Amorlia

by Chris Wichtendahl

  Schism

  Michra stumbled over a root as the Huntsmen led her and Sa’raa through the Great Wood. “Watch it, woman,” an angry voice said behind her. The sharp point of a spear dug into her back. Michra snarled, “I’m blindfolded. How am I supposed to ‘watch’ anything?” Another jab. “Keep it quiet.” Michra angrily tried to shrug the spear away and tugged vainly at the ropes around her wrists, “Why have you taken us prisoner? You are of the Hunt, are you not? My companion and I are on a mission for Monarch Artemis Vega and--” Another Huntsman slapped her across the face and she fell to her knees. She was dragged roughly to her feet and made to continue. “You will not speak that name in our presence ever again,” the angry voice ordered her. Michra tried to ask more questions, but the spear pressed harder against her back. “Women speak when spoken to,” the voice said. “What is this?” Michra muttered to Sa’raa. Her only answer was a low growl. “Sa’raa?” “Don’t...distract me,” Sa’raa’s voice sounded strange, “Trying... to change.” “I thought you couldn’t change,” Michra said. The growl became a laugh, “They spoke a charm in the First Language,” she said, “we learn to break those as children. It just,” she grunted, “takes... a little time.” “Well,” Michra whispered, “I hope it doesn’t take too much time. I don’t think we--” A hail of arrows interrupted her and their captors began screaming. Amid the chaos, Michra and Sa’raa were dragged to safety and freed from their bonds. A Huntress handed Michra her guns, while another returned Sa’raa’s knives. “Quickly,” she said, “you must run.” “Why?” Michra asked. “What is going on? Why are you fighting with the Huntsmen?” “The Green Man,” one Huntress said. “I don’t understand.” The other Huntress fired another arrow into the fray before answering. “After his confrontation with Artemis, the Green Man became even more resentful. He began encouraging the Huntsmen in their worship of him, to the complete exclusion of Luna.” The first Huntress nodded. “We noticed a change in the men rather quickly. They became belligerent and demeaning in their attitudes. They began to demand that we give up our places in the Hunt, and become as servants to them, to atone for the crimes of our Lady.” “Crimes?” Michra was confused. She looked to Sa’raa, but the young werecat was still forcing her way past the charm that bound her. “The Green Man feels jilted by Luna and considers Artemis’ conception a betrayal of his love,” the Huntress explained. “He has decreed that all women must be held accountable, especially the Huntresses and the Sisters of Luna.” “The Huntsmen invaded the Yoni Luna,” the other Huntress said sadly. “Fortunately, the Sisters drove them out, but the battle was fierce and many of the Sisters were wounded.” She hung her head, “We guard them constantly now, and have repelled three more raiding parties.” Michra’s eyes grew wide, “The Hunt war among themselves?” The Huntresses nodded. “To our great shame,” one admitted. “It is far worse than that, however,” a Huntress said, “We have fought them to a stalemate, but the Green Man has begun to share secret knowledge with them.” “Knowledge of the Faer Folk,” the other explained, “forbidden to humankind since the earliest days.” She closed her eyes wearily for a moment before continuing, “The Huntsmen have been granted power beyond reckoning. The Sisters aid us as they can, but we have begun to lose ground.” Just then, arrows flew in their direction. One Huntress was pierced by several, falling to the ground, dead. The other pushed Sa’raa and Michra away from the battle. “Run!” she cried, turning to battle their attackers, “Flee this place while you can!” Then she was overwhelmed. Sa’raa and Michra ran. As they did, Sa’raa managed to change, giving her greater speed. Michra ran as fast as she could behind her and they soon left the battle far behind. However, they were also lost in the Great Wood. Sa’raa changed back. “What now?” she asked. “I have no idea,” Michra looked around, expecting attack at any moment. Then, through the trees, they heard voices. They crept closer to investigate, careful to keep themselves hidden. In a small clearing, they saw four Huntsmen. One was tied to a tree, surrounded by the other three. One of them held a ceremonial dagger. The one with the dagger spoke to his companions, “For breaking the new covenant of the Huntsmen, for giving aid and comfort to our hated enemies and for showing sympathy with the female cause, we hereby condemn this man to death! In the name of our Lord Druid!” The man tied to the tree stood proudly, silently defying his tormentors. Sa’raa studied the bound man a moment then gasped. “What?” Michra whispered. “Do you recognize him?” Sa’raa nodded, “It is Naatem!” she cried softly, “The Huntsmen mean to sacrifice my beloved!”

  Escape to the Wild Lands

  Naatem flexed his fingers and clenched the muscles of his forearms. Not for the first time, he wished he were strong like Jef. The ropes that bound him would be as nothing to the mighty War Chief, nor even to his young protege, Colyn. Though Naatem was tall, and certainly no weakling, he was slight of frame and not strong enough to snap the thick cords about his wrists. He ceased his struggles as Ajax and his henchmen a pproached. It still saddened Naatem to look upon the legendary Huntsman, whom, until recently, he had thought of with admiration bordering on reverence. How could such a great man have gone so wrong? “I am disappointed in you, Naatem,” Ajax said, brandishing his knife. “And I in you, Ajax,” Naatem returned. He stood as straight as his bonds would allow, looking the older man in the eye. One of the others punched him in the face and his head rocked to one side. Without a sound, Naatem turned to look at his assailant. He made an effort not to smile. He’d been taught to fight by men who could shatter solid rock with their blows. It would take more than these feeble attacks to break his will. He fixed the Huntsman who’d punched him with a steely gaze until the other averted his eyes. “Enough of this!” Ajax yelled. This was taking too long, and the boy was not as frightened as he should be. “You know your crimes, Naatem,” he said. “You’ve made them plain enough,” Naatem replied. “Then you know why you must now die.” Naatem did smile at this, “I know why you think I must, but I will never make sense of it.” Ajax faltered a moment. Did this make sense? Why kill this young man, one of the most gifted the Hunt had accepted into their order in many a year? Was it all because of the women? The old Huntsman thought back on just what the women had done, on what was so wrong with those they’d called sisters in the Hunt. That was when the pain started, deep in his soul, and a raging gibbering madness welled up in his mind. It was the Lord’s will that it be so, that was all Ajax need concern himself with. He shook his head to clear it, and the vicious gleam returned to his eyes as he fingered the blade of the sacrificial dagger. He raised it above his head, ready to strike. “No more talk! You die now!” There was a roar from the bushes, and a great black jungle cat leaped onto Ajax. The knife dropped from his hand as he fell beneath the cat, his screams turned to gurgles as Sa’raa tore out his throat. She looked up and growled at the other two Huntsmen, but they were already fleeing into the trees. “Sa’raa!” the young hunter cried out with joy and surprise. She stood, human once more and wiped the blood from her mouth. She smiled at him, “Hello, Naatem,” she said, “it seems I cannot leave you alone for a moment without some manner of trouble finding you.” “The same has been said of you, more than once, if I recall,” Naatem teased. Sa’raa’s smile turned wicked, “Spoken like one who does not wish to be untied,” she said. “Much as I enjoy romantic banter,” Michra said, emerging from her hiding place, “perhaps it would be best to continue this elsewhere?” She busied herself untying Naatem as Sa’raa made introductions. “Naatem, this is Michra,” she said, “a Gunfighter of Drego. She and I travel to our village bearing news for the Monga.” “Hello,” Michra nodded from behind the tree. The knots came loose and the ropes fell, “There you go,” she said. She came back around as Naatem rubbed his wrists. Sa’raa flung her arms about his neck and the two young lovers shared a brief embrace. “It would seem there is even more news to share with your mother on our arrival,” Michra commented as the three made for the woods. Naatem knew the way home, and would guide them there.
“It is not far,” he said, “and you are right. The Monga must know of what has happened. Once the Huntsmen have dealt with their own women, they will surely turn their eyes to our clan. There is no room for a matriarchy in their new way of looking at the world.” “What has happened to them?” Sa’raa asked as they walked briskly among the trees. They followed no path that she could see, and she was among the most proficient trackers of her people, but Naatem led them unerringly onward. “A group of Huntresses told us it has something to do with the Green Man?” Naatem nodded, “He has changed, that venerable old Wood Spirit,” he said sadly, “and this ancient forest changes with him. Can you feel it, the sinister air about the trees, as though they watch our passage through the Wood, wishing us ill?” Michra shuddered. She could feel eyes upon her, now that she thought of it. She had been raised in the wide open spaces of the Plateau, and had never been comfortable among the close confines of the forests. She suddenly felt a deep longing for her homeland. As though sensing her thoughts, Naatem nodded, “As it is with those who dwell among them, these woods are no longer friendly.” To Sa’raa he said, “We must visit Trae, before we see the Monga.” She nodded her agreement, “There is wisdom in that,” she said, “but we never know where she will be.” Naatem smiled, “Once free of this accursed wood, I can track her with ease. She will be near the edges, doing as she does, at any rate.” “Trae?” Michra asked. “My sister,” Sa’raa explained, “she has knowledge few others share. Knowledge even those of the Faer Folk have long since forgotten, if they ever knew it at all.” Michra would have asked more, but a long mournful howl echoed behind them. “Wolves,” Naatem whispered, eyes wide in fear. “They serve the Green Man, as do all the creatures of the Wood. Run!” He sped into the darkness of the Wood toward the Wild Lands, the girls close behind. They ran until the howls receded far behind them, then kept running until they could hear them no longer. At last, they collapsed, panting, against a fallen tree near a stream. Naatem looked around, smiling, and Sa’raa sniffed the air. “The Wild Lands,” she said happily. “Aye, beloved,” Naatem wrapped his arms around her waist, “we are home.” “Indeed you are,” a voice spoke from above. The three looked up, toward the voice that two found familiar. There, seated on the shoulder of a golem that towered above them, was a young woman. Her thick blonde hair was cut short and she was dressed in the leathers and furs all her people wore. Unlike most of her people, she also wore a long robe of darkest green, its numerous pockets brimming with all manner of writing and measuring implements. She held a large slate against the side of the golem’s head, its surface covered in numbers and odd equations. She smiled as she looked down at them. “So tell me, little sister, what sort of trouble do you and your young man find yourselves in this time? And who is this poor soul you’ve managed to drag into mischief with you?”

  The Numeromancer

  Trae sat on the shoulder of the giant golem, chin resting on one knee, lost in thought. She was considering all she’d just been told. “Hmm,” she said, “this could be a problem.” Sa’raa was incredulous, “Could be?” “For me,” Trae clarified. “For you?” Sa’raa repeated, still incredulous. Trae looked around, asking innocently, “Does anyone notice an echo?” Sa’raa made a face, Trae made one back. Michra rolled her eyes. She was an only child with no romantic attachments and all the banter was beginning to grate on her nerves. “Yes, yes, we’re all very clever. Why is this such a problem for you specifically, Trae?” “Well,” Trae said, “One of my jobs in the clan is to maintain the shield around the Wild Lands. For centuries, the purpose of the shield has been to keep the wild magic in. Recent events, however, have prompted the Monga to ask me to alter the shields so that they also keep our enemies out.” “Enemies such as the Nazeans?” Michra asked. “Yes,” Trae said, “but I anticipated other enemies arising, ones that would not be specifically defined as Nazean. So, rather than establishing which people should be kept out, I set wards according to who should be allowed in. Any who dwell in the Wild Lands, obviously, but also any of those whom we consider friends or allies. That is why you met no resistance when you entered here, Michra. Sa’raa considers you a friend.” “And the Hunt have been our allies for centuries,” Naatem said. “Exactly,” Trae nodded. “But they aren’t our allies anymore,” Sa’raa insisted. “Ah,” Trae held up her index finger, “but our people consider them allies. It will be a long time before we can change everyone’s mind on the subject.” “So, we are vulnerable to them?” Sa’raa asked. “For the moment.” “And there is nothing you can do?” “Pff!” Trae made a dismissive gesture, “Of course there is something I can do. This is me.” She smiled. “What, then?” Trae had already begun writing on her slate. Equations and formulae flowed from her chalk and she began talking in an odd rhythmic monotone. “Can’t keep them out, so I have to keep them busy. There’s a schism in the Hunt, schism is two, two isn’t one of my numbers, not a good number for magic, too even too equal, no give, no take...” She continued to write, and Michra saw bluish-white sparks coming off the slate where the chalk touched it, “Keep the women one, split the men again makes three, a schism within the schism, three is good for magic, but that gives the men two, which isn’t one of mine, so split one of the two again into three for the men but that gives them a magic number to themselves which is bad so I’ll split the other one again to make four, make them even no give no take, put the one of the women over the four of the men add it to the equation have five, five is good, five is magic, five is binding, and so...” She held up her hand, fingers splayed. A five-pointed star made of the same blue-white energy pulsed from her hand and hit the invisible barrier around the Wild Lands, causing ripples as it did so. It pushed past the barrier and dissipated into the Great Wood beyond. Trae touched her chalk to the slate and said, “Zero,” making the slate blank. She looked down at the others and smiled. “Done,” she said. Michra gaped up at her, eyes wide. “What in the Six Hells was that?” she asked. Trae laughed, “Things are different here in the Wild Lands, Gunfighter.” To her sister, she said, “I have more to do. Why don’t you three head back to the village. Tell the Monga I should be home by midday tomorrow.” The trio walked away, though Michra watched Trae over her shoulder. Sa’raa’s older sister spoke to the golem and it walked off in the other direction. “What did she just do?” Michra asked her companions. Sa’raa smiled, “She explained it to me once,” she said, “but I’ll be damned if anyone but her can make sense of it. Essentially, Trae has the ability to reduce everything to numbers.” Michra looked over her shoulder again, but Trae and her golem were gone. She looked back at the others, but pointed back over her shoulder. “So, what you’re saying is, she...um... she did uh...” She shook her head, “I still don’t get what she just did.” “She crafted a formula that will sow chaos and discord among the Huntsmen,” Sa’raa explained, “splitting them further and weakening them in their struggle. They will turn against each other, while the women of the Hunt remain united, thereby increasing the Huntresses’ chances of victory.” “Put another way,” Naatem offered, “she just reshaped reality using mathematics.” Michra stopped in her tracks. “By the gods,” she whispered, “with power such as that, she could remake the entire world in her own image. All of Amorlia could be hers.” “Probably,” Sa’raa said casually, “but she doesn’t want it.” Michra followed after, eyebrow raised, “She doesn’t want it?” “No.” “She says it would be too much work,” Naatem explained. Michra shook her head, dumbfounded, “You have an odd family, Sa’raa.” Sa’raa put an arm around her friend’s shoulder, laughing. “And you haven’t even met my mother yet.”

  In the Swamps of Drego

  “Well, this is charming.” Qi looked back over her shoulder at the Ki-Mon, who was up to her knees in mud and brackish water. They’d been traveling through the marshes for the better part of a day, though they seemed no closer to their goal. “Yes, well,” Qi said wryly, “I wanted your tour of Drego to be thorough.” “Given the current circumstances, I think I pr
eferred the horses and the bank robbers,” the Ki-Mon said, pulling her leg free with a loud sucking sound. She took another step, reflecting back on their journey as they made their laborious way toward Drego’s southern border. The train had arrived in the capitol city without incident. They were greeted at the station by a handful of Gunfighters, members of the palace guard and the court vizier. They were then taken directly to the palace, where they met Qi’s brother, the Monarch of Drego. Zen was obviously pleased to see his sister again, but also had a warm welcome for the Ki-Mon. He made all the usual polite noises regarding the exploration of relations between their people and all of that, but seemed quite genuine in his interest. Zen also showed considerable interest in continued relations with Vega, and encouraged Qi to return there to act as his representative. His sister and the Ki-Mon informed him of their intention to seek the legendary Signalman and he offered every assistance, though securing a member of the Hunt to guide them proved impossible. There were reports of violent strife in the Great Wood, and no messengers sent in had yet returned. Also, farmers living at the fringes of the Wood had begun arriving in the cities and towns, bearing strange tales of late- night raids by crazed Huntsmen. The two women were advised to avoid the Great Wood at all costs. He provided them with a map of all known routes through the marshes to the border, as well as supplies and a mule to bear them. The Land Drego was recovering swiftly from its occupation, thanks in no small part to the tireless efforts of the Gunfighters, Vega’s champion and his troop of soldiers. However, after a brief absence, Kael T’Ken had returned suddenly to Drego the previous day and respectfully requested to withdraw his troops. No mention was made with regard to why, but by that point Drego was more than adequately looked after by the Gunfighters, so Zen granted the request with gratitude. Qi and the Ki-Mon’s journey had been delayed by an attempted robbery of the royal bank. With many of the Gunfighters otherwise occupied hunting down rogue Nazeans or helping with the reconstruction effort, it had fallen to Zen’s sister and her new friend to apprehend the would-be thieves. Unfortunately, this necessitated a chase through the streets of the city on horseback, which left the Ki- Mon (unaccustomed to such a mode of travel) extremely sore. Qi suggested they retire to their room in the palace for hot baths and a bottle of whiskey to cure the Ki-Mon’s ills. Over the course of their baths, however, the two women passed a total of three bottles of Drego’s finest between them and it was most of a day before either could rise from their beds. Finally, they were ready to depart. After two days of travel through Drego’s picturesque farmlands and forests, they reached the edge of the vast southern marshes. Life had not been pleasant since. They’d lost their mule in the bog almost immediately, and it sank into the muck along with most of their supplies. So, by the end of that day, the adventurers were tired, sore, wet, filthy and hungry. The low fog rendered all but their immediate surroundings barely visible, and night was approaching. “So,” Qi asked, pulling her leg free yet again, “do we find a place to make camp or continue on through the night?” The Ki-Mon blinked at the Gunfighter, “Have you gone simple?” she asked, “Where would you propose we make camp? In the mud or,” she made a show of looking around, “in the mud?” “Well,” Qi also looked around, “we could... Hells,” she swore, “there really is nowhere is there?” They continued on, the Ki-Mon muttering under her breath, “Yes, the horses were definitely preferable to this.” “You certainly didn’t seem to enjoy them when you were riding one,” Qi snarked. “It was my first time!” the Ki-Mon snapped back, “If my experience is anything to go by, I doubt anyone enjoys their first time! And I felt even worse after your supposed ‘treatment’.” “Hey,” Qi said, defending herself, “you were the one who fell on it again. No one told you to jump out of your tub to perform the ‘traditional dance of friendship’, or whatever you called it, dripping wet on a polished hardwood floor.” The Ki-Mon was indignant, “I did no such... wait,” she thought a moment, “did I?” “I’m pretty sure,” Qi said, smiling, “though, in your defense, we were almost done with the third bottle by that point, so I’m sure most anything would have seemed like a good idea.” “Ugh,” the Ki-Mon shook her head, “don’t remind me. It is fortunate my husband was not there to witness that, or I’d never hear the end of his teasing.” She looked over at Qi, “Next time, I choose the drinks.” “Fair enough,” Qi said, “You know,” she changed the subject, “even if we aren’t making camp, we might... ooooohh.” She stopped, looking to the south. The Ki-Mon came up behind her, “What do you... oooooohhh.” Before them, less than a mile away, was the towering wall of thorns that separated the Land Pacha from the rest of Amorlia. It was massive, extending for miles to the east and west. The top was obscured by a persistent mist, with roots submerged deep in the muddy waters of the swamp. “Well,” Qi said, “it looks like we’re here.” “Not quite,” the Ki-Mon corrected her. She pointed west, “We still need to find the entrance, where this Signalman is supposed to be.” “And to do that,” Qi looked where her companion indicated, “we have to enter the Great Wood.” “But the Great Wood is supposed to be dangerous now,” the Ki-Mon reminded her. Qi grunted, “Everywhere seems to be dangerous lately,” she said. “Mm,” the Ki-Mon nodded. “Do we continue?” Qi asked. “Well, I certainly haven’t slogged through miles of festering muck for the sheer joy of it,” the Ki-Mon replied. She smiled at the Gunfighter, “I faced worse than whatever is in there when I was held captive by the Gator Women.” “Sounds nasty,” Qi said, “what happened?” The Ki-Mon smirked, “Let’s just say that, as a species, the Gator Women are nearly extinct now.” “Well then,” Qi said, gesturing toward the trees, “after you.” Slowly, and as silently as the sucking mud would allow, the Ki-Mon led them on toward the sinister forest.