eyes focused on the stump of his hand. He wanted to ball the thing into a fist and hit her, though the first wasn’t possible and the second wasn’t an option.
“I’m not going back to Tennyson, you stinking pile of Ultner shit,” she spat, her voice cracking from disuse.
“You do not have to,” croaked the man with one hand. He had little opportunity for conversation these days, and the sound of his once-refined voice made him cringe.
“Well, what the fuck do you want?”
The girl, Morgyn, was wary, and he didn’t blame her. The man with one hand hadn’t looked in a mirror for… for months now, but he could imagine that his appearance did not inspire confidence.
“You did me a kindness a lifetime ago. I would repay the favor, with a caveat.”
“I do few kindnesses,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Nonetheless, you did. And I remain grateful.” Her eyes widened, perhaps suddenly remembering the day that she and Escamilla had freed him from his cell, alone in the smothering darkness beneath the Plateau. Where the man with the red glowing eyes had drained him of his essence, whatever had made him human. Which was why, of course, he was far less than human now, though more human than the rest of them. Enough to know they needed to be wiped out.
“Erlins? I thought… I thought you were torn to shreds. I thought you were dead.”
“Erlins is dead. I am the Hunter.”
Morgyn appraised him, her greasy face creasing with a ghost of a smile. “Seems a little dramatic,” she said.
“It is all I do, girl. I hunt and I kill.” He ached to pick up his discarded sword and return to the hunt. He ached to feel blood splattering his face, running down his forearms, to hear that death scream. He ached to kill. But, he resisted, as he had taught himself to do.
“And I sit and I wait. But I don’t call myself The Waiter.”
The Hunter turned to leave, moving to close the door behind him.
“Wait! Wait!” she cried, throwing arms in the way of the closing door.
“I thought you weren’t the waiter,” said the Hunter. Morgyn stared at him dully, and then started to giggle. The giggle turned into a laugh, and the laugh turned into a sputtering loss of control, with her wheezing for breath between hiccups. At least the Hunter had some semblance of humor left in him, though he didn’t think his comment had been nearly as funny as the girl apparently did.
Her glee soon subsided and the Hunter noticed tears running divots through the old dirt on her face.
“Alright then, the Hunter. Let’s get out of here.” She started past him, but he held up a finger.
“The condition. I am grateful, but my help is not free.”
Morgyn seemed to shrink back.
“Yet another master. What do you want of me?” she asked quietly.
“You are to join me on the hunt. I will teach you to find, isolate, and kill. You have an advantage of being able to fit into small spaces. Together, we can ambush. Together, we can thin their numbers.”
“What are you talking about?” She licked her chapped and broken lips.
“We hunt the Feral below the Plateau. We hunt the Feral that live in the spaces below Rostane. And, we hunt their masters.” Now, he finally let himself move back toward his discarded sword, reaching for the thing with near desperation sword. His body, tense to the point of breaking, unwound at the touch of the well-worn, well-blooded grip. He felt compelled to leave this place of light and return to the underground.
Morgyn looked small, standing in her cell, body malnourished and weak. But, her face hardened with a sudden resolve; a slight twist to her jaw, a hardening of her deep brown eyes. She gave a single nod.
“Fine, the Hunter. Lead the way.”
Merigold's Journal (Appendix)
I’ve decided to start taking notes about magic. It’s confusing, and Cryden, as is typical, just conceals and obscures. He’s cocky, though, and lets a little bit slip from time to time. If I’m ever going to get the hang of this power, then I need to make sure I understand it.
Some terms that I need to keep straight:
Miernes. This is the broad, general term for magic. It’s basically any type of lifeforce that a person can draw from, whether of plant life or animals.
Maenen. This is the term for the miernes (see, I used it correctly!) contained within living creatures, like animals. I have maen inside of me, which is what it’s called when you refer to your own lifeforce. So does Cryden. So does his horse and basically any animal you find. That’s my power—but I can draw maenen from animals and people.
Note 1. People who can draw maenen are called, colloquially, leeches. It’s a disgusting term, and I don’t like it. But… it makes sense.
Note 2. The official term for those schooled in the control of maenen is pasnes maenen.
Nerring. I used to call this my
vessel. It is the ‘container’ that holds the maenen within us all. I like to think of it like a container anyway, but it is very difficult to explain and perceive. I’m fairly sure that the nerring not only holds maenen, but also creates new maenen. So, if I were to draw a little bit of maenen from someone, their nerring should create more. Like the body creates more blood, even after some leaks out.
Note 1. When I quest (oh, I need to define that!), I can see the nerrings, and the maenen, of people nearby. Maybe up to ten or fifteen feet away.
Note 2. Cryden told me that drawing too much from a single person could collapse their nerring, rendering them a broken shell or even killing them.
Note 3. He also said that Feral are birthed from a continuous drawing from the same individual, shrinking the nerring without destroying it.
Questing. The process by which a person is able to see outside of their body and view the maenen of others. It’s something that is barely a conscious process; I used to do it all the time without realizing it and without realizing that everyone couldn’t.
Note 1. Does this work the same for people who draw from plants? What do they see?
Greenies. This is what Cryden calls people who draw from plant life. I saw some in action in the Battle of Florens, and they sapped life from the very grass surrounding them and hurled deadly power into the Rostanians.
Note 1. I heard Cryden say that the power they draw is called yenas.
Pasnes alna. These are the people who are trained in the use of miernes. Cryden tells me that they are usually in positions of influence around the world, but I’ve never heard of them before.
Metsikas. These are people who use miernes, but are not trained by any of the schools of the pasnes alna. “Wild mages” is what I think this means. I suppose I was a metsika before Cryden found me. In fact, I probably still am a metsika.
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