Prologue (The Scofflaw Series) (Free Epic Fantasy)

by Christopher J Taylor



  The Scofflaw Series: Prologue

  Christopher J. Taylor

  Copyright 2014 - Christopher J Taylor

  EXCERPT:

  "You? Daughter, what move do you wish to make that would change the course of my victory?" asked Therraz.

  "I? None. However, by the rules we all follow, there is one who has not yet had the opportunity to act in this round," replied Ayliaster, daughter of Therraz, goddess of love.

  "Really? And who would this be?" asked Therraz.

  "You know," replied Ayliaster, turning to address the assembled deities, "You all know. You want to forget what he once accomplished, that even combined, it required trickery and mortal aid to stop him. We bound him because to destroy him would undo us all. He must be given a chance to impact the world."

  The wind screamed around Sir Ghenza and his two remaining companions as they picked their way through the rough landscape. The mountain shook beneath them and clouds of ash spewed into the air above them. Lightning tore the heavens and fires burned like cast off embers on the battleground below. Never had the knight felt so close to hell.

  The two score knights and their entourage had known the road would be difficult when they began their quest. The Lady Aurellis, goddess of love personified, had spoken to them directly when she had placed her gift in their hands. One did not doubt the word of a god, but none had expected this. Two companies of Hallorian knights were not a force easily diverted. Most of the factions they met had been content to let them pass when the knights did not immediately attack. Those few who fought had not done well. Only six had fallen, and if Ghenza succeeded, two would recover. The monsters had been worse.

  Bands of orcs and goblins, driven inexplicably to frenzy, had attacked on sight and fought to the last. Their numbers and fury had cost half the men their lives. The hoards were not taking prisoners. The rest of the company had fallen to outbreaks of one plague or another, animal attacks, and even the weather until only the three were left to fulfill their mission.

  The world had been growing more chaotic for years, but this war, this time, was different, worse. The mage guilds had turned against each other. The friendly rivalries of the chivalric orders had turned sinister and broken into open war. The old empires were gone, replaced by kingdoms bickering over land, gold, cattle, and every possible insult. It seemed any excuse to take the other’s land was good enough for war.

  Through it all, the city of Halloria had held fast, her mages guild and knightly orders refusing to join the chaos. The imperial justicar, Jherrick, had kept order. The people had tried to make old Jherrick king, but he refused. Thus, the last bastion of the old empires stood, all but alone. When the Lady Aurellis appeared to warn of impending siege, the news was no surprise, though the messenger surely was. The shock came when she declared the city would fall and that the best of the defenders must leave to complete a quest that would not change Halloria’s fate. Jherrick resisted, stating, with accuracy, that the city might find victory if she kept her soldiers. One does not argue with a god, not for long. The Lady bestowed her gift and her blessing on twenty knights of the Shining Star, twenty of Jherrick’s best men, ten of Whistham Academy’s most powerful mages and a score of apprentices and squires.

  A week after Aurellis’ company departed, the city came under siege. A week after that, the walls were breached and the city sacked. Another three days saw the bursting of the great bronze gates of Hallor Keep. Almost one month after the invaders were first sighted, nothing remained of Halloria, of the splendor of the old empires, but blackened ruins and fields of carrion.

  Had this chaos been confined to a small corner of the land, or even one of the old empires, Ghenza would not have been so desperate or determined. As the company had ridden along their appointed path, they had seen the truth. The world, every corner of it, had gone mad. War, and the accompanying famine and disease, was everywhere. Then the earth itself joined the upheaval.

  The weather was first, with storms lashing the land with rain, lightning, hail, snow, and drought. Many of those who had survived the wars froze to death or drowned in floods or succumbed to scorching heat. Then came the earthquakes, tearing apart the landscape, sinking shorelines, and toppling mountains. Then the broken earth erupted. Fully a quarter of the known world was now covered in lava fields. Some were expanses of new, barren rock. Others remained seething lakes of fire. A few had become new volcanic mountains, reaching up as if to pull down the heavens and complete the destruction. Those who did not believe the world was near its end were likely already dead.

  Through it all, the men bearing the gift of Aurellis pressed on, their numbers dwindling. Only three of seventy remained able to press onward: Ghenza, knight of the Shining Star, Lorras, last of the mages of Whistham Academy, and Pellin, squire of Sir Ortas, the Hallorian knight who was somewhere below, holding off a determined band of orcs because an ankle, twisted and broken in a misstep on treacherous ground, would prevent him from joining the difficult climb. Three tired, battered men struggled upwards past rivers of incandescent rock, over razor sharp cinders and around glowing boulders recently spewed from the volcano above. Blood oozed from hundreds of cuts, the drops leaving their own red rivers down the soot-smeared faces of the world’s final chance of salvation.

  The men reached the top of their climb and looked down into the crater. The sight that greeted them was enough to quell even the most stalwart of souls. In the middle of a lake of lava, a writhing funnel of black and red twisting from the palm of his hand to the maelstrom above, stood their quarry, the God of Chaos. The god’s face was free of volcanic soot and nearly glowed white in the red haze of the volcano. His robes were cut from some black cloth able to resist the heat of the furnace their owner stood within. Even so, the hem and sleeves of the robes were tattered and filled with holes. The God of Chaos looked up at the maelstrom and laughed, his short cropped, black hair framing a face twisted by insane exultation.

  Lorras, master of elements, turned white at the sight and stood frozen, his own elaborate robes stained and torn by hard travel and combat. Pellin sank to his knees in despair, mindless that his leather leggings smoldered as they sank into the hot gravel. Ghenza, nearly roasting in the flexible scale armor of his order, drew a large clay tablet from the case he had pried from his late commander’s stiff limbs. He hesitated when he saw it. The face was inscribed with hundreds of sigils. Many were unknown to him. Some were recognizable as the symbols of the pantheon, most of the pantheon. There was no mark claimed by the being standing before him. With a gulp, he threw down the tablet, smashing it as instructed. There was a flash of brilliant light and, for a moment, none of the trio could see. Ghenza bent down to search in blindness for the ornament he’d been told he would find within. Lorras shouted a warning then. The God of Chaos had seen the flash of light and taken notice of the intruders. His voice nearly knocked them off the mountain.

  “WHO DARES INTERRUPT MY PRIVACY?”

  Ghenza stood, silver amulet in hand, still without sight, and recited the speech they had all memorized, “Oh great god of chaos! We have come to give offering!”

  “WHAT CAN YOU OFFER THAT I CANNOT TAKE!” came the reply.

  “The gods, all of the gods, acknowledge your ascension and admit defeat. They bid me offer this token to the god of gods!”

  The god before them laughed. “THEY ARE NOT BEATEN. THEIR GAME HAS NOT BEEN COMPLETED. BY THEIR RULES, THIS IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE END. GIVE ME THIS TOKEN.”

  The amulet flew from Ghenza’s hand and the three retreated, knowing their part complete. The god lifted the amulet, and laughed. He then slipped the ch
ain over his head, not noticing the misty forms appearing around the edge of the crater, forms that did not succumb to the winds of the maelstrom. The amulet burst into light and a song rang out. The three men on the mountain were deafened, but they felt the winds die, saw the swirling clouds begin to slow. The mountain under them shuddered to stillness as a look of shock crossed the white face of the god of chaos.

  Ghenza hurried his friends downward. They had been warned that no mortal would survive if they remained close once their gift had been delivered. Though exhausted, they ran and fell and tumbled down the mountain for nearly an hour before the peak disappeared. There was no blast, no apocalypse. It just vanished with a slight pop and an in-rushing of air. Then the lava came forth from the mountain’s newly exposed bowels and they ran again. Their escape was close enough that all three suffered from their burns for weeks.

  The three heroes eventually found survivors. As they wandered the face of the changed world, they collected the scattered remains of nations and cities, forming a column of ragged men and women numbering just over a thousand. In time, they found land that bore the green of life instead of blackened ruin. They settled into a life far from what they had known before. They had no choice but to live simply for there was little of civilization left. All that remained of the fair cities and grand empires of their youth were memories passed on as story and legend. Later, when these stories were but myths, men sought to regain the lost times of legend. They built kingdoms and fought wars and worshiped their gods. Soon, the old times were forgotten, for the present was good, the need for nostalgia gone. No one remained who remembered the myth of a god and the horrible victory he nearly won. Well, almost no one.

  ###

  Some time later, as measured by the hills and seas, a small crowd of figures gathered within a pillared circle atop a mountain mesa. They surrounded a game board; each trying to determine if the outcome it pointed to was inevitable. The board struck a remarkable resemblance to a map of the world, with exceptional detail. If one were gifted with supernatural vision, one would be able to appreciate how every little nook and cranny of the coasts were reproduced. One would remark that the lines denoting roads and rivers appeared to bear carts and barges. One would particularly wonder at the little specks, each representing a single creature, that moved around the board. Indeed, to understand the game, one would need to be a god, like those currently huddled around the game board.

  Most of the gods contemplating the state of the game did not look pleased. Of the few who were, one seemed particularly proud. He was clad in steel and the hilt of a large sword protruded from behind his back.

  "Everything is played out," he said, "I declare end-game."

  Another spectator, dressed in gray leather, replied, "You appear to be correct, Therraz, though I don't like to admit it. This world, the game appears to go to Law. Do any dissent?"

  There were murmurs among the collected gods. The air of defeat among those inclined towards less regimented ideals was clear.

  "Then it is done!" declared Therraz.

  "Wait! All those entitled to act have not yet done so," stated a voice from the rear of the crowd. The throng parted and a woman approached the center of the mesa. She was garbed in the lightest of gauze, which flowed behind her in response to a phantom breeze. Her hair shone bright blonde, reflecting a sunbeam that seemed hers alone. Many in the throng of mighty beings sighed and gasped.

  "You? Daughter, what move do you wish to make that would change the course of my victory?" asked Therraz.

  "I? None. However, by the rules we all follow, there is one who has not yet had the opportunity to act in this round," replied Ayliaster, daughter of Therraz, goddess of love.

  "Really? And who would this be?" asked Therraz.

  "You know," replied Ayliaster, turning to address the assembled deities, "You all know. You want to forget what he once accomplished, that even combined, it required trickery and mortal aid to stop him. We bound him because to destroy him would undo us all. He must be given a chance to impact the world."

  The uproar that followed was mostly a chorus of "No!" and "Never again!" Even those who espoused freedom and chaos feared a reenactment of the last end-game.

  "Quiet!" shouted Therraz. "Daughter. I don't think it needed to allow his influence."

  "Well, then," she replied, "You will destroy us all by breaking the rules of the game, just as he sought to do."

  The crowd grumbled while Therraz fell silent. Another god stepped forward, Therraz ceding the floor.

  “The rules do say all must have some influence of their choosing, but the game is nearly over. There is little for him to do. Would it be acceptable for him to have as much influence as the least of us has had?” said Oabdi the Historian.

  Again the assembled gods and goddesses mumbled to each other. After some debate, the gods that favored law agreed that this would not be too much, though they didn’t like it. The gods who favored chaos agreed that the rules were too iron-bound to escape. The god of pure chaos might tear them apart, as had happened before, but he would have to be given at least some chance.

  “So it is agreed,” Therraz finally announced. “Tell us, Oabdi, who has had the least influence and what was done?”

  “The least is Freasda, god of bashful withdrawal,” replied Oabdi. “In the opening round of the game, he removed all knowledge of himself from mortal minds and then set himself into slumber. He sleeps still.”

  Therraz grinned. “How many followers did Freasda have at that time?”

  “One.”

  “Very well, then our bane will be allowed to affect one mortal and then take one action upon himself. Is this agreed?” stated Therraz.

  All present agreed.

  “Then fetch him, my daughter, as it was you who began this.”

  ###

  A door opened and let light into a spherical room, nearly thirty feet across the middle. The light dazzled the occupant of the chamber for a moment. As his eyes adjusted, he noted that the silhouette framed by the door did not appear to be armed or armored.

  “Ayliaster,” he said, “another visit so soon? Therraz will not be pleased.”

  “It’s been nearly an eon, Bartleby,” she replied.

  “Oh my! Where does the time go? Time seems to evaporate into nothingness when one is busy,” said Bartleby.

  Ayliaster set three carried torches into notches carved into the wall at even points around the room. When the last torch fell into place, the flames turned a silvery light that gleamed weakly off the amulet worn by the room’s occupant. He sat chained to a bench of stone. The chains were of a dull, red metal and seemed strong enough to weigh down a fully-grown dragon. Around his neck hung a silver amulet bearing hundreds of tiny symbols, each one containing a small portion of a gods personal power. His black hair had gone gray, not from age, but dust. Under the chains, he was naked. Any clothing he’d worn had long since rotted away.

  “Still don’t trust me, do you,” said Bartleby.

  “No. You yourself told me not to,” she replied.

  “Hmm. Yes, I suppose I did. Good advice, that.”

  “Bartleby, it’s reached end-game again. Therraz has nearly won. His empire controls the civilized world, widening its influence each day.”

  “Oh come now, Ayliaster, I have no stake in the game this time. Are you trying to rub salt into old wounds? That’s hardly like you.”

  “It’s not like me at all and you have it wrong. I’ve maneuvered Therraz into letting you out. Before the game can end, you must take your turn.”

  Bartleby laughed. It was far from a comforting laugh, resembling more the laugh of a villain asked to surrender by a child.

  “So they need me again, do they?” said Bartleby, mirth still thick in his words, “Well then, the answer is no. Why should I care? I admit I no longer have the desire to destroy the game, but what gain do I have by delaying its end?”

  “I told them you would say that,” Ayliaster said softl
y, “They agreed it was the expected response.”

  Bartleby fell silent for a moment and studied the goddess before him. “You have learned a great deal,” he said carefully, “You have managed to manipulate two of your elders today. I admit, it’s interesting to see you becoming so much less naïve. I’m going to have to work on that. All right then. I imagine I will be free of these chains and this amulet?”

  “As you said, I have become more worldly. The chains, yes, but you will wear the amulet,” she replied.

  “Ah well, small victories.”

  Ayliaster concentrated a moment and torches flared a bright green. The red chains fell away with a chorus of groans and creaks as the enchanted metal shed a fine layer of rust. Bartleby, the god of chaos, stood amid a slowly moving cloud of floating, writhing dust and stretched his legs for the first time in uncountable centuries.

  ###

  Ayliaster led Bartleby to a pool where he washed the dust of ages from this hair and shoulders. She provided new clothes to replace the ones long gone. Then, she led him to the meeting chamber where the rest of the pantheon awaited. He absentmindedly fondled the silver amulet around his neck as he began to feel their presence.

  When he walked into the chamber, reactions varied. Some clearly feared him. Some hated him. Some, though not many, greeted his entrance with nearly hidden smiles. Regardless, the aura of anticipation filled the air with raw divine energy. One reaction was not at all veiled.

  “My daughter has explained the limits of your release?” Therraz sneered.

  “Yes,” replied Bartleby. The calm friendliness in his voice seemed to irritate Therraz as much as his presence. “So what name do you go by this time, Therraz? Torm, Moradin, Therrin?”

  “There is no time for idle chatter,” he replied.

  “Oh come now. Do you really see a way for me to prevent your victory? Will another moment make any difference?”

  “Fine. My most common moniker is Tyras, if you must know. Now make your move, god of chaos.”

  Bartleby slowly circled the board, "It pains you to say my name, even now," he said with a smile. He studied the board as if a chess master confronting an arch rival.