by Kal Spriggs
“Welcome.” He looked between Aerion and Lady Amelia. “I trust that Amelia has told you the basics?” His voice was surprisingly light for a man taller than Aerion.
Aerion made an awkward bow, “King Simonel?”
The other man waved for him to rise, “Yes, though we still don't know who you are or how you came to have Medis Sakveri or anything else about you, except that you seem to have made a great many Armen and Norics angry with you.”
Aerion took a deep breath, “Well, sir, my name is Aerion Swordbreaker. I come from a small village in the shadow of Watkowa Peak...”
***
Gerlin
Aboard the Ubelfurst, The Boir Sea
Fifth of Pargan, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Gerlin noticed Arren at the bulwark near the ladder as he came onto the deck of the Boir ship. He grimaced a bit and then headed towards the bow. With how dour the old man seemed over the past few days, the halfblood felt no desire to further darken his own mood by the old man's words.
As he came up on the bow, he noticed another figure against the dark shadows of the bow. He paused, at first he assumed it another guard, then his eyes made out the feminine form under the sailor's clothing. A moment later he recognized the woman's voice. He had met her when the Admiral introduced her as help for their wounded. Admiral Tarken had not gone into detail over just how the Armen woman come to work for him. Gerlin distrusted her, though, he did admit that she had worked hard to heal their wounded. Even Quinn had recovered, which Gerlin wouldn't have wagered much upon.
“Good evening, brother,” Siara said in the Solak Armen tongue.
“I am not of your race,” Gerlin answered her in the same language. “I am a halfblood, raised here in the south.”
“Oh, I apologize,” she responded. “I saw your medallion, and I assumed that you were a fellow follower of the Dark Warrior.”
Gerlin's hand shot to the silver pendant tucked under his leather jerkin. “That's... it's something from my mother.” He turned to walk away.
“Your mother... was her name Tiara?”
Gerlin stopped and turned back to face the Armen woman. “How would you know that?” He felt an icy spike of shock at the name... one he had not spoken or heard in more than fifteen cycles.
He saw her reach inside her tunic. Gerlin's hand dropped to his sword. She froze at his motion and spoke slowly, “I merely wish to show you something. I will remove it slowly.” Gerlin nodded, though he could not be certain she saw the motion in the dark. A moment later she pulled out a pendant of her own and held it so that the faint starlight caught it. “Djaan Kenobus had three daughters, Tiara, Ishar, and Virana. Virana was my mother, the second wife of Marka Pall. Ishar went to the Darkstar as a prize, and Tiara went to the south.”
Gerlin gave a sigh, “Yes, I am the son of Tiara.”
He heard her mutter something under her breath. A moment later she spoke and he heard fear in her voice. “Then you are Anakar Thanotar, the Ghost Who Kills. Have you come to kill me?”
“I have not,” Gerlin said with a sigh. “That part of me lies in the past. I no longer work for--” He broke off. “I no longer serve my former Lord.”
“But you bear his blood, you are the son of him we call Hall Prakka,” Siara said.
“How do you know that?” Gerlin snapped.
“Tiara became his mistress. Your story is legend among the Semat Armen, a tale used to frighten children, and a story which the Solak treasure. You emulate the Hall Armath in many ways,” Siara said.
“I do not follow your Dark Warrior,” Gerlin said again. “I do not follow any spirits or gods. And I would ask that you not spread what you know.”
“Your friends do not know of your past?” Siara asked. “Why would you keep it secret? You have many deeds of which you can show pride. I know my father had often wished for some way to swing you away from Hall Prakka. He even sent an emissary once with an offer of me as a bride.”
Gerlin snorted, “I think I remember that.” He chuckled, “Better for you that I turned him down. Half the Semat want my guts on a pole and my former... commander would go to any length to kill me if I went over to the Armen.” He shrugged, “Not that you aren't attractive enough, but you're not my type.”
“Great warriors often have enemies,” Siara said. “But no offense, warrior though you are, I... I have another interest.”
“Oh?” Gerlin asked. He felt grateful to change the subject, especially if it made the Armen woman uncomfortable. “I had heard you became a sailor in the Boir Navy, some sailor impress you enough?”
Siara's voice went flat, “It is something that would not be allowed, even should he notice me. He already has become a leader, though he fears to rise higher. I can sense the destiny of him, smell it on the air when he speaks. He is a great warrior among these people and he would father many fine sons with me.”
“You seem pretty certain about that,” Gerlin said.
“I practice the blood magic, I would make certain of it,” Siara said. “If only I could win him over...”
“Good luck to you,” Gerlin said. He looked away. “But please do not pass along my heritage. It could cause problems for me.”
“Of course,” Siara said. “I only made note of it because we are family. I am no southerner to think that your parentage controls your fate. We carve our destinies from our abilities and from that which we embrace. Just as the Dark Warrior.”
Gerlin stared at her, “That is the first time I've ever heard anything of your faith that doesn't fill me with despair or rage.”
Siara smiled, “These are things that the Semat see and follow, the baser emotions. The Dark Warrior represents so much more. In his footsteps we seek perfection, a rejection of the limits and boundaries inflicted upon us by others and a hope that all men can challenge their fates.”
“I'll drink to that,” Gerlin said softly. He thought of Aerion, who had lost so much, regained it, and then sacrificed it for the woman who couldn't afford to love him. “That bitch Fate deserves to catch some grit in her eyes.”
***
Aramer Jameson, Herald of the High Kings
Aramer leaned against the armored bulwark of the Boir Ducal Navy Ship and peered up at the stars above. He could barely make out the constellation his mentor had taught him, though no normal eyes could see the star hidden at its center. The sixteen stars that made the Starborn Crest formed the eight pointed star of the Starborn... and marked the birthplace of humanity. Earth, he thought, so distant the light from its sun cannot reach us... yet the place from where our common ancestry descends. A part of him wanted desperately to seek out that world and the thousands of other stars humans called home now. Might as well wish for the dead to return to life, he thought sadly.
“Thinking deep thoughts?” Aramer recognized the woman's voice before she came up next to him. The bulwark went all the way to her shoulders. The Shrouded Wizard Cederic came up on his other side.
“Good evening, the both of you,” Aramer said. He spat over the side. “Just thinking of things gone and opportunities lost.”
“It's not so bad as that,” Eleanor said. Aramer felt a spike of rage at her scolding tone, but he quelled the emotion before it showed. He had learned control over his outbursts cycles ago... though he remembered now how she had tried his patience as a younger man.
Perhaps that was why he could not help but speak. “You son is dead, the sword is lost, and two more duchies become embroiled in their own civil wars, which weakens them further.” He looked away from the waves and stared down at Eleanor. “The forces arrayed against us... the same ones that we fought almost ten cycles ago, they have weakened the entire Five Duchies so that their biggest challenge will be fighting each other for control of these lands. And this time, Eleanor, you've no where to run, this time your home is the battleground. We've no chance of victory... I've failed and, worse, I seem to have played into the goals of our enemies.”
He felt a shock run through h
im as she looked up at him. Aramer expected anger, or even bitterness at his words. He never expected to see Eleanor with an impish grin. “There, now, you're wrong,” She said. “First off, Lady Katarina's little civil war may well be winnable, even if the Usurper refuses to see sense and deal with her. It'll cost us, to be certain, but we can win.” She spat over the side, “And I speak from a personal knowledge of the people of Masov. Lord Hector doesn't have the popularity, even among the northern areas, to hold the Duchy against a true uprising, especially one driven by the heir of the rightful Duke.”
“Second, I think you underestimate Admiral Tarken,” Eleanor said. “He's a damned good fighter and very determined. Besides that... you saw what happened when he held up the Boir Ducal Blade. He has the blood, the old blood.”
Aramer shook his head, “But he says he will not be Duke! If he refuses to step forward, then what difference does it make!” This was why he sought to manipulate and direct rather than to fight his war in the open. People all to often chose the wrong path if given the choice.
“Please, Aramer, don't be willfully stupid,” Eleanor said with an exasperated sigh. “I know you take to it naturally, but really. The man has massive popularity with his sailors and Marines. He's single-handedly turned things around for their Fleet after their defeat by the Armen. Do you think, in the end, if even a bit of the story gets out that the people of Boir will not insist that he step forward? What Duchy has a stronger calling to the High Kingdom than the Grand Duchy of Boir, the center of the Restorationist movement?”
Aramer grunted. Her words made sense, yet against the enormity of the loss at Southwatch, at the destruction of so many plans... it all seemed so trivial. “It doesn't change the fact that I got your son killed, Eleanor.” He paused, and grudgingly admitted, “And of more importance to me... I lost the sword.”
“Trust me,” Eleanor said. “I've known all along about your priorities.” She nodded at Cederic, “And he told me what message you sent him, so I knew your goal at Southwatch, as well. And what happened there could have broken anyone, especially since we had no way to know what happened to my son or for you to know about your treasure.” She met his eyes, and Aramer saw her grin grow into a broad smile. “Except for the news that the wizard shared with me a short time ago.”
Aramer turned to the Shrouded Wizard, who met his puzzled gaze with a calm smile of his own. “I just heard from Seraphai... Aerion lives, he's a Royal Guest of the Folk of the Eastwood, the Wold. He arrived at the borders of their lands, and he impressed them very much in his fight against the Norics and Armen who pursued him. Their King, Simonel Greeneye has healed his wounds and given him his friendship..”
Aramer stared at the wizard, he felt his mouth drop open in shock. The entire world seemed to shift underneath him at that news. Entire new realms of possibility opened before his eyes. “But that means...”
Cederic nodded and his smile when he spoke was triumphant. “Aerion Swordbreaker lives... and he still possesses the Starblade.”
***
The End
The Eoriel Saga will continue with Wrath of the Usurper
About the Author
Kal Spriggs is a science fiction and fantasy author. He currently has three series in print: The Renegades space opera and space exploration series, the Shadow Space Chronicles military science fiction and space opera series, and the Eoriel Saga epic fantasy series.
Kal is a US Army veteran who has been deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan. He lives in Colorado, and is married to his wonderful wife (who deserves mention for her patience with his writing) and also shares his home with his newborn son, three feline overlords, and a rather put-upon dog. He likes hiking, skiing, and enjoying the outdoors, when he's not hunched over a keyboard writing his next novel.