“Hastily now!” shouted Finley, channeling Korine as best he could, to the dwarf lagging behind. “You might be a dwarf, but those two left feet are your own problem!”
“Oh,” grumbled Axel, “put a broadsword in it.”
The group of four stole trinkets, baubles, and more than a few alchemic odds and ends, but they hadn’t any idea what their fortune was worth. Not truly. They weren’t even privy to the truest prize in the lot. What they were was gone, down the rope to the rocky hills where four horses waited to take them to the nonaligned nations, where the empire’s black market flourished. There, the group believed the tower’s retribution behind them, but they would soon learn that the borders of men held little sway to the dark forces they had just robbed.
* * * *
“It is as he predicted,” the shrouded figure said to his dark companion. “The blood stone reacted to his touch, but more so, it filled to the brim. The boy is what he thought, but are we so assured in our path that we can allow those commoners to make off with our holiest relic?”
“It matters not where they go,” his cohort answered overtop the winds and calls of thunder. “Our agents are everywhere. Soon they will fall under our sway and the blood stone will be returned to us, only this time it will be prepared for the task to come.”
These men, clad in cloaks as black as their souls, stood atop the Watchtower’s roof while the rain cascaded down onto them. No other words were said between them, for none needed to be said. Not until their relic was returned and the one that stole it in their custody. They watched as the group approached, waited while the group painstakingly scaled these walls and they even kept the tower’s guards at bay as long as they could, all to see how one would react with another.
These two figures had a sellsword to compensate.
Chapter Two
Shadow Brokers
Gregory Blackman
Cold Shoulders
The Age of Man drew to a close. It was the 6140th cycle of the Amorian calendar, known as the fourth age, a time when no landmass escaped the reaches of men and their armies. The elven people were scattered, the dwarvish enslaved, and all those left capable of mounting a proper defense already sent to the fires. It was a glorious time to be alive, if one found themselves to be of proper bloodline and race.
At the center of man’s universe stood the ashen isle, an island city of dwarven construct that now served the humans that bound them. To those far from the isle’s gaze, the Ashen Isle was the story of everlasting hope and honor, where the highest of the high mingled with the lowest of the low. That wasn’t the isle known to those that worked within its walls, toiled on its decks, or lay cooped up within its endless supply of barracks. They spoke a different tale, but never out loud, or to anyone less than closest of friend.
The Ashen Isle was a city of luxury and leisure, where one could find anything within the empire’s reach if they had the coin to procure the goods. A labyrinth only dwarves or elves could understand, the city was split into dozens of smaller subsections, each with their own churches, stacked homes, and centers of commerce. You could walk for a day and not find all the districts within the isle, and yet, in the end, all roads seemed to lead right to the steps of the royal palace. From the crowned arches of the fortress top to the lower reaches of the docks, the entire city was cast in an ashen glaze from where the humans derived its unearthly name.
It was said a great mountain once stood here, before the dwarves got to it, in their countless number of pick axes and laborers. The only true way to build a city, the dwarves would say, for each and every crack in its foundation represents a flaw. As such, there wasn’t a single brick, nor beam, to be found anywhere within the city, unless the humans brought it with them.
Built during the Age of Incandescence and burned during the Age of Fire, this sacred city had known more bloodshed, for more cycles, than humans that had ever resided within its walls. No one knew if the many stories it inspired were true, for they were the tales of slaves and prisoners, but their questionable origins didn’t stop the tales from finding their way into each and every home on the isle.
It was said the city that surrounded the high king’s manor was the size of the isle itself, but that wasn’t entirely true. Between the docks located outside the western gates and the merchant bazaar of the eastern gates, there was enough fill from the city’s construction for the high king to squeeze barracks to house his never ending armies of fresh faced recruits.
Otto Lyon, the current high king, sat a tired and troubled man. The nonaligned nations grew stronger and stronger, while control over his kingdom of men withered on the vine. These were lush, prosperous lands, home to more men and women than all the other nations combined, but that opulence made for a weak people, unaccustomed to the harsh realities of war.
There were people in the world that knew war, a great many people from more banners than nations in Amoria Major, and if it wasn’t for the Siren Seas that parted them, the high king would’ve found his lands on fire long ago. These peoples hailed from the northern clans of Amoria Minor, a bitter land home to those that knew well how to weather the harsh realities of the world they faced.
In days long past, Otto Lyon was the spitting image of the son he now looked down upon. He had taken great pride in his appearance, from the ornate plate mail he wore into battle to the wild, flowing tresses of crimson hair that adorned his head, but Otto was no more the young man the isle welcomed to the throne, now that mane had become wiry and grey, strewn about his face in an uncouth manner.
He was a fallen king. He just didn’t know it yet. He reigned over the three kingdoms of Auslander, Vanoss, and Haroden, and while many heads had held the high king’s crown over the centuries, this century belonged to the Lyon dynasty; a family fractured from within and not without cause for the realm’s concern.
Simeon Lyon, youngest born son to the high king, had burst into the royal court with the stench of his travels not far behind him. He was once the lively one of the family, gregarious as the day was long and often found in the company of the lower classes. Those days were no more. His face was weathered, his blonde mane unkempt and beard tangled with too many twigs and leaves for one to count in the dimly lit court.
If any of the isles’ commoners stood present they would’ve balked at their prince’s appearance and his lack of detailed escort, but there wasn’t one in sight. There were times his father would have to call in the guards to keep the adoring masses away. Those days appeared far removed from today’s, something less objectionable to the young prince than he would’ve once believed.
Three cycles was a long time to be gone from home, longer for one of privileged birth, but when the tasks of the empire beckoned, there was no greater Lyon to send than the third in line for the throne. He was the expendable one, the one the high king could risk when he needed a royal face in a deadly situation.
Had it been his older brother, Aric Lyon, who strolled these halls, fresh from his jaunt in the vampire lands of Consorta, no doubt the high king would’ve arranged for a full escort. Not for his youngest born. This was the best the high king could muster, the best Simeon Lyon deserved
“You’ve done the throne a great service, my prince,” said the well dressed man with a formal bow. “We received the last of your reports months back and have been eagerly awaiting your return.”
Simeon knew this man well. His name was Eindride Salamenka, but it was not a name he had been called for many cycles. His skin was waxy, shiny, like that of a reptile and his moniker was born, Salamander, the spymaster of the ashen court and the only word the high king would allow to be whispered in his royal ear. No one knew where the man came from, but his pallid color was unknown to all lands except the ports of Pire, a pirate wasteland that would accept any man as long as he had the cash to spare. How he came to this lofted position was even more the mystery, and yet, here he was where so few were allowed to tread.
“Yes,” said Simeon Lyon as he toss
ed his lycan hide cloak upon the ground, “I can see the admiration in his eyes.”
They were the cold, milky white eyes of a father that would’ve rather seen his son die a hero of the realm than a living failure. Simeon learned nothing of importance, other than a few minor updates to give their mapmakers, no plans of attack, and no allegiances to be had between any of their many city states. Now those revelations stared back at him, devoid of kindness, or any sense of compassion.
Simeon’s sister, Celeste Lyon, rose to ease the tension filled throne room and speak her mind, but the high king would have none of it and stopped her with a single finger raised in her direction. In her late twenties, Celeste was the youngest of the high king’s children, and the closest to his side. By those in the isle it was said that there were none to rival her beauty, from her fair complexion and azure eyes to her locks of gold that cascaded down to her ample bosom and tightly wrapped dress, there wasn’t a woman made to be her equal. That wasn’t quite true, but there weren’t many reasons for a citizen of the isle to be proud. There was Vyers Lyon, the paragon of loyalty and honor, and then there was Celeste, the fairest of them all. Everyone else was dead weight, including the high king that raised them.
The spymaster, Salamander, felt as the princess did, but knew he wouldn’t be so easily silenced. Forever the high king’s biased peacemaker, Salamander took a step down from the throne, closer to the dejected prince, and said, “You must tell us of the barbaric sights to be seen in the northern clans of Amoria Minor. Everyone in the castle is simply dying to know. Did you see the siren of the seas? I simply must know!”
Simeon indeed saw barbaric sights during his time in the northern lands. Awful things, selfish things, all of them best left buried in the heathen world. None of those images mattered anymore. The northern clans weren’t in the early stages of an invasion. The nonaligned nations had their own problems. Acknowledgement of these facts would do little to persuade his father, a man now stuck in his ways, only able to see the world as it was not how it could be.
“Where is my brother?” Simeon demanded to know.
Salamander looked hesitantly towards the high king before he turned back to the returned prince, and said, “Aric was sent to Consorta not long after your departure.”
“I meant my other brother,” Simeon replied. “The one I wasn’t informed of.”
“Unfortunately,” stated the always silver-tongued Salamander, “such topics shall not be broached in the throne room.”
“Says whom,” Simeon barked as he looked around the empty hall with his hands held up high. “I came to speak to my father, not his snakelike pet. No one roams this hall but the four of us. Father has seen to that. Have I fallen into such disfavor that you cast me out of your royal circle?”
The throne room stood silent while it waited for the high king to respond to an errant son. It took some time, far longer than it should have, but eventually Otto stirred from his golden throne. He lifted a finger, boney finger in his son’s direction and motioned for him to come closer.
“You will respect the high crown, boy,” said Otto slowly, his raspy voice sending a shiver down the spine of an already frozen prince, “or you’ll be sent out like the rift raft I have banished from these halls. Happenings are in motion, my court has assured me, and I’ll not have you threaten my empire. You want to do this realm some good you’ll find yourself a suitable woman to bring to this castle. No more of those harlots and hussies you used to prance around with. Think you can manage that, boy?”
Simeon wasn’t quite sure why he expected his return to play out any differently. The high king and he had never seen eye to eye, and three cycles had only seen to widen that gap between father and son.
“Now, now,” said Salamander in an attempt to defuse the situation, “let’s not sour the joy this day brings to our isle. We have our prince back and that’s cause for celebration within the castle.”
Simeon wasn’t foolish enough to believe the Ashen Isle’s denizens would flock to his presence upon return. What he didn’t expect was that they would pass him by on the streets as though he never existed. At least he had the castle, but not even that seemed as though it belonged anymore. This was a foreign place, as cold and distance as the lands he traveled.
“I’m not in the mood for festivities,” Simeon said as he turned on a heel and began to march out of the throne room. “Besides, you can’t rightly get too festive with the help.”
It was a long, solemn walk from the throne to the front arches, but it was one Simeon walked with conviction. His sister finally found her tongue and called out for him to return, but it was too late for the young princess to make her mark and she watched him walk out the doors without a look back in their direction. His father always spoke of him as the fool, gallivanting around the isle when he should have been captaining the guard as his older brothers had done. It was time to see if the old man was right.
Chapter Three
Shadow Brokers
Gregory Blackman
The Giant’s Horn
It was a great age to be alive if your profession happened to fall under the categories of pillaging and plundering. Those that chose the lesser traveled road, the way of honor and loyalty, found themselves at odds with the world around them. Hornshire, a small town in the kingdom of Vanoss that lay on edge of the neutral territories known as the Wild Lands, wasn’t one of those vestiges of principle. It was a poor man’s excuse for a town, more akin to an outpost than anything that may resemble a city or a town. It was in this sad town of Hornshire that two companions decided to meet under quiet pretext.
The wooden doors of the Giant’s Horn tavern came bursting open and immediately dozens of beady eyes rose to meet the newest patron of the night. Cylena Barst was that patron, and also one of those stubborn few destined to go against the grain. She stood apart from the browbeaten crowd of farmers and the continuously unemployed, clad in pristine plate mail that concealed her fair skin and auburn hair cut short enough to fit under her chain coif. Despite Cylena’s choice of clothing, she was unmistakably feminine, and there wasn’t a man in the room that didn’t notice everything from her delicate fingers to the horizontal scar that ran across her button nose.
“Hey there, love,” said one of the tavern’s unrulier patrons, his leering eyes stuck upon her curved breastplate. “Care for a drink with a real man?”
“You know,” replied Cylena without so much as a glance in his direction, “I think I’ll do just that.”
She strode past the man, all the way to the bar where there was a free place beside two vandals in black. Once there, she signaled the bartender with two fingers, and said, “Give me a Petran stout.”
The bartender shot Cylena Barst a puzzled look, but not once did that gaze lower to the bottles at his disposable. “Don’t have it.”
“How do you know?” Cylena asked.
“The lady will have the house ale,” the man to her right interjected. “It tastes like piss and it’s more watered down than the mead, but at least it won’t rot the gut.”
Despite his advanced age, the man beside her permeated confidence, from the white mane that curled around his ears to the icy blue eyes that seeped into one’s soul. He offered her a hand, which she promptly shook, and then paid for the young woman’s drink.
“So,” said Cylena with a devilish grin inching across her face, “you must be Jaric Goldrun.”
“I see my reputation precedes me,” Jaric said.
“Oh, it was nothing of the sort. I didn’t recognize you in the clothes of, well, of these people.” The eyes in the tavern rose to meet Cylena’s, but she took a swig of her mug and didn’t put it down until their gazes had lowered. “It’s that accent of yours that gave you away.”
“How perceptive of you,” Jaric said, a little disappointed by the news. “I hail from the lands of—.”
“No, no,” interrupted Cylena, “don’t tell me. If you don’t mind, I’ve been training for an intelligence
position and we’ve got to be able to place people. You’re from Wyrmos. That much is obvious. You’re from… the Rhinelan!”
“So sorry, Miss Barst,” said Jaric as his lips puckered, “but you’re not far off. Feracore Falls was my home, but that was a long time ago.”
“No matter,” Cylena said as she took another swig of her mug. “I can still drink to that.”
She looked around the dimly lit tavern to survey her surroundings, and in each of the patrons’ faces she saw the same thing, glances in her direction that tried to conceal themselves the moment she looked their way. She wasn’t bothered by it. She never had been. She could handle herself with a blade better than any man in this room, she reckoned, save the old dog to her side.
“So, why is the high prince waiting for us, anyway?” Cylena asked. “I’m certainly no one special.”
“No, you’re not,” said Jaric, a grin fighting its way to the surface, “but I can see that you will be one day. Alas, that day isn’t today and the prince waits for me. I stayed back on the isle and waited for the high king’s maps to be procured. So, I set sail with the intent to meet up with them before they got here.”
The commander signaled for another drink, but when it came he refused it and made certain that his young lieutenant couldn’t do the same. “Never trust sailors to get you were you needed to be. The damn captain and his poor, drunken excuse for a crew nearly got us into the Siren Seas before we made port in Bramberg. An entire season late, mind you. Well, I don’t have to tell you that. If it wasn’t for that detour I took, you wouldn’t be here. Now would you?”
Cylena knew well the reasons for being here. It was because she wasn’t expected to get here, at all. That detour afforded her the opportunity to make up for lost time and see herself caught up to the one man this army wouldn’t proceed without. She was eager to leave this place, get started, and make that next rank. She made quick work on what remained of her drink and slammed it down on the bar counter when she finished. She gave him a weighted pat on the shoulder, looked him in the eyes, and said, “Well, are you ready?”
The Unseen Page 2