Sapling: The Blade of Ahtol

by Dan Gillis

  Reykal: An insult of extreme offense uttered by the lower classes. Intended as a much stronger and deeper form of ‘idiot’. Wars have been known to have begun over improper (or untimely) use of the word.

  Root: The actual bands of power that twist and vibrate through the lands of Aeredia. The Root generally exists within the land with a few exceptions in parts of the world. The Root exists as a pure energy form that spreads outward from Aerluin as bands or threads. Aerluin cannot control the direction or potency of this effect; it simply exists. No one can guess the number of threads that pulse through the land at any time. These bands are constantly in motion and rarely remain in fixed places. In certain conditions the Root can manipulate the substances it comes into contact with. This can include people, animals, plants, rocks, wood and water. When two bands happen to cross they tend to latch into a focal point and amplify their effects upon nearby substances. If the hold is strong the weaves will wind upon themselves and form a rift. The rift can only form in certain conditions, and if those are not present, the threads will typically unwind and resume their solitary journeys.

  For the trained hand and mind, the bands can be accessed for use. This can be done in a variety of ways, but it is generally implied that any who access or manipulate the Root are called Ashori. (see Ashori for specific detail)

  The Root also grants to anyone certain gifts of insight and inspiration as way of enhancing creative thought. Those who dwell near focal points or rifts for prolonged periods will experience changes in physiology and intelligence. Some lower species have been changed to forms of sentience and naturally enlightened races have found superior ability and vitality.

  Serpentor: A large reptilian species that can grow to great size. The variety of colour and identifying features exists within the species.

  Servant: The lowest rank in the Order of the Open Hand. There is only one Servant at a time in the Order. The Servant is chosen carefully by the council from among their peers to fill this specific role. The choice is coupled with the matter of compatibility with the Root and of the character of the candidate. The Servant must exhibit an attitude of humility and is often assigned menial tasks as a part of everyday duties. This is to alleviate or prevent the risk of corruption in such a vital task.

  The Servant is the most disciplined and studied member of the Order. The same can be said of the Masters who govern the affairs of the Order, however it is very rare for a Master to be chosen as Servant.

  The Servant wields the Scepter of Power which is a potent artifact to manipulate the weaves of the Root. As such, the Servant must have the knowledge and ability to manipulate various portions of the Root at once. The Servant is guardian of the seals which protect the boundaries of the Order of the Open Hand.

  Spear: A unit of measurement. 1 Spear = 5 yards or 15 feet.

  Tamers Reach: The southernmost mountain range in Kenhar. It adjoins to other branching ranges: Serpentor March to the north and into countries to the south. Tamers Reach is a natural boundary between Kenhar to the West and the Wasteland to the East.

  Tetsu: A combative pair of Ashori teamed together for the purpose of instruction, training and combat effectiveness. A tetsu can consist of male or female members. There are no age limitations, as Ashori tend to come into power and knowledge in various stages of life. Typically, a junior member will be younger, but this is not always the case.

  Vyn-Shi: A country located to the far east beyond the Wastelands.

  Wilder: A member of a mysterious order who operate outside of the known laws and capacities of the Root. It is said the Wilder’s connection to Aerluin is much more visceral, primal and deep. As such Wilder’s live in close connection to the Dark Lady’s whisperings. Many serve Her directly and seek to further her cause.

  In addition, they use a variety of tools and weapons in conjunction with their affinity to the Root. Their stealth, accuracy and potency make them deadly opponents. Wilder’s are the most misunderstood and mistrusted of all beings who claim any connection to the Root. Due to their reclusive nature, the exact number of Wilder’s who exist are unknown, but it is understood to be limited.

  They have been known to accept employment when it suits them but they hold no allegiance to any but Aerluin herself. As such they have been known to disappear suddenly in the thick of war, much to the consternation of their employers. This only lends credence to the feeling of mistrust swirling about this secluded group.

  Map of Kenhar

  Aeredian Calendar

  An Excerpt from the sequel to The Blade of Ahtol

  Sapling: The Broken Halls

  Copyright © 2015 by Ad Infinitus Creation

  Grey Encounters

  STEFAN crouched low grasping the reassuring stone, the only firm assurance he could cling to. The wind howled about his ears and gusted wildly in ever-changing vectors. The highest spire in Syrion wound ever upward until all stone fell away, leaving naught but a narrow stair (no wider than a quarter-spear) jutting into the heavens. He dared not look down into the vast expanse all around them. He stared in utter amazement at the king, who stood upon the highest step boldly and upright, casually gazing out over the land which lay many hundreds of feet below. It would be dawn soon, and the young king made to satisfy his desire to see the definitive moment, when Tamers Reach would release the captive sun to the land. There were no words to describe the beauty and majesty of the occurrence.

  Stefan was terrified. His Lord had always done this, and the overwhelming feeling of terror beat harshly inside his chest. One slip, or a strong gust and he or the King would fall … down and down … it would take an eternity to reach the ground, as the tower height surpassed any other structure in Kenhar, perhaps Aeredia herself. A burly draft nearly drove his light frame over the stair as he desperately grasped the stone steps, struggling to regain balance. His knuckles were white from exertion.

  The voice of the king rang out in clear tones, his face still turned toward the east.

  “It is not that I do not appreciate your company, Stefan but not all are accustomed to the open tower,” Toryn remarked as he waited upon the red orb. “What exactly brought you up here this morning, before most of the world has yet to awaken?” Stefan breathed in slowly while regarding the back of the king; the royal cloak and light brown hair tousled about in the wind.

  “I was thinking about the Defilers.” Stefan replied as he adjusted his body so as to address the young monarch as directly as possible without rising from his precarious perch. He strained his voice over the incessant howling of the wind. “Perhaps if we sent another envoy to strike a negotiation?” As he finished his sentence the king turned toward his chancellor, his grey eyes set deep with emotion and futility.

  “The time for deliberations is past, Stefan. The servants of Ahtol have made their move …” The young king’s frame lifted and then drooped under a long exhaled breath. “Only four left … four, Stefan … Dryke, Mehnin and Syrion … and Sym. The rest have all fallen into shadow.” Toryn’s hand came up from his side, now clenched and shaking slightly. “Not a prayer for any of them … and what have I done? I was charged to protect them all … and now we all wait for the end. Hope is foolishness, Stefan … one day our sun will fail to rise.” He fell silent and turned himself about, regarding the light which was near to peaking over the far mountains. “How careless and obtuse we have been … the leaders of this country. We opened our doors to this evil, gave them refuge.” Toryn’s head bowed low. Stefan could read the pain and frustration in that simple act.

  “L - lord … surely, you are not giving up?” Stefan had to ignore his fear, as far greater matters consumed his mind. He had never seen the young king in such a state of mind, defeated and demoralized. The chancellor had accompanied him on many campaigns and had seen Toryn in many battles. This behaviour was so unlike him - unnatural and alarming.

  “When have I ever shirked my duty, Stefan?” the voice of the monarch carried a sharp rebuke. Toryn sighed and paused before sp
eaking again. “I cannot cling to hope any longer; my heart is drawing faint. I would prefer to reside up here, in my solitude, and wait for the end than lead a country through false hope. That would be more deceptive than the darkest acts of the Ahtol cadres.” The young man turned, the years as The Standard of Kenhar seemed to weigh his shoulders down to the cold stone.

  “My liege!” Stefan called out vigorously, “I cannot bear to hear these things! Forgive me but your words are what the enemy would rejoice to hear! Come to your senses!” Stefan swallowed uncomfortably. Those words could easily land him in the stocks or time in the cells. Yet, he could not refrain, his face was flushed in anger and sorrow. The young king did not flinch upon the outburst but remained still for a moment.

  “Peace, my friend … I understand your sentiment and I would react the same had our places been reversed. I …” As the king made to step down to his chancellor, a powerful wind crashed over the high precipice, and Stefan looked on in horror as it caught his Lord in its potent lashings. It all passed as brief moments in time. The king was swept to the edge of the stone, his body all but carried over into the air. Toryn’s eyes were set strange; so calm and accepting. His large frame seemed to linger there upon the edge. The wind, as if acting as the cruel hand of fate, was judging the monarch. Then simply and unnervingly the howling ceased and all was calm and silent. Toryn slumped to the stair, one leg thrusting down over the edge. Catching himself upon the edge, the King of Kenhar looked about in wonder. He looked to the east.

  The fiery orb had begun its escape from the jagged teeth of the captive mountains. The sky was thrown into vibrant luminous colours and the streams of light pierced the top of the tower. Colours, bright and fervent, spread like streams of holy power across the heavens. Toryn sat in a daze, the new day light brushing his face and glistening in his grey eyes. A tender tear fell across his cheek as he paused motionless upon the brink.

  “So beautiful …” he whispered.

  “My liege! … Toryn …” Stefan called out and despite his fear he scrambled up to his king and helped him to the safety of the stair. “Please … let us go down …”

  “Yes. The moment has passed.” The king rose under his chancellor’s arm and took a few steps down the stair. Then Toryn stopped and turned his head slightly. “Can you feel that Stefan? There is change in the air … it is like a strand of the sun’s power breaking the shadows. It feels … like something has moved in the land. In Aerluin’s mercy the heavens shine down upon the faithful.” He stood for a moment and basked in the warmth that shed from the rising sun. The shadows began to flee like a drawn veil across the land. “Thank you, Mother.”

  The king of Kenhar turned his face from the sun and slowly the two men descended the long open stair.

  ***

  The ground around Firah was scorched black in areas, as were the trees which had blazed unchecked until they were consumed - black and lifeless. Mother and her skin were abused. The whole needless scene angered her. Though considered immature at sixteen years, she picked up all the particulars of the skirmish as she walked through the torn camp. Mournful whispers from the survivors who thought to subdue their talk from her ears. It was in more than just words. All the surrounding area cried out in anguish. Now standing atop the ridge she could see the scene in a grander scale. Grey Rangers had positioned above the camp while mercenary forces pressed upon the defenders below.

  Firah could hardly blame the White Guard for anything they had done, for survival and victory were powerful forces. They had not been the aggressors in this event. Rather her ire was directed against the senseless actions of their enemy. She could hardly fathom the folly of the leaders of the company that had ambushed the White Guard. What was to gain? Was there any purpose to their raid?

  Suddenly, her eyes caught hold upon something moving in a copse of trees ahead of her.

  Thinking it was some sort of animal or a fawn, the girl decided to investigate. She focused all her thoughts and energy around her, as she had done so many times before. Gradually, she slowed her breath to long deep passes. After a few moments she reached out and touched the bark of a nearby tree. It pained her to mimic the tortured blackened skin of the tree. At once her skin took on the hue and texture of the surface she touched upon. The young thief strode swiftly and silently upon the ground. Her breathing was slow and deliberate and her heart thumped away with its hammer inside her veins. Each time she reached out and contacted a new surface she would change with it.

  Firah proceeded further into the wood. The ground gave way to endless twisted and tangled roots which jutted out everywhere. Her every step was measured and placed with the utmost care. Firah loved to watch the wild creatures; however they would never permit an intruder into their private world. As a result, she had to rely upon her ability to sneak about; not only in the towns but also in the wild. Animals had such highly developed senses, she was often detected even while concentrating with all her ability. As she pressed on, her whole body was tingling with energy, her form constantly shifting with the surrounding wood.

  Firah drew silently under the thin tree canopy. Her eyes drew to what had originally caught her gaze and she was surprised to spot three cloaked forms. Large and splendid bows and partially filled quarrels were strapped to their sturdy backs which were hunched slightly as they conversed in low tones. They were all large in stature and shifted occasionally in their stances with cat-like motions. They were dressed to match the colours and environment around them, though she noticed that they all also wore grey in some fashion.

  Firah was unsure what to do. She did not recall seeing these people in the camp. Their colours did not match that of the White Guard. While the Guard scouts dulled down the white significantly (it would prove difficult to prowl in glaring white), it did not match the grey apparel of the strangers before her. She presumed that they could be spies of some sort. Her heart beat hard inside her chest. Should she chance it? Not that she owed anything to Lord Tey’ur but payback for a few days of misery and frustration. Rather, she was inherently curious, to a fault. She wanted to know what they were talking about; afterward, she would decide what to do with the information. Gathering her courage, she began to slide ever closer to the small cloaked group.

  As the forms grew larger and more detailed with every step, she began to hear some muttering. She still could not discern words, only quiet rumbling. She stepped gingerly around a large root, taking care not to break the underbrush or shift the fallen leaves. She silently cursed the Autumn season. Moving was slow due to the numerous fragile and crispy leaves which lay as a coloured blanket across the wood’s floor. Firah steeled herself, bringing her body into complete harmony with the environment. She edged ever nearer, until finally she stood poised behind a tree mere feet from the huddled party. Perking her ears, she strained to listen.

  “… is inevitable. The Guard will be unable to recover.” One spoke quietly.

  “That may be true; however …” another voice rose and fell in volume while Firah gripped the tree nervously. She could only catch bits and pieces, like morsels of information falling from the wind. “… so it must be so. There is no other option.” The silent observer was turned away from the group and could not discern any movement. She suppressed her breathing as best she could, yet her heart raced like a chased roe through the woods.

  “I propose that we act …” the voice trailed off for a few moments. “… will be ours. Victory is assured.” Firah’s throat constricted tightly. They were planning some sort of counter attack, but where and when?

  “We will alert the guild. You will remain to observe their progress. Swift the shaft brings …” A brief pause and then two voices rung low in response.

  “… Grey death.” Firah heard nothing more and waited for a few moments before daring to breathe outward. It was an eerie calm that prevailed. She waited an eternity it seemed. Her mind was swaying in anxious excitement. Despite her dislike of the cadre Lord, Tey’ur should know what she knew, a
s limited as the knowledge was. Yet, she needed to escape first from the situation. She still heard nothing, no evidence of any movement or voices. Finally, she decided to chance a look.

  Firah moved her head gradually around until her vision just cleared the trunk, attempting to keep the thick tree between herself and the group. To her surprise, only one form came to her sight, resting quietly upon the ground cross-legged. ‘Where are the others?’ she thought frantically. The silent figure was motionless and turned away from her; she took a second glance. They had left as silently as she had arrived. Her heart sank in contemplation of the mortal danger she had put herself in. These people were extremely skilled in the same art as she. How many others could there be in the area? ‘How careless!’ she chided herself. She knew that she must get away and quickly. Firah lifted a foot slowly to begin her slow escape.

  “I was wondering when you would move, little mouse. Your Root is good enough for amateurs, though hardly a test for me.” A deep voice rang from the sitting figure. Firah jumped and emitted a small noise of fright. The man had caught her completely off guard and frightened her unexpectedly. Her mind raced in fear, what should she do? “You may try to run if you wish, little one, but you will not leave this wood. Your life is mine.”

  Firah had heard enough. She dashed with all her might toward the camp. Leaves crunched harshly and twigs snapped. She did not care; she did not want to die. She heard no sound of pursuit, which unnerved her, but she saw the exit to the wood and charged onward. ‘So close’ she chided.