Drachenara

by T. G. Neal

  Vaelen stopped and flipped the pages, all the rest of which were empty except for the last page, which had droplets of blood on the page. All it read was “Maker be with me.” Vaelen stood up and shook his head. “I don’t know. I just…” He trailed and ran a hand over his short-cropped hair.

  In the distance, Vaelen heard a deep howl. Aurelia looked to him. “Grab that journal and anything else and let’s go. We handled the bandits. They won’t be attacking travelers. We need to get back and get on the road.”

  Vaelen nodded. He picked up the journal and another book nearby that had elven binding on the front of the book. The word was written in the basic human tongue, but it read like Elven; the name was “Praetistaerus”. Vaelen just thought it might be important. He knew that the Archpriest Isthrillian had listed the names of the old texts that he had drawn his decisions from, and hopefully Mikael and Rolyat would know best what to do with the books.

  And so Vaelen and Aurelia concealed the old books from Isep but told him of their findings. They told him of the piled bones and belongings up at the old ruins but neglected what information they found within. They detailed the cannibalism, the sacrifice upon the altar, and the feral nature of the men they encountered. Vaelen and Aurelia both seemed shaken. Even in the business of a sellsword, things of such an unnatural nature could have a negative effect on you.

  With still enough daylight t ahead of them, they collected payment from a very satisfied Isep, and rode back for Quardanis and the Silver Sort’s home.

  Nightfall had already come. Keneya, Mikael and Rolyat stood in the rather large study of the Silver Sort’s wooden keep. Keneya leaned against the stone fireplace, oiling one of his daggers. “Something stirs the shadow,” Keneya said, looking up from where he sat. He was a man of few words.

  Mikael sat cross-legged on the floor, meditating. “For many days now, I have felt uneasy in the darkness. I have felt… fear of the unknown.”

  Rolyat held a long churchwarden pipe in his hand. He drew on the burning Dwarfweed that smoldered in the reservoir. He nodded. As a Paladin of good and just, the hammer of the Maker, he nodded. He didn’t speculate. But he too, felt as if something wrong was afoot.

  Keneya sheathed his dagger. “I’ve felt it growing darker. As if the darkest corners of the shadow grow darker. I am normally at home in the darkness, but it seems as if I am unwanted. Something does not want me there.”

  Mikael closed his eyes and exhaled. “Coven 6:19 For makest all things, have I; yea light, yea water, yea darkness, yea fire. By mine hand were they made, but by the Destroyer are all things undone.”

  Rolyat sat down his pipe and crossed his arms. “We haven’t seen any evidence of his darkness. He is banished. The Nitorae does not wane.” Though worshippers of the Maker and all that he represents, Paladin and Monks both channel their abilities from the Nitorae, a vein of energy that travels the veil of the magus, said to have been the residual power when the Maker banished the Destroyer. A Paladin or Monk would have to train for many months, sometimes years, to be able to wield the effects of the Nitorae.

  Mikael nodded. “So, it is. Perhaps a necromancer?” He asked, looking to Rolyat.

  Rolyat stood stoic and spoke. “Perhaps, but this shadow feels as if it is slowly blanketing our world. It feels different. I faced a necromancer once, an elf who practiced dark magicks and raised the dead in the ruins of Castle Dufrein in the deserts of Mreindale.” He picked up his pipe again, lit the embers, and took a puff. “I was still squired to Ser Darian Lightbringer at the time, and this necromancer had found ancient text and learned some way to use regular magicks to return to dead to life without the aid of a demon. Necromancy has no mention since the Destroyer was banished.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen someone wield the Nitorae the way Ser Darian did, brandishing pure white light as a weapon against the walking dead. As a squire I struck down my share of the dead. Ser Darian said something else was afoot after the event, and he was banished from the order.” He frowned and drew another small puff from his pipe before setting it aside again. “I was granted full access to the order. I have seen many, many cases of false demonic possession in the last ten years; so much so that the church refused to send us out on any more, and instead put us all on guard duty around the temples around the Nine. Man is the only darkness if there is any.”

  Mikael shook his head. “Something is afoot, though. I was at the Mreindale Monastery when that happened. I remember the Archpriest telling us not to fear, that it was only a dark magick, woven to resemble the powers of the Destroyer’s demons. Perhaps it is the same thing.” Mikael reached for a cup of mead near him and took a sip.

  Keneya shook his head. “Maybe the Maker didn’t do a good enough job.”

  Rolyat and Mikael both turned to look at him incredulously. Keneya returned the glance with a shrug.

  It was the wee hours of the morning before Vaelen and Aurelia returned to their new home. They arrived as quietly as possible, readied their horses to be stabled, and went inside. The building that they now lived in was essentially a large wooden keep. It had a large main hall where meetings were held, and dinners could be had, a library and study with multiple desks, and several individual rooms on the upper floors for a variety of reasons.

  Vaelen figured that it used to be a tavern, and the Silver Sort had converted it to a building for their own private use. He opened the door and walked inside. The main hall was far enough away from the individual rooms that the sound of the wooden door opening, and closing wouldn’t disturb anyone, except maybe whoever was on sentry duty at the time.

  Aurelia followed him inside, closing the door behind her. They headed toward the study, where Vaelen could examine the books thoroughly once again. He was feeling sleepless, anyway; both excited and disturbed about the things he had read.

  In the study, as they opened the door, they realized that they weren’t alone. Inside the hazy room sat Keneya and Mikael, with a bullhorn stein in their hands, and Rolyat stood in front of the fire with his churchwarden pipe in his hands, ever presently wearing plate armor. “How’d it go?” Mikael asked, piquing the interest of his compatriots, who looked at the entering Vaelen and Aurelia with curiosity.

  “Interesting.” Aurelia said. Vaelen walked past her and set the books down on the large central table, next to a dimly-turned lantern.

  Vaelen sighed. As he stripped down to the woven shirt and leather pants he wore, he detailed what happened while they were in Jeasonsland. He started with their first and only night there, explaining the attacks and even his brutality on the bandit. When describing his brutality, his actions raised their eyebrows, but they understood why he did as he did. Then they told them about the climb up the mountain, the alleged presence of Dire Wolves, and discovering the ancient temple. Here, both Rolyat and Mikael’s interest piqued. Vaelen described what happened there; the cannibalism, the feral nature of the mountain men, the sacrifice and then falling through the floor of the temple to the chambers below. Here he gave the most detail, laying out everything that he had read, except for his inability to recall the names of the other gods mentioned.

  Rolyat glanced to the books on the desk, then to Mikael. “I remember studying of Archpriest Isthrillian, but I don’t remember of what regard.”

  Mikael nodded. “Isthrillian was a Monk in Mreindale, when it was known by an ancient name. This had to have been thousands of years ago…” Mikael took a drink of his mead and set the stein aside. “He put himself into self-exile, but no one really knew where. You seemed to have stumbled on his monastery. Were there any old-looking corpses there?”

  Vaelen nodded, “Only one. And I assume it was the Archpriest. Come, let me read this to you.”

  Vaelen sat down in front of the book, next to the lamp, and showed them the writing, the vellum paper, and the dates on the pages. Then he read. He read each individual entry that he had previously and some he hadn’t read before. The detail he took out of both books and read to everyone in that room
left them all feeling a little strange.

  The readings out of the journal took until daylight to complete. Some sections were re-read, and some were just skimmed over. When Vaelen finally closed the back cover of the book, he looked up. “That. That is what we found.”

  The room was silent a moment. There had been small discussions and times when Mikael and Rolyat would look at each other and confirm what was being said, but it devolved into shock as the larger discoveries were made. After a couple of minutes, Mikael looked to Rolyat and said, “I think we need to go to the top of the Minster, to the Protopriest of the Mriendale Cathedral.”

  Rolyat pursed his lips. “For clarification, perhaps I could go to the Paladaeis, and seek out audience.”

  Keneya remained silent for the most part, until he looked up at them and said, “The words he wrote are likely true.” He swirled around the last sip of mead in his glass and downed it. “As a boy, I remember being taught by our Raex, the Patriarch of our people, that Deacoris was not alone in her plight to save us. She was allowed to walk amongst the people of this plane. She opened a gateway between the dying lands of our forefathers and the lands here. Those who chose to follow her walked through. She took the form of an Elf. We chose to worship her.” He put his cup down on the table. “We Elves have a special connection to what your people call the Magus. We call it a much longer word, because we respect it. We all have a constant connection to it, it is not sporadic for us like it is for humans.” He picked a dead leaf up out of a planter and held it in his hand. With just a whisper, the leaf became green again. “We were taught that the many gods who surround Deacoris, whose names we were not given, fought in a great war in their lands. Much of it was torn asunder. Land flies above land. Water burns. Rules don’t apply there as they do here. Much is sacrificed to be able to even go there. Your sanity. Some say pieces of your soul.

  ‘My point is this, and I do not say much of the affairs of humans: Your gods and my goddess appear to be one of the same. If Ifris, the one who haunts the shadow, is believed to be returning – or has returned – we should do something.” Keneya nodded and blew the leaf off of his hand.

  Vaelen nodded. “Aye.”

  Aurelia nodded as well.

  Mikael sighed. “We should get some rest, the lot of us. We will have work to do tomorrow.”

  A few hours rest was all that the group allotted. The trip to the capital would take days, another night in Quardanis, near the southern border to Mreindale, and then several nights as they passed through the desert, King’s Vale, and then the oasis that Mreindale rested in. There had been no question that Mikael, Rolyat, and Keneya would be joining Vaelen and Aurelia in this journey. With their expertise in the structure of the Minster, they would be invaluable to the cause.

  Six horses were prepared for the journey, supplies were packed, and word sent out. Several Lieutenants were placed in command of business matters while Mikael was away; his father informed of his duty to the Maker. His father, of course, understood.

  The fragile thousand-year old books were wrapped in a double layer of waxed calfskin to protect against the elements, and placed on the saddle of the sixth horse, there only for supplies and emergencies.

  As they prepared to ride for their first camp, a place Mikael already had in mind, Rolyat took a puff of his churchwarden’s pipe and sang, mounted upon his steed as they rode out:

  “A band of folk they were,

  traveled hard for burden true;

  Fought hard, they did, for armored sir,

  a day they’d live to rue.

  ‘On and on, and on they went,

  through rain, and dust, and snow;

  Such a task they did lament,

  at each night’s firelight glow.

  ‘No faith, they said, they never knew,

  the task that was in store;

  Ever forward, with fewer few,

  faithful at the fore.

  ‘The last to stand, the last to fight,

  the Maker’s chosen band;

  On they went, to do what’s right,

  No longer do they stand.”

  And so, they rode. They wouldn’t make the border of Mreindale until the eve of the next day.

  Ushering forward a change unlike the Brendoms had seen since the last civil war, the military had been moving non-stop for the last three days. Boats with speed sails took many of the troops up the coast to the farthest places under the banner of the Nine.

  The only other place that a garrison existed was along the northern barrier, in place to ward off the barbarian tribes that lived in hills, mountains, and forests north of the wood. The wood was enclosed the nine brendoms in from the threat of the hill tribes to the north. It didn’t stop the Barbarians, but it did inhibit them. The garrison in place was at the gate, and it held three hundred soldiers. The gate they guarded hadn’t been opened in three-hundred years, but they still held tight to their duty.

  However, once word was sent that there would be changes in the structure of all in the nine brendoms, they were of the first to mobilize. Combining to meet in the middle, the Grand Army’s forces covered the borders of each brendom within three days, converging on the central borders of Midland, Drachenara and Greyvale. This motion was not announced to the citizens of the brendoms. Instead, they weren’t informed until they reached a border that anything had happened.

  Of course, some of the citizens had enough forethought to know that convoys of soldiers moving across the countryside meant something, but it was unclear as to what exactly it meant. It wasn’t until the first merchants rolled up to border guards, did they realize the severity of their restrictions. At each border station was a commanding officer whose duty as a soldier doubled as duty as a Scriptorus. By this title, the particular soldier would sell a license for a merchant to pass but forced them to declare the wares they intended to sell, something not done in the Nine since before Tivanis took the crown.

  Civil unrest was not immediate, but it came slowly. With this new travel tax, however, there was greater room for recruitment. Though many of the citizens of the Nine were unhappy, just as many began joining the open recruitment, and taking their position on the borders where they could earn a steady salary and also be close to their families within the borders of the brendom they protected.

  Confident in their decision making and actions, The Left and The Right stood inside the war room all but alone, only guarded by a single Royal Templar. On the massive table in front of them was the map of the Brendom of Nine, stretched out across with pins in each corner. Across the surface of the map was a display of each border guard station and a series of pins at each one to represent the number of soldiers there. The stations at Drachenara, Stormvale, and Greyvale were by far the most populated, out of fear that those brendoms planned to overtake the throne.

  The Right nodded his head. “This looks good.” He leaned forward on the table, elbows stiffened and locked outward. “I have selected a new commandant. He will be by later to be briefed by us. How goes your intelligence gathering?”

  The Left looked up from the map. In several spots on the large map also rested a black pawn, much like a chess piece, that represented his spies. They were sporadically across the map. There were two inside Drachenara, one inside Stormvale, and two inside of Greyvale. There, of course, were others in various dark corners of the map, in places where reason was unbeknownst to the The Right, and others that the Left would never tell anyone. “It doesn’t. It appears that no one was on the docks that night. As far as that goes, it seems that no one saw any sign of it the following day.”

  The Right seemed to nod thoughtfully. “So, then, is it possible that the Prince is not dead?”

  The Left shook his head. “Perhaps, but it is unlikely. The squire who sent the message was renown amongst his peers for his accuracy. I do not believe the prince is alive.”

  “Such a terrible thing, that.” The Right said, looking down at the map. “Again, after fifty years of peace, we
stand on the brink of a war.”

  “The Drachenara Alliance will not fold easily, I believe. Their city is one of the most fortified in the Nine, and if they’ve been holding open recruitment as well, they will be a formidable opponent.” The Left said. “My spies are trying to get a count on them now, both in Drachenara and Stormvale, though I have yet to hear any word whatsoever from my spy in Stormvale.”

  With a knock at the door, the new Commandant entered the room. He stood tall; broad shouldered and had sandy blonde hair. He stood at attention and clapped a fist on his chest as a salute to The Left and The Right. “My Lords, I am reporting for duty.”

  The Right nodded and gestured toward the man. “This is Commandant Kelor Broadsblade, so named for his proficiency with a broadsword.” He looked at the map. “Join us, Commandant.” And, so the group of men spent quite a few hours looking at the map intently, trying to explain to the new Commandant everything he would need to know to effectively lead their army. That there was no way that he would ever be able to fill in the shoes of the Prince of the Nine, but that if he were to ever come close, he would truly have to try.

  They spent hours in that room, secluded, going over plans and ideas. They explained the worst and best-case scenarios, but war seemed to always be a factor. Ideally, they would move forward with negotiations and peace would remain a staple. Yet, hope was all they had.

  Without warning, a Templar who had removed his helmet burst through the door to the war room. He held his helmet in one hand, his face red and dotted with sweat. The Right snarled and said, “By what right?!”

  The Templar bowed his head. “My Lords, come quickly! There’s been a—something’s happened.”

  After a quick eye to eye conference, the men all banded together and rushed down the hallway toward the main hall. Standing before them were two Royal Templars who had seized a man dressed in all black, pale faced and clammy. His eyes were wild. He smiled wildly, crazily. He trembled in his restraint, but it wasn’t of fear. It was a tremble of triumph.