by Greg Curtis
Dismounting quickly, Sam gathered together as many parts of the dead golems as he could, hoping to have something to study later. Something to bring to the more learned masters of the arcane arts. But what remained was almost unrecognisable. The rat bodies were twisted. Many had torn and melted from the heat of the fire and the force of the explosions. In the end he gathered half a dozen of the best heads, tossed them in the already over full saddle bags and made off after the last elven party.
Finding his way after them wasn't an easy job either he discovered, as his horse had to pick her way gingerly through more than half a league of blackened, wind strewn branches which were so thick that they actually obscured the length of the trail. Despite her sure footedness, Sam found he had to lead his mare through the worst of it on foot, clearing the path ahead with what little remained of his magic, and his boots as they went. Later, when he was through the worst of it, he found that smaller pieces of the trees were dotted along the trail all the way back to his home.
It was a difficult trip back, but it was still a good journey, knowing that at least one enemy had been vanquished, and that the power he had searched for, for so many years was finally with him. It was a vital journey too when exhaustion was galloping up on him. He had given too much into that final spell, and he was drained. It was still only late in the morning, and the sun was high, yet already he was dreaming of a nice soft bed. It was difficult to stay alert. He needed to get to the safety of the elves.
As he rode, he tried to stay awake by concentrating on what he'd learned of the enemy. Not only from facing them in combat, but also from finally seeing the golems with his own eyes. And he realised that he had learned something. Something important. More than just their strengths and weaknesses, or even their strange method of communication with their master. He'd looked into their glowing red eyes at some point and seen what surely anyone should have known, but apparently no one else was prepared to admit. These things weren't actually golems. They were machina.
True golems had nothing of life or machinery in them. They were inanimate lumps of whatever material they were created out of, until they had a spark of magic and a dose of alchemy breathed into them. But these were machina. Machines created with moving parts and a shadow of life. Even without having magic imbued in them they still were nothing like golems. They remained inanimate but were able to be moved into positions as a child could move the limbs of a doll. And once someone had breathed their magical shadow life into them, they became much more than any mere golem.
They had far greater mobility for a start, as the elves had already found to their cost. Where a golem would usually plod along as though every movement was a major exertion, these things could run, jump and climb as well as any living animal. More troubling then that though was that they had far greater autonomy. A golem practically had to be ordered to carry out every little movement. They were too stupid to be able to follow complicated commands. But these things could be given an order and then be left to carry it out. They could even ask questions. Unlike golems they had a simple intelligence. They were machina.
The only problem he had with the understanding of their nature was that there were no machina left. The last of them had been created and destroyed in the terrible Dragon Wars, more than five thousand years ago. A time when the forces of a warlord known only as the Dragon, had created an army of machina, tens or even hundreds of thousands strong, to lay waste to the entire world. But he had eventually been defeated, his armies destroyed, and the secrets behind their creation lost to time. Not a single one had ever been seen since. Until now.
Which left him with only a few frightening possibilities. The first and potentially the least dangerous, was that someone had found the remains of part of his army, and somehow reanimated it. Bad enough, but still manageable as it meant the enemy's strength was limited. More limited now that Sam had destroyed so many of them. The only problem with that theory was that according to all the legends, the Dragon's entire army had been destroyed, and whatever might have survived should have rusted away long ago.
Of course artefacts from the ancient ages before the Dragon wars were still around, and occasionally turned up in various ruins or were dug up in fields. And many of them still had magic. Powerful magic. So much so that many wizards would spend fortunes trying to acquire the ancient treasures.
The second possibility was that someone had discovered the secrets behind the making of the machina, in which case they could surely create many more of these monsters, and many other types as well. The history books and sagas had spoken of some machina that flew and others that burrowed under walls. That was more worrying, as it meant that the enemy could make more of these horrors as he needed them. And Sam had no doubt that he would.
Yet even that compared poorly with the third option. The possibility that the warlord himself, the Dragon, had returned after five thousand years to re-conquer the world. And while it was surely impossible, a little voice in the back of his head kept reminding him that the warlord had never been killed. After more than ten years of battle, with the numbers of dead people reaching in the millions if not the tens of millions, his armies had finally been destroyed, and the warlord had been defeated. But according to the legends he had cheated death and had chosen to flee even while sickening from a poison spell, rather than be executed.
That was one of the great mysteries of the Dragon. He had come out of nowhere with a mighty magical army of steel, and returned to it afterwards, with no one having ever even seen his face. There were so many mysteries about him. For a start if no one knew what he looked like, then no one knew if he was human, elf or dwarf, or any other sort of mortal. Scholars had debated that very point for thousands of years. And they certainly didn't know where he had come from. After all, he had magic stronger and stranger than any ever known. Magic that wasn't even being studied anywhere else, let alone mastered. And his goal didn't seem to be conquest so much as death. The total obliteration of all people. Perhaps he had truly been a demon instead of a man as some claimed. And if he had been, could he return? Sam wasn't even sure if demons actually died.
The truly horrible thing though was that these machina had acted in exactly the same way as the Dragon's machina of old. They had continued to kill even after attacking and taking the cities. For it seemed they'd never wanted the cities; only the death of the people who called those cities home. Could he truly have returned after five thousand years? There was of course no answer. Not yet. But what there was he knew, was a pattern. Or the beginning of one at least.
Though Sam didn't want to admit it – and the elves might not want to hear it – this new enemy, be he the Dragon returned or a replacement, was following the same pattern so far. Attack by stealth, kill everyone he could, and then leave the cities deserted and dead without any apparent reason. And if the pattern held he would then strike again, somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Next time Sam knew, it would probably not be the elves who were hit. It might be a human land or a dwarven province. It might be the gnomes or the pixies. Sam had no way of knowing who would be attacked or when.
All he did know as he kicked his mare in the sides to hurry her up, was that there would be a next time. Conquering Shavarra had never been their enemy's entire dream. Every fibre in his being knew that. He was merely getting started.
And Sam knew that wherever the enemy next struck, he had to be there.
Chapter Three.
Ryshal lay on her tiny mattress in her dark cell, crying.
It wasn't for the pain, though that was cruel. This new guard who'd turned up – she didn't know his name, and hadn't even seen his face as he always wore a black studded leather mask – was a monster, and the beatings were becoming worse by the day. He hit her as no one should hit another, and not just with his fists. That had only been for the first month or so. Now he used whips and sticks, and some days the blood poured down her back. But she was an elf and a dancer both – she could withstand pain.
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nbsp; The terrible conditions she was held in weren't the reason for her tears either. For five long years she'd been locked away in her dark underground cell, the only light coming from a tiny barred window high above that showed her the sun for only a few precious moments every day. Yet she could bear that too. A few moments of sunlight were enough to drive away the cold from her bones for a while. And though the damp and fungus ate at her lungs, just as the fleas and lice bit at her skin, she had the strength to withstand that too. Even the starvation was tolerable. A few scraps of mouldy bread and water were enough to keep her going. For a while.
What hurt her so was none of those things. It wasn't even the fear of what was coming. It was the horror of why it could finally be allowed. She had listened to the raucous laughter of this new gaoler day after day while she lay bleeding on the rack, heard his plans to continue to beat her until there was nothing left, and she knew that time was running out for her.
It hadn't been. Until recently she'd known that this nightmare would one day end. She'd known that Samual would come for her, and her life would return to how it had been previously. She would recover in the arms of her husband and family. She would learn to dance again. She would teach again. She would raise her own children. That was her gift – faith. She prayed constantly and the Goddess spoke to her some days. She whispered in her ears that everything would be all right. That this, her suffering was all a part of her divine plan. And that she would be rewarded tenfold for her torment. It was her faith that kept her strong in this hellish place and she clung to it with a determination stronger than steel.
But suddenly things were different. This new guard had arrived and had started beating her, and she knew that meant that something had changed up above in the keep. Heri had not dared to beat her so badly before. In fact he had for the most part left her completely alone. For all his evil he'd known better than to harm her. He knew how terrible Samual's vengeance would be when he found out, and he knew enough to fear it.
So she had been given if not good food, then at least enough simple gruel to keep her going. She had been allowed to bathe, and to wash away the insect pests that assailed her. She had been given some thin blankets to keep her warm at night. If she became ill the healers or the priests of Phil the White were sent to her. And she had not been beaten. In truth the gaolers had been almost respectful, knowing why she was there, and knowing that they never wanted to face the wrath of her husband if she died at their hands. She was Ryshal Hanor after all. They did not want to face her husband. Ever.
But something had changed, and all she could think was that either Heri was no longer in control of the realm, or for some reason he no longer feared his half-brother. And there was only one reason he would not fear Samual.
If Samual was dead.
That was why she cried. Her husband, her beloved, and the father to her children yet to be conceived; dead. It could not be. It could not be tolerated. But as the days went by and the beatings continued and even grew worse, the fear returned to haunt her like a ghost in the night.
She prayed of course. Prayed constantly to the Goddess. But she heard nothing back save that she was her child, always. And to keep with her faith. It was all part of the plan. And that her husband would come for her. This, the Goddess promised, was the hardest part. It was always hardest just before the end. And the end was close.
Ryshal told herself that it was impossible that Sam was dead. She knew her husband, she knew him for the warrior he was. No matter how many cut-throats his brother sent against him he would always survive. He would always win. He did not know how to lose. With a sword in his hand and fire in his eyes, he was unstoppable. A warrior such as the world saw only once in a generation.
The guards had told after she'd first been brought down into this nightmare, that more than a hundred of the king's royal guard had fallen to his blade and his fire when he'd first been told of her capture. That he'd gone mad with rage as they kept him from returning to the keep to rescue her, and that only their sheer numbers and the threat to her life had held him back. That would not be enough forever.
And every day he was apart from her, she knew he would be training. He would be practising his magic and his craft, planning her rescue, making himself ready, so that when that glorious day came, there would be no mistake.
Samual would come for her. He could not die. He could not be dead.
But still she cried.
Chapter Four.
The Court was full that morning. There were a dozen petitioners asking to be heard, many of them linked with either the noble houses or the merchant guilds, several emissaries from the nearby realms seeking an audience, and five or six disputes needing to be resolved. It was a long list of duties to get through in a morning. And all Heri really wanted to do was check his soldiers, count his treasury's gold, and listen to the reports of his spies. Those were the things that really mattered. Those were the things that kept him in power.
The rest of this – the polished wooden floors and walls, the grandeur of the huge vaulted ceiling in the throne room, the massive stained glass windows with their depictions of his family's heroic acts, the assembly of overdressed courtiers attending him – they were nothing. Theatre. They were what made him look like a king. But in the end it was always about power. About being able to force his will upon others. And that was done through force of arms, economic might, knowledge and cunning. Looking the part merely helped him keep the throne.
But Heri was surrounded by enemies. Smiling, polite, elegant enemies dressed in all their finery, all of whom would happily stick a knife in his back if they thought they could get away with it. Especially if it would gain them the throne.
Prince Venti was currently standing to one side chatting with some of the ladies. He called himself a prince but really, he was no prince at all. He just claimed the title since his father had been the king before Heri's father had taken it. The man was stupid, but he had a powerful army.
Seeing him standing there posing like a king, Heri had to fight the impulse to have him killed on the spot. Or even to do something cunning like invite him into his private sanctum and introduce him to his little horse head statue. The man would do well as a horse he thought. And it was about time he made some use of that ancient artefact instead of just letting it sit on his shelves. But he supposed someone would notice the prince's absence and know he had last been seen with the king. It would also be difficult getting a horse out of his sanctum through the underground tunnel.
Lord Cameral stood in the background, holding a drink and giving the impression he was there simply to socialise. And yet Heri noticed he didn't take a single sip of his drink. He pretended to be just a guest enjoying himself, but really he was there to see what he could learn. Watching and listening carefully to everything around him and looking for any piece of information he could exploit. The man was a plotter and a schemer. Luckily his lands were weak. He could cause Heri trouble but ultimately could not take the throne and he knew it.
And then there were the Fallbrights. The entire accursed family was here, all of them stuffed into fine clothes that they looked distinctly uncomfortable in. They were a bunch of brigands – though they called themselves soldiers – who had seized an estate a generation or two back, and held it ever since by force of arms. Naturally they had no respect for him since he wasn't the warrior they wanted, and they weren't afraid to point that out. They weren't going to enjoy today's session of the Court Heri promised himself. That would be his only joy today.
To make matters worse, it was also a celebration – the archaic festival of the midsummer sun or some such thing – and so there were a number of white robed priests of the All Father currently littering the marble tiled floor with their presence and intoning prayers. He hated the priests, and if the gods truly existed he didn't like them much either. But he needed their support so he publicly followed the All Father and pretended faith. He spent good gold keeping the All Father's poxy great temple in goo
d order, and insisted that the people follow the observances of the king of gods. He even kept an adviser from the temple on hand, though he never listened to him.
But at least it was the king of gods that he supported publicly. A worthy god for a king to worship. Not some miserable little god like Vineus or worse the god of one of the other races like the elves' pathetic Goddess. He allowed the worship of the other gods – a king had to indulge the weak minds of his subjects – as long as they didn't go against his rulings. So the priests of the Red God of War and Vineus could be seen walking the streets freely. Phil the White had his own temple in the city. Healing was always a valued gift. The priests of Draco however had been banned from the realm. He had nothing against dragons as long as they stayed far away from him, but their priests liked to play with fire literally and that threatened the safety of everyone. Naturally none of Draco's priests were in attendance.