by Kal Spriggs
He had no doubt that they would overrun the fortress in the morning. They had numbers, they had the will, and worse, they had their demons. Grel silently congratulated himself for readying his horse. He had no doubt that the sentries would see him leave, Serve these bastards right to leave them to the Armen's mercy. It would be more amusing if they tried to pursue me, the Armen would think they followed me, the thought almost made him smile.
“Now then, we'll take all of the wounded with us for the assault, we'll conceal them in–”
A shout of warning sounded outside. A moment later, someone shouted out, “The Norics and Armen, they're attacking, to arms!”
And then a horn sounded, so loud and so powerful that it seemed to echo within Grel's mind. A surge of panic rose up through him, followed a moment later by rage. How dare the savages attack now, he thought.
He and the others had drawn blades and Grel saw them rush out. Against the surge of blood-lust, he remembered his horse.
Grel felt his hunger rise. He longed for battle, to hack and maim the enemy, yet he had to escape. He must live and that survival instinct broke whatever spell had fallen over him. He ran, then, not to where the others donned their armor and readied their weapons, but for the picket line where his horse waited.
***
Aerion Swordbreaker
Aerion ran through the mercenary camp. He shouted warnings, at one of the mercenary sentry who challenged him and then raced past and into the heart of the camp. “They're attacking!”
As he reached the center of the encampment, he drew the Horn from over his shoulder. “The Norics and the Armen, they're attacking, to arms!” Aerion shouted.
Then he raised the Horn to his lips. He thought of the importance of his mission, of how confusion and chaos here would prevent the Norics and Armen from chasing Lady Katarina. He poured all of his dedication, all of his passion, all of his anger at these men for their betrayal of civilized men, and then he released it through pursed lips into the mouthpiece of the Horn.
The deep blast from it seemed to come from somewhere below Aerion's toes. He focused as much as he could on the confusion and anger that he wanted his enemies to feel. The deep, harsh note of the Horn seemed to vibrate Aerion's very bones and the echoes and reverberations blasted back. The entire world seemed to shudder in vibration from the Horn. For a moment, the stone road beneath his feet seemed to resonate with the note.
The night seemed to explode. Fires flared to life. The valley grew light as thousands of torches flared to life. Men drew weapons, threw on their armor, and gave screams of anger and hate as they raced to fight. The Noric camp rose with howls of bestial rage and the Armen war horns called out in turn.
Aerion ran south. He saw a line of picketed horses. He saw at least one of the mercenaries had mounted. Aerion slowed his pace, but then the howls of battle began to rise from every side. I do not have time, he thought, I must get clear now, or I won't escape to be bait.
Aerion ran south and he saw the single rider go past him in the confusion.
As he ran, he saw the effects of the Horn. Two clans of Norics hacked at one another while men dropped lifeless as their shamans unleashed their spirits on one another. Further on, Aerion saw a demon, its fanged maw stained with blood, race across the road to plow into a group of Armen.
A pair of Armen ran at him, sword raised. Aerion ducked under the swing of one and slammed his shoulder into the other. He leaped over the prone warrior and continued his run. A glance over his shoulder showed a group of Norics overrun the two before they could recover.
He did not stop.
***
King Simonel Greeneye
The Eastwood
New Cycle Day, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Simonel sat up as a harsh blast penetrated from his sleep. He felt the note in his bones, a sound that he had never heard before, but one he recognized all the same. He felt an echo of that note in his very spirit.
He rose and before he could dress, Nanamak swept into the room, his face alight. “My King, did you hear it?” There was a fire in his gaze, so bright that his eyes almost seemed to glow.
Simonel gave a single nod, “It woke me from a dead sleep. Find out who else heard it and if Tirianis can find out where it came from,” He continued to pull on clothing and glanced out the window and up at the stars. Only a few hours remained before dawn.
“Yes, my King,” Nanamak said. He swept back out of the room, his motions showed more energy than Simonel had ever seen in the Ancient and brought to mind the legends about his mentor.
Simonel just finished dressing when his guest arrived, “King Simonel... what was that horn blast, are we under attack?” Amelia's face showed concern and worry.
Simonel froze, his hands still on the final knots to secure his sash. “You heard it?” It wasn't impossible that her mind magic allowed her to feel it through his People. Still, it surprised him that she had done so in her sleep.
Amelia nodded, “It woke me from a dead sleep. I could swear it felt like it came from just outside my chamber.” Her face showed confusion and uncertainty.
“Did...” Simonel paused, and his green eyes studied her for a long moment, “Did you... feel anything?” The Viani and his People would both have felt the call of Medis Sakveri. It was written in their blood, programed into them with the same blood magic that had made them what they were, those many cycles previously.
Amelia smiled, “You know, it seems odd... and I thought it was only part of a strange dream, but for a moment, I felt... strong, driven, and it almost felt like someone else.” She flushed, “I felt love... and a sense of purpose.”
Simonel nodded, “You heard it truly then. I felt that, as well, and I had a brief vision of a battle of some kind.” The implications of Amelia truly sensing it were ones that he would have to carefully consider... and also discuss with Tirianis. And Amelia as well, he acknowledged, she has proven that she is capable enough to handle such worries.
Amelia nodded and her brow furrowed as she thought. “I saw Armen, and... Norics? A fight in the dark,” She said.
“Yes, I think so, though the man who blew Medis Sakveri was of neither race. I can not be certain, but I think he was Starborn,” Simonel said. “Though how and where he came across the Horn... that is a question I cannot answer.”
“This horn, what is it?” Amelia asked. Simonel saw she had not yet realized his own surprise at her ability to hear it, and he saw no reason to bring that up, not yet. It might just be some aspect of her mind magic, he cautioned himself.
“It is the Horn of the King, what we call Medis Sakveri. It is an artifact from when my people ruled Eoriel... and it has been lost since the death of its creator,” Simonel said. He could not help the tone of reverence in his voice. Next to Medis Khmali, he knew of only two other items of such import to the People of the Eastwood. And the Maghali Khalakuri have both of those, Simonel thought bitterly, and they would take this one, too, if they could. “It is a treasure that has on occasion been used by some warlord or tribal chieftain, but never so powerfully and never so loud as this.”
“What does it mean?” Amelia asked. She didn't seem to understand, but then, she had not been raised upon the stories of the Dzveli Eris Maghali. Nor had she grown to adulthood in the Eastwood, where the prophesies and portents guided his people's paths.
“It means many things to my people.” Simonel's gaze went distant and he felt his blood rise, and his body seemed lighter, more alive than ever before. “First among many, the Folk of the Eastwood go to war.”
***
King Simonel Greeneye
They met in the Founding, and for the first time in Simonel's memory, the entire Council had gathered. He stared around at the group, sixteen of the most ancient and wise of his people... and him. Yet, when he took his seat, every eye went to him.
“What have we learned, Tirianis?” Simonel asked.
Tirianis stood, “Medis Sakveri lies not far from the borders of
our land.” She waited for gasps of surprise to die down. “The one who bears it has a strength of spirit that clearly gave him far greater ability to use it than any other save Maghali Mede himself.”
“Who is he?” a voice near the end of the table said. “How has this thief taken the Horn for himself?” Ceratul's face had grown flushed, Simonel saw. From the jut of his jaw and his narrowed eyes, Simonel doubted that the Warmaster would feel particularly welcoming of the Horn's bearer.
“He may not be a thief,” Simonel cautioned. “I got the impression that he was a warrior, involved in some battle against the Norics and Armen.” He glanced around the table. He saw acceptance of his words, yet a palpable anger seemed to emanate from the far end of the table and the council members who seemed to cluster around Ceratul.
“It does not matter his purpose, he possesses that which does not belong to him,” Ceratul said. “And he obtained it without the consent of the rightful owner. I will send a party of hunters to... retrieve it.”
“Perhaps some Shadow Hunters?” Irios said and the ancient mage's voice held anger of his own. Clearly, Simonel realized, Irios has heard of Gedrain.
A brittle silence enveloped the table. Simonel had always hoped the Shadow Hunters to be legend, assassins sent out to end potential threats before they could endanger the Eastwood. Yet the lack of response from Ceratul confirmed that this part of his people remained from darker times.
Simonel gazed around at the Council. He could see a split, a division to back to factions that had long ago disappeared. I wonder how much of that is due to the lack of threats, and to our isolation, he wondered. He knew from his people's history that they had not come here unified, yet it saddened him to see those divisions reemerge at as the outside world, as real issues, confronted them.
“I had hoped that a tradition of civility would reign,” Simonel said. “But if it does not, I will enforce it as a rule.” He looked around at the surprised faces, “As your King, I have that authority.”
“Authority that is not used, no longer holds sway,” Ceratul said. “Your father entrusted others with the power, and we have–”
“You have set the circumstances by which many of the People have died,” Simonel said, his voice as hard as iron. “You have allowed our defenses to be broached, and you have as much to admitted to sending out unsanctioned assassins outside of our borders to meddle in politics, against the terms of our exile.”
“Who is to hold us to the exile?” Ceratul snapped.
“The Maghali Khalakuri have hidden themselves away, after their last attempt at nation building failed. The Starborn High Kings are destroyed or corrupted, just as the Dragon Kings before them,” Listania said. The female wizard's high voice carried with it a tone of victory and arrogance. “Our enemies grow stronger with every cycle that we do not break this foolish exile and take our rightful place.” The ancient wizard leaned forward in her chair and a claw-like hand pointed down at the table in emphasis.
“As conquers?” Ivellios asked. The Warden's voice was calm, but Simonel could see that his appearance of relaxation was feigned. Ivellios was poised for combat, the Warden knew that when it came to it, as the only representative of the Maghali Khalakuri present, he alone could act to enforce the terms of their exile.
“As rulers, as was the path of Andoral Elhonas,” Ceratul said. He clearly seemed ready to push the Warden.
The shouts of rage and arguments that erupted brought the council to chaos. Simonel watched as people he had known for his entire life showed sides he had never before seen. Grudges long forgotten reemerged and ancient hatreds returned to the surface. So easily does the ancient curse of my people return to the fore... he thought.
“Enough!” Simonel shouted. When that garnered no response, he slammed his hands into the arms of his chair. The weaves there, activated by his touch, sent out a peal of thunder that shocked everyone to stillness. “I said enough,” Simonel said, his voice sharp. He gazed around the table, “I see now why our People went to exile. Remember yourselves, remember our history... and do not repeat it.”
He let out a deep breath, “This one man has caused a rift in our People. A rift that I insist you all find a way to solve... or I will solve it for you.” Simonel ran his gaze from member to member and few possessed the courage to meet his green eyes. “In the meantime, Tirianis, tell me the rest of what you have learned.”
His twin gave him a nod and she gazed out at them with a calm face, “The man bears items of great energy, and I have followed his movement so far. He stood at the base of the old Starborn fortress, the Southwatch, when we first heard the Horn.” She looked around and a slight smile traced her lips, “He is now headed east.”
“Why, that will lead him to our borders!” Ceratul said. “Does he think to attack?”
“Perhaps he thinks to return it,” Simonel said. “Or perhaps he is unaware of the meaning of what he bears and he seeks only to escape his enemies. I sensed... I felt his purpose, his determination, we all did. This is no ordinary man or, if he is, he has some great dedication to his cause.”
“Should... should we go to meet him?” Tharian asked. The hesitant man seemed to regret his words a moment later as the other council members turned their attention to him. The normal voice of caution seemed to draw in upon himself at the combined gaze of the council.
“We should meet him with an army of our own,” Ceratul said. “And show him that he is no threat and that we do not appreciate trespassers or thieves.”
Simonel shook his head, “I will take a force, Ceratul. You will marshal it and accompany me. We all know the significance of the Horn... and we all know what its return could signify.” He took a deep breath, “But I will judge how we greet this man, and I will judge if he should be punished or rewarded for the Horn's return.”
***
Lady Katarina Emberhill
Katarina no longer shed tears when they reached the vale and found the horses and the guards alive and well. She had sobbed, then screamed and pleaded with Bulmor, who had merely put her over one broad shoulder and carried her.
By the time they had reached the exit to the tunnels, though, she had calmed and she forced herself to run along side him. She could not bring herself to speak and did not trust what words she might say, not yet.
As they loaded the horses, a figure separated from the crowd and moved close. Katarina recognized the features of Eleanor in the light of Aoriel. For a moment, she remembered the woman's implied threat, and she felt a moment of relief, perhaps she would follow through. Perhaps she would end the pain of the aching hollow in her chest.
Eleanor walked closer and she didn't say a word. Katarina felt her hopes rise.
Then Eleanor embraced her and Katarina felt the shorter woman's strong arms close tight around her. Katarina felt the tears start again and she returned the embrace. A moment later, Eleanor pushed her back to hold her at arm's reach. “I warned him, I warned both of you. But by my ancestors I can't blame either of you.”
Katarina wiped at her tears, “I wish you would. I wish...” She let out a sob. “I wish you would kill me.”
Eleanor drew back, “Don't you say that, girl. Don't you dare say that. My son just sacrificed himself for you and if you think I would throw that away you're very mistaken.” She turned Katarina around, and pushed her towards her horse, “No, girl. Quite the opposite. I'm going to make sure you don't give up and I'm going to make sure you live, if I have to kill you to do it.”
Katarina shook her head, but somehow, with numerous sharp comments from Eleanor, she got mounted. Bulmor approached and he looped something over her saddle. “It didn't activate before, but it will be better at hand than your normal sword,” he said.
“What is it?” Katarina asked.
“The Boir Ducal Blade,” Bulmor said. “I would imagine they'd pay a decent reward for it.” He peered at her in the gloom. “Are you good to ride or do I need to...”
“I'm fine,” Katarina snapped
.
“I'll watch her, Bulmor,” Eleanor said. “Trust me, she just got another protector.”
Bulmor gave her a solemn nod, “Thanks. Gerlin's already gone out to scout. We should have the horses loaded soon. At least we've plenty of spare mounts now.”
“There's a bright lining to every cloud,” Katarina said bitterly.
Bulmor leaned close, “Lady Katarina, I know that... I know this is hard, but you must not let the others see you this way. If they feel you have given up, they will give into their own doubts.”
Katarina stared at him, “For their sakes, I will try to... put a better face on things.”
“Thank you,” Bulmor said.
Katarina saw him walk away and she turned to face Eleanor. The older woman had drawn her own horse up nearby and climbed into the saddle. “It's my fault, you know,” Katarina said.
“I know,” Eleanor answered, “But not entirely. What did you do, tell him that you would keep him as your lover and as a guard? Go through with some arranged marriage in name only while you disgraced yourself with your peasant lover?”
Katarina shook her head, “No. I... told him that we couldn't be together, I told him that I wanted him to stay with me, though, to stay close and to be one of my guards, when this is over.”
Eleanor shook her head, “A stupid thing to say, but I doubt that's what made him do what he did. He's impulsive and headstrong, but I doubt that your words made him decide to throw his life away in grand gesture.”
“How do you know?” Katarina snapped.
“I'm his mother, you stupid, little brat,” Eleanor responded. “And if you stopped to think, you would understand his reasoning. At its root, it comes back to you, of course. He cares more about you than he does about his own life. But look at what the options were, about who among your inner circle could do the task and who you need to succeed in the end.”
“Arren–”