Amorlia

by Chris Wichtendahl

  A Visit From Lord Rasp

  Julien Castille sat in his chair, just as he had the previous day and the day before that. The day before that one had also been spent in the chair, as had all the days since he woke from the terrible beating he’d suffered at the hands of Artemis Vega. Artemis Vega. He wanted that name to fill him with fury, to be moved to thoughts of vengeance and righteous anger at the wounds which still kept him bound to this chair and away from his rightful place as master of the Nazean Lands. He wanted to feel all of that, but what stirred in him at the thought of Artemis Vega was fear. Just her name was enough for terror to seize him by the heart, to make it beat faster, to cause his breath to come in shallow gasps. He... He needed to calm down. The healers told him that any stress would make it harder for his body to repair itself. They were, in fact, perplexed that they were not able to heal him as completely as they normally would. Something seemed to be preventing him from getting well. His bones were still broken in many places, though most had begun to knit themselves together. He could not walk unaided, and he still could not ingest solid food. He was blind in one eye and his jaw had been wired shut. Worse than that, he could no longer use his telepathy except for the most rudimentary conversation. He could no longer see into the minds of men. Only their most surface thoughts were his to know. A servant interrupted his thoughts. “Lord Rasp is here, Archbishop,” he said. See him in, Castille replied. He could not speak with his jaw wired shut, so he was forced to communicate with everyone telepathically. With his gift as reduced as it was, he found it a struggle to keep up a conversation of any length. The servant scurried to the door and opened it, bowing to the man who entered. Lord Rasp strode into the room without giving the servant a second glance. His long cloak swirled around his ankles and his hand rested comfortably on his sword hilt. He held his head high with pride, his clear blue eyes meeting Castille’s gaze unflinching, his square jaw set. Thick black hair flowed to his shoulders, swept back from his forehead by a band of silver. He approached Castille’s chair and sank to one knee, bowing. “Your Grace,” he said reverently. If there was one thing Castille hated about Lord Rasp (and there was definitely more than one thing), it was his unceasing respect. Since the man had taken over leadership of the Nazean Lands, he’d shown the utmost deference to the incapacitated Archbishop. Lord Rasp, Castille thought, what news have you of our Lands? “Though our losses at Vega and Drego were great,” the other man reported, “our new recruits have far exceeded my expectations. Not only will our numbers be replenished, they will be even greater than they were before.” Excellent news, Castille was forced to admit. These new men, they are from the outer provinces? Lord Rasp nodded. “I myself had a hand in their selection, and as you know, I had been spending a considerable amount of time in the outer provinces before your... unfortunate incident in Vega.” He bowed lower and Castille seethed. “After I publicly executed this Dark Huntsman of theirs, the locals held me in a sort of reverence. They flocked to our cause in droves.” So long as it is not your own private cause they flock to, Lord Rasp, Castille thought bitterly. “Your Grace,” Lord Rasp placed his hand over his heart and bowed again, “there is but one cause we all serve. My loyalty has always been to the Empire.” Indeed. Castille was forced to concede this was so. Of all his officers, Lord Rasp was committed to the Nazean ideals with great zeal. “Indeed yes, Your Grace,” Lord Rasp said, “In fact, I have devised a plan that should bring our fondest wish to fruition. The conquest of Amorlia.” And how would you accomplish this? “It is simple, Your Grace,” Lord Rasp explained. “As you have always said, the key to Amorlia is the Land Vega and the key to that Land is the destruction of Artemis Vega and her Champion, Kael T’Ken.” Lord Rasp pretended not to see Castille flinch at the name of Vega’s Monarch. Very good, Lord Rasp, Castille’s sneer was evident in his thoughts, you parrot my own words very convincingly. Tell me, how do you intend to accomplish this feat? “By luring them here,” Lord Rasp said, spreading his arms wide, “where we can overwhelm them with superior numbers.” Continue. “We begin with an assault on Drego,” Lord Rasp explained, “They will naturally call for aid from their allies. Once Vega joins the battle, our forces will fight on for a time, before retreating to our Lands. The armies of Drego and Vega will have no choice but to follow us. It is likely they plan an attack even now.” How can you be certain of that? Lord Rasp smiled and shrugged, “It is what I would do.” Very well, Castille thought irritably, but how do you intend to overwhelm the two most powerful superhumans on the planet? Three, if you count the speedster. “We have a powerful superhuman of our own, Your Grace,” Lord Rasp reminded him. Castille grunted, and Lord Rasp assumed it was a laugh. Fedrich? He did not fare too well against their Champion last time. “But he fared quite well against Artemis the last they fought,” Lord Rasp reminded the Archbishop, “It is my belief that if we can keep the Champion occupied, Fedrich can destroy Vega’s Monarch. T’Ken will be so demoralized by this, he will be easy prey for the Brain Masters, as will the speedster, particularly without Artemis Vega to protect their minds.” Castille considered this. It may work, Lord Rasp, he admitted, It just might at that. Very well, proceed with your plan. But keep me updated. “Every day, Your Grace,” Lord Rasp promised with another bow, “you have my word. Now, if you will excuse me, I must put our plan in motion.” Castille nodded, and with one final bow, Lord Rasp turned and left the room. Julien Castille sat in his chair, mustering the best smile his broken jaw would allow. Soon all would be as it should. Soon he would see Artemis Vega and her companions laid out before him. For the first time since his defeat at her hands, the thought of his nemesis did not fill him with fear. Instead, he felt considerable pleasure as he envisioned her head on display for all to see. A muffled laugh made its way through his clenched teeth. Yes, he was starting to feel better already.

  The Monga

  Sa’raa led Michra to a large open clearing deep in the tangled forest of the Wild Lands. A tall stone wall formed an inner ring several feet from the edge of the trees. Towers were set at the four compass points and each held a sharp-eyed scout. A single gate made of iron was the only entry to this fortified village. “There it is,” Sa’raa said proudly, “home.” “It’s magnificent,” Michra said softly. Sa’raa smiled. “Come on,” she walked toward the gate, “time to meet the rest of the family.” Guarding the gate were two women, identical down to the last detail of their clothing. They were roughly Sa’raa’s height, but their hair was a lustrous auburn instead of the werecat’s deep black. They each held a spear, which they leaned into the open gateway, forming an “X” to bar the travelers’ way. “Who dares approach?” they challenged. Their voices seemed gravely officious, though Michra thought she detected a smirk on each of their faces. “You know who I am, Bon,” Sa’raa sighed, “just let us in. We’re tired and hungry and I need a bath.” “That much is true,” the woman on the left said, wrinkling her nose, “and we’ll assume for the moment you aren’t a shapeshifter.” She pointed at Michra, “But who is she?” Sa’raa sighed again, gesturing first to Michra, “This is Michra, a Gunfighter from Drego. Michra,” she gestured to the two women, “this is my younger sister, Bon.” “Which one?” Michra raised an eyebrow. “Both of them,” Sa’raa said, “she can replicate herself.” “Really?” Michra was impressed, “How many times?” “Enough to make you run out of bullets, Gunfighter,” two more Bons approached from behind Sa’raa and Michra. “Ooooh,” Sa’raa rolled her eyes, “can we test that?” “Let’s,” Bon said, grinning wickedly. “Uhhh,” Michra held up her hands, “I just want to make clear that, um, I’m not shooting anybody here, okay?” Suddenly, there was just one Bon. She laughed as she approached her sister and the Gunfighter. “Oh, don’t mind us. We haven’t seen each other in a while and we had a lot of teasing to catch up on.” The sisters embraced. “Missed you, big sister,” Bon said. “Likewise,” Sa’raa smiled. Bon turned to Michra, hand outstretched, “A pleasure to meet you, Michra,” she said, “Sorry about all that.” “
Don’t worry about it,” Michra smiled, “I’ve come to expect it, traveling with her.” Bon laughed heartily, “Oh, that’s good.” To her sister she said, “I like this one.” She looked around, “Where’s Naatem?” she asked, “Trae’s messenger said he was with you.” Sa’raa shrugged, “You know Naatem. He saw the hunters on our way in and took off into the woods with them.” “Speaking of Naatem, what’s all this I hear about the Hunt going crazy?” Bon asked. Sa’raa held up a hand, “I’ll tell everyone everything at dinner tonight. Right now, I just want to get inside and introduce Michra to the rest of the family.” Bon stood aside to let the two women pass. “Good luck with that,” she muttered to Michra. No sooner had Sa’raa and Michra stepped through the gate than they heard someone shouting, “Watch out!” Michra turned just in time to be knocked over by what looked like a tall skeleton made of scrap metal and wires. The bizarre automaton staggered on toward one of a cluster of houses near a large central hall. Two young men ran after it. “Anton!” Sa’raa shouted, “Dru! What in the Six Hells was that thing?” The two boys stopped and turned. They grinned when they saw Sa’raa. “Hey, big sister,” Anton said, “when did you get back?” “Never mind that, Anton,” Sa’raa waved the question away, “what just knocked my friend down?” She reached down and helped Michra to her feet. “That’s our mechanical man,” Dru said, obviously excited, “We just made him. Isn’t he great?” “Why in the world would you want to make a mechanical man?” Sa’raa asked, hands on her hips. The two boys looked at one another, then at their sister. Their expressions suggested that Sa’raa’s question was on par with asking why things fell when you dropped them. “Umm… because?” Anton said. “Aye,” Dru agreed, “because.” Suddenly, there was a loud crash from the house the mechanical man had entered, followed by the sound of a man yelling. “ANTON!” the man’s voice yelled again, “DRU!” The young men looked at each other, color draining from their faces. “Colyn,” Anton whispered. “Run!” Dru shouted. The boys sped off in the opposite direction of the house. Anton shouted back over his shoulder, “Glad you’re back, Sa’raa!” A large muscular man with cropped black hair raced out of the house after the boys. Something sticky and wet dripped from his face and clothes, and he gripped the broken remnant of the mechanical man in one fist. He passed the two women without seeing them, shouting, “When I catch the two of you, I’m going to make you eat every last piece of this thing!” When he’d passed, Michra turned to Sa’raa, “Who?” “The two troublemakers are my brothers,” Sa’raa explained, “Dru and Anton. They’re Engineers. Geniuses with machines, but no so bright about everything else. The one chasing them is Colyn. He’s the Ki- Mon’s husband, and Second to the War Chief. If he doesn’t kill them, you’ll meet them all at dinner tonight. Follow me, and I’ll try to find my-” A scream split the air. “Anya!” Sa’raa cried. “Who?” “My youngest sister,” Sa’raa explained, breaking into a run, “It sounds like she’s in trouble. Hurry!” They reached the central courtyard in moments, only to find a massive winged creature with four arms and a beak filled with fangs looming over a terrified young girl. The largest man Michra had ever seen was on the creature’s back trying to wrestle it to the ground. “A terror beast!” Sa’raa cried. “I don’t know how it got past the towers, but it’s after Anya!” She transformed into the jungle cat and rushed to join the fray. Warriors came from all over the village to assist in bringing the creature down or to stand protectively in front of Anya, who was rooted to the spot in fright. BLAM! The terror beast’s head snapped back and it fell over dead, blood streaming from the bullet hole where its left eye had been. Everyone turned to look at Michra, who stood behind Anya, her smoking gun still aimed toward where the beast had stood. The Gunfighter looked around warily, then, with a grin, spun her pistol around her finger and slid it into its holster in one fluid motion. Sa’raa changed back and ran to her friend, wrapping her arms around her in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she said. “My pleasure,” Michra replied. She stepped back from the embrace and looked down into Anya’s upturned face. “Wow,” the girl said, “a real Gunfighter!” “I sure am,” Michra said proudly, “I’m a friend of your sister,” she gestured to Sa’raa. “Well, now you’re a friend of mine too,” Anya said, hugging Michra. Then, looking the Gunfighter over, “Are you hurt? I’m a healer. I don’t know if Sa’raa told you, but I can heal just about anything, so if you’re ever hurt, you just come see me.” She looked up, “Father!” she called, “Look! There’s a real Gunfighter here and she saved me from the terror beast!” The large man Michra had seen earlier now towered over her. He was at least six-and-a-half feet tall and made of solid muscle. He was bare- chested, his legs clad in leathers that were tucked into thick boots. He held a massive battle-axe in one hand that would have taken at least three average men to lift. He looked down at her with eyes that burned like miniature suns in a face carved from solid rock. His aura of menace was dispelled slightly when Sa’raa hugged him and kissed his cheek. She turned to her friend, “Michra of Drego,” she said, “allow me to present Jef, War Chief of the Wild Lands.” Michra extended her hand, and it was engulfed in his. “It’s a, uh, pleasure,” she stammered. “Thank you,” his voice was a low rumbling growl, “for saving my daughter.” He shook her hand, then walked past her toward the great hall, grumbling something about having things well in hand and not needing some outlander and her toys to do his work for him. “Pay my husband no heed, Gunfighter,” a voice laughed from behind Michra, “he makes a fine show of being grim and frightening, but he really is a sweetheart once you get to know him.” Michra turned, and immediately knew she was in the presence of Sa’raa’s mother. Regal and beautiful were the words that leapt to mind, but the woman standing before her redefined the very concepts those words represented. She was tall and athletically built, the muscles of her bare arms rippling as she opened them wide to gather her daughter up in a rough bear hug. Thick blonde hair fell to her shoulders and she wore a simple crown of silver at her brow. She was dressed in similar furs and leathers as her family, with a long leather cloak trimmed in fur clasped loosely at her broad shoulders. She wore a broadsword strapped to her hip, and three daggers hung from her belt. Starlight glittered in her eyes as she smiled at her guest. “You have my deepest gratitude, Michra of Drego, for what you have done this day. I am the Monga,” she said by way of introduction, “and I bid you welcome.” “Welcome,” she said again, “to the home of the Clan of the Wild Lands.”

  Land of the Nightwalkers

  Qi sat crouched behind a piece of crumbling masonry and tried desperately to slow her breathing. She didn’t want them to hear her and they had incredibly good hearing. She closed her eyes and lay her head back, ears alert for the slightest sound. She gripped the Ki-Mon’s staff tightly in her hands. She’d considered abandoning it after the first attack, so as to allow her the use of both pistols, now she was glad she didn’t. Her guns slowed them down, but even a bullet through the brain didn’t kill them. Nothing killed a Nightwalker. Nightwalkers. Shadow-demons. Bloodsuckers. They were called many names, each one striking fear into those who heard it. The Nightwalkers had roamed the Lands since the last war ended, keeping to the shadows and the dark places, avoiding the sun and feeding on the blood of the living. They were dead, yet they lived, possessing great strength and agility. Some even said they could fly. Sightings were very rare, which was good, as even one Nightwalker had been known to tear an entire regiment of heavily-armed soldiers to shreds. Qi Drego was currently lost in a Land filled with them, and they all wanted a piece of her. She looked up and, not for the first time, cursed the thick grey clouds that hung over the tops of the thorn wall, blocking out the sun and casting the Land Pacha in eternal darkness. Everything here was dead, yet somehow still living. The people, the animals, even the plants were undead. She’d made the mistake of brushing against the leaves of a sickly grey tree. Sharp spines cut her, drawing blood, and suddenly she was covered in leaves trying to leech the blood from her veins. She’d fought her w
ay out of that one, and it felt like she just kept fighting after that. Since entering this Land she’d been attacked by the tree, a bunch of red-eyed feral cats and roving packs of undead humans, all of them desperate for her blood. Her guns were nearly useless for all that they never ran out of bullets, but she vaguely recalled a bit of lore that told of one way to truly kill a Nightwalker. She looked down at the staff in her hand, the one hewn from the trunk of an ironwood tree, and had an idea. She slid her knife from the sheath in her boot and hoped the wood was not so tough as to be uncarvable. It was not, though the carving was rough going. By the time she had a sufficiently sharp point at each end of the staff her knife was dull as a spoon. She slid it back into its sheath making a mental note to sharpen it when she got out of this place. If she got out. She shook her head, refusing to be defeated. She was Qi Drego, chief Gunfighter of her Land. She’d survived the Plateau sieges, she would survive this too. She stood, spinning the two-pointed makeshift spear in her hands. She was suddenly very grateful to her mother for forcing her to study the various hand-to-hand fighting disciplines. She was a fair hand with a staff, and had drilled for a time with the lancers before Zen had disbanded Drego’s standing army. She said a silent prayer that it would be enough. Then she had no time for prayer, nor time for anything save action. She heard a low hiss from above and leaped out of the way moments before the Nightwalker struck. She backed away from him, looking around for more, keeping her spear twirling before her. Another hiss from behind her, then two more on either side. “Come closer, warm blood,” one of the women said, sliding toward Qi with inhuman grace. They were beautiful, these Nightwalkers. Pale and luminous as the moon, their beauty was hypnotic. Qi looked away before she was entranced by it. “Yesss,” a man said, gliding toward her on the left, “come to us, bloodbag, and let us feed.” Without warning, Qi jammed one point of her spear into his heart. Before he’d finished screaming, she’d pulled the spear free and stabbed through the woman’s heart with the other end. In a single fluid motion, she dispatched two of her other attackers and turned to face the last. He appeared to be a young man, though Qi knew enough about the bloodsuckers not to trust the physical age of a creature who’s body would never again show the passage of time. She stood, spear ready and dripping with the thick blackish blood of her enemies. She panted heavily, and her heart pounded in her ears. She wanted to attack, but knew she’d have a better chance on the defensive. “Any time you’re ready, boy,” she growled. “Oh, how lovely,” a laughing voice said from behind her, “it actually thinks it has a chance.” Qi looked around her and gasped. She was surrounded on all sides by Nightwalkers. They were on the ground and all along the tops of the derelict buildings. Everywhere she looked, they were there. Some had begun to feed on the fallen, but most just sat unnaturally still and watched her. The one who’d spoken did so again. She turned to face him, keeping her spear up in front of her. “Tell me, Gunfighter,” he said, almost casually, “do you gamble?” “I’ve been known to,” she replied, still looking around warily. The others seemed to be waiting for this one to make the first move. If she could keep him talking... “Well,” he continued, “as a betting woman, who would you put your money on: the scores of hungry Nightwalkers, each with the strength and speed of twenty men,” a chittering hiss went up from the undead assembly, “or,” he continued, “a lone human woman with a pointy stick?” the Nightwalkers laughed hideously and he smiled, revealing long sharp fangs. Qi didn’t answer. She simply set her feet in a fighting stance and spun her spear into a defensive posture, glaring at her opponent. He smiled at her, his beautiful eyes shining red in the perpetual shadows. Then, his voice almost too soft to be heard, he said, “Take her.” A deafening screech went up from the Nightwalkers as they descended upon her.