Garuda/ThoseNotChosen

Behold the sweep of Creation, the lands of the Realm between the Elemental Poles, cantered around the Blessed Isle and ruled by the Scarlet Empress, and her many children, the Dragon-Blooded.

In theory anyway.

For while the Dragon-Blooded gather in their Great Houses, and lustily beget their superhuman offspring, some amongst their children are not so blessed. Merely mortal, and an embarrassment, they are sent off to make themselves useful, to serve their House as best they can in their short lives, forever in the shadow of their mighty siblings.

But the Empress is missing, gone these last few years, and while the Houses gather around the Scarlet Throne, their control of their lesser members fades…

Chapter 1

Salafinn’s Harbour was a large town, huddled on the crashing shores of the Inland sea, well to the north and east of the Blessed Isle. Halfway along a Guild route, a good deepwater harbour, paying its tributes to the Realm in barley and wool. A satrapy of little importance, stable and peaceful, even in these troubled times. A little dead-end backwater. Where dreams went to die.

The shadow of a dead dream haunted Forthright Sword as he limped along the cobbled streets, grey and empty beneath the blanket of winter clouds, to the Ivory Wing tea-room. It began with two of the most despairing words humans have ever used. If only. If only he’d been blessed by the Immaculate Dragons. Then he’d be practising swordwork amongst the finest warriors in Creation, instead of with a few off-duty guards. If only he’d Exalted, as his brother and cousin and many others of his family, then the sprained ankle giving him grief would have healed within minutes. If only, he thought as he leaned into the tea-room door, sending a billow of light and sound into the darkening afternoon, if only he was the Dragon-Blooded he was expected to be, had expected to be, then he’d be drinking somewhere else, in some great city, instead of here…

Lotashaal looked up as Forthright Sword entered the tea-room. He watched as his friend habitually checked the room, the glossy wooden bar with the tubby proprietor, the cluster of wealthy traders and artisans, the sturdy but minimally ornamented interior, but he knew Sword wasn’t looking at this place. Lotashaal sighed, and resolutely recited, under his breath, a familiar mantra to himself. “All in Creation have their place. The Blessed of the Immaculate Dragons are the most spiritually enlightened, and those closest to the understanding of the gods. But all others could, one day, one life, join their number. And until then, all have their place.” He recited the mantra to himself, and many others of the Immaculate Philosophy, but they couldn’t entirely drown out the nagging doubts within him. Why was he not chosen, when others who didn’t deserve it had been? Why were the blessings of the Dragons bestowed regardless of the piety of those who received them? Why was his cousin Entara, a selfish gadfly with the discipline and attention span of a three-year old peasant, Exalted and raised above those who’d spent years training and… He choked the thought ruthlessly, and took a deep breath. “All in Creation have their place…”

Seventh Wave tuned out the repetitive ranting of his companion and scanned the skies above Salafinn’s Harbour. The grey clouds were darkening, and a bitter wind had started to blow from the north. “Looks like hail…” he observed, pulling his dull brown cloak over his sword and round his lean body. His fellow took no notice.

“… and I said, there’s got to be some way of making it do more, and he just looked at me over that ratty moustache of his and said, ‘No, that power is reserved for the Blessed Dragon-Blooded’, and I mean, aaargh, I could have punched the low-born tinkerer, and…”

“Shut up Decremius, we’re here.”

“By the Dragons I could do with a drink.” Wave pushed open the door, and dragged Decremius in behind him. He spotted Sword and Lotashaal at their usual table, and headed over. Years of friendship with Forthright Sword allowed him to read the dark thoughts across his face. Even Lotashaal looked a little depressed. It was the day, thought Wave, a grim and grey day when old troubles and losses came back to haunt. Still, there were friends, and light, and alcohol to ease burdens, and if those failed… There were further plans.

Plans skirled through the mind of Red Dawn as he dashed through the streets, just ahead of the hail. How he could manipulate the dockside traders into selling to him for a little cheaper than to all else. How to sell to the Guild for a little higher than other traders in town. How to make enough money to continue drinking with Sword and the others at the Ivory Wing, without appearing to be desperate to make money. How to do so without doing It. He skidded to a halt on the stones outside the door, bumping into one of the locals just outside the doorway…

“Whoops.”

“Dawn,” snarled Dantra, captain of the Harbour Militia, “what mischief has you in such a hurry now?”

“Who me, Captain, I was just desperate for a drink at this fine establishment, and…” As Dawn wittered on, he could see Dantra was having none of it. Oh Gods, he didn’t need this, not here, not now… So Red Dawn reached inside himself, to the metallic shiny heat at the back of his mind, and did It again. And Dantra’s eyes glazed over, and he nodded, if not smiled, then stopped looking as if Dawn was something noxious to be scraped off his boot.

“Well, Red Dawn, just be more careful where you’re running next time.” And Dantra left him standing there, and headed off back to his barracks. Dawn quickly flicked his eyes round the near-empty street, but is seemed that none had seen his little altercation. Heaving a sigh of relief and resignation, he checked himself in the reflection of his highly polished vambraces. Looking calm, collected, and with the air of a confidant minor noble, Red Dawn entered the tea-room, with the mocking golden laughter of his mother ringing in the halls of his memory.

It was several hazy hours later. Four young men were slumped around the table, having populated it with bowls of rice wine, glasses of red wine, tankards of beer, and several little thimbles of something unpronounceable. The fifth, was sitting upright and alert, having ascetically stuck to fruit juices and tea. The barman, most of his other customers having staggered off into the night, leaned on the bar and watched them. Lotashaal was lean and athletic, his head shaved on the sides and long down his back, in a crest. A fair customer, didn’t spend much, but didn’t make a mess, and was fairly quiet except for the religious mutterings. Forthright Sword was a fighter, and looked it: muscled shoulders, short cropped hair that belonged under a helmet, and a lightness to his step that spoke of the weight of armour, even in its absence. Drank heavily, and as if he was trying to drown something. Seventh Wave, to his left, was short and dark, with his hair in a braid and a cultivated moustache hanging down. He was currently tossing an empty cup from hand to hand. The barman hoped he wasn’t going to start juggling with the cups. Or with his daggers. Then there was Red Dawn, shiny blond hair and embroidered cloak, nice guy, a bit flashy, always paid his tab. The barman’s gaze slid to the fifth at the table, and winced. Decremius, shrunken in his clerks robe, had slumped forwards onto the table after about three drinks, and had continued a stream-of-thought diatribe against the unfairness of the world till his friends had poured another two down him. His floppy red hair was over his face, and he may even have been asleep on the table. The barman sketched out a few numbers on a slate, and grinned. The spoiled brats from the Blessed Isle may not have been Dragon-Blooded, blessed with superhuman constitutions (and wealth), but you couldn’t have told the difference form their drinks bill.

“…all I’m saying is, iz not right, right? There he iz, faffin’ about with Realm shakin’ power, and ‘eres me, juggling numbers all day and teeny tiny little spells all night….”

“Except on Fourthday, when you come and get drunk here, Decremius…”

“Yeah, ‘cept on Fourthday, and then what, is back to the books tomorrow…”

“It is the will of the Immaculate Dragons that we serve our houses here.”

“Come on Lotashaal, it’s the will of our house elders, when they even think about us at all.”

“What do you mean by that, Wave?”

“When was the last time you got a message from the Isle? Or you, Red Dawn?”

“Oh, months back. And then it wasn’t much. ‘Doing a good job, keep sending the tributes, having a great time without you.’ That sort of thing.”

“Exactly. They wouldn’t notice us whatever we did…”

“Hang on a minute,” interrupted Forthright Sword, “we’ve had this argument every other week…”

“…bloody flash git swanning around with his jade and his pet bloody demon…”

“Shut it Decremius, the point he’s making, is that our Elders have forgotten about us.”

“It certainly seems that way…” expressed Lotashaal cautiously, “but how is that important?”

“What is our duty?”

“To serve our Houses and the Realm, of course, as best we can.”

“Our Houses have forgotten us, and we’re really vital to the Realm counting bales of wool and crates of salt fish.”

“Uh, Sword, I don’t like the way this is going…” ventured Lotashaal with trepidation.

“Going? I am going nowhere. We are going nowhere. If we do not do something, our lives are going to read: Born to good family, failed to Exalt, shuffled off to Nowhere, Threshold, died.”

Red Dawn winced and responded, rather half-heartily, “We have our duty here…?” He flashed an imploring look to Lotashaal, who picked it up.

“Even if forgotten, we should continue our work here. It is our duty and our hope for spiritual advancement.”

“Our duty to whom? I’m spending my days running patrols across sheep fields for a garrison that doesn’t need or care about them. I’m hardly indispensable.”

“And,” stepped in Seventh Wave, “We could do better duty to the Realm and the Dragons by action beyond the Harbour. Decremius, do you want to spend the rest of your life behind a ledger?”

“By the Throne, no!”

“Then let’s get out of here! Find power, find recognition, find…”

“A quick and messy death.”

“Lotashaal, you’re a wet blanket. Would you rather have a long and dreary life that none remember?”

“We should not attempt to rise above the place that we have been allotted in this life. It would be impious, an attempt to… second guess… the Immaculate Dragons.”

“We aren’t at our allotted level, we’re well below it. We are proud and capable sons of the Realm, we shouldn’t be working as glorified clerks!”

“Hang on a moment, lets think about this.” Red Dawn took a deep breath and continued. “Our houses have forgotten about us, and we’re not really needed here. Anyone feel that their duty here is critical and irreplaceable? No? Right. So what is stopping us from heading out on the road, and doing all the glorious deeds we dreamt we’d be doing by now?”

“Money, preparation, courage?”

Seventh Wave scoffed. “We’re still getting our stipends, meagre though they are. I wasn’t planning on heading anywhere this winter, and courage? We are Dynasts of the Realm. We’re not Dragon-Blooded, but we’re still skilled, trained, and a damn sight fiercer than most.”

“And if not fiercer, then we’re smarter.”

“Point, Decremius. If we lay off the drinking binges, by spring we should have enough jade laid up…”

The argument continued, over fewer and fewer drinks, through the chilly winter. Forthright Sword and Seventh Wave eventually talked Lotashaal round, and Decremius and Red Dawn were only to happy to search for something meaningful. And when the weather warmed and the seasons turned, the five of them headed up the Guild road to the north east, and only the bartender was really sorry to see them go.

Chapter 2

Seventh Wave halted his horse at the top of the hill, and looked back at his friends catching him up. It had been several weeks since they left Salafinn’s Harbour, and the northern breeze still held a chill. But the sun was warm and the few clouds scudding across the sky were white and harmless. They had spent a several days riding with a Guild caravan. The merchant hadn’t paid them as guards, but a little company was always helpful while they got into the travelling routine. Seventh Wave had persuaded the group to leave the caravan road and cut off to the east, with the promise of danger and excitement.

As Red Dawn, still having some trouble with his rather skittish horse, pulled up next to him, Wave smiled. In his saddlebags was a tight roll of papers, with many numbers gathered form the archives of House Ledaal, and the genealogies of his family. The Blood of the Dragons ran thin in his branch of the family, but others of similar breeding had Exalted. He had the figures to prove it. If it happened to him, he would be one of the latest Exaltations on record, but it was not unknown. The complication was that many of his peers had kindled under stress. In battle, in training, in the emotional pressures of the Great Houses. And so danger and excitement was called for, soon, or not at all.

“Wave…” called Forthright Sword as his puffing horse walked up to the top, “Where are we going?” In answer Seventh Wave reached down to his coat pocket and pulled out a much checked map. Scanning the local terrain, he was able to identify several of the hills, and over there, in the afternoon light, was the steep valley he was looking for. “Wave, if you don’t give me a straight answer, I’m going to poke you with my daiklaive.” Wave looked over at his old friend and grinned mischievously. He remembered Forthright Sword as a rather pudgy child in the schools of house Ledaal, more interested in swordplay than wordplay. And he remembered the day they had stood side by side on the docks, as Sword’s father, tall and majestic and rippling with power, had presented his un-Exalted son with a daiklaive, not of the magical jade of a Dragon-Blooded, but of steel, as for a common soldier. Good steel, and good workmanship, and copied from the design of the Dragon-Blooded weapons, but even still. A mark, paradoxically, of both pride and shame.

“Over there, Sword, there is an abandoned village. Empty since the great Contagion, it’s recently been rumoured to be haunted, but may contain much of value.”

“I see. And you got that map from…?”

“Our friend the merchant. He went and looked at the place a few years back, and reported ‘little squeaky things’ in the ruins.”

“If it’s haunted by ghosts, we’re out of there.” Interjected Red Dawn. “We can’t fight ghosts.”

“Well actually, we can, if you’d only…”

“No, Decremius, I’m not going to let you try putting spells on my daiklaive.”

“Salt.”

They looked over at the confident response from Lotashaal. “A line of salt will bar the passage of ghosts. I brought some, in case we ran into the unblessed dead.”

“Thanks Lotashaal. I’ll remember that.” Wave’s eyes flicked over the map again. “If we hurry, we should get there several hours before dark.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The village was a series of stone streets, cut into the side of a steep valley. And while it was still lit by the sinking sun, shadows already pooled beneath it. Seventh Wave and his companions spurred their horses along the goat track leading to the ruins. What fields the villagers had once tended were long since overrun by the long grass of the surrounding hills, and the grey buildings poked out of the hillside more like strange rock formations than a once-living community.

Wave pulled up and checked the map. This was the place. It was a series of three small lanes, cut in part circles into the side of the hill, lined with the small rock-built houses. Any wooden structures had long-since rotted.

“We’ll need torches to search those huts,” observed Forthright Sword. He pulled out a small red pebble, and as Lotashaal tied the horses, he bashed the pebble against his armour till it grew too hot to handle, and lit the torches from the firestone.

“If we search quickly from house to house, we should be able to finish before sunset. And leave any ghosts snarling in our wake.” said Red Dawn.

Damn, thought Wave, I wanted adventure, not a high-speed scavenger hunt. But he took a torch and they headed off to the top tier of houses, intending to work their way down. The streets were empty even of grass between the cobblestones, and the first few houses contained little more than shards of pottery. As they continued down the street, Wave noticed a rather strained expression on the face of Red Dawn, who had a small bow out, arrow nocked. “Are you alright there Dawn?” he asked.

“I’ve just got a funny feeling, like I’m being watched.”

“Thanks, but we really didn’t need that.”

There was a high pitched squealing from up ahead, and both of them darted forwards. Forthright Sword was edging back out of the next house, daiklaive drawn and torch in the other hand.

“Sword?!”

“ ‘Little squeaky things’, right on cue…!” From the doorway poured a knot of twisted figures, stunted to three-foot high and with skins of mustard yellow in the fading light. Their eyes were little flinty black gleams, and they waved tiny clawed hands at Sword as they gathered, and then rushed forwards.

With a cry of “Cathak!”, Sword rushed them, flailing with the torch and jabbing brutally forwards with his daiklaive. Seventh Wave drew his slim sword and dashed in as one of the little beasts fell, transfixed by Red Dawns arrow. It was difficult to count how many of them there were, but as long as the swordsmen had the reach advantage, and the things were vulnerable to steel, they could be held off.

Then Decremius and Lotashaal entered the fray, from the house they’d been searching. Lotashaals staff crashed into the mob of yellow screaming things, and scattered them. One made eye contact with Decremius and froze, transfixed.

A yellow thing wrapped itself around the end of Lotashaals staff, only to be smashed to the cobbles as it whipped back down. Seventh Wave panted as he slashed and stepped and stabbed, trying to remember his breathing while adjusting his strokes for the short height of the beasts. An arrow whipped past him from Red Dawn, then another, and then there were no more of the beasts standing. In the light from the torches, the twisted yellow bodies seemed to steam and shrink, no they were shrinking, losing mass and shrivelling away, and…

“Help over here…!” Wave turned, to see Decremius still in a staring contest with the yellow thing he’d ensnared. Two steps and a thrust, and it was down, and Decremius sagged with relief.

“What were those things?” panted Wave.

“Hobgoblins,” supplied Decremius. “Minor fae, from the Wyld.”

“We’re a very long way from the Wyld”

“You’d hope so, wouldn’t you? The Dragons only know how long these have been here.”

Red Dawn passed them, retrieving his arrows.

“So, no ghosts then..?”

“Uh…?”

They looked over at Forthright Sword, who was watching the end of the street. The light had faded, and the street stood all in shadow, but for a patch of coalescing pale radiance that drifted towards them, taking form as a rough humanoid, with black pits for eyes and hands spread wide in slashing claws. Wave pulled out a small dagger and flung it at the ghost. It went straight through and landed with a clang on the cobbled street.

There was a scream from Red Dawn, and something yellow flew past Seventh Wave to slam into the ghost, knocking it back, and falling to the ground to be revealed as a discorporating hobgoblin.

Wave looked at the ghost, which looked quite surprised by this novel attack.

“Hmm. Who knew?”

“Hit it with the ‘goblins!” called Sword, as he fought to keep the laughter from his command.

Reaching down and scooping up the pulpy and steaming body of the fae, Seventh wave ran in and swiped at the ghost with it. As he dodged backwards out of range of those claws (which looked all too real), the other piled in behind him, and bashed the ghost to pieces with the bodies of their first foes.

“That was quite possibly the single silliest fight I have ever been in,” huffed Wave as they cleaned their weapons afterwards.

“Certainly strange. But if the weapon of a foe can be turned to our hand, then why not the foe as a weapon,” pointed out Lotashaal.

“Nevertheless. Silly.”

“Right, we’ve checked the rest of the village,” called Red Dawn as he and Forthright sword came back to the horses, and the comfortingly normal campfire that the others had laid.

“Pickings are… uh… slim.”

“What’ve we got?”

“A few jade, and a couple of bits of silver jewellery…”

“A rather nice sword, that the hobgoblins had stolen from somewhere…”

“And this.” Dawn handed over to Decremius a small white hemisphere, of some sort of crystal, banded with silver.

“Ooo, I recognise this,” he replied, and started to polish it with his sleeve. The crystal started to glow, until it was giving off a pearly white light over the campsite, like a second moon. “This is a lightstone, they still make these on the Blessed Isle, but they’re quite expensive. This must have been from when they were common and cheap. We’ll not need those torches again.”

“How do you turn it off?”

“Touch it to the ground. A nice piece from our first adventure.”

“But let’s not tell anyone how we got it just yet…” pleaded Seventh Wave, as the image of a room full of listeners laughing at him danced through his mind.

“Why not?”

“I want some time to come up with a better ending for the story than ‘And then we beat the ghost to death with the hobgoblins…’”

Chapter 3

Peleps Decremius strode down the aisles of the family manse with the nonchalance of long familiarity. His eyes flicked to a large painting occupying most of a wall, of his great-uncle, Peleps Caartagia, at the Battle of the Coral Teeth. His naval squadron surrounded, Caatagia had raised the seas against the pirate attackers, and smashed their ships one by one in the middle of the raging storm. The painting showed him, at the bow of his flagship, about to crush a small boat of terrified pirates. The painter had carefully ground lapis lazuli into the blue used to depict Caatagia in his battlefield glory, and the Dragon-Blooded officer glittered and stood out from all surrounding him, as was appropriate.

Decremius calmed his breathing and squared his shoulders, walking down the hall to the study of the paintings subject. Well over 300, Caatagia had retired to assist the running of the manse, and help herd and shape the next generation of Dragon-Blooded. Decremius gulped and hammered on the door, old dark wood inlaid with mother of pearl.

“Come!” came a powerful bellow from within.

Decremius entered the study, a room lined with a mix of books, and weapons, and more than a few trophies. One of these was from the Coral Teeth, the head of the pirate “admiral” that Caatagia had had stuffed and mounted.

“Decremius. Sit, boy, sit.”

“Elder. How may I serve.”

“Ah. Bad news there. Your parents have decided that you aren’t going be blessed by the Dragons. If you haven’t Exalted by now, it’s not going to happen…”

Decremius felt like someone had torn his intestines out and replaced them with mortar. His mouth was dry as the Pole of Fire, and some demon had stolen the strength form his limbs. It was a good thing he’d sat down. He struggled for a moment, then got his tongue back under control.

“But my studies, sir, I mean, I was planning to…”

“Plans change. The Heptogram only admits Dragon-Blooded. No point teaching sorcery to mortals, it’s been tried, and it just gets messy.”

Caatagia glared across his desk at him, and seemed to soften slightly.

“Now now boy, we’re hardly throwing you out on the street. You’re trained, smart, and damn good with numbers. We’re sending you to oversee our trade interests in…” he consulted a piece of parchment, ‘Salafinn’s Harbour’, out East. It’s an important post, and…

Decremius, however, wasn’t hearing much of this. As years of planning and preparation and training collapsed like an ice sculpture round his ears, the painful bit was his barring from the mighty spells and sorceries he’d dreamed of. Belatedly, he realised he was ignoring a Dragon-Blooded Elder of his House, and frantically resumed paying attention.

“… but we don’t want you getting slack out there, so set your sights a little lower, and try to get your head round these.” Caatagia slapped a pair of large books, bound in blue leather, across the table to him. Decremius, still numb, picked them up and checked the spines. Thaumaturgy. Peasant magics for the uneducated barbarians! Is this what he was reduced to? Aaargh, Caatagia was still speaking, and for the first time, Decremius noticed the detached pomposity in his great-uncles voice.

“…had them dug out of the library this morning, and more useful to you than me, ha-ha. Now then, you’ll be off in about a week, so say your goodbyes swiftly. That will be all.”

And with that Decremius woodenly stood, bowed, gathered up the books of his shame and stepped out…

…to here. Riding along a wooded cart-track in the Threshold, with four other failures, a head full of minor magics and in search of something to be proud of. He sighed. Short of bringing back the head of an Anathema, he stood small chance of doing anything his House would even notice. Still, there was hope.

It was some time later, and Decremius was running a convoluted little invocation round his head for mental agility, when Lotashaal held up a hand, and the small group halted.

Around them the forested hills were still and quiet, and just greening in the flush of spring. As Decremius moved his horse up beside Sword, the armour-plated thug turned to him.

“Lotashaal thinks we’re about to be ambushed.”

“And he comes to this conclusion on?”

“A hunch, the quiet of the bird-filled woods in springtime. That nice gully up ahead labelled Ambush Point in Old Realm.”

Sarcastic bloody Cathak. Still, he probably had a point. Decremius dipped into a pouch, and pulled out a small jar. The others clustered around him as he sparingly stroked some of the pale green paste within over his eyes, and then looked up at the gully-cleft rise before them. The Warning of the Power-Full always made him want to sneeze.

“Well?” That was Wave, always impatient.

To Decremius’ eyes the others were pale shadows of themselves, although he could only see three of them, as Red Dawn was riding behind him. The washed out colours of the forest were overtopped by a scintillating glow of energies from the top of the gully. Something, probably someone, a fairly potent user of essence… Holy Dragons! And beyond that, over the ridge, a slowly intensifying glow of energies, overshadowing Decremius as a man-o-war overshadows a row-boat.

“Well…?”

Decremius twisted towards Seventh Wave with a retort, only to be interrupted by the stinging in his eyes. Grabbing his waterskin and squirting the Discernment Paste off gave him time to assemble a proper answer, and he spat it through his dripping lips.

“There’s something waiting on top of the ridge alright. And there’s something much bigger coming up the other side.”

“How much bigger? Comparable to?”

“How should I know? Uh, two or three Dragon-Blooded, perhaps?”

“Right,” said Forthright Sword, clapping his hands together in a decisive fashion. Decremius flicked his soggy red hair back, heart sinking at the prospect of another one of Swords plans. “We’re not going to let anyone else walk into an ambush there either. If we ride up the bank here, we can charge along the ridge and disrupt the ambush. If it turns out we’ve done the wrong thing, we can apologise and join forces. If we rescue anyone, I’m sure they’ll be monetarily grateful…”

“And if it is indeed several of our Dragon Blessed siblings?”

“Then, Lotashaal, I shall take great pleasure in demonstrating that even they need rescuing from time to time.”

Decremius ran through a short list of his relatives who’d be sorry to hear of his death. And then he frantically tried to remember some decent bits of combat thaumaturgy, because before anyone had had a chance to properly sit down and point out all the things that were wrong with his plan, Forthright Sword, followed by Red Dawn and Seventh Wave, had spurred their horses up the gentle slop of the ridge, through the woods. Lotashaal trotted after them, glanced back over his shoulder and raised an interrogative eyebrow. I bet he practices that in a mirror, thought Decremius darkly, as he reluctantly followed up.

A few seconds later, a bowstring sang up ahead, followed by a thud of something heavy hitting the ground. Not hearing any screams, Decremius rode round a tree to find Red Dawn nicking another arrow, and looking down at the corpse of… a man? A quick glance up ahead showed that the others had paused and were carefully scanning the woods ahead, swords and staff in hand.

“Was he a sentry?” asked Decremius, checking the obvious.

“Think so. I shot him as he saw me. Got lucky. What do you make of him?”

Decremius looked over the body, drew his sword and prodded at the corpse from horseback. Red Dawn’s shaft had hit the man dead centre, and he’d probably been dead before he hit the ground.

“Hmm. Tatty furs for clothing, bone tags, poorly maintained weaponry. No facial hair, slightly pointed teeth and…. Hmm, a braid dyed yellow for some reason. Barbarian. Probably Wyld-tainted.”

“That settles it,” spoke Wave quietly as he joined them. “I’m not leaving anyone to be ambushed by Wyld barbarians.”

“So, I suppose you want to just charge screaming out of the woods, slaughter them all on this side of the gully, and watch their comrades flee in terror?” Decremius couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice, unable to decide if Seventh Wave had a death wish or merely too much Cathak training. The whole house were aggressive militaristic nutters.

“Yes, Decremius, that’s exactly it. We’re mounted, they aren’t, we have the advantage of surprise, and they’ll all be looking in the other direction.”

“Fine,” bit Decremius, “but you can give me a minute to prepare something.” He reached into a saddlebag and brought out some twine, a slate and one of the cooking knives.

“Hey, I was looking for that last night” queried Red Dawn.

“Shut it, this is complicated,” muttered Decremius, as he breathed a shred of essence into the twine, and then chopped it into fibres upon the slate. “Will we be upwind of them, by any chance?”

“No wind at all at the moment.”

“Ah well. This spell should cause the barbarians to keep falling over, so be prepared for that.”

“On the edge of that gully, on top of their intended victims?” Asked Forthright Sword as he mounted up again, “Quite the mean streak there…”

“Just balancing the odds as best I can” smiled Decremius, as the buzzy malicious spell hummed around his mind like a catchy tune.

Barely a minute later, the five of them charged out of the thinning brush above the gully, horses smashing through the vegetation, startling about a dozen shaggy forms with their battle cries. Decremius held up his twine fragments, and scattered them ahead of him in a wide arc, across the ridgetop. Beneath them in the gully there was some shouting, and the fighting was quickly confused and loud, but he forced his horse back a few steps and concentrated on his twine, linked to him by his power and now beneath the feet of all the combatants. The Song of Binding, normally used to keep things together, whispered through his teeth as he searched for a …

There! He twisted with his hands, and a few strands of twine suddenly snagged the feet of one barbarian, who fell forwards, hands flailing, beneath the hooves of Waves steed. And there, another twist, and a downed thug found his axe hand snagged just long enough for Lotashaal to turn around and finish him. And there, and there, and there also, and SHINY!

Magic and light caught his attention, as across the gully, perhaps 40 feet away, a gleaming female figure in gold swayed and gleamed, not dressed in gold, but made of it, with an undulating golden tail, no, a braid, behind her, beckoning, beckoning…

And then she suddenly twisted, and an arrow appeared in the fighter behind her. Decremius shook his head, noticing that Red Dawn, of all of them on the ridge, had had the presence of mind to fire an arrow at the she-demon opposite. Forthright Sword, also freed from her thrall, swept down his short daiklaive onto the last barbarian on their side of the gully, while Decremius flicked a quick look back at the golden thing opposite them. She waved, not at him, but at Red Dawn, and then spun on her heel and shouted something. There was a wave of arrows from the barbarians opposite, slamming into the rocks around them, Swords carefully raised shield, Lotashaals horse and Red Dawn’s thigh, before the ambush victims in the gully charged up the steep slope towards them on foot.

As they watched, and caught their breath, the dozen or so ex-victims cut into the barbarians with relentless fury, led by a tall fast figure, glowing with golden light. Decremius scanned the melee opposite, but saw no sign of the she-demon. And as the last of the barbarians ran screaming into the woods, pursued by a couple of the warriors attacking them, the glowing figure turned to them, holding a sword in salute across the gully, the unmistakable golden brand of an Anathema shining from his brow…

Chapter 4

There was a Gods’ cursed arrow stuck in his leg! Red Dawn whimpered in pain and shock, and his horse shifted nervously in harmony. Pain blossomed up his leg like a scarlet flower, and he grabbed the area in reflex. Was anyone watching him? No, they were all staring across the gully at the fight over there and the… ah, at the Anathema.

He got both hands on his thigh, and checked the other arrows on the ground. Damn, they were barbed triangular heads, this was going to be messy. Beneath his fingers his pierced flesh felt hot, but he blocked off all further pain. One of Mother’s little gifts, again. Unseen by the others, his thigh gaped just enough for the barbed arrow to come free, and blood welled up through his fingers.

“How did you do that?” asked Lotashaal suddenly, coming up beside him.

“It didn’t go in that far, not much power in the shot. Just a flesh wound. Bleeding like a stuck pig though…”

“Of course. Can you dismount?”

And so Red Dawn ended up sitting on a slain barbarian, with Lotashaal tending to his wound.

Which unfortunately, gave him time to consider the rest of the battle. He knew that golden figure almost as well as his own reflection. That was Mist of Evening, or, as she hated being called, Misty. His elder sister. He’d almost got her with that arrow, but she was as quick as ever. Still looking far too good, though…

“You’re taking this very calmly,” interrupted Lotashaal.

“Uh, well, as I said, it’s bleeding like anything but it doesn’t hurt much.”

“Not your wound, the Anathema. The one we just rescued, may the Dragons forgive us.”

Oh yes, him. More concerned with my demonic sister at the moment. Let’s see, what would be the proper reaction for a noble scion of Great House Ragara…

“Maybe that’s a debt we can exploit, I mean, he looked…”

“He looked like the sort of demon-trafficking abomination that should not be walking the face of Creation,” Lotashaal spat as he tied the final knot on Dawn’s bandage. Behind him, Dawn could see Decremius, Forthright Sword and Seventh Wave finishing a search of the barbarians and walking over to them. Sword stopped and looked down at him.

“How badly are you hurt, Dawn?” he asked with no real concern in his voice.

“I can ride, and I can hobble, but I’m going to have to cancel my dancing parties for the rest of the week.”

“Ah, the Imperial City beauties will be devastated to hear that,” grinned Wave, “but seriously guys, what are we going to do about that glowing bastard down there?”

“If we were Dragon Blooded of the Wyld Hunt, we could kick his arse and execute the filth.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Lotashaal, but as you may have noticed, we’re not.” Sighed Red Dawn. “So, unless anyone is desperate to die attacking him, I have another plan…”

“Okay, but why are you being our leader?”

“Because, Sword, I’m more charming, likeable and personable than you are.”

“Modest too.”

“Oh, I’m more modest than all of you put together.”

“Well, got your best smile on, here he comes…”

Forthright Sword faded back to where the others were standing, cleaning weapons, tending to the horses, and left Red Dawn smiling in welcome as the Anathema strode up the hillside towards them.

Well, his companions knew it as an Anathema. Dawn knew him to be a Solar Exalted, as powerful, of not more, as any given Dragon-Blooded. There’d been a lot of reports of Solars recently, most notably of the Bull of the North, who’d annihilated the armies of House Tepet a few years ago. As the Solar climbed towards him, Red Dawn eyed him speculatively. On his brow was the symbol of his caste, shining with the power he had used, a golden circle with a semicircle missing. Thin but fit, without the muscles of a warrior, he appeared to be more of a scholar… or a sorcerer. He was carrying a spear made of… ooo, white jade, and wore a braided metal circlet of… Dawn frantically crammed the incipient panic attack under control and clenched his jaw. Orichalcum. Few would recognise it, and fewer still dare to wear it. But in the possession of the Solar Exalted, the sun-metal was a powerful tool (and insanely valuable, Dawn, if you could ever find anyone to buy it). Anyway, deep breath…

“Hail, warrior. I am Red Dawn. If we’d known your prowess, we’d have left you some more barbarians.”

“Ha!” The Solars voice was light and surprisingly mellow, like a fine lute. “Thank you, but my companions and I appreciate the assistance. I am Weaver of Dreams.” He extended a fine-boned hand, and Red Dawn took it. “And what brought you here, Red Dawn, and your valiant friends?”

“I have a personal grudge to settle with that golden bitch leading those Wyld-tainted thugs.” True. “My companions are old friends, travelling in search of adventure and renown.” Also true. “We came upon them on the other side of the ridge, and saw an opportunity for some mayhem.” Again, all factually correct. One of the few useful bits of advice his mother had given was to avoid lying outright to the chosen of the gods.

“And I’m glad you did,” responded the Solar. “Now, while my friends are tidying up, why don’t you introduce me to yours…”

A couple of days later, Red Dawn felt about ten years older. Stop Lotashaal from a suicidal attack on the Solar. Stop the Solar from realising they were (mostly) dynasts, which would have made him suspicious at the very least. Stop the others from realising the details of his own particular heritage. Ensure his friends and the Solars rather mixed bag of personal minions got on well, without becoming too close. Stop Lotashaal again. He felt like a skilled juggler, handed just one too many balls.

Still, so far, so good. Due to the circumstances of their meeting, Red Dawn had started favourably with Weaver of Dreams, and hadn’t needed to do It at all (assuming It would do anything on a Solar other than rebound explosively). Weaver had been hunting the barbarians, and more precisely, the patch of Wyld that they had camped around. In a long and rather technical discussion with Decremius, he had explained that he was planning to reweave the shattered threads of Creation around the patch of Wyld, as a craftsman might reweave a grass mat with new fibres.

There would likely be resistance, and the effort of patching what was essentially a hole in Creation, abandoned to forgetfulness and the Fae after the Great Contagion, would leave Weaver exhausted. And, with luck, powerless for a time.

Red Dawn stood and stretched in the night, inhaling deeply the musty scent of the forest. Around him, his friends slept, and most of Weaver’s followers as well. That afternoon had seen a brutal fight against the last of the scattered bands of barbarians. A couple of the Solar’s friends had died, and Lotashaal had also been injured. Despite the ministrations of Decremius, he would not be in fighting shape for some days, at least. And tomorrow, they would finally reach the patch of Wyld, the area of formless chaos and endless change, that had twisted the barbarians on their path, and made them amenable to the influence of Mist of Evening. Red Dawn scowled at the thought. She had not reappeared since the ambush, and she had either fled the area, or was watching with interest but no intent of opposing a Solar Exalted. Well, big sister, enjoy the next day. It should be quite a show.

It was horribly hot and sticky on the borders of the Wyld, and smelt, for some reason, of beetroot. Red Dawn looked around, checking positions one more time. He was perched on horseback at the edge of a wide valley, with Lotashaal, Wave, Decremius and Sword mounted by his side. Lotashaal would be keeping a watch and calling out anything unexpected, but avoiding the fighting, due to his injuries.

To their right was Weaver of Dreams, on foot and surrounded by his followers, nine in number. And in front of all of them…

In front of them stretched a hole in reality, a place where Creation had broken down and where imagination and a strong will were all that fixed anything in a realm of endless change. The valley seemed to slope away before them, before rising into a knot of hills, covered with lush vegetation in colours of orange, pale green, and mauve. Mist swirled over the hills, sometimes leaving one bare, sometimes all but covering the landscape. Dawn had been watching it carefully, and was sure that the hills were slowly moving up and down relative to each other. On top of the fact that a valley half a league across was holding a range of hills a good three leagues wide, looking into the Wyld was giving him a headache.

Weaver of Dreams cleared his throat.

“Right, now there’s going to be a Fae noble in there, holding the place and keeping it as forest. I doubt a particularly powerful one…” (How does he know? thought Red Dawn)

“…but as soon as I start rebuilding Creation, he’ll come storming out. I’ll handle him, if you can deal with his minions and distract him.”

“We’re ready, Weaver.” declaimed Red Dawn. There were similar murmurs of assent from the footmen.

“Then, by the blessing of the Unconquered Sun, let this be done…”

And with that the Solar Exalted stepped forwards slowly into the valley, hands outstretched to each side, golden light gathering around him, and an expression of fierce concentration on his face.

Barely two breaths later, the mist in front of them coalesced into a spindly figure, eight feet tall and impossibly thin, in curlicued plate armour of pale pink and eye-burning blue. He wielded a sword far too delicate to be of any use, and a grin split his immaculate face from ear to ear (literally) as he waved his sword forwards. Behind him, at his gesture, emerged a dozen stunted hobgoblins, similar to the ones Red Dawn and the others had fought in that abandoned village. But these ones wore rudimentary armour of wood and mother-of-pearl, wielded small axes of some bright metal, and rode what appeared to be blue lizards, a few feet tall.

In a blink, Weaver had his white-jade spear out and ready, but barely ready to parry the slash of that delicate sword. The hobgoblins swarmed around their master, headed for the Solar’s footmen, and then Red Dawn and his friends entered the fray.

“Die, gibbering vermin!” came from Dawns left as Sword charged in. With Wave beyond him, the three of them thundered into the hobgoblin pack as they tried to flank the footmen. The lizard steeds of the minor fae hissed and spat at the horses, who screamed defiance and lashed out, shod hooves smashing scales into pulp. The hobgoblins had the advantage against the footmen, but were hopelessly overtopped by the mounted dynasts. Again and again Red Dawn hammered down his sword, punching through that pearly armour, through mustard flesh and blue lizard scales. He jerked his horse back to avoid counter-attacks, leaned in to parry blows aimed at Sword, and gasped thanks when the favour was returned second later.

Weaver of Dreams and the Fae noble traded blows, the speed of their attacks belying the apparent weight of the weapons. The Solar was evidently fighting defensively, conserving his power, but already above his head flared a golden lattice of dozens of strands of light, threading and rethreading, weaving in and out and around, illuminating the area with a golden light that shimmered uneasily off the weaponry of the fae.

The incongruously light bell-like tones of their enchanted weaponry overlaid the screaming and snarling and crashing of the melee around them, and the air was choked with the taste of dust and the smell of blood, the musky scent of the lizards and the sweat of the horses.

Red Dawn stole a breath and looked round at Decremius, a few paces back from the battle, and nodded. The thaumaturgist scowled, and threw forwards two handfuls of shimmering dust, laced with the blood of the five of them. As he chanted and the dust settled on the fighters, the hobgoblins began to stall, to hesitate almost in their attacks. And so did the followers of Weaver of Dreams. Several men fell, screaming defiance at the fae, as their legs were savaged by the lizards and their faces smashed by the bright axes. The hobgoblins, stuttering in their movements, dropped to the swords of Red Dawn, Seventh Wave, and Forthright Sword. In a calculated move, Dawn leaned forwards and impaled the last of the hobgoblins on his sword, as he was paused to strike at a footman out of position and hopelessly vulnerable.

“Right….” Panted Red Dawn, waving his bloodied sword at the duel of the Fae Noble and the Solar, “now to help the boss…”

With a look of gratitude from the footman he’d saved, the others turned and carefully spread out around the Fae, Dawn and the others backing them up on horseback. As they surrounded the melee, the Fae noble sneered, his eyes flashing with an orange light that woke reflections from his pink and blue armour. As the circle closed around them, he sped up, moving impossibly fast, his thin sword flicking here and there like a serpents tongue. Weaver tried to capitalise on this, but the few blows he was able to land on the Fae seemed to do little but scratch his armour.

Across the circle of footmen, Red Dawn nodded to Forthright Sword, who spurred his horse forwards, blocking a strike from the Fae. One of the Solars followers had already stepped forwards to block, and found himself off balance. The lithe sword swept back, and cut a red line across his throat on the backswing. Weaver of Dreams screamed with rage, and powered forwards, the white spear carving a gouge up the Faes chest and jamming under a shoulder guard. As the unearthly sword came round, Dawn saw that Weaver would be unable to free his weapon in time. He lashed out with a foot, and another of the footmen found himself knocked forward, intercepting the Faes blow with his body, and indeed with his life. As the Fae pulled his sword back, Weaver jerked back with his spear, then forwards again, and rammed the white jade weapon through the gut of the Fae, punching through the armour and out the other side. With a savage scream, the Solar twisted his weapon inside his foe, and the humans around them jumped in and stabbed the Fae noble to death.

“Be sensible Weaver. Your men are tired, while mine are still fairly fresh. You said that there wasn’t going to be much left in there. We can handle it.”

“Probably…” came the dubious reply. The Fae noble and his hobgoblins had been wiped out to the last thing, but four of the footmen, loyal followers of Weaver of Dreams, had died along with them. One other was bubbling blood with every breath, and was unlikely to see another day. And Red Dawn was moving to the final phase of his plan.

“We’ll look after your men. And you have my word that nothing out of that mess”, he promised, waving a hand at the changing misty hills of the Wyld patch, “is going to lay a finger, tentacle or other appendage on you. We’ll be able to give plenty of warning.”

“hmmm….”

“And didn’t you say that the longer this is left untenanted, the better the chance of something else comes out of the Wyld?”

“Aargh. Point.”

Weaver pulled himself to his feet and walked off to pass a few words of encouragement to his men. Red Dawn stretched, and shot looks full of meaning to the others, who were cleaning their weaponry and rubbing down the horses. Seventh Wave nodded back, solemnly.

Weaver of Dreams took a deep breath, and the threads of golden light around and above him flared up again, as he stepped into the Wyld. Dawn gave a slow count of fifty, but there was no response from the mists. As the minutes passed, the light from Weaver stretched out, and where there had been a misty slope of lilac and red grass, the green and gritty landscape of Creation stretched a little further. Weaver held his place, eyes closed, chanting softly, deep in concentration. Red Dawn gave it another slow count of fifty, and checked the edge on his sword. Then he stood up, sword on his shoulder, and ambled across to the seated followers of Weaver of Dreams, who were torn between staring rapturously at their master, or with foreboding at the mists giving way before him. Sword approached from the other direction, and as they got close enough, their weapons came off their shoulders… …and buried themselves in the weary foot soldiers in front of them. The first two died instantly. Another coughed his life out a heartbeat later as Seventh Wave, using Dawn’s bow, shot him in the back. Lotashaal, tending the wounded man, leant in with gentle grace, and snapped his neck in one fluid movement. And the fifth man, jumping to his feet and screaming, found that his warnings fell into silence, and his calls went unheard, and he could make no noise, not even when Forthright Sword stabbed him expertly in the side, and dropped his uncomprehending body to the ground. Red Dawn made a cutting motion at Decremius, and the thaumaturgist pulled apart a thin chain of blood-soaked bandages, with which he had tended the soldiers earlier.

“Chained in silence. I like that one.”

“Nice and quiet. How’s Weaver?” asked Decremius.

Red Dawn looked over, to where the Solar continued to push back the Wyld, step by torturous step.

“Still busy. Wait till he pauses for breath…”

It was a nerve-wracking few minutes later, with a quarter of the valley reclaimed, that Weaver of Dawn lowered his hands and shook his head, taking a deep breath and preparing to speak. The dynasts didn’t give him the chance. All five of them (well, four dynasts and me, thought Red Dawn) had crept up behind him. Lotashaal was slow and still in pain from his injuries, while Decremius was no more than passable with his sword, but this was going to be close in any case.

As the golden light around the Solar faded, Forthright Sword swung at him, with his battle cry of “Cathak! Cathak!” His blow rang off a layer of swirling light a fingers breadth from the Solars skin, as did the attacks of the others. As Weaver turned and reached for his spear, Red Dawn tried It. Calling on the few gifts of his immortal mother, he pushed his mind forwards, glittering sparks around the edge of his vision, he flooded the Solars mind with a wave of lassitude and good feeling. As he’d half-expected, it was like sticking his hand into a nest of fire ants, and Red Dawn jerked back, groggy and stung. Weaver staggered nonetheless, uncertain for a moment, and when Seventh Wave thrust towards him, the sheen of light shattered as his blow rebounded. And as Weaver finally turned and saw the last of his followers lying murdered where they’d sat, Sword drove in again, and as Dawn watched, through the haze of his strained and mis-used heritage, Cathak Forthright Sword, screaming in triumph, drove the steel daiklaive of his shame through the heart of the Solar Exalted.

Chapter 5

The town of Tandy was visible for several leagues as Forthright Sword as his retinue, ech-hem, friends, rode down the valley towards it. Sword grinned at the thought of the grisly trophy in the sack tied to his saddle horn. It had taken most of their salt, but they had the head of the Anathema, “Weaver of Dreams”, preserved and carefully packed away. It swayed gently in the motion of Swords horse, as he twisted back to check on his comrades. Lotashaal sat pikestaff straight in his saddle, the look of concentration on his face indicating that he was busy composing the epic poem of their victory, as had promised. Or possibly threatened. Decremius was sulking gently inside his hood, having been little use in the fight. Dawn looked much perkier, having thrown off the headache he’d been complaining about since the fight, while Wave was having trouble with the loot.

Sword grinned as he saw Seventh Wave stop and readjust the impossibly heavy spear across the back of the pack-mule they’d been forced to buy. The white jade spear of the Anathema, as with all such weapons, had become massively heavy for it’s new but unExalted owners. The Anathema’s metal circlet, also suddenly very heavy, was staying firmly on the head. None of the party wanted to touch it, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you could leave lying around.

“Wave, you alright back there?”

“I hate this spear!”

“I thought you loved that spear…?”

“That was before I tried to lift it!”

“Nearly there, don’t worry.”

Sword grinned again. As they’d come out of the hills, Decremius had spotted a distant plume of dust that he claimed was a Guild caravan. It was headed right for Tandy, and they’d arrive a few hours before it. Plenty of opportunities to buy some good booze, tell some of their adventures, and if the Guild couldn’t buy the jade spear, they’d know someone who could.

Sword leaned back in his saddle and mentally composed a letter…

“To my Lord Father,

Since you posted me to the back of beyond, I have made a huge pile of jade and slain an Anethema. I have his head to prove it. I believe the house military forces are always in need of experienced officers, and so…”

Tandy was dusty, but not too crowded, and Sword found himself posing in the market square. This was the sort of place he should be in charge of! Wealthy, bustling, on the edge of civilisation, and on a major trade route… thinking of which….

“Red Dawn!”

The Ragara scion straightened from where he’d been amiably chatting with a market trader. How did the flash chatterbox manage to ingratiate himself with absolutely frickin everybody?

“He says the Guild don’t book ahead, they just take over when they arrive. Want me to get us some rooms now?”

“Yes, and make them good. I fancy a few luxuries for a change.”

“Yes boss, right away…”

Red Dawn spun his horse on the spot and trotted off towards the largest inn on the square, an old three storied construction of wood and plaster, tastefully decorated with a painted geometrical pattern, blue on white.

Sword looked around the marketplace again, and checked his equipment. His armour was polished, his …steel… daiklaive was sharp and in trim, and his tags and ribbons proclaiming his allegiance to house Cathak were back in place. He’d felt rather exposed without them, lying to that Anathema. Still, back in colours now, and proud to be so.

Some hours later, Forthright Sword strolled through the bustle of the evening market, smiling to himself. The Guild caravan had rumbled in, and occupied most of the market square. Paper lanterns lit the cool of the twilight, the smell of roasting meats in interesting spicy sauces lingered on the air, and he’d made a deal for a LOT of jade. And there was still the Anathemas head to be dealt with. Climbing the stone steps to the inn, he pushed through the bead curtain door, taking a breath to inform his friends of the news… and was promptly grabbed by the arm by Seventh Wave.

“What?”

“Shh. Look over there, by the bar…” And indeed, occupying the largest table in the wide and well lit common room, right in front of the bar, was a party of warriors. Six of them, armoured in (Swords belly clenched in envy) jade armour plate, massively powerful and dominating the room by their presence, their charisma, and not least their capacity for superhuman violence.

One of them was watching them. He put down a tankard and stood, massive in his white jade plate, a reddened face partly concealed by a handlebar moustache. He started walking towards Sword and Wave, with deliberate menace and obviously relishing the impression he made on the whole room. His companions watched idly, as conversation stilled.

As he approached, Swords eyes flicked reflexively over the emblazoned symbols and insignia on the armour, noting the mans status (Dragon-Blooded, currently on active assignment with the Wyld Hunt, House… oh Immaculate Dragons…) before looking up at the face. Mentally removing the moustache, he winced inwardly, as the Dragon-Blooded, reading his own tags, stopped a precise distance away, crossed his arms and smirked.

Sword felt Seventh Wave take a diplomatic step back. As the junior in rank, he would have to speak first.

“Hail Cathak Porus. What an honour to see you again. How may I be of service to Realm and House? Cousin.”

“So what brings you to Tandy, Cousin Porus?”

Cathak Porus took another swig of his tankard and cocked a fuzzy brown eyebrow at Sword. The two of them had sat down at a small table, away from their respective parties.

“I was about to ask you the same thing, Forthright Sword. I thought you were assigned to Salafinn’s Harbour…”

“I was. I left. I wanted to get out, see the world, smite the enemies of the Empire! Do something significant… you should understand that, you joined the Wyld Hunt…”

“Yup.”

“You. The Wyld Hunt.”

Sword remembered cousin Porus as a rather lazy, tubby opponent he’d kicked the ass of during blade practise, when they were both entering their teens. Shortly after the Immaculate Dragon of Earth had Exalted Porus, he’d been sent off for special schooling. And now here he was, looking a bit like a big white walrus, and part of a zealous organisation devoted to hunting down heretics, Fae, and Anathema of all stripes.

“Yeah. Seen any Anathema?”

“Hah! Seen, fought, killed.”

“Bullshit.”

“I have been busy, my comrades and I.”

“You and that rabble of decadent dynasts?” Porus looked scornfully over at Swords retinue in the corner, and at then at his own comrades by the bar. “I’d have believed you if you’d said beastmen, or barbarians, or even the walking dead, but Anathema? Never.”

“Are you saying I’m a liar?” Sword leaned forwards, teeth gritted. Porus had always been able to rub him the wrong way, but he could always kick him three times round the salle, and… but Porus was Dragon-Blooded now….

“Yeah. I think you’re making things up, because you’re jealous of me. You want to make something of it?” Porus was sneering. He knew as well as Sword that since his Exaltation, he could break Sword in half with his bare hands, if it came to a duel. And that even should Sword get lucky, injuring or impeding the Wyld Hunt came with a short and messy death.

Sword thought furiously for a few seconds, as the moustache grinned down at him. “Yes, I do. I stand by my claim.”

“Heh, it’s your life. Cathak Forthright Sword, I accuse you of being a liar, consumed by jealousy and a disgrace to House Cathak. I challenge you.”

“And I accept. My weapon of choice…” Sword grabbed his tankard and brought it down sharply on the table. Beer plumed into the air, and he expertly caught most of it, “…is booze. Last man standing.”

“Well, are you satisfied now?” Seventh Wave hauled Sword up another step. Lovely guy, Seventh Wave. Bestest friend. Oh, question.

“Oh yesh…”

“You told the whole messy story to the Wyld Hunt and your lightweight cousin…”

“Oh yesh…” ooo… stairs. Nice wooden stairs. Warm comfy wood…

“Oh no you don’t, stay awake. You insisted on the expensive rooms, you can get some use out of them.”

“Heh heh…. He fell over… sack of meal…” Porus, somewhere around the eighth pint of strong beer, had started swaying. And after eleven, he’d lost his balance and fallen with a satisfying thump onto the floor of the tavern. And thank the Dragons for that, ‘cos another few gulps and Sword would have been flat out beside him.

“Yes, he did. Well done, you out-drank a Dragon-Blooded. Years of training pays off. And Red Dawn got his buddies to pay for it all.”

“Ah. Thissis my room.” Sword fumbled through the door, leaving Seventh Wave shaking his head in the inn corridor. Nice room, darkened window, several chairs and an overstuffed sofa, large bed with embroidered wool blankets. Mmmm, bed… And at that point, he gave up and collapsed onto the blankets.

Sword awoke sometime in the night, desperately needing the privy. His legs were feeling quite wobbily, but luckily there was a chamberpot under the bed. After he used it, he lay back upon the bed, watching the flashy lights behind his eyes. It was very quite. The whole town seemed to have gone to bed. Sword strained his ears, searching for some noise other than his own breathing. There were gentle snores coming from some other room, and a murmur of voices from the other side of the wall.

Voices? Hang on, that was Red Dawn. This was a thin wall… Sword ran his fingers over the wall against which the bed was placed. At some point, a door had been joined this room to the next, and had since been plastered over. The outlines were just perceptible to his fingers, and if he put his aching head to the cool plaster, he could just hear quiet voices. He nudged aside a cushion, and a small keyhole, not quite plastered shut, was revealed. Through it he could just see… uh…. Part of a chair. With a candle on it. Ooo, female voice. Had Red Dawn managed to talk some woman into bed with him… Sword listened in…

“…and oh, the look on his face when he turned round and saw his poor servants. Glorious. Was that your plan?” That was the womans voice, with a strange metallic reverberation to it. Sword put that down to listening through the wall.

“Yes. Yes it was.” That was Red Dawn, sounding uncharacteristically strained. What was he doing? A host of interesting possibilities danced behind Swords eyes.

“Mere mortals taking the life of a Solar Exalted. Mother was quite impressed, and considering the final result, I forgive you entirely, dear brother, for slaughtering my poor little tribe.”

“That’s… very generous of you.”

Red Dawn sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth, and something golden and metallic undulated past Swords tiny point of view.

“That does look quite uncomfortable, that position. Shall I…”

“No! Stay right there.”

There was an amused and warm yet tinny laugh. “As you wish little brother. You keep holding yourself back.”

“Damn right, Misty.”

“You can’t stay away forever, Red Dawn…”

“Don’t touch me!”

“…sooner or later, all of Mothers children come home to her…”

“No. I won’t. I’d rather die.”

“We’ll see, won’t we. You may have plenty of opportunities for either, with your current friends…”

“Hah! They’re… noble men. Honourable. Do you want me to try to explain that again?”

“Oh not that walking disaster area you rode in with…” (again that laugh) “I meant the Dragon-Blooded.”

“What?”

“Do you remember when Mother gave us that sorceress…?”

“….yes. Her name was Cynis Alhandra.”

“Was it? How do you remember that? Oh yes, she did scream it a lot, didn’t she…”

“I remember her.”

“Remember what we did to her…?”

“…”

“Remember how we felt….?”

“….yes…”

“And how do you feel now?”

“…not going back….”

“What a wreck you are now… how much more you could be….”

“Not at that price…”

“We’ll see, Red Dawn. We’ll see.”

“So, Mist of Evening, did you just…. Drop by to torment me, or was there some other reason….?”

“Oh, I was just in the area…”

“Stop doing that!”

“What, this?”

“….nnnn….”

“So sensitive, baby brother. So innocent.”

There was harsh panting from Red Dawn.

“But no, I was just in the area, and thought I’d drop by.”

“Hello. Farewell. Window’s that way. Break your neck.”

“Now you know that won’t slow me down much, even if I did. But I just wanted you to know, Mother’s invitation is always open to you. As is mine…”

There was a faintly scraping noise, and then a slight creak on the roof, and then it was quiet on the other side of the door. A few choked sobs were audible through the keyhole, and then the light cut out as the candle was extinguished.

But Forthright Sword had long since returned to drunken slumber.

He awakened yelping.

Above him, Decremius shook the last few drops out of the mug of water, opened the shutters to the far-too-bright sun, and sneered down at him.

“What in Creation did you do that for?”

“You’re wanted downstairs. Pull yourself together.”

“Ah-what? Who? What time is it?”

“Mid morning. Your cousin wants a word with you…”

“Oh, bugger.”

“Him and his co-Hunters. He looks much better than you this morning.”

“Oh bugger.”

“That said, he’d have to be dead a week to look worse than you at the moment.” Sword rolled out of bed, head throbbing, changed his shirt, and tried to tidy himself up a bit. “And what’s got into you this morning?”

“The Hunt aren’t happy about being bested. At anything.”

Under the bed, looking for his boots, Sword quietly told a dustball what he thought of the Wyld bloody Hunt. “Aaargh. I suppose they’re all down there waiting for me.”

“Aye. And looking like a full Imperial Tribunal.”

“Ah well, let’s go and kowtow to our lords and masters…”

“So, to sum up…” the blue-robed Dragon-Blooded, Peleps Sorentis, waved a finger in magisterial fashion as the rather stuffy common room soaked up his pomposity. Sword and friends were seated on one side, the Wyld Hunt were seated by the bar again, and a few of the locals were staying well out of the way, and watching the show with interest. Cousin Porus was looking far too bloody perky for the amount he’d drunk, and was grinning with the air of an unsprung trap. Sword had a headache, half hangover and half frustration at being stuck in this hot and enclosed room while the legalistic Exalt rambled on.

“The Fae noble is discorporated, by the Anathema. The followers of the Anathema are dead at the hands of the Fae and yourselves. The Anathema is slain, by your hand, and you looted his body and took his head… What did you do with the rest of him?”

“Funeral pyre, and ashes under a cairn.” Piped up Red Dawn.

“Hmm. We’ll check on that.” Warned Sorentis. “And you took off his body, his sun metal circlet, and this white jade spear.”

“And the rest we burnt.” Stated Lotashaal baldly. “May the Dragons treat his soul as it deserves.”

“Indeed. Indeed. Well, you’ll be pleased to hear we can take both those items off your hands. And the head.”

“What!” Sword exploded out of his chair, a sudden movement that had the Wyld Hunt reflexively reaching for their weaponry before Seventh Wave hauled him back down.

“It’s the Law…” began Sorentis, in a voice that brooked no argument, “One, the ghosts of Anethema are bloody dangerous, so we’re taking that head and dealing with it appropriately.”

Red Dawn groaned, and Sword gritted his teeth, seeing the way this was going.

“Two, the Orichalcum circlet is a proscribed material. Not citizens, nor dynasts, not even in normal circumstances Dragon-Blooded of the Realm, are permitted to carry it. We will be taking and disposing of it as well.”

“And the spear?” asked Sword, wondering what would happen if he reneged on the agreement with the Guild. Still, no money had been exchanged, and they’d probably be understanding. Probably.

“The spear, where-ever it comes from, is an artefact of the Shogunate era. It shall be rededicated to service of the Scarlet Throne and the Immaculate Dragons. And only Dragon-Blooded may carry such as that.”

“Damn right,” bellowed Porus in a voice that causes Swords poor head to throb mercilessly. “You shouldn’t be carrying something like that around.”

Sorentis flicked a recriminatory glance in his direction, and continued. “However, as you are loyal and valiant servants of the Scarlet Empire, we are prepared to recompense you with… call it a finders fee. Two hundred in jade.”

Sword nearly bit his tongue. It was a fraction of what the Guild had offered. And not a big fraction either.

“Two-fifty?” suggested Red Dawn, “It’s in excellent condition and…”

“No haggling. We could just take it, but I’m feeling generous today.” Face and voice absolutely steady, Sorentis winked at Sword, with the eye out of sight of Porus.

Sword sighed and stood.

“We thank the Wyld Hunt for their wisdom and generosity…”

The Wyld Hunt rode out of town at noon, headed up into the hills to check the grave of Weaver of Dreams. Sword and Seventh Wave stood under an awning in the square watching them go. Porus grinned at Sword, and waved the white jade spear at him as they passed, kicking up dust behind them.

“I don’t suppose they’ll get eaten by Weaver’s hungry ghost, and we can get that back…?” inquired Wave.

“Not a chance. They’re well equipped and experienced.”

“So when they say it was them who killed the Anathema, who’s going to believe us?”

“Not our Houses, alas.” Sword watched the cloud of dust, about as solid and convincing as his hopes, and collapsing in the same fashion. There was a long silence. A dog trotted past, looked hopefully at them, then padded on to find some shade.

“Weaver of Dreams trusted us, and we killed him,” declared Wave suddenly.

“He was Anathema, and had to die,” shot back Sword. But his heart wasn’t in it. The… (what had Red Dawn called him, oh yes), the Solar Exalted had proved a darn sight more reliable and loyal to them than their Dragon-Blooded masters. And it was bloody cousin flaming Porus who was going to convince the House who’d killed him.

There was another long pause. The Guild caravans started calling their wares for the afternoon market. They’d been disappointed that they weren’t getting the spear, but generally understanding. There had been plenty of witnesses to back up Swords bitter excuse of “The Wyld Hunt patted me on the head and took it for themselves.”

“So what now?” asked Seventh Wave.

Sword sighed again, and turned his back on the dust cloud, now wending its way into the hills. “Now? Now we head off again, in search of renown and riches.”

Wave cocked an interrogative eyebrow, and Sword continued. “But this time if we find anything, we keep it. This time it’s for us.”

Chapter 6

And so they continued their heretical undertaking, searching for some way to rise above their allotted station. Lotashaal had long since given up trying to persuade his friends against their adventuring, but was probably going to end up praying over their graves.

The five of them had left Tandy some five days ago, after a far shorter rest than they’d have liked. After the appropriation of their trophies by the Wyld Hunt, they didn’t have the funds for a lengthy stay. Lotashaal still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. One the one hand, the law and the Immaculate Philosophy were perfectly in order behind the Wyld Hunt. It was fitting that they take possession of such artefacts as had been found, the better to use them for the purging of Anethema and heretics from the Realm. On the other hand, from what Wave and Sword had said, they themselves would receive no credit, while the Hunt would be feted and acclaimed for “their” efforts. Were these the actions of the valiant and self-sacrificing defenders of the Realm that Lotashaal had read of?

Around them, the terrain was slowly changing. The rolling hills of the past two days grew into a series of ridges, the valleys between them becoming heavily wooded, with a mixture of birch and pine as the land rose in height. The local birdsong was unfamiliar to Lotashaal, and the dearth of proper shrines at the roadside was yet another indicator that they were far now, beyond even the uncertain borders of the Realm. The dirt track they rode along was unsurfaced, but was well drained and wide. They’d past several wagons earlier, as they rode through another patch of forest, and several other roads fed into this one, and up ahead… By the Dragons! Another one!

“Halt please, comrades!”

The others reined in their steeds and twisted to face him.

“What’s the problem?” asked Seventh Wave. Sword was still rather uncommunicative, following the events in Tandy, and merely gazed back at Lotashaal, with a “What now?” expression.

Lotashaal pointed at a roadside shrine, erected at the crossroads. A small stone statue sat beneath a wooden A-frame, depicting a short fat man with a jolly expression, holding a feather in one hand a spoked wheel in the other. Before him lay offerings, of shiny crystal, a pair of stout walking boots, and a brace of freshly killed partridge.

“That thing is an affront to the Elemental Dragons, and a clear indicator of the Hundred Gods Heresy!”

(Behind him, Red Dawn rolled his eyes and mouthed “Here we go again” at the uncaring sky)

“And?” asked Wave, in a tired voice.

“And? And I’m going to topple it!” Lotashaal slid off his horse and pulled out his staff, striding over to the shrine. Looking back, he saw Decremius slowly dismounting, while Wave looked guilty, Sword stared morosely down the road ahead, and Red Dawn watched the sky with an air of “I’m not with these people.”

“Even if you have abandoned the favour of the Immaculate Dragons, I have not, and will not stand for this.”

The others were silent as Lotashaal and Decremius knocked over the shrine, scattering the offerings into the roadside ditch and smashing the A-frame. Red Dawn winced as Lotashaal lifted the statue, and threw it down onto a rock, smashing the head off.

“You should all look to the state of your souls, if all we are now after is cash!” Lotashaal warned to the three on horseback, as he remounted. As they all silently rode off, Lotashaal wondered at the reasoning behind his actions, and his rather harsh words. Who was he trying to convince?

The next village, a few hours dull and silent ride further on from the shrine, was another similar to the last five. Low houses built of wood, a few small shops, a low slung cart selling fancies and trinkets from a hatch on the side, and a party of hunters bringing in food from the forest. The rather nervous air to the people was different though.

“This place feels a little on edge, and not in a good way,” Lotashaal observed in sidelong fashion to Decremius.

“We didn’t hear anything nasty this morning, at the last village,” came the reply, “but hang on, Dawn’s still chatting to the merchant.”

They watched as Red Dawn nattered amiably with an unseen figure in the mobile shop, bought some sugared nuts, and trotted back to them.

“Well gang, if you want a fight worthy of a song, there’s one to be had a few leagues on.”

“Another fight? Against what?” Retorted Lotashaal “Bandits? Beastmen?”

“Alas, no. Hungry ghosts and walking dead.”

They pulled off the road and got the horses a drink, while Decremius fetched beer from the local excuse for a tavern, and Red Dawn explained.

“Just over the next river is the town of Setchel. It’s the market and trading town for this area. Eight nights back they were visited by a single ghost, who proclaimed, and I quote “Doom and destruction will fall upon you all ten days hence.””

“Nice of him to warn the place” pointed out Wave.

“Certainly unusual. Their seer, don’t scowl Lotashaal, their seer began receiving visions of walking dead things in the night.”

“And you think we should try defending a whole town on our own?”

“Hardly. They’ve armed the more stubborn citizens, hired what mercenaries are available, and bought up a lot of salt, but I doubt the townsfolk would object to the aid of a few more courageous swords.”

“And what more than common mercenaries would we be?” asked Forthright Sword in a dull voice.

Seventh Wave responded enthusiastically “Come on Sword, we’re much better than any others likely to be out here. We could dice up ghosts by torchlight, track down their foolish master, and take his head. We could save the whole region, with a little favourable spin on our actions, and be acclaimed as heroes of Setchel and these forests…”

“It’s a start, I suppose.”

Lotashaal wondered why Wave was so enthusiastic for throwing himself into danger, but it was indeed a worthy cause. He nodded when Wave turned to him. “I agree. Any who would disturb the sleep of the dead and terrorise the region has no respect for the Dragons of for order, and is worthy of our ire.”

“But why,” pointed out Red Dawn “ would some necromancer give advance notice of his intentions?”

Lotashaal turned to him and smiled, nastily. “You’re the one blessed with a golden tongue. When we catch him, you can ask…”

And so, late in the following afternoon, they all rode into the beleaguered town of Setchel. The sun was hanging low in the sky, but still well illuminated the town. Built on a rise of rocky land between two rivers, the town was surrounded by water meadows and pastures, reclaimed by the forests beyond the rivers. A wide road passed the town all along the front and across both rivers, through some tumbling but well maintained fords. Behind a simple wooden wall, watchmen walking behind it’s parapet, the buildings of Setchel rose in sensible lines, slate tiles on wood houses, up to a blocky stone tower at the top of the rocky outcrop. Warned of trouble, the town had fortified as best it could, with a heavy gate, firing positions on several rooftops, and barricades in the streets. Also newly scarring the earth was a ditch, up the slope from the rivers, and just below the wall.

The five of them were warmly welcomed by the militia captain, a care-worn easterner with a drooping moustache, whose usual duties were hunting down thieves and bandits. With their skill and equipment, they were posted to a place of responsibility, on the wall, to the right of the gate.

As the sun reddened through the pines, Lotashaal leaned over the parapet of hurriedly cut wood, and watched a dozen men in the ditch, carefully laying a line of….

“Salt.” Red Dawn had sidled up to him, and was watching the activity as well. The town was quiet behind them, watching the sun.

“Yes. They’re laying a line of salt around the front half of the town, guarding it from the undead.”

“With the rear half guarded by the rivers. Very expensive in terms of salt, but probably fairly effective. I can’t remember whether the unquiet dead can cross running water.”

“Don’t ask me, I’m trusting to faith.”

Red Dawn smirked at him in answer. Arrogant fool. Lotashaal spent an uncharitable moment wondering how the dapper Ragara would die. Here, killed by hungry ghosts shredding him in the night? Months from now, killed by trouble he couldn’t quite talk himself out? Years from now, quietly, and at the hand of his House, for being an impious and rebellious embarrassment?

In any case, he should not wish death on any, especially on one such as Red Dawn, whose reincarnation prospects were… dubious. He looked around as the light faded. The first torches were being lit along the wall. Several large bonfires were being assembled where feasible, inside the town. The salt crew was hurrying back through the gates. The town felt tense, but not frightened. Red Dawn was checking his arrowheads beside him. Decremius had sketched out a chalk ring of symbols on the wall walk, and was carefully melting a couple of candles into place atop the wall itself. Seventh Wave was double-checking his armour straps and buckles. Forthright Sword stood, feet apart, hands resting on the pommel of his daiklaive, resting point down before him on the wall, gazing across at the forests. Lotashaal grinned. To either side of them, rag-tag mercenaries and armed farmers held the wall, but here was valour.

And as the sun went down on the town, and the sky darkened above them, Lotashaal sang out a hymn to the Five Immaculate Dragons, of praise, courage, and victory in battle.

The last of the light had fled, and the stars were out, when the first ghost appeared. Shimmering slightly at the edge of the forest, a spectral human form, with a longbow, approached the town, and stopped just out of longbow range. Then a dozen more spilled out of the woods, then scores. And not just ghosts. In the light of their torches, the defenders of the town saw mutilated and rotten corpses shambling out of the darkness, limbs hanging limp or clutching spears and clubs, eyes vacant or rotted in their skulls, and decaying clothes hanging off their once vital frames. As the scent of decay and rot reached the walls, many of the defenders were noisily sick. It only added to the smell. But no-one ran.

The first assault was a few dozen ghosts, who ran silently towards the Setchel. A few nervous archers shot at them, and several ghosts fell to stray arrows, but the rest, obviously little more than a probing attack, ran headlong into the line of salt in the ditch, and stopped as if it was a brick wall. “Pick ‘em off!” came the order, and Red Dawns bow sang with the others on the wall, as the ghosts, unable to advance, fell back to the main host.

“Well?” asked Lotashaal of Forthright Sword. “What would you do next?”

“The salt’s a pretty obvious defence. If he waits till dawn, his ghosts will be as dangerous as a stiff breeze. If he manages to get the zombies over the salt, he won’t have the numbers to take the wall.”

“So how’s he going to get around the salt?” inquired Red Dawn.

Decremius, unmoving until now, raised his head sharply. “I see three, no, four essence channelers out there. One of them is shaping sorcery…”

“Ah. That’s how.”

A few seconds later, the sound of running water reached their ears.

“He hasn’t!” exclaimed Seventh Wave.

“He has…” muttered Decremius. “He’s diverted the river, flowing uphill and into the ditch.” Below their torches, the ditch filled with a tumble of silty water, black in the light. “There goes a hell of a lot of salt. This… is going to get messy.”

For a few minutes the water rushed through the ditch, and the militia on the walls groaned as they reached the same conclusions as Decremius. Lotashaal took smooth, even breaths, building a calm state of balanced readiness. As the water stopped moving below him, and drained away, the first rank of ghosts surged forwards, a silent and glowing wave against the black night.

“Fire at will!” came a call from behind them, and Red Dawn nocked an arrow, waiting for a good target.

“Right, shoot the purple ones!” called Decremius. And his candles in the wall flared up. Positioned between them and standing on his sigil, he pointed at one of the many ghosts, who suddenly halted in place and glowed a bright shade of fuschia. Unable to lift its shield or move, it received two arrows in it’s ethereal body, and faded away.

“That’s not purple, it’s bloody pink!” teased Red Dawn as the ghosts came on.

“Ah, shut up and shoot!” snarled back Decremius.

And then the first ghosts reached the walls and started climbing the rough walls, and Lotashaal put his staff to good use. Beside him, Decremius lit up ghost after ghost, and each time Red Dawn or one of the other archers shot the easy target. On the other side of them, Lotashaal heard Sword’s battlecry, and the wild laughter of Seventh Wave, as he cut down a climbing ghost. Beneath him the silent warriors marched up to the wall and started climbing, barely concentrating on defence. Again and again Lotashaal jabbed downwards with his staff, levered it to flick the ghost off the walls, and swept it downwards to clear the rough wood of spectral figures. And then there were none.

He straightened up, to see the zombies staggering forwards in the night, scores of them. At the wall, the last of the ghostly attack wave was being smashed. Decremius was breathing heavily at his side, and looking out at the attackers…

“I think,” he panted “that one of their leaders is with this lot. I’ll try to pick him out…” Lotashaal, searching, spotted who Decremius meant just before the thaumaturgist lit him up. A burly figure, wearing armour of a strange dark metal, and with a huge hammer over one shoulder, marching in the middle of the front rank of zombies, and heading right for the gates. And then he was lit in bright fuschia, a helmet with a skull mask turning to look at them, and he bellowed something, raising a hand to point at the walls where… Lotashaal darted sideways, screaming “Down!” as he slammed into Decremius and knocked him below the parapet. A sharp rain of arrows thudded into the parapet, flew over their heads, and ricocheted off Forthright Sword’s shoulderplate, where he hadn’t got down far enough.

“I wouldn’t do that again.” Huffed Lotashaal.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Decremius responded testily “especially if it gets that response.”

Around them on the wall, several militiamen lay screaming, arrows jutting out of them, black additions to their torchlit silhouettes. Several others lay still. As Lotashaal peered over the parapet again, the first of the zombies tried climbing up it. Gasping at the smell, he flicked his staff up and over and into its head, wincing inwardly as the skull crunched against the wooden wall. Over to his left, a rhythmic pounding sound started up. The next zombie was shot by Red Dawn, and he flicked a glance over to the sound. The skull masked warrior had reached the gates, unshouldered his massive hammer, and was slamming it into the gates with the force of a battering ram. Lotashaal winced as he recognised the design of the hammer as a grand goremaul, a massively heavy weapon only wielded by powerful Dragon-Blooded with a penchant for splatty crushing death. What manner of being led this assault? And then the next few zombies tried to crest the wall, and Lotashaal swung his staff again and again. He could hear the sound of steel on flesh from Wave and Sword, and the screams of the militia. Glancing left again, he saw the first zombie cresting the wall, a bloodied hand punched right through the shocked body of a militiaman. And beyond that grisly tableau, the gate cracking, before the relentless and inhumanly powerful impacts of the goremaul…

The screams echoed out across the night. Smoke from burning buildings blotted out what stars there were, and the fires gave little light. Packs of hungry ghosts rushed up and down the streets, seeking the remaining living, and the infrequent sounds of battle drifted down from the tower atop the town, where the surviving militia had holed up.

Lotashaal ducked back through the narrow window of the smithy. In the light of the banked forge, the others slumped, exhausted and grimy, but alive. After the gates had fallen to the armoured warrior, ghosts had rushed into the town while the defenders on the wall were kept under pressure by zombies. A wedge of hungry ghosts, led by some sort of powerful semi substantial thing, had forged up the wall and cut off Lotashaal and company from the retreating militia. Retreating to a corner of the town, they’d ended up in the smithy. It was stone-walled, easy to secure, and thaumaturgically warded from malicious spirits. A few ghosts had pursued them, and fallen. Then a few zombies, then nothing.

“It doesn’t look good.” He announced to the smithy. Outside, someone started screaming, spluttering, then rising to an agonised pitch of desperate pain.

“They still active?” panted Seventh Wave.

“Still patrolling. There’s some fighting up at the tower, but that’s about it.”

“Damn.”

The screaming outside broke off into gasping cries, then resumed, then cut off abruptly. Lotashaal winced.

“If the Dragons are kind, we won’t attract their notice through the night. By day, it’ll just be the zombies, and we can break away.”

“Except for that brute with the hammer. What was he?”

“I think…” hazarded Red Dawn, “I think that it was an Abyssal Exalted…”

“A what?”

“Sort of the dead equivalent of Anathema. There have been stories of them. From the Shadowlands and the fall of Thorns.”

“Ah.” Sighed Seventh Wave. “That would explain the goremaul.”

“And all the essence being thrown about.” Pointed out Decremius.

They were quiet for a moment. The clash of metal on metal echoed in the distance, outside the comfortingly solid walls.

“How long till dawn?”

“Four and a half hours,” intoned Forthright Sword.

It was a couple of hours later that the ghosts found them. Checking the buildings, they started wailing when they spotted the companions and stayed out of bow or spell range while they raised the alarm. Suddenly, Lotashaal felt a horrible sinking feeling, light and sound seemed to dim around him, he felt weak and nauseous, and cold chills crept up his spine.

“What in Creation was that?!”

“I have some ideas,” said Decremius weakly, “but you don’t want to hear them.”

“Because?”

“Because they’ll just get you more depressed. I’ll know for sure come dawn.”

Seventh Wave turned back from his place at the window and hissed “Incoming!”

Climbing to their feet, they lifted their heavy weapons in shaking hands, eyes bleary from lack of sleep and breath seeming difficult and unsatisfying.

“We open the door as they charge, kill the leaders, then hold them at the door,” recited Sword in a monotone.

“They’re running at us,” said Red Dawn as he looked through the window, “should be at the door in 3… 2… and they’ve stopped.”

There was a knock on the door. Polite, yet insistent.

“Bugger off, we’re not in!” called Decremius.

The response was in a voice full of hisses, deep and resonating. “You are alone in there mortalss. There iss no hope for you.”

“Come in here and say that,” responded Seventh Wave. His voice rang with bravado, but the tip of his sword was shaking slightly.

“I’d rather not, but it makess little differensse. Are you waiting for the dawn?”

There was no response, as the trapped dynasts exchanged glances.

“Did you feel that before I arrived? That.. to you, perhapss a ssinking and weakening feeling…?”

Lotashaal glared back at his side of the door.

“Welcome to the Shadowland of Ssetchel.”

“Yup,” said Decremius under his breath, “that was top of the list of depressing explanations.”

Lotashaals mind raced. If this town was become a shadowland, then the agonised deaths and despair of it’s defenders had dragged it down to a synchrony with the underworld. If they left before the sun rose, they’d wander off into the lands of the dead. And even after dawn, the ghosts would linger, and their chances of escape would be minimal at best.

“And who would you be?” he asked at last.

“I am Shattered Hope. I am a nephwrack. You can think of me ass a ssort of ghost necromancer. And I am here to offer you… a choice of wayss out of here.”

“Why should we trust you?”

“I don’t have to do thiss. If it wass up to me, I’d barricade you in and leave you to rot. More efficient than trying to attack you in there…”

“But it’s not up to you is it…?” Red Dawn leaned forwards and spoke at the door, and at the being on the other side. “It’s not you in charge, and they have other plans, right?”

“Tssss. You are to come with me, for an audience. My lord wishes to meet you. You should be… honoured.”

“And if we don’t come?”

“Then we pile rubble around your little hut, and wait for you to run out of air.”

Lotashaal looked around the tiny room, and saw the despair in the eyes of his companions. He cleared his throat. “We’re coming out.”

Shattered Hope turned out to be a rusted bucket helm, some blood-spattered pauldrons, and a body made mainly of black greasy smoke. The warghosts with him were heavily armoured and equipped with shields and short stabbing spears. Wordlessly, they gestured, and silently did the five companions take up a position at their centre. At a gesture from the nephwrack, they moved off through the town.

It was quiet. Beyond their footsteps and the low roar of the distant, burning parts of the town, there was no noise. Their ghostly escort made no sound. The tower, with the last of the town militia, had fallen. The sky wheeled on towards dawn, but the stars were blotted and faded. The penetrating scents of rotting flesh, fresh-spilled blood and burnt wood filled the darkened streets, lit by the fires and the occasional still-burning torch. The harsh breathing of the others weighed down on Lotashaal, who looked over to Shattered Hope and spoke, as much to break the silence of the Shadowland as anything else.

“Who is your lord? Whom do you serve?”

“He iss the Deathlord Crafter of Boness. Sskilled iss he in artifiss and ssorcery. By his plan wass wrought thiss, thiss new Shadowland…”

A Deathlord! That explained much. The huge army of undead, the sorcery that had pushed a river uphill. The Abyssal Anathema serving him. Lotashaal steadied his breathing in expectation of his immanent death. If only there was a way to disrupt the Deathlords plans…

“What is he doing here?”

“Experimenting… He seekss to define and understand the exact circumsstancess that bringss a Shadowland into being…”

And thus he had already triumphed. Exhausted and numb, Lotashaal tramped on, determined to meet his death with courage, if not with glory.

They were brought to a wide courtyard at the top of the hill. It lay at the base of the stone tower, in which the last of the towns defenders had taken refuge. In which they had died. From which they were carried out, by things even deader than they were, and laid in neat ranks on the stone. Watching, by the light of two large scrap wood bonfires, was the armoured Anathema with the goremaul, and another figure…

“My Lord, I have brought them.”

“Ah, my holdout band of Dynasts!” The cultured and urbane voice seemed at odds with the slight figure that turned around. Swathed in a black cloak and hood, the human lines were broken by two pairs of mechanical arms, built from the same metal as the warriors armour, each terminating in a viscous selection of tools and cutting implements. He wore as a mask the skull of some lizard-like beast, horned and beaked, longer and spikier than a human skull, but not much larger. His hands, pale and dextrous, were all his skin that could be seen, as they waved over the party. As he spoke, the ghosts behind them seized their arms, in a restraining, very cold, but not ungentle fashion. “I’ve been watching you through this rout, after your friend there” (he waved in a languid fashion at Decremius, who was glaring at him) “used thaumaturgy on Guardian of the Forgotten Bridge here.”

The armoured warrior nodded his skull mask in recognition.

“I recognised your insignia. I must say, your a fair ways from the Blessed Island… “

Lotashaal said nothing, only stood and stared at a point just over the Deathlords shoulder. He felt very cold, in spite of the heat from the fires. Behind him, Forthright Sword was panting harshly, and Seventh Wave was muttering something under his breath.

Crafter of Bones flicked a mechanical hand in their direction. “It may interest you to know, that on a by head basis, you five killed more of my minions than any others amongst this rabble.” He waved another hand at the neatly rowed militia corpses. “And for that, you merited my personal attention. So I am prepared to offer you a deal. You may swear allegiance to me, or I will grant you a warriors death, and an undisturbed rest beyond it.”

What trickery was this? Who amongst them would sell out to this… thing, for a few more years of life in his service, and who knows what after that? Lotashaal angrily opened his mouth to protest the offer, when the Deathlord looked up sharply, to the edge of the firelight.

“Lord, you have another request for audience…” came a metallic voice from the darkness. And into view walked a figure clad in tight fitting blacks and grey, set off with a silvery mask in the shape of a wolfs face. He was carrying a bow of that disturbing dark metal, and gestured to the figure beside him…

Lotashaal recognised her. So did Red Dawn, by the gasping sobs that broke from him at the sight of her.

Nude and perfectly proportioned, golden and shimmering from head to foot, and long braid undulating back and forth, the she-demon from the hills looked over at them and smiled. She was beautiful, as the cobra, as the executioners axe, as the bolt of lightning. And about as human.

“My my,” expostulated Crafter of Bones, “I am popular this evening. What brings you here, young demon-blooded.”

“I have come,” she replied in a metallically reverberating voice “for my brother, if it please you.” And she pointed at Red Dawn.

Lotashaal turned in shock, as much as he could in the hands of the ghosts, to look at Red Dawn. A demon-blooded? What had he been planning? How often had they slept with only him on watch? And why was he pale as his captors at the sight of her?

“And why, Mist of Evening, would I give him to you?”

“Great lord, our mother has a prior claim on him, and he’s only going to ask for a quick death anyway. My mother would be most co-operative if you granted her this one.”

Red Dawn jerked forwards, screaming at the Deathlord “Yes, grant me the death you promised, or swear me to service, or anything…”

“Or anything but hand you over to your sister?”

“Yes.” Red Dawn sobbed. “Anything but that.”

Crafter of Bones looked at him coldly. “No, I don’t think so. Mist of Evening, he is yours. Would you like him bound?”

“As he has surrendered to you, Lord, and you have given him to me, he will be no trouble.”

And so, Mist of Evening took Red Dawns hand from the ghosts surrounding him, and led him out of the courtyard. Lotashaal could hear him weeping piteously as he stumbled along behind his… sister? Off to who knew what fate.

“Anyway!” said Crafter of Bones, slapping three sets of hands together, “The rest of you! Forthright Sword, of house Cathak! Service or death?”

Sword’s head came up, and he looked at the surrounding dead things with disdain. “Death” he replied.

The ghosts manhandled him to the edge of their throng, passed him back his daiklaive, and pushed him towards the armoured Anathema with the goremaul. Sword fought as best he could, but he was weakened and tired and hopeless, and even Lotashaal could see that he was outclassed. The massive hammer crushed his head like a ripe melon. It was, at least, quick.

“Peleps Decremius. Your choice.”

Decremius grinned mirthlessly in the firelight. “Death by sorcery, at your hand.”

“Hmm.” Pondered the Deathlord, cocking his head slightly, “Very well then.”

The ghosts pushed Decremius to one side, and he straightened up, brushed down his robes, and looked the reptilian skull in the eyesockets. From the six arms came a swarm of black shards, that flew at Decremius with horrific speed. Sliced to ribbons, he fell to the ground, dead without even a whimper.

Lotashaal bowed his head, and said what prayers he could remember for his valiant friends, meeting their end with courage, in the best traditions of the Dragon-Blooded.

“Now you,” continued Crafter of Bones, pointing at Lotashaal, “you’ll never serve me, but what about you, Cathak Seventh Wave?”

Lotashaal shot a look at Wave, pleading soundlessly for him to be strong and die honourably as Sword had, but to his horror, Wave answered differently.

“I would take service with you, Crafter of Bones.”

“Traitor!” spat Lotashaal.

The Deathlord looked at him, and his throat froze and tightened, he was barely able to breath. “Don’t interrupt. You’ll understand, Seventh Wave, if I’m a little sceptical of your loyalty. So I’m just going to… have a quick check….”

As Crafter of Bones folded his human arms, one mechanical arm lashed out and held Waves head in a metallic grip, while another, strange tool spinning at the end and shimmering slightly, flicked up, and into, the forehead of Seventh Wave. He went rigid, but the Deathlord undulated his other metal arms and nodded.

“You seek power, young one, I may be able to grant your wish.”

The probe was withdrawn, and Seventh Wave sagged, gasping, as the Deathlord continued. “Serve me well and faithfully, and you may indeed find the power you hunger for…”

“Aye, my Lord…” gasped Seventh Wave.

“As your first act in my service, kill your friend there. It’s what he wants anyway.”

The ghosts released Wave, and passed him back his sword. He stepped over and looked unashamedly into the eyes of Lotashaal, who glared back in righteous fury, and spat through his frozen throat.

“My soul is prepared. How’s yours?”

“Well,” replied Seventh Wave, “I’ll find out someday, but not today. Farewell, Ledaal Lotashaal.”

He pulled back his sword and stabbed Lotashaal, cleanly and precisely and through the heart.

And as his life ebbed away and his vision darkened, Lotashaal saw Wave kneel and offer his bloodied sword in fealty to his new master.