Amorlia

by Chris Wichtendahl

  Between the Worlds

  Artemis opened her eyes and was slightly surprised to see Sar looking down at her with great concern. “Oh, good,” the Fire Spirit said, relieved, “you’re awake. How do you feel?” “Like I was thrown down a flight of stairs, then kicked a few times for good measure,” Artemis sat up, groaning, “What happened?” “You lived through the destruction of another plane of existence,” Emfex said, entering the small chamber where Artemis rested, “The Summerland is gone. All that remains in its place is a swirling vortex of souls, passing in and out of the Spark, to and from life. It is a chaotic arrangement, prone to disaster. Something must be done to control the flow.” He paused a moment, stroking his metal chin, “Hmm,” he mused, “perhaps I could build something...” He left the room, already designing the machine in his mind. “Well,” Sar said with a wry smile, “I won’t be seeing him for a while.” Artemis looked around her, then back at Sar, “So,” she said, “Faery remains?” Sar nodded, “We all talked, and decided we won’t be going anywhere.” “I thought you would have followed your creators.” Sar laughed, “Oh, they weren’t our creators. We were here for millennia before they came along.” “But,” Artemis was getting confused again, “the legends say...” “Artemis,” Sar scolded her, “haven’t you learned anything? Legends are just stories, and stories can be changed.” She sat down next to Artemis on the small bed, “Long before they had the notion of omnipotent gods, humans created the concepts of nature spirits, or faeries. It was the first thing that came to mind when trying to explain the world around them.” She imitated a shaman teaching a young human, “‘Where does fire come from, shaman?’ ‘Oh, um, well, from fire spirits, of course’. ‘And who made the eagles, shaman?’ ‘The, um, eagle spirits’,” Sar laughed, “And so on. You get the idea. “So, time passed, humans evolved, society became more complex and someone hit on the idea of gods. A few hundred years of that concept,” she shrugged, “and we were relegated to subdeity status.” She waved her hand dismissively, “But none of that matters now. It’s all changing for them. Emfex says they are leaving the vagaries of faith behind for the certainties of proof, whatever that means.” She stood, offering Artemis a hand up, “But that is neither here nor there. If there is to be a humanity left to evolve, you had best get back to Amorlia.” Artemis stood, and Sar walked with her out of the dwelling and through Faery. They passed the Trees of Life and Knowledge, and their winged guardian. “So, why didn’t she suffer with the other Sol Ky Taan when their home was destroyed?” Artemis asked, pointing to Gloriel as they walked by. “She isn’t really a Sol Ky Taan,” Sar answered, “A better term might be SoLun Ky Taan. She was created by Solar and Luna together to guard the trees. But don’t worry about any of that. Those trees are not for you. She waits for another.” “Who?” “A hero not yet born,” Sar said, “Trust me, you have more important things to worry about.” “Okay,” Artemis shrugged. She looked around, “Hey! I know where we’re going.” She looked accusingly at Sar, “You can’t let me out near the Green Man. He and his mad followers want to kill me. Well,” she admitted, “they want to kill all women, but they really seem to have it in for me.” “I know,” Sar said, “that is why we will both be leaving via Druid’s throne. I have business to settle with him.” “Oh?” “Oh, yes,” Sar’s face turned grim, and her flames blazed brighter, “Things have gotten out of hand in the Great Wood. The Huntsmen have started a new religion, with the Green Man as their sole deity. Their worship involves wild ceremonies in which the Huntsmen all get drunk on strong whiskey and beat each other up. The man who loses the most fights is forced to don women’s clothing and ‘service’ the other men for the remainder of the evening.” “That’s horrible!” Artemis gasped. “I thought so too,” Sar agreed, “until I saw what they have planned for this evening.” “What is it?” Sar grimaced, “They’ve captured a Huntress, and bound her to their foul altar where they offer up animal sacrifices to their twisted god. They plan to sacrifice her tonight by raping her to death.” “WHAT?!” “Yes, I felt the same way,” Sar said, “that’s why you and I go there now to stop this.” They approached the portal and Artemis felt the crystal grow hotter on her forehead. “When we exit the portal,” Sar explained, “you take out the Huntsmen. I’ll tend to the Huntress. Once they’re all sorted, I’ll send you on to the battle before I deal with Druid.” “What are you going to do to him?” Artemis asked. “Nothing he doesn’t deserve.” Finally, the portal opened before them, and Artemis leaped out howling, her sword drawn. She took the Huntsmen completely by surprise, and they scurried back, cowering slightly in fear. They’d grown even more savage since the last time Artemis had seen them. They wore naught but ragged loincloths around their waists and had eschewed their bows and arrows for simple spears made of sharpened sticks. When they saw who Artemis was, they regained their courage and advanced on her. Artemis jumped up onto the crude altar, her face lit from below by the torches ringed around it. Behind her, she heard Sar help the young Huntress off the altar. Then she threw herself at the gathered men, sword whirling and a loud war cry echoing through the small clearing. She split the skulls of two men before snapping the spine of a third and breaking the legs of a fourth. Two more rushed at her, intending to spear her, and she knocked their weapons away before cracking their necks with her sword. The lone survivor drew a knife from the waistband of his filthy loincloth, but was unable to advance on her after his head exploded in flame. Artemis turned and saw Sar pointing at her would-be attacker. She held a semi-conscious Huntress in her other arm. “She’s been poisoned,” Sar explained to Artemis. “Maybe I can-” “No,” Sar shook her head. She waved her hand, and a sheet of fire grew up from the ground, making the shape of a doorway. “Pass through these flames and you will find yourself where you are needed most.” “They won’t burn me, will they?” Artemis hesitated. “Artemis,” Sar laughed, “What good would it be to send you to your friends if I were only going to burn you up on the way?” Artemis returned the laugh, “Good point. Okay,” she stepped closer to the fiery doorway, then turned toward Sar, “I will see you again, yes?” “Count on it,” Sar smiled. Artemis smiled back, stepped into the flames and was gone. WHAT IS THIS?! The Green Man’s anger echoed off the trees, WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO MY WORSHIPPERS? HOW COULD YOU AID THAT VILE WOMAN’S ESCAPE?! “You shut your mouth, Druid,” Sar spat over her shoulder, “I’ll deal with you in a moment.” She turned back to the Huntress, running her finger across the woman’s forehead. A trail of flame followed, but did not burn the Huntress’ skin. “There you go,” Sar said gently, “that should burn the poison out of your mind.” The Huntress came back to herself and opened her eyes. She looked around, then up at her rescuer. Her eyes grew wide, “M-my thanks, Faer One,” she stammered. Sar smiled at her, kissing her forehead, “It was my pleasure, child. Go now, to the Yoni Luna. My blessing will keep you from further harm until you get there, but hurry. Danger is everywhere.” The woman nodded and ran off, leaving the two natives of Faery alone. WHAT DO YOU WANT, SAR? the Green Man demanded, THIS IS MY REALM, AND YOU ARE NOT WELCOME IN IT. Sar turned angry eyes on her former comrade, “No, Druid. You misunderstand. This is their realm, and you have twisted it. Your petty jealousies and insecurity have damned an entire people!” MY ANGER HAS MADE THE HUNTSMEN STRONG! the Green Man argued from his lofty perch. “Your hatred has made them animals!” Sar countered, glaring up at him. WHAT OF IT? THERE IS LITTLE YOU CAN DO. Sar shook her head, her face turning sad. “That is where you’re wrong,” she said, “I am sorry it had to come to this, Druid.” COME TO WHAT? Druid’s voice was still full of scorn, though a note of worry colored its timbre. Sar looked up at him again, a single fiery tear making its way down her cheek. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper. “Burn.”

  Reversals of Fortune

  Sa’raa leapt and spun from enemy to enemy, her twin blades just flashes of red-streaked metal. She had sustained only minor cuts and bruises in the fighting, and attacked with the heedless ferocity
born of youth. So lost was she in this dance of blood and steel, she did not notice the assassin creep up behind her until a bullet burst his head. She turned, surprised, to see Qi already firing her guns into a horde of Nazean soldiers. The Gunfighter spared a moment to wink at the younger woman, then vanished into the melee. Elsewhere, Michra stood among Bon and her duplicates, holding a patch of ground littered with wounded comrades. They would remain until someone could come to bring the fallen to the healers’ tent, located far back from the fighting on a small rise overlooking the battlefield. She was running low on ammunition and hoped whomever came to gather the injured would also bear fresh bullets for her guns. Two of Bon’s duplicates fell to enemy fire, and the rest doubled over from the shared agony. What one felt, all of them felt, and when a duplicate died, Bon herself felt it even more keenly. The shock of two deaths caused all of her duplicates to vanish and Bon fell to her knees, trembling and gripping her abdomen. Michra went to stand over her fallen adoptive sister, the blaze of her guns holding the enemy at bay. Then the hammers fell on empty chambers, and the girls were overwhelmed. As the first of many sword-thrusts pierced her, Michra’s only thought was to cover Bon’s body with her own. Brother Sime stood amid a troop of Nazean soldiers, straight and still, completely unarmed. A sharpshooter fired on the monk from his place in the trees, but Brother Sime merely sidestepped the bullet, allowing it to strike one of his attackers. The sharpshooter tried three more times, succeeding only in killing three of his countrymen. The rest of the soldiers surrounding Brother Sime lunged at him with their swords, but he simply danced nimbly out of the way, causing them to stab each other. In the end, he stood surrounded by the bodies of his attackers, never once having raised a hand against them. He said a brief prayer and moved on. Jef swung his mighty war axe in a vicious arc, taking the heads of scores of enemies, splitting others completely in two. He was covered in the blood of many foes, and the war madness of his people was upon him. His laugh was a great booming roar, giving pause to enemies and allies alike. Frankl led Naatem and the rest of the hunters through the tall grasses near the Nazeans’ right flank. He was Huntmaster of the Wild Clan, and determined to prove his mettle on the field. Though more accustomed to tracking game in the forests of his homeland, he’d learned long ago that men could be hunted as easily as any other animal. As with most herds and packs, Frankl’s hunters focused on those soldiers that became separated from the others, particularly the injured. It was in this way that the Huntmaster and his people chipped away at the Nazean army from within. It was not as glorious as what his siblings did, but would do as much as all their bloody bravado. Kael flew above the battle, keeping watch for any places he’d be needed, and trying to intercept most of the Nazean’s heavy artillery before it reached his own forces. He noticed the front line moving further into Nazean territory, indicating that his people were gaining ground. Something seemed wrong about that. Even with the reinforcements from Vega, the Wild Lands and the newly-liberated Pacha, the Nazeans still outnumbered them in men and materiel. Yet, somehow, they seemed to be winning. He suspected a trap, and flew back toward the healers’ tent where a makeshift command center had been set up. He found the Monga, Zen Drego, Lady Iris and Skot of the Westwall Hunt gathered around a table strewn with maps, taking turns watching the battle through an ornate spyglass. Behind them, a distance from the healers’ tent, Dru and Anton had set up their wagon and were busy assembling unrecognizable pieces of technology. When asked, they simply explained that what they were building “would be needed”, and returned to their work. Kael approached the gathered leaders, who were busy watching an aerial battle between the Nazean and Vegan airships. The few ships that Vega had been able to send were under the command of Admiral Rober Hartson, and seemed to be doing well. Two had sustained minor damage only, while several Nazean airships had already crashed, broken and burned beyond repair. “Champion,” Lady Iris bowed to him, “our forces are poised to carry the day.” “So it would seem,” was Kael’s curt reply. Lady Iris had distinguished herself in many campaigns since Vega was retaken, finally rising to the rank of Field Commander, reporting only to Kael and Artemis. For all that, her experience in broader strategy was somewhat lacking. She looked at Kael quizzically, “You believe differently?” “I believe we are being led into a trap,” he said, “While I do not doubt the strength and valor of our forces, it is simply a matter of numbers. We should not be gaining this much ground this quickly.” “I agree,” the Monga said, “We’ve been considering sending up the signal to hold, rather than advance.” “I still believe it might be best,” Zen commented, “to spring their trap. We are aware of it, and will therefore be ready for whatever comes.” “Skot?” Kael turned to the jungle chieftain. “I agree with the Monarch of Drego,” he said, “If we hold here too long, the Nazeans will no doubt double their efforts. Our losses will likely be greater than if we simply took their bait.” Kael nodded slowly, continuing to survey the battlefield. “Signal the advance,” he said, “Let us spring their trap.” It was two days before they reached the Nazean capitol. Each scrap of land gained was hard-earned, and losses were heavy on both sides. It was during the initial push into the Nazean Lands that Michra and Bon were discovered, the former having shielded the latter with her own body. Kael found them, and brought them to the healers’ tent. Bon would recover, suffering from little more than shock and minor wounds, but Michra was well beyond the skill of any healer. The Monga wept over her adopted daughter as she would her own blood, reluctantly allowing the body of the young Gunfighter to be placed with the other dead. She would take it upon herself to inform Qi of the loss of her protege, when next the two women met. Sa’raa flew into a rage upon learning of Michra’s death. Tears streaming down her face, she changed to her feline form and ran into the thick of the battle, heedless of all attempts to call her back. When the rest of the army followed, they found a trail of mauled and savaged bodies left in Sa’raa’s brutal wake. When the weary forces of the allied Lands finally reached the capitol, they found a deadly surprise waiting for them. Thousands of fresh troops stood just inside the city gates, and Fedrich Ma’Caer stood in the sky, thunderclouds roiling overhead. He began throwing lightning at the invading army and killed dozens with his first salvo. Kael flew to engage him, and the two began a violent mid-air battle. Julien Castille watched from the balcony of his palace, Lord Rasp by his side. Though the Archbishop’s strength had returned steadily, he still required a cane to walk about, and tired easily. He looked over at his second-in-command and raised an eyebrow. “The city garrison do not attack, Lord Rasp,” he said. “They simply await my signal, Your Grace.” “Then give it,” Castille ordered impatiently. “Of course.” Lord Rasp drew his pistol, aimed it out the window, and shot Fedrich Ma’Caer through the head. The self-proclaimed Storm God fell from the sky and his thunderclouds cleared, allowing sunlight to bathe the city in gold. “What was that?!” Castille rounded on Lord Rasp, who had begun to look rather odd. “That was my signal, Your Grace,” Lord Rasp sneered, “observe,” he gestured out the window. In the streets below, Lord Rasp’s soldiers threw off their Nazean army uniforms, revealing the blue and gold livery of the Land Zill. They joined the battle eagerly, though on the side of the invaders, rather than the Nazean defenders. Castille turned again to Lord Rasp, only to discover he was not Lord Rasp. In place of his officer stood a man dressed head-to-toe in black. A mask covered his face, and a long black cloak swirled about his feet. He aimed his pistol at the Archbishop. Castille tried to back away, but his legs gave out and he slumped against the window. He looked fearfully at the stranger before him. “L-Lord Rasp?” “Is long dead,” the masked man said. “I have been impersonating him for months, using a frightfully simple illusion. You should be ashamed of yourself, Archbishop,” he laughed, “an accomplished telepath would have seen right through it.” “Who...” Fear crept up Castille’s spine as the answer to his own question dawned on him. “Most know me as The Dark Huntsman,” the man in black replied, deliv
ering a slight bow. “Those soldiers out there have been in my employ for some time.” He laughed again, “You did not know it, ‘Your Grace’,” scorn dripped from his voice, “but the frontier has been mine for years!” He stepped closer, gun still pointed at the frightened Archbishop, “You built an empire on the backs of my people, covered in the blood of my family. Now, after a lifetime spent preparing for this moment,” he pulled the hammer back on his revolver, “I am here to take it all away from you.” Then he shot Julien Castille in the face.

  A Hero Revealed and a Villain Returns

  Artemis stepped from the fiery doorway into a scene of restrained celebration. The sudden turn of the Nazean garrison, coupled with the deaths of the Archbishop and their Storm God, had taken whatever fight was left out of the beleaguered Nazean soldiers. Artemis made her way through the throngs of happy warriors until she found her husband. He was with Zen Drego, the Monga and Rober Hartson. Lady Iris had been one of those killed by Fedrich Ma’Caer’s lightning and the admiral had taken her place in council. All three were pleased at the Monarch’s approach, but none more so than Kael T’Ken. He rushed to her and swept her up in his arms, pulling her in for a powerful hug. “Can you believe it, beloved?” he asked, smiling, “It is finally over!” “Well,” Artemis said, forcing a smile, “we’ll see. I have one or two things to share with everyone, but for now, perhaps you can tell me why I’m seeing soldiers wearing Zill’s old colors?” “That would be my doing.” Artemis turned to see a tall, muscular man dressed all in black. He seemed about ten years her senior, with a lined face and thick dark hair turning to grey. He smiled at her, and for some reason seemed very familiar. Artemis did not recall ever meeting this man, but could have sworn she’d seen him somewhere before. “Artemis Vega,” Kael said with a grin, “meet the Dark Huntsman.” Artemis gaped as she shook the Dark Huntsman’s hand, “I thought you were just a legend,” she said. “Yes, well,” the man in black chuckled, “that was rather the point, wasn’t it? Though,” his face grew more serious, “my time as that person is done. I am ready now to take my rightful place on the throne of Zill.” Artemis blinked, “Forgive me,” she said, “but what claim do you have to the throne? The entire royal family was slaughtered over two decades ago.” Then it hit her where she’d seen this man before. He was the very image of Toman, last Monarch of the Land Zill. “I see you’ve noticed the resemblance,” he said, “so allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Wayen Zill.” He bowed slightly. Artemis shook her head, confused. “That isn’t possible,” she said, “Wayen Zill was executed with his family when he was eight years old, the day the Nazeans invaded.” “Not exactly,” Wayen replied. There was a very old sadness in his eyes as he told his tale. “The day the Nazeans invaded, they murdered my parents, my sister, my brother,” his voice broke slightly, “and the only son of two poor merchants, who’s sole crime was having the misfortune to look exactly like me.” He looked at Artemis, peripherally noticing that others had gathered to hear his story, “I was eight years old,” he said softly, the ghost of a half-remembered smile on his face, “and a precocious little bastard. My older brother was training to one day assume the throne, while my little sister was being doted on as the baby of the family. I excelled at my own studies, so my tutor had gotten in the habit of giving me time during the day to spend as I chose.” He shrugged, “I chose to spend that time sneaking out of the palace and wandering the market. I wanted to see things as regular people saw them, unencumbered by the weight of my royal station. It was during one such excursion that I met young Grayjen Draak. He was running from the market guards after they caught him stealing bread and he collided with me between the stalls. “Once we’d eluded the guards and gotten over our initial shock about our appearances, we decided to have some fun. We traded clothes and decided to exchange lives for a day. He would go live in the palace and enjoy a day of wealth and privilege, while I would see life through the eyes of a commoner.” Wayen hung his head, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He was amazed that, even now, after all he’d lived through, this story could still move him to tears. “Of course,” he said, “that was the day the Nazeans invaded. They took the royal family, and the poor unsuspecting merchant boy, out to the palace courtyard, where they shot them all in full view of the people.” He sighed, “I lived as best I could as Grayjen after that, and though I was certain my ‘parents’ were aware of my ruse, they never let on, not even when I left their home at thirteen to make my way in the world. I left my homeland, traveling across Amorlia, learning the skills I knew I would need if I were ever to liberate my Land.” He grinned at Artemis and Zen, “Neither of you know this, but I spent time among Vega’s Rifle Brigade and the Gunfighters of Drego. I spent five years with the Hunt and even managed to make my way into the Wild Lands.” He nodded to the Monga, “You knew me as Kitser the Lonely.” The Monga gasped, then smiled and came to hug Wayen. “I always wondered what became of you,” she said, “I’ve missed you, boy.” Wayen grinned at her, “And I you. My time among your family was the happiest since I last saw my own.” He turned back to Artemis, eyebrow raised, “So, Monarch? Is that sufficient to support my claim to the throne?” “And then some,” Artemis said with a wide smile. She clapped him on the shoulder, “No doubt your people are in dire need of someone like you after--” A low rumbling filled the air, followed by a hideous cackle. Everyone looked up to see the Ship of the Dead hovering above the city. “What in the Six Hells is that?” Wayen asked. He’d already pulled on his mask and drawn his gun. A sword was in his other hand. “Trouble,” Artemis answered, “and more of it that we can handle, I’d wager.” “We’ll just see,” the Dark Huntsman growled, “I didn’t work this hard to regain my Land only to see it fall into the hands of...” he looked over at Artemis, “Who are we dealing with here?” Another cackle, this time from much closer. The Ship of the Dead was descending rapidly. “I am Carola Delas, masked man!” the undead captain shouted, “And I’m after far more than the bloated remnants of a forgotten Land.” “You’ll get nothing, monster!” Kael shouted back. He turned first to his wife, then to his new ally, “Right?” he asked. Artemis stood to the left of him, the Dark Huntsman to the right. Both assumed fighting stances. They watched and waited as the Ship of the Dead fell faster and faster toward the city. “You fools!” Carola cried out, “You pathetic little fools! You know nothing!” She held the Signalman’s corrupted lantern high. Inside it was the head of the Mad Wizard. In the head’s mouth was the heart of the Nightwalker Queen. The lantern now glowed black, a hymn of despair washing over all. Carola laughed hideously as the haunted airship crashed into a row of buildings. The Ship of the Dead erupted in black flame. It burned cold, and all who stood near it felt chilled to the bone. Carola stood up from the wreckage, her dark trophy still in her hands. The lantern had begun to pulse, and her undead crew hobbled out of the burning airship toward her. “Now you will bow to your true master!” Carola cried, “Now you shall see just who- eh?” She looked around as her crew began to grab hold of her, piling on top of her en masse, “Get off of me, you... no!” she cried, “No, my Queen, I beg you! Don’t do this to me! Not to meeeeeee!” The bodies of Carola and her crew twisted and snapped, horrid crunching sounds coming from the pile of putrified flesh. A low moan began to emanate from the shuddering remains as the merged bodies reshaped themselves into a single figure. Bone linked to bone, nerves and tendons twined around veins and arteries as musculature threaded itself throughout the skeleton. Pale grey skin slid over all like a sheath and a shock of purple hair grew from the scalp. As Artemis looked at the twisted face, it formed itself into sickeningly recognizable features. The freshly-made woman stood before those assembled and with a wave of her hand caused her old tattered gown to cover her nakedness, black and purple cloth shimmering in the unholy firelight. Umbra surveyed the people before her contemptuously, smiling as her eyes fell upon Artemis. “Hello, little sister,” she said, smiling and running her tongue along her teeth, “did you miss me?”