Call of the Chosen- Broken Kingdoms

by Michael DeSousa

  “We’ll see,” Blackbrook’s voice sounded as if he challenged her statement. “And the other?”

  “Among the imperial’s belongings were three vials of a very curious black, invisible liquid—”

  “No, you can’t have them.”

  “Are they profitable? A new imbued drink?”

  “No, and I don’t want you purloining any of his stuff, Magvors.” Magvors? Sil made it a point to remember her name.

  “First a family of three, and now you’ve become attached to an imperial, too. Now I know curious times are upon us.”

  “Is your work done here?”

  Magvors laughed softly before making slow deliberate steps away from Sil. “Yes, I’m done here, but I’m hungry too.” Sil heard snapping of fingers and a door creaked open.

  “Mister Onion,” Blackbrook said. “My guest needs a private place to eat.”

  “Thank you, Blackbrook. …the Night Lady didn’t say anything to me, but I truly hope you consider joining us. Stability isn’t something we can rely on for very much longer.”

  “When it come to our business, you never should.”

  The door closed and Sil felt a hand on her foot. “Don’t worry, girl. I didn’t tell her anything about your search for your sister. But, I’d be rotten to the core if I’d let cultists come into my town and mistreat my friends.” Friends? Markus, she guessed, but her too? “Rest up. You’ll be safe here for a while.”

  He then left her and the door closed. She tried searching out for her legs, but couldn’t find them. Her arms and back, she could feel, but only the softness of what she assumed was a bed. She’d have to wait until Magvors’s spells wore off with nothing to do except try to make sense of the past events. So much had happened. Poor Markus. That was her fault; she was too impulsive, relying on brutish anger to push through her fear. She couldn’t do that anymore; she’d have to over come them. And that worried her because as Markus told her, she’d have to listen to what her emotions were telling her. Her anger worried her most of all. It never seemed irrational…just disproportionate. It would flare up when some loaf annoyed her —the first time causing her to discover her fire spells and the result taught her to bury her anger. After all this time, what was it still trying to say?

  And Blackbrook, someone she wouldn’t share a drink, never mind share a meal, had taken them all in and bandaged her up. Protected them. …Friend. Her friends on the Synod tried to kill her. Markus was right; she couldn’t go back now. Besides, she still had to find Gene, find out how she betrayed Ragnarok. What was she really doing with that cult?

  Her stomach went hallow. Ragnarok, that is you? I am listening. The devil himself talked to her now, and worse still, he claimed her to be his Champion. What exactly that meant, she didn’t know. Stories of Champions in the past were more legend and myth than history. Warriors and prophets, they apparently coordinated humanity’s response against the evils of the day —the last time was when Ragnarok broke through and possessed a body. What could she —a mere girl, defrocked, hunted, inept, impulsive— do with a god speaking into her mind. Nothing! She was nothing! Even Zandagor had abandoned her. This was hopeless. She’d be better off finding the nearest high ledge and— ‘You know, you don’t have to do what they say,’ Markus’s words came to her. No…she didn’t. Like he said, she shouldn’t give her emotions so much power over her. I’m sorry, Markus. —Pathetic— You wanted to find my sister to know why your family was taken. I’ll find her again for you, and get you an answer. Ragnarok didn’t reply. She’d find her, this time for an entirely different reason, and this time, she had a better idea of how dangerous that could be. She knew cultists were dangerous, the stories she’d read, her parent’s stories, but not all of them could be dragons like Da’Kraven. And even if so, if Da’Kraven could be killed, so could others. No, this time, Sil wouldn’t march up to their front gate like an arrogant buffoon; she’d have to be more subtle, more ‘honest,’ as Markus would say. And she’d find out what Gene was really doing there.

  Epilogue

  Events Around Gen Shemver

  “Hello, Lady Gene Casmarus. How was your stroll to the old forge? I trust your sister and your old comrade received your message?”

  “Oh! Da’Kraven! It’s you? You’ve given me such a fright. How is it that you’ve already regenerated? Or…have you?”

  “I am healing or rather, coming home to myself.”

  “…Another gift of the Old One, Ragnarok?”

  “Gift? Oh my dear lady, haven’t you been listening and watching? No, my resurrection isn’t from the Old One. We. Are. Dragons, young wyvern. We are the manifestation of possibilities.”

  “Then, even I….”

  “No, you are too attached to your humanity. As is your sister. Most of us are. Too attached to humanity and too attached to our benefactor, Ragnarok.”

  “Then, perhaps we should consider breaking from him?”

  “Oh? You disappointment, young wyvern. With such an lucid mind such as yours, wouldn’t you like to know how he has fooled us? How he has enslaved us? Why he has chosen your sister for his Champion and not you?”

  “My sister…then what you sensed…”

  “Yes, young wyvern. Your sister will be our greatest challenge. He will twist her and deform her until she does what he commands of her. But if she were to join us—”

  “No, she can’t. She—”

  “Fear is unbecoming of a dragoness, Lady Casmarus. Ragnarok already has her. She is in danger whether she joins us or not.”

  “Then…I must speak with her again—”

  “Patience. Hastiness is a trait of humanity. No, we must be careful. I believe she will be led to do what we are attempting to do: unite the cults under one banner. We must prevent that at all costs.”

  “Even her death?”

  “A dragoness would rather die than have her wings clipped. She won’t be your sister. Oh, young wyvern, so fearful and uncertain. You wish to prevent a civil war among us? Then learn to lead and become Sybilia’s true heir. Then we will learn what powers our ‘patron’ god. There will be no Second Nation of Ragnarok. I swear by my hearts, I will see our dragonkind set free.”

  -A conversation between Gene Casmarus and Da’Kraven Nalore’Teth from the Cull of Ragnarok.

  Edgar Omen

  Ed leaned forward on a wiry chair, resisting the urge to bounce his heels, but at least he was alone with his thoughts outside on a well varnished balcony of City-guild Council Member Vashen Blackbrook’s three story home —more of homestead than a home with yards, gardens, smooth stoned paths, and an encircling high fence— watching the dusk grow darker and waiting for his body to metabolize the rest of the poison. His head still ached and his eyes blurred when he tried to focus, but considering how hours ago he couldn’t even stand, these were minor annoyances. Though higher up on a hill in the outskirts of Sat’r, the sooty air still irritated his eyes despite it being much fresher. He’d never get used to city, even burgeoning Ruby City. Its crowded artificial design, its central enforced planning and compact controlled chaos; it was as if man believed he could do better than Nature herself.

  The mountains, though, held wild places, free places where life was closer to the old simpler ways of survival and small community. His home. Yes, they were dangerous but the city held their own dangers too. Here, amidst the grim and industry, he could feel himself losing his humanity, one of many pinions in a great long rack. Sat’r was becoming more like the Demos every time he visited; no wonder he seldom came here.

  Alecka had the right idea, getting himself lost in those mountains. Ed would have done the same, but duty and loyalty called…and questions made him stay. And now with Gene in some sort of trouble, his plan to fight the Empire in any means he could had to wait.

  He wiped a thin film of soot from the balcony railing and grimaced. Even the air here was poisoning him. Still, he would rather be out here then inside where Blackbrook’s hired hands worked their routines: cleaning, ten
ding the fireplaces, and taking care of those others hurt in the explosion. But eventually, they might have to come out here too. The balcony was large enough to service a small party with plush chairs, leather coaches and glass tables that lined the wall, overlooking the city buildings and the large forge and smith smokestacks still bellowing out black smoke. That black smoke competed with the smoldering fires of the market streets where he was told he was lucky to survive. From what he could see, the fire spread to at least five or six buildings. It would have been fewer if the garrison was still here…. If the garrison was here, they would have been able to help Gene from those thugs. Da’Kraven, the old man had the audacity to poison an officer of Prince Landrie’s military? —No, he wasn’t an officer anymore. But that didn’t change the fact Gene was in trouble. All she ever wanted to do was battle the Empire’s sacrileges, and he was hoping he could join her. But now she was hostage to those people? Who were they? And how could she allow herself to be trapped like that? Glen on the other hand, he’d expect to get himself…into…trouble. “Please, Glen, don’t protect me anymore,” he whispered, wishing he could talk to him again. “Look out for yourself.” He was often right, more times than Ed wanted to admit, but always through his typical whimsical nonsense, acting like the world couldn’t understand him if he spoke what was really on his mind. Maybe the world couldn’t, or maybe Ed didn’t really want to know. “Damn it all,” he cursed. He couldn’t just sit here doing nothing, but he had no lead on Gene. He wasn’t even awake for the explosion, so he would have to wait until one of the others woke up. The family of three had already been moved to a local infirmary. That left the priest and the dark-skinned man. Mostly it would be her that would wake up first; the other man’s head wound looked so severe, Ed doubted he’d wake up again. The priest, she must know something.

  The door behind him slid open and Blackbrook, a short stocky man, walked up beside him, a trail of mint and clove floating from his pipe. “Beautiful city, ain’t it,” he said, with his teeth fastened on his pipe.

  Ed didn’t reply at first, preferring to be alone, but the man and his wife had been so hospitable to him and the other victims of the explosion. “Yes, it is. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. It must have been expensive and inconvenient to treat, feed and house us. You are a credit to your city, and to the princedom.”

  Blackbrook waved his head. “It’s nothing. My wife would have spent the money anyway. Besides, with all the soldiers leaving on such short notice, the hospitals ain’t ready yet to treat your kind of injuries.”

  “They took all the surgeons and medic mages?”

  “And doctors, sadly,” he said. “But we’ve given Prince Landrie enough hell for it. Lord Roz might actually have to suffer us and come to our meetings for a change.” Blackbrook laughed vindictively. He then set a mug of ale on the balcony railing. “Care for a drink?”

  Ed was half tempted, but decided not to. “No thank you. I’m still not completely well.”

  “Any idea why someone would poison you?”

  Ed squinted on distant oil lanterns flashing into life as the city settled into night. “Wrong place, wrong time, Council Member Blackbrook.”

  “Really,” Blackbrook chuckled. “You expect me to believe that when a chunk of my city goes up in flames while you sleep next door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” he drew out, fishing for something in his pocket. He then tossed Ed’s ceremonial hand-cannon and bundle of military vouchers onto his lap. “Then, what your saying is that you’re a thief.”

  Ed grumbled, pocketing his possessions. He should have left his hand-cannon behind and exchanged his military vouchers for public currency, but back then, he was too rattled to think clearly “Yes. I’m an officer,” he admitted. “As much as I appreciate what you’ve done, my business is my own.”

  Blackbrook blew out smoke. “I don’t mean to pry on overworked officers coming here to rest their wings.” He then tossed two bags onto Ed’s lap, one full of lead balls, the other gunpowder. “Took the liberty of fixing that up for you, too, a bit of pass-time of mine.”

  “Thank you,” Ed replied, pocketing his ammunitions. “I should pay—”

  “If you want to pay me, tell me what you know about that explosion.”

  Ed sat up straighter. “Nothing your own city’s investigations won’t find.”

  Blackbrook laughed. “As if we can after you iron-wasters get up and leave on a moment’s notice taking all the manpower with you. First you say we need you, then you leave when we do need you—” Two knocks sounded on the door behind them. “Eh, I should be going.” Ed slouched. Good, Sat’r politics was the last thing he needed to hear.

  Blackbrook took in last draught from his pipe before making his way inside. “Oh yea,” he added before entering. “That priest is up already—”

  “She is? Can I speak with her?”

  “Yes, she can speak,” he replied with a snort. “Against doctor’s orders, so she might not be in her sober senses. Giving my nurses a hell of time. Once she’s washed and dressed, I’ll send her out here. Leave you to keep your secrets about fires and poisons and…” Blackbrook’s voice trailed off as he closed the door behind him, leaving the mug of ale there sitting beside Ed.

  Ed sympathized with the man, burdened by the responsibilities of the city with three witnesses to a disaster. But Ed didn’t want certain questions about himself raised, so he’d avoid shedding any further light on why he was there. That priest, on the other hand, had to know more. But, for all he knew, she could be working for Da’Kraven and was caught in their own explosion. A priest, was she? Ed would have to let her convince him of that.

  After a few moments of brooding —and eyeing the ale a few times— the door behind him slid open again. This time, it was that young ‘priest’ who stood before him with a black veil over her head and tied tightly about her neck as if she had a head wound. Her tan eyes, though bloodshot with dark circles around them, reminded him of Gene. A coincidence? His ordeal with Araa taught him not to ignore them. On her, she wore dark maroon pants and a black fluffy blouse, both obviously lent to her for they were too big on her. And she hide her bandaged right hand and arm under her other arm about her waist, as if trying to hide her womanly figure in those loose pants. As a priest, Gene would have been mortified for being so ‘immodest.’

  Ed stood. “How are you feeling?”

  “Dreadful, but healing, considering,” she sighed, hobbling over to a black plush chair before hesitantly reaching one arm to it. She then eased herself onto it, keeping her posture upright, her knees together, hands on her lap. She rose her chin and rested her half-lidded eyes on the horizon. Despite the tension quivering on her face, she kept herself from slouching back into the seat. Definitely an educated proud woman, she could probably fool someone into thinking she was nobility. Or maybe she really was a priest; her mien reminded him too much of Gene.

  When Ed sat back down, she relaxed into the chair with a heavy sigh of relief, closing her eyes.

  “Considering,” Ed asked her.

  She turned to him, eyes drooping and rose her bandaged hand. “Considering I almost lost my hand and the Doctor’s magic is wearing off.”

  “Ah.”

  “Mister Blackbrook told me you had questions for me. I have some for you too, but I have to tell you I’m not in the most agreeable mood, Major.”

  “Major? You recognize me then?”

  “Yes,” she said, resting her eyes shut again. “You were my sister’s commanding officer during the Brothers’ War. My name is Celeste Casmarus.”

  Ed leaned forward. “Ah. Pieces fit together now,” he said, smiling on the verge of a chuckle, but she frowned at him. “Casmarus was it? We tried all we could to get Gene to tell us her last name, never did. Neither had she told me she had sister and that she was also a priest.”

  “Not surprised,” she mumbled. “She doesn’t. I am only her sister.”

  “Blackbrook seems u
nder the impression that you’re a priest too.” Celeste turned her eyes on him, jaded and tired eyes, more than exhaustion, maybe cynicism on the edge of despondency. Thank the Almighty, Glen wasn’t here; whatever she’d been through had already done its damage. “Can you tell me what led you to that eatery yesterday,” he changed the subject.

  She let her head rest back onto the chair’s headrest. “I hired that injured man inside to track my sister down. We found her just as you did, but they attacked us. Runic was involved and it exploded.” That made as much sense as a stubbed haired priest. If it weren’t for their similar appearances, Ed wouldn’t even believe the two were sisters. And runic exploding? It could happen with shoddy alloy work. Captain Greener once told him the military worked on making such runic bombs —balls of runic and shrapnel that would absorb field magic and explode over the enemy— but they were too unpredictable. Not to mention a random mage, friendly or not, could set the entire arsenal exploding miles from the battlefield. No, Celeste was lying, or at least omitting a lot.

  “Do you know who those people with your sister were,” he pressed on.

  She looked out over the horizon with indignation forming on her face. “Who they were is not important. What do you want from my sister? It must have taken a lot of effort to find her.”

  “Personal,” he said and she smirked. “And you?”

  “She never came back to the Temple.”

  “Awfully long time to wait to only search for her now.”

  “Can I be ‘honest,’ with you,” she said with a curious inflicting on the word ‘honest.’ “Something inside me doesn’t like you very much so I’m inclined to trust you, Major.”

  “Odd sense of intuition.”

  “It’s my way of understanding it.”

  Ed turned away, watching more lanterns light up in the distance. Sister or not. Priest or not. Celeste wasn’t cooperating, and Gene was still out there with those thugs. They’d probably move out under the cover of darkness —tonight. He was wasting time here. Ed went for the door—