 |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
The sea was crashing against the rocks, like the howl of a Baulkin winter night. Subdued by the standards of these haunting shores. Xaun Maun Chi thought he saw movement in the distance. No creature, good or ill, would be here of their own free will. He would not have ventured to this hollowed region, were it not for The Ornix, the spiritual awakening of his people. He looked to the sky in the west. “It’s hard to tell if your anger grows closer Mik-Nul”, he spoke aloud, as if to still himself from the coming fury of the elements that batter the western shores of Nas. To stand this close to The Sea of Storms is to invite death, even for one who follows the Way of the Spirit, the reality that is his life’s path.
He made his way down the wind swept slope. All around, debris from the oceans depths reminds him of the urgency of his search. Weeks of meditation has led him here, and he is not one to ignore a Call. As he moved closer, the object of his query moved again. He was positive this was the beginning of a grand adventure.
He was close enough now to make out the shape lying on the sea frothed sand. It was human shaped, about five feet long, with a fine golden fur covering the exposed area. It was wearing, what appeared as fine gray leather, covering it from the neck down to the pelvis then splitting to form two triangles with flat ends. As he reached it, he turned it over. It was a female of a race he had no knowledge. Her face was covered with the same fur as the rest of her body, with a white starburst in the middle of her forehead. In her left ear, she wore an earring. It was a gold chain, about an inch long, with a teardrop opal at the end. She wore two gold rings on either hand, one a plain band; the other had a square mirrored black stone. She also had a necklace on; it was a two-inch diameter tiger’s eye, surrounded by emeralds and rubies. She had a satchel clutched in her right hand, big enough for her to crawl inside. She was in a catatonic state. He knew he had to get her out of here as fast as possible. The nearest safety was ten miles away, up a difficult climb at best. He picked her up, and headed to the east.
It had been an hour since he had found her. He could hear no sounds but his movement, which betrayed the urgency that he felt in his heart. He turned to look back from wince they came, and he saw it, the sea, a wall as far as both horizons and at least as high as he now stood. He knew they had only moments before it would crush them. Just then he felt the touch of a soft hand on his arm. The world swirled, and for a moment he knew true beauty, as the darkness descended upon him.
************************************************************************
The wind was warm on his face, as he rode out of the forest on to the Barrier
Plains. The trail he was following led straight through the A’Mest dessert.
If there where anyone to see him, they would stop and stare in awe. As a Hand
of the Mother, (a order of Palderon knights, sworn to the service of the Earth
Mother), atop his war steed, he was a rare sight to behold. His mount was
as black as the darkest night, with mane and tail that would put a harlot’s
red dress to shame. It’s hooves, shining gold in the spring sun, conjuring
visions of a bygone age. But she paled in comparison to the man who was astride
her. His name was Korwa Winterwind, and he was of the Order of the Sword,
(the military branch of the Hand). He stood six feet six inches tall, weighing
two hundred thirty pounds, with coal black hair and soft brown eyes, which
could melt souls. His skin was the color of plains grass in the late fall.
He wore a blue satin shirt and blue-gray leather trousers. His boots, bracers,
and skullcap were the scale style of his people. He wore a chain Tolbert of
gold colored links, with the talisman of his clan woven into the back and
the talisman of his order on the chest. At his side was a great sword with
twin talon cross guards and on the pommel a malachite sphere enclosed by the
claw of a great raptor. His war bow, the stuff of nightmares in the southern
kingdoms, was slung on the right side of his saddle.
He looked to the west. The wind swept grass reminding him of his far away homeland. With this memory came a vision of the last village he had come across. Blood and entrails covered the muddy streets. Not a man, woman, or child, living or dead could he find. This only helped to harden his heart against what must be done. His Uncle, Grov Winterwind, the once proud shaman of his clan had been seduced by greed and power. He now worked with Byron. Just the thought of that unholy monstrosity was enough to turn any mans stomach. He knew both was involved in the massacres that he had come across, too late to bring the Mothers wrath down upon them. But he was close, and when he finds them it will not be helpless farmers they face. It will be a Hand of the Mother! He turned to the northwest, thinking to himself “Today is a good day to die”.
************************************************************************
“How did I end up in this back water town?” she mumbled to herself
as she approached the entrance to the Shady Sunset Inn. Why she thought Heldron
was a “back water town” is anyone’s guess. The population
had quadrupled with the coming of the spring trade. There were traders from
all over the known world bustling about. From dessert folk, with their turbans
and long robes, peddling the rarest of gems to Palderons trading horses fit
for a king, Caricans with wagons filled to the brim with exotic southern fruits
to Senders claiming to be in position of Baulkin wrought weapons, all came
here in the spring. In truth, it was why she was here. In a place like this
the exotic and rare can go unnoticed, even for a mercenary of her reputation
and race.
She opened the door and stepped in pausing to allow her eyes time to adjust to the dimness of the common room. Looking around, she came to rest her gaze on a man at the far end of the bar. He was five feet three inches tall, but he claimed to be five seven. He weighed one hundred twenty pounds, after a holiday feast. The kind of man ladies are supposed to stay away from. He had blond shoulder length hair, an angelic face with a devilish grin that showed impishly in his sparkling green eyes. He was wearing an open leather vest, brown canvas pants, and the deerskin boots he had won off a poor woodsmen last week. At his waist hung a short sword that was only good for skinning rabbits and a pouch positioned at the small of his back. He was engrossed in conversation with the barmaid, obviously flirtatious in its content.
“There you are, you worthless toad,” she said, as she strolled across the floor.
“Yavonava,” he said as he looked up. He always liked watching her walk. She was a stunning sight, gliding across the floor like a leaf blowing in an autumn breeze. Dressed all in white with the hilts of twin rapiers showing above either shoulder did little to betray the lethalness that could spring from her six feet, one hundred thirty pound frame. She was an I’Ron, (an Ice Elf). She had the white skin and hair of her people. She wore her hair in a single braid that reach to her knees, showing off her Elvin features. Her eyes, an artic blue, seemingly able to pierce any mans defenses. I’Rons are considered cold creatures, but from the look in her eyes, Horon knew this one was a seething volcano waiting to explode.
“ What in all of Nas do you think you’re doing?” she said as she reached out grabbing him by the earlobe. “We’re looking for work not pleasure.”
Letting an exaggerated shiver run the length of his body, he skillfully slipped from her grasp, like quicksilver from a child’s fingers, saying “Ya’ll have to do better then that to catch me.”
“Quit acting the oaf, this is serious,” she said, once again advancing on him.
“Why can’t we have a little fun before we move on to “bigger and better things” he said, dancing about like an acrobat on a tightrope.
Giving up the chase she said, “You do like to eat don’t you?” She watched him as he stood there with a blank look on his face. How someone, who could talk the shoes off a horse, could be so beguiled by her, she could not fathom. She pressed the point saying, “Have you found anything?”
With his customary grin returning, he said “As a matter of fact, I signed us onto a caravan leaving on the morrow.”
“And where will we be going?” she asked.
“Well seeing that you asked so politely, we will be going through the Barrier Plains to the A’Mest desert.”
“What? You know I hate deserts”, she said in disgust.
Cocking his head to one side, he said sarcastically “Ya do like to eat don’t ya?”
************************************************************************
Prince Alix had been traveling for weeks. He had left his home immediately
after his younger brother was abducted and a message was delivered to his
father, King Gregor of the Carican Empire. The message read, “Hand your
throne over to me and your son will be returned to you relatively unharmed.
Send an envoy to my keep with the proper response, and all will be, as it
should. Oppose me and I will send carnage down upon you the likes of which
has not been seen since the end of the War of the Races. Byron”.
Alix recalled what he had been taught about the War. Even now people speak of it only in whispers. It was fought eleven hundred years ago, when the humans united to purify Nas and they almost succeeded. Near the end of the war, the Dwarves, Elves, Baulkins, and Caz’Pa joined forces in a united defense to drive back the misguided humans. They held the human army to just west of the Cloud Mountains, the ancestral homeland of the Dwarves. The humans, in an attempt to break their defensive line, gathered every mage, cleric, and bard at their disposal. Together, they launched what could only be described as a genocide spell against the enemy. The resulting cataclysm gouged a piece out Nas itself. A thousand miles wide and a mile deep, it separated the once great continent. The sea rushed in to fill the void. It left the rest of the world in a ten year long winter. To everyone’s knowledge, the humans, only a handful of Elves, the I’Rons and the Baulkins, survived. Now nothing can live on the shores of the sea it created, because the spell had left behind a magical vortex. Centered in the middle of the sea, the vortex wrecks havoc on the very fibers of creation. The Sea of Storms, as men now call it, is a constant reminder of what can happen when mortals play at being Gods.
Alix, startled out of his recollection by a deafening roar of thunder, looked up to see Byron’s keep looming before him. It appeared as if a giant had molded it out of the very mountains in which it stood. Giant granite towers stood on either side of a massive gapping drawbridge with only two defensive openings above it. It looked, for the entire world, like a great feral beast, waiting for anyone foolish enough to approach. And approach he did. In the courtyard he was met as if this were any noble manner. A stableman brushed and stabled his horse while a groomsman escorted him into the main hall.
As he entered the hall, he could see Byron sitting on his throne. Here was the perfect human specimen, with blond hair and blue eyes; he would make anyone look twice. He was dressed more like a poet then the nobleman he claimed to be. With his peasant shirt, plain black pants, and riding boots, Alix could not see the threat. He had a chain in his right hand. It was connected to a collar around the throat of an unclothed boy, kneeling at his feet.
“Miguel!” Alix said as he started to approach the throne.
“Stop” Byron said. So soft was it spoken, that Alix thought he had imagined it. As he tried to move forward again, he realized he could not. Nor could he utter a sound.
“I did not expect Gregor to send the Prince Heir.” Byron said, “ Speak, tell me your fathers reply.”
“He’ll see you burn before he’ll give you anything!” Alix screamed.
“I see.” Said Byron as he gained his footing and walked to within feet of this insubordinate pup. Raising his hand, he made a simple gesture.
Alix was seized by pain as he felt the bone in his left arm shatter. Some thought that Byron was in league with the Dark Ones, now Alix knew for sure. Unable to move, he could only stand there in agony.
“That was not the right answer.” Byron said, as walked behind the prince. “I’ve had great pleasure taking your brothers innocence from him. So I will allow him to live, but I must send a message to your father.”
The words echoed in Alix’s ears as he felt a hand grab his chin, and another his hair. The sound of breaking bone and tearing flesh filled the hall as Byron, with little effort, ripped the prince’s head from his body. As the blood spilled over him, Byron appeared to be basking in an unholy light.
“Come here” he said to a servant unlucky enough to have been passing by. “Clean this mess up and have this and the boy sent back to Gregor with my regards.”
Gathering the offered head and boy, the servant hurried out of the hall, not wanting to hear the laughter coming from the depths of a tortured soul.
************************************************************************
Travis had walked these halls many times in his forty-five years, never with
the urgency he now felt. The Chancellor had sent word that he wished to speak
to him in the counsel chamber. To most members of the Bard Confederacy, a
summoning to the counsel could only mean that they would be a part of the
political turmoil that is now taking place all around Nas. But for Travis,
considered the best fielder the Confederacy had ever had, it could only mean
one thing. Worry winkled his brow, as he approached the camber. He could see
the two traditional honor guards had been replaced with ten seasoned warriors.
This startled him; never, since the signing of the Compact, had the Bard Compound
seen violence. Nor had the Tri-City of which it was a part. Something of unimagined
importance was taking place of which he knew nothing.
As he approached the massive entrance the captain of the guard stepped out
and leveled his spear at Travis’ chest. “ What business have you
here?” he challenged
Struck speechless Travis could only stand there staring in awe.
“It’s all right,” the Chancellor said as he appeared in the entrance. His name was A’Kim Amaud, of the dessert folk, and at that moment he was a most welcome sight.
“Come Travis, we have much to discuss,” he said as he turned and walked back into the chamber.
The captain lowered his spear and stepped to the side, allowing Travis to follow. The room was dark save for a single lantern burning on the center podium. As they reached the podium, the Chancellor gestured for him to sit in a chair he had not noticed earlier. Seating himself, Travis looked up, curiosity replacing the fear he had felt only moments before.
“We need you in the field,” A’ Kim said. Before Travis could respond he continued “What I am about to say must not be repeated,’ Travis simply nodded his response, ‘Good, there is a darkness coming, and the console has voted to break the Compact”
“What!” Travis replied, “Without the Compact we would have been wiped out after the end of the Race War.”
“I know the history better then most. Hell, I wrote most of them. But destiny has seen fit to throw fire in the kindling. There is a monster among us. His name is Byron.” A’ Kim said, asking, “Have you heard of him?”
“Only whispered rumors,” Travis replied.
“Ye, rumors of a man gone mad, of a mortal with the powers of a god. Know that it is all true.” Travis heard someone say, as a shape materialized out of the air itself. It was an ancient man, standing five-ten with flowing gray hair. On his face was a gray beard and mustache with bushy eyebrows and gray eyes that looked to have seen what mortals were not meant to see. He was dressed in a golden robe covering his entire frame, with one hand protruding out of an over sized sleeve holding a staff. The staff looked to be several different woods grown together. On top of it was an opal, bigger then a man’s fist and secured by the fingers of the wood as if grown there.
“ A Mage,” Travis thought, but one he had never met. Although, he thought that he had met them all.
“Ah, you have arrived,” A’Kim said, "Thorbian may I introduce you to Travis. Travis, Thorbian.”
“He has made another move.” Thorbian said acknowledging Travis with a slight nod of his head. “We must act quickly.”
“We still haven’t been able to convince the Church or the Circle of Mages of the impending threat,” A’Kim Said.
“Bah, Those fools will be sitting on their hands until these very walls come crashing down upon them.” Thobian said, waving his arms about wildly.
Travis could do nothing but sit in mute silence, wondering what roll he would play in any of this.
************************************************************************
From the past, one shall come
That views the world, through the midnight sun
From a race, long dead now buried
In her heart, mans hope she carried
To a beach, one man was drawn
He sills the loop, past futures bond
Soul of lightning, hands of thunder
Striking fear, the shadows wonder
Cold as ice, nights so long
Her blades will dance, the winters song
From the snow her passions burn
For true love, stand fighting stern
To the world, he’ll whip and crack
In his mind, he guards their back
Strikes and shields, a sight unseen
Draws them through, by wit so keen
The mothers son, furies dark cloud
Striking first, shadows tear enshrouds
Father’s pride, a mother weeps
Through fingers taunt, blood will seep
A call too arms, a journey long
Through smoke and cries, he’ll sing his song
A flash of steel, the die is cast
Know the truth, that beauty lasts
They shall gather, under dragon’s wings
Awe from all, knights, peasants, and kings
The battle will come, fought in vain
Evil’s dark hordes, a trap is lain
The prophecies of Mik-Nul
11 AWR
Chapter One
She regained consciousness lying on a debris field of pebbles and grass. It
took her a moment to gather her scenes. As the world around her came into
focus she was appalled at the distortion to the Fabric. “What hell has
Dy’een sent me too,” she thought to herself as she analyzed her
surroundings. She concentrated, and time stood still just like her Mistress
had taught her. It was a simple spell, allowing one to project their mind
outside the flow of time. She knew it wouldn’t last long, so she had
to work fast. “You must center yourself,” Dy’een had said
to her “Danger can come from any direction. You must allow your scenes
too radiate out from your center, in a sphere.” As she remembered those
words every thing became clear, like a wax film being removed from a plane
of glass.
She was lying on a storm battered slope. To the west of her were mountains. They could only be the Cloud Mountains. In the last six months, she had committed their entire makeup to memory. Directly to the east of her stood a man. He stood five-six weighing one hundred sixty three pounds. He had short chopped black hair. He was wearing a black cotton jacket with a black and red tiger striped belt cinched around his waist. His pants were heavy white cotton with billowing legs. On his feet he wore heavy leather sandals. His body type was like a gymnast, with olive skin taunt over flexible steel muscle. His face, with its high cheeks and brown almond shaped eyes, was a study of concentration. His spirit drew her attention most of all. Never had she encountered anyone who was in perfect balance until now.
Beyond him was the coastal region of a sea in turmoil. A gigantic wave was fast approaching. The man was positioned as if to guard her from the elemental fury bearing down upon them. She had only one course of action. Touching the man, she sent her spirit to find the safest path. Knowing that her would be protector was ill prepared for the transformation; she had little choice but to activate the spell.
She loved to walk the paths of creation. To become one with the Fabric, outside what men referred to as reality, was intoxicating. In less time then it takes a man to blink, it was over. As always, she was left with a filling of emptiness, longing to become part of the Devine once again. She knew her limits. She had witnessed others, who succumbed to there longing, become ensnared in the Fabric, lost for all eternity. Both a blessing and a curse, it was the risk one took when practicing the arcane arts. It is there strength of will that allows them to survive. More the one warrior has assumed that an Arcanist is weak. They took that assumption to the grave.
Her companion was in a state of shock, at being forcibly yanked through the Fabric. She had to relax him. Laying a finger against his forehead, she spoke a word in a language that was older then all the races. His breathing slowed, as his eyes fluttered. Succumbing to the gentle rhythm of her voice, he fell into a peaceful slumber. She eased him down onto a bed of soft pine needles.
After making sure her companion was in no danger, she settled down to survey their new surroundings. They were in an ancient pine forest that covered the eastern foothills of the Cloud Mountains. There was a brook not far away that would supply them with water. The air was crisp with the freshness of early spring. She could smell the aroma of flowers waking to the newfound warmth after a long winters slumber. This puzzled her. It had been late summer when Dy’een sent her on this journey. She had settled down on an old stump, soft in its decay, the tree, of which it was a part, blasted away years ago from lightning, recalling a picture of a long forgotten mountain storm, when a faint sound brought her back to her present predicament. She caught the sent of a rabbit frolicking in the brook. It reminded her that it had been ages since she had broken fast that morning. As her stomach, now aware of its plight, began to rumble, she became aware that the shadow of the mountains, having fallen upon them, was growing decisively deeper.
“I must make camp,’ she thought to herself, ‘Night in the mountains can be cruel, even in the southern regions.” She stood, leaving behind her makeshift stool, and began to collect wood for a fire. Hoping its warmth would hold back the chill that full night would bring.
Luckily wood was an easily obtainable commodity here amongst the pines. In no time she had gathered enough to last the night. She went about readying the pit, in the manner taught to her by her grandsir. First she dug out a hole two feet in diameter and one foot deep. Then she went to the brook and selected rocks suitable for the ring. After placing the stones, she stacked the wood in such a way as to resemble the weave of a blanket. She then extended the nail of her index finger, and inscribed archaic runes on the directional stones of the ring. With this being complete, she then sat cross-legged with her hands resting on her knees palm side up. She spoke again in the language of power, and the wood ignited, filling the small glen with light and warmth.
With the fire being complete, she retrieved her satchel. She had no idea what provisions had been packed within. She found two blankets, a small tent, fifty feet of rope, a small cooking pot, field plate and utensils, two changes of clothing (one field, one formal), a sealskin cloak, two weeks worth of dried rations, a tinder box, memory crystals (imprinted with all the spells Dy’een had amassed over her years), And Dy’een’s staff (ebony and ivory twisted around each other, about five feet in length, coming together holding an oval sapphire, a hand high and half a hand across, at the top). The last two items she was not to receive until Dy’een had found her answer and joined with the Creator.
Again her thoughts slipped back to her journey’s beginning. They were camped thirty miles west of the Cloud Mountains, just north of the Vorian Plains, in the Dylphi Forest. The battle line was formed ten miles east of their position. Besides herself and Dy’een, the Elvin priestess, Orolyn Soulsinger, the Dwarvin cleric, Obsidian Forgeruner, the Baulkin MasterPsy, Billgi, the Human bard, Mik-Nul, and the Human circle mage, Mohan Yakfee, were present. The war had grown quiet. There hadn’t been an assault on the defensive lines in three weeks. Mik-Nul, not getting a clear view of what the days ahead would bring, feared the worst.
“Are you sure Chy’oon is the one to go?” she heard Dy’een ask as she entered the tent.
“Of this I am positive. All signs point to the girl. She must make the journey,” Mik-Nul said, following her in.
Chy’oon sat waiting at her appointed position. She was honored at being asked to be a part of the Circle, but now felt apprehension of the implication.
Mik-Nul and Dy’een fell silent after noticing Chy’oon was already in the tent. The other four members of the Circle filed in. No one spoke, but Chy’oon could feel the concern and dread etched on each of their souls. After everyone was seated, Mohan said, “In Giden’s name, we bring this Circle to order.”
Orolyn spoke, asking “Are we all in agreement with the proposal brought forth by Mik-Nul?”
“No. I still have me doubts,” said Obsidian “Are ye sure there be no other way? Even if Byron be in cahoots with the Fallen, answer me, how could he poison so many minds in so short of time?”
Billgi spoke, his pent up emotions straining against his voice, “There are no ifs, he is in league with the Fallen. You, yourself, have witnessed the atrocities he is capable of. How can you not know that he would destroy the entire world to quench his thirst for blood? I know. I have ventured into the hell that is his mind. We ignored the problem to long. There will be sacrifices. But time is what we need, and this is the only way to get it.”
“Don’t be making light of me, mind bender,” Obsidian growled, rising to his feet “Tis true, I have seen with me own two eyes what that monstrosity be capable of. Have I not held the tattered bodies of me wife and chil’en? Have I not sworn vengeance o’r their graves with the tears of retribution streaming down me face? Have I not stayed me ax, screaming to the heavens for guidance, while he slew the wee ones, tearing apart their mum and da’s hearts so he could later drink from those broken vessels. And now ye be wantin’ me to send another wee one, barely torn from her mum’s breast, to do battle with the heartless bastard.”
A shroud of respectful silence fell upon the tent as the gruff old Dwarf, spent from his acknowledgment, stood with tears of remorse running down his puffy red cheeks, coming to rest like dew on the gray whiskers of his beard, his eyes pleading for release from the torment of his soul. In the last year they all had witnessed more then anyone should in a lifetime, Obsidian more then most. As the spiritual leader of his people he had witnessed Byron’s army ravage his homeland. The Dwarven army had fought bravely, but was no match for Byron. Obsidian had to stand helplessly by while Byron, calling upon the Fallen, filled the Dwarvin cities with molten rock. Those unfortunate enough to make it to the surface were hounded down and slaughtered. What little magic the clergy had was batted aside, useless against the maelstrom of his evil. No one could blame him, as he stood lost in his grief. He had seen his proud people wiped from Nas. Very few Dwarfs were left standing.
Billgi, stunned by the emotional onslaught, made his way to his old and dear friend. Laying a gentle hand on the Dwarf’s shoulder, he said with a quaking voice, “You know I would shed my last drop of blood to avenge the atrocities committed against you and yours. We have traveled the world, and fought the good fight for more years then I care to count. Were there any other way, you know I would take it. Our time grows short on this testing ground that is life. Let the battles be fought by the young, who are to stubborn to know they have no chance to win until their enemy lays defeated at their feet.”
“Yi, forgive me. Sometimes the weight be to much for me to shoulder,” Obsidian said, excepting the sympathy from his comrade.
Shop
ICE