by Mark B Frost
“If we make an ally of them,” Shasta explained, “it would be like adding a second Dragoon Corps to the Knighthood. But if we make an enemy of them, they could neutralize the Dragoons. With the dwindling size of the infantry—”
“I understand,” Galbion interrupted. “Have you reported this back to Felthespar?”
Cildar looked away, so once again Shasta answered in his stead. “Felthespar just recalled the Dragoons back to the city. We know what this means—they’re giving up on the Vantrisk war. They’ve already decided they don’t want to risk more elite soldiers in a losing battle. If we send them back word about the Cainites, they’ll see the exit strategy they need.”
“The Cainites are an unexpected factor,” Cildar explained. “If we lose the war with Vantrisk because a contingent of Cainites showed up, no one will blame the government. It will be written off as an event that could not have been predicted.”
“They’ll send back orders for us to attack the Cainites,” Shasta continued, “and try to wipe them out. Even if we preempt the order with an explanation that we don’t have the manpower to take them, it won’t matter. They’ll count on us losing just so they can save face. For them, losing the war is actually preferable to withdrawal.”
“I find it hard to believe our government is capable of this!” Galbion answer indignantly. “General Kulara would not ask such a thing of us. I know him to be a man of the highest honor!”
“Aye,” Shasta answered. “Kulara is a good man. But his predecessor, Ronnel Cantero, was not. Cantero did so much damage to the position that there’s a Senate oversight committee monitoring everything the Military does and making most of Kulara’s decisions for him. These days, the Dictus runs more of the Military than anyone admits.”
Galbion scratched his head. “So if we can’t send word back home, and we can’t defeat the Vantriskans, what are we doing?”
“Are you a man of faith, Galbion?” Cildar asked.
“Of course. I am a Priest in the Church of Pecoros.”
“Then I recommend you pray for a miracle.”
“With all due respect, Major Emle, Pecoros may guide us, but he expects us to serve him, not the other way around.”
“What Cildar means,” Shasta explained, “is that we don’t know what we’re doing. We aren’t ready to throw away the lives of these soldiers. Yes, we’re not winning the war with Vantrisk. But we’re not losing either. The hope is that if we stay quiet and hold our ground, eventually Felthespar will order a withdrawal.”
“And if that happens, then what of the Cainites?”
Cildar shrugged. “They want to come home with us.”
Galbion’s eyes went wide. “You cannot be serious. You’re not actually considering this, are you?”
“Their leader is very persuasive,” Shasta said while scratching the back of his head. “He seems to be an honest man, eager to do what he can to help our people, and thereby helping his.”
“He’s either honest, or the most prolific liar I’ve ever met,” Cildar grumbled.
“Aren’t Cainites notorious for being prolific liars?” Galbion asked.
“Aye,” he replied. “About as notorious as they are for being extinct.”
At that moment a sentry came nearby and bowed to Cildar. “Excuse me sir, but the Cainite commander wishes to speak to you.”
“Alright, send him over.” He raised his mask once more, then turned to Galbion. “You’re one of the commanders here now. You should stick around for this.”
They did not have to wait long before the dark man approached. He was a couple inches shy of six feet tall, and his tattered attire was black and dark purple, with a dark mask covering his face and a long black cloak hiding the rest of his physical features. Galbion tried to meet the man’s gaze, but two flames hovered where there should have been eyes. None of his flesh was visible through his cowl, nor anywhere else on his body. Galbion swallowed nervously in spite of himself.
“Greetings,” the man said with a raspy voice. “I am Myris Phare, of the Cainites. I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
“Galbion Antares, Lord of the White Hand.”
Myris turned to Cildar. “Did you not have another medic commander? A woman, Shandra?”
“Tandra,” the paladin corrected. “She has fallen.”
“My condolences. It is always a bittersweet way to receive a promotion. I know from experience.”
“Your last commander died?” Shasta asked, offering the man both a drink and a seat.
The Cainite accepted both. “Yes. When I slayed him.” In response to this, Galbion began tapping his fingers against his glass nervously. Myris bowed his head. “Forgive me. I know such a thing may sound distasteful, but the man was without honor. The world has been cruel to Cainites, and living on the brink of life and death as we are, we cannot abide the leadership of fools. I did what I felt must be done for my people.”
“Justifying murder is always easy,” Galbion argued. “That rarely makes it right.”
Myris nodded. “An unexpected sentiment coming from an Onion Knight.”
Galbion started to object, but then realized that the man was referring to the attempted genocide of his own people. He rubbed his hands together, unsure how to respond.
“No one calls us that anymore, Myris,” Cildar offered, attempting to derail the conversation.
“Do you not still worship Pecoros, the god of the onions?”
Cildar rolled his eyes. “Pecoros was never the ‘god of onions’. The legend was that, long ago, he once took the form of an onion to speak to Saint Selena. Selena was eventually revealed to be a shyster and a con artist, so the entire thing is nonsense anyway.”
“Curious,” Myris answered with a whisper. “From what I recall, Selena herself was a major player in the Arocaen, was she not?”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“I am wondering if so much of the misunderstanding between our peoples were simply the result of one woman’s deceptions.”
Cildar leaned back on the rock upon which he was seated, twirling his thumbs. “An interesting theory. Maybe we all need to just put the past behind us, yes?” Myris tilted his head but did not answer, sensing sarcasm in the paladin’s voice. “I’ve done some studying on the Cainite culture in my time. Can you tell me what ‘Arocaen’ roughly translates to?” At this, Myris slid back uncomfortably and bowed his head. “No? Well, I’m sure I’ll butcher it, but I’ll try, for Galbion here. I’m sure he doesn’t know. See, Galbion, ‘ar’ is the Cainite root word for death, and ‘ca’ is the root for Cain, their patron Saint. I’m fuzzy on the rest of the details, but the word roughly translated is, ‘death to the enemies of Cain’. Is that about right, Myris?”
“It is,” he answered quietly.
“So perhaps once more you can explain to me how the war was the fault of one woman in Felthespar.”
“Forgive me. It was an insolent comment. I am eager to put our past behind us, you are right in that. I fear that my people must hold the largest portion of the blame for that past. It was misguided of me to try to push that burden onto your people. It is not the proper way for us to atone.”
Cildar waved a hand, his anger diffused by the man’s sincere apology. “It’s fine, I understand. Our people have our own disgraces from that era. But if we’re going to put history behind us, let’s not go rewriting it.”
“I concur. Again, apologies for my offense.”
He nodded, then moved to change the subject. “Tell me about your weapon.”
Myris reached into his cloak. When his hand emerged he was holding a long silvery-black blade, wickedly fashioned, emblazoned with intricately crafted rune structures and attached to what seemed a very inadequate handle. “You’ve noticed it, have you?”
“I’ve heard reports. They say it deflects magic. Rumor is that spells can’t touch you once the blade is drawn.”
“It is a holy relic of my people, perhaps the final that remains intact. It was onc
e called the Soul Scythe.”
“It doesn’t look much like a scythe. More like a scimitar.”
Myris put the blade back in his cloak, his body language indicating annoyance. “It was once called the Soul Scythe, as I said. The sorcerers who crafted it did not imbue the handle with a magic that allowed it to last the ages. The Scythe, which should have made the wielder virtually invincible, was shattered within a month of its creation.”
“Virtually invincible,” he scoffed. “It seems to me that all Cainite weapons boasted that. Odd that they’re dead now, isn’t it?”
This time Cildar’s prod did not seem to ruffle the man. “We are not dead. And you underestimate the Scythe. The weapon’s powers work in a fashion similar to that of your priests. It can heal the wielder when he inflicts wounds on others.”
Cildar raised an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me that every man you kill gives you energy to heal your own wounds?”
“Every man I harm,” Myris corrected, “as well as incoming spells the Scythe absorbs. Energy with which to either heal my wounds, or channel into my own spells. That is why I continue to use it, even though it is unwieldy in its current state.”
Cildar thought for a moment. “We have weaponry engineers at Felthespar. They could build a mechanical extension for your blade that would restore it to a Scythe, without decreasing its traveling compactness.”
The Cainite tilted his head. “I was not aware we had yet agreed on any terms of our return to Felthespar.”
“We haven’t,” Cildar countered. “I’m simply making an observation.”
“I see. Your observation has been noted, Onion Knight. Thank you.”
“With due respect,” Shasta interrupted, “I find myself skeptical that you came over to argue with us about the Arocaen. Is something wrong? Today is your day to attack, right?”
“You are astute, Sir Shasta. I have indeed come to speak to you about our assault today. As you may know, Cainites are given a set of spiritual blessing at birth which mark us for life and give us enhanced abilities. It is what makes us so naturally suited to speed and stealth. The altered magics of this area have taken a toll on my people, and we are weary. Our spirits are adjusting, but not quickly enough. We request a day of rest, if it is not seen as a breach of our bargain.”
“Do you need a day off, or a turn off?” Cildar asked.
“Just a day will do. We can attack tomorrow, if need be. However, longer is preferable. My people are not career soldiers, like yours. This protracted battle is not something to which we are physically accustomed.”
The paladin turned to Galbion. “You’re the chief medic now. What’s the status of our troops?”
The young man shook his head. “We have a higher ratio of injured soldiers than I would ever prefer. Even the healthy forces need rest, they’re in no condition to attack today.”
Cildar looked back to Vantrisk. “We’ll pull back. Everyone. It’s only about a quarter of a day’s march to where the currents are clear of Vantrisk’s influence. We’ll go that far, renew our troops while our medics have their white magic back, take a full day off, then return.”
“The Vantriskans will see this as a sign of weakness,” Shasta argued. “It may embolden them to go back on the offensive. We’ve kept them in a fairly reactive state up to now. They may also use this as an opportunity to repair the front gate, taking away one of our few advantages.”
“This is a sign of weakness, Shasta. I’m not pretending otherwise. But it’ll do us all some good. Maybe with a moment of peace, we can see something that we’re missing now.”
“You are a wise leader,” Myris offered.
“Then hopefully you won’t kill me, like your last commander.”
“If you think yourself my commander, then you have misunderstood our pact.” Myris bowed and then took his leave.
Beneath his mask Cildar grinned, admiring the man’s grit. Galbion was less impressed. “He keeps making little comments like that. He just can’t keep himself from being difficult, can he? I thought the two of you said he was an honest man.”
“We never said he wasn’t a jerk,” Cildar explained with a chuckle. “If I liked everything he said, then I wouldn’t trust him any more than I do Vantrisk’s dragon.”
“Dragon?!” Galbion shouted in shock.
Cildar once more lowered his mask and took a drink of wine, fighting back another grin. “You haven’t been here long enough to see the dragon yet? Don’t worry. He’ll show up sooner or later.”
Chapter 4.
A Legend of Gehenna
“Vantrisk has a dragon?!” Atheme shouted to himself. In the cell nearby, his prisoner stopped pacing and turned with a raised eyebrow. “Sorry,” Atheme explained, “just trying to catch up on some documentation.”
He had taken to spending most of his free time outside of the Daemon’s cell, coming down at least once a day to provide regular maintenance to the rune structure. He also brought the man food, sliding rations through a narrow gap at the bottom of the barrier. At first the prisoner had refused to touch anything Atheme offered him. Once it became apparent he was not going to break through the barrier any time soon, he began to eat what was brought.
As long as Atheme remained in his presence, the Daemon would not resume his assaults against the cage. He never spoke unless spoken to, and even his footsteps made no sounds as he paced around his cell. It brought Atheme an odd sort of comfort. There was companionship if he needed to share his thoughts, and silence the moment he did not.
“What is Vantrisk?” the man asked.
“A city to the south. They’re a Felthespari territory, historically one of our better treated ones. Their taxes were low, and they received goods and services from the capital at discounted rates, as well as the protection of our military which, at least then, truly meant something. Three years ago, they suddenly declared their independence. We’ve been trying to retake the city ever since, with no luck.” The prisoner nodded, then returned to his silent pacing. “And now,” Atheme continued, “I’m finding out they have a dragon. Apparently there have been four separate occasions where our forces were on the brink of ending the war. Each time, as they were locking the city down and scattering the enemy forces, a red dragon appeared.”
The man ceased pacing and moved to the front of the cage. “Dragon aside, it seems to me that only four victories in three years is a rather disappointing performance. Are you not the military power on the continent?”
Atheme thought on the question, choosing his response carefully. “Vantrisk has some sort of power. The walls are wrapped in a rune structure that changes the nature of magic in the area. It has complicated the war.”
“Was it always there?”
“It appeared maybe two months into the war. We weren’t really taking them seriously during those early stages, and our attack forces had been relatively light. We assumed victory was inevitable.” The prisoner looked away and moved to the back of his cell. “It’s actually kind of peculiar,” Atheme added. “Vantrisk was never particularly renowned for their heraldry. We shared some rudimentary magic training with them, but there were no signs of any advanced mages in the city. Yet somehow they came up with this rune structure, and a method to control a dragon.”
The chamber went quiet, so Atheme returned to his reading. A few minutes passed, then the man in the cell unexpectedly resumed the conversation. “It’s foolish to assume causality.”
“Pardon?”
“You assume that your enemy is the one you know. You fight Vantrisk, so you assume they are the masters of their situation. But you only know a few things for certain: the city declared independence from Felthespar; they crafted a rune structure that controls magic; a dragon appeared. Your conclusions make little sense when you read the events in the order you witnessed them. Try reversing that order: a dragon appears; they craft a rune structure that controls magic; they declare their independence.”
Atheme placed the document he was readin
g on a pile nearby and slid forward in his chair. “You’re suggesting that the dragon was the catalyst? Or perhaps even the mastermind?”
“You’re thinking of dragons as a breed of demonspawn. They are not. Dragons possess at least human intellect. They live for centuries, and know ancient magics. It’s true that they generally keep to themselves and have little ambition for the world of humans, but that does not mean they’re incapable of it.”
“An interesting thought. But assuming it’s true, does it help us?”
“It’s always valuable to understand who your enemy is.”
“You seem to have more than a passing familiarity with dragons. I take it you’ve encountered them before?”
“They are more prevalent in the lands to the north. I have fought my share.”
“Have you killed any?”
“I have not been killed by one. That was victory enough.”
Atheme nodded, then a thought occurred to him. “I just remembered, we still haven’t settled on a name for you.”
“I am the Daemon.”
“As I said before, that’s really more of a title, surname at best. I need you to have a name. People have names. It’ll make it easier for me to talk to you.”
“You may call me what you wish, then.”
“I had an idea, but first, I have a story to tell you. Afterward, you can tell me what you think of my choice.” The prisoner rolled his eyes and resumed his pacing. Atheme cleared his throat and began. “Long ago in the demon realm of Gehenna, there was a mighty demon lord. His name was Amsedon Necros, and he ruled Gehenna with an iron fist. Any who defied him were punished severely, if not outright killed. In spite of these cruel and swift punishments, there wasn’t a single denizen of Gehenna, from the lowest lemures to the most powerful of Archdevils, that didn’t dream of overthrowing their Lord Amsedon.
“In the lower reaches of Gehenna, there was a devilspawn named Abaddon. He had a horrible position in the demonic hierarchy, and was forced to spend his days doing menial tasks for his superiors. One day, he decided that he would no longer abide his servitude. Without a word he stopped working and began to leave. Several sentries seized upon him. Abaddon announced that he had decided to kill Amsedon, and any who wished to stop him were welcome to die as well. With that, he killed the guards, and then removed his overlord’s head. The next day he did the same to his duke, and publicly declared war against Amsedon. When the devils in his dukedom refused to assist him, he killed them all.