Taliesin, the Shadekin Prince of Bards, played his xun fearlessly. He was every bit a warrior. His instrument was his weapon. The xun imposed its unearthly influence on the chants. It harnessed a power that patiently waited till battle to be unleashed.
The Shadekin knew the names of all things. To know the name of something is to command it. They called the name of a storm as a master calls the name of his slave.
The Oussaneans approached the battlefield from the west. The thunder of hooves spread across the landscape in an ever-moving echo of fright. An acrid smell accompanied the loudest gallop of all.
A mildew scent, mixed with hints of musty, rotting wood and moist earth, chased away the smell of foreign spice. The scent belonged to Neirym, a master conjurer. She was named after the goddess of creation, death, and the hunt. Her features were Oussanean, but her hair was sleek and black. Her eyes were a pale tint of azure. Her skin was smooth like porcelain yet fragile like parchment. She was a vessel that sailed between worlds, neither fully alive nor fully dead.
Neirym glided over the terrain beside the rider of the demonic warhorse. Her body was slender and athletic. She was adorned in the spikey, light armor of a necromancer. Her dark cape shrouded her from behind and surged with the wind like smoke. It was difficult to tell where its edges ended or began, for it seemed to be part of the air itself.
Neirym carried with her a blood magic staff made of wood and bone, of metal and fear. A jewel embedded at the end of the staff glowed with the captured souls of those valiant enough, or foolish enough, to oppose her. They were the main component of her power to summon the dead. There was a tragic feeling that pervaded the hearts of men whose gaze fell upon Neirym. Were she not a soulless, heartless sorceress, she would be amongst the most beautiful of maidens.
Atop the demonic steed sat a hulking specimen of man. Beneath his dark obsidian armor, his garments were the color of coffee and caramel. A crown jewel of mysterious origin rested on his forehead, swirling with magic of fire and ice. His hair was receding and untamed as a tempest. It seemingly had no separation between his scalp, his eyebrows, or his beard. Facial hair was absent on his upper lip. It revealed the coarse, leathery texture of his skin, which had a reptilian hue. His irises were a muddy green outlined in a vengeful red. His large ears came to sharp points like those of a wolf. His jaw was square and his nose was hooked. He was the only male Oussanean born within the past century. His name was Rotmörder, the King of Lunaega. Wherever he went, hell was sure to follow.
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THE JINGLE OF LIGHT ignited the aether as it chimed through the forest breeze. Childlike figures clad in green tunics, forest attire, and followed by fairies manifested around Olwyn and Aithein.
Olwyn heard the soothing arrival of the Amori and their prepubescent voices, but she was too incoherent to make sense of what they were saying. She fought to open her heavy eyes. Another world beckoned her, but she could not slip away just yet. Her vision was cloudy. She could see pairs of legs with the tender sinews of youth scurrying around her. Their feet were adorned in deerskin moccasins and gently rustled through the leaves and thicket.
Ellia, an Amori girl, knelt before Aithein. Her hair was as green as apple tree leaves but not long enough to graze her shoulders. Her eyes were as cerulean as the rapids of Nabian River.
Baby Aithein gazed back at her. A warm fuzzy feeling tickled his belly. A smile broke across his face. He recognized her from the dim mists of time.
Ellia placed her hand upon the baby’s chest. Her irises shimmered with shadowlight as she recognized Aithein’s energetic signature. She couldn’t help but smile as a word from the Shade escaped her mouth.
“Namus,” she said. Ancient companion.
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RUSVI’MENEL WAS A MEMBER of the Ani’Yun’wiya tribe, one of the native inhabitants of the Steppe prior to King Woden’s conquest. His name, when translated to Caliphian, meant Breaking-the-Sky. Man’s oldest emotion was unknown to him. He was a shaman, a warrior monk. He wore the head of a Cerlyn Wolf as his crown. Its autumn eyes glowed with Sunfaer, an incredibly rare form of illumination magic. It had a hypnotic effect on his desired targets.
Rusvi’menel was renowned for his skill in Wakan, what Caliphians call holy magic. He was a High Elf. His skin was bronzed from its long endured exposure to the Wakan’s atomic properties.
Magic does not allow those who possess it to remain anonymous. It craves renown. It is alive whether one chooses to harness it or not, and like all things living, magic wants to be loved. It yearns to manifest itself and be displayed, which is why elementalists also make the best performers.
Tales of Rusvi’menel’s adventures roamed from the docks of every port to the inns of every marketplace. They told of him resurrecting slain allies in the heat of battle and turning the tides of history. They told of him hypnotizing all species of beast to fight by his side. They told of him travelling to distant lands to heal kings and heroes. He cured plagues to save whole populations. His dancing washed away droughts. He gave life to tarnished lands and drove away famine.
From the dark corners of pubs to the bowels of merchant ships, where the unsavory sought refuge, some tales rolled off the tongues of bards that painted Rusvi’menel as a villain. They told of barbarity, blood magic, cannibalism, and the occult. But to every man who ever fought beside him, his nearby presence was treasured more than a fairy in a bottle. While a fairy can be sacrificed to spare a man from his deathblow, Rusvi’menel could cast wards and regeneration spells to protect those in his range of healing. He could create healing springs in the earth capable of recharging an elementalist’s mana. To most, he was a legend. To many, he was a savior. To the Shadekin, he was a brother.
Rusvi’menel inhaled deeply through his nose. His eyes squinted with concentration as he picked up the Oussanean scent of foreign spice. As he exhaled, a somber thought occurred to him.
“Their blows shall be devastating,” he said to himself.
He cast Guardian Aegis on his nearby allies. It was a protection ward that gave his Caliphian allies a two-thirds chance to evade attacks, yet it diminished their strength equivalently so that their health would remain in balance as they gained unnatural speed and awareness. He knew the Oussaneans were much quicker than one could anticipate. It was more desirable to be prepared a day earlier than a second late when it came to these women.
Rusvi’menel bore the burden of sustaining the enchantments. He was a healer, but he was not perfect. He was a man wrought with the same vulnerabilities as any other, and the foreign spice seduced him into dismissing his instinct of whose benefit that scent served. It was a mistake that could not have come at a worse time.
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OLWYN’S BODY FELT WEIGHTLESS as she floated through the forest. As light broke through the trees and shone upon her face, the blackness of vision beneath her closed eyelids turned bright red. It took a great deal of energy to open her eyes merely enough to steal a glimpse of her surroundings. The foliage and ground gently passed her by. She struggled to look in a different direction as the words fell from her mouth.
“My baby,” she uttered.
A gentle, feminine breath caressed Olwyn’s ear. “Fear not, Nordic one. Your baby is safe. We shall protect you.”
A warm tear escaped Olwyn’s eye. She was ashamed that she deserted her husband. But it was not merely because she couldn’t wait for his return. The shame was born from the deep travail within the sanctuary of her heart. It was there in this nativity that she knew he’d never return.
Olwyn remembered his touch; every infinitesimal movement his body made when he held her. She heard his voice and the beat of his heart. She missed him. In this moment of helplessness, the weight of her regret paralyzed her. The pressure stung her nose and flooded her eyes. His name sailed on her breath in a soft whimper.
“Lugh.”
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&nbs
p; THE OUSSANEANS MOVED TOWARDS striking distance. The Shadekin troubadours sang their songs of thunder. Their drums violently churned the clouds into a tempest, like cream into butter. The verses reverberated from Taliesin’s voice like a war cry:
“Will ye still wait for me
If I do not return to thee?
What else could I have done?
It was always all or one!
I looked the Devil in the eyes
Then I cast my terrible smile!
I drank his blood! I stole his time!
Rest assured, his soul is mine!”
The entire Caliphian Army wailed the chorus:
“And everyone just lies here,
Their minds rest asleep. (Roar).
Unknowing what’s been done to them
By wolves dressed as sheep! (Roar).”
The song created a light-green energy field that encompassed the area in front of the Shadekin.
Taliesin gave the order. “Save thy mana! Let them enter the Realm of Somnolence. ‘Tis more deserving they die in slumber!”
Lugh Rökkr was the mightiest of the mighty, a battlemage. His red irises burned like embers. His silky-white hair was dressed for battle, his beard thick but flawlessly groomed. It hid his age well. He was in top physical shape, but it mattered not. His mind was perhaps the most powerful thing in the universe.
Lugh was a lion of a man. He served the Royal Family because of his bloodline’s loyalty to the crown. From the very moment that Woden Caliph relinquished his immortality to marry Sylia, the god-made beauty of the world, the Shadekin constructed the Empyreal Chancel to serve as the resting place for The Trivium. The Empyreal Chancel was a realm hidden within realms. It protected The Trivium from ever falling into the hands of a mortal again. Most importantly, to the Shadekin, it guarded the secret to their power. From then on, the Royal Family only existed as the Shadekin allowed it to, serving the needs of its masters. In Caliphweald, collectivism was a tool that the Royal Family used to make its citizens deaf, dumb, and blind. They performed a useful duty to the Shadekin by unjustly amassing wealth and power, a scheme that did not sit well with Lugh.
He was a man of principle and logic. He lamented the approaching Oussaneans. He recognized that there was little difference between Rotmörder and him. The Oussaneans had no real freedom, wealth, or power, because they renounced it by remaining in Lunaega. They believed they gave each other freedom, wealth, and power by remaining in their collectivist guild of thieves. Lugh wondered how they could be so unaware that everything went to Rotmörder and served his benefit alone. Lugh empathized with the Oussaneans, for he understood that were he not Shadekin, he too would be stuck in a system in which people attempted to give each other that which they do not possess.
It produced a sorrowful nostalgia to behold the magic trick that Rotmörder played upon his people. He molded their collectivist minds like dough to fit the shape of his needs. It was a spell that was perhaps as old as time itself.
Lugh observed the sea of soldiers on both sides. It was the greatest conflict he had ever witnessed. He realized how truly insignificant and powerless he was as an individual in this environment. His mind unearthed a truth that had been hidden from him all his life until now.
He discovered that these collectivist armies were the last refuges of tyrants, of mobs, and of men who could not recognize their own worth. An extremely uncomfortable feeling awoke in Lugh’s heart. It was the horrific irony of being caught in an illusion that he helped create. He had served the Shadekin to evade his individual responsibility, and it was only now that it dawned on him. He struggled to stomach the burden of his shame. He looked at his two best friends, Rusvi’menel and Taliesin. His search was sincere but the words were hard to find. The only thing Lugh beheld was that he was living the last sentence in the last paragraph of the final chapter of his life.
“’Twas a short and unentertaining book,” he said. “Perhaps ‘tis as good a day to die as any.”
Taliesin smiled sadistically. “Death touches all men, Rökkr, but we haven’t been men for a long time.”
Rusvi’menel chuckled. “Ye manlings of the Shade cannot die so long as my Wakan dwells in thy shadowlight!”
Everything felt heavier under the burden of sorrow. Lugh could muster nothing of inspiration, but he spoke from his heart. “Let us be done with this barbarianism. Let this be the war to end them all.”
His words fell upon blank stares.
“Were we to have real power,” he continued. “We’d never fight another day.”
Rusvi’menel weighed the gravity of his friend’s words. “Before Woden Caliph found The Trivium, before he used it to conquer my people, we paid no taxes.”
The random statement gathered confused looks.
“We had no debt,” he went on. “No rulers. No wars. Wild game and resources were plentiful. Women loved the work that we did not. We loved the work that women did not. We were free to spend all day hunting and fishing, and all night having sex.”
Hardened faces cracked with smiles.
Lugh sighed. “Sounds like a bloody good life.”
Rusvi’menel sternly looked into his friend’s eyes. “Lugh, the Shadekin have mastered nature, space, and time; reality. But only the Shadekin are foolish enough to think they can improve that way of life!”
The Caliphians exploded with laughter.
Taliesin chortled so hard that he couldn’t play his xun. He gasped for the words. “The only all-night sex being had nowadays is in debtor’s prisons!”
While everyone laughed, Lugh masked his delight from the joke. “The enchantments shall not maintain themselves, bard!”
Taliesin brought the xun to his lips. “We don’t need enchantments, Rökkr. We were born enchanted.”
Lugh allowed himself to finally smile. “And we have a medicine man that is not only a healer, but a poet.”
“A prophet!” Taliesin replied. “Should the gods decline my offer to join them today, I shall compose a song for Rusvi. It shall be titled, ‘Ye Ole Good Days’!”
“Decline they shall,” Rusvi’menel replied. “For the gods prefer thee to remain a thorn in my arse rather than a thorn in theirs.”
His childlike sincerity reminded Lugh as to why they became sworn brothers.
“Shall I remain,” Taliesin responded. “‘Tis my hope that His Holiness would designate a clean plot for me.”
Rusvi’menel conceded. “A clean plot for Ye Ole Good Days!”
Lugh found something to believe in. “For Ye Ole Good Days!”
The soldiers raised their weapons. “For Ye Old Good Days!”
Lugh thought of Olwyn. He thought of the secrets he kept and the shadows he crept through to be with her. He thought of his son and the burdens that he would face as a half-breed. He wondered if it were possible to pinpoint where exactly in time people abandoned what made them happy to pursue what made them miserable. He would never live to find out how The Trivium was created or why it was created, but his son would at least have a fighting chance to do what no hero before him could.
Lugh raised his sword to the heavens and called the lightning by its name. He commanded it to reign upon his blade. “Nizzre! Rosa pholor ussta velve!”
Thunder exploded around the Shadekin as the heavens answered Lugh’s call. Lightning struck his blade at intense intervals until it remained in a constant flow and appeared as though Lugh was the source of power.
The electricity stretched from the sword up through the clouds like a snake squirming to be unleashed. Its radiance flooded everything so brightly that the Oussaneans could see nothing but blackness behind the figures of the Caliphian army.
The golden irises of the Oussaneans glowed from beneath their dark veils of twilight. Their scimitars and glaives shimmered like thickets of silver willows. They fearlessly charged towards the brilliant aura of the Shadekin. It is said that ignorance is bliss, but on this day bliss was nowhere to be found by ignorance.
Rotmörder
watched the first wave of his Oussanean soldiers charge towards the otherworldly glow of the Shadekin. He beheld Neirym. Her face displayed serene approval of the blood sacrifice.
Neirym caught Rotmörder’s gaze in her peripherals. She looked at him as though he had gifted her jewelry and handpicked flowers. “Thank you, my lord. A gift for the ages.”
Rotmörder’s eyes pierced into Neirym’s soul. “Neirym, my sweet angel of death. When all this has come to pass, ye shall know the abyss of my love for thee.”
Together, they watched the Oussaneans advance towards the slaughter. Rotmörder pitied their misplaced trust in him. It was a much greater prize to be trusted than to be loved, he thought. Trust, after all, is a tyrant’s most useful weapon.
The first wave of Oussaneans entered the area-effect of the Realm of Somnolence. Their graceful charge slowed into a hypnotic stumble. Every last one of them came to a halt. Their eyes lost purpose and they lowered their weapons. Their minds deserted them and left their bodies exposed to the dentition of the Shadekin.
Lugh’s eyes burned with electromagnetism. He swung his sword with both hands, unleashing a deadly wave of electrifying shock that spread through the Oussaneans like wildfire. It brought them to their knees. Their burnt flesh sizzled like pig fat on a skillet.
The Shadekin descended upon the helpless Oussaneans like ghouls, dismembering them like timber exploding in a forest fire. Not one Oussanean was spared. Caliphian swords observed no bounds of moderation. Had they known each body from which they stole life would be summoned against them, their blades may have been more conservative.
The Tale of Onora: The Boy and the Peddler of Death Page 6