* * * * *
Kalinies struggled to stem the irritation boiling him over--an all-to-common emotion when he entered the Library. Idimus had no respect for the knowledge he'd stolen from the world, and it reflected here. It was simply another tool to be at his disposal, just like his advisors and associates. With every year that pilled onto his reign, scrolls, documents, books and legers did the same to the dusty marble floor. Those few that came here—Kalinies, the former Captain, Estophicles and several guards—did their best to maintain and organize the facility. But the space was far too small, the objects far too abundant and all visitors were allowed very little time here; at least on normal days.
The Wizard guessed Idimus feared his constitutes would learn too much, either about him or the past. Discover how cruel he used to be, and even how he was now. Any who saw perhaps may muster the courage to turn their backs. Kalinies however was the only one who knew. He had been there since the first day of Idimus’ reign, and every one since. He watched the King execute any who stood in his way, be it man, woman or child. Helped him use his army to squelch the mass of uprisings that occurred after. Supported him when he brutalized an already scattered and confused population. For fifty years, he supplemented the troops with strategies and spurred them out, trampled every inch of Eldonia—destroying homes, taking resources, burning and burying the past. Such a long struggle it was, and one that was marred with blood. No mercy was shown. Any who mentioned Highlace or spread stories that spoke of hope or better days were tortured, often by having their tongues ripped out so no such things could be uttered by them again. Those who wrote on them had their hands severed, to remove the temptation. And the many that raised violence were impaled—often living—on iron pike, then displayed in villages for any others who would garner such an idea.
As the years passed, Idimus’ army grew; his power further implemented itself. Many forgot, then most, and finally all. The King outlived them, and once he had control, he kept it. First by limiting how large towns were allowed to be and where they were placed. His hope—a successful one—was to eliminate large gatherings, easily tarnishing the chances of a mass revolt. If any village did grow beyond its allotment it was scored—trimmed to fit the King's paranoid standards.
Initially, Idimus used patrols equipped with rolling battering rams to turn any homes outside the allowed number into rubble, torches to burn any fields that became too large and salt to poison their water supply if it wasn't up to par.
Over time, The King found another suitable option when his brother, Perticus, created his very destructive, very violent Taghs. Only, it didn't last. In the months they served as wrecking crews, they stopped following orders. Commanding them to destroy one or two homes typically led to the destruction of entire towns, establishing a brand new problem for Idimus to deal with. One he did, with massive casualties.
Kalinies never understood why the King exerted so much energy and so many lives in trying to capture them. Given the size of the army at that time—nearly eight hundred—they could have killed the Taghs with few losses, but given the strict no harm rule, the regiment buried over three hundred of their own.
Still thinking on the past, the Wizard moved further into the library, stepping over scrolls that adorned the black-speckled-gray stone walkway. His robe caught the edge of several here and there, spun them in different directions but he paid little heed. Since this was the content's final resting place he knew the most recent were at the front, while the older options were further down. Whatever it was he was looking for would most likely be there, amongst the fifteen-foot high wooden shelves, twelve in all, spreading across the width of the library with only two feet between each other. Scrolls, books, statues of Lornya, tapestries, even weapons—anything imaginable—was laid upon the uneven, seemingly endless shelves. With a sigh, one that demonstrated his knowledge of the daunting task before him, he pulled ahead. Finding himself in front of the first stack, he was determined to find a solution to alleviate this new threat to his ruler. Even—albeit—his friend.
As he used his thin bony fingers to wade through the top pile, his mind wandered back to the Taghs, to the old threats and the years after. Those where Idimus changed. The Taghs had been more dangerous than any anticipated. The initial campaign was a success, and several thereafter, instilling Idimus with a foolishly placed trust for the monsters. He used them more and more, sent them further and further away. He treated them the same he would any soldier; ignoring them when they succeeded, relentlessly punishing them when they failed. For humans, that was tolerable. With the Taghs, all the King accomplished was working them into a chaotic frenzy until one day they finally broke. Sent to a now lost town called Rarisou—and lost because of that incident. A Lieutenant was always sent to guard them, along with two-dozen soldiers to keep them in line. The ranking officer was the only one to return alive. When he had, he was broken and bloodied. Certainly in no shape to recount what had occurred. Yet, per the King, that was no excuse and forced a retelling from the Lt. What he got was a shattered, slow-spoke tale of their trip and the nightmare that happened after. The Taghs were led to the brilliant white, ocean side town of Rarisou, just as they had with other towns that became too prosperous—single file with manacles around their wrists; collars around their necks, attached to a long line of chains that fed into the hands of a corresponding soldier on either side of them. Everything was normal, and the Tags seemed as complacent as they always were amidst the barren plains.
Once they arrived, something—though it could never be identified—spooked and enraged the monsters. They tried to escape, each one antagonizing the other until all of them ripped at their constraints. In a futile effort, the soldiers tried to contain them only to infuriate them further. Neither relented. The Taghs would resist, the soldiers pulled harder. The Lieutenant saw fit to brandish his weapon and issue verbal threats. But it was too late. The creatures lost any semblance of obedience and loyalty they may have had. The troop leader was the first to be struck, by one Tagh's manacle chains, and the soldier still attached to it. Another blow rendered the commanding officer unconscious.
When he awoke, all soldiers were dead; Rarisou was left a pile of smoking rubble and no sign of a single Tagh. The Lt. returned despite his wounds to inform of their descent directly to the King; one who had him executed for failure to adhere.
Kalinies, however, knew differently.
Idimus feared a lack of control. He sought to be seen as a God amongst his constitutes, and God's don't make mistakes like the one he had. He glossed over it, by simply destroying most who had any knowledge of his failed attempt as he had with Highlace and all else. He lied to the soldiers that would later re-capture them, inspiring them and generating fear that the Taghs were a threat to the kingdom; ones that had escaped with valuable information. In order to know exactly what it was, and if they had spread their knowledge they had to be captured alive. It worked. Despite the loss of hundreds of soldiers and almost a year of tracking them, Idimus succeeded. He tucked away the monsters inside Roane, for the one day Kaldus was no more. Then he would set them loose on the world in one final act of darkness.
After the Tagh incident, the King—out of fear—developed a less intrusive, less violent way of cropping a city's growth: unrelenting taxes. By placing representatives in larger cities like Davaina and Tarnel, Idimus was able to properly gauge what establishments were profiting. If they threatened to expand, or help the city do likewise, the King would tax them mercilessly, often leaving them with only enough to survive and sometimes beyond. Most paid, and those who wouldn't gave Idimus excuse for more extreme measures. Though more involved and harder to integrate, it eventually created the structured, stifled environment Idimus sought.
Once established, the King had few problems for a very long time. Even fewer threats.
Yet now, a new one had risen. One that Kalinies' ego told him Idimus could not handle alone. It was up to the Wizard as much as the King, and he would come thr
ough—not simply for Kaldus, but his own stature. He was just as determined as Idimus to destroy Valaira, and just as eager to discover how.
Though finding it may prove to be quite difficult.
So Kalinies needed a different approach. He could spend the next three years on a random search and discover nothing. Logic was needed. What information he needed would date back thousands of years. Such knowledge would have been coveted, and treasured. There was only one place that treated literature with such respect—Highlace.
As Kalinies searched, as his beady off-set eyes scanned, his mind forced to recall how this place was first set-up. Most everything they found came directly from the fallen Kingdom. Had they piled everything they salvaged on the left side, or the right? So many years had past since then, and its contents had been moved constantly to finally settle here. Futile as it may be, he tried to trace the steps.
Yet with no resolve. Pulling his hand through his thinning black hair, he attempted to overcome the strain in his mind. For over fifteen minutes he endured.
But in the end, he failed.
He had not the mental capacity to pinpoint such events. He didn't think anyone did.
The only thing he could accomplish by trying would be giving himself an enormous headache. One was already starting. The Wizard, with dread, realized he would have to do this the hard way; scroll by scroll, every parchment, every book until he found what he was looking for—all the while praying for a lucky break.
He spent an hour doing just that, routing through a pile located at the very furthest northern corner. Gently sifting through then stretching open scrolls and taking in the information they held. None were beneficial. Most spoke of laws and decrees, demonstrating what a soft and foolish kingdom Highlace was. Others were written in a language he'd seen but never taken the time to learn. Regretfully they were cast aside. Perhaps they contained what he sought, but he could never know in this short time he had.
Only one of the fifty he'd read seemed promising. A thick, rolled manuscript burned and frayed at the edges, which was nearly as tall as Kalinies when opened.
What swelled the Wizard with hope was—first—it was written in his language. Second, it recalled a time long before Highlace and referenced a very dark age for Eldonia. Considering it the Valaira plague, he spurred on.
In scanning the first paragraph he discovered it was a recount of what was simply called "The First War." Little detail was placed on the actual battle, as he read on, he discovered it covered the turmoil that endured after.
Eldonia was split between peace and chaos. Most of the population was made up of violent, nomadic tribes quarrelling with each other—threatening to drive themselves to extinction. Caught between their power hungry struggle were the remaining humans, a peaceful, knowledge-seeking sect known as The Silent. A group that was intelligent enough to spread to the edges of Eldonia and allow the tribes to fight amongst themselves, never once becoming involved. Several years past and The Silent lived in peace while the tribes continued bickering and murdering one another. When the tribes drew dreadfully close to annihilation, a young charismatic leader named Sarouque rose. One who squelched the bloodshed with talks of peace and unity amongst the tribes, linking them the only way he saw how: By giving them all a common enemy—The Silent—and promising them each a share of the land once the threat was eliminated.
Seeking only serenity, the Silent had never fought nor knew anything about the art of war. They would be no match for those who had known only that for the past decade. The remaining tribe members, over three hundred strong, rode far east to the homeland of The Silent.
Most fled, yet some had come to stand their ground and meet Sarouque and his bloodthirsty barbarians on the battlefield. They however were sorely outnumbered, and vastly inexperienced to have any hope of winning. It seemed that the Silent were undoubtedly doomed to disappear.
Upon the darkest night of the year, amidst a down-pour and blistering lightening, Sarouque charged, and closed the gap between he and the terrified Silent.
But he never made it.
Driven back and nearly struck down by a bolt of lightning that anchored into the ground only several feet in front of him. Thinking it a fluke, he rushed again, only to have another streak clash even closer than the first. A third and final time he attempted, and was met once again by a flash, this one more dominant than the first two. Left in its wake, was what would be the savior of the Silent. A creature rare in kind. A dragon unlike any other, one a glimmering gold that moved in blurs, and massive claws upon its hands...
"Confound it!" Kalinies barked. He neared the end of the scroll, wasted over twenty minutes reading, only to find nothing.
He released his bottom hand, allowing the scroll to roll back on itself, with the other he dropped the parchment to the ground.
With worry and tension, he raised his head slowly to gaze at the moon. Nervousness was setting in his bones, and a wanting in his stomach. He was losing time, and with it Idimus may be losing faith in him. The desperation was present, the desire imminent...
Yet he could not pull himself from the window. Something struck him as odd. His weary, blurred eyes did not notice it at first but as he focused he caught the flaw. Typically, the moon's light poured through, covered the pane from edge-to-edge, and soaked the room. Tonight was different. Now only one thin line pierced through the glass. The rest was held back, like water against a stone wall.
He reached up, cleaning the window with the edge of his sleeve but it didn't help. He checked the window for a hole, or a crack, but it was as pure as the day they put it in.
Kalinies drew closer. What he first believed to be a strange but normal occurrence, caused by a filthy or flawed window, became an intriguing and blatant mystery.
In the back of his mind, he knew he should return to his search. The puzzle of Valaira was far more pressing than a random strand of light but some unknown force was drawing him closer; whispering in his mind to investigate. It forced him to look at it from every angle. Push on it. Breath on it. Study it. Try as he may, he couldn't understand it. And the more he tried, the more a riveting angst trampled through his mind.
He panicked.
If he could not decipher this, a silly play on light, how possibly could he ever stop Valaira?
He had to know why though. That thought of Valaira fleeted. Seemed miniscule. The feelings of this window dominated him, made him obsessed. Again he pushed on it; wiped it. Stared harder at that than he had any parchment. Had he not been locked in, he would have examined it from the other side. He had no option. No answers. He simply stared, and pushed closer. He ran his hand through the light to make sure it wasn't an illusion, and looked down to see it trace the lines over his pale flesh.
Quick as he could, he flicked his head back in the direction, almost feeling guilty for having turned away. Still, he stared, the maddening, aching question of why nothing else was coming through the window doubling over on him with every passing second.
What was causing this? What magick was involved in this? Why here? Why now? He pressed closer. Stared. Pushed. Wiped. Why wasn't it coming through? Why was he so obsessed? Why couldn't he figure it out? WHY WASN'T IT COMING THROUGH? Why, why, WHY?!
!!
His frantic, suddenly possessed mind-frame culminated in him breaking the window with his bare hands—showering both he and the pile of scripture in dark glass, leaving the frame completely clear.
Yet the enigma remained. The moonlight didn't flicker, didn't fade. It remained pooled there around the edges, one tiny beam breaking through—much stronger than it had been; more focused. It stretched, now, clear across the library. Unable to concentrate on anything else, Kalinies eyes followed it, leading to the opposite corner, where it narrowed on the peak of a random pile of literature.
With the same frantic, overwhelming urgency surging through him, Kalinies crossed, disregarding everything else to make his way to it. Something was over there, something important. A
s a man who lived the mystical, as one who believed in signs, he knew this was nothing short of.
It was not what he expected. After he completed the twenty foot walk, he imagined a book, a scroll or ledger. What he found was a tiny black box. Framing the split between the two halves was an embossed design depicting a line of thorns, purple in color. One blade at the top curved down to entwine another at the bottom, forming a lock of the two parts.
"Curious..." Kalinies muttered out loud, a welcome change to the deadly silence that had been his companion all night.
He wasn't sure this was what he was looking for. Perhaps something had sent him a sign, had directed him, but he could not be convinced until he opened it. All he knew was that he was entranced. An energy pulsed through him like one he'd not felt in a long time. If he removed one hand from the box to look at a different angle, his flesh immediately ached for the sensation. It took all he had to not clutch the box to his chest like a newborn baby.
At any other time, such a feeling would seem unnatural. Kalinies could have simply left it, put it back where it was and go on with his search for Valaira. But his judgment was clouded. Something tapped on his brain, surged him with electricity, and his only desire now was to open the box.
An emotion—maybe even instinct—took hold. A creeping, frantic call that muddled his other thoughts. One he did not know the root cause of. He only knew one thing: He had to get it open.
But how? The more he pulled on the bind, the tighter it seemed to hold. And he had not the strength to force it.
"At least not physically." he marked, shockingly loud.
His fingers danced, tracing over the frame, with a renewed vigor he focused that creeping energy into his palm. His heart raced, and he felt the heat in the room rising slowly. The fire raged through his veins, rippling down his neck, careening across his bicep, along his forearm and finally to the end of his index.
"Sera nu kunas, val vinda Fira."
A flame, only an inch long though incredibly hot, seared from his finger and across the bind. He held it as long as his stamina would allow, an event that lasted well over five minutes.
Nothing.
It was as if he cast no spell at all. The box simply deflected it. It remained that way, no matter what element he threw at it—ice, electricity, even the dark cloud he used to stand on or smother his victims. Each one produced the same result: failure.
He sighed, his black eyes flicking over the box, and dropped his hands in defeat, but held tight to the object. He didn't have the strength to continue, and the desperation without success had warped his esteem. "What now..."
"Calo Lore Fortu Sinas Ti Athos..."
Kalinies flinched, and nearly dropped the treasure he had such an iron grip on. He was tired, starving and delusional. "Who said that?" He questioned, with more worry in his voice than he wanted. He wasn't even sure that it had been spoken. It seemed more an echo in his own thoughts, a fact that terrified and excited him. "Who's there?"
...
Silence. One that exuded for an agonizing eternity.
"Calo Lore Fortu Sinas Ti Athos."
It was haunting, monotone. The second one stronger than the first, but it verified to him what he already considered. It was inside his own mind. Perhaps, he was losing it. "What..."
"Say...it..."
"Say what?"
"Calo..."
"Calo..." Kalinies repeated, instinctively tracing his finger over the latch.
"Lore Fortu..."
"Lore Fortu"
"Sinas...Ti...Athos."
"Sinas Ti Athos."
Upon the last word uttered, the latch released, almost easily—as though it had been held with only string. Eagerly, the Wizard wrapped a hand around the bottom, one around the top and pried the tiny chest open. A quick, harsh whisper erupted, like the exasperated breath of an angry dragon. Followed by a silky, thin, purple mist rising through the air. It hovered before him, traced dangerously close to his face. Then, in the same monotone voice that existed in his thoughts earlier, came a giggle—that of a young girl. The mist danced before him, spun and twirled, spiraling itself several times, flitted back and forth. It acted as though it was a caged animal, now free for the first time.
One last time it shimmered up to Kalinies, expanding slowly, flattening out until it was several inches high, many feet wide. The Wizard was then overwhelmed with that same energy, and deep in his mind a feeling of morbid, malevolent gratitude.
A final giggle echoed, the mist straightened, shivered, then swept across the room and out the window; taking with it Kalinies’ earlier feeling of anxiety and bewilderment. He was focused again, his earlier determination returning, but now undeniably confused.
He sought answers in the trove he almost went mad finding, and killed himself trying to open.
There, tucked inside, laid upon a velvet pillow was a moderate sized book, with the same appearance as the box that contained it. Black, with a purple, thorn border, and it glimmered as though it had not been touched ever—or at least in a very long time.
Kalinies wrapped his fingers around the edge, basking in the same electric sensation he had with the chest, then pulled it free. He took one step, then another towards the light of the now broken window. Strangely enough, it now all came through as though his prior encounter had been but a twisted dream, and he could clearly see the cover.
Blank.
He thought nothing of it, and turned it again to pry it open. Yet the light caught something, flaring the title that was hidden only moments ago. Again he twisted it, and the letters faded again, as though they were non-existent. A slight angle towards the light revealed the silver glossy letters that only appeared when it was turned the right direction. This time, the title was clear:
The End
"Curious..." Kalinies whispered, moving the book one last time before creeping it open.
At first, he was overwhelmed by a musty, rotting smell though the interior showed no evidence of decay. The starting page—as well as the second—was only stark white and blank.
The third however contained—written in a silver ink—one paragraph, reading:
One shall be bound
By Heart and Soul
One to be bound,
By Serenity and Dream,
The Final bound,
By Peace and Prayer
Once bound,
Fate and Destiny Rise,
The End Begins
Kalinies continued on, thumbing through page after page, only to find each was not written as the third page was. At first glance, it appeared to be the same type of symbols and style contained in over half the scrolls he'd come across.
It was not what he was looking for. He knew that, though couldn't understand why. Yet in his long existence, he had never encountered such a mysterious, blatant sign. Somehow he knew he was meant to find this book. Though he couldn't read it now, one day he would.
It took powerful magick to manipulate light in such a way, and it took a very strong force to enter his mind. Whatever had directed him to it, whatever was contained in his book was powerful; quite possibly more powerful than Valaira. Perhaps contained in these pages, was a way to describe what he saw tonight, aside from simply a purple mist. Most likely, it was a demon of legend, one whose power he could harness to achieve the one goal he'd never been able to attain—to be the greatest wizard the land had seen, now or forever.
He closed it, for the time being, and rotated it one last time to see the shimmering title before he tucked it under his cloak and into his belt. No one would know he found it, not even his King. He had never kept anything from Idimus until now, but he could not bear to part with this book; not ever. Already he could feel the energy feeding him, and he feared that if Idimus learned of what went on, he would seek to take the book and use it to further his empire. Anything else, Kalinies would have gladly given. Perhaps, even with this he should. He had always been loyal, and always sought to build not only himself but his
kingdom. But in his own demented logic, he thought it would serve Idimus better if he learned first what was contained, then instructed Idimus. That was enough to satisfy his guilty conscience, as it always had.
Once The End was tucked away and covered by his billowing robes, Kalinies returned to the task at hand, trying his best to stay focused despite the faint, gentle beckon of inquisitiveness.
The Constriction Of Entanglement
Roane was a massive complex. A stone wall stood surrounding the entire perimeter, ten feet tall—iron spikes perched on the top. The city had only one way in or out: a gateway facing west with steel doors that protected it from unwanted visitors—or kept anyone from exiting when they weren’t allowed.
Beyond the walls, starting from the gate, the soldiers’ barracks. Two single story buildings on either side of the pathway. The design simple and bland—the structure made out of cheap clay with a thick hay roof. The side of each was forty feet long, broken by only a small oak door in the center. As uninteresting as the outside was, the inside made it pale in comparison. It was only slightly better than a holding cell.
Soldiers were allowed few privileges and used this area only to sleep. There was no privacy, as it was simply a giant room, lined wall-to-wall with simple cots made of a frail wooden frame and a long piece of fabric stretched over the top. The soldiers were allowed one tiny blanket and an even smaller pillow. At the foot of each bed was a small trunk to hold the soldiers’ reserve clothes, since none were allowed personal items. Each divan had only two feet on either side before the next began, and only a foot at each end. They were placed in twenty rows of ten, enabling the two buildings to house all three hundred and fifty soldiers of Idimus’ army.
The next two buildings were those the cavalry unit called “home”. Being of higher rank, they were treated slightly better than the foot soldiers. Their dwelling stood two stories high, made of a much nicer, much warmer dark oak. The inside of the buildings were divided into segments—five feet by seven—thirty on each floor. Each division had wooden walls separating it from the others, but with a curtain on the front rather than a door. Inside hung a kerosene lamp that illuminated the room, revealing a wooden box nailed to the left wall stuffed with hay, covered with a sheet and a down pillow at the head. Since the cavalry was allowed personal effects, a much larger chest was on the right side of the room, though most used it as a nightstand and pulled it next to their bed.
Roane broke into three separate areas after the cavalry barracks, all used for training. On the far right was a massive wooden circle, twenty feet in diameter, two feet above ground level. Around the edge were sporadically placed vertical posts with a thick rope strung across the top of all of them save for two, leaving a gap for an entrance. Stairs were at the bottom to allow entrance and on the left was a long steel box that held an array of weapons: swords, knives, maces, and spears—all wooden and virtually harmless. This was for all soldiers to hone their basic weapon skills.
To the right was where the cavalry did the same for their riding. It was a barricaded area much like the other but it was even with the ground and the middle was trampled dirt rather than scratched wooden floors. It was rectangular in shape and had the same vertical posts enclosing it, but long planks were nailed to the top rather than rope. It was far larger than the weapons ring, providing the riders a fair amount of space in order to learn control and handling of their mount.
The third and final area was what all soldiers, from foot to cavalry, grunt to captain, feared. It had come to be known as “The Journey to the Grave” by everyone within the city. It started out simple and harmless. Thirty feet of dirt with walls of all sizes placed as hurdles along the stretch, some to climb over and others to be crawled under. After that the runners were required to charge up a steep, fifteen-foot hill. The top stretched out for another thirty-five feet, the first fifteen was a deep pit with a thin balance beam stretched from one edge to the other; the bottom filled with sharpened wood poles pointing in all directions along with the corpses of soldiers not skilled enough to pass. The next fifteen feet consisted of another pit exactly as the first but the soldiers had to use bars stretched over the top, swinging their dangling bodies above the sharpened poles. Another hill sloped downward leading to a ten-foot long mud trench where the runners strapped a long chain—an anvil on each end—across their shoulders and under their arms, and drug the heavy burden across. Once free of the bind, soldiers had forty more feet to tackle before the final stage. Those forty were filled with logs placed waist-high every two feet; on the first half of the stage the soldiers had to leap over them without touching the timber. On the second half the soldiers had to crawl beneath the logs—their underside covered with thorns and barbs so the soldiers wouldn’t be tempted to raise their backs too high. Once out, they moved on to the final area: a wooden ring with rope bindings much like the weapons training center though much smaller. Inside, waiting for the running soldier, was the man who ran it before. The soldiers would then battle bare handed. If the soldier running “Journey” was victorious, he remained behind to fight the next battle. If he were to lose, he would be ordered to return to the start and endure the entire stretch again.
All members of the army were usually required to run every six months. Yet with Gerin’s return and his desire to improve both himself and his army changes had been implemented. They were forced to battle through Journey every week. Those that entered into weapon training now used steel weapons and had no rules to follow. So far, they had lost fifteen: eight on Journey and seven in the ring.
Gerin knew such losses would occur, but he pressed on without getting discouraged. He had trained himself through fear and desperation, believing that to be the only way to efficiently build skill. If he was going to endure such a dangerous regiment himself, his army would do the same.
After Journey was the back wall and in the middle were the stables. To the south was the home of Estophicles and Estechian and to the north lay Gerin’s two-floor cottage.
As morning broke, he stepped out from it and turned his pale eyes towards the sky, stalking his way onto the porch. He had remained inside for days on end since his return from Kaldus, but he wished not to slip away from his skills as he did before his defeat. He had implemented other ways to improve himself. Every morning Gerin would strap manacles to his wrists and ankles then clip weights to the inch of chain that dangled from them. He would then run twice around the entire compound. When he returned, he kept the shackles on until he retired.
Today was no different. As he made his second journey around he stopped at the cottage of Estophicles and Estechian, waiting for them to begin their day. But as it had been for the past two mornings, only Estechian would exit. Gerin’s back pointed to the cottage, his eyes stretched over the camp. The entire situation was strange. The General’s hands were not the only things weighed down this day. His mind full of new realizations and questions. How long had he been deceived? Did Estechian know? Would Estophicles ever return? Queries of every kind tumbled about. For the past two days he had struggled—not only with the answers but with his emotions as well. Gerin had no idea that a man he came to know and trust, train and promote was nothing but a fraud. No one knew. Not even his brother.
And Gerin couldn’t help but wonder if Idimus had. He had always remained loyal to the King, never once had he mistrusted his motives. Then, two nights ago, Idimus came to Roane. The General was shocked to see him even exit his chambers, yet he was even more confounded that he knew where to find Grahamas. Gerin saw the strange woman accompanying him, he never thought to ask. Idimus had ordered that he gather the two brothers and when the General found only one, he worried Estophicles was missing, but now it all made sense. Where and how the imposter came into being was still unknown, but it obviously had something to do with the woman. Not even Kalinies could wield that sort of magick. Though he could not prove it was her deception and doing, someone—or something—that could awaken and control a creature like a b
lack dragon, no doubt, wielded great power.
Yet Gerin still had no clue as to her identity. Idimus did. On the journey back to Kaldus after that night, even when pressed, the King would not reveal any information. He would not deny the fact that she was involved, but he made no implications either. Simply ignored every question that Gerin spit out at him as if it didn’t matter. It was apparent that Idimus had his own agendas. No matter how long Gerin remained loyal, how hard he fought or how high he ranked the King would always keep secrets from him. Part of Gerin understood that about Idimus and accepted it; another part hated him for it.
He was trying to come to terms with it and put it behind him but one question still lingered, one thing still needled his flesh. Before they left, Gerin had said to Idimus: “Sire, I have remained loyal to you for over a century. Done everything you asked and wanted nothing in return. I know that Grahamas is a threat to your kingdom and he is such to my honor. I only ask that you allow me, only me, to dispose of him—once and for all.” Idimus had agreed, whole-heartedly upon leaving, perhaps to ensure Gerin’s participation. But the way that the situation had unfolded, Gerin truly wondered if the King would have kept his word or if his liege—as always—acted only to serve himself. And debates about Idimus’ honor came into question and honor was the one thing that Gerin held in even higher regard than loyalty.
The door clicking halted him from treading any further.
“Gerin…” Estechian spoke as he stepped next to him.
“Estechian,” Gerin’s mind idly replied and turned towards him, “Any word on your brother?”
Estechian’s face turned into a look that could be taken as concern or discontent. “Not one. I worry he fears punishment from Idimus for his deception.” The man shrugged slightly, “Or perhaps he is with the one where his loyalty truly lies.”
“The woman?” Estechian nodded as Gerin’s words rang in his mind again, “Any idea who she is?”
“No, I believe only our King knows the answer to that.”
Estechian seemed idle and uncaring, and Gerin considered—for a moment—voicing his concerns. But not knowing where his loyalty lay would be dangerous. If Estechian remained devoted and word ever got back to the King about Gerin’s dissension, then it would certainly mean his death. “Well, if it is necessary that he tells us,” Gerin pressed, trying to gauge Estechian’s reaction to his statement, “he will.”
But he didn’t emote, only muttered “Aye” as his left foot went forward. “Are we following the same regiment today?”
He changed the subject almost too fast. Gerin considered if it was because he was fearful of voicing his own concerns or he truly did not care—so he let it go. The General thought and then made his way to the final stage of Journey. “Have Division A run today, once you’ve started them you may tend to your cavalry.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Give them a much harder challenge,” Estechian heard the words in his mind but he looked skeptical as the General continued, “Do not worry, I will only kill the ones who don’t try hard enough.”
Estechian, though surprised by Gerin’s recent ruthlessness, obeyed. “Aye, General,” he said, now making the long walk to the barracks.
Gerin paced—making the most of the wait—his arms and legs already tingling from the weights. Division A was the back line of his foot soldiers and they needed the most work. Still, he wondered how he would fair with the manacles slowing him down. “Then again…” he thought to himself, “That’s the point.” He stopped and locked his white eyes on the final trail, waiting for his first opponent.
In A Time Of Darkness Page 69